Chapter 1: Epilogue
Chapter Text
The Day is long, and the sun has sung
Its last song, and with that, the dust comes prancing along.
A distant stream now hums a green,
Almost wistfully, it dances to a long-lost melody—
A king of booms.
A king of victory will come
And claim the endless green.
The green will cry, the green will thrive.
But as all things do, the green will die,
And the king will cry.
And with that cry,
The world will rip deep within its endless magic.
We all now know, for we have shown
The magic of the green and his endless victory.
A young Greenet looks at his mother with tears in his eyes,
His question barely hanging on the tip of his tongue.
“Mama, why is this poem so sad?”
He clutches his pillow tight, as if it could shield the Green
From ever knowing the pain of his victory.
She gently strokes his wild, curly hair,
Tucking him in tight before kissing his forehead.
Her voice, soft but distant, carries an almost wistful note.
“This poem has been passed down through our family for generations,”
She says, her gaze far away, as if remembering something ancient.
“They say we must carry it with us, even if we don’t fully understand.
Though it’s sad, it’s a reminder. A lesson, perhaps.
We may never know the true meaning of these words,
But we interpret them as we wish.
And in time, you’ll make sense of it, too.
But you’re still young, so for now, rest.”
She smiles at the little Greenet.
“To me, it’s a story of those who need it —
A hope to cling to when the dark times come.
But that’s just my take. When you grow older,
You may see it differently.
But for now, sleep well, my love.”
As she leaves the room,
Little Izuku looks out the window, his gaze drifting up to the endless sky.
Stars seem to dance in greeting, and he feels a quiet peace settle within him.
As his eyelids grow heavy, he smiles softly to himself,
Wondering what the poem is about —
The mystery still lingering as he drifts into the world of dreams.
Chapter 2: When are eyes collide
Summary:
Running is the closest thing we have to flying. When you push yourself until your lungs feel like they’re on fire, when your legs begin to wobble and shake, when you keep running further toward the horizon, and when your feet pound into the earth until the world blurs around you—just for a single moment, you can fly.
Notes:
Hi, Toffee lovers. I Wana say thank you for reading and taking the time to look at My story and I really hope you enjoy it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Izuku was always a curious child, constantly searching for something that probably wasn’t there. His mother, Inko, worried about him endlessly. Imagine this: one moment, your child is standing right beside you, and the next, you blink—and he’s climbing a tree, scaling a mountain, or tumbling to the ground. He was the epitome of clumsiness, but she couldn’t help adoring his boundless curiosity.
In a world filled with magic, monsters, and creatures that lurked in the shadows, how could Inko not worry about her magicless son?
She watched him now, as he tried—and failed—to make a flower crown. A fond smile crept onto her face despite the ache in her heart. This world, with all its beauty, could be so cruel and unforgiving to those without magic. And Izuku... Izuku had none.
Inko herself possessed a small amount of wind magic—just enough to avoid the disdain of their kingdom’s people. But little Izuku didn’t have even a drop. In a land where even the smallest spark of magic could make a world of difference, Izuku was entirely without.
Inko sighed, a heavy resignation settling in her chest. She looked at her son—her brave, beautiful boy. This kingdom, no, this world wasn’t made for someone like him. He was going to face unimaginable struggles. And though she believed in the strength of his kind heart, the thought of what lay ahead for him terrified her.
Her own meager magic could do little to protect him from the harshness of the world, so she did the only thing she could. She prayed. She prayed to the gods above that one day, this world would become better. That one day, it would be kinder.
As she pondered these fears and hopes, little Izuku came bounding up to her. He held out his clumsily made flower crown with a smile so bright it could rival the sun.
Her heart swelled with pride. If only the knights of this kingdom could see what she saw. If only they could see that her son was a king among men.
************************
Six months later
Normally, Izuku wouldn’t run off into the woods without telling his mama, but lately, the kids in the village had been more cruel than usual. Their words were sharper, more biting, and they had become more direct—using their powers on him as though he were some kind of test subject. It was frustrating, and he just needed some time to himself. Though he knew going into the forest was a bad idea, he did it anyway.
Being someone without magical powers meant he didn’t have many options for playing with the other kids. He understood this very well. But there was something the other kids couldn’t feel—something he could—when he was running.
Running is the closest thing we have to flying. When you push yourself until your lungs feel like they’re on fire, when your legs begin to wobble and shake, when you keep running further toward the horizon, and when your feet pound into the earth until the world blurs around you—just for a single moment, you can fly. That’s how Izuku felt every time he ran. He might not be good at it, and maybe he could only hold onto that feeling for a second or two, but in that fleeting moment when his feet left the ground, it felt like magic.
So that’s exactly what he did, until he couldn't feel his feet anymore. His lungs burned, and his legs ached, forcing him to stop and rest on a rock—well, more like a boulder. To his small frame, it was massive. Kicking his feet idly and gazing at the endless skies, he noticed the leaves slowly beginning to change color with the seasons. It was going to get colder soon—less time to play outside, less time to feel nature between his fingertips. Then, he heard it.
A rustling sound came from the bushes.
Izuku froze, too petrified to move, as the sound grew closer and closer. In that moment, he thought he might die. Maybe this is it, he thought, and that's okay. After all, his mama always said that death comes for everyone eventually (though he never quite understood what she meant by “unpredictable” or “pre-adjust,” or something like that) Before he could dwell further, something leapt out of the bushes with a battle cry, knocking Izuku over the boulder and onto his back. The thing—no, a boy—snarled down at him. Izuku hadn’t realized he’d squeezed his eyes shut until he dared to open them. His olive-green gaze met fierce ruby-red eyes, wild and untamable yet oddly mesmerizing.
The boy tilted his head mockingly. “The fuck? You’re the dimmest rabbit I’ve ever seen, shithead,” the ruby-eyed boy sneered. Izuku frowned. That was a bad word. Who was this boy? Where did he come from? Why were his eyes so red? And—were those fangs in his mouth? What’s going on?
“Oi, I’m gonna stop you right there, greenie. You’re mumbling. What, are you stupid or something?” The boy straightened up, puffing his chest. “I’m Katsuki Bakugo, future king of Mustafo and master of all dragons. Who the hell are you, pathetic rabbit?” Katsuki’s voice boomed, commanding yet ferocious.
Izuku stared up at him, wide-eyed. For a brief moment, their gazes locked—olive-green crashing into a blazing orange supernova. Sparks seemed to fly between them. Katsuki stood like an unshakable tree, firm and commanding, while Izuku felt like water—soft, shapeless, a pouring river. They were opposites: fire and water.
“I... I’m not a rabbit,” Izuku stammered. He remembered his mama’s advice: If someone isn’t nice to you, be ten times nicer. It’ll show them your better side.
“I’m Izuku Midoriya,” he said nervously.
Katsuki raised an eyebrow, as if expecting more. When Izuku didn’t continue, he tugged at the hem of his worn, brown tunic, flustered. In a small voice, he added, “I... I’m practicing to be a herbalist. But one day, I want to be a knight.”
Katsuki looked him up and down, a sharp-toothed grin spreading across his face. He jumped to his feet and strode up to Izuku, laughing in his face.
“Not with those scrawny arms, you’re not!” Katsuki scoffed.
Izuku was shocked by the boy’s bluntness. But, strangely, Katsuki’s words didn’t feel entirely cruel. There was a challenge in them, something that stirred excitement in Izuku—a spark that didn’t sting as much as it inspired.
Izuku had always been a curious kid, and that curiosity often led him to unexpected places. But with this new friend by his side, he felt a new kind of excitement bubbling up. The future seemed like an open book, filled with adventures waiting to be written. He looked ahead with determination, knowing that while the path wouldn't always be easy, it would be theirs to forge. "Well," he said with a grin, "I will be an amazing herbalist but also an amazing knight, just like All Might." And with that, their journey began.
Notes:
I'm going to try to make the chapter longer SOOO for now happy reding
Chapter 3: A Kingdom’s Promise
Summary:
“I’ll find you,” he whispered, like a vow. “I’ll catch up to you. And I’ll become the greatest knight, like I promised.”
A pause. “You better become the Dragon King.”
Katsuki blinked hard and looked away, shoulders stiff. “Deku,” he muttered, turning his back and starting toward the edge of the clearing, “you’re pathetic.”
Chapter Text
Izuku had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, but wow — Kacchan was amazing. This boy seemed to do the impossible, and it felt great to just play without someone trying to hurt him.
They played kings — fighting, aching, defeating all who dared to harm their kingdoms. Running around the boulder where they first met, their contested borders blurred as sticks transformed into twin mythic blades forged by All Might himself. Time slowed, and for a moment, it felt like the world had exhaled. The wind softened, the sky turned a warmer shade of gold, and every breath came easy. Izuku’s chest swelled with something he didn’t have a name for — a feeling so pure, so full of light that it almost hurt. To be free. To run, to laugh, to pretend they were warriors and kings, heroes and legends. For once, no one was yelling. No one was judging. It was just the two of them, barefoot in the grass, hearts beating in rhythm.
Izuku didn’t want it to end. He could’ve lived in that moment forever, wrapped in the glow of play and the safety of Kacchan’s fierce presence. He had always admired him — not just for his strength, but for how he made the world feel solid, like it wouldn’t fall apart if he was standing there beside you.
But their days of running wild were becoming fewer. The boulder they used as their imaginary battleground now stood more like a monument — something they circled less and sat beside more, as if both boys understood, without words, that something was shifting. Katsuki had been quiet lately. Restless. Like there was a weight pressing on him that even he couldn’t punch his way out of.
Izuku noticed. He always noticed. “Kacchan,” he said one afternoon, his voice softer than usual, “why do I feel like this is going to be the end?”
Katsuki didn’t answer at first. He just stared down at the boulder, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. Finally, he said, “I’m not gonna be able to come here anymore. My Klan... they’re moving us. Other side of the country.”
The words hit harder than any explosion Katsuki had ever made. Izuku’s throat tightened, but he blinked back the sting in his eyes. It wasn’t fair. Not to either of them. They hadn’t even gotten a proper beginning, and already, something precious was being taken. Not because of a fight. Not because of choice. But because the world had a way of deciding things for you when you were too young to fight back. And now, this — their kingdom — would become a memory too soon.
Izuku tried to hold back the tears. They sat heavy behind his eyes, stinging, but he refused to let them fall — not yet. He blinked rapidly and looked away, biting his lip until it hurt. The silence between them was thick, but not empty. It was full of things they didn’t know how to say.
Slowly, he rose from where he sat by the boulder — their boulder. Dusting off his pants, he turned to Katsuki, his smile wobbly but defiant. “My king,” he said, voice shaking only a little, “the enemy is reaching us.”
Katsuki blinked, then his eyes widened as he turned toward the stretch of trees before them — the imaginary horizon of their joint kingdom. His expression shifted. A grin, wild and familiar, lit up his face. “Well then, Knight Deku,” he said, pulling his stick-sword from the grass with theatrical flair, “All Might didn’t forge these blades for nothin’. You gonna stand there and be a pathetic rabbit like the first time we met?”
Izuku scoffed, already stepping into a battle stance. “I’ve never been a rabbit.”
And with that, they charged.
They fought through the woods like legends reborn — kings of make-believe realms where every fallen branch was a cursed relic, every tree stump a tower to defend. Their shouts echoed across the clearing, each blow of their sticks loud and clumsy and full of life. They ducked and weaved, spinning through the underbrush, their limbs scraped and their laughter rising above it all.
“Watch your left, Knight!” Katsuki yelled, pointing dramatically at a log.
Izuku lunged at it. “Too slow, villain scum!”
They made up enemy names and ridiculous lore on the spot — a Dark Wizard who ate stars, a Beast Queen who rode a flaming elk, a kingdom lost in mist where no voice could escape. They shouted commands, cast pretend spells, and stumbled deeper into the woods than they ever had before, caught in the swell of something bigger than themselves.
And then, like a secret carved just for them, they found it — a small gap in the trees, a narrow corridor of golden light spilling through the canopy. The air was warm and still. Even the wind seemed to pause.
They looked at each other, breathless.
No words.
Just this moment.
Together, they stepped into the clearing. Side by side, they raised their stick-swords to the sky. Their hands touched — rough, scratched, and small.
“For the glory of our kingdom,” they shouted in unison.
“All for one—” Izuku began.
“And one for all,” Katsuki finished.
And time froze.
Their hands remained joined, the wooden blades still raised in their final vow. The golden light from the clearing pressed against their skin like warmth from another world. For a second, neither of them moved — not even to breathe. It was as if the universe had paused, just long enough to honor their moment.
Then, Katsuki tightened his grip on Izuku’s hand.
The two of them stood there, side by side, staring at the horizon — where the sky bled orange and pink, dripping like watercolor from a cracked bowl. It looked like the sun itself was falling apart, raining down its last light. And beneath it, the silhouette of their fake kingdom stretched across the treetops — wild and make-believe and beautiful.
The ground felt like it was shaking.
But it wasn’t the earth.
It was Izuku — trembling from the inside out, his breath catching in his chest, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side. He didn’t want this to end. Not yet. Not now.
Without a word, Katsuki reached up and pulled something from around his neck. A jagged necklace — a sharp little tooth-shaped charm, strung with rough twine. He'd always said it was a dragon's fang, gifted to him by a sky-beast he'd slain in the northern cliffs. But really, it was just something he’d carved from a chunk of old bark years ago.
He pressed it into Izuku’s palm.
“One day,” Katsuki said, voice low, serious in a way that made Izuku’s chest twist, “we’ll fight real villains. For real people. Not just trees.”
Izuku looked at the charm, then up at him, eyes wide, shimmering.
“I’ll find you,” he whispered, like a vow. “I’ll catch up to you. And I’ll become the greatest knight, like I promised.”
A pause.
“You better become the Dragon King.”
Katsuki blinked hard and looked away, shoulders stiff. “Deku,” he muttered, turning his back and starting toward the edge of the clearing, “you’re pathetic.”
He didn’t mean it. Not really. But that’s how he said goodbye.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Soft lighting. A quiet room.
Seventeen-year-old Izuku moves behind the counter of a modest apothecary, wiping down a wooden surface that glows amber in the late afternoon sun. The room smells of lavender, mint, and something earthy. The clink of glass bottles hums softly as he organizes them by hand.
Outside, the sky is beginning to dim. Not quite sunset, but edging there.
Later, as the shop shutters close and the world grows quieter, Izuku takes a walk — the same one he takes almost every evening, through the winding paths just beyond the village. Eventually, he reaches the place he always does.
The boulder.
It still stands, half-buried in the forest earth like a forgotten relic. But it’s different now. The once-smooth surface is speckled with moss and thin vines, growing not with them, but away from them — curling like time itself had decided to move on. Wildflowers have taken root in the cracks. The old kingdom lives only in memory now.
Izuku drops his bag beside it and sits, pulling out a book — a worn notebook full of sketches, potion notes, herb lists, and doodles that might’ve once been dragons.
He studies there.
He always studies there.
As he leans forward to take notes, the edge of his shirt shifts.
And there — just barely visible, hanging from a thin leather cord around his neck — is a small, jagged charm. Weathered now. The twine is fraying. But still there. Still worn.
The Dragon’s Fang.
Notes:
°˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°
I have returned from the pits of hell to give you chapter 3! Honestly, to be fair, the AO3 curse does exist and that is why I haven't been here. But fear not, this curse shall not beat me, for I will finish this epic fantasy even if it kills me. Truck-kun, you will never win. So, please leave any comments about anything that you liked and how you think the story's going so far. Only nice ones, please. I have a weak, weak heart. JK. I hope you guys enjoy.
Chapter 4: The Roots That Bind Us
Summary:
The boy was dancing with ghosts.
The moonlight caught in Izuku’s eyes as he looked up at the stars — emeralds glinting in the dark.
“My Kacchan… my Dragon King…” he whispered to the wind. “I’ll catch up to you.”
He raised the wooden sword again.
And the moon caught on the twine-bound blade like it had always been waiting there.
Chapter Text
Morning in the village was always soft. The light didn't pour in — it settled, like dust over old wood. Birds chirped in a strange harmony that only made sense to them, and the breeze came like a breath held too long and then let go. Izuku opened the shutters of the apothecary just as the sun began to kiss the rooftops. The bell above the door jingled gently, and the air inside smelled of mint, rosemary, and dried plumroot.
The shop was quiet. Familiar. Safe.
He moved behind the counter, fingers brushing across carefully labeled jars. Dried firemoss. Petalcrunch. Oakspine bark. His fingers hesitated on a particularly small, cracked container — Chylandria.
It was used in old witchcraft, mostly. Not much demand for it now, though his mother always kept a little in the shop. “For balance,” she said. But Izuku remembered something else. A broken jar of Chylandria brings more than storms.
He slid the jar back into place, unaware of the tiny hairline crack along the bottom.
“Izuku!”
His mother’s voice called from the back room. She appeared seconds later with an armful of dried bluethorn and a smile that reached her eyes. “The markets were generous this morning. You’d think the earth owed us something.”
Izuku chuckled, taking the herbs from her. “Maybe it does.”
“You always were too hopeful.” She kissed the top of his head and moved behind the mixing station, beginning her rhythm of grind, pour, stir. “But you’re bright, Zuzu. This apothecary will be yours one day, and it’ll be more than herbs and teas. People trust you.”
He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She didn’t see it. She never saw how he lingered near the back gardens when the moon was up, how his legs moved through drills he’d memorized from old scrolls, how he fought shadows with wooden sticks worn smooth from repetition.
He had once dreamed of being a knight. Of saving kingdoms. Of sword fights and quests. Of him.
Kacchan.
The name ached like an old bruise when touched, but Izuku wore it quietly. The Dragon’s Fang still hung under his shirt, heavier now. Not because of weight — but because of time.
Three days passed quietly.
The wind changed.
Not suddenly — but like a whisper curling the wrong way around a tree. Animals grew skittish. The birdsong, once vibrant and layered, began to hollow out. The shop felt colder, though the hearth was always lit. And still, life moved.
On the fourth morning, as Izuku swept near the herb shelves, the jar of Chylandria cracked. No warning. Just a sharp tink — and the smell of rain.
He crouched to pick up the shards, fingertips grazing the resin-dusted glass. Outside, the clouds rolled in fast, dragging wind like a cloak behind them. His mother watched the window.
“That’s not right,” she murmured. “Weather wasn’t meant to turn today.”
Izuku nodded slowly. “The jar broke.”
Her eyes found his. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
That evening, a storm rolled in.
Not a gentle spring rain or even a thunderous summer tantrum — but something deeper. The sky bruised violet. Lightning forked in unnatural patterns. The air hung heavy, like lungs choking on silence.
Villagers hurried through the streets, tugging coats over heads, bundling up children, latching shutters with practiced haste. Doors slammed, whispers started. No one had expected the weather to turn.
In the apothecary, Izuku and his mother lit lanterns and tucked towels against the threshold to keep the water from creeping in. Rain slapped the windows like fists.
“This storm came too fast,” his mother said, voice quiet.
Izuku nodded. The air smelled of iron and damp wood. It didn’t feel like rain. It felt like warning.
Outside, a shape emerged in the storm.
A cloaked man — soaked to the bone, voice ragged and wild — stumbled into the village, waving his arms, banging on doors, calling out.
“Please!” he shouted. “Have you seen anyone… acting strangely? Slurred speech? Wandering eyes? Skin turning… black?”
People turned away, bolted doors. Others watched from windows, hesitant. The storm howled behind him like it was chasing him.
Izuku moved to the door.
“Don’t,” his mother whispered. “He could be mad.”
He looked back at her, then to the man staggering through the rain.
“Mum,” he said softly, “we are apothecaries. Doctors. We help the sick.”
The door opened.
The man practically collapsed into the shop, sopping and shaking. His staff clattered to the floor. Izuku and his mother helped him to a chair by the fire.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice booming and trembling all at once. “I’ve been traveling too long. I haven’t slept in a day. But people need to know. They need to be warned.”
Izuku pressed a cloth into his hands and offered him tea.
“What are you warning about?” his mother asked, her voice calm but watchful.
The man’s eyes searched their faces.
“They’re changing,” he said. “There’s something — spreading. It starts small. A wound that doesn’t heal. A cough that lingers too long. Then they forget things. Get angry. The skin starts to rot. Then they aren’t people anymore.”
Izuku glanced at his mother, then looked back.
“Are you sure it’s not plague?” he asked gently. “Some variant? There are cases like that… rare, but recorded.”
The man shook his head, shoulders hunched.
“I’ve seen plague. I know plague. This is older. Darker.”
He looked around, like expecting someone to challenge him. But the room stayed silent, save the crackle of fire.
“My name is Toshinori,” he said finally. “I… I serve the crown. Or what’s left of it.”
He turned again to Izuku.
“There’s an old name for them. Creatures that used to be men. Now nothing but rage and rot.”
He swallowed hard.
“Nomu.”
The name settled like a shiver in the room.
Outside, the storm screamed.
That night, Izuku stood behind the apothecary again, a stick twined and shaped to resemble a wooden sword gripped in his hands. He slashed through the air beneath a heavy moon. Each move was deliberate — a ritual, a promise. He could feel it — the shift. The roots of something wrong curling under the village.
Toshinori stood at the window of the spare room, the broth in his cup long gone cold. He watched the boy, silent. Watched the fierce grace in his motions. The dedication. The longing.
The boy was dancing with ghosts.
The moonlight caught in Izuku’s eyes as he looked up at the stars — emeralds glinting in the dark.
“My Kacchan… my Dragon King…” he whispered to the wind. “I’ll catch up to you.”
He raised the wooden sword again.
And the moon caught on the twine-bound blade like it had always been waiting there.
Chapter 5: The Rot and The Healer
Summary:
Izuku stood on the edge of the apothecary’s porch, his eyes scanning the horizon, muscles tense and ready. The familiar scent of rosemary and dried mint clung to the air, but even those comforting smells felt different now—off, somehow. The earth beneath his feet had changed too. He could feel it: a tremor humming through the ground.
It wasn’t the usual rhythm of the village.
No—this was something deeper. Dormant. Dangerous.
Notes:
Hello toffee lovers and bubblegum chewers,٩(๑❛ᴗ❛๑)۶ I have returned from the depths of my sleep paralysis demons to bring you this new chapter. I am very new to describing body horror, so I did add that in the tags. If you're not comfortable with that, I would wait for you to read the next chapter, but if so, please continue and be kind to yourselves. See you later, enjoy the chapter.
Chapter Text
The air in Masutafu Village had changed.
Izuku wanted to say it was because of the stranger from yesterday, but the wind—once a soft whisper in the morning—now carried an unsettling chill. It swept through the trees like a cold hand, pressing against the edges of the village with a kind of urgency that set Izuku’s teeth on edge.
The sky, once a deep azure, was now bruised with dark, swollen clouds, gathering in heavy masses overhead.
Something was coming.
Something that felt wrong.
Izuku stood on the edge of the apothecary’s porch, his eyes scanning the horizon, muscles tense and ready. The familiar scent of rosemary and dried mint clung to the air, but even those comforting smells felt different now—off, somehow. The earth beneath his feet had changed too. He could feel it: a tremor humming through the ground.
It wasn’t the usual rhythm of the village.
No—this was something deeper. Dormant. Dangerous.
His fingers curled around the wooden stick in his hand, the makeshift sword he’d trained with for months. It was a simple thing—nothing more than a polished branch bound with twine—but it was his. His weapon.
And in that moment, as the pull of the earth grew stronger beneath him, Izuku knew it wouldn’t be enough.
Not today.
The door to the apothecary creaked as it swung open behind him.
His mother stepped into view, her arms full of fresh herbs from the market, her voice light with the kind of casual ease Izuku had grown so accustomed to.
“The markets were generous today, Zuzu,” she said, her smile as warm as ever. “You’d think the earth owed us something, with how full these baskets are.”
Izuku turned to her, offering a distracted smile, though his eyes stayed locked on the horizon.
“Maybe it does,” he murmured, though the words didn’t feel like his own. His mind was too far ahead—locked onto something none of them could yet see.
His mother kept speaking, now humming softly as she sorted through the herbs. But Izuku wasn’t listening.
His senses were stretched tight, like the string of a bow, drawn taut by a fear he couldn’t explain.
Then it happened.
A figure stumbled into view—barely visible through the curtain of rain that had begun to sweep across the village.
The man’s movements were jerky, unnatural, his body lurching like it had forgotten how to walk.
Izuku’s breath caught in his throat, his grip tightening around the wooden stick.
Something wasn’t right.
He could feel it in the pit of his stomach.
The man’s face was pale. Too pale.
His eyes were glazed, unfocused.
His clothes hung in soaked tatters, clinging to him like a shroud. He looked almost... dead.
“Please...” the man rasped, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
He stepped forward, footfalls unsteady, hand reaching out as if searching for something—anything—to hold onto.
Izuku stepped back instinctively, heart hammering in his chest.
“Who are you?” he asked, voice low but steady.
His mother’s voice joined his from behind—cautious, not yet afraid.
But the man didn’t answer.
Instead, his body began to shudder violently, limbs jerking as if something was breaking free from inside him.
A sickening pop cracked through the air.
Then his skin began to bubble.
Izuku’s stomach churned.
The man’s arms split open like rotten fruit, revealing blackened, pulsing flesh beneath. Muscles twitched, jerking with unnatural rhythm. His jaw unhinged, sagging from his skull, and his eyes—his eyes turned yellow. Unnaturally bright. Glowing like the lanterns flickering behind apothecary windows.
Then came the word. One word. Enough.
“Nomu.”
Izuku froze.
The word hit like a thunderclap, dredged from the old scrolls and whispered legends.
Monsters born of dark magic. Creatures never meant to exist.
Relentless. Twisted. Unstoppable.
This wasn’t myth.
This was real.
The man—no, the creature—was still changing. His bones cracked and twisted, reforming into something massive, hunched, and inhuman.
His head snapped backward. His mouth opened wide, revealing rows of jagged, bone-white teeth.
Then the Nomu screamed.
It wasn’t just sound—it was pressure.
It rattled the air.
Birds fled the trees in a panic.
The Nomu turned toward them. Toward Izuku and his mother.
With one purpose.
To kill.
Izuku’s lungs forgot how to breathe. The scent of decay curled around him, thick and vile. The earth seemed to pulse beneath him, humming with danger.
His body moved before his mind could catch up. He grabbed the nearest vial of herbs from the windowsill, fingers slick with sweat.
“Stay back, Mum,” he snapped, voice sharper than he meant.
He didn’t wait for her response.
He ran forward.
~~~~~
The Nomu lunged.
Izuku barely had time to dive aside. The creature’s clawed hand smashed through the wooden railing where he’d just stood, splinters flying like shrapnel. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs, the vial of herbs clutched tightly in his fist.
The rain poured down harder now, soaking his tunic, making the earth slick beneath his feet. But Izuku's mind was racing—he couldn’t match this thing in strength. He didn’t have to. He just had to survive.
He ducked under another swing and scrambled toward the herb crates, yanking them open. His fingers danced across bundles of foxglove, powdered ashbark, and crushed emberroot. He grabbed the emberroot—volatile when wet—and crushed it into a paste with a stone.
The Nomu snarled and charged again.
Izuku ducked behind the apothecary’s bench and hurled the emberroot paste at the ground in front of it. The moment the rain hit the blend, steam erupted, thick and blinding. The Nomu barreled through it, roaring in frustration, swiping at shadows.
Izuku darted to the other side of the porch. His hands shook, his legs screamed from the sprint—but he had one shot. He found the oil lamp still hanging near the door. Heart pounding, he grabbed it and lit the wick with trembling fingers.
The creature emerged from the smoke just as Izuku tossed the oil at its feet.
The fire caught fast.
The Nomu shrieked—whether in pain or rage, Izuku couldn’t tell—and thrashed wildly, knocking over crates and support beams. The apothecary groaned under the weight of its fury. Izuku grabbed his mother by the wrist and pulled her back toward the far end of the house.
A final crash. The front wall caved in. The Nomu stumbled through the flames, parts of its flesh burning, but still it moved. Still it hunted.
Izuku’s foot caught on a stone, and he went down hard.
The Nomu was almost on him.
And then—
A flash of golden light cut through the storm.
The Nomu froze. Its body convulsed—once, twice—before it collapsed in a smoking heap, unmoving.
Izuku blinked through the rain.
A man stood at the edge of the clearing. Cloaked in white and gold, his arm still raised, steam curling from his gauntlet.
Toshinori.
“You did well,” he said softly, stepping toward Izuku. His voice was kind, but his eyes were heavy with worry. “But this was only the beginning.”
Izuku’s chest heaved. His hands were raw. His stick—his only weapon—was broken in two. He looked down at the scorched remains of the Nomu and felt something inside him shift.
He’d fought it. Not well. Not cleanly. But he’d fought.
And he’d lived.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later, after the villagers finished extinguishing the flames and burying what was left of the creature, a hush fell over Masutafu. It was the silence that followed disaster—the kind that weighed heavily on the lungs, like ash in the air.
Toshinori stood with Izuku at the edge of the woods, his long cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
“We need to go to U.A,” he said quietly, voice low but firm. “You’re going to need to train. To understand what’s coming.”
Izuku said nothing for a long moment. His gaze stayed on the horizon, where the clouds were still massing, thick and bruised. The storm hadn’t passed; it had simply shifted its focus.
The weight of everything pressed down on him—on his shoulders, his chest, his very soul. But there was no turning back now.
“Let’s go,” he said finally.
His voice didn’t shake.
“No!”
The cry came sharp and panicked, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Izuku turned. His mother was standing just beyond the fence, her hands clutching her apron, her eyes wide with horror. Her basket had fallen, rosemary and mint scattered at her feet like offerings to some forgotten god.
“You can't take him!” she shouted at Toshinori, her voice trembling with grief. “He's just a boy—my boy! That... that thing could’ve killed him! And now you want to throw him into more of it? Into whatever war you’re planning?”
Toshinori’s eyes softened, but he didn’t look away.
“This war is coming whether he joins it or not,” he said gently. “But if he doesn’t train—if he doesn’t learn to use what’s inside him—he won’t survive the next one.”
“You talk about what’s inside him like he’s special,” she snapped, her voice cracking. “But he’s not. He’s—he’s magicless, Toshinori. You know what that means. You know how the world treats boys like him!”
“Mum—” Izuku started, but she held up a trembling hand.
“I love you more than anything, Izuku,” she said, turning to him. “But this dream of yours... it’s going to kill you. You’re not like the others. You don’t have fire in your blood or wind in your hands. You have no spellcraft, no divine mark. You’re just... you.”
She exhaled, long and broken.
“I’ve spent every day praying you’d grow out of this need to be a hero. That one day you’d open your eyes and realize it’s okay to be ordinary. That we could live quietly, somewhere safe. You could become a healer. Or an herbalist. Or anything else. Anything real.”
Izuku’s eyes were glassy, but his voice was calm.
“I know I’m not like the others,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m nothing.”
He stepped forward, his shoulders squared, the fire in his eyes as fierce as the storm building behind him.
“I faced that thing. I didn’t run. I protected people. Magic or not—I did something.”
His mother stared at him, breath caught in her throat.
“You’re my heart, Zuzu,” she whispered. “But I’m scared that heart’s going to get broken by a world that won’t make space for someone like you.”
Izuku reached out, gently squeezing her hand.
“Then I’ll carve that space with my own hands,” he said. “I promise.”
A moment passed. Then she nodded, just once, and stepped back, straightening her shoulders like someone bracing for a storm.
But before they could leave, Toshinori spoke again, quieter this time, but with a weight that caught both of them off guard.
“There’s something you don’t know about him, Izuku,” Toshinori said, his voice quiet but resolute. “Something that isn’t just about strength or magic. Something inside you has been waiting to awaken.”
Izuku looked at Toshinori, brow furrowed in confusion.
“What do you mean?” he asked, voice laced with curiosity but also a little fear.
Toshinori met his gaze, his expression hardening with the kind of intensity reserved for things that could change the world.
“You’re different, Izuku. You might not see it yet, but it’s there. The magicless part of you—it’s only the surface. There’s something deeper. A spark. One that doesn’t come from the world’s rules. It doesn’t come from the magic, or the bloodline. It’s something bigger.”
Izuku’s heart began to race as Toshinori spoke, his words filling him with equal parts awe and terror.
“But I—” Izuku’s voice caught in his throat. “I don’t—what do you mean? I’ve never been...”
“I know,” Toshinori interrupted, placing a hand on Izuku’s shoulder. “That’s why you need to come with me. The kingdom has the means to help you unlock it. To show you what you’re truly capable of.”
Izuku’s mind swirled, the weight of his mother’s worries still pressing on him. Magicless. Ordinary. But this... this new possibility, this promise from Toshinori, twisted something inside him. What was this spark? And why hadn’t he felt it before?
The words felt too big to hold, yet too real to ignore.
Toshinori smiled, almost with the understanding of someone who’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Izuku took a deep breath, then turned back to his mother.
“Don’t worry, Mum,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m going to be okay.”
His mother didn’t reply. Instead, she simply nodded, wiping a tear from her cheek as she watched her son take that first step toward the unknown.
The earth was still damp beneath their feet, the scent of fire and rain mingling with moss and loam. With each step away from Masutafu and closer to the unknown, Izuku could feel the winds shifting again—cooler now, filled with whispers of prophecy and power.
The path ahead curved into the thick woods, into lands spoken of in fables and old war songs. The U.A. Kingdom was more than a fortress. It was the last bastion of resistance. A place where magic, swordsmanship, and ancient secrets converged into something stronger.
This was the path to U.A.
This was the path to the Kingdom.
This was the beginning.
Chapter 6: The Sword and the Story
Summary:
“I’m not a hero.”
Silence stretched again. The fire crackled behind them.
And then—quietly, so quietly it almost didn’t feel like speech—Toshinori knelt beside him.
“I know.”
Izuku turned, startled.
“I know you’re not a hero,” Toshinori said, his voice soft, but steady. “You’re not a warrior. You’re not ready. And you’re not who I thought you might be.”
Izuku blinked, the words hitting harder than he expected.
“But,”
“You are not a hero, Izuku. Not yet. But that is exactly why you must become one.”
Notes:
Hello toffee-lovers and bubble-gum chewers this one is a loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong boy Enjoy! (◕∇◕✿)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The forest was quiet, broken only by the soft crunch of leaves beneath their boots. Izuku walked a few paces behind the stranger—Toshinori. Three days had passed since they left the village, and still, they had barely spoken a word. The silence was thick, like fog. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Izuku wasn’t sure how it had all happened—one moment, he was in his village, a nobody with daydreams of heroism. The next, he was fleeing into the woods beside a man cloaked in mystery and raw, magical power. It had been adrenaline at first, the wild thrill of escape, of purpose. But now... now, the doubts crept in.
Who was Toshinori, really?
The magic he wielded—it felt familiar. Too familiar. It reminded Izuku of the old stories. Of him. Of All Might. That thought had taken root in his mind like ivy. Not a single weed to be pulled, but thick green strands that coiled into the cracks of his thoughts, crawling deeper every time he tried to tear them out. He knew the signs. He had studied them. Memorized every tale, every relic, every rumor. And this man—Toshinori—fit too well.
No matter how many times Izuku told himself it was impossible, the idea crept back in, silent and sure. Ivy never died. It simply hid for a while, then returned, stronger. Just like this thought.
Could it really be him?
No. It couldn’t.
Izuku’s hands clenched at his sides. He still had no training. No sword. No plan. He had barely managed to keep the Nomu at bay, and even that had nearly cost him everything. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t a hero.
But he had to find him.
Not a warrior. Not a weapon. Just... him.
Kacchan.
Not the burning other half he once imagined. Not anymore.
He remembered him like the fading warmth of a long-dead fire—embers hidden under ash. A distant heat still lingering in his bones. Kacchan had once been a roaring blaze, loud and unstoppable, a flame that refused to be smothered. But now... now the edges of his face were blurring. The sound of his voice, once sharp and crackling, was softening in Izuku’s memory. The colors were bleeding out.
Still, he felt him. Somewhere. Somehow. Like a dragon bound to his fate. A myth, maybe. A promise. His Dragonking.
A kingdom.
A rock.
An old story.
All for one, and one for all.
The words once meant the world to him—once were everything. But now they felt stained, cracked by reality, twisted by whatever force had brought the Nomu back.
Why was the dark magic returning?
Why now?
Why this?
Why him?
Why his village?
There were too many questions. Too many whys, buts, and ifs. And every path his mind wandered circled back to the same unsettling truth—this adventure might be too big for him. Too dangerous. Too far beyond anything he’d ever dreamed or dared.
For the first time, his dreams felt like a weight instead of wings.
The silence between them stretched longer until, just as the last light of day slipped behind the trees, Toshinori stopped.
Izuku blinked, nearly walking into him.
The older man turned, just slightly, and his eyes met Izuku’s—cold, blue, and ancient. They shimmered like storms remembered only in song, a shiver of lightning trapped behind calm. His expression was unreadable, but his smile... it burned. Haunted. Steady. Still.
“I think,” Toshinori said, voice like wind through dead leaves, “tonight’s the night the training shall start.”
Izuku watched Toshinori build the campfire with a strange sort of fascination—and confusion. The fireplace was too far off from where they’d be sitting, set at an odd angle in the clearing, as though it wasn’t meant to warm them at all. The sticks weren’t arranged in a proper cone or teepee like the elders back home had taught him. Instead, they were laid out in a spiral—loose, uneven, yet clearly intentional.
Toshinori moved through the clearing with slow, sweeping steps. His feet barely touched the ground. It almost looked like a dance—no, it was a dance. Subtle and ancient. His limbs swayed with an elegance that didn’t match his frame, more like wind weaving through trees or leaves drifting with purpose. Every gesture he made, every turn of his wrist, seemed to guide the air around him.
Izuku didn’t speak. He just watched. Curious. A little unnerved.
When the fire finally caught, it didn't roar—it hummed, low and pulsing, like it was breathing.
Toshinori knelt beside it, his face lit by the strange, soft glow. “Magic,” he said at last, voice low, “before it was anything else, was neutral. It was simply there. A current. A rhythm. Not good, not evil. Just... balance.”
Izuku tilted his head, unsure where this was going.
“The world once thrived in that balance,” Toshinori continued, his fingers tracing symbols in the dirt that didn’t stay still. They flickered, shimmered, then faded. “Until a man tried to shift it. He believed magic could be bent, controlled, taken. That balance could be replaced by power.”
He looked up then, eyes pale and burning.
“He had a brother who disagreed. Who believed that the world needed its grey, its in-between. Not just dark or light. And so, the two fought—not for kingdoms, but for the soul of the world itself.”
Izuku sat still, the firelight dancing in his wide eyes.
“This,” Toshinori said, gesturing to the forest, the flame, even the stars above, “is the aftermath. That battle cracked the scales of the world. Magic spilled out—not as it was meant to, but scattered. Fragmented.”
He paused.
“Magic was never meant to belong to one person and not another. It was meant to flow through all. Equally. But because of those two brothers... it’s now patchwork. Uneven. Some are born with more. Others, with none. It is the world trying to fix itself.”
Izuku swallowed. A cold understanding settled in his chest.
All the magical plants he’d studied. All the strange imbalances. The way some herbs healed and others corrupted. The fact that magic seemed alive, wild. It was never supposed to be this way.
He looked down at his hands. “So... it’s all because of them?”
Toshinori nodded slowly.
“They made the first wound. The rest of us have been bleeding ever since.”
Izuku’s brows knit. “Then... what are the Nomu?”
Toshinori’s eyes flicked toward the dark woods. For the first time since they met, there was something uneasy in his expression.
“They are... remnants,” he said carefully. “Not inherently evil. Not inherently good. Just wrong.”
Izuku blinked. “What do you mean?”
Toshinori’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They are born from the pieces of magic that never found balance. Shattered fragments too warped to return to what they once were. They are not alive—not in the way we are. But not dead either. They are magic without direction. Without choice.”
He looked into the fire, his face reflected in the flickering light. “And without guidance, anything without choice becomes dangerous.”
Izuku’s mind raced, processing the pieces Toshinori had just revealed. The Nomu—fragments of magic that had lost their way, twisted and malformed. They weren’t quite alive, but they weren’t dead either. Not by any definition Izuku had ever known.
Toshinori’s words echoed in his mind: “Magic without direction. Without choice.”
But why?
Izuku rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it. His hands were calloused from years of tending herbs, from carefully studying the balance of nature. He knew the way the natural world could shift, how disease could twist the life within a plant or creature, corrupting it beyond recognition. But this? Magic was something different.
His eyes dropped to the ground. He thought of the plants he'd worked with back home—how they could change, grow wild or die when something in the environment shifted, when the balance of soil, water, and light was upset. Could it be the same for magic? Was it imbalanced?
Toshinori had spoken of balance, of how magic had once flowed through the world, neutral and equal. And now it was fragmented, patchworked. But was that the root cause of the Nomu? Or was there something more? Something deeper?
Izuku’s voice broke through the stillness, quieter than before. “Toshinori... do you think... this is more than just an imbalance? Could it be a disease? Like... like a sickness spreading through the magic itself?”
Toshinori turned toward him, eyes narrowing slightly in consideration.
Izuku shook his head, trying to articulate what he was thinking. “The Nomu... they’re not just magic gone wrong, right? They’re... losing themselves. Their humanity. They’re becoming something else. It’s like they’re fading, like the magic inside them is corrupting them. It’s... forcing itself into something new. Something wrong.”
Toshinori didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flickering toward the distant horizon. The fire crackled softly, but the moment hung heavy in the air.
“I’ve been thinking,” Izuku continued, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “What if this imbalance isn’t just the magic getting disrupted... what if it’s something deeper? What if the magic itself is evolving? Changing... like how a plant might adapt to an environment, but in the wrong way. What if it’s trying to fix itself by force, but it can’t—because it was never meant to belong to one person? To be hoarded, or controlled. The magic’s been trying to correct the balance, but it’s fighting itself... and now it’s... what? A disease? An infection?”
He stopped, heart racing, but Toshinori’s face remained unreadable, as if he was waiting for something more.
Izuku met his gaze. “It’s as if the magic itself is trying to evolve, to shift and find a way to re-balance... but it’s turning into something else. Something dangerous. It’s... fighting against itself until it becomes a mess. An amalgamation.”
Toshinori’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressing together in a thin line. He exhaled slowly, as though considering the weight of Izuku’s words, then nodded once, barely perceptible.
“Perhaps,” he said, voice low. “It is an evolution of sorts. But magic, like everything else, cannot be forced into a shape it was never meant to take. If the balance is tipped too far, it will collapse in on itself.”
Izuku’s heart dropped into his stomach. The image of the Nomu, twisted and half-human, burned in his mind. The thought of the magic being warped to such an extent was more than unsettling. It was terrifying.
Toshinori’s voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something ancient, something that had seen far more than Izuku had.
“The Nomu are not just the product of corrupted magic. They are what happens when the very essence of balance is destroyed. And yes, they’re part of something larger—something that is still unfolding. They are the warning. The signal that the world is sick.”
Izuku frowned, trying to keep up with the gravity of Toshinori’s words. “But if the magic is sick... then what happens when it spreads further? When it evolves more?”
Toshinori’s smile was thin, a shadow of something painful. “That, my boy, is what we must prevent. The magic itself, in its desperate need to balance, will continue to seek out corruption—it will find other things to feed on, until it consumes everything in its path. It is only a matter of time before it overtakes the world, until nothing remains but the darkness it has created.”
Izuku’s breath caught. He knew the stakes were high, but this... this was worse than anything he had imagined.
“Toshinori... then what do we do?” Izuku asked, voice hoarse with urgency. “How do we stop it?”
Toshinori was silent for a long moment. His eyes, cold and steady as the night itself, never wavered.
“We fight it,” he said simply. “But not just with strength. Not with magic alone. We fight it by understanding it. By learning how to restore balance, how to channel it, how to use what has been broken... to heal.”
Izuku felt a shiver crawl down his spine. There was something in Toshinori’s tone, something beneath the surface of his words, that made Izuku realize the battle ahead wasn’t just against the Nomu. It was against a force—something far greater. Far older.
He had no idea how deep the world’s wounds ran. But now, standing on the edge of something so vast and dangerous, he knew one thing for sure:
The fight had only just begun.
The fire crackled low. Izuku sat with his thoughts spinning, staring into the orange embers as Toshinori’s words weighed heavily in the space between them.
A sickness in the magic. A war between ancient brothers. A world off balance. Nomu. Evolution. Corruption.
And through it all... Izuku had followed this man, this stranger, into the woods—drawn by instinct, by adrenaline, by something unexplainable.
He blinked, then looked across the fire.
"...How do you know all this?"
Toshinori didn’t answer immediately.
Izuku sat up straighter. “I—I mean... you say all of this like it’s truth. Like it’s written in stone. But how do I know it is? How do I know you’re not just another twisted part of all this?”
Toshinori’s head tilted slightly, his pale blue eyes unreadable.
“I followed you out of my village without knowing anything about you,” Izuku continued, his voice growing firmer. “I don’t even know who you are. How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He clenched his fists. “Is there proof?”
For a moment, silence.
Then—Toshinori exhaled, long and steady.
“So you wish to see proof?” he murmured, voice quieter than before, more... hollow. “Very well.”
He stood slowly, the firelight casting tall, flickering shadows over his gaunt frame.
And then—
The change came like a wind-blown spark catching dry leaves. Sudden. Blazing.
In a blink, Toshinori’s frail form erupted in golden light—his back straightened, his limbs expanded, and his thin chest filled with an overwhelming presence. His cloak flared like wings behind him. Hair like sunlight rose around his face, and his cold blue eyes now blazed with fierce, storm-wracked clarity.
Izuku’s breath caught in his throat.
This was the figure from his childhood stories. The shape from half-remembered dreams. The echo of a myth.
“All Might...”
“I was once called that, yes,” the golden figure rumbled, his voice like thunder held in reverence. “A bearer of light. A symbol of hope. But names are hollow when the truth lies buried.”
Then he staggered—just slightly—but enough to break the illusion. A violent cough tore through his chest, and in seconds, the golden light dimmed. His body shrank again, the glow evaporating like mist, until he was once more the thin, wind-weathered man in the cloak.
He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth.
“This,” he rasped, “is the last flicker of something ancient. A piece of what was meant to fight the dark.”
Izuku stared. Frozen.
Toshinori looked into the fire.
“It began with two brothers,” he said. “One believed magic could belong to him alone. The other believed it should belong to all. Their battle broke the world. That saying you remember—All for One, One for All—it was once a promise.”
His eyes flicked back up to Izuku’s.
“But like all promises passed through blood and time, it was corrupted.”
He reached behind his cloak and pulled out a long, cloth-wrapped object. Carefully, reverently, he unwrapped it—revealing a broken sword hilt, jagged at the end, still faintly glowing with a light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
“This is what remains of that promise,” he whispered. “The Sword of Balance. The core of what One for All once was. A magic passed down—not just a power, but a will. It has been shattered. Scattered. Hidden.”
He held it out toward Izuku.
“And I need your help to find its pieces.”
Izuku’s eyes widened, his breath unsteady.
“You said you wanted to heal the world. To understand it. Then learn this. Learn how to wield the blade that was never meant to belong to one—but to all.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Tonight,” Toshinori said, standing tall once more, “your training begins.”
The stars hung low over the clearing. A fire crackled quietly, casting flickering shadows across the grass. The wind had gone still. Everything felt paused—as if the world itself was watching.
Toshinori stood in the center of the clearing.
"Come," he said, his voice low but firm. "Let us begin."
Izuku stepped forward, hands trembling slightly as he held the practice blade—a training replica of the ancient Jian sword Toshinori had shown him earlier.
He’d never held something like this before. It was balanced, light, but full of presence. A weapon not for brute strength, but for precision and flow.
Toshinori, now wrapped again in his cloaked, sun-scarred form, stepped into a solid stance—feet planted wide, body low, like stone set into the earth. He didn’t move.
Izuku bounced lightly on his feet, mimicking the movement he’d seen in wind-dancing herbs. His own style hadn’t formed yet—but instinct and imagination made his arms wide, his steps fluid, unsure but searching.
"Your movements are too open," Toshinori called out. "You expose your sides. Center your energy."
"I—I’m trying," Izuku muttered, circling slowly. He stepped in, swung—a wide, clean arc.
Toshinori didn’t budge. He raised an arm, caught the blow on his wooden blade, and held it. The impact barely moved him.
"Again."
Izuku backed away, breathing hard. He tried a different angle. A low swing, then up, then a quick jab to the side. Toshinori blocked each one like a fortress—calm, rooted.
It went on like that for what felt like hours. Izuku danced. Toshinori stood still.
No matter how fast he was, or how clever, Toshinori read him like the wind before a storm. Every strike was answered with steady parries. Every angle denied.
Izuku panted. "How... are you not moving?"
“Because I don’t need to,” Toshinori replied. “I am here. My blade is not for chasing. It is for protecting. My style is rooted, just as yours must be flowing. We are not the same, my boy—but you must learn how to move through me.”
Izuku gritted his teeth. He spun again—wider swing this time, using the momentum, springing from heel to toe. He thought he saw an opening—
Toshinori stepped forward.
A single step. Not even a full one. It was enough to throw off Izuku’s rhythm entirely. Their blades met—and Izuku went flying backward, tumbling through the grass, wind knocked from his lungs.
He lay there, staring up at the sky, chest heaving.
"Your sword is not for power," Toshinori said, walking to stand over him. "It is for knowing when not to strike. For finding what your enemy hides. For being everywhere your opponent forgets to guard."
Izuku’s fingers curled into the dirt. He smelled the earth. Felt its calmness. Its stillness.
Why me?
Why am I being trained by All Might?
Why did you choose me?
He looked up, eyes burning, not from pain—but from something deeper. The same feeling he had when he touched that ivy root, the one that would not die no matter how many times you tore it out.
And Toshinori smiled.
Not a tired smile.
Not a smile hiding pain.
But the full, radiant smile of a man who knew.
“You will be my perfect successor,” he said, pride humming in his voice like thunder waiting in the clouds. “And you will learn how to wield the sword that was never meant for one, but for all.”
Izuku lay still, breath rising and falling, chest tight, arms trembling. The scent of crushed grass and rich soil clung to his hands as he stared up at the night sky, clouds drifting like old stories across the stars.
Toshinori’s towering silhouette stood above him, framed by the firelight.
“You will be my perfect successor,” he said again, his voice gentler now. “But you cannot fight with only your mind. You must learn to wield more than just your thoughts.”
Toshinori turned toward the pack he'd placed by the fire. With careful hands, he pulled something out—a sword, long-wrapped in old cloth and sealed with iron wire.
He knelt beside Izuku, unwrapping it slowly.
The metal inside was jagged and massive—a relic. The blade, wide and heavy, was cracked and scorched near the hilt, ancient runes flickering dimly along its spine. It looked like it had once belonged to giants or gods—and been broken by one.
“As I have shown you earlier,” Toshinori said, “ this Sword of One For All. Passed from hand to hand through generations. It was never meant for one alone, but carried by many. Each bearer shaped it. Each battle reforged it.”
“But why me?”
Izuku sat up, jaw clenched. His body trembled—not just from exhaustion, but from frustration. From doubt.
"I can't do this," he muttered.
The words came out before he could stop them, raw and bitter. “I’m not strong enough. I’m not fast enough. I’ve never fought before, not really. I’m a healer. I study plants. I read stories. I’m not—" his voice cracked, “I’m not who you think I am.”
Still, Toshinori said nothing.
“I’m not a hero.”
Silence stretched again. The fire crackled behind them.
And then—quietly, so quietly it almost didn’t feel like speech—Toshinori knelt beside him.
“I know.”
Izuku turned, startled.
“I know you’re not a hero,” Toshinori said, his voice soft, but steady. “You’re not a warrior. You’re not ready. And you’re not who I thought you might be.”
Izuku blinked, the words hitting harder than he expected.
“But,” Toshinori continued, “you are someone who stood between a Nomu and his home with nothing but your bare hands and a broken plan. You are someone who asked why, when most people only ask how. You are someone who sees magic not as a weapon, but as a living thing. You are someone who follows a ghost of a friend into the unknown, because something in your bones tells you he’s not gone.”
Toshinori leaned forward, eyes burning like dying stars.
“You are not a hero, Izuku. Not yet. But that is exactly why you must become one.”
Izuku stared, breath shallow.
“Because this world,” Toshinori said, gesturing around them, “doesn’t need more warriors. It needs balance. It needs someone who still believes healing is worth fighting for. It needs someone who understands that strength is not found in swords or spells—but in choosing to stand up again, when everything says you shouldn’t.”
He stood.
“And if you’re willing,” he added, offering his hand at last, “I will teach you not just how to fight—but how to protect. Not just how to wield magic—but how to guide it. Not just how to survive—but how to restore.”
Izuku looked at the offered hand. His fingers twitched.
There was a choice here.
To rise.
To keep going.
To believe that maybe, just maybe, this path—the pain, the confusion, the weight of the world—it wasn’t a burden placed on him, but a call to him.
A call to become.
He reached up—and took Toshinori’s hand.
The older man pulled him to his feet.
And for the first time since they left the village, Izuku stood tall—not because he had to, but because he chose to.
The fire behind them flared as if in agreement, casting long shadows into the dark woods.
The stars watched.
He offered the sword to Izuku.
“It has waited a long time.”
Izuku stared. “But... it’s broken.”
“All great things are,” Toshinori replied. “Until someone dares to repair them.”
With both hands, Izuku grasped the sword’s handle. His arms almost buckled under the weight at first, but then—
Something shifted.
The metal shimmered, softened—not with heat, but with recognition. It pulsed like a heartbeat.
The massive blade began to melt—dripping downward, folding like wax in a forge. It reshaped in his hands, stretching thinner, sleeker, until it resembled a jian. His style. His weight. His balance.
And yet, near the guard—the damage remained.
The sword was still broken. The tip was gone, the edge chipped near the hilt. It felt... incomplete.
Toshinori watched carefully. “The sword knows you now. But it remembers what it lost. Just like you.”
Izuku ran his fingers along the fractured edge, heart thudding.
“It’s... mine. But it’s not whole.”
“Neither are you,” Toshinori said. “But you will be. If we can find the missing pieces.”
Izuku looked up, wide-eyed.
“There are kingdoms where fragments of this blade lie hidden—shattered long ago when the two brothers split magic down the middle. The first lies in U.A, the Kingdom of Shields. A place that once held balance, now gripped by fear.”
Izuku tightened his grip on the blade.
“Then let’s find it.”
Toshinori smiled—soft, but proud.
“Then your true training begins at sunrise.”
Toshinori smiled—soft, but proud.
“Then your true training begins at sunrise.”
Izuku didn’t answer right away.
He sat there on the earth, the reshaped sword across his knees—sleek now, forged in his image, but still fractured near the hilt. A wound yet to heal.
His fingers moved on instinct.
From his satchel, buried beneath folded herbs and cloth, he pulled out a small object: a crooked piece of cedar, whittled and darkened at the tip, its surface once rough and splintered—now smoothed by years of worry and remembering.
The dragon’s claw.
Not a real one. Just a child’s carving, burnt at the edges to give it a crimson-orange glow. A gift made in the shadow of firelight, when kingdoms were still playgrounds and monsters lived only in stories.
It had been Katsuki’s idea, of course. “A dragon king needs a claw,” he’d said with that cocky grin, shoving the charm into Izuku’s hands like it meant everything—and back then, it had.
Izuku turned the little cedar claw in his fingers, thumb brushing over the worn grooves, the softened edge.
He looked down at the broken sword across his lap.
Then to the charm in his hand.
Neither of them whole.
Not yet.
But maybe, just maybe—soon.
He closed his fingers around both—the sword and the claw—and raised his gaze to the firelit road ahead, where the Kingdom of U.A slept beneath distant stars.
Notes:
I have returned to give you another chapter. I'm not gonna lie, this one did kick me in the ass a bit, but after hours and hours of research about different dynasties of swords, me going through every book in the library about herbalism, asking my grandma about herbs and stuff, going deep deep in the history of my family to figure out what the hell am I doing with the fanfiction I'm writing about MHA character, I have succeeded. Enjoy guys!
Chapter 7: Blades and Boundaries
Summary:
“I know what I am,” Izuku said quietly, but with iron behind the words. “I’m a healer. Amongst everything else, "I will always be a healer.”
The stranger’s fingers tapped once against the table. “That won’t help you in a fight.”
“Maybe not,” Izuku said, voice steady now. “But I’ve trained to be a healer since I was a child. Yes, becoming a knight has always been a dream. But it’s not the dream. Helping people is. If I can’t do that with a sword, then I’ll do it with my hands. And if I can’t do it with my hands—” he gave a small, crooked smile, “—I’ll do it with my teeth.”
Notes:
Hay Toffee lovers and bubblegum chewers, I have returned to give you chapter 7. Um, I'm gonna be honest, I was very, very sleep deprived when I wrote half of this and I have reread and reread it, so if there is a duplicate where I think there is a duplicate, please let me know in the comments. But above all else, we meet some new characters and I hope you enjoy. ヾ( ￣O￣)ツ
Chapter Text
They had walked through the night.
As the sun began to crest over the eastern hills, Yue revealed itself.
Massive gates loomed on the horizon, forged of dark steel and silver-plated stone, framed by twin towers carved with ancient runes and crowned with fluttering banners—each a deep blue flag marked with a single rectangular glyph at its center. An emblem of stillness, of balance—or perhaps of boundaries.
Birds flitted above, but avoided the spires. They flew wide arcs, never over the city. Even the sky seemed to respect the silence of Yue.
There was tension in the air.
Not fear. Not yet.
But edge.
Like something held its breath just behind the walls.
Izuku felt it—though he couldn’t name it. His chest tightened a little with every step toward the gate. The wind was too clean. The guards too still. A kingdom pretending it wasn’t under siege.
He didn’t know about the recent Nomu attacks—how patrols had gone missing outside the outer reaches of Yue. How Captain Aizawa had already doubled the sentry shifts. How every man and woman on that wall carried orders to kill, not question.
But he could feel it.
Two figures stepped out from the narrowing slit of the gate.
They moved like drawn blades—precise, rigid, immaculate in silver-blue armor that glinted in the morning light. The elder of the two stood a head taller, his features carved into calm efficiency. The younger was tighter in posture, all angles and scrutiny, eyes already locked on Izuku with a quiet frown.
They didn’t speak at first.
Just watched.
Judging.
Weighing.
All Might came to a stop, then stepped forward and bowed—not deeply, but with the exact etiquette expected from someone who’d once stood in court.
“We come under summons from Captain Aizawa. Toshinori, knight-errant. My companion, Midoriya Izuku.”
That caught their attention.
Or at least, it caught the younger one’s.
His eyes dropped to the sword at Izuku’s hip—a clean, sheathed thing with leather wrappings still new from re-forging. The judgment in his gaze didn’t soften.
“You wear a sword,” the younger man said, clipped and clear. “Do you know how to use it?”
Izuku’s throat tightened. “I’m still learning,” he said honestly. “I’m a healer.”
A faint breath—almost a laugh, but not kind—escaped the younger guard’s nose.
“A healer.”
“With a blade.”
“Wonderful.”
His tone was acidic enough to burn through marble.
The elder finally lifted his voice—not harsh, but edged like a honed axe.
“We weren’t told a medic would be carrying a weapon into the city.”
All Might answered before Izuku could speak again.
“His sword is ceremonial. For now.”
The younger one stepped forward, gaze narrowing.
“Ceremonial blades are left at the gate.”
“Tenryu,” the older man murmured, warning in his tone.
Izuku’s eyes flicked between them. So that was his name—Tenryu Iida. The title rang faintly. The Iida family. Royal retainers.
Tenryu didn’t back off. He squared up just slightly, chin tilted. Still talking to All Might, but his disdain pointed squarely at Izuku.
“U.A does not welcome untrained steel. Especially not from wandering herbmongers.”
Izuku stood quiet.
Didn’t defend himself. Didn’t reach for the hilt.
But he didn’t shrink either.
Instead, he met Tenryu’s glare with something steadier than pride.
Conviction.
Not sharp. Not loud.
Just... solid.
“I’m not here to fight,” he said. “But I’ll carry what I’ve earned.”
That paused the moment.
Long enough for the elder to step fully forward and break the silence.
“Tensai Iida,” he said. “First Captain of Gate Command.”
He turned to his brother without looking away from All Might.
“And this is my brother, Tenryu. Forgive the formality. There have been... tensions lately.”
The understatement hung in the air.
From the battlements, Aizawa’s silhouette appeared—a ripple of black on stone.
He didn’t wave. He didn’t speak.
But he nodded once.
And that was enough.
The gates opened.
Wide this time.
Welcoming, but only just.
The tension didn’t break.
It just... followed them in.
The city of U.A unfolded like a labyrinth of discipline—symmetrical stone streets, pale glass windows, banners lining every corner like watchful eyes. The buildings rose straight and tall, no lean or curve to them. It was a place without wasted motion, without softness.
Even the air felt trained.
Guards were posted at every crossroad, armor gleaming, hands near hilts. Merchants kept their stalls tightly packed, conversations clipped and hurried. Children didn’t run through the streets here; they walked in lines, escorted.
Izuku kept close behind All Might, who moved through the avenues with quiet familiarity, cloak fluttering behind him.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” Izuku murmured, eyes scanning the block formations and elevated balconies. “It’s like... something’s coiled around this place.”
All Might nodded. “It is.”
They turned past a line of garrison towers, each one manned, each one watching the sky.
“The Nomu aren’t just a border problem anymore,” All Might continued. “They’ve made their way into the city’s outer districts. At least three attacks in the last month. Two near the trade quarter. One right outside the scholar’s spire.”
Izuku’s stomach twisted. “I didn’t hear about that. We only saw one in my village—and even then...”
“You were lucky,” All Might said. “Most places don’t even get warning. Just silence. Then smoke.”
They passed a crumbled alley barricaded with ironwood boards—scorched black.
“Captain Aizawa and I have been working with King Nezu to isolate where they’re coming from, how they’re slipping past. But they’re getting bolder. Smarter. Picking soft targets.” His jaw tightened. “We’ve never seen them move like this. Not in my generation.”
Izuku stopped beside him as they reached a forked street. One road led deeper, toward the castle keep rising like an obsidian crown in the heart of Yue. The other curved into the market districts.
All Might rested a hand on Izuku’s shoulder.
“I need to speak with Aizawa alone before we meet the King. He’ll want a full account of your training, and frankly—he won’t believe me if I tell him.”
He smiled, but there was a flicker of concern in his gaze.
“Until then, walk the city. Observe. But don’t make yourself known. Yue doesn’t warm quickly to outsiders—and it runs cold to those with power they don’t understand.”
He leaned closer.
“And Izuku—keep your blade on your hip. Always. Don’t untie it, don’t leave it. If you step into trouble, walk away. This city’s built for swordsmanship. Yours isn’t ready to speak yet.”
Izuku nodded, fingers brushing the leather wrap at his waist.
“I understand.”
“Good.” All Might turned, eyes already on the castle road. “Then stay small. And stay aware.”
He disappeared into the stone flow of Yue with long, steady strides.
Izuku stood alone now—among the ticking rhythm of the city, the sharp-sounding footfalls of patrols, the rustle of a hundred stories moving behind closed doors.
He exhaled once, squared his shoulders, and turned toward the market road.
The crowd swallowed him quickly.
Not as a threat.
But as a stranger.
And in U.A, there was very little difference.
Izuku walked with his head tilted back.
The towers of U.A stretched so high they seemed to bend the light—sharp-edged structures polished like obsidian teeth, catching the sun in slivers. The streets moved with relentless current, every face pointed forward, every gesture controlled. Even the silence here buzzed, a tension hidden beneath every step.
He’d never seen a place like this.
His village was made of hills and timber, of herbs left to dry in windowsills and doorways that never locked. His boots were used to soil. Grass. The softness of woods.
Here, the stone was loud beneath his soles.
It echoed when he walked.
Eyes glanced at him, not in open curiosity—but in the quick, sideways way someone might glance at a crack in a wall. His cloak wasn’t tailored. His boots weren’t polished. He carried his satchel cross-body, tucked beneath his arm. He didn’t belong.
He turned into a narrower street, away from the main arteries of Yue, just to breathe easier.
And still—
The thought stuck.
Nomu.
They weren’t just creatures, he was starting to realize. Wounds don’t spread that way. Monsters don’t plan.
But infections do.
They’d arrived in his village like a fever, weeks before anyone saw one. The animals had gone still. Strange dreams. The rot in the field's edge that no one could explain. His mentor had whispered things about corrupted veins and false blood.
Izuku had thought it was superstition then.
He didn’t now.
They move like sickness, he thought.
No noise at first. No flame. Just absence. Then it’s already too late.
He passed a trio of street performers—silent, painted white, holding statuesque poses. One blinked as he walked by, and it startled him more than it should have.
The street curved into a smaller lane—a quieter row where apothecaries nested between glass-blown shops and small family houses. The wooden signs creaked lightly in the breeze.
Izuku paused in front of a stall. A narrow-faced woman was tending to dried roots, scraping them into satchels behind a rack of herbs that looked more decorative than curative.
“Elder’s willow?” he asked softly.
The woman blinked, surprised. “Haven’t had a call for that in years. Who taught you that name?”
He smiled, a little sheepishly.
“My mother. She’s a herbalist—back in my hometown.”
She looked at him again—closer this time.
And handed him the bundle.
“Don’t pay. If you know how to use it, you’ll do more good with it than I ever have.”
He thanked her, tucking the dried bark into his bag. As he turned, a shout cracked through the stillness.
“Hey! Hey—!”
A child’s voice.
Instinct moved him faster than thought.
Down the lane. Around the bend.
There—by the gutter near a broken water trough—a boy, no more than seven, curled and whimpering, one arm bent wrong, scraped blood at the temple. His little wooden cart lay smashed beside him, its wheels shattered, fruit scattered across the stone.
Izuku dropped to his knees.
“Hey, hey—you’re okay. Can you hear me?” He set down his satchel and brushed the boy’s hair back gently, checking the wound. No deep bleeding. No skull break. Good. But the arm—swollen already.
“Name?” he asked softly.
“H-Hafu,” the boy stammered. “It hurts—”
“I know.” Izuku unlatched his satchel. “We’ll fix that. I’ve got you, Hafu.”
In swift, practiced motions, he pulled out a roll of cloth, a small mortar, and two finger-length stems from the bundle he’d just been given.
He crushed the bark and herbs quickly, mixing it with a water vial from his pouch.
The scent was bitter and sharp—pain-dulling and clotting.
“Drink first,” he said. “It’s going to sting when I touch your arm.”
The boy obeyed, trembling.
Izuku wrapped the arm carefully, murmuring comfort.
Around him, Yue’s streets kept moving.
And for a moment—he was exactly where he was meant to be.
Izuku stayed crouched beside the boy for a moment longer, his hands steady as he finished wrapping the makeshift bandage. The child’s breathing had evened out, and a flicker of relief softened his eyes.
“Better now,” Izuku said gently, brushing a strand of hair from Hafu’s forehead. “You should rest. Don’t try to push yourself too hard.”
The boy nodded, clutching the cloth tightly.
Izuku stood and looked down at him. “Come on, you should walk with me. I need to get you some proper medicine.”
Hafu hesitated, but then rose slowly, leaning on Izuku as they made their way toward the nearest apothecary.
Inside the small, dim shop, an elderly woman looked up sharply as they entered.
“I need medicine to help with injuries,” Izuku explained quietly, glancing at Hafu. “Bandages, salves, something to dull the pain and help the swelling.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes softened as she glanced at the boy.
She reached under the counter and pulled out several small packages.
“Take these,” she said, pushing them toward Izuku. “They will help. No charge.”
Izuku immediately shook his head, stepping forward with hands raised in protest.
“Are you sure? I—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I can pay for this. I have the money. There’s no need for you to give it to me for free. I haven’t done anything to deserve that kindness, and I’m happy to pay what it costs.”
The woman regarded him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
“Very well,” she said softly. “But the boy needs it more than coins do.”
Izuku smiled gratefully, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a small pouch of coins. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Hafu watched quietly from beside him, clutching Izuku’s sleeve.
Izuku gathered the supplies, double-checking the contents, then gently helped Hafu steady himself as they left the shop.
The sun had begun to dip, shadows lengthening over the stone streets.
Izuku adjusted his sword at his hip, his mind still tangled with the weight of the city — the silence, the watchful eyes, and the unknown dangers lurking beneath.
Back out in the light, Izuku led Hafu to a shaded corner near a quiet bench. He crouched, carefully unwrapping the bundles of medicine.
“These are for you,” he said, handing the boy a small tin of salve and a cloth bundle of herbs. “The salve’s for the bruising. And this,” he held up the herbs, “boil it into tea. It’ll help with the pain and keep your body strong.”
Hafu clutched the items like treasures. “You’re not from here.”
Izuku smiled, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “No. I’m here on… a special kind of mission.”
The boy tilted his head, squinting. “Are you a knight?”
Izuku let out a quiet laugh. “Not exactly.”
He offered his hand, and Hafu took it. Together, they walked through winding alleyways and narrow stone streets until they reached a worn but sturdy-looking home nestled between two taller buildings. As they approached, the door slammed open.
A woman burst out, her apron stained and her eyes wide. “Hafu! Where have you—oh my gods, what happened?! Where’s the cart? Were you robbed? Did someone—?”
“He fell,” Izuku said quickly, raising both hands gently. “He’s okay. He just hurt his arm. Nothing serious.”
Her eyes darted between them, frantic, until she saw the careful bandaging, the way Hafu leaned into Izuku’s side but stood strong.
“I—I don’t know how to thank you,” she murmured, pulling her son close.
“You don’t need to,” Izuku replied, taking a small step back. “I’m happy to help. Really.”
As Hafu clung to his mother’s side, he looked back at Izuku. “Are you going now?”
Izuku knelt down again, looking the boy in the eye.
“Don’t worry, little dragon,” he said with a warm smile, gently ruffling the boy’s hair. “This isn’t going to stop you from getting big and strong.”
Hafu beamed, eyes wide with something like awe.
Izuku stood and gave the mother a final nod before turning back toward the heart of the city.
The streets were busier now, cast in the amber hue of late afternoon.
As he passed the market square, he caught sight of a familiar figure — Toshinori, waving from a seat outside a tavern, half-shadowed by a slanted awning. Seated beside him was a cloaked figure, posture still and unreadable, face hidden beneath a hood.
Izuku felt the weight of his sword at his hip. He glanced back once, just for a moment, toward where Hafu’s house still stood.
Then he turned, and made his way to the tavern.
The tavern door creaked open as Izuku stepped inside, adjusting to the dim light. It was warm, dense with the scent of roasted meats, old wood, and the subtle bitterness of ale. Conversations buzzed at quiet tables, and the fire crackled low in the hearth.
Toshinori sat at a booth near the back, long limbs stretched comfortably, a goblet untouched before him. Across from him, the cloaked figure sat in perfect stillness, like a shadow made flesh. Though the hood obscured the stranger’s face, Izuku felt the weight of a sharp, assessing gaze settle on him the moment he entered.
“Ah, there you are, my boy!” Toshinori called, waving him over with a smile. “I was starting to think Yue had swallowed you whole.”
Izuku made his way through the crowded room, nodding respectfully as he approached the table.
“I helped someone,” he said simply, sliding into the seat beside Toshinori. “A boy was hurt. Just a fall, but… he needed help.”
Toshinori’s expression softened, proud and knowing. “Of course you did.”
The cloaked man leaned back slightly, and Izuku could see the glint of something — a scar, maybe, or a metal ornament — beneath the edge of the hood.
“This,” Toshinori said, turning toward the figure, “is someone I thought you should meet. A friend of Captain Aizawa’s. One of the King’s quiet men.”
The figure inclined his head slightly. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth, with a cadence that sounded older than it should have. “You carry yourself like someone not used to cities. But you moved through Yue like you knew what to look for.”
Izuku blinked. “I didn’t know where I was going. I just… followed where I was needed.”
The stranger didn’t respond right away, but there was a subtle shift in the air — not disapproval, not quite approval. Just recognition.
Toshinori chuckled, raising his cup but still not drinking. “He’s still new to the city, but not to the path. We’ll be meeting Captain Aizawa soon — and if the King agrees, you may have a role far greater than you expected.”
Izuku glanced between them, heart steady but cautious.
“What kind of role?” he asked.
The stranger’s eyes, still hidden, seemed to pierce through the table.
“One that walks between healing and war,” the figure said. “And makes peace with both.”
Izuku’s fingers brushed the hilt of his sword.
He didn’t flinch.
The stranger didn’t drink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even blink, as far as Izuku could tell. He simply watched.
“So,” the cloaked figure said after a long pause, his voice measured, but with an undercurrent of steel, “what will you do when you meet Captain Aizawa?”
Izuku blinked. “Sir?”
“The Night Captain doesn’t suffer fools. He doesn’t waste time with idealists. You walk into his presence wearing your heart too openly—he’ll tear it from your chest and hand it back to you just to prove a point.”
Toshinori didn’t interrupt. He only leaned back, arms crossed, observing with a faint smile. Not out of amusement, but out of trust.
Izuku straightened. “Then I’ll stand as I am.”
The stranger tilted his head. “And what is that, exactly? Some starry-eyed apprentice with a sword he doesn’t know how to use?”
“I know what I am,” Izuku said quietly, but with iron behind the words. “I’m a healer. Amongst everything else, I will always be a healer.”
The stranger’s fingers tapped once against the table. “That won’t help you in a fight.”
“Maybe not,” Izuku said, voice steady now. “But I’ve trained to be a healer since I was a child. Yes, becoming a knight has always been a dream. But it’s not the dream. Helping people is. If I can’t do that with a sword, then I’ll do it with my hands. And if I can’t do it with my hands—” he gave a small, crooked smile, “—I’ll do it with my teeth.”
Silence fell for a beat. Then another.
Toshinori let out a low chuckle, proud and quiet.
The cloaked man sat back slightly. There was no smile, but something in his shoulders loosened. Just a little.
“You believe that?” the stranger asked. “Truly?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Another pause.
Then, without a word, the man stood.
Izuku blinked, startled by the sudden movement. The stranger reached up and swept back his hood.
Messy black hair fell over tired eyes.
Deep lines carved beneath them, like sleeplessness had made a permanent home there.
His expression didn’t change much — mostly disinterest, maybe a flicker of approval — but even in this dim light, there was no mistaking him now.
Izuku’s breath caught.
“Captain Aizawa,” Toshinori said with a touch of amusement. “Meet Midoriya Izuku.”
The infamous Night Captain of the Royal Guard rolled one shoulder with a sigh, dark cloak now hanging loose across his armor. “Toshinori talks about you too much.”
Izuku scrambled to his feet, hands at his sides, trying to make sense of the calm that suddenly felt like a storm.
Aizawa waved him off. “Sit down. You don’t need to bow. I’m not royalty. Just tired.”
He sank back into his seat like someone already counting the minutes until bed, and said without looking:
“You’re not useless, kid. You’re just green. We’ll fix that.”
Izuku sat back down, heart pounding.
A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
He’d passed the first test.
Maybe not perfectly.
But he hadn’t flinched.
And for now—that was enough.
*******************************************************************************************************
The walk to the palace was nothing like the rest of U.A .
Gone were the twisted alleys and merchant chatter, replaced by high towers and marble courtyards lined with trimmed ivy and silver lanterns. The air itself felt different here—thinner, cleaner, yet charged, like a storm gathering on the horizon just out of sight.
Izuku walked a pace behind Toshinori and Captain Aizawa, his sword secure at his hip, boots just barely scuffing against the polished stone of the ceremonial causeway. Sunlight glanced off spires in the distance. Guards posted along the route stood like statues, spears gleaming, eyes unmoving.
Ahead, the grand staircase to the throne hall waited—each step etched with age-old phrases in Old Tongue, a language Izuku barely recognized.
And just before they reached it, a familiar figure stepped into their path.
Tall, pristine in his pressed armor and royal blues, visor under one arm, his other hand resting too easily on the hilt of his blade—Tenryu Iida.
He stood alongside another knight, similar in build and bearing. His brother, no doubt.
Iida looked from Aizawa to Toshinori with a deep bow, but when his eyes landed on Izuku, they narrowed.
“Captain,” he said crisply, voice polite but not warm, “is there a reason a civilian is accompanying you to the royal court?”
Izuku bristled—just slightly—but didn’t speak.
Iida’s tone was light, but the jab was precise: “I wasn’t aware the palace had started admitting traveling herbalists to court audiences.”
A small beat of silence.
Captain Aizawa didn’t stop walking.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t even look at Iida.
He muttered, flat and unimpressed, “He’s with me.”
And kept walking.
Toshinori offered Iida a brief, polite nod, like a noble sparing a glance to a chess piece.
Izuku followed, heartbeat thudding against his ribs.
Iida’s words still rang in his ears. Civilian. Herbalist. Not a knight.
He knew he didn’t belong in armor like theirs. He hadn’t earned it. Not yet.
But he was here. And he wouldn’t shrink from it.
He adjusted the strap across his chest and walked a little straighter.
The gates of the throne room loomed ahead—tall as towers, gold-lined and carved with the history of U.A itself. Two palace guards moved to open them, the ancient hinges sighing like giants.
Izuku inhaled slowly.
He would stand beside his mentor.
Even if his hands trembled doing it.
The doors opened.
Sound fell away.
The throne room of U.A was cathedral-like in scale — a hall of white stone and gold-veined marble, where sun poured in through stained glass high above, scattering colors across the polished floor like fragments of broken rainbows.
Banners hung between towering pillars — the crest of Yue at their center: a silver flame inside a golden circle, a single square in its core, like a secret only the worthy understood.
Izuku stepped in behind Toshinori and Aizawa, every breath suddenly loud in his ears. The weight of the air felt heavier here, thick with incense and expectation.
At the far end, past a long ceremonial rug of deep crimson, the throne itself stood — less a chair than a carved monument. Sleek, pale wood twisted into sharp spires behind it, forming the shape of wings mid-flare.
And seated at its center, short and still as a statue, was a being unlike any Izuku had expected.
Small in stature, yet not in presence. Fur like snow. Eyes sharp with age and intellect that could crack kingdoms. A creature, not a man.
King Nezu.
He didn’t smile. But his gaze sparkled as the three approached, something calculating beneath the warmth.
Toshinori stopped several paces from the dais and bowed, Aizawa following with a curt nod. Izuku bowed low, fists clenched tightly at his sides to stop the nerves from showing.
“Your Majesty,” Toshinori said, his voice formal now — respectful, but not reverent. “I bring before you Midoriya Izuku, of the village of—” He paused, casting a glance to Izuku. “Well. The village is small. Unnamed.”
Nezu’s gaze shifted to Izuku.
He looked him up and down like a blacksmith inspecting raw ore. Not cruelly. Just… deeply.
“A healer,” the King said softly. “With a sword he does not yet know how to wield.”
Izuku swallowed.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. His voice didn’t tremble. “But I intend to learn. And I came because I was called.”
Nezu’s eyes twinkled.
“Oh? And who, I wonder, does the calling?”
“I don’t know,” Izuku admitted. “But I believe it matters. So I followed.”
Silence.
Then — a sound. Soft, musical. A chuckle, light and dry, escaping from the tiny king.
“Well-spoken. Perhaps too well for your age. I suspect that’s Toshinori’s fault.”
Toshinori grinned. “I do my best.”
Aizawa said nothing, but his gaze remained on Izuku — assessing, always.
Nezu leaned back in his throne.
“The Nomu attacks are rising again,” he said. “We’ve traced their patterns but not their origin. Yue needs minds as well as blades. And despite what certain knights at our gates may think, healing is no less a strength than striking.”
Izuku felt his chest loosen just a little.
“We’ll see how you fare,” Nezu said. “Captain Aizawa will oversee your training. Toshinori will supervise your path. And if you survive both… perhaps you will earn your place here.”
He smiled again — not unkind, but razor-sharp.
“Welcome to U.A, young Midoriya. Your trial begins now.”
The throne room emptied slowly, whispers trailing like smoke as aides and guards returned to their duties. Toshinori exchanged a few final words with Nezu before taking his leave, giving Izuku a small nod — one that said you did well — and disappearing down a side corridor with a dramatic sweep of his cloak.
Izuku remained where he stood, rooted in the echo of the king’s words.
Your trial begins now.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides. The sword felt heavier.
He didn’t turn when the soft sound of boots approached behind him.
“You didn’t flinch,” Aizawa said quietly, coming to stand beside him.
Izuku blinked. “Was I supposed to?”
“No.” A pause. “But most do.”
They stood in silence for a moment, gazes drawn to the mosaic glass above the dais, where light spilled in reds and golds over the floor.
“Listen,” Aizawa said eventually, voice lower now, edged in something quieter. “You’re not here because you’re ready. You’re here because you said yes.”
Izuku finally turned to him, brow raised slightly, voice dry.
“Well… technically, I followed a strange, decrepit old man with yellow hair into the woods.”
He shrugged. “But yeah. Technically.”
Aizawa blinked.
There was a silence, just a breath too long — then a low exhale, not quite a chuckle, but close. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
Another pause.
Then Aizawa looked directly at him, his tone shifting — less gruff now, almost like a tired teacher leveling with a student who’s asked the right question.
“Don’t let Tenryu’s voice live in your head rent-free. He’s loud. But loud doesn’t mean right.”
Izuku’s chest loosened just slightly. He nodded.
Aizawa turned away, walking slowly toward the tall arch that led out to the balcony hall. “Training starts at dawn. Bring your blade. And whatever else you think you’ll need.”
He paused at the threshold, casting a glance over his shoulder.
“Oh. And Midoriya?”
Izuku looked up.
Aizawa’s expression didn’t change, but something subtle shifted in his eyes — the smallest flicker of approval, buried under exhaustion and endless responsibility.
“Welcome to U.A.”
Then he was gone.
Izuku stood in the quiet throne room, the sun still pouring down in fractured gold, and let the words settle deep into his bones.
I’m here.
Chapter 8: Elsewhere
Summary:
But if you think you know what hell is?
You don’t.
Because Samurai Aizawa — Night Captain of Yue, half-ghost in a black cloak, full-time tormentor of the hopeful and the foolish — is a fucking lunatic.
Notes:
Hay Toffee lovers Sorry that this chapter is a little short. The AO3 curse does exist, just want to put that out there. I promise that the next chapter will be much longer with more details. Thank you all for reading, and just let you know that there is a little bit of gore by the very end of the chapter for the last asterisks, so if you're not into that, don't read the end bit. But otherwise, please enjoy! (ι(｀ロ´)ノ
Chapter Text
Izuku Midoriya has known hardship.
He’s lived beneath the weight of it — the ridicule, the isolation, the gnawing sense of being less-than in a world of magic and power. Ostracized for something he could never control. No abilities. No sparkle to show off. Just a boy with calloused hands and a heart too stubborn to quit.
But if you think you know what hell is?
You don’t.
Because Samurai Aizawa — Night Captain of Yue, half-ghost in a black cloak, full-time tormentor of the hopeful and the foolish — is a fucking lunatic.
Izuku has never known pain like this. And he’s trained with All Might. All Might.
This? This is different. This is the kind of muscle-deep, soul-rotting exhaustion that makes you question every decision you’ve ever made, including being born.
And the worst part?
This was just the warm-up!!!?!!
Hell doesn’t have fire. Hell has Aizawa — holding a bamboo staff and muttering critiques like they’re death sentences. And Izuku, doubled over in the courtyard, soaked in sweat and half-laughing from despair, wonders if maybe the Nomu would’ve been easier.
His legs burned. His arms had stopped registering pain about ten swings ago and were just sort of... buzzing. He wasn’t sure if that was strength or nerve damage.
He stumbled forward again, trying to mimic the overhead slice Aizawa had demonstrated — precise, low, cutting through air like silk.
What came out instead was a lopsided hack. The momentum spun him too far and he caught his foot on uneven stone, tumbling shoulder-first into the dirt with a grunt.
Behind him, Aizawa’s sigh cut through the morning like a blade.
“Your stance is off.”
“No shit,” Izuku groaned into the ground, pushing himself up with trembling elbows. Dust clung to his sweat like a second skin.
“I said center your weight. Not flail like a drunk crane with vertigo.”
“I am centered,” Izuku wheezed. “Centered in agony.”
Aizawa didn’t dignify that with a response. Just walked past him, bamboo staff still lazily twirling in one hand like it hadn’t been the source of half his bruises.
Izuku took a breath. Then another. And dragged himself upright again.
“As ya can see,” he muttered aloud to nobody, “I found that if I wasn’t smart — which I’m pretty sure I am — or at least was before he knocked the last few brain cells out of my skull — then this would definitely qualify as attempted murder.”
He glanced at his sword — rusted, fractured, loyal. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt. “I wanted to look at this thing and think, damn, this is what you can do with a piece of bamboo — what can you do with a real weapon? But then I sort of thought... don’t want to know that. I like living. Living is very much my!?!?!?.”
Another swing. Still unbalanced.
Another correction barked from Aizawa.
Another ache to add to the catalog of pain that had become his full-body experience.
And yet — through all the falling, and flailing, and Aizawa’s surgical verbal takedowns — Izuku kept standing up.
Because if this was just the warm-up...
Then he needed to survive the real training. Somehow.
The courtyard cracked again with the snap of bamboo on skin.
Izuku’s legs buckled as he tried to catch himself. Dirt kicked up around his boots. His arms shook from the strain — raw, blistered palms barely keeping the bamboo sword upright.
“You’re not using it,” Aizawa growled.
Izuku panted, sweat dripping into his eyes. “Using what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’ve got something. I can see it.” Aizawa stepped forward, his movements sharp, controlled. “You’ve got a fire in you. I’m asking why it isn’t in your hands.”
Izuku squared his stance, barely holding the weight of his bamboo blade. “I’m fighting.”
“No,” Aizawa snapped. “You’re flailing. You’re letting something hold you back. Fear. Pride. Or maybe you’re just too stubborn to admit what you are.”
Izuku’s jaw clenched. He was trembling now, arms screaming, legs jelly under him. He gritted his teeth and raised the sword again.
“You don’t get to walk into Yue with half a soul and expect the kingdom to carry the rest,” Aizawa continued. “So either use your power—”
He struck again, high — aiming near Izuku’s head. At the last second, Izuku twisted, but the bamboo clipped his shoulder, spun him, and the dragon claw necklace Katsuki had given him swung wide, flapping violently against his chest. It didn’t break — but it slapped against his collarbone, right where the sting of the hit bloomed.
That was the final blow.
Something inside snapped.
Aizawa took a step forward—and that was the mistake.
Izuku charged.
Fast.
So fast Aizawa barely adjusted. His eyes went wide—not panic, not surprise—just a flicker of something rare.
Unease.
Izuku barreled into him like a falling star, shoulder crashing into the older man’s chest with enough force to stagger them both. Aizawa lifted his staff, trying to parry, but Izuku was already inside his guard. He moved on instinct—ducked low, pivoted on a single foot, brought the bamboo sword up in a brutal arc, slamming it across Aizawa’s back.
Aizawa let out a breath. Not a grunt. But a sound that said, that actually hurt.
And then—
Izuku pivoted. Bamboo against his neck.
Pressed.
The courtyard went dead quiet. Birds scattered from the nearby rafters.
Aizawa stood frozen, sweat beading down the side of his temple. His eyes locked on Izuku. And for one half-second, there was something new in them:
Not pride.
Not annoyance.
Not fury.
A flicker of respect.
Izuku’s chest rose and fell, heaving.
He spat into the dirt.
“That,” he hissed, “that is my power.”
The bamboo shook in his hands. Not with fear. With something deeper. Older.
The dragon’s claw thumped softly against his chest, swaying gently as if to agree.
Aizawa was still for a long moment. Then finally, finally, he gave a single, curt nod.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Okay, kid.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The silence after the fight didn’t linger long.
Aizawa left without a word, only the soft scrape of his boots and the gentle swing of his scarf trailing behind him as he disappeared into the shaded corridor beyond the courtyard. No lecture. No further remarks. Just that nod — quiet and final.
Izuku stood still long after he was gone.
The bamboo sword felt like it weighed a thousand stones in his hands. He let it fall.
It clattered against the tiles.
He staggered over to the edge of the courtyard, found a spot by the stone bench shaded under a crooked tree, and sank down slowly, spine aching, knees weak. He could still feel where Aizawa had hit him — bruises blooming beneath his ribs like shadow flowers. Sweat clung to his collar, slick with dust and resolve.
The dragon’s claw tapped against his chest again, gentler now.
He pulled it into his palm.
It wasn’t glowing. It didn’t burn or hum with power. But it grounded him. Katsuki’s words echoed faintly in his mind: “A dragon king needs a claw.”
He turned it over in his fingers.
“I don’t have magic,” he whispered to no one, the admission tasting strange in the open air. “Not like them.”
He tilted his head back and stared up at the sky. Bright blue. Wide. So far from the tree line of his village. So far from anything that had ever felt safe.
The rusted sword still lay where he dropped it — battered and splintered, a mockery of the weapons the royal guard carried. Still broken. Still his.
But so was the claw.
He tucked the charm back under his tunic and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the stillness wrap around him.
He wasn’t strong.
He wasn’t fast.
And he wasn’t gifted.
But he was here.
He was still here.
The sun had dipped behind Yue’s western wall by the time Izuku rose again. The sweat on his brow had cooled, dried, then returned. Every movement ached. But he moved anyway.
The warmth of the great hall was dulled by the tension in his shoulders.
Izuku stepped through the doors, head low, trying not to draw attention. It didn’t matter. The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt them — eyes.
The scrape of chairs. A hush that rippled only briefly.
They weren’t kind eyes.
The knights lined the tables, boasting and laughing, half in armor, half out. But when they looked at him, it was like they all shared a single thought — that he didn’t belong.
Iida didn’t bother to hide it. His gaze was blistering. Unblinking. As if Izuku had spat in the direction of the throne.
The mockery of his stubbornness knows no fucking bounds, the knight thought. It wasn’t said, but Izuku could feel it like a knife point under the chin.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t react. Just moved to the side table where plain bowls of stew were stacked beside crusty rounds of bread. He took one of each and sat alone in the shadowed edge of the room, back to the wall.
The stew was hearty — root vegetables, thick broth. The bread was still warm.
He dipped it slowly, carefully, and chewed in silence.
Around him, the chatter resumed. Quiet laughter. Metal clinking. Somewhere down the table, someone toasted loudly to a sparring win.
But Izuku only ate. Every now and then, a faint throb pulsed in his shoulders — a reminder of how many times he'd hit the ground today.
Aizawa’s voice still rang in his ears.
“Get up.”
“Again.”
“Stop fighting like you're waiting to lose.”
He had. Over and over. He had gotten up.
He finished the last of the bread and set the bowl aside. No one spoke to him as he stood. No one looked away from him either.
Later that night, his quarters were dim and quiet. The walls were cool stone. The candle on the desk flickered low. He sat on the edge of the bed, turning the dragon’s claw pendant over in his fingers, still feeling the snap of rage that had shot through him earlier — the way his feet had moved faster than his thoughts, how Aizawa had actually flinched.
A knock.
He stood, half-expecting another summons.
It was All Might.
“Figured you might need this,” he said, handing over a steaming ceramic cup. “Chamomile. For the muscles, you know.”
Izuku stared at him a beat, then accepted it.
“Chamomile Isn't for muscles,” he muttered as he sniffed the steam. “It’s for calming nerves and easing anxiety ya know.”
Then he took a sip.
“But hey… anything to forget Aizawa’s hell session.”
Toshinori chuckled under his breath, stepping inside. “Still. Better than nothing.”
Toshinori gave a small, understanding nod and stepped further inside, easing himself into the chair across from the bed with an audible sigh of old bones and tired joints.
“Ah, my boy,” he said, settling his arms on his knees. “How was the training?”
Izuku raised an eyebrow over the rim of the cup. “Did you mean physically? Or did you want the emotional commentary too?”
Toshinori grinned.
“I’d like both, if you can manage. I’m told honesty builds character.”
Izuku snorted. “Character? I think whatever character I had got beaten out of me before breakfast.”
He leaned back slightly, letting the tea warm his hands.
“My body thinks it’s dying. My sword thinks I’m trying to kill it. Aizawa—sorry, Captain Aizawa—thinks I’m either hiding something or just plain stupid.” A beat passed. “He might be right about the second one tho?.”
Toshinori’s grin softened. “He’s hard on everyone. But you… he sees something.”
“Yeah, probably a new punching bag,” Izuku muttered.
“He lets no one touch him in sparring, you know,” Toshinori added, voice low. “Not really. Not unless he’s trying to break them. You left a mark.”
Izuku looked up at that.
“On his neck,” Toshinori continued. “Not deep. But not nothing.”
He sipped his tea. Izuku blinked, his grip on the cup tightening slightly.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt him.”
“I know. But you did fight back.”
Izuku stared at the candle, watching it tremble.
“It was just—he hit the necklace. The dragon’s claw. And I—”
He paused.
Toshinori waited.
“I don’t know. It was like… it snapped something loose. I’ve been holding everything back. Because I’m not—” His voice caught. “I’m not one of you. I don’t have—”
“You don’t need magic to stand where you are,” Toshinori interrupted gently.
Izuku looked at him, surprised.
“Listen, there are knights with fire in their hands and wind at their backs who’ve never stood with the kind of conviction you did today.”
He leaned in slightly, his eyes warm, but sharp.
“You have no idea how rare it is to find someone who knows who they are before they’ve even stepped into the battlefield.”
Izuku swallowed.
He looked down at his cup.
A long moment passed.
“Still hurts like hell,” he said finally.
Toshinori chuckled, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “Then you’re doing it right.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elsewhere,
It began in a forgotten alleyway—where broken bottles and rotting fruit fed rats fat off the quiet.
The man had stumbled there in silence, face blotched with fever, limbs twitching in protest. His boots left dark stains on the stone, footsteps heavy with dread. He whispered to himself—not in prayer, but in warning.
Get it out. Get it out. Get it out.
But the black ichor already clung to his fingers.
It pulsed beneath his skin, thick and hungry. The veins in his neck had gone dark, crawling upward like roots toward his temples. His mouth frothed. His eyes blurred.
And then his hand reached up—jerking, fevered—and dug into his own scalp.
Flesh tore. Blood poured like wine.
But he didn’t scream.
Not until the change took him whole.
His mouth split wider than it should. Teeth bent in ways no god would permit. From the cracks in his body, smoke bled. Then fire. Then—
He set himself aflame.
The Nomu within him—half-dead thing, half-made nightmare—tore loose from bone and man and mercy. What emerged had no shape, not truly. Only wrath. Only hunger.
The screech that left it was not made for human ears.
It echoed up the alley walls and spilled over rooftops. Past taverns and temples. Through the dark woods of the outer rim. Across the canyon ridges, where even monsters tread lightly.
And far from the capital, on a high perch of cracked obsidian, a dragon—crimson and coiled in sleep—twitched its ear.
It opened one slit-pupiled eye, the color of molten gold, and scowled toward the distant horizon.
The pale hand resting on its flank moved slightly. Fingers curled. A rustle of silk.
A quiet voice murmured low beneath the screech’s fading tailwind.
“…shit It begins.”
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Toffeewolf7071 on Chapter 2 Mon 28 Apr 2025 08:27PM UTC
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