When Mewtwo finally withdrew from Goto's mind and returned to reality, the sight before him was shocking. M
uscular's face looked as if it had aged at least ten years in mere minutes. Blood streamed from his nose and ears, his skin pale and sunken, his breathing shallow.
Mewtwo's eyes widened; he hadn't intended to harm him like this. Instinctively, he extended his hand and cast Life Dew, bathing the villain in a soft, healing water.
The bleeding stopped almost immediately. Color returned to Goto's face, his pulse steadied, and the raw strain faded from his expression. But the years that had settled upon him did not fade. Deep lines carved across his face remained, and his once-youthful features were replaced by a visibly older man.
The detective and Lady Nagant froze, both of them turning pale. "What did you do?" the detective demanded, shoving Mewtwo back with alarm.
Mewtwo didn't answer at first. He asked to speak privately, away from any possible ears or recording devices. Once in another room, he explained—carefully. He told them he had accidentally made psychic contact with the villain's mind.
He avoided mentioning that he had done so intentionally; admitting that would invite trouble from the bureau, especially from the director.
He clarified that he hadn't meant to cause harm, at least not in that way. Still, the fact was undeniable: Goto had come out of it aged and drained, his vitality stripped away. The police decided to quietly ignore that particular detail. Considering the severity of Goto's crimes, few were inclined to pity him.
Afterward, the detective and Kaina made their stance clear. "You can't do that again," the detective warned, his tone sharp. "Not unless it's a last resort. That method is too dangerous—too cruel."
Later, in a more private moment, Kaina pulled Mewtwo aside. Her expression was serious.
"They're going to want to use you," she told him quietly. "The bureau, the higher-ups—they'll see what you can do and push you to use it again. They'll say it's justified if it's on criminals, that it's legal if they order it. But that's how they trap you—how they make you theirs. Don't let them. Refuse, no matter who asks. Even if it's the director himself, find a way to say no."
Mewtwo nodded silently, understanding the warning for what it was.
Once he relayed what information he had gathered from Muscular's mind, the bureau and a coalition of heroes mobilized.
Their target: the network trafficking in temporal artifacts. Through the intel Mewtwo had provided, they traced the sale of several time-related relics to different criminal groups—most linked to Japan's fragmented mafia.
Over the next four months, coordinated raids swept through the country. Heroes dismantled cell after cell, crippling operations and recovering stolen equipment.
Five major criminal families collapsed under the onslaught, their power bases erased in weeks. The black market trade suffered massive losses.
While the heroes launched coordinated strikes across Japan, the U.A students were far from idle.
Each of them, stationed at different hero agencies, threw themselves into training and real missions, sharpening their instincts and learning what it truly meant to be a pro. Mewtwo—known to them as Raiden—grew stronger as well.
But progress came slower now. The stronger he became, the harder it was to advance. Ordinary villains no longer challenged him; he needed opponents with real power, real danger.
Still, his pace remained steady enough. Between assignments, he continued refining his psychic techniques, learning to channel his power with greater precision.
Through this process of self-discipline and experimentation, he even unlocked a pair of new moves.
At the same time, Mewtwo devoted much of his effort to investigating the Bureau itself. He combed through archives, databases, and encrypted records, but the deeper he searched, the less he found.
It was as if the Bureau's true operations existed in a shadow parallel to its public face—every incriminating thread neatly erased. Even months after the incident with Goto, the Bureau continued to assign him ordinary missions, never allowing him near anything sensitive.
It was frustrating. Despite being the one who had exposed the artifact trafficking network, the Bureau had kept him off all major operations.
Those missions went instead to other heroes—heroes they could control. Mewtwo, meanwhile, was sent to handle petty criminals and small-scale robberies, engagements that now barely tested him.
The fights were routine.
Only after a series of prolonged, uninspired skirmishes against minor villains did he finally push himself over the edge to Level 19.
Time moved on. Summer break drew near, only a few weeks away, marking the end of the internship period. For Raiden, it had been a productive, if quietly uneasy, experience. He had gained strength and insight—but not the answers he sought.
The biggest problem remained the same: there was still no solid evidence against the Bureau's director.
Lady Nagant had warned him from the start. "He's careful," she had said. "Even if he's testing you, he won't leave anything traceable. That's how he operates." And she was right.
The Bureau wasn't careless enough to leave documents or recordings that could expose corruption. What they could do, however, was slip. If they could catch the director ordering something illegal—something even the Bureau couldn't publicly justify—it would be enough to bring him down.
So together, Kaina and Mewtwo began to gather information—quietly, cautiously. They intercepted mission orders, cross-checked reports, and verified inconsistencies. Sure enough, they found something.
The director had been issuing a series of "vigilance operations" that lacked any legal basis. Officially, these missions were classified as preventative surveillance, targeting supposed terrorist threats. In reality, they had no authorization from any judicial body.
If not for Kaina's insight, Mewtwo might never have noticed. She pointed out that several missions didn't even have corresponding warrants. Intrigued and disturbed, the two began digging deeper. The pattern was clear: every so-called "surveillance" assignment involved individuals who, by coincidence, were investigating the Bureau itself.
Then came the revelation that made Mewtwo's blood run cold. Two of the names listed in his latest assignment weren't villains or terrorists at all—they were heroes. And when he traced the documentation further, the truth surfaced: the director had fabricated an entire narrative, branding them as conspirators plotting an attack on the city.
In reality, they were simply doing what he and Kaina were now doing—trying to expose the Bureau.
Everything began with a grieving family and a simple request for truth.
A year after a villain had attacked a neighborhood, the family of one of the victims reached out to a hero they trusted. Four people had died in that battle—not a massacre, but enough to leave deep scars on those who lived through it.
The tragedy itself wasn't unusual. People died in villain attacks all the time. The problem was how two of those people had died: not by the villain's hand, but by the hero's.
The hero had meant to help. His Quirk allowed him to create and manipulate slime, shaping it into fast, flexible whips. They were powerful—too powerful. A misjudged strike had missed the villain and instead hit the civilians he'd been trying to protect. Their bones shattered under the impact, and they died before anyone could reach them.
In a perfect world, it would have been treated as an accident, a grim reminder of how dangerous hero work could be. But the Bureau had built its entire image on a lie—that heroes were flawless, that as long as a hero was near, everyone would be safe. To maintain that illusion, they buried the truth.
The official report claimed that the villain had killed all four victims before the hero arrived. The Bureau fabricated evidence, edited footage, and rewrote testimonies. The woman who had lost her husband and daughter was compensated generously—but when she asked why the truth was being hidden, the Bureau's answer was cold and precise:
"We can't tarnish the reputation of a good hero for the consequences of a difficult battle."
She understood the logic. She knew the hero hadn't meant to kill anyone. But logic didn't dull the ache of loss. More than money, she wanted acknowledgment—an apology, at least. But the Bureau made sure no such apology would ever come.
So she started investigating on her own. Quickly, she realized how deep the cover-up went. Every file was altered, every piece of evidence erased. The Bureau had built a wall around the truth. Desperate, she turned to someone she trusted—a young man from her neighborhood, recently graduated from a hero school and just beginning his career as a pro hero.
When she told him her story, he didn't believe it at first. The Bureau wasn't a judicial institution; they were supposed to regulate heroes, not rewrite the law. But her words stuck with him, unsettling something in his conscience. He decided to look into it—not to accuse anyone, but to calm her down with facts.
That decision was his first mistake.
He didn't inform the Bureau of his inquiry, and he underestimated how deep the rot went. His search turned up nothing—no records of misconduct, no disciplinary notes, no mention of collateral deaths. But that, in itself, raised suspicion. Because there was almost too little.
The official documents described the villain's crimes, but only partially. Of the four deaths, two were missing from the evidence entirely. It matched exactly what the woman had said.
Driven by curiosity—and a growing sense of dread—the young hero visited the site of the attack. The damage had long been repaired, but as he asked around, he noticed something odd: the security cameras. They weren't new. They had been there during the incident.
He tracked down the property manager, who told him he'd handed over the footage to the police a year ago—and that the victim's widow had come by several times, pleading for copies that no longer existed. He even admitted that the woman had been "a nuisance," constantly asking questions. He'd told her to drop it.
But there was one glaring problem: the official case file made no mention of any security footage at all. There wasn't a single record of those cameras, or their data, anywhere in the Bureau's or police's archives.
The young hero's doubt solidified into certainty. Something was being hidden. Against his better judgment, he decided to take one more step—a step he knew crossed the line. He would infiltrate the police archives himself. If there was anything left—an overlooked backup, a mislabeled file—he'd find it.
What he didn't realize was that he was already being watched. Someone had been following him for a while.