The speakers around the Hero Commission meeting room suddenly crackled to life.
Every monitor in U.A. High blinked at once, the logo distorting into static.
Then came his voice. Calm. Amused. Familiar enough to unsettle everyone who'd heard his name whispered lately — Mastermind.
> "How's it going, my dear players?"
His tone was smooth, taunting. "Solved the riddle yet? Or are the brightest minds in Japan still fumbling in the dark?"
A few heroes reached for comms, others glanced toward the screens — but no signal trace, no source. Just that voice, echoing like it came from inside their own heads.
> "Let me help you a little," Ren continued. "I'm not from the League… and I'm certainly not one of your heroes. I'm something else. A variable you failed to calculate."
His laugh — quiet at first, then rising, sharp and controlled — filled the silence like breaking glass.
> "All For One has already run free. And you'll stop the invasion before it begins, won't you? Because if you don't, half of Japan will fall, and the public will finally see what you've been hiding — the cracks in your so-called justice."
The feed glitched, screens flashing the words:
MASTERPIECE // RESET
> "I'm not your ally or your enemy," he said, voice dropping low. "But I am leading the League now. Stop Shigaraki… if you can."
Then the voice shifted — manic, almost delighted:
> "Let's see if the heroes can survive their own game!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
In the Hero Commission's main hall, the air felt heavier than smoke. Rows of agents stared at the flickering screens that had moments ago carried Mastermind's voice. Static hummed faintly, like the ghost of his laughter refusing to fade.
"Trace that signal—NOW!" one officer shouted, slamming a fist against the console.
"No trace, ma'am," came the response, panicked. "It's like… he wasn't broadcasting from anywhere."
Chairwoman Nagant leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "He predicted All For One's movement before it happened. And now he's claiming control over the League…" Her voice dropped. "This isn't a bluff. He's orchestrating something larger."
In another part of the city—
U.A. High.
Every classroom, every training hall, had fallen silent the moment the message came through.
Students huddled around screens, pale and wide-eyed.
Bakugo clicked his tongue, slamming his hand against a desk. "Tch—this bastard's got nerves! Acting like he's above everyone!"
Midoriya's expression was grim. "No… he knows things. Details no one outside the Commission should. He's not lying about the League."
Todoroki said nothing, but a flicker of recognition crossed his eyes—something he'd seen in Ren before, something he hadn't understood until now.
In the faculty office, Aizawa folded his arms, eyes scanning the replay frame by frame.
"Erase every copy," he ordered quietly. "And double security around every U.A. branch. This wasn't just a threat—it was a message meant for us."
All Might, standing beside him in his thin form, clenched his jaw. "He said he wasn't our enemy. But that voice…" His hand trembled slightly. "That's the kind of resolve villains like All For One are born from."
Principal Nezu's gaze flickered toward the window, thoughtful, almost… intrigued.
"Not born," he murmured. "Built."
Outside, sirens blared across the city. The world was calm, but the heroes knew — somewhere out there, the one who called himself Mastermind was already making his next move.
And this time, he wasn
't playing from the shadows.
The speakers went dead.
Only silence remained — thick, suffocating, and full of dread.
The warehouse on the edge of Hosu was silent except for the low hum of broken lights. A thick smell of rust and damp metal filled the air.
Riptide walked beside Ren, his steps cautious. The faint shimmer of water clung to his hands — always ready to fight if things turned ugly.
> "You sure about this, Ren?" he whispered. "Walking into the League's den isn't exactly—"
"—safe?" Ren finished for him, his tone calm. "Safety is for people without purpose."
He pushed open the creaking door.
Inside, the League waited.
Toga sat cross-legged on the table, twirling a knife with a grin that didn't reach her eyes.
Dabi leaned against a cracked pillar, blue flames flickering lazily at his fingertips.
And in the shadows, Shigaraki watched — scratching his neck, eyes burning behind the pale hair.
> "So," Dabi muttered, smirking, "you're the genius who made the Commission dance in circles?"
Ren didn't answer. He simply stepped forward, the dim light reflecting off his lenses.
"You've all been trying to break All For One out of Tartarus," he said. "And failing."
That caught Shigaraki's attention.
> "You talk too much," he hissed, stepping closer. "Why shouldn't I turn you to dust right now?"
Ren smiled faintly — a small, unreadable expression.
> "Because I'm the only one who knows how to free him."
The room froze.
Even Dabi's flames flickered uncertainly.
Ren turned toward the cracked wall where a faint projection appeared — a live map of Tartarus Prison, glowing red.
> "Every second, Tartarus changes its internal structure to prevent escape. But I've already mapped it — every rotation, every guard shift, every algorithm in their security network."
Riptide whistled softly. "You're serious…"
> "Always," Ren replied.
He looked directly at Shigaraki now, voice low but commanding.
> "You can kill me, and lose the only path to your master. Or you can listen, and learn how to break the world's strongest cage."
Shigaraki's hands twitched, rage flickering across his face — but beneath it, curiosity.
Dabi smirked, stepping forward. "Guess we're hearing him out."
Toga tilted her head, smiling wide. "He talks like he's already the boss."
Ren's eyes glinted.
> "I'm not your boss," he said. "I'm your upgrade."
The lights flickered again.
On the dusty floor, the projection shifted — revealing Tartarus' weak points, drawn perfectly from memory.
Shigaraki stared at it for a long moment. Then, quietly:
> "Tell me how to free him."
Ren's faint smile widened — not of joy, but of inevitability.
> "Gladly," he said. "Let's rewrite the era together."
The room filled with the sound of faint, echoing laughter — the kind that promised chaos was only beginning.
The faint hum of machinery echoed through the underground lab.
Sparks danced in the dim light as Ren adjusted the final metallic nail on his right glove. The air smelled of hot iron, oil, and precision.
Riptide leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You sure this isn't a bit… much?"
Ren didn't look up. "You can't fight gods dressed like a man." He pulled the last wire tight — the sound of it singing through the air like a drawn blade.
The light flickered across his reflection — a silhouette of black and steel.
Each finger bore razor-sharp metallic nails, thin but strong enough to slice through reinforced alloy. With a flick, they extended like claws, gleaming faintly blue from the embedded shock current.
His boots were heavy, reinforced with spring-like cores that absorbed impact and launched him with superhuman speed and jumps. A faint hum of magnetic energy pulsed beneath them, allowing him bursts of propulsion — almost like teleportation.
Over his body, sleek black armor — light, layered, flexible — the kind of design born from a mind that calculated every strike before it landed. Across the chest: a faint silver line forming the symbol of an eye.
Then came the mask.
A smooth, matte black faceplate that hid his expressions completely, the only visible part — the glowing red lenses that shifted and zoomed with every blink. Each lens was tuned for supervision: heat, motion, and even heart-rate detection.
He lowered the hooded cloak over it — dark, fluid, designed to blend into shadow. When he moved, it didn't rustle. It whispered.
Riptide exhaled, low and impressed. "You look like a ghost built by a genius."
Ren glanced at his reflection one last time.
> "A ghost?" he said quietly. "No. A consequence."
He turned, the faint reflection of red from his lenses cutting through the dark.
> "From now on," he said, voice steady, mechanical through the modulator,
"Mastermind walks the same streets as heroes — but only to remind them what they fear most."
As he stepped out of the lab, the lights fl
ickered off behind him one by one.
Toga was bored.
She sat cross-legged on the old table in the League's safehouse, tossing her knife in the air and catching it by the blade each time. Everyone else had gone to plan the Tartarus infiltration. She stayed behind — curious about the man they called Mastermind.
When she heard footsteps behind her, she grinned.
> "You walk quiet for someone so loud," she teased, spinning the blade.
Ren stopped a few feet away, his black cloak brushing the floor. The red of his lenses flickered faintly in the dim light.
> "I don't need noise to make an entrance."
Toga's grin widened. "So serious~. What do you want, Mister 'I-Know-Everything'?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp, reading every twitch of her movement — calculating her like an open book.
> "You pretend you follow Shigaraki," Ren said finally, voice calm. "But you don't follow people, Toga. You follow excitement. Blood, chaos, the thrill of what comes next."
Her playful expression faltered just a little.
> "You want to see the world burn," Ren continued. "But I can show you who lights the match."
He extended a hand, palm open — calm, certain. "Work with me, and I'll give you what Shigaraki can't — freedom. Real freedom. Not orders. Not obsession. Purpose."
Toga stared at his hand, knife still dangling loosely from her fingers.
> "You talk like a hero," she said softly.
"I talk like someone who's tired of pretending heroes exist."
There was a long silence — the hum of the ceiling lights, the faint scrape of metal as she set her knife down.
Then, slowly, she smiled again — but this time, the smile was smaller, sharper.
> "Fine," she said. "I'll play your game, Mastermind."
Ren's expression didn't change. "It's not a game, Toga."
> "Then I'll play anyway."
He turned, cloak shifting behind him.
> "Good," he said. "Let's rewrite the rules together."
As he walked away, she whispered behind him — half to
herself, half in awe:
> "He's scary… but I like scary."
Night had fallen over the old train yard. The air shimmered with tension — heroes closing in, villains scattered like shadows.
Toga crouched on a container roof, her smile hidden behind a streak of drying blood that wasn't hers.
Ren's voice crackled faintly through her earpiece.
> "He's approaching from the west. Fast, flexible — and dangerous. Don't try to win through strength. Predict his next step, not his last."
She grinned, eyes glinting. "Roger that, Mastermind~."
A blur cut through the darkness — Edgeshot appeared like a whip of steel.
> "Himiko Toga," he said sharply, his voice steady. "You're under arrest. Surrender now before—"
Toga giggled. "Before what? You tie me in a knot? Cute~."
He moved first — body flattening, stretching into razor-thin threads that sliced through the air.
Toga leapt backward, rolling off the crate as the metal roof split cleanly in two.
Edgeshot reformed midair, kunai flashing between his fingers.
> "You're faster than the reports say," he admitted. "But you're not untouchable."
Toga darted left — then suddenly dropped a vial of blood, splattering it across the ground. In a blink, her body shifted, morphing into Edgeshot's own form.
For a moment, two identical heroes stood facing each other.
> "How adorable," she mocked, copying his stance perfectly. "Now which one's the real one, hmm?"
Edgeshot frowned, scanning her movements.
But then — a whisper.
Ren's voice through the comm again, calm and surgical:
> "He calculates angles, not emotions. Force him to choose between instinct and reason."
Toga's grin widened. "Got it~."
She lunged, blades flashing, mirroring his every move like a reflection gone mad.
Each strike he dodged, she predicted. Every motion he made, she mimicked — until frustration began to show in the tiny shifts of his stance.
Then, she changed tempo — wild, unpredictable — forcing him into a defensive roll.
Edgeshot countered, reforming behind her in an instant, kunai aimed at her throat—
But her voice came from behind him.
> "Too slow."
The body he'd stabbed dissolved — a clone, made of the same liquified disguise.
Before he could react, Toga reappeared behind him, blade to his neck, giggling.
> "Mastermind says hi."
He froze — realizing too late he'd been drawn into her psychological trap, not her quirk's range.
> "Next time," she whispered, "maybe try thinking a little faster."
She jumped back as smoke bombs detonated — the signal Ren had prepared.
By the time the heroes regrouped, both Toga and the comm signal were gone.
Edgeshot stood amidst the smoke, blade still raised, heart pounding.
For the first time,
he realized something terrifying —
Toga wasn't fighting alone anymore.
---Edgeshot sat in the recovery wing of the Hero Commission's compound, his shoulder still wrapped from the last battle. The reports on his desk were half-read, his mind still replaying that fight with Toga — and the voice she'd echoed at the end.
Then, the envelope arrived.
No sender. No trace. No security signature.
Just a single word written across it in precise black ink:
"For You."
He opened it carefully, expecting a trap.
Inside — a single sheet of paper, folded once.
Neat handwriting, straight, deliberate.
> Edgeshot,
You've always believed in control — in order, in efficiency. You fight chaos by binding it, cutting it, reshaping it. But what happens when chaos learns to think faster than you?
I don't want to destroy this world. I want to save it.
But the system you serve — the Commission, the fake smiles, the staged rescues — they've built a cage so perfect even heroes forgot they were inside.
You've seen it, haven't you? The cracks. The cover-ups. The "necessary sacrifices." You've obeyed, because someone had to maintain the illusion.
Let me break it.
Let me rebuild it.
Help me save what's left before the heroes lose the people completely.
This isn't an offer for betrayal.
It's an invitation — to truth.
Find me where the wind forgets its direction.
— Mastermind
Edgeshot stared at the words for a long time.
He knew he should burn it.
Report it.
Pretend he'd never seen it.
But his fingers didn't move.
Because for the first time in years, the logic-driven hero felt something unfamiliar — doubt.
He folded the letter again and slipped it into his uniform.
Then, without a word, he walked toward the window, the city lights stretching below him like a net of illusions.
> "Where the wind forgets its direction…" he murmured.
And in the distance, on a rooftop lost in shadow, someone wat
ched through glowing red lenses — smiling faintly.
The city outskirts burned faintly against the night sky — a wasteland of twisted metal and blackened earth. Dabi stood there alone, staring at the glow of distant flames licking at the horizon.
Footsteps approached behind him.
Slow. Unhurried.
He didn't turn around.
> "You know," Dabi said, voice low, "most people who sneak up on me end up as charcoal."
Ren stopped a few feet away, cloak fluttering faintly in the wind. His lenses glowed faint red through the dark.
> "Most people aren't me."
Dabi chuckled, dry and sharp. "Right. The brain guy. Mastermind, huh? You've got everyone whispering your name like it's a ghost story."
Ren tilted his head slightly. "And what do you think I am?"
Dabi smirked, blue flames flickering around his hand. "Someone who's about to say something stupid if you came here to preach hero nonsense."
> "No," Ren said calmly. "I came to talk about Endeavor."
The flames dimmed for a moment — barely, but enough.
> "You're wasting your breath," Dabi growled.
"Am I?" Ren replied. "You've built your whole identity around making him suffer. But tell me — has it worked?"
Dabi's smile faded.
Ren stepped closer, voice steady, deliberate.
> "You burned yourself for his attention. You watched the world call him 'Number One' while you became his shadow. Every explosion, every crime — you did it hoping he'd see you."
He stopped just out of Dabi's flame range.
> "I can give you what he never did — a world where his legacy means nothing."
Dabi's flames flared, but there was hesitation beneath the fury.
> "And why would I believe you?"
Ren raised a small device, projecting a hologram — Hero Commission files. Hidden footage. Cover-ups.
One headline flickered:
"Hero Commission Conceals Todoroki Family Abuse — Confidential."
Dabi's breath hitched.
> "You see," Ren said softly, "they buried your story to protect their 'symbol of peace.' You didn't just burn because of Endeavor. You burned because the world let him."
For a long moment, only the sound of crackling flames filled the air.
Then Dabi laughed — bitter, broken, real.
> "You're insane," he muttered. "But you're not wrong."
Ren turned away, cloak brushing the ash.
> "I don't need your faith," he said. "Only your fire. When it's time, you'll know where to aim it."
Dabi watched him go, embers swirling around his feet.
> "Heh… you're dangerous, Mastermind."
Ren's voice came back through the smoke.
> "I'm inevitable."
And with that, the flames rose — higher, brighter — as if the world itself felt that something far greater than revenge had just begun.
The city lay in uneasy quiet, smoke curling from half-ruined streets, flickering under the pale silver of the moon.
On a lone pillar overlooking the industrial district, Ren stood — motionless, a shadow against the night.
His hero suit gleamed faintly in the moonlight, the sharp metallic nails on his fingers catching reflections like tiny blades of light. The thin wires coiled at his belt, ready to whip into lethal arcs. Boots hummed faintly, powered for bursts of speed, springs compressed, ready to launch him skyward at any moment.
Behind him, the wind carried the faint hum of the city's energy grids. Every flicker of light, every whisper of movement, registered in the lenses of his mask. Red overlays scanned the horizon: enemy positions, patrols, weak points, every piece of information flowing into his mind at once.
Below, the League of Villains moved through the shadows, silent and purposeful, Toga at the front, Dabi flames low but ready, Shigaraki lurking at the center of chaos. The hum of their boots on rubble, the swish of cloaks — all part of the pattern Ren had predicted weeks ago.
Across the city, alarms blared. The Hero Commission mobilized. U.A. students were deployed, along with pro heroes: Hawks' wings slicing through the night air, Edgeshot disappearing and reforming in impossible angles, Lemillion and Mirio coordinating barricades.
Ren inhaled slowly. Every angle, every variable, every possibility had been accounted for.
> "This is it," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
"The opening move."
He adjusted the mask over his face. The thin wires along his wrists pulsed faintly as if sensing the distance and tension of every combatant below.
The moon hung directly behind him, casting a halo of silver that seemed almost symbolic — a silent witness to the chessboard of war beneath him.
Ren's fingers flexed. A smile — small, precise, calculating — tugged at the corner of his lips.
> "Let's see if the heroes can keep up," he whispered, voice swallowed by wind.
"And let's see how far chaos can bend before it breaks."
From his vantage point, every step, every decision of both heroes and villains was visible. Every misstep could be exploited. Every strength measured, every weakness cataloged.
The battle hadn't begun yet. But for Ren, it had already been won — in his mind.
---