- THIRD POV - 

Not everyone in this world is born with power. I learned that from a young age.

Being born into the Gojo family meant something, yes—it meant legacy, expectation, the weight of a name that had commanded respect for generations. But it also meant I had to become extraordinarily strong to prove myself worthy of that heritage. To show that I wasn't just riding on the coattails of those who came before me.

I learned in that moment, pinned beneath a villain whose conviction burned brighter than his actual strength, that even heroes as powerful as a Gojo can be bested. That arrogance—no matter how well-earned—creates openings. That underestimating your opponent, even for a second, can be fatal.

It was a lesson I wouldn't soon forget.

U.A. HIGH, TEACHERS' LOUNGE

Aizawa sat alone at one of the tables, mechanically chewing his lunch without really tasting it. His dark eyes stared unfocused at the wall across from him, his mind miles away from the mundane comfort of the teachers' lounge. The usual chatter of his colleagues faded into background noise as worry gnawed at his thoughts like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch.

Three days, he thought, setting down his chopsticks with more force than necessary. Three days without a single message from Y/n. Not a text, not a call, not even one of those ridiculous selfies he likes to send at random hours.

His hand moved unconsciously to his phone, checking the screen for what must have been the hundredth time that hour. Nothing. The last message in their conversation thread was from him—a simple "Stay safe" that had gone unanswered.

Stop this, Shouta. You're better than this, he chided himself, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to ease the tension building behind his eyes. Y/n is the strongest sorcerer out there. He can handle himself. He's probably just busy dealing with whatever chaos follows him around like a lost puppy.

But even as he tried to rationalize away his concern, his thoughts spiraled darker. Images flashed unbidden through his mind—Y/n captured, restrained, that infuriating smirk wiped from his face. Y/n injured, bleeding, his crystalline eyes dimmed with pain. Y/n being used for darker purposes, his godlike power turned against everything he protected.

No, Aizawa thought viciously, his jaw clenching. No, that's not—he wouldn't—

But the worry wouldn't leave. It coiled in his chest like a living thing, squeezing tighter with each passing moment of silence.

Unable to sit still any longer, Aizawa stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound that drew a few curious glances from the other teachers. He ignored them, his mind made up as he strode toward the door with single-minded determination.

I need to check on him. Now.

"Yo, Aizawa!" Present Mic's voice cut through his focus like a foghorn, making him pause mid-step. The Voice Hero appeared in his path, his usual exuberant smile in place but his eyes sharp with concern behind his orange-tinted glasses. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? You look like you're about to go fight a villain or something!"

Aizawa's expression darkened, his patience already worn thin by worry. "None of your business, Mic," he said curtly, his voice carrying that flat, dismissive tone he used when he wanted to end a conversation before it began. "Now let me pass."

He nudged past his friend without waiting for a response, his capture weapon swaying slightly with the movement. Present Mic stood frozen in the doorway, watching Aizawa's retreating form disappear down the hallway. The smile slowly faded from his face, replaced by genuine worry that creased his brow and tightened the corners of his mouth.

Something's really wrong, Mic thought, his arms crossing over his chest in an unconscious gesture of self-comfort. I've never seen Shouta this worked up. Not even during the USJ incident.

He glanced back toward the lounge, then at the hallway where Aizawa had vanished, torn between two courses of action. I should report this to Principal Nezu. This kind of behavior from Aizawa isn't normal. But...

His hand moved toward his phone, then stopped. But what if it's nothing? What if Aizawa's just being paranoid, and I make a big deal out of it? He'll never forgive me for overreacting. He'll say I was being too loud, too dramatic, too... me.

Present Mic's shoulders slumped slightly as he made his decision. It's probably nothing. Aizawa will handle whatever's bothering him, and everything will be fine. Right?

But even as he tried to convince himself, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that he was making a mistake.

ALLEYWAY, HOSU CITY

Y/n grunted with effort as he pushed himself upright, his hand pressing against the concrete for support. Pain radiated from his ribs where Stain's blows had landed, and his forearm still bled sluggishly from the knife wound. The sensations were foreign, almost novel—it had been so long since anything had actually hurt him that he'd almost forgotten what physical pain felt like.

Well, he thought with dark humor, that's what I get for dropping my guard. Lesson learned.

Across from him, Stain blinked in what might have been surprise or satisfaction—it was hard to tell with the Hero Killer's scarred features. A twisted smile curved his lips as he watched Y/n regain his footing, blood still dripping from his own wounded shoulder.

"So my theory about you was right," Stain said, his voice rough but carrying a note of vindication. His remaining blade gleamed in his hand as he shifted into a ready stance. "You're not invincible. You're just a man pretending to be a god. And men..." His smile widened, becoming something feral and dangerous. "Men can bleed. Men can be killed."

Y/n straightened to his full height, ignoring the protest of his bruised ribs. His crystalline eyes—ancient, knowing, carrying the weight of power that transcended human understanding—fixed on Stain with renewed focus. The playfulness that usually defined his expression was gone, replaced by something far more primal. Far more dangerous.

He's right about one thing, Y/n thought, his divine nature stirring beneath his skin like a dragon waking from slumber. I did bleed. But that doesn't make me any less of what I am.

"You're hard to take down, I'll give you that," Y/n acknowledged, his voice carrying that signature confidence even as blood dripped from his arm onto the alley floor. A smirk tugged at his lips—not playful now, but predatory. "But here's the thing about gods, Stain..."

The air around him began to shimmer, reality itself bending in response to his will. The temperature dropped noticeably, and the very atmosphere seemed to grow heavy with power that made both Stain and Tenya instinctively take a step back.

"We don't stay down for long."

His hand extended outward, fingers splayed as cursed energy coalesced in the space before him. A blade materialized from nothing—or perhaps from everywhere at once—its form crystallizing from pure power into solid matter. The sword gleamed with an otherworldly luminescence, its edge sharp enough to cut through the fabric of reality itself. Intricate patterns ran along the blade's surface, ancient symbols that predated quirks, predated modern civilization, predated humanity itself.

If he wants a real fight, Y/n thought, his divine blood singing with anticipation, then I'll give him one. But on more equal terms. Let's see how his conviction holds when faced with actual skill rather than overwhelming power.

The sword settled into his grip with perfect weight and balance, an extension of his will made manifest. He turned his head toward where Tenya lay sprawled across a pile of rubble, the young hero's armor dented and scraped from where Stain had taken him down. The Hero Killer had been ruthlessly efficient—the moment Tenya had tried to position himself between them again, Stain had exploited the opening with brutal precision.

Blood trickled from a cut above Tenya's eye, and his breathing came in labored gasps, but his engines still sputtered weakly. Still trying. Still refusing to give up.

My student put everything on the line to protect me, Y/n thought, something fierce and protective flaring in his chest. Even knowing he was outmatched, even knowing it could cost him everything, he stood between me and danger. I can't—I won't—let that sacrifice be meaningless.

Y/n straightened fully, rolling his shoulders as divine energy coursed through his body, mending the worst of his injuries with each passing second. The ancient power within him—older than nations, older than recorded history—responded to his will like a living thing. This was what it meant to carry the blood of something beyond human understanding. This was the legacy of the Gojo name.

"I can't let my student's efforts go in vain," Y/n declared, his voice carrying across the alley with absolute conviction. His white hair seemed to glow in the dim light, and his crystalline eyes blazed with renewed determination. "I will defeat this foe just as any Gojo before me has defeated those who threatened what they protected."

The sword rose, its point aimed directly at Stain's heart. The blade hummed with barely contained power, reality warping subtly around its edge. Y/n's stance shifted—no longer the casual, almost lazy posture he usually adopted, but something more focused. More dangerous. The stance of a warrior who had trained for centuries, who had faced down gods and monsters and emerged victorious every single time.

"Come at me, Stain," Y/n challenged, his smirk widening into something that was equal parts invitation and threat. "Come at me and you'll see that I'm worth far more than you think. That the Gojo name isn't just empty legacy—it's a promise of absolute strength."

For a moment, something flickered across Stain's scarred features—recognition, perhaps, or a grudging respect. His manic grin softened into something almost genuine as he regarded Y/n with new eyes. The Hero Killer had faced dozens of pro heroes, had cut down some of the most celebrated names in the industry, but this... this was different.

Finally, Stain thought, his conviction burning brighter than ever. Finally, someone who understands what it means to be strong. Someone who doesn't hide behind their quirk or their reputation. Perhaps Shigaraki wasn't so wrong after all. This man... this Gojo... he might actually be worthy of being called a hero.

"Hah!" The laugh that burst from Stain's throat was genuine, almost joyful in its intensity. His remaining blade spun in his grip as he shifted into an aggressive stance, his wounded shoulder forgotten in the face of this new challenge. "You're strong, Gojo. Stronger than most of the fakes I've killed. You might actually be worth the effort!"

Then he launched himself forward with explosive speed, his blade cutting through the air in a deadly arc. "But you'll be mine before this is over! Your blood will prove whether you're truly worthy or just another pretender!"

Their swords met with a sound like thunder, the impact sending shockwaves through the alley that cracked the concrete beneath their feet. Stain pressed his advantage immediately, his blade sliding along Y/n's in a shower of sparks as he tried to find an opening. His technique was flawless—decades of killing distilled into every movement, every feint, every calculated strike.

Y/n parried, his own blade moving with fluid grace, but Stain was relentless. The Hero Killer's sword twisted, locked against Y/n's guard, and suddenly they were face to face, their blades crossed between them. Stain's eyes gleamed with manic satisfaction as he leaned in, using his superior leverage to pin Y/n's sword against his own.

"You don't have the sword skills I do, do you, pretty?" Stain growled, his voice rough with exertion and dark amusement. His scarred face was inches from Y/n's, close enough that Y/n could see the absolute conviction burning in those fanatical eyes. "All that power, all that godlike strength, but you never bothered to master the blade. You relied on your Infinity, on your overwhelming force. And now..."

His grin widened, becoming something terrible and triumphant.

"Now you're going to learn what happens when conviction meets skill."

Stain disengaged suddenly, his blade whistling through the air as he cut low, aiming for Y/n's legs with the precision of someone who had crippled dozens of heroes before.

"Sensei!" Tenya's warning cry rang out across the alley, sharp with panic.

But Y/n was already moving. His body dropped into a crouch with inhuman grace, the blade passing harmlessly over his white hair by mere centimeters. In the same fluid motion, his own sword swept upward in a devastating arc, the crystalline edge catching the dim light as it carved through flesh and bone.

Got you, Y/n thought with grim satisfaction as his blade connected.

Blood sprayed in a crimson arc as Y/n's sword bit deep into Stain's forearm, the cut precise and surgical. The Hero Killer reeled backward with a strangled gasp, his remaining blade clattering from suddenly nerveless fingers. His hand clutched at the wound, blood seeping between his fingers as he stumbled against the alley wall.

"Dammit!" Stain hissed through clenched teeth, his scarred face contorting with pain and frustration. He shook his head violently, as if trying to clear it, his vision swimming from blood loss and shock. "That was way too close..."

He's faster than I calculated, Stain realized, his conviction wavering for the first time as he stared at the blood dripping from his arm. And more skilled than he let on. He was holding back. Testing me. Playing with me like—

Y/n straightened from his crouch, his crystalline eyes locked on Stain with predatory focus. His sword remained at the ready, its blade still humming with barely contained power. The ancient thing within him—older than nations, older than humanity itself—stirred with satisfaction at the taste of battle.

One more strike should end this, Y/n thought, his muscles coiling in preparation. Just need to—

Before either combatant could move, a massive wave of ice erupted into the alleyway with the sound of a glacier calving. The frozen wall shot up between them with explosive force, separating Y/n and Stain while simultaneously creating a protective barrier. The temperature plummeted instantly, frost spreading across the concrete and climbing the alley walls like crystalline vines.

Y/n found himself suddenly repositioned, the ice having carried him backward to land beside where Tenya lay sprawled against the rubble. His student looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes, his breathing still labored but his engines finally beginning to cool.

Two figures dropped into the alley with practiced ease, their hero costumes immediately recognizable even in the dim light.

Todoroki landed first, his heterochromatic eyes sweeping the scene with tactical precision before settling on Y/n with an expression of fond exasperation. Ice still clung to his right side, wisps of cold air rising from his costume. "Always in trouble, aren't you, Sensei?" he said, his tone carrying faux exhaustion that barely masked genuine concern. "You didn't answer your calls, and Aizawa-sensei grew worried enough to send us a message." His gaze shifted to Tenya. "As well as you, Iida."

Midoriya landed a heartbeat later, his green lightning still crackling around his legs as he rushed to Y/n's side. His emerald eyes widened with alarm as they took in the blood staining Y/n's white shirt, the cut on his forearm, the way his teacher held himself just slightly off-balance. "We weren't sure if you wanted our help or not," Midoriya said quickly, his hands already moving to check Y/n's injuries with the careful precision of someone who'd spent too much time in Recovery Girl's office. His fingers ghosted over the wounds, cataloging each one. "You're hurt, Sensei."

Of course they came, Y/n thought, something warm and protective flaring in his chest despite the pain radiating from his ribs. My students. Always rushing in to save the day, even when they should be running the other way.

"Hmph. Not more than I should be, dear," Y/n replied, his voice carrying that characteristic confidence even as he stretched his arms experimentally. The movement made him wince as strained muscles protested, but already he could feel his divine nature working to mend the damage. "I'll be fine in a couple of minutes. My body heals faster than most."

His crystalline eyes shifted to where Stain stood beyond the ice wall, the Hero Killer's scarred face twisted with frustration and pain as he clutched his bleeding arm. Y/n's expression hardened, the playfulness evaporating like morning mist.

"You, on the other hand," Y/n said, his voice dropping into that register that seemed to resonate with reality itself, "won't be."

He moved.

To the students watching, it appeared as though Y/n simply vanished and reappeared directly in front of Stain, his speed transcending normal physics. The truth was far more complex—he moved through space itself, his power allowing him to exist in multiple points simultaneously before collapsing into a single location.

Stain's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening to shout a warning or a curse—but Y/n's hand was already moving. His palm struck Stain's chest with surgical precision, not hard enough to break ribs but with enough force to drive the air from the Hero Killer's lungs.

Pain exploded across Stain's torso like wildfire, radiating outward from the point of impact. He gasped, his wounded arm falling limp at his side as his legs buckled beneath him.

Before he could hit the ground, chains erupted from the alley walls and floor with a sound like thunder. They weren't normal chains—they hummed with golden power, ancient symbols running along their length in patterns that predated quirks, predated modern civilization. The chains wrapped around Stain's limbs with serpentine precision, binding his arms to his sides and forcing him down onto his knees. More chains sprouted, layering over the first until the Hero Killer was completely immobilized, held in place by power that transcended physical restraint.

"Hey!" Stain snarled, struggling against his bonds with desperate fury. The chains tightened in response, their golden glow intensifying. "What gives?! This isn't—you can't—"

"You're too dangerous to let run loose, Stain," Y/n said simply, his voice carrying absolute finality. He sheathed his sword with a fluid motion, the blade dissolving back into cursed energy before disappearing entirely. The ancient power within him settled, satisfied with the outcome.

That should hold him until the proper authorities arrive, Y/n thought, his divine senses reading the strength of the binding. Even with his conviction, he won't break free from chains forged from pure cursed energy.

He turned away from the bound villain, his attention shifting to where Tenya still sat against the rubble. Y/n's expression softened slightly as he approached his student, extending a hand. "You okay?"

Tenya nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His hand clasped Y/n's, and his teacher pulled him to his feet with surprising gentleness. The young hero's legs shook beneath him, his engines finally silent, but he managed to stand on his own. "I... yes, Sensei. Thank you. I'm sorry I—"

"We'll talk about it later," Y/n interrupted, not unkindly. His crystalline eyes held Tenya's gaze for a moment, conveying both disappointment and understanding. "Right now, let's just be glad you're alive."

The sound of multiple heroes arriving filled the alley—the rush of air displacement, the thud of boots on concrete, the crackle of quirks activating. Gran Torino appeared first, his small form shooting through the air with remarkable speed for someone his age. His eyes swept the scene, taking in the bound Stain, the injured students, and Y/n's bloodstained appearance in a single glance.

But it was the next arrival that made Y/n's breath catch.

Aizawa dropped into the alley with his capture weapon already deployed, his dark eyes wild with barely contained panic. The moment his gaze found Y/n, something in his expression cracked—relief and fury and fear all warring for dominance across his usually stoic features.

He crossed the distance between them in three long strides, his hands immediately reaching for Y/n, checking for injuries with the desperate precision of someone who'd been imagining the worst for days. His fingers ghosted over the cut on Y/n's arm, the bruises forming on his ribs, the blood staining his white shirt.

"Are you okay?" Aizawa's voice was rough, strained in a way Y/n had rarely heard. His dark eyes searched Y/n's face, looking for any sign of serious injury, any indication that his worst fears had come true.

He was really worried, Y/n realized, something warm and complicated blooming in his chest. Three days of silence and he thought—

"I'm fine, Eraser," Y/n said, gently swatting Aizawa's hands away even as a small smile tugged at his lips. The concern was touching, if somewhat overwhelming. "Trust me. I've survived far worse than this. It'll take more than a fanatic with a sword to put me down."

Aizawa's jaw clenched, his hands falling to his sides even as his eyes continued their assessment. "You didn't answer your phone. For three days. Do you have any idea—"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a sound that made everyone's blood run cold.

A screech—inhuman, terrible, carrying the weight of something that should not exist—echoed through the alley. Shadows fell across them as something massive blocked out the dim light from above.

Y/n's head snapped up just in time to see the Nomu descending, its grotesque form silhouetted against the night sky. The creature's exposed brain pulsed with sickly light, its multiple quirks making the air around it shimmer with barely contained power. Its massive hands reached down with terrifying speed, fingers closing around Y/n's torso before anyone could react.

"No!" The shout came from multiple throats simultaneously—Aizawa, Midoriya, Todoroki, Tenya—all of them moving forward even as the Nomu's grip tightened and lifted Y/n off the ground.

Y/n froze in the creature's grasp, his crystalline eyes widening not with fear but with profound annoyance. The Nomu's fingers pressed against his ribs—the same ribs Stain had bruised—and pain lanced through his torso.

Well, this is certainly unnecessary, Y/n thought with an internal sigh, his divine nature stirring with irritation rather than alarm. I could kill it with one swipe of cursed energy, but that would put me out for the rest of the hour, and I need to stay alert in case Stain breaks free from those chains. Plus, there are civilians nearby who could get caught in the blast radius if I—

Something landed on the Nomu's back with enough force to make the creature stumble mid-flight. A blade—familiar, bloodstained—drove down through the exposed brain with brutal efficiency, piercing deep into the creature's skull. The Nomu's screech cut off abruptly, its body going rigid as its nervous system shut down. It began to fall, its grip on Y/n loosening.

Stain—somehow free from his chains, blood still dripping from his wounded arm—grabbed Y/n as they plummeted. The Hero Killer's remaining good arm wrapped around Y/n's torso as he kicked off the falling Nomu, using the creature's bulk as a springboard. His boots hit the alley wall, and he began a controlled descent, jumping from wall to wall in a zigzag pattern that bled off their momentum.

He broke free, Y/n realized with grudging respect, his divine senses reading the residual cursed energy around where the chains had been. Used his own blood to corrode the bindings. Clever. Desperate, but clever.

They hit the ground with surprising gentleness, Stain's technique allowing them to land in a crouch rather than a bone-breaking impact. The Hero Killer released Y/n immediately, stepping back and landing on his own two feet with the grace of someone who'd performed similar maneuvers hundreds of times.

For a moment, their eyes met—Y/n's crystalline gaze meeting Stain's fanatical stare. Something passed between them, an understanding that transcended words. Then Stain's eyes rolled back, the whites showing as consciousness began to slip away from him.

Oh, he's lost it, Y/n thought, recognizing the signs of someone pushed beyond their physical and mental limits. Blood loss, exhaustion, and now whatever adrenaline was keeping him going is wearing off.

Stain swayed on his feet, but somehow remained standing. His mouth opened, and words began to pour out—a monologue delivered with the fervor of a prophet, even as his body betrayed him.

"Listen well!" Stain's voice rang through the alley, carrying to every hero present with startling clarity despite his obvious weakness. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the concrete beneath his feet, but his conviction burned brighter than ever. "The 'fake' pro heroes who chase money and fame, the pathetic criminals who plague our society without purpose or conviction—they must all be purged! Only then can we create a truly just society! Only then can we—"

Everyone stood frozen, transfixed by the sheer intensity of his words. Even the pro heroes who had arrived as backup found themselves unable to move, caught in the gravity of Stain's absolute belief.

The bandages covering the lower half of Stain's face began to slip, falling away to reveal the full extent of his scarred features. As they fell, something changed in the air—a malicious aura that seemed to radiate from the Hero Killer like heat from a furnace. It pressed down on everyone present, a physical weight that made breathing difficult and movement nearly impossible.

Midoriya felt his legs lock up, his body refusing to respond to his commands. Todoroki's ice flickered and died, his quirk faltering under the pressure of Stain's presence. Even Gran Torino, with all his years of experience, found himself taking an involuntary step backward.

Then Endeavor arrived.

The Number Two Hero landed with enough force to crack the concrete, flames wreathing his body in a corona of blue-white heat. His presence was commanding, overwhelming—the kind of power that had earned him his rank and reputation.

Stain's head snapped toward Endeavor, and something in his expression shifted. The manic conviction in his eyes intensified, becoming something almost feral. "You!" he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt and rage. "You, who calls himself a hero while caring only for surpassing All Might! You, who treats his own family as tools to achieve his ambitions! You are everything wrong with this society!"

He took a step forward, his wounded body somehow finding the strength to move despite the blood loss and exhaustion. His remaining blade rose, pointing directly at Endeavor's heart. "Come then! All of you! Try to defeat me in battle! Show me if any of you are worthy of being called heroes!"

The malicious aura intensified, pressing down with such force that even Endeavor—the Number Two Hero, the man who had faced down countless villains—found himself taking a step back. The flames around his body flickered, responding to his momentary uncertainty.

This is insane, Aizawa thought, his capture weapon ready but his body refusing to move forward. He's barely conscious, bleeding out, and he's still the most dangerous person in this alley.

Stain's body tensed, preparing to launch himself at Endeavor despite his injuries, despite the overwhelming odds, despite everything. His conviction would not allow him to back down, would not permit him to show weakness, would not—

His perforated lungs, damaged from the Nomu's attack and his own exertions, finally gave out. Blood bubbled up in his throat, cutting off his breath. His vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges. His legs buckled, consciousness slipping away like water through his fingers.

But even as he fell, even as his body betrayed him, Stain remained standing. His knees locked, his spine straight, his blade still raised in defiance. He stood there, unconscious but upright, the only one left standing to face his opponents.

Incredible, Y/n thought, genuine respect coloring his assessment. Even unconscious, his conviction keeps him on his feet. That's not quirk-based—that's pure willpower. Pure belief in his cause, twisted as it may be.

Y/n moved forward with casual grace, his hand rising in a simple chopping motion. His palm struck the back of Stain's neck with precise force—not enough to cause permanent damage, but enough to disrupt what little consciousness remained. The Hero Killer's body finally went limp, collapsing forward. Y/n caught him before he could hit the ground, lowering him gently to the concrete.

The malicious aura dissipated instantly, the oppressive weight lifting from everyone present. Heroes and students alike gasped, suddenly able to breathe freely again.

"Phew!" Y/n laughed, the sound bright and relieved as he straightened up, dusting off his hands. His usual playful demeanor had returned, the dangerous edge from earlier fading back into his characteristic confidence. "Glad that's over! That was way more dramatic than it needed to be."

Then his legs gave out.

Y/n slumped against the alley wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the concrete. His crystalline eyes fluttered closed for a moment, exhaustion finally catching up with him. The adrenaline that had been keeping him going drained away all at once, leaving behind the reality of his injuries—the bruised ribs, the cut arm, the general beating he'd taken.

Note to self, he thought with dark humor, dropping Infinity is a terrible idea, even when trying to teach a lesson. Especially when fighting someone as skilled as Stain.