Tsukauchi slipped the phone into his coat pocket, trying to ignore the stinging burn in his eyes. Through the thinning crowd of police officers, a group of four approached him. Their costumes, still bright and pristine, looked defiantly out of place against the apocalyptic backdrop of black smoke and rusted metal. These were the volunteer heroes who had responded to the emergency call—those seeking fame or simply unable to sit at home while the port burned. Likely the former; they looked quite young—what else could be driving them?
— Detective Naomasa? — A broad-shouldered man in a suit resembling a deep-sea diving suit, but without a helmet, stepped forward. His skin had a strange grayish tint, as if it had been soaked in seawater. — We've arrived in response to the signal. I am Hydropress. I can compress volumes of water to a solid state. We came because we are a team and felt our Quirks were well-suited for this incident. At the very least, we would manage well as a search and rescue group.
Beside him, tapping a heavy boot impatiently against the asphalt, stood a girl in a skin-tight bodysuit with numerous ventilation ports along her spine and arms.
— Aerosol, — she muttered curtly, adjusting the respirator around her neck. — I can filter any gases through the pores of my skin and release them under pressure. Looks like I can disperse this sulfur smoke.
Two more loomed behind them: a short guy with unnaturally long, multi-jointed fingers who introduced himself as FingerFo — his Quirk allowed him to bend and extend his fingers. Beside him was a tall, nervous youth in a domino mask, whose arms from shoulders to wrists were thick with short crystalline needles resembling porcupine quills. His name was Quillsheared, though he hadn't bothered to introduce himself.
— I'm glad you're here, — Naomasa spread a tablet with a map of the port across the hood of a patrol car; it was already covered in a layer of greasy ash. — The situation is critical. People are trapped in Sector C-10, including one of my officers. The path is cut off by a chemical fire and structural collapses. My plan is as follows: Hydropress and Aerosol, you create a safety "corridor." Hydropress, suppress the flames and cool the debris; Aerosol, pump out the combustion products. FingerFo and Quillsheared, follow them to extract the victims. Be advised, reports indicate an unidentified object operating in the zone—presumably an aggressive villain with beast-like behavior...
— Wait a minute, Detective, — Hydropress interrupted rudely. His voice trembled, whether from excitement or an adrenaline rush, and the needles on his arms grated unpleasantly against each other. — You're assigning roles like we're your subordinates. You don't even know our power limits! You judge operations by textbooks, but we're the ones risking our hides.
Tsukauchi took a deep breath, feeling a dull exhaustion simmering inside him. The weight of responsibility, the smell of sulfur, and the recent threats from Bei Lin pressed down on him.
— Young man, — a metallic edge sharpened Naomasa's voice, — I am drafting this plan based on logistics and the minimization of casualties. My job is to get you in there alive and...
— Too many words, Detective, — Aerosol suddenly cut him off. She had already pulled on her respirator, her voice becoming muffled. — While you're drawing circles on a map, someone in that smoke is taking their last breath.
She turned to the other heroes, ignoring Naomasa's protesting gesture.
— Guys, time is our worst enemy. We move along the pier line. Hydropress, you're at the point—soak everything that glows. I'll handle the cloud. The rest of you—cover our six. We'll figure it out as we go. Move out!
Without waiting for an official order, the four bolted. With a sharp movement of his palms, Hydropress drew a powerful jet of water from a nearby fire hydrant, shaping it into a sort of flat shield. The group instantly vanished behind the veil of gray smog, leaving Tsukauchi alone by the hood of the car.
Naomasa stood there, hand outstretched toward the emptiness. The wind carried the scent of char and the distant, faint groan of deforming metal.
— Dammit... — he whispered, lowering his head and clenching his fists. — Hot young blood. They think resolve is a substitute for rationality, but in a hell like this, mistakes are paid for only with lives.
The detective looked up at the sky, where the sickly light of dawn broke through yellow clouds, and pressed his palm to his radio.
— I hope Aizawa arrives as soon as possible. We need a professional who knows how to dampen not just Quirks, but this reckless fire before it burns them all.
In the end, deep down, Naomasa felt a dark sense of relief. A pack of volunteer heroes had appeared—a group he could pin all the sins on in case of failure. Now, threatened with the loss of the career he had spent his entire life building, he had no intention of losing it over some fire. If these "self-taughts" succeeded, he'd get the result. If they died, it would be their personal choice and their mistake, not his tactical failure.
—It seems this group has worked together before and they can act in unison,— Tsukauchi hoped.
***
Toshinori Yagi closed his apartment door with a soft, barely audible click. The night shift was over, but the city seemed to have drained every last drop of strength from him. The hallway was shrouded in semi-darkness. His lifestyle was painfully simple, almost ascetic: There were no golden statues in his honor here, no expensive trophies.
He moved slowly, overcoming the dull ache in his joints as he pulled off his outer layers. Every step felt heavy. Toshinori's gaze fell upon the bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back was a man whose face resembled a skull draped in skin more than the face of the Symbol of Peace. Deep shadows pooled under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow.
— It gets harder to hold onto this light with every passing day, — he thought with a bitter smile. — The flame still burns, but there's almost no wood left for the fire.
The silence was shattered by the sharp, persistent ringing of his phone. Toshinori winced. He had hoped that, for at least the next few hours, this number wouldn't appear on his screen. His manager had a knack for calling at the exact moment his body pleaded for rest.
— Yes, I'm listening, — Toshinori said hoarsely, pressing the receiver to his ear with his shoulder while his hands struggled with the fasteners of his clothes.
The manager spoke quickly and professionally. His voice trembled with the importance of the assignment. This wasn't just a routine apprehension of petty thieves—it was a massive fire at the Hosu Port.
— ...The Association will grant you an unprecedented number of hero points for participating in this operation, — the manager continued, rattling off figures. — If we close this case successfully, your top ranking will be untouchable for months to come...
Toshinori wasn't even listening to the talk of points. Ratings, scores, statistics—it was all chaff that had never been his motivation.
— To hell with the points, — he interrupted. — Give me the facts. Type of fire? Threat to civilians?
The manager paused for a second, caught off guard by the lack of enthusiasm regarding the rankings, then continued more cautiously:
— Detective Tsukauchi reports that this isn't just an accident. There is a high probability that the fire is the work of a villain. Presumably Rank B or even A. The situation is complicated: it's a chemical fire, and the area is blocked off. People are trapped in the disaster zone: port workers, security, and several police officers. The villain is pinned down there as well, amidst the wreckage and flames.
Toshinori took a heavy breath, which turned into a fit of dry coughing.
— "Right under my nose... In the Tokyo port," — flashed through his mind. — "I used to be able to smell smoke from miles away. I would have heard the screams across the city. And now I find out from a phone call..."— His senses, once sharpened to the limit by the power of One For All, were beginning to betray him.
Toshinori stepped into the bathroom and flicked on the dim light. Carefully, he peeled back the old, blood-soaked bandage on his left side. Pain immediately flared up in a pulsing, angry wave. The hideous scar—a jagged crater on his torso—looked particularly inflamed today.
HE had left this wound. A year and a half ago. The Demon King. A man of myth, someone his mentor had only spoken of in whispers. A being capable of stealing the destinies and powers of others. Toshinori remembered that fight as if it were yesterday. He remembered the taste of blood and the sheer terror that ancient villain inspired. Yagi had hoped his final blow had sent the monster to rot in some gutter. But in Japan's history, such men did not simply vanish. Too ancient. Too powerful.
He remembered his eyes before he destroyed him. Those purple, greedy, and utterly malevolent eyes, which held no flame or spark, but an endless, insatiable hole he could not fill with anything.
— "Please, let it not be him. Let it be anyone else," — he prayed silently, staring at his reflection.
He must save them. The people at Hosu Port were waiting for rescue. They were waiting for All Might.
Toshinori clenched his fists, shut his eyes tight, and tried to summon that golden spark of power that still flickered in his chest. His muscles began to expand, filling the void of his suit, returning him to the form of a giant. But as soon as his body attained that legendary physique, the wound in his side recoiled with a sharp, stabbing pain. Blood surged from beneath the fresh bandage, staining his fingers crimson.
His vision darkened abruptly. The world tilted. Toshinori instantly "deflated," sinking onto the edge of the bathtub, gasping for breath. Pink foam flecked his lips.
— Shit... — he hissed through gritted teeth, clutching his bleeding side. — This is going to take much longer than I thought.
He looked at his watch. Time that the people at Hosu Port simply did not have. He could only pin his hopes on the few volunteers the Association would send.
— Tell the Association not to count on me, — he told the manager and ended the call. It was the right thing to do. In his condition, he would only be a liability.
Nezu was right. Now, when he needed to raise his successor, Izuku, and being strong enough to protect the city was no longer possible... He had to at least remain strong enough to protect the future—Class A and B at U.A. High.
***
The cleanup plan for the Hosu port had looked like a cakewalk for easy money from the start. For the four hero volunteers, this fire wasn't a catastrophe—it was a slot machine about to hit the jackpot. In a world where rankings determined monthly payouts and brand contracts, such "lucky" proximity to the disaster site felt like a gift from fate.
— Watch and learn, rookies, while I'm in the mood, — Hydropress smirked, his gray skin glistening with moisture.
He raised his hands. Sea water from beyond the pier began to obey his will; under the pressure of his Quirk, the water instantly compressed, turning into a translucent icy monolith. The heavy harbor crane blocking the path now served merely as a support for their new road. Hydropress walked first, confidently tapping his palm against the frozen water. He kept glancing at the screen of his rugged smartphone mounted on his forearm.
— The Association is being generous today. If we pull those poor bastards out of C-10, I'm finally swapping my old bike for something decent. I'm tired of riding junk while the Top 100 guys buy apartments in central Tokyo.
— Look, — he pointed to the shimmering heat map on the Association app. — Sector C-10 is glowing red right now. A 5.3x civilian rescue multiplier. One raid like this, and I've filled my point quota for three months ahead," — the hero said, barely looking up from his phone.
— Points are fine, but the smell here is absolute shit, — Aerosol grumbled, filtering the acrid cloud. She glanced into a cracked container they were passing. Inside were boxes of expensive electronics. — Hey, FF, look. It'll be written off as losses anyway. Snag a couple; call it our 'hazard pay.
FingerFo, dragging his long fingers behind him, obediently elongated one even further, hooking a small box and tossing it into his waist pouch.
— We got lucky being nearby, — he muttered, nervously twitching his multi-jointed fingers. — If one of the 'Tops' had shown up, we'd only get the crumbs. This way, the whole pot is ours.
— And my rank will definitely end up higher than all of yours!
— Keep dreaming about your rank, Hydro, — Aerosol nudged her partner's shoulder. — Did you forget who saved the most people during the last assignment? That was my FF's doing. He's multi-talented. ^_~
Quillsheared walked last. He was their "leader," but his authority ended where the money talk began. While the others discussed how they'd spend their future payouts, he noticed a strange movement in the shadows behind a fallen container.
— Guys, quiet... — he started, but they ignored him, continuing to move. Fearing being left behind, he rejoined the group. Their chatter was cut short by a low, raspy groan.
Near a mangled container, they stumbled upon a policeman. The bloody man sat slumped against the wall, and the sight instantly stripped the heroes of their arrogance. He clutched his neck, hoping to hold together what was peeling away. The officer's face was a gory mess: deep, jagged claw marks ran from his forehead to his chin, exposing the bone. He still gripped his service pistol, but his gaze was empty.
— Oh, hell... — Hydropress winced in disgust. — He's been shredded.
The heroes froze in shock. They weren't used to seeing the police like this. In their world, policemen were background dressing—bureaucrats who filled out reports after the heroes finished posing for the cameras. But this man had faced something that didn't fit the "routine criminal apprehension" script.
Quillsheared whispered, staring at the ragged edges of the wound.
— Something is here. A villain. Rank B or higher.
— Give it a rest, — Hydropress tried to regain his confident tone, though his voice wavered. — It's just panic. The cop got caught in a collapse or...
— The crane was bitten through, Hydro, — Quillsheared pointed to the twisted metal behind them. — Look at the patrol car.
A few meters ahead stood a patrol cruiser. Its roof was flattened as if a titan had stepped on it. Quillsheared instinctively slowed his pace and moved a few meters to the side, closer to the shadow of the containers, to better examine the metal's deformation. That movement was what saved his life.
From the thick sulfur mist atop one of the containers, a striped shadow lunged. The speed was so immense that the human eye could barely register the blur.
Hydropress threw up his hands, trying to summon a surge of water, but the Tiger Nomu was faster. Claws capable of shredding steel slashed through the hero's chest. The water shield Hydropress was so proud of shattered into a myriad of droplets mixed with blood. With a single lunge, the monster sank its teeth into the hero's shoulder. There was a sickening crunch of breaking bone.
— A-a-a-a-a-h!!! — Hydropress tried to scream, but with a second swipe of its paw, the Nomu simply severed his throat. The smug "volunteer" collapsed into a heap of dead meat. His smartphone continued to beep, tracking his proximity to the high-multiplier zone.
The Nomu didn't waste time on emotions. It was a rational predator. Evaluating the remaining targets, it instantly dismissed Aerosol as an immediate threat—she was frozen in a paralysis of terror, far too weak. Its priority shifted to FingerFo, who had already extended his fingers and hooked onto the edge of the warehouse roof.
The beast leaped. With surgical precision, the Nomu slashed through the boy's extended, tensed fingers.
— A-a-a-a-a-a-h!!!! — FF's soul-piercing scream echoed through the port. Deprived of his grip, he plummeted downward, but before he could crawl away, the Nomu's heavy paw slammed down on his thigh, grinding the bone to powder. The beast intentionally immobilized him so it could deal with the last dangerous opponent.
Aerosol, seeing this, completely lost her mind. She bolted in a random direction, vanishing into the smoke and abandoning her lover. The Nomu only briefly followed her with its dead eyes—it was saving her for dessert.
Quillsheared realized: this was the end. The Nomu turned its head toward him, licking its blood-stained claws.
— NEEDLE BOMB! — Quillsheared rasped.
With a deafening screech, hundreds of razor-sharp crystalline needles erupted from his body simultaneously. It was an explosion of pure rage and despair. Most of the needles bounced harmlessly off the dense hide, but a few—the longest and sharpest—pierced deep into the Nomu's exposed brain and eyes. The creature howled, a sound like grinding metal, and recoiled for a second, disoriented by the sharp pain.
Quillsheared didn't stay to check the result. Taking advantage of the brief opening, he dove toward the sturdy door of Warehouse C-10. His skin bled where the needles had exited, his body burned with pain, but adrenaline pushed him forward.
He practically fell inside, slamming the massive steel door behind him. In the gloom of the warehouse, terrified faces stared back at him. Port workers, a couple of guards, and that same sergeant.
Quillsheared slid down the wall, clutching a fragment of his own needle in his hand. From outside came a single, heavy thud against the door. The metal buckled but held. Then, silence fell.
— Why did you let him in?! — one of the workers suddenly screamed, pointing at the blood-soaked hero. — He'll draw that thing here! We were sitting quiet, no one was touching us!
— Yeah! — another joined in, his voice trembling with hysteria. — You're a hero, aren't you? Why are you here instead of fighting that thing? They promised we'd be saved! You're just a coward in a suit! Go out and deal with it, or get the hell out of here!
They began to surround him, venting all their fear and helplessness on the one who, in their eyes, had "failed to deliver." The hero system had created a world where people forgot how to empathize—they had grown used to consuming salvation as a service. And if the service was poor, the "client" wanted blood.
The police sergeant stepped forward, blocking the workers' path.
— Alright, everyone, cool it! — he barked. — He's the only one who can hold the door if that thing comes back. Move away from him!
Quillsheared closed his eyes. The laughter of Hydropress still rang in his head. That man wanted a penthouse. Now all he had was a cold puddle of oil on the asphalt.
"Jackpot," — Quillsheared thought. — "We really hit the jackpot...
...in Russian roulette."