Year two of training began with Yoshikage Kira breaking a villain's jaw in three places.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't part of some grand strategy. It was simply a Tuesday evening, and a low-level criminal with a mutation Quirk that gave him enhanced strength had decided to rob a convenience store while Yoshikage was buying energy drinks.
The villain—who went by the ridiculous name "Crusher" despite being maybe twenty years old and built like someone who'd discovered steroids but not actual training—had grabbed the cashier and was demanding money when Yoshikage walked in.
For a moment, he considered just leaving. Not his problem. He had training scheduled in thirty minutes and didn't need the complication.
Then Crusher backhanded the cashier, a middle-aged woman who looked terrified, and Yoshikage sighed.
I really don't have time for this.
"Hey," he said calmly, setting down his energy drinks. "You're doing this wrong."
Crusher spun toward him, muscles bulging. "The fuck did you say?"
"The robbery," Yoshikage clarified, pulling off his jacket and setting it aside carefully—it was expensive and he didn't want it damaged. "You're doing it wrong. There are at least three security cameras in here, you're not wearing a mask, and you just assaulted someone, which elevates this from robbery to aggravated assault. The sentence difference is significant."
"I don't give a shit about—"
"Also," Yoshikage continued, stretching his shoulders, "you chose a store two blocks from a hero agency during evening patrol hours. Response time will be approximately three minutes. You've been here for ninety seconds already, and you haven't even gotten the money yet. Poor planning."
Crusher's face reddened with rage. "You think you're funny, you little—"
He charged, fist drawn back for a haymaker that would have shattered bone if it connected.
Yoshikage slipped the punch—basic boxing footwork, drilled into him over twelve months of daily practice—and delivered a Hamon-enhanced palm strike to Crusher's solar plexus.
The villain's charge stopped like he'd hit a wall. His eyes bulged. Golden energy crackled across his torso, disrupting his enhanced muscle structure.
Then Yoshikage followed up with a knee to the face—Muay Thai technique, perfect form—and Crusher's jaw broke with an audible crack.
The villain collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Total engagement time: four seconds.
Yoshikage checked his watch. "Still have time for training," he muttered, then looked at the cashier. "You should call the police. And heroes, I suppose. Tell them a civilian with a combat-oriented Quirk subdued the attacker."
"I—thank you—what's your—"
But Yoshikage was already leaving, energy drinks forgotten, no interest in being interviewed or recognized.
Just another day. Just another idiot criminal who thought a strong Quirk was a substitute for actual planning.
This universe never changed.
The encounters became routine over the following months.
Yoshikage didn't seek them out—he wasn't trying to be a hero, and he certainly wasn't trying to draw attention—but he also didn't go out of his way to avoid them. If he saw a crime in progress, if some low-level villain or hero got in his way, he dealt with it.
Efficiently. Brutally. Without leaving evidence of his true capabilities.
Against villains, he used martial arts and Hamon, presenting himself as a civilian with a "combat enhancement Quirk" if anyone asked. Quick takedowns, minimal collateral damage, always gone before heroes arrived to ask questions.
Against heroes—because sometimes heroes were the problem, corrupt or abusive or just picking on the wrong civilians—he was more creative.
A hero named Reflect, who had a Quirk that bounced attacks back at attackers and used it to bully Quirkless individuals? Yoshikage touched the man's coffee cup in a café, turned it into a bomb, and detonated it six hours later when Reflect was alone in his apartment. The resulting investigation concluded it was a villain attack, motive unknown.
A hero called Spotlight who was taking bribes and harassing local businesses? Yoshikage planted bombs in his hero costume's support equipment. Not enough to kill—though he was tempted—but enough to destroy the equipment and create "malfunctions" that forced the hero into early retirement.
He was careful. Methodical. Left no patterns that could connect the incidents.
And he kept training.
Because every fight, every encounter, every criminal he put down was a learning experience. A test of his capabilities. A chance to identify weaknesses and address them.
The low-level villain with a speed Quirk who'd almost tagged him? Time to improve reaction speed. More reflex training, more pre-initiative work.
The hero whose energy-projection Quirk had forced Yoshikage to rely on Killer Queen for defense? Time to develop better Hamon-based defensive techniques.
Always learning. Always improving. Always training.
The moment you thought you'd trained enough—
—was the moment you started losing.
Encounter #7 with the League of Villains: The Bar Incident (Again)
Three months into year two, Yoshikage returned to the League of Villains' bar.
Not because he wanted to. Not because he had any illusions that they'd improved. But because his intelligence network had picked up concerning chatter about their next planned attack, and he needed to confirm they were still being catastrophically stupid.
They were.
He entered through the front door again—the one he'd destroyed last time had been replaced with a reinforced steel version, as if that would stop him—and found the core members gathered around a table, planning.
"—so we hit them during the field trip," Shigaraki was saying, scratching his neck frantically. "Kurogiri warps us in, we grab the Bakugo kid, we—"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Yoshikage interrupted.
Everyone spun toward him, Quirks activating, weapons drawn.
"YOU," Shigaraki hissed, and there was genuine hatred in his voice now. "How do you keep finding us?!"
"You broadcast your location through unsecured villain networks," Yoshikage said flatly, walking further into the bar. "I've told you this before. Multiple times. Operational security is not optional."
"We changed our communication protocols," Kurogiri said, mist form roiling defensively.
"To an encryption standard that was broken three years ago," Yoshikage replied. "I have a laptop program that cracks it automatically. A high school student could find you."
Toga giggled from her position by the bar. "He's got a point! We are pretty bad at the whole 'secret villain organization' thing!"
"Shut up, Toga," Dabi muttered, blue flames dancing across his hands. "Why are you here? Come to lecture us again about how we're doing villainy wrong?"
"Actually, yes," Yoshikage said. "I heard you're planning to kidnap Bakugo Katsuki from a U.A. training camp. Please tell me I misunderstood and you're not actually that stupid."
"It's a perfect plan," Shigaraki insisted. "We grab one of their students, we prove U.A. isn't safe, we—"
"You accomplish nothing," Yoshikage interrupted. "Let me walk you through this. You attack a U.A. training camp—a location that will be guarded by multiple professional heroes. You fight your way through those heroes, causing chaos and drawing attention. You successfully kidnap one student out of twenty. Then what?"
"Then we convert him to our cause!" Shigaraki said, as if this was obvious. "We show him that hero society is corrupt, that villains are the real—"
"Bakugo Katsuki has an ego the size of a small planet and authority issues that make him physically incapable of following anyone else's lead," Yoshikage said. "He's not going to join you. He's going to fight you constantly, try to escape, and be a massive liability. And while you're dealing with him, every hero in Japan will be hunting you."
"We can handle—"
"No, you can't," Yoshikage said bluntly. "You couldn't handle the U.S.J. attack, which was against students and two teachers. You think you can handle All Might, Endeavor, Best Jeanist, and every other top hero simultaneously? Because that's what will come for you."
Dabi leaned forward. "So what do you suggest, oh wise one? We just give up? Stop trying to fight the system?"
"I suggest you be smart about fighting the system," Yoshikage replied. "You want to prove U.A. isn't safe? Leak the location of the training camp to the media beforehand. Force U.A. to either change locations—admitting they have security concerns—or proceed with a publicly announced event—admitting they're putting students at risk. Either way, you've made your point without getting yourselves killed."
He looked around the room at their faces. Some were considering his words. Most looked mutinous.
"You want to damage hero society?" he continued. "Attack infrastructure. Target hero funding. Expose corruption in the Hero Public Safety Commission. Do things that actually matter instead of theatrical gestures that accomplish nothing except getting your members arrested."
"We're not trying to be efficient," Shigaraki said, voice rising. "We're trying to make a statement! To show that—"
"To show that you're idiots who prioritize spectacle over results?" Yoshikage finished. "Congratulations, you've succeeded."
Shigaraki stood abruptly, chair clattering backward. "I am so sick of you showing up and acting like you're better than us! You talk big, but what have you done? Where are your big attacks? Your statements? Your—"
Killer Queen manifested behind Yoshikage, invisible to everyone except him, and touched the table.
The entire thing vaporized silently.
Papers, maps, plans—everything on the table simply ceased to exist.
"I've systematically discredited seventeen corrupt heroes," Yoshikage said quietly. "I've identified and documented over forty instances of Hero Commission misconduct. I've built a network of informants and resources across three cities. I've done all of this without getting caught, without losing a single asset, without drawing attention to my operations."
He met Shigaraki's eyes directly.
"And I've done it while training daily, maintaining multiple civilian identities, and apparently having enough free time to repeatedly interrupt your meetings to point out how incompetent you are."
The room was silent.
"You want to know the difference between us?" Yoshikage continued. "You're playing at being villains. You're children throwing tantrums and calling it revolution. I'm actually trying to change things."
"Big talk," Dabi said, but his voice was uncertain.
"It's not talk," Yoshikage replied. "In six months, the Hero Public Safety Commission is going to face a scandal that will shake the entire country. In a year, the hero ranking system will be exposed as the corrupt popularity contest it is. In two years, Hero Society as you know it will be fundamentally different."
"And you're going to do all that alone?" Kurogiri asked skeptically.
"Yes," Yoshikage said simply. "Because I'd rather work alone than work with people who are actively sabotaging their own goals through incompetence."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh, and Shigaraki? All For One is using you. He doesn't care if you succeed or fail. He doesn't care if you live or die. You're just a test case for his real plans. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you might actually accomplish something meaningful."
"You don't know anything about Sensei," Shigaraki said, but his voice wavered.
"I know he's had over a century to destroy hero society and it's still standing," Yoshikage replied. "Either he's incompetent, or he's not actually trying. Either way, following his playbook is a waste of your time."
He left before anyone could respond, stepping out into the night.
Behind him, he could hear arguing. Shigaraki defending his mentor. Dabi questioning. Kurogiri trying to mediate.
They still don't get it, Yoshikage thought. They still think villainy is about making statements and looking cool and having tragic backstories that justify everything.
They're never going to learn.
He pulled out his phone and made a note: League of Villains - Write off as potential assets. Too incompetent to salvage. Monitor but do not engage further unless absolutely necessary.
Time to focus on people who were actually worth his time.
An Unexpected Student
Yoshikage encountered Izuku Midoriya again on a Thursday afternoon in late spring.
He'd been running his usual 15-kilometer route—part of his daily cardio training—through one of Musutafu's public parks when he noticed someone in a clearing, clearly struggling with Quirk training.
The green hair was recognizable even from a distance.
Yoshikage slowed, watching from behind a tree line.
Izuku was attempting to use One For All, that much was obvious. Green lightning crackled around his body in unstable bursts, and he was trying to throw punches at a makeshift training dummy. But his form was terrible—arms windmilling, stance unstable, no hip rotation, all arm with no body weight behind the strikes.
And every few punches, the power would surge uncontrollably, and Izuku would cry out in pain as his own Quirk damaged him.
What the hell, Yoshikage thought, watching in disbelief. How long has he had One For All? Almost a year? And his control is still this bad? And his form—
He watched Izuku throw another punch, this one so poorly executed that even without the Quirk backlash it would have been ineffective, and felt something between pity and frustration.
All Might is the Number One Hero. Symbol of Peace. The strongest person in this universe. And he apparently can't teach his chosen successor how to throw a basic punch?
Yoshikage tried to reconcile this with what he knew about All Might's history. Nana Shimura had been his mentor, and she'd been a skilled hero in her own right. Surely she'd taught All Might proper martial arts? Surely he understood that power without technique was just flailing?
Unless...
Unless All Might has been so overwhelmingly powerful for so long that he forgot what it's like to actually need technique, Yoshikage realized. When you can solve every problem by punching it really hard, you stop thinking about optimal form or tactical application. Complacency. Again.
It was almost funny. The Number One Hero was making the same mistake Yoshikage had almost made—assuming that raw power was sufficient, that advantages were insurmountable, that training beyond the basics was unnecessary.
Except All Might's complacency was being passed down to Izuku, who needed proper training because he couldn't just overpower everything with superior strength.
Yoshikage watched Izuku attempt another punch, watched him cry out as his arm fractured from the uncontrolled power, watched him slump against the dummy with tears of frustration.
I could walk away, he thought. This isn't my problem. Midoriya's training or lack thereof doesn't affect my plans.
But the thing was, Yoshikage didn't actually hate Izuku.
He hated the universe. Hated the story and its failures and its moral compromises. Hated Hero Society and its systematic oppression. Hated Bakugo and the teachers and the system that had failed this kid for fourteen years.
But Izuku himself? The boy was just a victim of bad writing and worse circumstances.
And Yoshikage had already planted Bites the Dust on him. In a sense, Izuku was already his asset, his tool, his contingency plan.
Might as well make sure my tools are properly maintained, he rationalized.
He stepped out from the tree line, deliberately making noise so he wouldn't startle the injured teenager.
Izuku spun, eyes wide, cradling his broken arm. "Who—oh! You're—you're the journalist! From—from before! Saito-san!"
"Hikaru is fine," Yoshikage said, using his college-age identity's first name. "I see you're training."
"I—yes—I mean—" Izuku stammered, clearly embarrassed to be caught struggling. "I'm trying to improve my Quirk control but it's—it's harder than I thought and I keep—" He gestured helplessly at his broken arm.
"You keep destroying yourself because your fundamental technique is wrong," Yoshikage said bluntly, walking closer. "Your stance is unstable, your form is terrible, and you're trying to control a power-type Quirk without understanding the biomechanics of how power is actually generated in the human body."
Izuku blinked. "I... what?"
Yoshikage sighed. "Throw a punch. Your best punch, full power."
"But I'll—"
"You're already injured. One more broken bone won't make much difference. Throw the punch."
Izuku hesitated, then squared up to the dummy and threw a punch with One For All active.
It was even worse than Yoshikage had thought. Izuku's feet were too close together. His shoulders were rotated wrong. His elbow was tucked instead of extended. His fist was loose. And when the power activated, it had nowhere to go except back into his own arm because the kinetic chain was completely broken.
The arm shattered. Izuku screamed. Green lightning dissipated.
"Pathetic," Yoshikage said, and Izuku flinched like he'd been struck. "Not because you're weak—your Quirk is clearly powerful. But because whoever is teaching you has apparently never explained how a punch actually works."
"All Might is—" Izuku started defensively.
"All Might is teaching you the way he fights, which works for someone who has had One For All for decades and a body that can handle the strain," Yoshikage interrupted. "But you're not him. You're a beginner with a power you can't control, and you need fundamentals, not advanced techniques."
He stepped forward, positioned himself in a basic boxing stance.
"Power in a punch comes from the ground," he explained. "Your feet push against the earth, that force transfers through your legs, into your hips, up through your core, through your shoulder, and finally into your fist. It's a kinetic chain. Every link has to be strong and properly aligned or the power dissipates—or worse, reflects back into your own body."
Izuku was staring at him, eyes wide, and Yoshikage could practically see the boy's analytical mind cataloguing every word.
"Your current technique breaks the chain at every point," Yoshikage continued. "Your stance is too narrow—there's no stable base. Your hips don't rotate—there's no power generation. Your shoulder and elbow are misaligned—the force has nowhere to go. So when your Quirk activates, all that energy just destroys your arm because your body can't channel it properly."
"I... I didn't know," Izuku said quietly. "All Might just told me to clench my butt and yell 'smash' and—"
Yoshikage closed his eyes and counted to ten in three languages.
The Number One Hero's training methodology is 'clench your butt and yell smash.' The Symbol of Peace, everyone. This is who society trusts with protecting them.
"Okay," he said, opening his eyes. "New plan. I'm going to teach you how to actually throw a punch. Not a Quirk-enhanced punch—just a regular punch. Once you understand the mechanics, then we'll add your power. Agreed?"
"You—you want to train me?" Izuku looked shocked. "But why would you—I'm not—I mean, you barely know me—"
"Consider it research for my article," Yoshikage said, the lie coming easily. "I'm writing about Quirk education methodology. You're a perfect case study in what happens when raw power isn't matched with proper instruction."
It was a flimsy excuse, but Izuku's face lit up like Yoshikage had offered him the world.
"Really? You'll really train me?"
"Once a week," Yoshikage said, already calculating how to fit this into his schedule. "Two hours. I'll teach you basic martial arts—enough that you stop destroying yourself. What you do with that knowledge is your business."
"Thank you!" Izuku was practically vibrating with excitement despite his broken arm. "Thank you so much! I'll work really hard, I promise! I'll—"
"First lesson," Yoshikage interrupted. "Go to a hospital and get that arm treated. You're no use to anyone injured."
"Right! Yes! I'll—wait, should I tell All Might that you're—"
"No," Yoshikage said firmly, and felt Bites the Dust pulse slightly in response to the potential trigger. He adjusted the parameters mentally, allowing Izuku to mention the training but not in a way that would reveal "Hikaru's" identity. "All Might doesn't need to know about supplementary training. This is between us."
Izuku hesitated, clearly conflicted about keeping secrets from his mentor.
"Think of it this way," Yoshikage added. "If you show up one day with significantly better control and technique, won't All Might be impressed? Won't he be proud that you took initiative to improve yourself?"
That logic worked. Izuku nodded eagerly. "You're right! I'll surprise him! Thank you, Saito-san—I mean, Hikaru-san!"
"Just Hikaru," Yoshikage corrected. "Now go. Same time next week. And Midoriya?"
"Yes?"
"Start running. Every day. Five kilometers minimum. Your cardio is terrible and you can't fight effectively if you're gasping for air after thirty seconds."
Izuku's expression was determined. "I'll do ten kilometers!"
Of course you will, Yoshikage thought as the boy ran off toward the nearest hospital. Overachieving is probably going to get you killed someday, but at least you're motivated.
He watched Izuku disappear into the distance, then pulled out his phone and updated his schedule.
Thursdays, 4:00 PM - 6:00 PM: Train Midoriya
It was going to be exhausting. It was going to cut into his own training time. It was probably going to be frustrating dealing with someone so eager and earnest.
But it would also give him direct access to All Might's successor, insight into how One For All was developing, and a legitimate reason to maintain contact with someone carrying his Bites the Dust contingency.
Strategic investment, he told himself. That's all this is.
Killer Queen manifested beside him, and Yoshikage swore the Stand looked skeptical.
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "I'm not being nice. I'm being practical."
The Stand's expression didn't change.
"I'm not."
Killer Queen continued staring.
"Shut up."
Training a Successor (To Someone Else's Legacy)
The first official training session with Izuku was simultaneously encouraging and depressing.
Encouraging because the kid was a sponge. Every technique Yoshikage demonstrated, Izuku absorbed immediately. Every principle explained, Izuku catalogued and cross-referenced with his existing knowledge. Every correction made, Izuku implemented without ego or resistance.
Depressing because it became rapidly clear just how badly All Might had failed as a teacher.
"All Might never taught you breathing techniques?" Yoshikage asked during the third session, watching Izuku gasp for air after a basic combination drill.
"Breathing techniques?" Izuku looked confused. "Like... for swimming?"
"For combat," Yoshikage clarified, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Controlled breathing improves oxygen delivery, enhances endurance, facilitates power generation. It's fundamental to every martial art. Every single one."
"Oh! That makes so much sense!" Izuku immediately pulled out his ever-present notebook—the kid documented everything—and started taking notes. "So if I breathe properly, I can fight longer without getting tired? And the breathing helps with power generation because more oxygen means more efficient muscle function?"
"Exactly," Yoshikage confirmed, and felt a flash of something almost like satisfaction when Izuku's face lit up with understanding.
This is what actual teaching looks like, he thought. Not just 'clench your butt and smash.' Actual instruction. Explanation. Building understanding from first principles.
"All Might never mentioned any of this?" he asked, genuinely curious now.
Izuku shook his head. "All Might's training was mostly physical conditioning. Beach cleanup, strength exercises, diet. Then once I got One For All, he just told me to try to activate it at lower percentages and... that's kind of it?"
Yoshikage stared.
"He's the Number One Hero," he said slowly. "The Symbol of Peace. The man who has been fighting villains professionally for decades. And his training methodology for his hand-picked successor is 'physical conditioning and figure it out yourself'?"
"I mean, he's really busy!" Izuku said defensively. "And he's teaching at U.A. now, so he has less time, and—"
"Nana Shimura," Yoshikage interrupted. "All Might's mentor. She was a martial artist, yes?"
"I—I think so?" Izuku looked uncertain. "All Might doesn't talk about her much."
"Because if she was, then All Might knows proper technique exists. He was presumably taught it himself. Which means he's choosing not to pass that knowledge to you."
He could see Izuku struggling with that idea, the cognitive dissonance of his idol being a bad teacher.
"It's not malicious," Yoshikage added, because despite everything, he didn't think All Might was deliberately sabotaging Izuku. "It's complacency. All Might has been so powerful for so long that he's forgotten what it's like to need technique. When you can solve every problem by punching harder than physically possible, you stop thinking about optimal form or tactical efficiency."
"But I can't just punch harder," Izuku said quietly. "Not without breaking myself."
"Exactly. Which is why you need what I'm teaching you." Yoshikage moved into a ready stance. "Again. Jab-cross-hook combination. Focus on your breathing—exhale on each strike. Keep your guard up between punches."
Izuku mirrored the stance and began the combination.
It was better. Not good—he'd only been training for three weeks—but better. His feet were positioned correctly now. His hips were starting to rotate. His breathing was synchronizing with his strikes.
"Good," Yoshikage said, and Izuku beamed. "Now add One For All. Five percent. Focus it through the kinetic chain we've been practicing."
Green lightning flickered across Izuku's body, but this time it was controlled. Stable. When Izuku threw the combination, the power flowed through his properly-aligned structure instead of destroying it.
The training dummy launched backward, Izuku's strikes exponentially more powerful with proper technique channeling the Quirk.
And Izuku's arms didn't break.
"I DID IT!" Izuku shouted, staring at his intact hands in amazement. "I used One For All and I didn't—I didn't break anything!"
"Because you used it correctly," Yoshikage said. "Power without technique is just destruction. Technique without power is insufficient. But power and technique together? That's when you become dangerous."
He watched Izuku practice the combination again, noted the improvements and remaining weaknesses, planned the next session's focus.
All Might should be teaching this, he thought. This is basic stuff. Fundamental. The fact that I—someone who only started training seriously two years ago—am better at instruction than the Number One Hero is pathetic.
But then, that was Hero Society in a nutshell, wasn't it? All flash, no substance. All power, no thought. All spectacle, no actual competence.
"Hikaru-san?" Izuku's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Can I ask you something?"
"You're going to anyway," Yoshikage replied.
"Why are you doing this?" Izuku asked. "I mean, you said it's for research, but you're spending so much time teaching me things you don't have to, and you won't let me pay you, and you're really good at this, so... why?"
Yoshikage considered several possible answers. The truth—that Izuku was carrying a time-bomb in his soul and was therefore a strategic asset—was obviously out.
"Because Hero Society is broken," he said finally, choosing a truth if not the truth. "And you're going to U.A., which means you're going to become a hero, which means you're going to be part of that system. If someone doesn't teach you to think critically, to question, to be actually competent instead of just powerful, you'll end up like every other hero—a tool of the status quo who doesn't question why things are the way they are."
Izuku was quiet for a moment, processing.
"You don't like heroes very much, do you?" he said finally.
"I don't like incompetence," Yoshikage corrected. "And Hero Society is systematically incompetent. Heroes aren't trained properly, aren't held accountable for failures, aren't taught to address root causes instead of symptoms. They're just enforcers maintaining a corrupt system."
"But All Might—"
"All Might is the best of a bad lot," Yoshikage interrupted. "Which isn't saying much. He's powerful and well-meaning, but he's also the product of a flawed system, and he's perpetuating that system by not teaching you properly."
He met Izuku's eyes directly.
"I'm teaching you because someone should. Because you have potential and it's being wasted. And because maybe—maybe—if enough heroes actually learn to be competent, the system might improve before it collapses entirely."
It was more honest than he'd intended to be, but Izuku's expression suggested the message had landed.
"I'll do my best," the boy said seriously. "I'll learn everything you teach me, and I'll become a hero who actually helps people properly."
We'll see, Yoshikage thought. We'll see if you can maintain that idealism once you're actually in the system.
"Good," he said aloud. "Now, fifty more repetitions of that combination. Then we're working on grappling defense—you need to know what to do if someone gets past your striking range."
"Yes, sir!"
Yoshikage watched Izuku throw himself into training with characteristic enthusiasm and felt something complicated that might have been hope or might have been cynicism or might have been both.
I'm training All Might's successor to be competent, he reflected. Which means I'm making a potential future enemy stronger. This is probably a terrible strategic decision.
But he was going to do it anyway.
Because the alternative was watching another talented person be destroyed by the system's incompetence.
And Yoshikage had limits to what he could tolerate, apparently.
Even if those limits made no strategic sense.
The Underground Encounter
Six months into year two, while tracking leads on Hero Public Safety Commission activities, Yoshikage found himself in an abandoned medical facility in a bad part of Yokohama.
He'd been following rumors about illegal Quirk experimentation, potential connections to the Nomu program, evidence that could be used to implicate the HPSC in human rights violations.
What he found instead was much worse.
The facility was active, not abandoned. And the presence he felt—the sheer weight of malevolent power emanating from the depths of the building—was unmistakable.
All For One.
Shit.
Yoshikage froze in the corridor, every instinct screaming at him to run. This was the main villain of the series, the two-hundred-year-old monster who'd nearly killed All Might multiple times, who had an arsenal of stolen Quirks and centuries of experience.
This was not a fight he could win.
But he was already here, already inside the facility, and All For One almost certainly knew someone had infiltrated.
Strategic options, Yoshikage thought, forcing down panic and thinking tactically. Fight—suicide. Flee—possible, but risky if he pursues. Talk—dangerous but might buy time.
Before he could decide, a voice echoed through the corridor.
"You may come out. I mean you no harm—for the moment."
It was cultured, almost pleasant. Completely at odds with the malevolence Yoshikage could feel.
No good choices. Pick the least bad one.
He stepped into the main laboratory space, hands visible, Killer Queen ready but not manifested.
All For One sat in what looked like a life-support chair, his face hidden behind a breathing apparatus, his body clearly damaged from his previous encounter with All Might. But even injured, even diminished, the man radiated power.
"Interesting," All For One said, and Yoshikage could hear the smile in his voice. "You're not one of my agents. Not a hero—you're moving wrong for that. Not a random civilian—you're too calm. What are you, I wonder?"
"Someone who made a wrong turn," Yoshikage said carefully.
"Lying is unwise." All For One's voice didn't change tone, but the weight in the room increased. "I have Quirks that can detect deception, read surface thoughts, compel truth-telling. Shall I use them?"
Bites the Dust, Yoshikage thought. If he tries to read my mind, if he learns too much—
"Or," All For One continued, "you could simply tell me what you're doing in my facility, and we can have a civilized conversation."
Yoshikage calculated rapidly. Truth? Lies? Partial disclosure?
"I'm investigating the Hero Public Safety Commission," he said finally. "Gathering evidence of their corruption and illegal activities. I thought this facility might have useful information."
"Ah. A whistleblower." All For One sounded amused. "Or perhaps a villain with a grudge? Either way, interesting. You're correct, incidentally—this facility does have evidence of HPSC involvement in illegal Quirk experimentation. They're not as pure as they pretend."
"I'm aware," Yoshikage said.
"And yet you're here alone, no backup, no support. Either very brave or very foolish." All For One leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, young man—what's your Quirk? I'm curious what you're relying on for protection."
Trigger condition, Yoshikage realized. If I reveal too much about Killer Queen, Bites the Dust might activate. But if I refuse to answer, he'll force the information out.
"My Quirk," he said carefully, "is complicated."
"Aren't they all?" All For One chuckled. "Very well. Keep your secrets—for now. But answer me this: why do you oppose the HPSC? What's your goal?"
"The same as yours, supposedly," Yoshikage replied. "Destroying the current Hero Society."
"Supposedly?"
"You've had two hundred years," Yoshikage pointed out. "If you actually wanted Hero Society destroyed, it would be destroyed. Which means either you're incompetent—which I doubt—or you have other goals."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Careful, boy," All For One said, voice still pleasant but edged with threat. "I've killed people for less presumptuous statements."
"Then kill me or don't," Yoshikage said, making a calculated gamble. "But we both know you're curious. You want to know what I am, what I can do, whether I'm a threat or a tool. So here's my offer: I'll leave, you'll let me, and we'll both pretend this encounter never happened."
"And why would I agree to that?"
"Because I have the ability to ensure this encounter never happened," Yoshikage said, which was technically true about Bites the Dust's time-rewinding properties. "And because I'm going to do what you've apparently been too patient to do—actually tear down Hero Society in a measurable timeframe."
All For One was silent for a long moment.
"Ambitious," he said finally. "Foolish, almost certainly. But ambitious. Very well. Leave. But know this—I'll be watching. If you prove interesting, perhaps we'll speak again. If you prove threatening..." He didn't finish the sentence.
Yoshikage nodded once and turned to leave, forcing himself to walk calmly despite every instinct screaming to run.
He made it to the corridor. To the exit. To the street outside.
Then he got three blocks away and Bites the Dust activated.
Not because All For One had done anything—but because Yoshikage himself triggered it, using the evolved version he'd been developing, the one with custom activation conditions.
Time rewound.
Space twisted.
And Yoshikage found himself back in his apartment in Musutafu, one hour before he'd ever entered that facility.
Too close, he thought, hands shaking from adrenaline. Way too close. All For One is on a different level. If I'd stayed, if he'd decided I was a threat—
But he hadn't just escaped.
He'd learned something crucial.
Bites the Dust could be triggered proactively. He didn't have to wait for someone to discover his identity—he could activate it himself as an emergency escape.
And more than that...
He'd developed an idea. A terrible, dangerous, possibly insane idea.
What if Bites the Dust could do more than reset time?
What if it could erase someone from time entirely?
In the original series, Bites the Dust killed anyone who learned Kira's identity, then reset time so the killing happened again in a loop. But what if instead of killing them in a loop, it killed them retroactively? Erased them from the timeline so completely that not only did they die, but everyone's memories of them disappeared?
It would be the ultimate assassination technique. Not just killing someone, but making it so they'd never existed at all.
"That's the ability I need," Yoshikage said aloud, looking at Killer Queen. "Not just defense. Not just time loops. But existence erasure."
The Stand's eyes gleamed.
"All For One is too dangerous to fight directly. Too powerful, too experienced, too many Quirks. But if I could erase him from existence entirely..."
It would solve so many problems. All For One gone, his plans disrupted, his organization headless. Tomura Shigaraki left without a mentor. The entire villain side of the plot derailed.
And Hero Society would never even know someone had saved them.
"I need to evolve Bites the Dust again," Yoshikage decided. "Push it further than the original Kira ever did. Make it not just a defensive time loop but an offensive existence erasure."
It would take time. Research. Practice. Risk.
But he'd already modified Bites the Dust once, adding the teleportation function. He could do it again.
Three months, he estimated. Three months of focused development, and I'll have the ability to erase All For One from existence.
Then we'll see who's been wasting time.
Killer Queen stood beside him, silent and ready.
And Yoshikage Kira began planning.
The training continued. The encounters with low-level heroes and villains continued. The weekly sessions with Izuku continued.
But now he had a concrete goal, a specific target, a timeline.
All For One thought he was playing a long game, manipulating pieces across decades.
Yoshikage was going to remove him from the board entirely.
And nobody would even remember it had happened.
That's true villainy, he thought. Not monologues or theatrical gestures or grand declarations.
Just making your enemies cease to exist.
Quietly. Efficiently. Perfectly.
The way it should be.