The air in the boardroom was thick enough to choke on. The high-gloss mahogany table reflected the grim faces of the men and women gathered around it, the Hero Public Safety Commission officials in their stiff suits, Aizawa wrapped in fresh bandages, All Might looking buff in his usual form, and Endeavor, whose very presence seemed to make the oxygen in the room vibrate with heat.
At the head of the table sat Nezu. He was sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, his expression unreadable, though his beady-like eyes missed nothing.
"Let's stop pretending this was anything other than a catastrophe, Nezu," a high-ranking Commission official snapped, slamming a folder onto the table. "You turned a school event into a mass grave. The public isn't just angry, they're terrified. Your 'Fortress of Heroism' looks like a house made of paper."
Nezu set his tea down with a soft clink. "A paper house that was struck by a commercial airliner and a warp gate, Director. I find it fascinating that the Commission's satellite surveillance, the one we pay billions in taxes for, somehow missed a hijacked 747 until it was hovering over our stadium. Perhaps we should discuss that oversight first?"
The official turned a mottled shade of purple. "Don't you dare pivot the blame! You insisted on autonomy. You insisted on keeping your own security protocols. And now? A student is in critical condition and seventy civilians are dead on your front lawn."
"Which is why we are here," All Might intervened, his voice a low, somber rumble that commanded the room. "The Number One and Number Two Heroes are sitting in this room while the city is in a state of panic. Every minute we spend bickering over liability is a minute we aren't out there stabilizing the public. Can we move to the tactical analysis?"
Endeavor leaned forward, his arms crossed. "Let's talk about those 'monsters.' The Nomu. They were pathetic."
The room went quiet.
"The USJ report described a creature capable of absorbing All Might's blows," Endeavor continued, his eyes narrowed. "The ones yesterday? They were weak. Soft. My flames tore through them like tissue paper. Mirko and the others didn't even break a sweat. It felt like... pest control, not a war."
Nezu nodded slowly. "Precisely. Which leads to a chilling conclusion. They weren't built for combat excellence. They were mass-produced distractions, sacrificial pawns pulled out of whatever dark operation the League is running just to occupy the heroes inside the barrier. They didn't need to win, they just needed to keep you busy while the plane did its work."
"Was All Might the target?" another official asked, leaning in. "A targeted assassination disguised as a mass casualty event?"
"It's possible," Nezu mused. "But consider this. All Might has spent decades cleaning the streets. He has a long list of enemies, powerful, bitter villains who have been hiding in the shadows, waiting for a crack in the Symbol of Peace. With the League's brazen success, those enemies are now seeing a banner to rally under. This wasn't just an attack, it was a recruitment drive."
All Might looked down at his hands, his face shadowed by a deep, aching guilt.
"That is the price of being at the top, All Might," Endeavor said, his voice devoid of sympathy. "The higher you stand, the more people want to see the fall. The only response is to bite back twice as hard. We need their location."
"We tried," the lead official said, his voice tight. "We received intel on a warehouse in the Nagano district where the League was reportedly vetting new recruits. We sent a strike team immediately to blend in."
"And?" Aizawa asked, his eyes sharp.
"The building was rigged," the official admitted. "It was blown to pieces before our team even breached the perimeter. Three agents are in the hospital. The League wasn't there."
Aizawa let out a harsh, cynical breath. "It was bait. They used your own aggression against you. They aren't just hiding, they're sending a message that they're three steps ahead of your bureaucracy. They didn't care about those 'recruits' or the building. They just wanted to show you that your reach is shorter than you think."
"They killed several of the villains who were trying to join them in that blast," the official argued.
"Then they were villains of no worth," Nezu countered. "Shigaraki is pruning the hedges while he builds his garden."
"Speaking of Shigaraki," Endeavor growled, "what do we actually have? Names? Backgrounds? We're fighting ghosts."
"Tomura Shigaraki is a blank slate," the official sighed. "No birth record, no quirk registry, no school history. It's almost certainly an alias. Kurogiri is the same, no past. They don't exist in our system."
"But the sniper does," All Might said, his voice tight. "Emerald Eye. I came across his crime scenes several times during my younger years in the United States. The police there called him the 'Invisible Executioner.' If he's able to fire from ten kilometres with that kind of lethality, it isn't just skill. It's a quirk that likely grants him perfect stabilization or environmental manipulation. He's a professional mercenary, not a street thug. The fact that Shigaraki has him in his crew is... deeply concerning."
The lead official snorted, standing up and pacing the length of the room. "It's more than concerning. It's proof that UA is compromised. The school has become a lightning rod for global-tier threats." He turned to Nezu. "When do you plan on reopening? Because the Commission is considering a mandatory indefinite suspension of UA's license." '
"UA will reopen when the students are safe," Nezu said firmly. "And we are an autonomous institution. We are not a branch of the government."
"You've hidden behind that autonomy for years because of your results," a woman from the Commission countered, her voice cold. "But let's look at the facts, Nezu. Your 'results' have been lacklustre as of recent years. Where are the UA graduates in the current Top Ten? Jeanist? Edgeshot? They are the exceptions. Look at the rising stars, the Top Fifty prospects. They're coming from Shiketsu, from Ketsubutsu, from private agencies. Shiketsu surpassed UA's performance metrics years ago. You're riding on the coattails of a history you're no longer writing."
Nezu's eyes flashed, a rare sign of genuine irritation. "UA produces heroes of character, not just metrics..."
"Character doesn't stop high-calibre bullets from ten kilometres away," the official interrupted. "There needs to be a new regime. A structural overhaul. We want Commission oversight in every classroom."
"Enough," Endeavor barked, the temperature in the room spiking for a brief second.
Everyone turned to the Number Two Hero. He stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the table.
"UA is still Number One in the eyes of the public," Endeavor said, his voice like grinding stone.
He looked at Nezu, then at the Commission.
"Both sides will present a plan. Nezu, you will show us how you plan to turn that school into a fortress that can actually hold. Commission, you will present a plan for how you intend to track the League without blowing up your own agents. We will compare the two. The better process wins. Until then, stop the posturing. We have a war to win, and right now, we're losing."
Nezu met Endeavor's gaze and gave a single, stiff nod.
The lights in the boardroom dimmed as two holographic projections flickered to life at opposite ends of the mahogany table. On the left, the Commission's seal glowed a sterile blue, on the right, the UA crest burned a defiant gold.
"We will begin with the Commission's proposal," Endeavor commanded, his arms crossed over his chest like a judge's gavel.
Director Tanaka, a woman with iron-grey hair and boring eyes stood up. Her projection expanded into a series of logistics charts and legislative drafts.
"The Commission proposes the Hero Standardization and Oversight Act (HSOA)," Tanaka began, her voice clipping every word. "UA's fundamental flaw is its insistence on being an academic institution first and a military asset second. That era is over. Under our plan, UA will lose its private status. Curriculum will be standardized by HPSC tacticians. We will implement 'Garrison Schooling', mandatory on-site dormitories managed by Commission-vetted security, not just teachers. We will also require 'Quirk-Trace' monitoring for students with high-destructive profiles."
"Monitoring?" Aizawa's voice was like a serrated blade. "You want to put tracking chips on children because they have powerful quirks? You're treating them like paroled convicts."
"We are treating them like the targets they are, Eraserhead!" Tanaka countered.
Nezu sipped his tea, his tail twitching rhythmically. "A fascinating theory, Director. However, your 'standardized' security at the Nagano warehouse resulted in a pile of rubble and hospitalized agents. Your protocols are rigid. Villains like Shigaraki thrive on rigidity because it's predictable. If you standardize our students, you make them easy to solve. UA's success lies in its unpredictability, in the 'Plus Ultra' factor that your spreadsheets can't quantify."
"Your 'Plus Ultra' factor just buried seventy people!" another official barked. "Let's look at the metrics, Nezu. In the last five years, Shiketsu High has had a 12% higher internship-to-pro-hire conversion rate. Why? Because they teach discipline and cooperation with law enforcement. You teach your students to be 'Great Men,' and when they find out they're just human, they break. Look at your current crop. You have a student who just recently started using his full power," there was a slight glance over to Endeavour, "and another who is so volatile he's a liability to his own classmates. You aren't building heroes, you're building glass cannons."
Nezu set his cup down. The clink was the loudest sound in the room.
"Now, for the UA counter-proposal," Nezu said softly. His projection lit up, showing a complex web of AI nodes, drone flight paths, and a redesigned campus map. "We call it Project Aegis. We do not need the Commission to teach our students how to be soldiers. We need to turn the school itself into a living organism. I am proposing the integration of the 'HOUND' system, a sub-atomic sensor array capable of detecting quirk-based energy fluctuations within a five-mile radius. We will move to a dormitory system, yes, but one managed by the heroes who know the students. We keep our autonomy, but we turn the campus into the most dangerous place on earth for a villain to step foot."
"It's too expensive and too insular," Tanaka argued. "You're creating a silo. The public needs to see the Government taking charge. They don't trust you anymore, Nezu. They trust the law. If we bring UA under HPSC control, we can funnel resources from the National Defence budget directly into student protection."
"And in exchange, you get to decide who becomes a hero," All Might said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "You'd turn the license exam into a political loyalty test. You create specialists who follow orders but forget how to inspire. A hero who can't inspire is just a person with a weapon. During the plane incident, the people weren't looking for a tactical retreat. They were looking for a Symbol. If you strip UA of its spirit, you strip the next generation of their heart."
"Heart doesn't stop high-calibre rounds from ten kilometres out!" Tanaka screamed, losing her composure. "Your 'Symbol' was standing outside a yellow bubble while children bled! The facts are these, UA has been the site of two major breaches in sixty days. Your security failed. Your intelligence failed. Your students are being hunted. Shiketsu has had zero incidents. Ketsubutsu has had zero. Why? Because they don't grandstand. They follow the HPSC guidelines."
"They have zero incidents because they aren't the target," Aizawa interjected. "The League isn't attacking them because they don't represent the status quo. They're attacking us because we are the peak. You don't 'fix' the peak by levelling it to the ground. You fortify it."
Endeavor stood up, the heat from his body causing the air to shimmer. Both sides went silent.
"The Commission is right about one thing," Endeavor said, his eyes on Nezu. "The current results are unacceptable. UA has become complacent in its prestige. But Nezu is right about the solution. You cannot fight a war like this with bureaucracy. If you put a Commission bureaucrat in a classroom, the students will stop thinking like heroes and start thinking like employees. A hero who thinks like an employee is a hero who waits for permission to save a life."
He turned to the Commission. "However, Nezu, your 'Project Aegis' is a dream until it's built. I will not support a plan that leaves my son in the same vulnerable state he was in yesterday."
Endeavor slammed his hand on the table. "Here is a compromise. UA remains autonomous, but with a Joint Task Force Liaison. The HPSC will provide real-time satellite intelligence, not to control the curriculum, but to provide the sensor data Nezu's tech needs. The dorms will be built immediately. If UA fails one more time, if so much as a window is broken by a villain, the school is dissolved, and the HPSC takes full control of the students. No debate. No appeals."
Nezu looked at the Commission officials. They looked at Tanaka. It was a lifeline for the school, but a narrow one.
"Ten kilometres," All Might whispered, drawing everyone's attention. "Emerald Eye hit a target from ten kilometres. No sensor array in the world can stop a bullet already in flight. Whatever plan we choose, we have to acknowledge that the world has changed. The villains aren't playing by the rules of 'encounters' anymore. They're playing for keeps."
"Then we play for keeps too," Endeavor said, his eyes burning with a cold, lethal fire. "Nezu, start building your fortress. Commission, start tracking that sniper. And send me whatever comes of it, I'll catch him."
___
The silence of Musutafu was different than the silence of Tokyo. In Tokyo, the silence was an intermission between the roars of the city, in Musutafu, it felt like a heavy, grey blanket.
Izuku sat at the small kitchen table of the apartment his mother had rented for him. It was supposed to be his own space, a place to foster independence while she worked in Tokyo, but after the broadcast, independence was the last thing either of them wanted. Inko had arrived on a late-night train, her face pale and her eyes swollen. She hadn't asked questions. She had simply walked into the apartment, found her son sitting in the dark, and held him. She had held him until the shaking stopped, and until he finally cried himself into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.
Now, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. Izuku stared into the dark sheen of the toaster, his eyes tracing his own reflection. He was looking for a mouth. He was looking for the jagged, pale lips of Yoshi Abara to split his cheek and mock him. But Yoshi was silent. Since the moment that mysterious, feminine voice, one that carried the same resonant authority as All Might, had spoken to him in the arena, the ghost had retreated into the cold corners of his mind.
Izuku took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter.
He felt like he was at rock bottom again. It was a familiar, suffocating weight. He had a quirk now, he was the successor to the Symbol of Peace. Yet, when the bodies hit the barrier, he had been as helpless as the quirkless boy who used to hide in the Musutafu library. He had helped the crowd, yes. He had followed Hawks' orders. But in the grand calculus of the day, eighty people were dead, and his childhood rival was lying in a hospital bed, a hollow shell kept alive by machines.
The image of Bakugo, silent, still, and smeared with dirt, was a ghost that wouldn't leave him. He had spent his life wanting Bakugo to stop shouting at him, but now that the shouting had stopped, the world felt dangerously off-balance.
He had turned off his phone. The class group chat was likely a graveyard of "are you okay?" messages and "did you hear?" notifications. He didn't want to know who was leaving. He didn't want to know who was too scared to come back.
Hard times create strong men, he thought, a phrase he'd read in one of his old notebooks. He wondered if he was strong. He still wanted to be a hero, the fire was still there, flickering beneath the trauma, but it felt selfish now. Was it selfish to want to chase a dream that cost so many lives? He had saved people in the stands, but they hadn't been in the path of the bullet. They hadn't been on the plane. Did those saves even count? '
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Izuku flinched, then relaxed as he saw his mother. She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed, but she offered him a small, supportive smile. She held a laptop in her other hand.
"Izuku," she whispered. "Principal Nezu... he just sent out a mass email. To all the students and parents."
Izuku set his mug down, his heart tripping over a beat. He moved his chair so his mother could sit beside him, and together, they read the words that would decide his future.
Subject: The Future of UA Academy – A Path Forward
To the students and families of UA,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you. We are all grieving, and no words can truly mend the scars left by the events of the Sports Festival. However, as educators and heroes, we must look toward the horizon. UA will return, but it will not be the school you left behind.
Effective immediately, the UA main campus will transition into a specialized Hero Operations Hub. To ensure the absolute safety of our students and to concentrate our defensive resources, only the following courses will remain on the Musutafu campus:
The Hero Course (Standard and Provisional)
The Support Course (Engineering and Development)
The Business Course (Specifically those tracks focused on Hero Agency Management and Logistics)
All other general education and non-hero-centric courses will be transferred to a secondary campus or partner schools. If you are a student in a transferring course, please see the first attachment to select your preference for relocation or a full transfer to a different institution.
Furthermore, for students of the Hero Course: We understand if recent events have changed your perspective on this path. If you wish to transfer to a different school or shift into a non-hero curriculum, please fill out the second attached form. We will assist in your placement without prejudice.
Lastly, for those who remain, the most significant change will be the implementation of the UA Dormitory System. Beginning next month, residency on campus will be mandatory for all students. This will allow us to provide 24-hour protection, integrated sensor monitoring, and a controlled environment away from the vulnerabilities of public transit and private housing. We believe this is the only way to ensure that you can focus on your growth without fear.
We welcome your feedback. If you have suggestions for improving the quality of life within these new dorms, please use the suggestion box link below.
We are not just a school anymore. We are a sanctuary. We will move forward. Plus Ultra.
-- Principal Nezu
The screen went dark as the laptop lid closed. Inko looked at her son, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped his arm.
"Dorms," she breathed. "They want to take you away from home for good."
Izuku looked at his hands. He thought of the "thuds" on the barrier. He thought of the woman's voice telling him to rise. Then, he thought of the silent, empty seat in the classroom where Bakugo should be.
"They aren't taking me away, Mom," Izuku said, his voice stronger than it had been all morning. "They're giving me a place to stand."
He looked back at the toaster reflection. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw a grey, apathetic eye staring back at him from the chrome, not with hate, but with a cold, sharpening interest.
The hard times had arrived. Now, Izuku had to find out what kind of man they were going to create.
"No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No, Izuku. You aren't going back. I won't let you."
"Mom..."
"I'm trying to be supportive!" she cried, her voice rising in a way that was rare for her gentle nature. "I moved us to Tokyo so you could have a fresh start. I watched you train when you got your quirk until you couldn't stand. I cheered for you! But this... this is a war zone, Izuku! They're dropping bodies from the sky! Katsuki is in a coma, and the only reason you aren't next to him is because a sniper decided to aim at his stomach instead of yours!"
Izuku flinched, the memory of the crack of the rifle echoing in his mind. "That's exactly why I have to go back. If the world is this dangerous, then I need to be somewhere I can learn to..."
"You can learn somewhere else!" Inko shrieked, tears streaming down her face. "A normal school! A normal life! You're fifteen years old! You shouldn't be looking at blood on the grass and thinking it's your responsibility to clean it up. I see the way you look, Izuku. You have these... these shadows in your eyes. You aren't sleeping. You're talking to yourself even more so than usual. I'm losing you, and I don't plan on burying you!"
Izuku stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the linoleum. The green sparks of One For All flickered involuntarily across his skin, a physical manifestation of his agitation. "It's All Might's school, Mom! He graduated from those halls. He became the Symbol of Peace because UA gave him the foundation to stand on. He chose me! And he is training me, he believes I could be like him. If I walk away now, I'm not just failing myself, I'm failing the man who saved me."
"And what about your friends?" Inko fired back, standing to face him, her height dwarfed by his but her spirit fierce with maternal terror. "You talk about your classmates like they're your brothers-in-arms. Do you even know if they're coming back? Do you think Tenya Iida's family is happy right now? Do you think Ochaco's parents aren't begging her to stay with them? You're chasing a ghost, Izuku! You're going back to a classroom that will be half-empty because the rest of the world has the common sense to run when the building is on fire!"
The words hit Izuku like a physical blow. He thought of the class group chat, the silence of it. She was right. He didn't know if Iida, Uraraka, or Tsuyu would be there. He didn't know if the 'hard times' had already broken them.
"Maybe they won't come back," Izuku said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating steadiness that made Inko stop mid-breath. "Maybe I'll walk into that classroom and it'll just be me and a few others. But that doesn't change what I have to do. Mom, for fifteen years, I was the boy who couldn't do anything. I was the boy who watched from the sidelines while others were hurt. I was 'Deku.' And then I met All Might, and for the first time, I wasn't just a victim. I was a person with a choice."
He stepped closer, taking her shaking hands in his. His palms were calloused, the hands of a soldier in the body of a child.
"I'm not going back to UA because I want to die," Izuku said, his green eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful clarity. "I'm not looking for a heroic grave. I want to live, Mom. I want to live in a world where a plane can fly across the sky and nobody has to look up in fear. I want to live in a world where people like don't get broken by ghosts from ten kilometres away. If I stay here, in this apartment, I'm just waiting for the world to end. If I go back to UA, I'm the one who gets to decide how my world to end."
"Izuku..." Inko's voice was a broken whisper.
"I have a quirk now. I am stronger now," he said, and for a split second, his shadow on the kitchen wall seemed to shift, the silhouette of a taller, leaner boy with apathetic eyes flickering behind him. "I am going to be the greatest hero this country has ever seen. Not because I'm brave, but because I've been at the bottom and I know what it's like to have nobody come for you. I'm going back to UA to make sure I'm the one who comes for everyone else."
He squeezed her hands, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not going there to sacrifice myself. I'm going there to master this power so I don't have to. Please, Mom. Don't ask me to be the boy in the back of the class again. I don't know how to be him anymore."
Inko looked at her son, really looked at him. She saw the scars on his hands, the set of his jaw, and the weight of a legacy that was too heavy for any one person to carry. She saw the courage that had replaced his stutter, and the willingness to live for a dream that had nearly killed him twice already.
She didn't stop crying, but she let out a long, shuddering breath, her head dropping against his chest. She couldn't say yes, but she couldn't say no. Not to this version of Izuku.
"You're so much like him," she sobbed into his shirt, referring not to his father, but to the golden hero on the posters. "And it scares me to death."
I'm coming back!