Izuku didn't smile. He didn't adopt a fighting stance. He simply said, "No."
He moved.
The air in the underground facility was cool and still. Izuku stood before All For One's men. He didn't brace for a fight. He simply looked at them, and his eyes… glitched.
For a split second, they pixelated, squares of green and black flickering across his irises. He saw the world not as matter, but as code. He saw the strings of reality waiting to be pulled.
Gorou, the mountainous leader, cracked his stone knuckles. "Time to put the weapon down, kid."
Izuku said nothing. He took a step forward.
Sora, by the door, with his vibration sense, felt the movement. But what he felt was wrong. It was like sensing a skipped frame in a video. One moment Izuku was five meters away, the next he was two. It wasn't speed. It was a lag. The world stuttered, and Izuku was just… closer.
Sora panicked, trying to dive. But his own body betrayed him. As he pushed off the wall, a sudden, violent error occurred. A seam in the concrete floor, perfectly harmless a second ago, ruptured upwards. It wasn't an attack. It was the world itself glitching.
The rising concrete caught his foot, snapping his ankle with a dry crack. He screamed, falling. Before he hit the ground, Izuku was there. Not having moved, just having appeared. A teleport so seamless it left no afterimage. He simply placed a hand on Sora's chest.
Biology Hacking. Izuku's fingers, for a moment, seemed to phase into the man's skin, not breaking it, but merging with the code of his nervous system.
He rewrote a simple command: SLEEP. Sora's eyes rolled back. His scream cut off. He collapsed, unconscious, his body shutting down not from injury, but from a forced, terminal system command.
It was silent, and it took less than a second.
Gorou roared, the sound filling the room. He charged like a living avalanche. His fist, capable of pulverizing steel, flew towards Izuku's head. Izuku didn't sidestep. He didn't block.
He used Intangibility.
Gorou's fist passed through Izuku's face as if it were smoke. There was no resistance, no impact. Gorou stumbled, off-balance, his body lurching through the space where Izuku should have been.
The force of his own punch carried him forward. Izuku, now solid again behind him, didn't grab his wrist. He just tapped Gorou's back with two fingers.
Error Inducement.
The world conspired against Gorou. The floor panel beneath his leading foot, which had supported his weight for years, chose that exact moment to shear free from its bolts. It tilted. Gorou's massive weight, already unbalanced, became a liability.
He crashed forward, not into the table, but into the wall beside it. His face met reinforced concrete. The logic that said 'the floor is solid' became false. The illogic of a single, critical bolt failing at the perfect moment became reality.
Kaito, seeing his leader fall, shrieked in rage. His bladed arm whipped forward in a silver arc, too fast to dodge. It sliced through the air where Izuku's neck was.
And passed through.
Intangibility again. But this time, as the blade exited the space on the other side of Izuku's intangible neck, Izuku became solid. His hand shot up and closed around the bladed arm's wrist, behind the blade. Not to crush it. To hold it.
"Your attack missed," Izuku stated, his voice flat, a system announcement. "The error is that you think you can try again."
He invoked Lagging.
Kaito tried to pull his arm back for another strike. His muscles fired, but his limb didn't obey. It jerked backwards, then snapped forward again to the position Izuku held, as if stuck in a time loop.
He tried to step back, but his foot slid back to its previous spot. He was trapped in a two-second lag spike, his body stuttering, repeating the same futile motions. His eyes widened in digital horror.
Izuku, still holding the blade arm, looked at the hydraulic coupling at the shoulder. He didn't yank it. He used Reality Hacking. To him, a faint, glowing outline appeared around the coupling, like a weak point in a video game. He applied pressure not with super-strength, but with a command. DISCONNECT.
The coupling didn't break. It un-existed at the seam. It simply came apart with a quiet hiss, as if it had always been meant to be two separate pieces. The blade arm fell loose, sparks fizzling. Kaito stared at the stump, not bleeding, just leaking fluid, as his lagging body finally fell to its knees.
Ren, the last one, had been charging his eye-beam. He saw everything—the phasing, the errors, the lag. Fear, pure and illogical, flooded him. This wasn't a fight. It was a debugging process, and they were the bugs. He fired his paralyzing beam, a thick yellow lance of energy.
Izuku used Teleportation.
He didn't move out of the way. He made the space between him and Ren zero. One frame he was across the room. The next frame, he was inside Ren's guard, his chest inches from Ren's outstretched hands. The beam shot harmlessly into the empty space behind.
Before Ren could even process, Izuku's palm was on his chest. Biology Hacking again, but more severe. Izuku saw the man' s biological code—the rhythm of his heart, the electrical storm of his nerves, the air in his lungs.
He issued a command override. RESPIRATORY SYSTEM: CRITICAL FAILURE. CARDIAC RHYTHM: NULL.
Ren's eyes bulged. He didn't feel a punch. He felt his own body betray him. His heart stuttered, seized, and stopped. His lungs locked.
He made a tiny, choked gasp, the sound of a system powering down. He crumpled, not from external force, but from internal shutdown. He was dead before he hit the floor, his glowing eyes dark.
Gorou was pushing himself up, his face a mask of blood and shattered stone. He saw Sora unconscious, Kaito sobbing over his detached arm, Ren dead from a touch. He looked at Izuku, who stood calmly in the center of the ruin.
"What… what are you?" Gorou whispered, his voice shattered like his face.
Izuku's form seemed to flicker, like a corrupted image. For a moment, he wasn't a boy, but a silhouette of green static and shifting digital noise—a Glitch Physiology made visible.
"I am the paradox," Izuku said, his voice echoing slightly, as if from multiple sources at once. "I am the error your master's logic cannot solve. The living cheat code."
He walked towards Gorou. Gorou tried to swing again, a desperate, wild blow. Izuku didn't phase. He let it come. And just before impact, Gorou's fist lagged.
It froze in mid-air, jerked back a foot, and then weakly continued forward, missing Izuku completely. Error Inducement and Lagging working together, making the very concept of 'hitting him' an impossible task.
Izuku stopped in front of the broken giant. He placed his hand on Gorou's forehead. The touch was cold, like static.
"Tell All For One the game is over," Izuku said, his eyes burning with pixelated green light. "The player has found the developer console. And I am rewriting the rules."
He didn't strike. He simply uploaded a command directly into Gorou's mind, using his own nervous system as a conduit: SLEEP. AND REMEMBER THIS.
Gorou's eyes rolled back. He fell, joining the others in unconsciousness.
The room was silent. No heavy breathing from Izuku. No strain. It had been less than thirty seconds. A surgical, digital extermination. He looked at his hands. They solidified back to normal flesh and blood. The world's code settled back into its invisible layers.
He stepped over the bodies, a glitch walking through a now-corrected section of the program. The violence wasn't brutal in the traditional sense. It was cold, absolute, and utterly inevitable. Like a system purge.
It had taken less than ten seconds.
He turned and walked to the door. He didn't kill them. Not all. A message needed to be sent. But he left them as broken as the system they served.
As he stepped back into the corridor, the sounds from above seemed louder. More organized. Not just chaos. Chants. Songs of mourning turned to anthems of rebellion. He leaned against the cool wall, listening.
His breathing was even. His hands were steady. There was no exhilaration in the violence, only the quiet satisfaction of a necessary task completed.
On a monitor beside him, a feed showed the square outside the Commission tower. The police line had broken. Civilians were using a combination of quirks and raw physical effort—a man with super-strength prying at the sealed shutters, a woman with telekinesis bending the metal—to breach the building. They weren't a mob. They were a single, purposeful organism.
Inside the building, the heroes watched the reinforced shutters groan and bend.
The scene inside the Liberty Unity Dome was no longer one of unity, but of trapped, panicked disarray. The serene, high-tech hall had become a gilded cage. The massive external shutters, designed to withstand sieges, were the only thing holding back the roaring crowd outside. The sound was a constant, terrifying thunder.
All Might stood at the main viewing glass, his hands pressed flat against the cold surface. His reflection was gaunt, his eyes wide with a horror deeper than any villain had ever inspired.
He watched a father in the crowd hold up a child's torn backpack, screaming a name he vaguely remembered from a casualty report he'd been told was a "training accident."
The Symbol of Peace felt his own symbol crack inside his chest. A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek. He wasn't crying for his fate, or his legacy.
He was crying because the people on the other side, the people of the world that he loved and had sworn to protect with a smile, no longer saw a savior in his reflection.
They saw a liar. A jailer. Their faces were twisted in a betrayal so personal it felt like a physical wound. He could find no argument in his heart, no memory of a pure motive, to prove them wrong.
Endeavor was across the room, away from the windows. He wasn't watching the crowd. He was staring at his own hands, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Flames sputtered and died at his fingertips, not by his choice, but as if his very quirk was rejecting him.
The shouts of "Murderer!" and "Commission Dog!" from outside weren't aimed at him specifically, but they might as well have been if they were in Japan instead of America.
He had built his life on a foundation of power and order. Now, that order was lawless chaos, and his power was useless. He felt a profound, chilling helplessness, a feeling he despised more than any failure.
Hawks had his back to a wall, his usual casual smile long gone. His feathers were tense, fluttering slightly, picking up every scream, every cry, every crash from outside. He was listening to the collapse of the very system he had sacrificed his childhood to serve, the system he had spied and lied for to protect.
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped him. "So this is what it sounds like when the house of cards falls," he muttered to no one. His wings sagged. There was nowhere to fly to.
Best Jeanist was trying, and failing, to maintain order inside. "Everyone, remain calm! The authorities will—" His voice died in his throat. What authorities? The police were outside, struggling. The Commission was the one being stormed. His threads lay limp in his hands.
His usual tool for restraint and control was meaningless. He watched Mirko, who was pacing like a caged animal, kicking at the sealed emergency exit door every few passes. The solid thud of her foot against the reinforced metal echoed her frustration.
Edgeshot, the calm ninja, was a statue of tension. He had tried to thin himself and slip through the microscopic seams in the door mechanisms. It hadn't worked.
The doors were electronically dead-locked from a central system—a system now under someone else's control. For the first time in years, there was no clear path, no enemy to swiftly neutralize. The enemy was the truth, and it was everywhere.
Ryukyu, in her human form, stood protectively near the younger heroes. Mt. Lady was shaking, her giant form useless in the confined space. Kamui Woods had extended his branches to test the ceiling, only to find it lined with sudden, sharp anti-quirk alloy plates that slid into place.
They were truly sealed in. Gang Orca let out a low, distressed rumble, the sound vibrating through the floor. He could hear the pain in the crowd's voices, the cacophony of heartbreak, and it hurt him more than any battle cry.
From the European section, Éclair of France was speaking rapidly into a dead comms link. "This is Éclair, requesting immediate extraction, does anyone copy? The situation is—" Static.
The American Captain Valor had given up on comms and was using his super-strength, trying to pry open a shutter with his bare hands. The metal groaned but didn't give. "It's no use!" he grunted, sweat pouring down his face.
"The hydraulics are locked! We're bottled in!" Seeing his city burn, he had no time to waste as he wanted to get out immediately and calm the situation as soon as possible.
The Indian hero Raksha sat cross-legged on the floor, his bronze skin dull in the emergency lights. He was not trying to escape. He was meditating, or trying to, but his usual calm was fractured.
His eyes were open, watching his fellow heroes panic. "The peace was a phantom," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the din. "And we were its guardians. Now the dream is over, and the dreamers are angry."
On the floating monitors, the live news feeds that were still functioning showed the chaos spreading across the city—fires, citizens using quirks freely, heroes being subdued not by villains, but by ordinary people. Every hero in the room saw it. They saw their life's work, their purpose, unraveling in real time.
All Might's tear hit the glass. He didn't wipe it away. He just stared at the distorted, angry world beyond his reflection.
Izuku, watching this feed on his monitor deep below, saw the hero's tear fall. He saw the despair on Endeavor's face, the shock on Hawks', the impotent rage of Mirko. He felt nothing. No satisfaction. No pity. It was just data. A system reacting to a fatal error.
"The currency is worthless," he whispered to the empty hall, echoing his earlier thought. His glitch-green eyes reflected the pixelated images of crumbling idols. "Now we see what people are truly worth when the fiction is removed."
He pushed off the wall and walked deeper into the facility's heart. The final phase was beginning. The heroes were decommissioned, physically trapped and morally shattered. AFO's vultures were clipped. The people were awake and armed with the truth. Now, the institutions themselves had to fall.
Not with bombs, but with facts. He would broadcast every file, every transaction, every secret, on every frequency, until the very foundations of the Commission were dissolved in the blinding, unforgiving light of day.
Above, a banner with a smiling hero's face finally tore free from the shuddering Dome and was consumed by a jet of fire from a grieving mother's hands. The ash rained down on the crowd like black snow.
They didn't brush it away. They wore it. Inside, the heroes watched their own symbols burn, powerless to stop it, prisoners of the very peace they had sworn to uphold.
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