Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He continued seeing Sasaki-san for therapy. But now, on top of his schoolwork, he had extra Quirk control lessons, and strategy lessons with Nedzu-san.

They weren’t “lessons” per se, more like theorising sessions about One For All’s change, or Nedzu-san asking his opinion on Quirks, battling on a chessboard, or video games sometimes, though Izuku won the video games more than the chess games. So, yeah, they were pretty relaxed and even fun, one could say.

Currently, he was headed to one such lesson, at a property U.A. owned on the outskirts of Musutafu.

Izuku had thought, initially, that “property” meant something utilitarian. A training hall, perhaps, or a reinforced bunker with white walls and scuffed floors, the kind of place where mistakes were expected and quietly erased. He had been wrong. So deeply, almost offensively wrong, that the first time he’d stepped inside, he had simply stood there, shoes still on the threshold, staring like a child who had wandered into a museum after hours.

This wasn’t some old training hall. This was an estate. A massive estate with woodlands surrounding it, and a lake at the back. Insanely massive, Izuku could tell it was bigger than Yaoyorozu-san’s estate.

The living room they used for their sessions was vast without being hollow, the kind of space that had been designed not to impress visitors but to exist, confident in its own indulgence. The ceiling arched gently overhead, supported by exposed beams of dark, polished wood that caught the light in warm, honeyed tones. Tall windows lined one wall, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling, their glass panes segmented by thin black frames that looked out over rolling greenery and distant hills. Sunlight poured through them in slow, lazy sheets, illuminating dust motes that drifted like they had nowhere better to be.

The furniture was arranged with deliberate care. Deep couches upholstered in rich, muted fabrics sat angled toward one another rather than facing straight ahead, inviting conversation instead of observation. A long rug spread beneath them, woven in intricate patterns of emerald and gold that Izuku suspected were not purely decorative, though he had not yet dared to ask. Bookshelves lined the opposite wall, floor to ceiling, packed tightly with volumes of varying sizes, colors, and ages. Some spines were cracked and faded, others pristine, their titles stamped in gleaming foil. There was no obvious system to the arrangement, which only made it more unsettling. It felt like a room curated by someone who knew exactly where everything was and did not feel the need to prove it.

In the centre of it all sat the coffee table.

It was a rich, dark mahogany, Izuku realized after his second visit, the surface cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, veined with subtle streaks of green and gold that caught the light differently depending on where you stood.

And, of course, it was custom made with a marble chessboard. Not on it, no, inside it.

The chessboard inlaid into its surface was not a separate piece placed atop it but part of the table itself, the squares carved and polished to a mirror sheen.

As soon as the door behind Izuku was shut, the pieces rose up from the chessboard, like ominous problems surfacing in shadows. The tiles on the board clicked shut and Izuku sat down opposite Nedzu-san.

The white pieces were a creamy ivory, heavy in the hand, while the black pieces were obsidian-dark, their surfaces swallowing light. They were not decorative replicas. They were balanced, weighted, crafted with such meticulous attention that Izuku had felt a strange, almost reverent hesitation the first time Nedzu-san had invited him to play.

Nedzu-san, for his part, adored it.

“Ah, there you are,” the principal chirped now, already seated on the couch opposite the board, teacup balanced neatly in one paw. His eyes gleamed with familiar mischief as Izuku stepped further into the room. “Right on time. Or perhaps fashionably late. I find the distinction is largely a matter of narrative framing.”

Izuku resisted the urge to glance at his watch. “I’m three minutes early.”

“Yes, yes, but you thought about being late on the way here, didn’t you?” Nedzu-san replied lightly. “That counts.”

Izuku snorted before he could stop himself, the sound surprising them both. He dropped his bag beside the couch and sat, posture careful but no longer rigid, his gaze inevitably drawn back to the board. The pieces had already been set, white facing him. Nedzu-san always let him take white. Izuku suspected this was not kindness.

The first few moves passed in comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft click of marble against marble and the distant sound of wind brushing through the trees outside. Izuku had learned, over the past three weeks, that Nedzu-san valued these quiet stretches. Not because he disliked conversation, but because he liked to see what people did when they were not being prompted. Izuku had stopped filling the silence after the fourth session. It had been exhausting, constantly wondering whether every word was a test.

Now, he let his thoughts settle, eyes scanning the board as he advanced a knight. Nedzu-san hummed approvingly, or perhaps ominously.

“You’ve been steadier,” Nedzu-san observed after a few moves. “Less overcorrection.”

Izuku frowned slightly. “That’s… good, right?”

“Exceptionally good,” Nedzu-san replied. “Most people swing wildly when they feel change beneath their feet. You appear to be… listening.”

Izuku shifted, fingers brushing the edge of the board. “It’s hard not to. One For All doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

Ah. There it was.

Nedzu-san did not look up, his attention fixed on the piece he was moving, a bishop gliding across the board with quiet confidence. “Different how?”

Izuku hesitated. He had rehearsed this explanation in his head more than once, refining it, trimming it down, trying to strip it of anything that sounded too abstract or too emotional. Nedzu-san did not interrupt. He waited.

“It’s not louder,” Izuku said finally. “And it’s not stronger, exactly. At least, not in the way it used to be. It’s more… responsive. Like it’s paying attention back.”

Nedzu-san’s ears twitched. “Fascinating choice of words.”

Izuku grimaced. “I know how that sounds.”

“Oh, I’m certain you do,” Nedzu-san said pleasantly. “Continue.”

Izuku leaned back slightly, eyes drifting to the windows as he searched for the right phrasing. “Before, it was like… like holding onto a live wire. You could direct it, kind of, but it was always fighting you. Or maybe I was fighting it. Now it’s more like… I don’t know. Like standing in a current that adjusts to how you move. If I tense up, it resists. If I relax, it carries me.”

Nedzu-san placed a rook, then finally looked up at him. “And what do you think it is responding to?”

Izuku opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stared down at the board, at the careful geometry of the pieces, the way each one’s value shifted depending on what stood beside it. “Intent,” he said slowly. “Not just the physical kind. It’s… easier to control when I’m clear about why I’m doing something.”

Nedzu-san’s smile widened, just a fraction. “Not how?”

“No,” Izuku admitted. “The how still matters. A lot. But it’s not the first thing anymore.”

They played on, the game unfolding with increasing complexity. Izuku found himself enjoying it in a way he hadn’t at the beginning. He still lost track of the larger patterns sometimes, focusing too hard on local advantages, but he was starting to see how Nedzu-san set traps not by aggression but by invitation. A piece left seemingly vulnerable, a line opened that begged to be exploited.

“You’ve been spending time with Todoroki Shouto,” Nedzu-san remarked casually, as if commenting on the weather.

Izuku stiffened, just barely. “We train together.”

“Mm. And talk?”

“…Sometimes.”

“And how does One For All behave then?”

Izuku frowned, fingers tightening around a pawn. “That’s not— I mean, I don’t activate it during conversations.”

Nedzu-san chuckled softly. “I didn’t ask whether you were activating it.”

Izuku paused. He replayed recent moments in his mind. A quiet conversation in the training gym, Todoroki listening more than he spoke. His mother’s hand on his shoulder as she asked him if he was eating enough. Gran Torino’s gruff approval when Izuku adjusted his stance without being told. The way the air seemed… steadier. Like something had settled.

“It’s calmer,” Izuku said at last. “I think. Or maybe I am.”

“Do you believe those are separate states?” Nedzu-san asked, advancing his queen.

Izuku met his gaze, green eyes sharp. “I think you’re baiting me.”

Nedzu-san beamed. “And yet, you haven’t declined to answer.”

Izuku sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips now. “No. I don’t think they’re separate. But I don’t think it’s as simple as ‘people make me stronger,’ either. It’s not like that.”

“Not a battery,” Nedzu-san agreed lightly. “Good. That would be dreadfully inelegant.”

Izuku snorted again, more openly this time, and moved his bishop. “You say that like elegance is a moral requirement.”

“In my experience, it often is,” Nedzu-san replied. “I find systems that lack it tend to collapse under their own weight.”

The game tightened. Izuku began to feel the pressure, the slow encroachment of Nedzu-san’s pieces boxing him in, limiting his options. He recognized the pattern too late, realized he had been shepherded toward this position over the last ten moves. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating.

“So,” Izuku said, eyes still on the board, “you’re not going to tell me what you think is happening.”

“Oh, I could,” Nedzu-san said cheerfully. “But then you would stop thinking.”

Izuku glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Izuku leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think… it’s something about proximity. Not just physical. Emotional, maybe. When I trust someone, when I’m actually honest with them, it’s like One For All… syncs better. But I don’t know why. Or how far it goes. And I don’t think it’s unlimited.”

Nedzu-san’s eyes sharpened, interest unmistakable now. “Why not?”

“Because nothing is,” Izuku said simply. “And because it feels… reciprocal. Like if I’m closed off, it doesn’t push. It just… waits.”

Nedzu-san made his move.

Check.

Izuku groaned softly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I walked right into that.”

“You did,” Nedzu-san agreed. “But you saw it.”

Izuku maneuvered his king, buying himself a little time. “You’re not denying it.”

“No,” Nedzu-san said. “I find your observations quite compelling.”

They played on for several more minutes, Izuku fighting valiantly, even managing to spring a clever counter that cost Nedzu-san a knight. The principal laughed aloud at that, delighted rather than annoyed.

“Well done,” he praised. “You’re learning when to press.”

“Still going to lose,” Izuku muttered.

“Almost certainly.”

It ended as it always did, Nedzu-san’s pieces converging with quiet inevitability, the final checkmate delivered not with flourish but with precision. Izuku leaned back, exhaling slowly, the tension draining from his shoulders.

“I hate that board,” he said, eyeing the marble surface accusingly.

Nedzu-san patted it fondly. “Lies. You adore it. It shows you the truth.”

Izuku rolled his eyes but did not argue. He looked around the room again, at the sunlight, the books, the quiet confidence of the space. He felt… steady. Grounded. Like something was aligning, piece by piece.

“We’ll continue next week,” Nedzu-san said lightly, resetting the board. “By then, perhaps you’ll have another theory.”

Izuku stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Or I’ll finally beat you.”

Nedzu-san laughed, bright and sharp. “Oh, my boy. That will be a very interesting day indeed.”

As Izuku left the room, the faintest flicker of green light danced at the edge of his vision, gone before he could focus on it. He did not notice.

Nedzu-san did.

Early-October had a way of making mornings feel earned.

Izuku stepped outside just as the sky began to change its mind about being dark, the horizon lightening almost reluctantly, as if dawn itself was stretching before committing to the day. The air was cool enough to sting faintly at the back of his throat when he inhaled, crisp without being sharp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves that had begun to collect along the edges of the pavement. He adjusted the sleeves of his dark blue sports jacket, the fabric snug and familiar, thumbholes anchoring the cuffs over his hands in a way that felt grounding rather than restrictive. The jacket fit him well now, molded to a body that had changed not dramatically, but undeniably, shaped by consistency rather than desperation.

His headphones settled over his ears with a soft, comforting pressure, and a song from an old playlist began to play, something from the early 2000s with a steady beat and a melody that felt like motion. It wasn’t music meant to be analyzed. It was music meant to move to. Izuku liked that. He liked not having to think too hard about it.

He started running.

The first few steps were always about adjustment. His feet found their rhythm against the pavement, shoes striking with a soft, controlled impact, the customized soles absorbing the force smoothly around the extra joint in his toes. Black shorts brushed lightly against his thighs over the leggings beneath, fabric shifting with each stride, never catching, never pulling. His body warmed gradually, breath deepening rather than quickening, lungs expanding with measured ease. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Slow. Intentional. He had learned that pacing mattered, that control was not something you forced but something you negotiated with yourself.

He ran the same route he always did, around the block, familiar enough that his feet knew where to land even before his eyes fully adjusted to the low light. The pavement here was uneven in places, a network of old cracks that had been there for years, some of them branching like veins, others worn smooth by time and use. Izuku knew them all. There was one near the corner where the concrete dipped slightly, another further along where a tree root had pushed up stubbornly beneath the surface, refusing to be ignored. He adjusted his stride without thinking, a subtle shift of balance, his body responding smoothly, efficiently. It felt good, noticing that. Noticing without analysing, without taking notes in his head.

His breathing found its rhythm quickly. In through his nose, slow and steady, out through his mouth, controlled and even. He counted for a while without meaning to, four steps in, four steps out, then let the numbers fade away as the movement settled into something automatic. The air tasted faintly of damp earth and fallen leaves, and with each breath, his chest expanded easily, no tightness, no strain. His heart rate climbed, but it did so calmly, like it understood this was not an emergency, just movement for its own sake.

As he passed the first row of trees, their leaves a mix of green, gold, and the earliest hints of rust-red, he felt a small, familiar lift in his chest. Autumn always did that to him. The branches arched overhead, some leaves already drifting down to scatter across the pavement, crunching softly beneath his shoes. The sound layered itself beneath the music in his ears, a quiet accompaniment that grounded him in the moment. He watched his breath fog faintly in front of him, disappearing almost as soon as it formed.

The park came into view not long after, a different one, further from his old routes, smaller and tucked neatly between residential streets. It was empty at this hour, the benches damp with dew, the grass untouched except for the narrow paths worn into it by years of foot traffic. The trees here were older, their trunks thick and steady, roots hidden beneath the soil like they had secrets they did not feel the need to share. Izuku skirted the edge of it, staying on the pavement, his pace unchanged, though his awareness sharpened briefly, a flicker of memory rising unbidden. Another park. Another time. Raised voices and laughter that had not been kind. The memory brushed against him and then slid away, not pushed down, not suppressed, simply acknowledged and allowed to pass, like a leaf carried along by the current of his thoughts.

He lengthened his stride slightly as he moved past the park, the music swelling in his ears, something upbeat and familiar, and felt his muscles respond smoothly, power contained rather than spilling over. There was no lightning, no surge, nothing dramatic. Just strength, quiet and present, like it had always been there and he was only now learning how to listen to it. His legs carried him forward with ease, calves warming, thighs working in tandem, each movement efficient rather than forceful. He focused briefly on his posture, shoulders relaxed, spine aligned, arms swinging naturally at his sides, hands unclenched.

The neighbourhood was waking slowly around him. A light flickered on in a kitchen window. Somewhere, a door opened and closed softly. A cat darted across the street ahead of him, tail high, vanishing into a narrow gap between fences. Izuku smiled faintly, breath steady, and kept running. This was his time, early enough that the world had not yet demanded anything of him, before expectations and responsibilities could settle heavily on his shoulders.

As he rounded the final bend, the sky had shifted noticeably, deep blues giving way to softer shades, pale pink and gold bleeding into one another along the horizon. The sun was rising now in earnest, spilling warmth across the tops of buildings and trees, catching on windows and leaves until everything seemed edged with light. The pavement ahead of him glowed faintly, the cracks he knew so well outlined in gold, transformed into something almost beautiful. He slowed slightly, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to feel it, wanted to be present for the moment rather than rush past it.

His breathing deepened, still controlled, still easy, and he became acutely aware of his body in motion, of how each part worked together without friction or resistance. There was a sense of alignment he had not always had, a feeling that nothing was fighting him from the inside. He was not thinking about One For All, not actively, not the way he did in training or during his lessons with Nedzu-san. But it was there, quiet and cooperative, like a background current that supported rather than overwhelmed. It did not demand attention. It did not need to be wrestled into submission.

By the time he slowed to a jog and then a walk, the sun had fully cleared the horizon, bathing the street in warm light. He pulled one earcup aside briefly, letting the sounds of the morning wash over him, birds calling from the trees, the distant hum of traffic beginning to build. His breath misted once more in the cool air, then faded. He rolled his shoulders, feeling loose, settled, and realised with a small start that he was smiling.

Izuku liked his run.

It was not a grand revelation, not a turning point marked by fanfare or lightning or sudden understanding. It was simply a good morning, a body in motion, a mind at ease, and the quiet knowledge that growth did not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes, it arrived like this, on familiar pavement, beneath a rising sun, and stayed.

The U.A. School Festival was on the 9th of November, so a month away. Hero Students generally had the Sports Festival to show off, but the School Festival was for every class. Manual—Class 1-A’s new teacher while Aizawa was under investigation, had been hired two weeks ago—had announced it on Monday (Todoroki-kun had told him), and they had already decided on a concert that day. Which meant that today, Wednesday, they were deciding roles in the concert. That meant that they were still in Homeroom and Todoroki-kun was on his phone. Again.

This boy doesn’t listen to rules at all.

Shaking his head, Izuku focused on the next text.

Class 1-A was putting on a performance, it seemed, and Todoroki-kun was going to… dance? The mental image Izuku conjured up was almost too funny, he nearly dropped his phone from laughing.

Maybe it wasn’t a smart decision to lay down on his stomach on the edge of his bed, with his phone held over the floor, but it was fine.

Focusing, and wiping a tear away, he started typing his reply.

Izuku shrugged. It had been obvious to him.

She enjoyed moving, was flexible, and her fighting style was a lot more smooth than the melee style Izuku had taken to. Also, if they were doing a performance, then it was likely that Ashidou-san had had a strong say considering her enjoyment for performative arts, he’d heard her mention it in passing in the dorms before.

The conversation shifted to Todoroki-kun’s visit to his mother. He’d started talking to Izuku about them a month after he started going to visit her, so around June, but then he’d stopped, and now he’d taken to talking to Izuku again.

Izuku smiled to himself often when Todoroki-kun brought it up, warm that the heterochromic boy trusted Izuku enough to share the news and information.

Izuku placed his phone down. First, he needed a shower, and then he was going to eat.

It was still so relaxing, waking up later, not having to take the train up to U.A. and such, so surreal Izuku sometimes caught himself thinking he’ll be late and then remembering he can’t be late because, well, school’s all online.

Kaa-san wasn’t home today, she had a pilates class she attended on Wednesday, so Izuku was home alone. He’d finished all his schoolwork for the week (the work was all put up at the beginning of the week online), only had a lecture to attend today and tomorrow, both in the afternoon, and he needed to try and understand One For All.

When talking to Todoroki, and he recalled the pleasant feeling of being trusted, Izuku felt something shift, like One For All was changing— No, not changing, enhancing itself.

Something felt off.

Previously, he had wondered if proximity to others affected output, but he wasn’t near anyone he knew and he felt stronger.

Izuku sat up slowly, the easy sprawl he’d adopted on his bed forgotten, phone still warm in his hand. The room felt the same as it had moments ago. Quiet. Sunlight filtering in through the curtains at a shallow angle, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Nothing had changed. And yet, there was a faint, unmistakable sensation humming just beneath his skin, not loud enough to alarm him, but present enough that he could not ignore it. Like his body had leaned forward slightly, anticipating something that had already happened.

He closed his eyes and focused inward, the way Sasaki-san had taught him. Breathe. Notice. Don’t interrogate, just observe.

The sensation didn’t spike. It didn’t surge. It simply… stayed. A subtle reinforcement, like the difference between standing on solid ground and standing on ground that had been quietly reinforced beneath your feet while you weren’t looking.

“That’s not right,” he muttered to the empty room.

He rolled onto his side, staring at the wall as his thoughts began to spool out faster, connecting dots whether he asked them to or not. He hadn’t activated One For All. He hadn’t even been thinking about it consciously. He’d just been texting Todoroki-kun. Offering advice. Being trusted. And the feeling had come after that, not during the conversation about the festival, not even during the earlier messages, but specifically when Todoroki had shifted into something more personal, more vulnerable. Talking about his mother. About his family. About being tired.

Izuku’s brow furrowed.

“No,” he said quietly. “That’s… that can’t be it.”

But the thought refused to let go.

He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the floor automatically. The sensation lingered as he stood, not growing, not fading. He paced once, then twice, bare feet brushing against the cool wood as he replayed the past few weeks in his head, not in a frantic way, but with the careful precision of someone re-examining data they’d dismissed as noise.

His mum, sitting at the kitchen table late one evening, hands wrapped tightly around a mug that had long since gone cold. The way her voice had trembled when she’d asked him if school had been hard. How he’d hesitated, then finally told her about Bakugou. Not everything. Not all of it. But enough. Enough that her eyes had filled with tears, enough that she’d reached across the table and squeezed his hands like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

He remembered the way One For All had felt then. Not explosive. Not dangerous. Just… present. Solid. Like it had settled more comfortably inside him, adjusting its weight.

Gran Torino, gruff and sharp-tongued as ever, but watching him closely during training, nodding once when Izuku corrected his stance without being told. “You’re learning,” the old man had said, as if that were the highest praise he could offer. Izuku had felt it then too, a subtle reinforcement, a quiet click like something slotting into place.

Nedzu-san, leaning back in his chair, eyes bright with curiosity rather than suspicion, treating Izuku’s thoughts not as naive rambling but as hypotheses worth entertaining.

And Todoroki-kun.

Izuku stopped pacing.

“It’s not distance,” he murmured. “It’s not proximity.”

His heart began to beat a little faster, not with panic, but with the familiar thrill of realisation, the kind that came when a theory began to cohere, edges still rough but unmistakably there. He crossed the room to the whiteboard mounted on the wall opposite his desk, the one he’d insisted on installing despite his mother’s gentle teasing about turning his bedroom into a lab. He snatched up a marker, uncapped it with his teeth, and began to write.

He underlined the last word, hard enough that the marker squeaked.

“Trust,” he said aloud, testing it. “Or… something like it.”

His gaze drifted back to his phone, still lying on the bed, the last text from Todoroki glowing faintly on the screen. Have a good meal.

It wasn’t admiration. Todoroki didn’t idolise him. If anything, Todoroki questioned him constantly, challenged him, pushed back in his own quiet way. It wasn’t dependence either. Todoroki had his own support system, fractured as it was. But he had chosen to come to Izuku anyway. Had chosen to ask.

Mutual. That word echoed in his head.

Izuku swallowed.

“If that’s true,” he whispered, “then this isn’t just about me.”

The thought sent a strange shiver through him, equal parts awe and apprehension. This wasn’t a power that could be hoarded, not without starving it. It wasn’t something he could refine in isolation. It required… people. Not crowds. Not applause. Individuals. Real connections.

He capped the marker with a sharp click and grabbed his phone, thumbs flying over the screen before he could second-guess himself.

The reply came barely a minute later.

Izuku exhaled, relief and nervous energy tangling together in his chest. “Of course you do,” he muttered fondly.

By the time the call connected, Izuku’s room looked like a war zone of ideas. The whiteboard was half-covered in writing now, arrows connecting thoughts in red and black annotations squeezed into any available space. He’d switched markers twice, fingers stained faintly with ink, hair messier than usual from running his hands through it too many times. When Nedzu-san’s face appeared on the screen, framed by the familiar background of his office, teacup already in paw, his eyes widened with unmistakable delight.

“Oh, excellent,” Nedzu-san said. “You’ve reached the scribbling phase.”

Izuku huffed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“On the contrary,” Nedzu-san replied. “It’s my favourite phase. Now then, enlighten me.”

Izuku took a breath and launched into it, words tumbling out in a rush at first, then settling into a steadier rhythm as he found his footing. He talked about the texts with Todoroki, about the sensation that had followed, about how it didn’t align with any of his previous assumptions. He gestured at the board as he spoke, pacing slightly, pointing to notes and arrows like he was afraid the ideas might escape if he didn’t keep an eye on them.

“I thought it was proximity,” he said, voice tight with concentration. “But I wasn’t near him. And it wasn’t delayed either, not really. It was… concurrent with the conversation. With him trusting me.”

Nedzu-san sipped his tea, eyes sharp. “And you’ve noticed similar effects before.”

“Yes,” Izuku said, nodding quickly. “With my mum. With Gran Torino. With you. But not with, say, classmates I don’t really talk to. Not even if they’re physically close.”

“Ah,” Nedzu-san murmured. “Selective activation.”

Izuku paused, then scowled faintly. “You already had a term for this.”

“I have many terms,” Nedzu-san said cheerfully. “I was waiting to see which one you would gravitate towards.”

Izuku shot him a look. “That’s evil.”

“Educational,” Nedzu-san corrected.

They fell into a rapid back-and-forth then, theory stacking on theory, each one poked and prodded from multiple angles. Nedzu-san suggested models, analogies, frameworks. Izuku dismantled some, refined others, pushed back when something didn’t sit right. They talked about feedback loops, about systems that strengthened through alignment rather than accumulation, about the risks inherent in tying power to something as fragile and unpredictable as human relationships.

“It’s not unconditional,” Izuku said firmly at one point, tapping the board with the marker. “If it were, it’d be dangerous. It has to be mutual. I think… I think one-sided feelings don’t do anything.”

Nedzu-san’s smile turned sharp. “Why?”

“Because they don’t change me,” Izuku replied without hesitation. “If someone just admires me, that doesn’t require honesty. Or vulnerability. It doesn’t ask anything of me.”

Nedzu-san leaned back, studying him. “You’re describing resonance.”

Izuku stilled.

“Not the name,” Nedzu-san added quickly. “The phenomenon. Systems amplifying one another when aligned. Waves overlapping, reinforcing rather than cancelling out.”

Izuku’s grip tightened on the marker. “That’s… that makes sense.”

They stared at the board together, even through the screen, the messy web of ideas slowly resolving into something clearer, if not simpler. Izuku felt that familiar hum again, faint but steady, like the Quirk itself was listening, attentive.

“So,” Nedzu-san said at last, breaking the silence. “If this holds true, then your strength is no longer merely a function of your body or your will.”

Izuku nodded slowly. “It’s built on relationships. On trust. On… mutual understanding.”

“And that,” Nedzu-san said softly, “is both extraordinarily powerful and deeply inconvenient.”

Izuku laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “You’re telling me.”

They discussed the implications then, practical and ethical, the ways this could reshape Izuku’s training, his approach to heroics, even his understanding of himself. It was not a neat conversation. They contradicted themselves, doubled back, argued cheerfully over definitions and boundaries. At one point, Izuku accused Nedzu-san of enjoying this too much.

“I absolutely am,” Nedzu-san replied without shame.

Eventually, the conversation circled back to something simpler.

“You’ll need a cover name,” Nedzu-san said. “For reports. For documentation.”

Izuku hesitated, glancing at the board. “I don’t want it to be misleading. But it has to be vague enough that I can pass off any updates as part of it.”

“Give it space to grow,” Nedzu-san suggested.

Izuku considered that, then uncapped a fresh marker and wrote a single word at the top of the board, testing its weight.

Resonance

He stared at it for a long moment.

“…It fits,” he said quietly.

Nedzu-san’s eyes gleamed. “An excellent choice.”

Izuku leaned back against his desk, exhaustion and exhilaration mingling in his chest. The theory wasn’t finished. It wasn’t even close. But it was something. A direction. A framework. And for the first time since One For All had changed, he didn’t feel like he was chasing it blindly.

He felt like he was beginning to understand how to walk alongside it.

And somewhere deep within him, the quiet hum of power seemed to agree.

Izuku stared at the envelope in his hands. His new provisional licence finally arrived.

After finalising the new name for One For All, and sending in the request for a revised Provisional Licence, and of course changing official documents to match the story, it took about a month, and now it was here.

Taking a deep breath, Izuku steeled himself.

This was it.

He opened the envelope, barely glancing at the letter with HPSC stamped in the top right corner.

No, before him was his new Provisional Hero Licence.

His new Hero Name, high school, Quirk. All of it, clean and pristine and his.