Two days later, the Commission called a press conference.Not about the sabotage — about ownership.
Behind a row of microphones, the director spoke the words that always precede disaster:"Public ethics now require public oversight."
The crowd murmured. Reporters smelled blood."Effective immediately," he continued, "all Field Dialogue materials will be reviewed for national standardization. A panel will certify instructors. Unauthorized programs will cease."
A journalist raised a hand. "Does that include U.A.?"
"Especially U.A.," he said.
The staff meeting that evening could have melted concrete.Aizawa slammed a folder down. "They're nationalizing decency."
Nezu's tone was even softer than usual, which meant danger. "They'll call it safety. They'll call us anarchists."
Renya leaned back. "Then we don't fight them in headlines. We fight them in homework."
He opened his notebook. Inside: the curriculum. Not the one printed on syllabi — the one written in margins by students.
"What if we publish everything?" he said. "Open source the entire method. Let every teacher, medic, and neighbor use it freely. Once it's public domain, they can't trademark it."
Nezu's eyes gleamed. "Legal immunity by generosity. Delicious."
Aizawa nodded slowly. "It'll make us targets."
"It'll make us redundant," Renya said. "That's the goal."
At dawn, U.A.'s servers carried a single file:FIELD DIALOGUE — VERSION FREE.License: Use, adapt, translate, forget. No permission needed. No ownership claimed.
By noon it had been mirrored across continents. Universities added footnotes. Villages added verbs. Someone translated it into emojis.
The Commission's lawyers went pale. The director cursed. Imai laughed. Kurobane brought coffee and said, "You can't censor air."
But the backlash came fast.
A nationalist pundit declared, "This so-called freedom erodes authority."A corporate rep whined, "Unregulated empathy will bankrupt us."Even some heroes worried aloud: "If everyone teaches ethics, what's left to respect?"
Renya didn't respond. He went for a walk.
At a bus stop, two strangers argued quietly about whether the verbs belonged to heroes or to everyone. A grandmother settled it by saying, "They belong to whoever remembers them when scared."
He wrote that down.
That night, Shiketsu's Saito called."They're summoning you," he said. "A public hearing. They want to make an example — decide if you're instructor or instigator."
"When?" Renya asked.
"Tomorrow."
"Where?"
"Assembly Hall," Saito said. "Bring no notes. They don't want answers. They want posture."
Renya smiled thinly. "Then I'll bring a chair."