Mewtwo hadn't switched places with his inner self—he had simply accepted it. It wasn't a transformation but an alignment, a sudden clarity that granted him temporal access to every thought, instinct, and possibility that had ever crossed his mind.
This was a lucid dream, after all. And for someone like him—whose power was rooted in the mind—lucidity was not just awareness. It was control.
Slowly, everything began to make sense.
He wasn't just fighting blindly anymore; he was analyzing. Understanding.
The Symbol of Fear's Quirk followed a pattern—a system—and now he could finally see it.
First: it forced the target to sleep, dragging them into a self-contained dream space—a cage woven from their subconscious.
Second: any pain or injury suffered here was mirrored in the real world. Death in the dream meant death in reality.
Third: the user could decide whether the victim remembered or forgot the dream upon waking—erasing all evidence.
And finally: the Symbol of Fear could manipulate the dream entirely, creating lucid constructs, controlling every detail, shaping the nightmare however he wished. That was how he had conjured the pro heroes, Emi's fears, and now this overwhelming battlefield.
But there was something the villain couldn't do.
He couldn't read the people fears directly.
He couldn't read Mewtwo's mind.
That was why he'd used Emi's instead fears instead. The monsters, the bugs, spiders the setting—they were built from her fears, not his. Which meant the Symbol of Fear had studied her in real life and somehow he got to know her fears, why is this? and why Mewtwo was sure, he didn't fear Heros
So, the symbol of fear had made contact with Emi in real life.
That realization was crucial.
If the villain had found Emi, then Mewtwo could find him. The connection worked both ways.
He was traceable now.
And that meant this wasn't just a dream anymore. It was a battlefield with consequences in both worlds.
Mewtwo focused, reaching deeper into his lucid awareness. His powers resonated, harmonizing with the energy of his ideal self. He wasn't there yet—he couldn't match that complete version of himself—but he could feel the threshold, brushing against that level of control.
If he could reach it—if he could channel even a fraction of that strength—he might be able to win. Maybe.
But before that, he needed to deal with the immediate threat.
Alice.
The girl from Class 1-B stood quietly among the others. Her Quirk was dangerous—too dangerous to ignore. If she used it, she could warp the battlefield against him in ways that he couldn't counter. Normally, she'd activate it right away; her fighting style revolved around quick engagement and support.
Yet now… she wasn't moving. She was just standing there, unnaturally still.
That was wrong.
She should've acted already.
In an instant, a theory formed in Mewtwo's mind—and he didn't hesitate.
A sharp blade of psychic energy exploded from his hand, forming an arcing Psycho Cut that swept across the battlefield.
Mirio reacted first, phasing through the strike effortlessly. Nejire shot into the air, spiraling upward on waves of energy, and Tamaki transformed his limbs to deflect debris.
But Alice—and her brother—weren't fast enough.
The psychic arc split the air between them, forcing them apart as the ground trembled from the impact.
Mewtwo's eyes narrowed, a flicker of realization flashing across his face.
So that's it.
There was one detail that didn't escape Mewtwo's sharp gaze.
Alice not dodging his attack made sense—her reflexes weren't on the same level as the top students—but her brother David? That was impossible. He could teleport. An attack at that speed should have been nothing to him. He should've blinked out of the strike effortlessly.
And yet, he hadn't.
That single inconsistency was all Mewtwo needed to confirm what he'd begun to suspect.
The Symbol of Fear couldn't manifest what he didn't know.
Alice and David's Quirks were still undisclosed to the public; even among U.A. students, only a few knew what they were capable of. If the nightmare hadn't shown their powers, it could mean only two things:
First, the Symbol of Fear could only recreate what he understood—his constructs were limited by knowledge.
Second, a confirmation, far more important—he couldn't read minds.
That detail fit perfectly with what Mewtwo had seen so far. If the Symbol of Fear had access to his mind, he could have created the perfect opponent—Mewtwo's true fear. And that wasn't All Might, nor All for One, nor even the "Red Man."
No, if he had to be honest, his greatest fear was himself.
The version he'd seen in his own mindscape—the one who could control storms, bend the elements, and transcend limits. A being who wielded power beyond reason. If someone ever reached that level, they would be unstoppable. Uncontainable.
That was the true nightmare.
But since that hadn't appeared, since the Symbol of Fear had chosen substitutes instead, it only confirmed his limitation. He couldn't access the minds of his victims—he could only build from what he'd seen.
That realization brought no comfort, though. Mewtwo didn't have time to savor it. Even without perfect knowledge, the Symbol of Fear had still filled this dream with monsters strong enough to kill him ten times over. He needed to find a way out—fast.
Before he could act, a sudden rush of air cut across his vision.
Hawks appeared beside him in a crimson blur, his wings snapping forward, feathers hardened into blades.
Mewtwo reacted on pure instinct—his fist flashed with crackling electricity, striking out just in time. The feather blade met his Thunder Punch in a burst of sparks and psychic force.
The impact echoed through the air. For a split second, both of them froze in the struggle. Then Hawks staggered back, his wings trembling from the current that surged through him.
That was when Mewtwo noticed it.
The attack speed was off. The real Hawks would've dodged that blow in the blink of an eye—he was faster, sharper, untouchable. But this version didn't move like the real one.
And yet… his strength was greater. The hit behind the feather blade carried more force than Hawks had ever shown.
Mewtwo's eyes narrowed.
"They're not perfect copies," he muttered to himself. "They're avatars… approximations. Their specs are different—mixed, rewritten by the Quirk user."
The Symbol of Fear had created imitations, but they were distorted, inconsistent.
But even with that information Mewtwo had no time left to think—only to react.
The heroes all moved at once. Hawks darted first, feathers glinting like blades; behind him, Lady Nagant raised her rifle, her aim perfect.
In an instant, Mewtwo's body glowed. Reflect shimmered to life, forming a translucent film of psychic light over his skin. He followed with Thunder Punch, lightning arcing through his arm as he redirected the bullets mid-air using telekinesis. They spun away, slicing through empty space toward the other heroes—who dodged effortlessly.
A massive shadow darkened the ground before he could breathe.
He looked up. Ryukyu, in her dragon form, was plummeting straight toward him. And Hawks—bleeding and defiant—was still diving down to pin him in place.
Mewtwo refused to fall that easily.
His eyes burned bright; psychic energy flared outward in a surge of violet light. He unleashed Confusion and Psychoshock in rapid bursts—five consecutive strikes that cracked Hawks across the skull. The pro hero's nose erupted in blood before he tumbled aside, wings twitching violently.
Mewtwo turned his focus to Ryukyu, using telekinesis to throw himself aside just in time—almost.
Her tail caught him on the flank with bone-shattering force. The blow sent him flying through a wall, pain detonating through his ribs. As he spiraled, he cast Life Dew, a shimmering veil of healing water wrapping around his mangled arm—but the relief barely lasted a second.
From behind, a blur. Mirko.
Her kick connected like a cannon. Mewtwo's breath exploded out of him, his body cracking the floor as he hit it. Then, three sharp impacts pierced his back—bullets from Kaina. His vision blurred, every nerve screaming, his once-perfect control slipping away.
Then came the light—too bright, too sudden—All Might descending.
And everything went black.
When Mewtwo's eyes opened again, he was somewhere else.
He was on the second floor. He didn't remember being thrown there—didn't remember anything. His body was broken, bleeding freely from the mouth; each breath came ragged and wet.
He couldn't move.
His gaze was dull, but his mind was quiet. He had never been so aware of his own thoughts, his own limits. Even here, in a dream, he was closer to his mind than ever before. But that awareness didn't make him stronger—it only made the truth sharper.
He couldn't win.
He'd come here for a peaceful visit—to relax, to laugh with Emi. And now… this. Like always, everything ended in blood.
"I'm one of the strongest in the class," he whispered to himself. "Even some pros said so. I had the potential… everything I ever wanted—and now I'm going to die here."
He didn't bother using Life Dew again. The pain had gone so far that it stopped hurting. A dangerous calm spread through him.
The heroes advanced through the broken room, their steps echoing in slow rhythm. At the back of the formation, the shadow waited—silent, watching.
"How ironic," Mewtwo muttered, his voice dry. "Killed by the very people I wanted to become."
Something inside him twisted. Not fear. Not despair.
Resentment.
Deep and cold.
"If I have to go," he growled, eyes flashing with a pale, dangerous light, "then I'll take him down with me."
He shut out everything else and began to focus. Calm Mind.
But this time, he forced it beyond reason. His psychic power flooded his body like liquid fire, tearing through his nerves. His veins bulged, his skin trembled, his nose bled freely—but he didn't stop.
He refused to stop.
"It's not enough!" he shouted, voice cracking as energy roared around him.
The house shook. The heroes halted. The air warped.
And then—
The psychic flames surrounding him didn't burst outward. They condensed.