The air in Kamino Ward was thick, a humid soup of city exhaust and the underlying, metallic tang of an approaching storm. Far above the neon-lit streets, the massive jumbotron screens flickered with the image of the UA faculty—Nezu, Aizawa, and Vlad King—bowing in a deep, agonizingly long apology.
But in a dark, cramped bar located in a forgotten corner of the district, that same broadcast was being watched with a very different sentiment.
The air inside the League's hideout was thick with the smell of old wood, stale liquor, and the faint, ozone-heavy scent of suppressed violence.
Katsuki Bakugo sat in the center of the room, his body anchored to an industrial chair that felt like it had been bolted into the very foundation of the building.
His wrists were locked in heavy, quirk-suppressing metal cuffs, but his posture was anything but defeated. He sat with his shoulders squared, his chin tilted up in a gesture of pure, unadulterated defiance.
Opposite him, Shigaraki Tomura sat hunched on a barstool, the severed hand on his face casting a jagged, five-fingered shadow across his pale skin.
"Look at them, Bakugo," Shigaraki rasped, his eyes gleaming through the gaps in the fingers. He gestured with a long, thin finger toward the television screen where the UA faculty continued their deep, ceremonial bow.
"The 'Symbol of Peace' is tarnished. "The heroes you worship are bowing to a society that already hates them. They're being eaten alive by the very people they try to protect. It's a tragedy, isn't it? A society that discards its protectors the moment a flaw appears."
Bakugo didn't answer. He glared at the screen, then at the assembled members of the League.
Dabi stood leaning against the far wall, his blue flames dancing lazily in his palms.
Toga was perched on a barstool, humming a tuneless song as she cleaned a knife.
"We aren't so different, you and I," Shigaraki continued, his voice a dry, rhythmic scratch. "You were the one they put in chains at the Sports Festival. They treated you like a wild animal because your desire to win was too 'aggressive' for their polite little society. Here, we don't use chains. We use purpose."
"Join us," Shigaraki said, leaning closer, the severed hand on his face casting a grotesque shadow. "You have the heart of a victor. You're being held back by a system that demands you be a 'good boy.' Here, you can simply be strong."
Bakugo's lip curled into a snarl. "I've heard enough of your garbage."
Dabi, leaning against a nearby pillar, let out a soft, mocking huff of air. "He's a brat, Shigaraki. You're wasting your breath. He's got 'Hero' written in his DNA like a disease."
"Is that so?" Shigaraki tilted his head. "Twice. Remove his restraints."
"Are you insane?! Yeah, let the kid go!" Twice shouted, his voice warbling between his split personalities.
As the heavy metal locks clicked open and fell to the floor with a hollow clang, the room held its breath. The League members—Toga, Spinner, Magne—all shifted their weight, their Quirks simmering just beneath the surface.
Bakugo stood up slowly. He didn't run for the door. He didn't scream for help. He looked at Shigaraki with a look of such profound, concentrated loathing that even the villain seemed to pause.
"You talk a lot," Bakugo said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You talk about 'society' and 'fairness' like you're some kind of philosopher.
"I've spent my whole life watching one person," Bakugo said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I don't care about your 'society' or your 'tragedy.' I watched All Might win. I watched him stand at the top because he was the strongest and the best. I didn't choose to be a hero so I could be 'good.' I chose it so I could win like him."
He raised his palm, and for the first time in days, the air in the room crackled with the smell of nitroglycerin.
"I didn't choose to be a hero because I wanted to be your 'good boy' or play by the rules," Bakugo roared, his palm erupting in a blinding flash of orange light. "I chose it because All Might wins! And no matter how much you whine about the system, you're just a bunch of losers hiding in a basement and
! I DON'T JOIN LOSERS!"
The explosion rocked the bar, shattering the television and filling the room with a choking cloud of black smoke. Through the haze, Bakugo stood ready, his teeth bared in a snarl. "Now shut up and fight me!"
The transition from the neon-soaked bustle of the main station to the industrial periphery of Kamino Ward felt like crossing a border into a forgotten world. The air here was thicker, tasting of rust, stagnant oil, and the approaching summer humidity. The streetlights were fewer and further between, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to stretch toward the six students as they moved through the narrow alleyways.
Momo Yaoyorozu knelt in the dirt of a dead-end alley, the hem of her expensive heiress-disguise dress brushing against the grime.
She didn't seem to care. Her focus was entirely on the large, custom-built device she had manifested from her own lipids. It was a wide-spectrum thermal imaging array, far more sophisticated than a standard police unit. She pressed her eye to the viewfinder, her hands trembling slightly against the cold metal.
"The signal from the tracker is stationary," Momo whispered, her voice tight with a mixture of professional focus and raw nerves. "It's centered directly behind the corrugated steel of that warehouse. But... the readings are anomalous."
Sherlock stood directly behind her, his tan trench coat pulled tight around his frame. His eyes were not on the warehouse, but on the receiver. "Identify the signatures. Give me the heat-map distribution."
"It's... it's strange," Momo said, her brow furrowing. "There are multiple clusters. Six—no, eight distinct signatures in the main bay. But the heat output is irregular. Look at the display, Sherlock-kun."
Sherlock leaned in, his emerald eyes scanning the digital screen. The thermal blobs weren't the steady, orange-yellow of human body heat. They were pulsating, flickering from a dull red to a violent, incandescent white.
"The internal temperature is fluctuating between 38°C and 45°C," Sherlock analyzed, his voice low and clinical. "That's far beyond the threshold for human survival. If these were people, their blood would be boiling and their organs would be into systemic failure."
"So... they're the villains?" Kirishima asked, his hand gripping the edge of a brick wall so hard the stone began to crack. "Is that where Bakugo is?"
Sherlock shook his head slowly. "Unlikely. Look at the mass. The displacement on the thermal map suggests these entities are over seven feet tall and possess a muscular density that doesn't align with the League members we encountered at the camp."
"Maybe they're just big villains?" Midoriya suggested, his eyes wide.
"No," Sherlock countered. "The heat is concentrated in the brain-stem area and the major muscle groups, but there is almost zero heat radiating from the digestive or respiratory systems. These aren't just 'villains.' They are biological constructs. They are things that have been built, not born."
Momo shifted the sensor to the basement levels. Suddenly, she gasped, nearly dropping the device. "Sherlock! Look at the subterranean level!"
A single, isolated dot appeared on the screen. It was small—human-sized—but it glowed with a terrifying, white-hot intensity that made the rest of the warehouse look cold by comparison.
"What is that?" Todoroki asked, his voice a chill breeze. "Is that Bakugo?"
"The heat output is too high for a human," Sherlock said, his gaze fixed on the white dot. "But the signature is stable. It isn't flickering like the larger ones. It's... it's like a sun buried in the dirt."
"We need to discuss the variables. If these are the creatures from the USJ, then a direct approach is suicide. But if that signature in the basement is a person—if it's the leader—then we are standing on top of a powder keg."
"We wait," Sherlock commanded, his voice a cold anchor for the group. "We don't jump to conclusions. We observe. The Pros will be here in minutes. Our job isn't to be the hammer; it's to be the scouts. If those heat signatures move, we record the trajectory. Until then... we remain invisible."
The group fell silent, the weight of the unknown pressing down on them. In the distance, the first faint wail of a siren began to rise, signaling the end of the observation and the beginning of the storm.
The atmosphere in Kamino Ward had reached a terminal density. To the average citizen, the night was just another humid evening in the city, but for the five students crouched in the jagged shadows of the alleyway, the air felt like high-voltage static. Sherlock adjusted the brim of his fedora, his eyes never leaving the thermal display in Momo's shaking hands.
"They're in position," Sherlock whispered.
The silence wasn't broken by a siren or a shout. It was shattered by the sound of the sky falling.
From the darkness above the warehouse, a golden streak of light descended with the force of a meteor. All Might, even in his diminished state, struck the roof with a shockwave that sent a plume of dust three stories high. Simultaneously, the corrugated steel front of the facility didn't just bend—it evaporated.
Mt. Lady, having grown to her towering sixty-foot stature in a single, fluid heartbeat, delivered a "Canyon Cannon" kick that reduced the main bay doors to shrapnel.
The thunder of the impact rolled through the narrow streets, shaking the foundations of the buildings where the students hid.
"GO! SECURE THE PERIMETER!"
The command came from Best Jeanist. The Number Four Hero moved with the grace of a conductor. With a sharp, flicking motion of his fingers, the very air seemed to weave itself into a web. The denim and nylon fibers of the hidden villains' clothes became their own cages. Inside the warehouse, the "Hose" of Nomus—grotesque, mindless titans—found themselves instantly bound.
Sherlock watched through a gap in the brickwork. The efficiency was staggering. This was the pinnacle of hero society—a surgical strike executed with the precision of a master architect. Tiger and the Police Force swarmed the interior, their movements a synchronized dance of suppression and capture.
"They have them," Kirishima hissed, his eyes bright with a desperate, burgeoning hope. "Look at them! The Nomu can't even move! They're going to find Bakugo and end this right now!"
Midoriya's breath was hitching, his eyes wide as he watched his idol, All Might, standing at the center of the wreckage like a god of victory. "It's perfect. The timing... the power... they really did it."
But Sherlock didn't share the relief. His mind was compulsively running the numbers. The "Blood Paper" incident had taught him that the most dangerous moment in any equation isn't the struggle—it's the moment of perceived victory.
The "Pros" were focused on the physical assets in front of them, but the thermal sensor in Momo's hand was telling a different story.
"Momo," Sherlock said, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "The heat signature in the basement. The one that looked like a sun."
Momo looked down at the screen, and the blood drained from her face. "Sherlock... it's not just getting hotter. It's expanding. It's not a person. It's a... it's a portal."
The world didn't end with a bang. It ended with a breath.
A thick, oily black liquid began to bubble out of the mouths of the captured Nomu inside the warehouse. It was the same sludge-like substance that had taken Bakugo from the forest. In a matter of seconds, the "perfect victory" turned into a nightmare as the Nomu vanished, teleported away by a force the Heroes couldn't see.
And then, the pressure hit.
It started at the base of Sherlock's skull—a sharp, cold spike of pure, unadulterated dread. The temperature in the alleyway plummeted, but it wasn't a thermal change; it was a biological shutdown.
From the shadows of the ruined warehouse, a man stepped out.
He didn't roar. He didn't glow. He simply was. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit that seemed to drink the light around it. His head was encased in a black, industrial life-support mask, the mechanical hiss-purr of his breathing sounding like a predator in a deep cave.
All For One.
The moment he appeared, the "Heroes" were no longer the hunters. They were prey.
Best Jeanist, reacting with the instincts that had made him a legend, launched every fiber in the vicinity at the man in the suit. It was a masterpiece of binding—thousands of carbon-thread lines lashing out to entomb the villain.
"I see," the man in the mask said. His voice was calm, cultured, and terrifyingly polite. "You've practiced quite a bit, Jeanist. But your Quirk relies on the strength of the threads. And threads... are so very easy to break."
With a casual flick of his wrist—a movement so slight it looked like he was brushing away a fly—the world exploded.
A wave of pure, concentrated kinetic force erupted from All For One's palm. There was no fire, no light, just the raw power of a mountain being moved. The entire warehouse district for three blocks was leveled in a single heartbeat. Concrete was ground into powder. Steel beams were twisted into pretzels.
Best Jeanist was thrown through a brick wall like a ragdoll, his body broken and limp before he even hit the ground. The other Pros were scattered, buried under tons of debris.
In the alleyway, the students were pinned to the ground by the sheer aura of the man.
Sherlock tried to move his hand to his pocket, to grab even a single sheet of paper, but his nervous system had betrayed him. His pupils were so dilated that his emerald irises were mere slivers of green. His heart, already fragile from the "Blood Paper" incident, gave a jagged, painful thud against his ribs.
This is the end of the line, Sherlock thought, his mind struggling to form words through the fog of terror. There is no math for this. There is no strategy. He is the zero that cancels out every other variable.
He looked at Momo. She was paralyzed, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes glazed with a shock so deep it looked like she had gone blind. Midoriya was clawing at the dirt, his face a mask of primal, animalistic fear.
All For One turned his masked head toward their hiding spot. He didn't see them with eyes, but he felt them. He felt the shivering of their souls.
"I can hear you," the villain murmured, his voice carrying clearly through the settling dust of the destroyed city. "Tiny hearts... beating so fast they might burst. It's a beautiful sound, isn't it? The sound of life realizing how insignificant it truly is."
He took a step forward. Each footfall sounded like a hammer on a coffin lid.
Sherlock felt a drop of cold sweat trace a path down his temple. He had spent his life thinking the world was a series of blueprints and balanced equations. But as he looked at the man who had just dismantled the Number Four Hero with a flick of his wrist, Sherlock Sheets realized the ultimate truth of the abyss.
Some equations don't want to be solved. Some equations just want to consume you.
The Magician was out of tricks. The Architect was out of plans. And the King of Villains was just getting started.
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Read My FF Mha:- The Grand illusionist