AN: Thank youu for all the support that you guys have given to me within this 2-3 days. I appreciate it so much and I will never forget it and as for my situation, it's hard to forget those happy memories but memories stay memories and I have to go forward even it's hard to do so. Once again, thankyou very much guys.
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The dark room was silent save for the low hum of an old television monitor.
Flickering static washed the space in intermittent light, painting ghostly patterns across cold cement walls. On the screen, a replay of the U.A. Sports Festival climaxed once more—Kenjiro Sasaki standing victorious, body slick with sweat, the scorched arena cratered beneath his feet. Mochi tendrils retracted into his arms like liquid muscle. Fire sparked along his limbs before vanishing into nothingness.
Bakugo's final explosion had passed through him like mist.
The television crackled again.
Across the room, seated in an ornate chair carved from obsidian steel, the warlord of villainy watched—motionless, but deeply amused.
A slow, rasping chuckle echoed from behind All For One's expressionless helmet. The screen reflected off its polished surface, capturing a single frame of Kenjiro mid-attack—fierce, unpredictable, and radiant.
"Fascinating," he murmured, voice as twisted and layered as ancient rusted gears. "Elastic manipulation… partial intangibility… pyrokinesis through friction acceleration… perhaps even regenerative compression. And he's still learning."
From the shadows, a hunched figure shuffled forward—a wiry man in patched clothing, shoulders twitching involuntarily.
"Boss," the underling rasped, holding a wrinkled tablet. "We dug into the boy's background. No family. No known relatives. Lives in a state-run orphanage in Musutafu. Tanaka Home."
All For One's head tilted slightly.
"An orphan… How convenient."
The underling shifted on his feet. "We could move in now. While he's still fresh from the spotlight. Catch him off guard."
But the warlord simply raised a gloved hand—slow, deliberate, final.
"No," he said. "A weapon of such promise must be tested. Strength is forged through adversity… and broken through heartbreak."
His voice dropped to a whisper, thick with sinister intent.
"We wait. We watch. And when his defenses are lowered… when he believes himself untouchable…" His hand clenched into a fist. "We take everything."
The room seemed to breathe with him—growing colder as the monitor dimmed to black.
His laugh, low and metallic, spilled into the darkness. It sounded less like joy and more like prophecy.
Elsewhere – A Nameless Apartment in Kamino
Photographs lined the walls in a collage of obsession.
Kenjiro Sasaki in every stage of motion—charging into combat, smirking at reporters, walking home from U.A. in casual wear. Training footage. Stolen snapshots of him surrounded by children from the Tanaka Home. One image showed him handing a steaming rice ball to a younger boy, a gentle smile across his face.
The apartment was silent, save for the subtle creak of floorboards.
A figure stood in the center of the chaos, cloaked in a ragged coat, gloved hands trembling with manic energy.
They reached for a photo. The image showed Kenjiro mid-combat—his mochi limbs extended like serpents, his torso phasing partially through Bakugo's blast.
A knife flashed.
THUNK.
The blade drove through Kenjiro's face in the image, pinning it to the cracked plaster.
The voice that followed was sharp, low, and filled with venom.
"Sasaki Kenjiro… Your time will come."
Stadium Grounds – Post-Festival
Even as the sun began its descent, the energy around the U.A. stadium remained electric. The festival may have ended, but the buzz lingered like static in the air.
Near the front of the stands, Mrs. Tanaka pressed a trembling hand to her chest, overcome by tears. Her shawl barely held in place as she rocked with pride. Beside her, young Aiko screamed until her voice broke, clutching a glitter-covered banner that read MOCHI KING in sparkling pink.
"He won! He actually won!" she shrieked, bouncing up and down.
Mrs. Tanaka laughed, eyes brimming. "I always knew he would. That boy was born to do something special."
Around them, the crowd buzzed with a thousand voices.
"Did you see that phase move? He evaporated through Bakugo's blast!"
"What kind of quirk even does that? Is it one quirk? Or three?!"
"That finish… That final Mochi Impact… I swear the shockwave shook the stands."
"He's the real deal."
VIP Observation Deck – Pro Heroes' Box
From a high vantage point, several top-ranking pro heroes remained in quiet conversation, their gazes still fixed on the now-ruined arena.
Endeavor stood with his arms crossed, smoke curling around his shoulders.
"That boy…" he muttered. "Didn't even break a sweat. No delay between defensive transitions. Zero hesitation."
Best Jeanist, usually composed, adjusted his collar with a tight tug.
"His fiber control—well, mochi in this case—isn't just reactive. It's predictive. I saw him adjust positioning mid-attack based on projected counters. That kind of awareness is…" He paused. "Unnerving."
Edgeshot remained silent for a while before speaking. "He's a phantom fighter. There's no single counter strategy. Hit him and he bends. Pressure him and he slips away. Trap him and he combusts."
Hawks, reclining lazily against a railing, wings draped casually over the edge, let out a low whistle.
"Damn, and I thought I was the youngest rising star." He grinned. "Every agency in the country's going to trip over themselves trying to sign this kid."
He leaned closer to the glass, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Wonder what kind of pain's hiding under that smile."
In the City's Depths – Underground
All For One's monitor turned off with a flick. The room once more returned to black.
"He is promising," the villain murmured. "But promises are easily broken."
From the darkness behind him, a growling, distorted voice spoke. "Shall I prepare the extraction unit?"
"No," All For One said again. "Let the boy enjoy his moment. Let the world celebrate him. The higher the pedestal..."
He tilted his helmet slightly, voice tightening.
"…the harder the fall."
Unbeknownst to Kenjiro Sasaki, as the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the Musutafu skyline, two forces began to converge on his future.
One—a legend from the shadows, preparing to strip him of his gift.
The other—a phantom with a blade, driven only by blood and rage.
And in between them stood a boy made of mochi—soft on the outside, but forged by fire within.
His festival was over.
His war had just begun.