Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

today was absolutely going to be in the top 2 of the worst days of his life.

izuku had felt a bad omen nipping at the back of his neck ever since he opened his eyes that morning—
a strange pull from deep inside, whispering to him to stay home and pretend to be sick.

but he didn’t.

of course he didn’t. he ignored the feeling—
and now, he was paying the price.

the price came in the shape of a deep wound in his chest, carved open by the pitying faces of his classmates when he turned in his application form to the teacher… missing one very important detail.

the absence of the letters "U.A."

he had, apparently, applied to a technical high school in tokyo.
one far enough from mustafu to ensure he wouldn’t run into any of his classmates again.

and what did the teacher say?

just a flat, “what a surprise—midoriya is no longer applying to U.A.”

his classmates turned to him the moment the words left the teacher’s mouth.
and all he could do was sit back down and ignore the way their stares burned into his soul.

they had won, after all.

izuku midoriya was no longer applying to U.A. high school.

he was no longer chasing a dream everyone else believed was impossible for him.
and as he picked up his pen again and tried to go back to scribbling whatever thoughts came to mind in his notebook, a sharp sound broke through the silence—
a slow clap, not far from him.

someone was applauding.

when izuku looked up, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see bakugo doing it.

some of his lackeys joined in, and soon enough, most of the class was clapping too—
mocking smiles painted across their faces,
every clap echoing like a slap in izuku’s ears.

…

once the bell rang at the end of classes, he hurried to tuck his notebooks and pens into his bag.

his ears still rang from his defeat at the teacher’s podium, his hands shook with the smallest tremors, and his eyes were no longer the bright suns people remembered—just dark voids staring blankly back at them.

it was odd, though.

once he admitted defeat, it was like every person who had once teased or bullied him simply… lost interest.

he was no longer a target. there were no dreams left to stomp on.

even katsuki had stopped bothering to disturb him.

he still teased him sometimes, sure—but the fists? the explosions? the full-blown rage?
gone.

izuku figured it was because he was already in his place.
and there was nothing left to beat down.

when he finally slipped out of school, he felt an odd urge to take a different route home.

one where he was pretty sure he’d run into katsuki along the way.

the only thing he missed was the quiet gathering of goo beneath the sewer grate beside him—
and by the time he noticed, it was too late.

“a medium-sized disguise,” said an unseen presence—
right before the air in his lungs was stolen.

a rotten slime wrapped around him, forcing its way up his nose and down his throat.
the stench was vile—rank and heavy—and it made izuku gag violently, only for more of the slime to slip past his lips.

he had nothing to fight with. he was being suffocated.
and honestly, he wasn’t even sure if it was worth fighting back.

the goo began to seep deeper into him, and he couldn’t help but laugh—mentally—at how easy it was to stop struggling.

the corners of his vision started to go dark—
until he felt a hand wrap tightly around his wrist and yank him out of the slime’s grasp.

he stumbled onto the ground just as his vision filled with blue light and biting heat.

he scrambled back a few steps and looked up to see the slime engulfed in fire, the intense heat dehydrating it until it dropped to the pavement, steaming and leaking that same foul, rotten stench.

izuku had to cover his nose, eyes scanning the alley, searching for his savior.

but there was no one…

he could still see the scorched marks on the ground where someone had stood—right where the fire had erupted—but whoever it was had disappeared as fast as a blink.

the greenette stood up shakily, grabbed his soaked bag from the sidewalk, and decided it was best to just go home.

as he started walking toward the end of the alley, he heard something fall nearby.

he looked down and saw… a book?

it had no title on the cover, only a strange symbol etched into the corner. the spine looked like it had something written in—arabic, maybe?

without thinking, he tucked it into his bag and continued walking home.

…

“Ex Altiora” was the phonetic translation of the text on the spine of the book.

it was the end of the evening now, the sky darkening and giving way to the rising moon.

the apartment had been empty when izuku arrived.
his mother had left a note on the kitchen counter explaining she had to pull a double shift after a villain attack near the hospital.
she’d left him some takeout in the fridge, which now sat—untouched—on his desk.

izuku found himself sitting on the floor, leaning against his desk, his laptop open beside him and a notepad filled with scribbles and half-finished thoughts as he tried to decipher the meaning of the strange book.

since the text appeared to be in arabic, he had to first figure out how to switch his keyboard to the correct layout.
each keystroke was slow and painstaking—he was completely unfamiliar with the alphabet and had to double-check every letter before typing it out.

the process was frustrating, but also… grounding.
something about the careful effort kept his mind from spiraling.

he wrote down the phrase multiple times:
Ex Altiora
over and over.

he wondered what it could mean.

Chapter Text

After the day of the defeat, the world had witnessed the death of a sun.

A sun powered by sheer will and an unrealistic dream.
A sun that shone through green eyes and spread light through smiles.

The world watched as people tore that spark to shreds, leaving behind only an empty husk.

The explosive teen was the first to notice the damage — the way the green-eyed boy one day simply stopped being himself. How he stopped trying to act as bait so others could run away. How he would pass by without a glance as Bakugo slammed his fists into yet another “weak extra” who had triggered his temper with nonsense.

Bakugo saw the way he stopped going to lunch altogether, his already small frame growing lighter by the day.

It had only been two weeks, yet the damage stood out like a wound that refused to heal.

Now Bakugo Katsuki could only stare at his own consequences — at how they had broken an innocent soul he had once called a brother in everything but blood, back when they were six.

Now, at fifteen, he came to school and caught sight of the broken person his aunt loved so much, broken appart and hollow by a dead dream.

But the oddest thing was this: the green-eyed boy might have stopped being the person Bakugo once envied…
Yet he kept writing.

Katsuki had caught him more than once during lunch breaks, sitting on the school roof, writing in tongues of the Orient and others Katsuki couldn’t even identify.

This time, though, he didn’t interrupt. He only watched as his former friend scribbled mindlessly on paper, taking notes in an alphabet Bakugo was sure only a mad mind could understand.

He hoped, somehow, he could move on.

(he ignored the small shadow always nearby the grenettee)

…

Inko Midoriya was worried for her son.

One random afternoon, on a rare day when she’d made it home early to cook dinner, Izuku had stepped out of his room and said, quietly,

“I’m not applying for U.A. anymore.”

She thought she shouldn’t have felt so relieved.

But she had.

She didn’t notice it at the time — the way his shoulders went a fraction stiffer, the way his teeth caught his lip — when she started telling him how proud she was of his “change of mind.”

She’d cupped his cheeks with both hands, smiling in that tearful, trembling way she always did when thinking of the dangers that could’ve taken him from her. She’d asked if he wanted to follow a path like hers… or his father’s.

She’d asked if he wanted help finding something new.
Something safer.
A life without violence, without the risk of being taken from her like her grandmother, Nana.

And all the while, she’d been brimming with exhilaration — the dizzy happiness of believing her boy was safe now.

Only later would she realize that this same happiness had twisted the knife deep into a wound she hadn’t even seen.

Now, she came home to find him sitting in odd corners of the apartment, writing in piles of notebooks with a flat, distant focus.

She told herself he was just getting into languages.
She still told herself that.

Arabic. Turkish. Mandarin.
She thought she saw Latin once.

Inko told herself it was a hobby. That maybe he was planning something for his future — something good, something that wouldn’t put him in danger.

But at night, when the apartment was quiet and the notebooks sat stacked like bricks on his desk, she could only sit in the dark and wonder if she’d been wrong.

If she’d hurt him without meaning to.
If she’d crushed a dream she never truly understood.

She could only hope she’d notice in time.

…

Izuku got out of the apartment right after that.
The moment he stepped onto the rooftop, he shook the numbness away.

He slumped against a wall and let out a long sigh, trying to ease the pressure in his chest.
Rolling his shoulders, he smoothed out the stiffness in his body and pulled one of his notebooks from his tote bag.

With a stretch of his hand, he focused his mind on his personal project:
the translation of the book.

He’d searched through multiple oriental and Asian alphabets until he found one that matched the letters in the text — only to discover the alphabet kept changing. It was painfully clear the writing was coded in a way Izuku still couldn’t understand.

“Yet,” he muttered, opening another tab on his phone and taking notes again.

He had given up on finding the meaning of the title — maybe it was just an old name — and decided to start with the first pages.

He began with the index, which turned out to be more of a puzzle than a proper table of contents. It was a mash of languages Izuku could barely piece together. He’d only managed to figure out the phonetic pronunciation of a few words thanks to some PDF documents on Arabic and Persian, but it still wasn’t enough.

There were also strange stamped symbols.
He wondered if they meant something, or if they were just decorative flourishes.

For now, what he could pronounce was the middle of the second paragraph —

الذين تجمعوا وعبدوا هذا الكيان القوي، كان هذا المتعبد في كثير من األحيان أشخاًصا يرغبون] (Qui hanc potentem entitatem congregabantur et adorabant, hi adoratores saepe erant homines qui volebant/rt>)

— and the ending paragraph, which seemed to be written partly in Latin and partly in Arabic:

(Haec entitas quaesita est propter magnas illusiones quas sodales cultus sibi et mundo circum se conicere poterant.)

It didn’t give him many answers — he still didn’t understand what it meant — but it was progress.

Google Translate only glitched when he tried to run the text through it, so he had to find other ways to decode it.

Internet communities.

And in that world, Izuku Midoriya was neck-deep.

Ever since he was diagnosed Quirkless, he’d been searching online for others like him. Over the years, he’d joined several Discord servers — encrypted, invite-only spaces for Quirkless individuals and people with “useless” Quirks.

Now, Izuku posted a picture of the first two pages into one of those servers with the caption:

“Stumbled into this. Does anyone have a clue what it could be?”

He clicked post .

Not long after, a notification chimed on his phone. The cracked screen displayed a DM request:

“I can’t fully understand this, but I’m studying linguistics and might be able to translate some of the paragraphs into Japanese.”

With some hesitation, he accepted.

green spark — 18:14
hi, that’s actually pretty helpful.

suki — 18:16
of course! though, I might need a clearer picture of the page for an accurate translation.

green spark — 18:19
sure, here it is
page.jpeg (1500 × 2000 pixels)

suki — 18:20
this is much better. you owe me one!
i’m going to start translating since i’m free of homework.

A small smile tugged at Izuku’s lips.
He wasn’t too worried about the “price” — he could always pay back with a quirk analysis.

He stood up to head back for dinner, picking up the papers scattered on the floor and switching off his phone before tucking it into his pocket.
Stretching his spine, a few stiff pops echoed from his back, and he rolled his shoulder against the lingering ache the trench had left behind.

A sudden flutter of feathers sounded behind him.

Izuku turned, hair ruffling in the breeze, and saw a magpie perched on the roof rail, staring at him.
The bird gave a sharp caw, its intelligent gaze making his skin prickle.

“Hi, birdie,” Izuku said, his voice betraying a growing nervousness.
He waved a hesitant hand, earning only another sharp caw in reply.

The greenette tilted his head, unconsciously mirroring the bird, and took a cautious step forward.

If he’d been more attentive, he might have thought twice.
But this Izuku couldn’t have known the magpie’s purpose.

He barely had time to register movement before the bird launched itself at him.
Instinct took over — his arms flew up to shield his face just as claws and a sharp beak struck with furious precision.

A startled yelp tore from his throat. He swatted at the bird with frantic waves of his hand, but that only made things worse. In the gap he left open, the magpie raked its claws across his cheek, hot pain blooming along the skin.

The attack jarred his tote bag loose. The strap slid from his shoulder, and he stumbled, hitting the ground hard on his side.

Curling into himself, Izuku braced for another blow — but nothing came.

Had the bird lost interest?

Peeking out from behind his arms, he froze.

The magpie was digging through his bag, its beak hooked around the spine of the old, coverless book.

Izuku scrambled forward, reaching for it. The bird’s feathers flared, its body puffing in warning, but it didn’t let go. With an angry, grating cry, it yanked the book free and hopped toward the edge of the roof with quick, deliberate movements.

Izuku pushed himself to his feet, knees buckling at the sudden strain. His vision darkened at the edges, but he lunged anyway, his fingers closing over the book just as the bird spread its wings to take flight.

The sudden pull threw the magpie off balance. With a startled flap, it tumbled awkwardly over the roof rail, disappearing from sight.

Panting, Izuku clutched the book tight against his chest, his arm wrapped around it protectively.

He backed away, eyes darting to make sure the bird didn’t return, then crouched stiffly to shove the book deep into his bag. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, he gripped it tight and hurried for the rooftop stairs, taking them two at a time toward his apartment.

During the dead of night, with the moon high in the sky and a soft drizzle of rain that had been falling since twilight, the city of Musutafu was still lively beneath the glow of streetlights.

On the southern edge, a bird quite unfamiliar to this land — a magpie — perched on the rooftop of an old, abandoned building.

Or, at least, that’s what the inhabitants of the place wanted people to think.

A whistle cut through the rain.

The bird perked up at the sound and hopped down, dark wings glistening as it glided toward one of the windows. With a flutter, it landed on the sill and slipped inside.

A section of the interior wall shimmered and faded, letting warm light spill into the room.

The magpie entered, moving with the ease of one already familiar with its master’s routine. It hopped up to perch on the armrest of a couch.

“Did you find what I asked you?”

The voice was male — raspy and deep — coming from one of the desks in the far corner. Its owner, white-haired and with his hair tied back in a low ponytail, didn’t look up from his work.

“The boy still has the book, sir. I could not retrieve it without him following me here.”

The man sighed, frustration showing in the way his scarred hands fidgeted with a paintbrush.

“Seems we’ll have to plan a visit.”

Chapter Text

The morning after the magpie incident, Izuku was still wary around birds.

It was a Wednesday, so he had class as usual. He arrived ten minutes early with his headphones on, avoiding any chance for conversation.

The class ignored him  as they usually did now  allowing him to slip into his seat without much trouble, except for one half-hearted attempt to trip him, which he easily avoided.

He pulled out his notebook, where he’d written down the translations Yuki had sent him the night before. Using the notes she’d added alongside the translation, he’d been able to piece together a bit of the meaning of the last paragraph.

“They are used to make this important tool for casting spells.”

That was… an interesting meaning.

He wondered if there’d been a misunderstanding in the translation.
After all, Yuki had mentioned she’d had to translate the text into Spanish first, then into Japanese.

He’d check that once he was home.

…

Once the bell rang, the students of Aldera fell quiet as classes began.

Math, Japanese, and English made up the morning schedule, followed by a gap for free period. Izuku spent his free period in the school library, flipping through the section on Oriental languages and borrowing a few books.

By the time school ended, he made sure to hide the borrowed books deep in his bag  just in case someone decided to change their mind and use him as a punching bag.

He found himself standing at the school gate.
He really wanted to go home.

Unfortunately, it was raining.
No pouring.

Some classmates had already left before the downpour worsened. Izuku didn’t have an umbrella, and he didn’t want to risk the books in his bag getting wet.

People passed him without a glance, snapping umbrellas open and rushing into the storm. He sat down on the step just behind the gate, watching them scatter  some sprinting, some using jackets to shield themselves or a friend. One student even wore a plastic rain poncho, strolling through the rain as if it were a light drizzle.

He briefly considered stealing one of the forgotten umbrellas left behind, but in the end, decided to check the lost-and-found box near the student council classroom instead.

Pulling out his phone, he typed a quick message to his mother: he’d be coming home later than expected.

…Screw it.

He took one of the two forgotten umbrellas, buttoned up his blazer, and wrapped an arm around his bag to keep it pressed against his chest as he walked out through the gate.

The rain quickly soaked the umbrella, and Izuku ran as fast as he could toward the nearest bus station on the street.

In his rush, his foot sank ankle-deep into a puddle. He stumbled, now with wet socks and splashed pants, and pressed himself against the glass wall of the bus stop to avoid more rain. He groaned at the uncomfortable squelch in his shoes.

Grimacing, he glanced at the street, trying to decide which path would splash him less. He chose one of the alleys that would lead him to the main road faster.

He speed-walked through the narrow path, kicking aside bits of trash and glancing over his shoulder every few steps, wary of anyone following.

At the second turn, he heard the flutter of wings. Looking back, he spotted a magpie perched on a window rail, its beady eyes fixed on him.

Hunching under his umbrella, he quickened his pace.

As he neared the end of the alley, a man with white hair and a leather jacket stepped into view, watching him with an unreadable expression.

Izuku’s chest tightened. Distrustful of strangers—especially now—he broke into a sprint, darting past the man just as a hand shot out toward his arm. Fingers brushed the fabric of his sleeve, missing their grip by inches.

That single red flag was enough to flood Izuku with raw panic. He ran harder, feet splashing through puddles, not daring to look back until he reached the door of his apartment. His pants were soaked to the knee, and the stolen umbrella was clutched tight in his hand.

He fumbled his keys from his pocket, slipping inside with a hesitant, “I’m home,” hoping for an answer.

There wasn’t one.

Kicking off his shoes, his eyes caught on a sticky note by the door.

There’s dinner in the fridge!
I ate before I was called back to the clinic. Don’t wait for me—
I’ll probably get home at midnight.
—Inko

With a sigh, the greenette headed toward his room, his bag heavy in his grip.

He dried his hands on his blazer before checking if the books inside were still dry, fingers trembling from the lingering adrenaline.

Halfway to his desk, his wet socks betrayed him sliding on the floor. His foot shot forward, balance gone.

There was no time to brace for impact. His face hit the floor hard, pain exploding in his nose. A wet crack echoed in his ears, followed by his own sharp gasp.

Pain flooded through his body as he weakly pushed himself onto his knees, shaking his head to clear the dark edges creeping into his vision.

He sucked in a shaky breath through his mouth. His nose was dripping blood, the passage clogged. Izuku wiped at it with one hand, only to smear it across his cheek, the sting making him wince.

He tried to stand, but his bloody palm landed on something—paper. He froze.

A coverless book lay open in front of him, splayed on a random page. The blood smeared across it began to dry before his eyes—too fast, unnaturally fast—until it completely faded into the paper. Izuku blinked at it, owlish and confused.

“…What the…” he muttered, taking a cautious step back.

It had to be the pain. Maybe it was so bad he was seeing things.

With that thought, he left his bag and books scattered in the hall’s floor  and went to bathroom to change and patch up his nose.

…

Pain flooded through his body as he weakly pushed himself onto his knees, shaking his head to clear the dark edges creeping into his vision.

He sucked in a shaky breath through his mouth. His nose was dripping blood, the passage clogged. Izuku wiped at it with one hand, only to smear it across his cheek, the sting making him wince.

He tried to stand, but his bloody palm landed on something—paper. He froze.

A coverless book lay open in front of him, splayed on a random page. The blood smeared across it began to dry before his eyes—too fast, unnaturally fast—until it completely faded into the paper. Izuku blinked at it, owlish and confused.

“…What the…” he muttered, taking a cautious step back.

It had to be the pain. Maybe it was so bad he was seeing things.

With that thought, he left his bag in the hall and went to shower, patching up his nose.

…

It wasn’t a hallucination.

When he returned to clean the blood from the floor, the book was still there. The stains were faint now, barely visible—yet somehow, Izuku’s eyes picked them out immediately.

Not my problem, he decided.
…
Wait.

It was his problem.

He was the one trying to translate this puzzle of a book.

With a tired sigh, he picked it up, wet napkin in hand, checking for any other bloodstains. Surprisingly, the only other mark was a small splash on the back cover.

Relieved, he flipped open the index—searching for damage—
And froze.

Oh.

Oh.

A jolt of surprise shot through him, his body tensing, eyes going wide. The book slipped from his hands as if it had burned him.

He could read it.
He could actually make sense of it.

Heart pounding, he crouched and scooped it back up, hands trembling. Opening the index again, the jumble of strange symbols and languages now unfolded into clear meaning:

Chapter 1: Cults of Nyarlathotep
Chapter 2: What These Cults Provided to Witchcraft
Chapter 3: Category of the entity’s Runes and Aspects of the Entity

Izuku snapped the book shut, mind reeling.

Nope.
Nope.
He wasn’t getting involved in cults.

Chapter Text

That night, izuku had thrown the book under his bed in a shoe box hoping that was enough damage control.

but apparently the universe hated him

every morning, no matter what, the second he flicks the light on on the morning, the bloody book appeared in his desk, open on the index page waiting to be read.

izuku’s mind wants to accept this offer, desires for that knowledge he has been trying to read for week, to just open that book and find out the secrets it holds.

but his heart knows the moral implications of cults, he’s read enough of the cults formed after the solar storm to know that whatever that book was , was bad news to him in the long run.

So every morning, he shut the book and throw it under his bed.

he was tempted to call the police, or let the magpie take it, but on second though, it was better to keep it where he could see it.

his mother certainly commented about the book a few times.

until after a month of hiding and seeing the book again in his desk.

izuku gave up.

That Saturday morning, as the first light spilled into his room, the sun had barely risen. The clouds slowly parted, letting soft streams of gold and pale blue paint the city’s skyline, chasing away the lingering shadows of dawn.

A faint draft slipped through the slightly open window, strong enough to make the glass whistle softly. The cool air brushed against Izuku’s skin, making him stir beneath the covers — and that’s when his fingers brushed against something unexpected.

Paper.

Confused, Izuku turned his head to the right and froze.
The book lay there on the bed, resting beneath his outstretched arm as though it had been waiting for him. It was still open on the index page, the thin paper trembling gently under the breath of the morning breeze — like a silent invitation urging him to turn the page.

But Izuku ignored it.

Instead, his eyes drifted to the clock on his nightstand.

5:50 a.m.

The digital numbers glowed a dull, unremarkable blue. Once, the clock had proudly displayed All Might’s colors — bold yellows, reds, and deep blue — but now every trace of it was buried under smooth layers of pale paint, hiding what had once been there.

With a quiet yawn, Izuku pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He intended to start his morning routine and leave the strange book for later… until something stopped him.

The moment he shifted to swing his legs out of bed, a sudden weight settled onto his lap.
He froze. Slowly, hesitantly, his gaze dropped.

The book.

It sat there, perfectly centered, open on the same index page as before — as if it had slid there deliberately, as though the universe itself was insisting he couldn’t walk away this time.

Izuku’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he considered throwing it onto the floor. Instead, with quiet resignation, he exhaled, fingers brushing across the edge of the page.

And this time, he turned it.
And he began to read.

____

Down the hall, Inko woke early, taking advantage of her upcoming night shift to run errands before the markets grew crowded.
She dressed quickly, humming softly to herself, but as she passed Izuku’s room on her way to the front door, she paused.

Light spilled faintly from beneath the door.

“Izuku’s up already?” she thought, her brows furrowing slightly. He was probably working on that language project again.

Curious, she padded closer and turned the handle gently, opening the door with casual ease.

Inside, she found her son seated on the floor, his back resting against the side of his bed. A blanket was draped loosely around his shoulders, a pillow propped behind his neck, and another across his lap to support his elbows.

And there he was — utterly absorbed in the strange, coverless book.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she said softly, tilting her head.

The greenette looked up from his book. The moment his eyes met hers, his shoulders relaxed, and he offered her a tentative smile.

“Morning, Mom,” Izuku muttered, voice soft but clearer than hers.

He carefully closed the book on his lap and looked up, giving her his full attention.
“Do you have any shifts today?” he asked gently.

“Not really,” Inko replied, stepping closer with a tired smile. “Unless they call me in for an emergency, I’m free today.”

She hesitated, her voice lighter when she added,
“We could go out somewhere if you want, sweetie.”

But Izuku was already shaking his head.
“You should catch up on your sleep,” he said quietly but firmly, his tone leaving little room for argument.

Inko blinked at him, surprised for a moment, then sighed softly. The weight of exhaustion finally caught up with her — the late-night shifts, the constant calls, the endless fatigue pulling at her bones.

She tried to smile anyway, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“I suppose you’re right…” she murmured, her voice low.

Izuku’s expression softened, a flicker of quiet worry passing over his features, though he didn’t say anything more.

“Alright,” she whispered, giving him a small, weary smile. “I’ll rest for a bit, then.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

With that, Inko padded softly down the hall and disappeared into her room, leaving Izuku alone with the strange, coverless book resting by his side — its presence growing heavier in the silence she left behind.

____

A few hours later, the city had drowned in night.
The winds whistled through narrow streets, rattling loose windows, carrying with them the bite of early winter. The alleys looked darker than usual — and one of them, far darker still.

Its walls were drenched in inked symbols.
Layer upon layer of runes spiraled across the bricks, their patterns tangled and conflicting, like a language meant to be unreadable. Some marks bled into black smears, while others were carved deep, sharp and deliberate, as though etched by something more claw than human.

At the alley’s mouth, the air seemed… wrong.
It rippled faintly, like heat waves on asphalt, but colder — so cold it made the breath catch in your throat.

And then, without warning, the ripple broke.

A figure stepped out of nothingness — as though peeled straight from another place.

Leather boots crunched softly against the snow, leaving behind a faint trail of melted footprints that steamed faintly in the frigid air.

Under the streetlight’s pale glow, the figure became clearer.
White hair clung damply to their forehead, pale skin reflecting the sickly orange light. Tattoos curled along their wrists and disappeared beneath their sleeves, weaving upward in thin, elegant lines until they reached the neck, where they converged into a single, eye-shaped rune that seemed to pulse faintly.

From the shadows above came a sudden flutter of wings.
A magpie descended silently, landing on the stranger’s outstretched arm.

Its feathers shimmered faintly under the light, not quite black, as though something else stirred beneath the surface of its plumage. Its head tilted unnaturally, movements too precise, too deliberate for any ordinary bird. It blinked — once — and the faint sheen of its eye caught the light like glass.

The stranger didn’t speak. Didn’t move. They only waited.

Then, slowly, the magpie raised its beak and pointed.

The figure followed its silent direction without hesitation.

Above them, the security camera mounted on the clinic wall whirred softly, the lens shifting to track the figure’s movements. But the moment it focused, the feed broke.

The monitor inside the clinic flared with static before collapsing into chaos.
Symbols — the same runes painted along the alley walls — bloomed across the screen, twisting violently into spirals of light. The brightness rose until the plastic casing hissed under the heat, forcing the security guard to stumble back, shielding his face.

Outside, however, the event looked entirely different.

The stranger only lifted their gaze, locking eyes with the camera lens.
And in that instant, the red recording light flickered… dimmed…
…then died.

The hum of the camera stopped. Its circuits melted from the inside out.

The magpie croaked softly, a sound far too harsh to be natural, before lowering its beak again, directing the figure forward.

The stranger grinned faintly.
And then, without a sound, they walked into the night  boots crunching softly over snow.

Somewhere out there, their lost grimoire waited.
And nothing  not snow, not time, not blood  would keep them from reclaiming it.

(And if they failed… the library’s owner would have their head.)

___

By the time the white-haired man reached the apartment building, the faint scent of ink lingered in the winter air, sharp and out of place. The magpie fluttered off his arm, landing on the smooth floor with delicate clicks of its claws. It hopped ahead, pausing occasionally, letting Touya catch up  as if he were a companion and not the master, stopping in front of a door marked by a small silver tag:

“Residency of the Midoriyas.”

He didn’t knock.

Instead, he crouched, holding the magpie up to the lock. Three precise taps of its beak on cold metal — click. The mechanism gave way with unnatural ease.

A tattooed hand pushed the door open. Slowly. Soundlessly.

The man stepped inside, the magpie returning to its perch on his shoulder, feathers ruffling as if sensing the weight of the air.

The living room was dark. Silent. The faintest glow spilled into the hallway from under a single door, while another nearby remained shut.

He stood still for a moment, listening.

Somewhere, beyond the silence, came the soft, steady rhythm of breathing — shallow, fragile, unaware.

Touya’s pale fingers brushed against the wall as he crept forward, boots muffled against the floor. The magpie shifted on his shoulder, feathers ruffling, its beak snapping softly as it pointed toward the door where a thin blade of light spilled from the gap beneath it.

A low hum escaped Touya’s throat — barely more than a vibration — as his tattooed hand wrapped around the doorknob. He turned it slowly, carefully, until the latch clicked open.

The door cracked, revealing a room that felt strangely hollow. The walls were bare in patches, ghostly rectangles showing where posters once hung, interrupted by the few remaining heroes Touya didn’t recognize — and didn’t care to. Shelves lined the walls, some holding sealed boxes, others half-filled with the peeking colors of red, blue, and yellow. Faded labels read “to sell”.

And there, at the desk by the window, sat the boy.

Touya’s eyes narrowed.

The brat he had pulled out of danger months ago… had changed. His shoulders were thinner now, his skin pale beneath the faint light, and the shadows beneath his eyes made him look years older.

Izuku sat hunched forward, headphones resting loosely around his ears, the strange, coverless book spread open beneath his hand. In his other, a pen scribbled furiously across a notepad, the scratching of ink soft but relentless.

Touya’s lips pressed into a thin line. He opened the door fully this time, silent, letting the magpie lower its stance, ready to dive if needed.

Step by step, he approached.

From his pocket, he pulled a thick slip of paper, its surface marked with a rune drawn in elegant blue strokes. He brushed his thumb against the sharp edge of his ring, slicing the skin just enough for a drop of blood to bloom. Holding his breath, he pressed the bleeding finger into the rune.

The paper drank it greedily.

Thin tendrils of smoke began to curl from the ink, spiraling into the air without a sound.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to softly, hoping the boy would hear it.

Izuku’s pen stopped moving.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But Touya saw it — the subtle shift in his shoulders, the stillness that wasn’t natural.

Raising the rune, Touya aimed it at the boy.

And that… was his mistake.

Izuku moved.

In one swift motion, the boy spun in his chair, pen gripped like a blade, the tip dragging hard across his notepad. Sparks of static energy snapped faintly where the pen touched the paper, and the smoke bleeding from Touya’s rune abruptly stopped, as though smothered.

Touya froze, his body locking instinctively. His wide eyes met Izuku’s — no longer dull, no longer tired, but sharp, alive, and burning with something he didn’t understand.

(after he will come to understand that emotion was rage)

The magpie screamed — a harsh, grating sound — and launched from Touya’s shoulder in a flash of wings.

Touya lunged, aiming for the book—

But Izuku moved faster.

“don’t”

An elbow slammed into Touya’s shoulder, knocking him off balance. He stumbled back, boots scraping against the floor, hitting the ground with a muted thud.

Feathers burst around him as the magpie attacked, beating its wings wildly, its screeches blending with Izuku’s ragged grunts as he batted the bird with his arms.

And for the first time, Touya realized he might have underestimated the boy.

His jaw tightened. Without wasting another second, he let the ruined page fall from his hand, fingers already flipping to a fresh sheet in the notebook. He pressed his bleeding fingertip against the new rune.

The paper drank the blood instantly, the ink pulsing faintly as the sigil came alive.

Touya lifted his hand, aiming the rune directly at the boy.
A sharp breath. A low hum. A flick of intent.

A thin tendril of smoke burst from the paper, coiling through the air like a living thing. It wrapped around Izuku’s head before the teen could react, the strange magic seeping deep beneath his skin.

The grenette’s body jerked once—then went limp.

Izuku crumpled silently to the floor, his pen clattering beside him, his breaths shallow but steady… almost matching the soft, sleeping rhythm coming from the other room.

The magpie fluttered down onto Touya’s shoulder, letting out a sharp, dissatisfied croak — the closest thing to a pout the man had ever heard from the creature. Without needing to be told, the bird swooped down to the desk, claws scraping softly as it snatched the grimoire, closing its fragile cover with surprising care.

Touya glanced at the unconscious boy, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Phona better not kill him. Or me. Especially me.”

With a final sigh, he bent down and hoisted Izuku over his shoulder like a sack of rice, balancing the teen’s dead weight effortlessly despite his smaller frame. The magpie settled firmly against his collarbone with the boy’s notes hanging on their beak, its claws tightening just enough to anchor itself, wings folding close.

Together, the three of them disappeared into the dark hallway, the only sound the faint crunch of boots against the wooden floor… and the quiet flutter of restless feathers.

“If he’s already started reading, they could want him too”

___

A heavy fog clouded Izuku’s mind —
a weight that made his bones ache, his thoughts sluggish, and kept his eyes stubbornly closed.
He could only feel the arms holding him, the pull of gravity pressing against his head, as if more and more blood was pooling there.

He couldn’t tell if a minute or an hour had passed; his senses were muffled.
All he could make out were the soft coos of a bird and the calm, steady voice of a man.

At some point, his body was lowered into a sitting position, his back pressing against something soft, fingers brushing against worn fabric.
The fog began to lift. His senses sharpened, and the heavy scent of ink and copper hit him, making him flinch and blink his eyes open.

He was in a room illuminated by candles and strings of fairy lights. A single lamp over a drawing table cast a warm glow over the inked wood. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with paper of every thickness, bottles of ink of every size and quality scattered around. Some were neatly labeled, others marked with cinnamon roll stickers.

The bloody magpie perched on one of the shelves, preening its wings with delicate care.

“What… is this place?” he whispered, unable to stop himself from asking.

“The workshop,” a familiar, oddly calm voice replied, making him flinch and turn toward the speaker.

The man’s most defining feature was his snow-white hair, streaked with faint red, reminiscent of age but unnervingly vibrant. His eyes were a piercing green-blue. He wore a loose black shirt with short sleeves, revealing the runic tattoos tracing his arms and wrists, some bleeding onto his fingers.

(Izuku chose not to notice the missing ring finger on the man’s right hand.)

Izuku stiffened at the sight, eyes darting toward possible exits. The man sighed, unbothered.

“Kid… how much did you read?” His tone was serious, and Izuku’s stomach knotted.

“The first chapter?” he tried, but the words came out weaker than he intended.

The man frowned and stepped closer.
“That’s not true, and you know it. Your notepad had content beyond that chapter.”

Izuku’s gaze sharpened. “You took my notes?” he asked, a trace of venom in his voice.

Chapter Text

“Kid… how much did you read?”
The man’s tone was flat but sharp enough to make Izuku’s stomach twist into knots.

“The first chapter?” Izuku tried, though the words came out softer than he intended.

The white-haired man frowned, stepping closer, his presence heavy in the small room.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” he said quietly. “Your notepad had content beyond that chapter.”

Izuku’s gaze snapped up, green eyes narrowing. “You… took my notes?” There was a faint edge to his voice, venom layered beneath the shaky tone.

The man gave him a dry, unimpressed look in return — one that spoke less of guilt and more of I don’t have time for this. Izuku stiffened under it but refused to look away.

With a sigh, the stranger pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the room. He sank onto the couch beside the greenette, movements deliberate, his expression resigned rather than hostile.

“Look, kid,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “you really weren’t supposed to read that.” His voice lowered, steady and cold. “If the wrong people find out… not even heroes would be able to save you.”

The way he said “heroes” carried a sharp bitterness, like the word itself tasted foul on his tongue. Izuku noticed the faint twitch of his jaw, his gaze fixed somewhere distant — not on him, not on the room, but on something heavier that Izuku couldn’t see.

“That’s not true,” Izuku protested, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “I’m sure heroes can deal with cultists just fine!”

(Touya didn’t miss the tremor in his voice — the hesitation buried at the start, the unspoken doubt. As if this boy didn’t fully believe heroes would really come for him.)

For the first time, the white-haired man looked at him — really looked at him — and something in his expression shifted. A spark of amusement danced in his tired green-blue eyes as he leaned back slightly, tilting his head.

“You think I’m in some kind of cult?” he asked, tone almost playful, but his stare stayed sharp enough to cut.

Izuku hesitated, gesturing awkwardly toward the stack of strange, rune-covered books on the nearby table.
“Well… yes?” he said, voice lilting upward like a question. “You literally have a book that drinks blood.”

Touya blinked at him, then let out a soft, surprised snort — half laugh, half sigh. There was no real humor in it, only quiet pity.

“Oh, you innocent creature…” he murmured, shaking his head slowly. “You really didn’t get to the real deal, did you?”

Izuku frowned, uncertainty creeping into his features. “The… real deal?” he echoed carefully. “Like… sacrifices and stuff?”

The man’s smile was faint but unsettling, soft in a way that clashed with the words leaving his mouth. His greenish-blue eyes caught the light, sharp and cold.

“Well, of course,” he said lightly, as though discussing the weather. “But they only accept payment in blood… though there are always little exceptions to work around.”

He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening as if he’d revealed more than he intended. A small grimace twisted his lips.
“Alright,” he muttered, tone shifting, heavier now. “I think it’s time to take care of you.”

Izuku stiffened instantly. “W-what do you mean—”

But Touya was already moving, pulling a fountain pen from his pocket. He uncapped it with a soft click and, without warning, seized Izuku’s hand in an iron grip.

“Kid,” he said quietly, almost gently — which somehow made it worse. “You have to choose before I free you.”

Izuku struggled, tugging hard against his hold, but Touya didn’t even flinch. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into his wrist like steel bands. He turned Izuku’s palm upward, pen poised above his skin.

“What are you—”

The cold metal tip touched his hand, and Izuku flinched violently as Touya began to draw. Thin, deliberate strokes etched a circle into the center of his palm, the ink soaking deep into his skin, dark and sharp against pale flesh.

“This,” Touya said firmly, not looking up, “is an oath. It can only be broken when I decide to break it.”

The pen moved again, weaving intricate, arcane patterns inside the circle — strange symbols that made Izuku’s stomach churn, his instincts screaming to pull away.

“You have two choices,” Touya continued calmly, his voice smooth as glass. “One — you keep your memories. You remember the book, the runes, all of it.”

His gaze lifted, cold and sharp.
“But if you so much as try to tell anyone about me, about this, about what you’ve read…” He tapped the pen gently against Izuku’s palm, right over the sigil. “You won’t last long.”

Ice slid down Izuku’s spine. His breaths grew shallow, chest tight, struggling harder now — his other hand shooting forward to pry Touya’s grip away. The moment his fingers brushed the man’s wrist, agony exploded through his nerves.

A fire made of ice.
He gasped sharply, jerking his hand back to his chest, curling around it as if shielding it would make the pain fade.

“Or,” Touya said softly, almost like an afterthought, “I knock you out… and call someone who can take better care of you than I can.”

The words weren’t a threat. They sounded like a promise.

Izuku’s chest heaved. His lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, and after a long, tense silence, he finally exhaled.

“I’ll… keep my mouth shut,” Izuku muttered, barely louder than a breath.

Touya studied him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, with a faint hum, he nodded once.

The fountain pen in his hand traced a final circle around the sigil on Izuku’s palm. The ink shifted, darkening… and then, slowly, it began to sink.

Izuku froze.

A strange, crawling sensation spread under his skin as the ink melted into his flesh, seeping along invisible veins like liquid metal. The black lines spidered outward from the circle, threading beneath the surface of his hand until they disappeared entirely.

The greenette’s breath caught. He lifted his palm closer to his face, staring in disbelief as the mark faded ink stroke by ink stroke, swallowed whole by his own body.

“Wh—what the—” His voice cracked as his fingers trembled. He could feel it. It wasn’t just on his skin — it was in him. His veins at the wrist darkened faintly for a moment, like bruised shadows.

Slowly, he raised his wide green eyes toward Touya, forcing the most wary look he could muster despite the shiver crawling up his spine.
“What… did you do to me?” he asked, voice low and careful.

Touya met his gaze without an ounce of guilt, blue-green eyes steady and calm, almost bored.
“I already told you, brat,” he said simply, recapping the pen with a soft click. “An oath.”

Izuku’s lips parted, searching for words, but none came.

Touya leaned back slightly, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair, his expression unreadable. “It’s for your own good,” he said, almost lazily — though there was an edge beneath the calm, sharp and unspoken.

After a moment, his gaze drifted back to Izuku, brow quirking faintly.
“By the way,” he added, voice smooth, casual in a way that didn’t fit the moment. “Do I keep calling you greeny, or do you actually have a name?”

Izuku hesitated, weighing his options, his throat tight. Finally, he swallowed hard and forced himself to meet the man’s eyes.
“Midoriya,” he muttered.

For the first time, Touya gave a faint, knowing smile — small, sharp, unreadable.

________

After that, Touya led Izuku out of the workshop.

The warm, ink-heavy air faded as they approached a silver-framed door etched with thin, intricate runes that curled and overlapped like veins beneath glass. Along the frame, a small glass vial filled with dark, clotted blood connected to a narrow copper tube, the fluid pulsing faintly as though as it feed the runes.

Izuku hesitated in the doorway, his wide eyes tracing every detail.

Beyond the frame, the air itself seemed wrong — like a thin sheet of water stretched over nothing. It rippled softly, almost resisting touch, as if reality itself didn’t want to be crossed.

Touya stepped forward without hesitation. The moment his foot touched the threshold, the invisible barrier moved away from him, bending, reshaping, clearing a path. He walked through effortlessly, the magpie on his shoulder ruffling its feathers as though it had done this a thousand times before.

Izuku lingered on the other side, staring. His chest tightened at the subtle hum resonating in the frame, at the faint static charge that prickled against his skin the closer he stood.

Izuku’s mind spun with questions he didn’t dare ask.

How did that door work?
What kind of blood was in that vial?
And… why did something deep in his chest whisper that crossing it would change everything?

He swallowed hard, shoulders stiff, and took a careful step forward.

The air shifted the moment he crossed the threshold. The workshop’s cozy warmth was gone, replaced by a sharp, biting chill that sank into his bones. The faint hum of magic faded, leaving only silence and the echo of his own footsteps.

Izuku’s gaze darted around — and his breath caught.

They were no longer in the workshop.

An abandoned warehouse stretched around them, hollow and skeletal, its high ceiling broken by jagged gaps where daylight slipped through in thin, fractured rays. The building was a ruin; walls half-collapsed, steel beams exposed like broken ribs, graffiti sprawled in wild colors across cracked concrete. Dust coated the floor in a thick, undisturbed layer — and their footprints cut through it, sharp and obvious, a fragile proof they were really here.

Izuku hugged his arms closer to his chest and quickened his pace to catch up with the white-haired man.

Touya — or whatever his name was — glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable beneath the flicker of light filtering from above.

“I can’t walk you all the way home or whatever,” he said, his voice low, rough, almost distracted. One hand was already digging into his pockets. “But I can call you a cab.”

“Y-yeah… sure,” Izuku stammered, forcing the word past a dry throat.

His gaze wandered, taking in the wreckage, the cold, the silence — and finally drifted back to where they’d come from.

His heart skipped a beat.

The door was gone.

No silver frame, no blood vial, no rippling air.
Just an unbroken wall of weather-stained concrete.

Izuku stared for a long moment, a knot tightening in his chest, before forcing his attention back to the man. “…Can I at least get your name?” he asked, hesitant, voice edged with caution.

Touya paused mid-search, his lips twitching faintly before he gave a soft huff.

“Official names are a big no-no, kid,” he muttered, tone carrying the weight of rules Izuku didn’t understand. Then, after a brief moment of consideration, he tilted his head and offered him a sharp, playful smile — the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“But business names…” he hummed, savoring the thought. “You can call me Oni.”

He slipped his phone from his pocket and glanced at Izuku, the smirk lingering.

“Not a pleasure to meet you, kid,” Oni said, almost casually, “considering you still stole something of mine.”

___

The cab took the boy shortly after, its shape disappearing into the distance. touya watched until it rounded a corner, then exhaled through his nose and began walking back into the warehouse, steps quiet, careful not to draw attention at this hour.

As he approached the gate, a sharp caw froze him mid-step. He turned slowly.

Perched atop a pile of rubble was a crow — abnormally large, its feathers glossy in the dim light. Intelligent yellow eyes glinted at him, and around its neck hung a small collar engraved with a symbol that made his blood run cold.

touya groaned, narrowing his eyes. The crow tilted its head, letting out a caw that warped unnaturally, stretching into the tone of a human laugh.

“They saw,” it said, voice mocking, echoing in the cold air.
“They saw… and they want.”

Touya swung a hand at the bird, but it flapped away effortlessly, landing just out of reach, wings stirring the dust.

“This isn’t their business,” he hissed, voice low, teeth gritted. “That’s a child. He doesn’t deserve to be wiped from the Earth just for a dumb book.”

“eyes are eyes” the crow mused “and those are getting near the veil”

touya scowled, but deep down, he knew if that boy didn’t avoid all this, he could get involved too, and he knew well what happen to those who didn’t belong.

____

When Izuku came home, his mother was still dozing in bed, her soft snores echoing through the apartment. He crawled through his window, and the moment his feet touched the carpet, he flopped onto the bed, utterly exhausted from the previous hours. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was 4 a.m.—and he really should sleep.

He changed into his pajamas and settled under the covers, staring at the hand where the oath had been written. The skin felt numb to the touch, and if he focused closely, he could see his veins retaining that dark, almost inked tone. He wondered, uneasily, if his flesh had been marked somehow, the blackish color seeping beneath the surface.

Minutes passed before sleep finally claimed him, though he never missed the faint, bubbling sensation beneath his skin—a strange tightness that left him slightly uncomfortable even in slumber.

(this is how izuku's hand looks like now lol, and yes, is visible, for him and touya)

Chapter Text

His notes were gone.

He had hoped—blindly, desperately—that in the rush of retrieving the grimoire, the man would miss the small stash hidden under his desk. That maybe, just maybe, the four battered notebooks would escape notice.

But the following morning, when Izuku reached for them, only two remained. The first one sat where it always had, rows of shaky translations and scribbles in the margins, the language exercises Yuki had given him. But the other two—his real work—were missing.

His research was gone.

Something cold began to spread in his chest, dull and biting.

He searched the alleys near his home, combing through trash piles with trembling hands, desperate and precise, praying they’d been tossed aside. Nothing. The cold crept higher, pressing into his ribs.

He searched near the warehouse, voice cracking as he asked locals if they’d seen a white-haired man. Blank stares. Puzzled frowns. Dazed eyes that refused to focus on him. Only whispers of a ghost. The cold reached his stomach.

He climbed onto rooftops, feet unsteady, scanning for the familiar green spines of his notebooks. Wind stung his face; the edges of the world blurred. Nothing. Again. The cold swallowed his legs whole.

By the time night fell, it had claimed his mind entirely — a heavy fog that dulled his senses, leeching the world of color. Where once there had been reds, blues, and yellows — hope — there was only gray and pale blue.

That Sunday, Izuku wandered to Dagoba Beach. He sat on an old rusted fridge, shoes half-buried in the sand, and stared at the restless sea with empty eyes.

And finally, he mourned.

Homework was too easy; it gave him no challenge, no distraction. The book had filled that void — with codes, with mystery, with the illusion of purpose. Now it was gone. His hands ached with pins and needles, his skin pale as snow, yet he felt nothing.

For hours, he sat beneath the polluted sky and let hollow tears fall — the tears of a boy who had lost his last excuse to avoid the truth.

There was nothing left to keep the pain at bay. No obsession to shield him, no puzzle to bury himself in.

For the first time in a long time, Izuku let himself grieve what he had once wanted so desperately — and what was now, irretrievably, lost.

_____

High in the paling sky, a crow cut through the air, wings catching fractured dawn-light. Its feathers shimmered black-blue as it descended upon the spires of the so-called post office.

The building loomed like a cathedral stripped of faith — gothic arches rising over crumbling stone, stained glass shattered and replaced by slabs of iron, light filtered through with the dull red of sigils burning on every surface. Inside, the halls crawled with cloaked figures, their faces hidden, their steps soundless. Familiars wheeled above them — crows with brass collars etched in runes, owls burdened with black-sealed letters, sparrows darting with slips of ash-paper clenched in their beaks. All carried missives of warning, summons, debts, tithes — offerings to gods who would never answer in words.

The crow pressed deeper, leaving the noise of feathers behind. The air thickened, iron and wax, blood humming faintly through the tubes that kept the walls alive. Doors rose high on either side, wood carved into spires and faces long since erased. At the seventh door, tallest of them all, the crow gave a single low coo.

Stone groaned. The door yielded, as though the building itself resented letting anything through.

Within, its mistress waited.

A faceless woman, seated at a desk that was also an altar. Her hair spilled like a shroud, tangled with pale blossoms and threads darkened long ago by ink that never washed out. Time clung to her — not in wrinkles, but in the way her presence pressed against the edges of the room, soft and inevitable as rot.

The crow landed before her. It tilted its head once, and then spoke in a stolen voice — not its own, but a man’s, worn rough with defiance:

“This isn’t their business. That’s a child. He doesn’t deserve to be wiped from the Earth just for a dumb book.”

The words echoed too long, as though the walls themselves considered them.

Her smile shifted. Not wide — just thinner, brittle at the corners.

“Oh, my,” she rasped, her voice like old paper torn at the edges. “Perhaps I was mistaken… about this little snitch.”

The crow’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Then mistress was wrong?” it crooned, the mockery in its tone sharpened by hunger.

“Wrong…” She let the word linger, tasting it as though it were alien. “Or perhaps only blind.”

Her thoughts curled inward, but the crow could feel them just the same — heavy, like incense. Wander. The world had forgotten how to do it, strangled by reason, by science, by false gods nailed to their false crosses. Wander belonged to the unseen. To the ones who erased, who devoured not only flesh, but memory, history, the very fact of ever having lived.

“It seems,” she said at last, “what we mistook for a nuisance… may be a herald of something greater, only time will tell.”

Her smile sharpened, barbed with a delight even she did not wholly understand.

“Do not fret, little one,” she murmured, leaning closer as though confiding. “The Court will hear me. I will see that this child is not erased.”

But the silence that followed swelled too heavy, too knowing. She had not said they will not. She had said I will try.

And both mistress and crow knew the Court’s prayers were rarely merciful in order of leaving no loose ends.

and this loose end, was a very interesting one indeed.

_____

Far beneath the streets, in the tunnels where cloaks and false names were currency, the underground market thrived. Light came not from bulbs but from creatures that remembered worship: fat slugs glowing faintly in jars of moss, fireflies kept in ornate lanterns, pale worms that slithered along glass tubes overhead, casting everything in biolume twilight. Children chased sparks while parents bartered; knowledge and contraband shifted hands like water.

Through this walked Touya — Oni to those who knew him here — white hair stark against the dark, runes peeking from his sleeves. He cut through the market with quick steps, grimoire tucked carefully to his chest, until he reached a stall set slightly apart his hand laying the book on the empty table .

The woman waiting for him smiled as he approached. Her hands, steady and precise, reached for the grimoire before he even spoke. She ran her fingers over its leather, searching for cracks or stains with a dealer’s care; only when she found none did her shoulders ease and her dark eyes flick to the graduated at her feet.

“Oh, Oni,” she said, voice almost warm. “You cannot imagine my relief that you brought it back before expiration. I’d hate to have to search for it myself in your place.”

Touya forced a sheepish grin. “I wanted to take my time. Learn what I could. Take all the notes I could.” His voice was steady — almost convincing.

Phona — her business name, sharper than any true one — lifted her gaze. She’d seen storms eat the sky and cults rise and fall; she’d outlived most of the liars who tried to stand before her. Her smile softened, sweet enough to rot teeth.

“You lost it, didn’t you?”

The question landed like a blade. Touya froze. “Of course not — I’m not that messy.”

“Liar.” Her hand snapped down with a quick, scolding chop to his head. He flinched like a boy caught red-handed.

“I’m not lying. It was behind the shelf—”

“Where was it?” she pressed, voice like silk stretched thin.

“In the other shelf. The one for ink—”

“Oh.” She tilted her head. “So it’s a who. Someone took it.”

His breath snagged. He looked away; the silence said more than denial ever could.

“You’re not my apprentice anymore,” he muttered, trying to buy distance. “I graduated. I have my own place. You can’t—”

Her smile only widened, honeyed and lethal. “Tomorrow morning you will write me a full report. It will be on my desk first thing.”

“I pay taxes to the Court, Phona. I’ve earned the right to stand on my own. You don’t get to put me on my knees—” he snapped.

That look. He knew it too well. When Phona’s voice sank into that smothering sweetness and her eyes sharpened like daggers, there was only one safe response. His knees hit the ground before he even thought about it.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, head bowed, words tumbling out hot and fast. “I’m sorry, Madame. I won’t loose books again. Please don’t—”

Her hand brushed the book from his arms as casually as plucking fruit from a branch. She hummed, considering, then bent to lift his chin just enough for him to see the curve of her merciful smile.

“Apology accepted. Your ban will be… shortened.” The charity of her tone could have drowned him.

“a month”

Touya’s heart hammered in his ribs. He dared not breathe until she turned away, the grimoire once more in her possession. The magpie returned to her shoulder and cocked its head, mocking — a small, sharp sound that felt like laughter — as Touya scrambled to regain his bearings after feeling that close to death.

That was the wrath of his former master.

___

That evening, after a long train ride and a wearisome trek through the city, he finally arrived at the warehouse just before dawn. The building stood in quiet ruin, dust thick on the floor. His boots crunched against it, sending tiny clouds of powder into the cold air as he made his way toward the workshop gate.

But then—he noticed another set of footprints in the dust.

A familiar pattern, lighter and smaller than his own, led straight to the gate. His stomach tightened. Someone had been here before him. Someone had walked these floors, alive and unaware of the danger.

He scanned the ruins, eyes sharp for any movement. That’s when he saw it—a flash of green, muted and tired among the gray rubble.

The kid.

What was he doing here?

He approached cautiously, tension coiling in his chest. The boy was slumped against a chunk of concrete, dark clothes dusted with the decay of the building. Even in sleep, grief had carved faint lines into his face, exhaustion dragging him down like lead. Izuku’s shoulders sagged, his breaths shallow, and when Touya’s footsteps drew closer, a soft, almost imperceptible shiver ran through him.

The boy stirred, scrunching his nose as though the sound itself was unwelcome. He didn’t wake fully. Not until Touya crouched in front of him, hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder and gave the gentlest shake.

“Kid,” Touya muttered, voice low. “What are you doing here?”

Green eyes cracked open, bleary but sharp enough to flick toward him—then past him, to the bag at his side.

“Can I have the book back?” Izuku asked, voice raw with hope that already sounded broken.

Touya faltered. Grimaced. “Sorry, kid. Already gave it back to the library.”

Izuku’s lip trembled before he forced his voice steady. “If not the book… then at least my notes?” The edge of desperation in his tone hit hard, made Touya’s fist clench against his knee.

“What were you even going to do with them?” Touya asked, the words sharper than he intended.

Izuku blinked, bewildered by the question. “Understand the book,” he said softly, as though it were obvious. “At first it was just translation. But once I could read it… I wanted to know how it worked.”

Touya’s hand shot up, cutting him off. His expression hardened. “Did anyone see the book? Or your notes?”

The boy hesitated, lips pressing thin as if the truth itself might betray him. “…A few saw me taking notes,” he admitted. “But… I don’t think they understood.”

Touya’s stomach twisted. His scowl deepened. “So that’s why the Court’s sniffing after you too.”

Izuku frowned, confusion breaking through his grief. “Who’s… the Court?”

Touya dragged a hand through his hair, irritation masking the dread simmering underneath. “The Court of Eyes,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, heavy. “They make sure things like those books—or people like me—stay hidden. You ever read about Salem, kid? They’re the reason it didn’t happen again.”

Green eyes widened, but before Izuku could speak, Touya went on.

“But they also like to keep things efficient.” His voice dropped, rough. “They’re known to erase snitches. Sometimes they just take memories.” A pause, his gaze darkening. “Other times… they erase the person altogether.”

Silence pressed between them. Izuku’s shoulders went rigid, as if holding back a shiver. That hollowness inside him, born from grief, seemed to shift—fear leaking in, sharp and raw.

Touya exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to the broken ceiling, searching the sky beyond. No answer. No sign. Just the empty vastness where gods laughed or slept, where chaos swirled without reason. He almost envied them for it.

When he looked back down, the boy seemed smaller than ever. Fragile. A kid caught in a storm that should never have touched him.

He exhaled, a humorless chuckle scraping his throat. “Kid, you’re already knee-deep in shit most grown mages wouldn’t survive.” His hand gave a clumsy ruffle to the green curls. “Might as well see where the real trouble starts. The workshop.”

‘If being an apprentice saved me once, Touya mused. Maybe… binding him the same way will keep him alive. Or at least buy him time.

Chapter Text

Bakugo woke to the sound of wings. A faint flutter, then the distinct clack of talons upon glass. He sat up, bleary-eyed, and turned toward the window.

           A crow.

It perched upon the sill, black feathers ruffled in the night breeze, a leather collar tight about its neck. Stamped upon that collar was the image of an eye—an emblem that stirred unease in him, as though some corner of his mind begged to look away, to forget it.

           The bird preened under his scrutiny, brown eyes sharp and disquietingly aware. They did not merely look at him—they read him, peering past flesh and bone, into the very recesses of his soul.

           Bakugo could not say how long he stared back. Long enough, perhaps, for another shadow to join it.

                     This one was larger, heavier, with pale feathers that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Not a crow, but an albatross—an unnatural sight so far from sea or shore. It too bore the collar, the mark of the Eye.

And then the white bird began to sing.

At once his body locked rigid, the sound pressing against his ears. The song was not music, not truly. It was a series of whistling notes, thin and sharp, which threaded into him like wires. They filled his skull with cotton, blurring thought, softening will. Something deep within him—something stubborn, unbending—was pulled down, made to kneel.

           And then it was taken.

Memories. Small ones at first, fleeting as steam that slips from the lip of a kettle. Then larger, weightier things. Faces. Words. Moments. One after another, lured forth and drained away by that haunting refrain.

           He did not remember how it ended.

But when the song ceased, he knew something had been torn out. His skin prickled with the hollow ache of absence. Not merely a moment lost, but an entire person, erased from the landscape of his mind. The birds had taken more than they meant to.

                     They had taken a piece of Bakugo himself—what he was, what he had stood for—leaving behind an emptiness where once there had been fire.

___

           Dear reader, here is now where i want to request you to use your mind.

                     What is it, to erase a person?

           From a simple angle, one might say it is to destroy the paper trail. To blot their name from the registers, to render them invisible to the system. When their face appears on a missing person’s poster, it is a face no one knows. That is erasure enough to most.

                     But that leaves a shell.

To truly erase a person is to unmake them entirely: to see that every trace of their name, their presence, their being, is forgotten, burned, disintegrated. Memories included.

Their photographs, their rooms, their clothes, their records, their footage—all vanish. And most importantly, their loved ones are taken by the head, their minds pried open, their tender memories searched through and stripped away. The person is torn out as one tears meat from the bone, leaving an empty space that, in time, closes over with scar tissue. The survivors never know what has been done to them.

                     But here lies a further question: is a quirked person still human?

           What does a century of hosting a parasite do, a parasite that consumes humanity in exchange for cooperation? That gnaws at the essence of man, reshaping flesh and marrow until only a shell of human likeness remains—adapted, tailored, no longer natural.

           Bakugo Katsuki may look human. He may believe himself to be human. But open his wrists and you will find flesh altered beyond recognition, an immune system not his own but engineered to serve the parasite buried in his core. A parasite that sweats a nitroglycerin-like ichor, making his skin reek of caramel and his blood flare with fire.

           The moment this flesh body suit is awake once more, he’ll be aware, because his mind, skiing, flesh and narrow had been designed to not truly be human anymore.

he’ll know.

                     But he is not strong enough—not aware enough—to say what truly happened.

                     And that, precisely, is the horror.

           One morning, Bakugo looks at an old photograph: a wide grin stretched across his own face, and beside him, a green-haired boy smiling just as bright. He knows this boy. He remembers.

                     The next morning, he does not.

He stares at the same photograph, frowning, leaning closer. Where once there was a figure, there is now only absence: the shape of a body cut away, the edges seared and blackened as though fire itself had excised it. The memory is blurred, warped, no longer whole. Was it an imaginary friend? A trick of the light? Or was someone truly there?

And is it not laughable? Bakugo Katsuki—the golden boy, the top of his class, the flawless record—cannot remember.

He knows he had a rival. He knows he fought against someone. But when he searches for the name, for the face, there is nothing.

When he digs deeper—into childhood, into the earliest years of kindergarten—he finds only fragments. He recalls speaking to a shadow. Not his shadow. A shadow that walked beside him.

           And yet he is certain: he has no disorder of the mind.

So he takes the photograph to his parents. They tilt their heads, dismissive, telling him the image must have been damaged by one of his own explosions. Nothing to worry about. Yet when he presses—when he insists—concern begins to flicker in their eyes.

At school, he grows desperate. He asks classmates, those “extras” he always scorns. Blank looks. Concerned murmurs. A teacher even slips him the number of a therapist.

He turns, one day, at the sound of footsteps behind him—only to find nothing. Only an empty desk. Only a shadow stretched across the floor, where a boy ought to be.

Which boy? His mind whispers.

           Which rival?

                     Which name?

                               Which dream?

                                                   Dream.

The word burns in his head, and with it comes a still deeper emptiness.

                               Where is his dream?

That night, restless, he ransacks his room for remnants of childhood. He digs through old boxes, his hands trembling. Green merchandise he discards without thought; the colour unsettles him. Clothes not his own—stolen, once—he casts aside without recognizing whose they were. In photographs, whenever a green-haired boy appears, his eyes slide away, refusing to see.

And somewhere in the midst of the searching, as the city above sleeps and the underground world stirs, Bakugo realizes the truth.

He has forgotten his purpose.

He knows he wants to be a hero. But not for fame. No, never for that. He wanted to rise above someone.

           Above a shadow.
                     

                   Above a figure.

                               But who?

He cannot remember. Not for the life of him.

So when the U.A. entrance exam is announced for the coming week, he goes.
Not out of pride. Not out of certainty.
But because—

           Maybe.
                      Maybe.
                               Maybe he will see the one he has forgotten.

At the written exam, the seat beside him is empty.

At the practical, his eyes are drawn—unbidden—to a red-haired boy.

A boy with sharp teeth, bright eyes, and a smile that burns with familiarity, though it is not quite the same. His mind, desperate and starved, supplies the answer: Perhaps this is the rival. Perhaps this is the one.

The thought is wrong—off—but turmoil drives him to clutch at it anyway, as a drowning man clutches driftwood. He decides he will fill the hole with this boy, whether it fits or not.

And when that boy offers him a number at the exam’s end, cheerful and open, Bakugo says yes. Not with pride, but with something closer to hunger. He takes the number, thumbs trembling against the glass of his phone.

For an instant—just an instant—his gaze catches on another contact, half-buried in his list. A name: Deku.

The sight shakes him. His stomach lurches, his throat tightens—

And then the feeling is gone. He does not remember why his hands shake. He only presses add contact, as if nothing had happened at all.

____

Far away, the greenette—Izuku—begins to notice.

The photographs of himself with his mother darken at the edges, as if fire is licking inward, threatening to consume him from the margins.

His mother falters when she calls his name. Her lips shape the sound, but her tongue hesitates, as though the word is foreign, or wrong.

At school, the teachers’ eyes slip past him. Their ears close the moment he speaks.
And no matter how many times he reaches for Kacchan—
           a hand brushing his shoulder,
                     fingers stealing a pen,
                               a foot tapping insistently against his own—
                                         All he receives is silence.

When he asks Touya why, the man only looks at him with quiet grief. “Stay in the guest room,” he says gently. “Before your own disappears too.”

___

Elsewhere, a girl named Yuki ceases to exist.
Her digital trail dissolves; the posts she once made scatter like ash.
A plea izuku had written, asking for help translating something, vanishes from every mind that might have answered.

Chapter Text

“We have arrived at Shibuya Station. The next stop is: Shinjuku.”

The evening train was half-crowded — a tired, breathing thing filled with the soft thrum of machinery and the muted pulse of life.
People sat slumped in their seats or swayed gently where they stood, eyes fixed on their phones, faces blank, careful not to meet one another’s gaze.

Music bled faintly from someone’s headphones, a tinny escape from the metal hum around them. A group of students whispered in low voices, laughter buried behind their hands, ignoring the weary glances from other passengers. When they noticed the stares, they only spoke more quietly, their mirth dimmed but not gone.

The announcer’s voice returned, clear and mechanical, and the doors slid open with a hiss.
Bodies moved — some spilling out, others rushing in — a brief, chaotic ballet before settling again into stillness.

Among the crowd, a mop of green hair caught the light.

The boy it belonged to wore a yellow rain jacket, loose jeans, and scuffed leather boots. A worn messenger bag hung across his shoulders, bulging with notebooks, folded papers, and a few bottles of ink — all paid for with the money obtained from selling old All Might merchandise.

Around his neck sat a green choker, simple and unremarkable, meaningless to most — but not to him.

He leaned against one of the metal poles, rolling his shoulders against the ache his heavy bag left behind, teeth catching briefly on the sigh he almost let slip.

Then his phone rang.
The sharp sound broke the hush, drawing a few curious glances before he bowed in apology, murmuring a soft, flustered “Sumimasen.” Eyes turned away again.

He fished the phone from his pocket, the screen’s glow lighting his face in pale green-blue.
A new message blinked at him from the lock screen:

Touya:
Kid, did you get the stuff from the list?
I’m heading to the market, so I left the door open if you get there before me.
Just— don’t feed the magpie.

He muffled the snort that escaped his lips at the message.
As if he’d ever feed that damn bird.

The magpie had raked its claws across his arm so hard it left a scar back when he still had the book — three thin white lines that still glinted under the right light. His mother had been horrified when she saw them while they were cooking, especially after he’d sheepishly admitted, “A bird attacked me.”

“We have arrived at Shinjuku Station. The next stop is: Nakano.”

Izuku looked up from his phone as the train began to turn. He grabbed the pole, his bag swinging with its weight and dragging him sideways.

“Fu—”

The word barely left his mouth before another body slammed into his side. The impact threw him off balance, and he lurched, clutching the strap of his messenger bag just in time to keep it — and the precious ink bottles inside — from hitting the wall. He stumbled, catching himself against the pole with a graceless thud.

When the train steadied, a low groan came from his left. Izuku turned his head and spotted a boy a few steps away, one hand gripping another pole. The stranger wore the unmistakable U.A. uniform — blazer open, tie perfectly knotted despite the casual posture. A flash of obnoxiously yellow fabric peeked from his school bag.

The boy caught Izuku’s gaze and offered a sheepish smile.
“Sorry about that. Didn’t think the turn would hit that hard.”

Izuku waved his hands quickly, face warming. “No—no, it’s fine! Don’t worry about it,” he stammered, his words tumbling over each other.

The boy’s shoulders relaxed, a small, relieved smile flickering over his face.

“We have arrived at Nakano Station. The next stop is: Ogikubo.”

Izuku’s eyes widened.
“Oh crap—”

Before he could say anything else, the doors slid open with a chime, and he bolted — muttering a quick “Sorry!” and waving a clumsy goodbye over his shoulder. He slipped through the crowd and out of the train, fleeing his own embarrassment at a brisk, purposeful walk.

___

The moment he stepped through the workshop’s gate, the smell hit him — ink and copper, thick and cloying in the air. His nose scrunched instinctively, and he lifted a hand to rub at it, shuddering at the strength of the odor.

A glance at the doorway explained why.
The vial that fed the runes carved into the frame was filled to the brim, the tubes that carried blood along its channels oozing faintly where they weren’t properly sealed, only a few tubes sealed properly while the others hang and let blood drop into the gray carpet that was more coperish red than gray at this point.

So this is what Oni meant by “open,” he thought, stepping inside.

Perched on one of the shelves, loafed like a smug little idol, sat the magpie. Its dark eyes followed him with unblinking curiosity as he crossed the room.

Izuku stiffened under the gaze, glancing warily back at the bird as he made his way toward the couch. He set his bag down beside him, every motion careful, and risked another nervous look toward the shelves.

A soft flutter of wings made him freeze.
The magpie had left its perch. It landed neatly on the opposite armrest and began to hop closer — one slow, deliberate step at a time.

Izuku leaned away, inching toward the far side of the couch until he was pressed flush against the armrest, his bag squashed protectively against his chest. His wide eyes tracked the bird’s every movement.

       It stopped just short of him.
             Its beak opened.

“N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ q͉ͬ͋̇ͥư̡͕̭̇ỉ͔͖̜͌r̴̨̦͕̝ḳ̯͍̑ͦ,” it said — or spoke, or whatever verb might apply when a bird like this chose to steal a human voice. The sound was all wrong: layered, hollow, as if torn from someone’s throat and replayed through a gramophone.

       Izuku shuddered.
       “Yes,” he said slowly, suspicion sharpening his tone. “And?”

Because there was no way in hell this bird was a quirkist.

The magpie tilted its head, studying him in silence — but whatever judgment it was about to pass was interrupted by a new voice cutting through the air.

       “You’d better have the good paper, boy.”

Touya’s voice carried easily through the workshop as he stepped inside. He paused by the doorway to reconnect the loose tubes, the smell of blood easing slightly as the flow steadied. Then, crouching, he yanked the stained carpet off the floor and tossed it into a bucket marked BLOOD-STAINED THINGS HERE.

He gave Izuku and the magpie a long look, then snorted at the sight of them — boy and bird frozen mid-standoff.
With a casual wave of his arm, he shooed the magpie away. It let out a sharp click of its beak before reluctantly fluttering back to a shelf, where it loafed again, glaring down at them both.

       Blue eyes met green.
       “Did you feed the thing?” Touya asked.

Izuku shook his head quickly.
       “The bird just… said something weird,” he muttered, shooting a wary look at the creature — who, to his utter disbelief, made a sound suspiciously close to a huff before turning its back on him.

Touya chuckled lowly. “These birds do that sometimes. Don’t think too hard about it. You’re off the hook, so it shouldn’t bother you.”

He dropped down onto the couch beside Izuku, the cushions dipping under his weight, and nodded toward the bag still clutched protectively to the boy’s side.
“So,” he said, tilting his chin toward it. “You got the stuff I asked for?”

Izuku nodded, pulling the bag onto his lap. He unzipped it to reveal packs of paper and bottles of ink. Touya reached in, grabbed one of the packets, and read the label.
“120 grams — good. That’ll do the trick. Is the ink UV?”

Izuku fished out one of the bottles and turned the label toward him. Touya nodded, satisfied. “Perfect.”

He stood and motioned for Izuku to follow. The boy hurried to shove everything back into the bag, then scrambled after him. They passed down the narrow hall to the last door — one that stood out sharply from the others.

Unlike the cheap, worn doors before it, this one looked old-world. Heavy wood, polished smooth, each plank so finely sanded it blended into the next. Copper nails gleamed along the frame, and a small plaque fixed to the center read simply: 𝕋𝔼𝕊𝕋𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℝ𝕆𝕆𝕄.

Touya pushed it open. A rush of incense rolled out to greet them — sweet, heavy, and cloying. Touya smiled faintly at the scent, while Izuku sneezed and rubbed his nose.

They stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, strange and warm. Touya struck a match and lit the large oil lamp at the center of the room, its golden light spreading like liquid across the walls, inciences burned on the corners of the room.

An architect’s table sat against the far wall, surrounded by wheeled chairs. Nearby, a cart brimmed with supplies — reams of paper, bottles of ink, rows of pens and quills in varying states of use. Some gleamed with polish; others were frayed, stained, and worn thin by time.

Touya pulled two chairs to the table and adjusted its surface to a slight forty-degree angle. Sitting, he gestured toward the other seat, eyes flicking expectantly to Izuku.

Izuku sat down, setting his bag beside him. He hesitated, glancing between the man and the materials.

“Take out one sheet of 120g paper and one bottle of ink,” Touya instructed. From his pocket, he drew two quills, laying one gently on Izuku’s side of the table.

“We’ll fold the sheet and cut it into four pieces before we start with the basics.”

a after cutting the paper, touya had laid the paper in front if izuku and given him only one instruction “draw a circle”.

With hesitant hands, Izuku dipped the pen into the open bottle of ink. He brought the tip to the paper and slowly traced a crooked circle.

Touya snorted. “That’s pitiful.”

Izuku shot him a glare, his cheeks puffing slightly. “What’s even the point of making me do this?” he grumbled, trying again. The next attempt somehow turned out worse.

“I want to see how steady your hand is,” Touya said, amusement flickering in his tone. “With all your notes, I figured you’d be better than this.”

Izuku glared harder, as if daring him to do better.

Reading his thoughts, Touya plucked a sheet of paper from the pile and dipped his own pen in the ink. With smooth, practiced strokes, he drew a perfect circle — the line even, unbroken, and clean. The ink didn’t bleed at all.

“Because a steady hand,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice, “is actually very useful.”

He gave Izuku a mischievous look before adding several marks to the circle — precise strokes forming symbols Izuku didn’t recognize. Then Touya slid a finger along the ring on his hand, drawing a small bead of blood, which he pressed onto the paper’s center.

The ink began to glow softly.

Izuku blinked as the lines started to twist and coil, the ink circling the drop of blood like a living thing. The light grew brighter until blue fire ignited from the marks, spreading over the page. It burned — but the paper didn’t crumble. Instead, the fire devoured it completely, leaving behind a small, floating orb of azure flame in Touya’s palm.

Izuku’s eyes went wide with wonder, his mouth falling open. “That’s… so cool,” he whispered, gaze fixed on the blue fire that pulsed softly like a heartbeat.

Touya’s fingers closed around it, snuffing it out. The flame died far slower than it should have. “Right?” he said casually, brushing ash from his hand.

Izuku tilted his head, catlike, still staring. “Was that… your quirk?”

Touya shook his head. “No. My quirk was taken a while ago, kid.” He tapped his chest, voice dropping slightly. “Don’t got that anymore.”

Izuku frowned. “But… that’s not possible.”

“News flash, kid — a lot of things aren’t, but they still are.” Touya gave him a pointed look, and Izuku nodded slowly, still off balance.

He knew quirks could make the impossible happen — hell, people weren’t supposed to look like orcas, but Gang Orca existed.

“So what was it then?” the greenette asked at last.

Touya grinned, spreading his hands with mock grandeur. “Magic,” he said in a sing-song tone.

Izuku deadpanned at him.

Touya sighed, disappointed. “Come on, kid. You believe in quirks, but not in magic?”

“Quirks can be explained,” Izuku reasoned, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Touya challenged, leaning forward slightly. “Where’s the wonder, huh? A second ago your eyes were shining like you’d seen the divine — now you’re all science again.”

Before Izuku could respond, Touya reached out and caught his wrist, turning his palm upward. The movement was gentle but deliberate. “Look here.”

Izuku froze as the man’s rough fingers traced along the faded ink that marked the oath on his skin. He felt it then — a faint static in his nerves, like the brush of an electric current. The ink began to stir.

It shifted under his skin, dark lines rippling as if alive, spreading like ink dissolving in water. Touya’s fingertip moved with practiced ease, guiding the living pigment. It followed obediently, curling up his wrist, wrapping around it in a perfect black ring. The markings shimmered briefly before settling into the shape of a rune — a bracelet of symbols pulsing faintly with life.

Izuku’s breath hitched. He could feel it humming beneath his skin — warm and strange, yet not painful.

“Magic is real, boy,” Touya said quietly, his voice edged with conviction — and something bitter beneath it. “Believe in it. Because thanks to that…” He glanced down at his own hands, scarred and faintly stained with old ink. “…people like me don’t need to be saved by some fake-ass hero.”

Then his eyes lifted, meeting Izuku’s squarely.
“Not when we can just disappear and leave no trace behind.”

Izuku swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening. He looked down again at his wrist, turning it in the dim light to inspect the newly-formed runes. The black lines seemed to shift faintly with his pulse, alive and breathing with him.

Touya followed his gaze, humming low in consideration.
“What’s stopping you from believing,” he drawled, “when you don’t seem to have one of those parasites either?”

The words hit a little too close. Izuku’s shoulders stiffened; his eyes narrowed at the white-haired man, a flicker of heat flashing in the green.

Touya raised his hands in mock defence, lips curling. “Alright, alright — sorry if I hit a nerve. But you get my point.”

Izuku exhaled sharply through his nose and drew his marked wrist against his chest, as if to shield it.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted after a pause, his tone small but honest. His gaze drifted back to the half-finished paper on the desk. “It’s just… not what I expected, I guess.”

Something in his voice must’ve reached Touya. The older man’s expression softened — a rare, fleeting moment of gentleness — before he huffed and reached out to ruffle the boy’s unruly hair.

Touya gave him a lopsided grin. “What, were you expecting me to hand you a Hogwarts letter and say, ‘Midoriya, you’re a wizard?’”

The greenette blinked at him, expression blank enough to make Touya falter.
“Wait,” the older man said slowly, suspicion dawning. “You don’t get the reference?”

Izuku shook his head, puzzled.

Touya gasped, scandalized. “Oh my god — really? What are kids watching on TV these days?”

Izuku hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… I guess I mostly watched All Might movies?”

Touya gave him a long, flat stare. “You’ve only watched hero media?”

The question made Izuku pause and think. “I guess? There was this Winx Club remake, but I didn’t really like it — it was kinda girly. Mom used to put on Heidi, but… yeah, not my thing.”

Touya pinched the bridge of his nose, looking for all the world like the most disappointed man alive.
       “When we’re done here,” he declared solemnly, “I’m making you sit through Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Anyway—going back to the topic.” He straightened slightly, his tone shifting from dramatic to thoughtful. “Do people still know what religion is?”

       Izuku nodded slowly, unsure where this was going.

       “In that case,” Touya continued, “do you have a philosophy?”

Izuku blinked. “What does that have to do with this?”

Touya pointed at himself. “My philosophy’s all about justice. Maybe a bit of chaos here and there—and a touch of vengeance, too.” His lips curved faintly. “Never had a very concrete one, but I’ve met people who do. And depending on that philosophy, you’ll have an easier or harder time using different kinds of runes. They were originally made as tributes to gods, so the closer your ideals are to the god they were dedicated to, the easier they are to use.”

Then he pointed at Izuku. “So, what’s yours, kid?”

Silence stretched for a moment while the greenette considered the question. Finally, glancing down at his notepad, he muttered quietly, “Learning? I think… something tied to understanding.”

Touya hummed thoughtfully, then stood and walked toward a nearby shelf filled with coverless notebooks. After scanning the spines, he pulled one out — silver ornaments shaped like bears and a horned helmet decorating the edges.

“How good are you at strategy?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Izuku perked up. “I’m generally good. Why?”

             Touya’s lips twitched into a grin. “Think fast.”

He tossed the book without warning. Izuku scrambled to catch it before it smacked him in the face, letting out a startled noise as he steadied it in his hands.

He inspected the metal plaque on the cover.
                                                                   𝔙𝔈𝔏𝔙𝔈𝔖 𝔐𝔄𝔑ℑ𝔉𝔈𝔖𝔗𝔒.

Izuku frowned, glancing up at Touya, who only huffed, amused.

“I think that’s the best option for you, kid,” Touya said, grin widening. “Should work as a starting point.”

Izuku opened the book. His eyes widened at the familiar, unreadable index — the same kind of elaborate flourishes and mix of languages he’d seen before.

But unlike Ex Altiora, this one was laced with Russian instead of Arabic; there might’ve been other languages too, though he wasn’t well-versed in the Slavic ones.

He glanced up at Touya, a flicker of hope lighting his expression. “Is this one… like the other?” he asked, his tone quietly eager.

Something warm stirred in his chest when Touya nodded in confirmation.

His fingers tightened around the book before he forced himself to loosen his grip, the excitement giving way to hesitation. “Can I… borrow it?” he asked, almost sheepish.

A cold hand ruffled his hair, and Touya’s amused smile tugged at his lips as he mussed the green mop.

“Sure, kid. It’s not like I need it anytime soon,” he said with a shrug. “Just—read it alone, in a locked room. Don’t need people seeing it.”

___

When Izuku came home that evening, a faint smile on his lips and a lightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there the day before, Inko noticed.
His gaze — brighter, more emerald than its usual tired green — had made her chest loosen with relief.

She had worried when he sold all his All Might merchandise, but when he explained he’d found an art workshop and a tutor, she decided to trust him.
She couldn’t imagine her boy doing something illegal. If he were, surely she’d notice — she always did. And when she checked his bag, she found only a coverless notebook.

(She didn’t think much of the way the air seemed to warp faintly around the book… or how it smelled like damp earth after rain.)

That night, she went to bed with a cup of her usual tea — the brew that steadied her nerves and lulled her into dreamless sleep.
As she passed by his door, she smiled faintly at the sliver of light beneath it, comforted by the thought that her son was finally starting to get better.