Chapter Text
The rooftop wind still carried the phantom taste of sludge and humiliation as Katsuki descended, each step heavy with the weight of shattered illusions. He didn't look back at the spot where Deku had stood, didn't glance towards the alley where his own weakness had been laid bare. His path home was a blur of angry determination, fists shoved deep into pockets to hide their trembling. Every cheer from a distant TV screen replaying All Might's latest victory felt like sandpaper on raw nerves – a reminder of the pedestal he'd fallen from, and the green-haired shadow now looming over his future. He'd claw his way back, inch by bloody inch. Deku wanted U.A.? Fine. Katsuki would burn brighter, push harder, until that gap closed. Until he proved that power wasn't just given; it was forged in relentless fury.
Months bled away, marked by the rhythmic thud of fists against training dummies and the acrid smell of nitroglycerin sweat hanging heavy in the air. Katsuki Bakugou became a ghost haunting the local gyms and secluded riverbanks, his explosions carving scorch marks into the earth with terrifying precision. Sleep was a luxury; every waking moment poured into refining his quirk, pushing his endurance, analyzing every televised hero fight with a predator's focus. The memory of Deku's effortless power wasn't a motivator; it was a branding iron seared onto his pride, fueling a silent, volcanic rage that demanded he be *better*. He wouldn't just enter U.A.; he'd dominate it, forcing everyone – especially that green-haired freak – to acknowledge the sheer, unrelenting force of Katsuki Bakugou.
And with that, All Might vanished into the cityscape once again, his time getting ever shorter once again. The familiar coppery tang flooded Toshinori Yagi's mouth as he landed in a deserted alleyway, the transformation ripping through him in violent bursts of steam. When the vapor cleared, he slumped against the grimy wall, skeletal frame trembling violently. *Two Hours.* The brutal math echoed in his (almost literally) hollow chest. His morning patrol had consumed half his daily limit already – a terrifying acceleration of the decay he'd felt since passing the torch. The Symbol of Peace wasn't just fading; he was crumbling at an exponential rate. Each cough rattled his surprisingly fragile ribs, each speck of blood staining his handkerchief a grim testament to the clock ticking inside his ruined body. He wouldn't be able to have any embers left for when Young Midoriya entered U.A.
Meanwhile, Izuku Midoriya walked home under the twilight sky, the encounter with Katsuki replaying in his mind like a broken record. He hadn't meant to humiliate him, only to help. Yet the raw fury in Katsuki's eyes, the sheer *betrayal* radiating from him, felt like a physical weight pressing down on Izuku's shoulders. After that day, Katsuki smiled differently, and was quieter than before. He didn't explode at Izuku anymore, but the silence was worse – a cold, deliberate avoidance that screamed louder than any insult. Izuku clutched the straps of his backpack tighter, the All Might keychain dangling from it feeling heavier than ever. He'd saved someone. He'd used his quirk for good. So why did victory taste like ash?
Toshinori Yagi stumbled into his sparse housing at Might Tower, collapsing onto the worn sofa as another violent cough tore through him. Blood speckled his trembling hand. *One hour, forty-seven minutes.* The numbers glared from his mental ledger – half his daily limit vaporized in a single morning patrol. He stared at the crimson stains, the metallic tang sharp on his tongue. It wasn't just fatigue; it was a terrifying acceleration.
Izuku Midoriya's footsteps echoed through the quiet neighborhood, each one heavier than the last. The memory of Katsuki's shattered expression haunted him – not anger, but utter devastation. Saving someone shouldn't feel like this. He paused beneath a flickering streetlamp, pulling out his worn hero analysis notebook. Page after page detailed Katsuki's quirk, his explosive potential . . . and now, the chilling silence between them. Izuku's pencil hovered over a fresh page, but the words wouldn't come. How did you analyze a wound you'd unintentionally inflicted? The distant wail of a siren sliced through the night, a reminder of the world still needing heroes, even as his own path felt tangled in thorns.
Back in his sterile room, Toshinori Yagi stared at the blood-speckled handkerchief clutched in his skeletal hand. He pictured Midoriya's transformed state – effortless power radiating from him, no strain, no steam, no blood. A perfect vessel. The bitter irony clawed at him: he'd found his successor just as his own body was breaking apart from his wound and age.
Izuku finally reached his apartment building, the familiar worn door offering no comfort. As he climbed the stairs, he replayed Katsuki's avoidance – the way his childhood rival wouldn't meet his eyes anymore. It wasn't anger; it was devastation. Saving Katsuki hadn't bridged the gap; it had carved a canyon between them filled with unspoken betrayal.
Katsuki Bakugou stood alone on a moonlit riverbank, explosions crackling violently in his palms. He didn't see the water or the stars; he saw Deku's towering form, the ease of his power. Every detonation he unleashed now was sharper, more controlled, fueled by a single vow: he'd become so strong that Deku's rescue would be nothing but a footnote in his ascent. The sludge villain's choking sensation became his benchmark – he'd never feel helpless again.
Toshinori Yagi stared at the bloodstained handkerchief, its crimson bloom spreading faster each day. His skeletal fingers trembled not from weakness, but from urgency. Midoriya's effortless mastery of One For All was a miracle he might not live to cultivate. He needed to accelerate the boy's training, to pour every scrap of his fading knowledge into him before the embers of One For All consumed what little remained of his ravaged body.
Izuku Midoriya traced the edges of his hero notebook, the blank page glaring back. Katsuki's shattered expression haunted every attempt to write – not anger, but utter devastation. He'd crossed an invisible line by saving him, turning childhood rivalry into something colder and more complex. The silence between them now felt heavier than any sludge villain, a chasm filled with unspoken betrayal where explosions used to roar.
Inko Midoriya paused outside Izuku's door, hearing the restless shuffle inside. She'd seen the news footage – her son's towering form radiating power, yet the shadows under his eyes deepened nightly. Her fingers brushed the doorknob, aching to comfort him, but froze. Some battles, she knew, even a mother couldn't fight. The silence stretched, thick with things neither could name.