Izuku hadn't noticed the turn at first.
One block… two blocks… and the bright arcade lights that had been his destination never came into view. The streets around him were quieter now—residential, familiar—the kind of route his feet knew so well they didn't need his permission.
Because his mind was still back there.
All Might's shadow still loomed in his head, larger than life and somehow… smaller than it had ever been.
You can't become a hero.
The sentence replayed like a stuck recording—clean, absolute, and said with a smile that made it worse.
Izuku's fingers tightened around the straps of his backpack until the fabric creaked.
He tried to breathe it out. Tried to file it away like one of his notes. Tried to turn it into something useful—something he could live with.
Maybe… I don't have to be the one in the spotlight.
His thoughts scrambled for a workaround the way they always did: analyze, adjust, adapt.
"Maybe…" he whispered, voice small in the open air. "Maybe being the head of an agency wouldn't be all bad…"
He pictured it too easily—clean office, screens showing patrol routes, heroes checking in, teams he'd help organize. The guy behind the curtain. The strategist. The one who made other people shine.
"I could manage heroes," he continued, forcing the words into place. "I could come up with ways to improve their… their moves and teamwork. I could watch them grow and become splendid heroes…"
It was almost comforting—almost.
Then the ache came back deeper, because even in the fantasy he wasn't there. Not in the danger. Not in the rescue. Not in the moment that mattered.
Izuku gave himself a sad, crooked smile.
"Maybe that's the only way," he said, quieter now.
He tried to steel himself—refused to let the tears fall. His eyes burned anyway. He blinked fast.
Don't cry. Not here. Not over this. You knew.
But the cruel part was—he didn't know. Some stubborn piece of him had believed that trying hard enough would eventually count for something.
And now the person who embodied the dream had looked him in the eyes and shut the door.
Izuku's shoulders slumped. His steps slowed.
A car rolled past him, tires whispering over pavement. Somewhere behind a fence, a dog barked twice and fell quiet. The neighborhood kept being normal around him, like it didn't care that something inside him had cracked.
He breathed in.
The air felt colder than it should've.
He breathed out.
It didn't make the weight in his chest go away.
Izuku adjusted the backpack straps again—more out of habit than comfort—and kept walking, head down, letting the familiar route carry him home.
Izuku was still walking when the world snapped.
BOOM.
The sound cracked through the neighborhood like a thunderclap—too close, too sharp, the kind of noise that didn't belong in a quiet residential street. A flock of birds burst from a nearby tree in a black scatter, and somewhere down the block a car alarm chirped once, confused, then died.
Izuku stopped mid-step.
His head snapped toward the sound so fast his neck twinged.
For half a second, his brain did what it always did: tried to sort it.
Explosion… impact… smoke?
Then his stomach dropped.
"V-villain attack," he breathed.
His heartbeat surged, sudden and hard, like it had been waiting for an excuse to wake up.
Two instincts collided inside him so violently he almost staggered.
The first was automatic—his fanboy reflex, bright and frantic even through the gloom.
What hero is it? Is it someone local? Are there sidekicks? What quirks—
The second instinct was heavier. Quieter. The one that still echoed with All Might's voice like a verdict.
Don't. Go home. You're quirkless. You don't belong there.
Izuku stood on the sidewalk, frozen between excitement and fear.
Between curiosity and humiliation.
Between the kid who used to sprint toward any sign of hero activity…
…and the kid who'd just been told to stop dreaming.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
He told himself to turn around.
He tried.
His feet didn't listen.
They angled toward the sound, slow at first—like his body was testing whether his mind would stop it—then faster, breaking into a quick walk. The farther he went, the louder the street became.
Shouting carried on the wind.
A horn blared—long and angry.
Someone screamed, sharp enough that it cut through everything else.
"Get back!"
Izuku's breath hitched.
His walk turned into a jog.
His jog turned into a run.
He weaved past a man dragging a child by the wrist, past a woman stumbling backward with her phone held up like it could protect her. People were spilling out onto sidewalks, heads craning, eyes wide, some fleeing, others hovering as if curiosity might outrun danger.
"Move—move!" someone barked, shoulder-checking past him.
Izuku stumbled, caught himself, and kept going.
Cold air scraped his throat. His lungs burned too quickly—part fear, part adrenaline, part the fact that he hadn't been running today.
He didn't slow.
Because the noise ahead wasn't fading.
It was growing.
And with every step, one ugly thought kept getting louder in his head:
If a hero's here… why are people still screaming like this?
Izuku rounded the corner—
—and ran straight into the edge of the crowd.
Izuku hit the crowd like a wall.
Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder across the street, forming a nervous half-circle around the chaos ahead. People were craning their necks, stepping forward and flinching back, caught between curiosity and survival. Some had their phones up. Some had their hands over their mouths. A few were shouting at each other like noise could make the danger smaller.
"Back up! Back up!"
"Someone call—!"
"Where are the heroes?!"
Izuku pushed through gaps where he could, squeezing past elbows and backpacks and strangers who smelled like sweat and panic. The air got worse the closer he moved—thick with smoke and something sour underneath it.
Then the smell hit him full force.
Stagnant sewer water.
Oil.
Rot.
Izuku's stomach turned.
He squeezed between two adults at the front—
—and the street opened up.
In the center of the road was a mass of sludge—thick, rippling, alive—like an oil spill that had decided it hated you. It bubbled and folded over itself, stretching outward in grotesque waves, forming arms that weren't really arms and a face that couldn't hold its shape for more than a second.
It slapped against the asphalt with wet, heavy sounds.
It moved like hunger.
Izuku's breath caught.
Inside that living mess—
A boy's head.
Blond hair plastered with grime. Eyes wide and furious. A mouth open in a muffled scream that kept choking off as the sludge tightened.
"K-Kacchan…?"
Bakugo Katsuki was trapped up to his neck.
The sludge clung to him like a marsh swallowing its prey, squeezing his cheeks, pressing into his throat. Every time he jerked, it tightened. Every time he tried to suck in air, it surged like it wanted to fill his mouth and keep going.
Bakugo's eyes darted, wild—still angry, still defiant—but for one heartbeat Izuku saw what was underneath the rage.
The shock of realizing strength meant nothing if you couldn't breathe.
To the side—too close, close enough to be in danger—two familiar faces stood rigid as statues.
Tsubasa.
Daichi.
They weren't running. They weren't speaking. They were just… there, frozen in place like someone had turned their fear into concrete. Tsubasa's small wings were half-flared, trembling, like his body couldn't decide whether to take off or lock up. Daichi's fists were clenched so hard his knuckles had gone white, but his legs wouldn't move.
Izuku's chest tightened until it hurt.
His first thought came sharp and stupid and automatic:
I have to do something.
His second thought followed right behind it, colder and heavier:
What can you do?
A sludge arm snapped outward like a whip, cracking the air with a wet WHAP. Someone near the front shrieked and stumbled back. The crowd surged away in one frightened wave, then settled again, circling like they couldn't look away.
"Don't get close!" a man shouted. "It'll grab you too!"
"Kid's gonna die!" someone else screamed.
Bakugo thrashed, and the villain surged, swallowing more of him. The sludge climbed higher—over his jawline, over his lips—until Bakugo's shout turned into a strangled, muffled sound.
His eyes widened.
Real panic, raw and unarmored, broke through his face for the first time.
Izuku's feet moved before he realized he'd decided anything.
One step.
Then another.
His brain screamed Stop.
His legs didn't listen.
Bakugo's eyes flicked toward the crowd again, frantic, searching—like he was looking for anyone who would move.
And when his gaze landed on Izuku, it changed.
The anger didn't vanish.
But the message underneath it was suddenly unmistakable.
Help.
Izuku swallowed hard. His mouth went dry.
He glanced at Tsubasa and Daichi—still frozen, still watching their friend get swallowed alive—and something in Izuku's chest snapped from fear into something else.
Not confidence.
Not courage.
A refusal.
He looked past the villain for heroes—anyone in uniform, anyone stepping in—and saw only tense figures holding a perimeter, faces tight, bodies ready… and still not moving.
The street was still waiting.
Still waiting for someone stronger.
Still waiting for a "real hero."
Bakugo jerked again, and the sludge tightened around his throat.
Izuku's hands started shaking.
He didn't have a quirk.
He didn't have a plan.
He didn't have permission.
But he had a friend who was suffocating.
And that was enough.
Izuku stepped forward—past the invisible line the crowd had drawn for safety—and the moment his shoe crossed it, he understood with sick clarity:
If he didn't move…
No one would.
Izuku shoved through the ring of onlookers like the crowd was made of paper.
"Hey—kid!" someone shouted. "Don't—!"
He barely heard it.
All he could see was Bakugo's head half-buried in that writhing, filthy mass and the way the sludge tightened every time Kacchan tried to breathe.
If the heroes aren't going to save him… then we will.
That thought hit with the certainty of a reflex.
Izuku reached the edge of the "safe line"—the invisible boundary everyone had agreed not to cross—and hopped over it like it was a puddle. The air changed instantly on the other side, heavier with stink and heat and panic.
Two pro heroes stood nearby, tense and uncertain, faces tight with calculation. Their hands twitched like they wanted to act.
They didn't.
"WAIT!" someone barked behind Izuku. "You'll get yourself killed!"
"Let a hero handle it!"
Izuku didn't slow down.
He sprinted forward, feet slapping the pavement hard enough to sting, breath ripping at his throat. He ran past Tsubasa and Daichi—still frozen—eyes wide, bodies locked, fear holding them in place.
Bakugo saw him coming.
For half a second, his eyes widened in furious disbelief, like Izuku had sprinted into a storm on purpose.
"Deku—!" Bakugo tried to shout.
The sludge surged up, muffling the sound.
Izuku got close enough that the smell hit him full force—sewage, oil, rot. Close enough that he could see bubbles popping in the villain's surface like it was breathing.
Izuku's fingers fumbled at his straps.
I don't have a quirk. I don't have a weapon. I don't have—
His backpack.
Izuku yanked it off so fast it nearly tore his shoulder. He spun, planted his feet, and threw with everything he had—panic, desperation, and the one stubborn part of him that still believed someone could be saved.
The bag whistled through the air.
For a horrifying heartbeat, Izuku realized his aim was terrible.
It wasn't headed for the villain's forming "face."
It was headed straight for Bakugo's.
"K-KACCHAN—!"
Bakugo's eyes widened. He ducked on instinct—
The backpack slammed into the sludge villain's head with a wet THUNK, striking where one of its eyes had started to form. The creature recoiled, mass rippling backward like a wave slammed by a boat.
The pressure around Bakugo loosened.
Just enough.
Bakugo's mouth broke free, and he sucked in air like someone surfacing from drowning.
"HAH—!" he gasped, then snapped right back into fury like it was armor. "DAMN YOU!"
His right hand—still partially trapped—sparked.
A crackle. A flash.
BOOM!
A heavy explosion burst from Bakugo's palm, tearing a small hole through the sludge's body. The villain's mass blew outward, scattering chunks that immediately tried to pull themselves back together.
Izuku didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward and grabbed Bakugo—arms wrapping around him as tightly as he could, hands slipping against slime and sweat. The sludge fought back instantly, thickening around Bakugo like a tightening noose, dragging him down again.
Izuku planted his feet and pulled.
Nothing.
His shoes slid an inch across the pavement.
The sludge held Bakugo like glue made of hunger.
"Kacchan!" Izuku's voice cracked. "D-don't worry—I'm here—!"
Bakugo twisted his head just enough to glare at him.
It wasn't gratitude.
It was a furious, stubborn No way I'm dying like this.
"You—" Bakugo choked, then spat, "—you absolute idiot!"
But even through the insult, his eyes stayed locked on Izuku's like he was anchoring himself there.
Bakugo's anger detonated into action.
BOOM!
Another explosion—sharper, more focused—ripped through the sludge clinging to his arm. His hand broke free, dripping vile muck, palm already sparking again.
Izuku seized Bakugo's forearm with both hands and yanked as hard as he could.
Muscles screamed. Knees bent. Back strained.
Bakugo didn't budge.
Izuku tried again, teeth clenched, putting everything into it—every ounce of fear and frustration and please—
"RRRAAAH!"
And then—movement.
Not Bakugo.
Two shadows rushed in.
Daichi's fear finally cracked—not into calm, but into motion. He slid beside Izuku and hooked Bakugo's other arm, jaw clenched so tight his face trembled.
Tsubasa dove from above, wings beating hard. He grabbed Bakugo's forearm with both hands and lifted, adding his weight to the pull.
They didn't say anything heroic.
They just grabbed on.
And pulled.
Daichi's hands shook as he latched onto Bakugo's arm, but his grip didn't slip.
Tsubasa hovered low, wings beating hard enough to kick grit and ash into the air. He hooked both hands around Bakugo's forearm and lifted, using his weight like a pulley.
Izuku kept both arms locked around Bakugo's wrist, feet planted wide, knees bent like he was trying to pull a boulder out of a swamp.
Bakugo coughed, sucking air in ragged bursts, face streaked with sludge. His eyes were narrowed with fury, but his breathing was real now—thin and desperate, but real.
The sludge villain didn't like that.
Its body rippled—then surged forward like the street itself had turned liquid. The hole Bakugo had blasted began sealing shut, the edges crawling together with wet slurps. New arms started forming out of its sides, thick and heavy, like it was growing muscles out of mud.
Izuku felt the suction tighten around Bakugo again.
"K-Kacchan—!" he grunted, pulling harder.
Bakugo's jaw clenched. "DON'T—" he choked out between coughs, "—LET GO!"
Daichi swallowed hard. His voice came out high, strained, but steady enough to lead.
"On… on three!" he barked.
The sludge villain's face formed more clearly for a second—eyes like dark pits, a mouth stretching wide in a grin that didn't belong on anything alive.
Its mass swelled, towering higher, blocking the sun. It leaned down over them like a storm cloud made of sewage.
Tsubasa's wings fluttered. "D-Daichi—!"
Daichi squeezed his eyes shut for half a beat, then forced them open.
"O-one!"
The sludge surged.
A thick arm whipped out, snapping the air with a wet crack, and the crowd screamed as it slammed into the pavement just feet away—warning shot, a promise.
Izuku didn't flinch.
He couldn't.
If he let go, Bakugo went back under.
"Two!" Daichi shouted, voice cracking.
The villain ballooned again, building pressure like a wave about to crash. Its surface rolled, pulling itself together—gathering for a full strike.
Bakugo's palm sparked, but he couldn't aim cleanly from this angle. Not while half his body was still fused to the sludge. His fingers curled, trying anyway.
Izuku's arms trembled. His shoulders screamed.
Tsubasa gritted his teeth, wings beating harder, lifting, lifting—
Daichi's throat tightened.
"THREE!"
All three pulled at once.
For one terrible second, nothing happened—
Then the suction broke with a violent, wet TEAR, like something ripping free from a swamp.
Bakugo exploded out of the sludge's grip.
The force launched him backward—straight into them—and the four of them went down in a tangled heap.
Izuku hit first, shoulder slamming into pavement.
Daichi rolled, skidding, hands scraping raw.
Tsubasa folded his wings tight so they wouldn't snap and tumbled with them.
Bakugo landed on top with a furious grunt, coughing, dragging in air like his lungs were trying to restart.
For half a heartbeat, the street went quiet.
Bakugo was out.
Alive.
Izuku's chest heaved with relief so sharp it made his eyes sting.
Daichi let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob.
Tsubasa's wings trembled.
Then the sludge villain screamed.
Not just anger.
Wounded pride.
Hunger denied.
"DAMMIT!" it bellowed, voice bubbling like it was coming from a clogged drain. "YOU GREEN-HAIRED—!"
Its mass swelled, doubling, rising until it blotted out the sunlight. The street dimmed under it. The air turned thick and wet.
The villain's surface rolled like stormwater. Arms formed—bigger, thicker—hammer-limbs dripping filth. Its "head" leaned down, eyes sharpening into hateful pits.
Izuku pushed himself up on trembling arms and looked up.
The sludge villain smiled—wide and terrible.
"I SHOULD'VE KILLED YOU WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE," it hissed.
It drew its arms back.
The air pressure changed, like the street itself was holding its breath.
And then the sludge villain swung down—
a massive hammer-fist aimed to crush all four boys at once.
The sludge villain surged forward, and the street seemed to shrink under its shadow.
It bulldozed through scattered debris like it weighed nothing—liquid mass flowing over broken asphalt, sliding right across pockets of fire without flinching. Heat hissed against its surface. The flames bent and warped, but the monster didn't slow.
Its arm thickened—no, condensed—sludge compacting into a fist the size of a refrigerator, dripping filth and smoke.
It lifted.
And came down.
Izuku threw his arms up on instinct.
Daichi froze mid-flinch.
Tsubasa's wings snapped half-open—
WHUM.
The impact never landed.
The fist stopped an inch above them like it had slammed into an invisible wall. The whole arm shuddered, rippling, trapped in place. The sludge strained forward, but the air itself refused to give.
A low pressure howl rolled over the street, like wind being forced through a narrow tunnel.
Behind the boys—
A figure stood with both arms extended, palms open, shoulders squared.
Ryuuki.
His pearl-gold horn glowed faintly, and the air around his hands looked wrong—shimmering, bending, as if the space between him and the villain had become a rushing current.
Izuku's breath caught in his throat.
"R-Ryuuki…!"
Daichi sucked in a breath like he'd been underwater.
Tsubasa's face lit up so hard he looked like he might cry.
Ryuuki glanced at them over his shoulder, half-smiling even as sweat gathered at his temple.
"So," he said, voice light—almost teasing—"this is what you guys do when I'm not around."
The sludge villain's face twisted, furious and confused.
"WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THESE KIDS COMI—"
BOOOOM!
Bakugo detonated a massive explosion straight into the villain's face.
The blast tore a hole through its upper mass, scattering chunks across the street like dirty meteors. The sludge recoiled, its trapped arm loosening against Ryuuki's pressure barrier.
Bakugo coughed, wiped sludge from his mouth with the back of his hand, and snarled, "MOVE! Before it reforms!"
Izuku didn't need the order twice.
He grabbed Daichi's sleeve and yanked him backward. Tsubasa flapped hard, stumbling with them as they scrambled behind a fallen barrier, hearts pounding like drums.
Ryuuki stepped forward instead of retreating, keeping himself between the monster and his friends. His hands stayed raised, fingers flexing, maintaining the pressure current like he was holding a tide in place.
His eyes flicked toward the pros standing back—tense, calculating, still not committing.
His jaw tightened.
Then he looked at Bakugo.
"Why aren't they stopping it?" he demanded.
Bakugo spat sludge to the side. "Because they'll get grabbed. Later. Right now—hit it!"
Bakugo lunged and blasted again, hammering the villain while it was still pulling itself together.
Ryuuki shifted his stance, planting his feet. The air around him pulled and swirled as he shaped flow—pressure gradients, drag, eddies—like he was drawing a map only he could see.
"Don't let it fully re-form," Ryuuki said fast, scanning the scattered pieces. "Trap what you can. Anything with a lid—trash can, bin—anything!"
Izuku, Daichi, and Tsubasa moved instantly.
Daichi sprinted for a dented trash can near the curb, dragging it back with a grunt.
Tsubasa darted upward and came down with a plastic storage bin he'd yanked off a toppled storefront display, wings beating frantic.
Izuku snatched up his backpack from the grime, ripped it open, and grabbed a piece of cardboard. He started sweeping sludge chunks toward the bin like he was cleaning up toxic waste, hands shaking but moving anyway.
"Go—go—go," he hissed, breath thin.
The sludge villain tried to pull itself together.
Ryuuki didn't let it.
He inhaled once—sharp, controlled—horn brightening.
"Eddy Launch."
The air compressed under him and released in a directed burst. He shot forward like a torpedo through water, closing the distance in a blink.
As he moved, his right fist began to rotate—not wild, not sloppy—tight and deliberate, a miniature vortex forming at his knuckles.
"Eddy Fist."
He drove it into the villain's midsection.
The punch didn't just hit.
It bit.
A localized cyclone of air pressure and drag tore into the sludge's cohesion, twisting its mass inward like a whirlpool trying to drain it.
The villain convulsed, surface vibrating like it couldn't decide which way was solid.
It hissed, voice bubbling with rage. "AHA—! Did you not see how I trapped your friend?! As long as I get a small part of your body—"
Ryuuki grinned.
"Yeah," he said, breath tight. "That's the problem."
His fist rotation sped up—cleaner, sharper.
"You need a grip."
The vortex intensified.
The sludge around his knuckles shuddered—
POP—THOOM!
Not fire.
Pressure.
The villain's mass erupted outward in a messy spray, blasted apart by violent airflow shear. Sludge slapped pavement and splattered across broken glass.
Ryuuki shook his hand once like he was flicking off water. "You were saying?"
He lifted his head and scanned the street.
Flames still flickered from wreckage. A hose hero was holding the spread back but hesitating to fully douse the scene—too many civilians, too much chaos.
Ryuuki raised both arms, palms open.
He didn't create water.
He made air behave like it had weight.
He thickened the air around the flames, robbed them of oxygen and stable turbulence, forcing the fire to choke on itself.
The flames weakened.
Hissed.
And died in patches.
Behind him, the boys worked fast—shoving what sludge they could into containers, slamming lids down, trying to hold writhing fragments in place.
But the villain adapted.
Its body split into smaller shapes—thin ribbons of sludge that shot across the pavement like snakes. It whipped Bakugo in the back again, sending him tumbling.
Then it gave a wet, gurgling command from its reforming core:
"RETURN."
The fragments in Izuku's bin shivered.
The sludge in Daichi's trash can strained against the lid.
And suddenly, like iron filings pulled by a magnet, strands began ripping free—stretching, slipping, escaping their makeshift containers—racing back toward the villain.
"No—!" Izuku gasped, tightening his grip on the bin.
Daichi threw his weight on the trash can lid, grunting.
Tsubasa flapped down hard, trying to pin the storage bin with both hands.
But the sludge was fast.
And it wasn't just running.
It was learning.
The main body flowed low again, streamlined, hunting—this time not towering, not roaring, but aiming.
It slammed through a pile of debris and sent bricks and glass exploding outward—
straight toward the crowd.
Ryuuki's body reacted before his mind could decide.
"Eddy Launch!"
He shot toward the civilians like a missile.
The rescue reflex kicked in—automatic.
The air in front of the crowd thickened and curved into a flowing cushion. Debris hit it and lost momentum, redirected sideways as if a river current had grabbed it mid-flight.
Glass clattered into the gutter.
A brick thudded into the street instead of someone's skull.
For half a heartbeat, the crowd froze—
then erupted, cheering like it was a miracle.
Phones came up. Flashes popped. Videos rolled.
Ryuuki widened the current, sweeping more debris away—
then snapped his attention back to the street and Bakugo.
He launched again, horn flickering brighter—
"Eddy Launch—!"
And a cold clamp snapped onto his ankle mid-dash.
A small sludge fragment latched on like a parasite.
It tightened around bone with ugly pressure.
Pain shot up his shin.
Ryuuki's trajectory skewed, sending him careening toward a storefront wall at insane speed—
His quirk reacted with a counter-current, pressure spiking around his torso to bleed momentum just enough that he didn't slam into brick.
He skidded sideways, shoulder grazing the building, boots scraping sparks.
"Damn—!" Ryuuki hissed, grabbing at his ankle, trying to peel the sludge off.
It clung like living tar.
And the main body noticed.
Its face formed sharp and hungry.
"OH?" it gurgled, delighted. "YOU."
It surged toward him like a wave.
Ryuuki's attention was still on his ankle—still fighting the clamp—when the shadow swallowed his light.
He looked up—
Too late.
The sludge villain slammed into him and wrapped him in one crushing instant.
"GOTCHA."
Cold.
That was the first thing Ryuuki registered—cold sludge swallowing heat from his skin like it wanted to erase him.
The second was weight.
Not just on his arms or chest—everywhere. A pressure that didn't feel like someone holding you down… it felt like being wrapped in a living fist.
His mouth opened on instinct.
Sludge surged in.
His eyes snapped wide.
He tried to inhale—
Nothing.
His chest expanded and met a wall.
Sound dulled immediately, as if the world had been shoved underwater. He could hear muffled screaming outside, distant and distorted, but it might as well have been another planet.
His hands clawed at the sludge around his face.
It didn't tear.
It clung.
Every struggle made it tighten like quicksand that hated you.
Focus. Tidecoat. Eddy—
His thoughts scattered the moment his lungs started burning.
Harbor Current was rhythm. Control. Breathing.
Breathing was gone.
The sludge villain's voice bubbled against his ear, thick with satisfaction.
"Just need a little part of you," it hissed. "Just a little opening—then you're mine."
Something cold and deliberate pressed toward his mouth.
A tendril prying, probing, forcing.
Trying to get inside.
Ryuuki clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. He twisted his head, fought it with sheer refusal, but the pressure rose and rose, crushing the fight out of him.
Stars sparked at the edge of his vision.
His heart slammed so hard it hurt.
Panic clawed up his throat—
And then something deeper answered.
Not a thought.
A reflex.
Like an animal's brain flipping a switch:
Survive first.
His throat tightened on its own, sealing at the right points. His airway stopped being a helpless tunnel and became a guarded gate. His body made tiny, brutal adjustments—pressure shifts, resistance points—instinctive compensation.
Apex Habitat.
The sealed dragon-side adaptation flared like a hidden organ waking up.
The sludge still covered him. Still crushed him. Still tried to drown him—
—but for the first time, it couldn't fully enter.
A thin pocket of space formed at his mouth and nose—no bigger than a desperate gasp.
Ryuuki sucked in a ragged breath.
Air scraped into his lungs like sandpaper.
It hurt.
But it was air.
And that breath did something more important than keep him alive.
It gave him one second of clarity.
Outside, the boys saw it before he felt it.
His horn began to glow through the sludge.
Faint at first—like a candle behind dirty glass.
Then brighter.
Brighter still.
A lighthouse behind stormwater.
Izuku's eyes widened, throat tight. "Ryuuki…?"
Daichi froze mid-step, hands trembling around the trash can lid.
Tsubasa hovered low, wings fluttering in panic.
Even Bakugo—sprawled on the street, sludge smeared across his cheek—paused for half a heartbeat, eyes narrowing.
"What the hell—?"
Inside the sludge, Ryuuki's focus snapped into place like a lock clicking shut.
Not perfect.
Not calm.
But enough.
His chest rose again—another breath, faster this time, steadier.
His Mythic Core limiter—the governor that usually kept everything sealed and safe—registered what his body already knew:
Death imminent.
And for the first time, it didn't care about control.
It cared about survival.
A switch flipped.
The seal loosened—just a crack.
Energy surged.
His tiny Dragon's Hoard—small, locked, barely understood—dumped its entire reserve into a single command.
Ryuuki's horn flared white-gold, bright enough to be seen through the sludge like sunlight through murky water.
The sludge villain recoiled, startled, its grip shuddering.
"What—WHAT IS THAT?!"
Ryuuki clenched his fists, not to punch—
but to shape flow.
Harbor Current didn't create water.
It made air behave like water.
So he did the only thing a drowning body could understand.
He made a breakwater.
A boundary layer formed at his skin—dense, circulating, fast. Not the soft, steady Tidecoat he used for cushioning hits.
This was violent.
Emergency.
A spinning sheath of air pressed against the sludge like a blade of pressure.
Ryuuki forced one more breath into place, feeling his ribs shake.
Then he released the command.
Breakwater Surge.
A ring-shaped pulse blasted outward from his core—an expanding donut of pressure and shear.
The sludge convulsed.
For one split second it lost cohesion, surface ripping like wet cloth under tension—
And then it blew off him.
Not a clean push—more like it was peeled away in strips and droplets, flung outward in a filthy halo.
The villain screamed, its body exploding into fragments around him.
"NO—!"
Ryuuki hit the pavement on one knee, gasping hard, coughing sludge and air until his throat burned. His whole body trembled like he'd just sprinted a mile on broken legs.
But he was out.
Breathing.
He didn't waste the window.
He forced one more inhale—thin, shaking—and snapped his hand forward.
"E-Eddy… Launch!"
The air compressed and burst.
Ryuuki shot sideways out of the fragment cloud like a torpedo, clearing distance before the sludge could re-wrap. He hit the street in a roll, shoulder scraping, and skidded to a stop on one knee, one hand braced on the pavement.
His horn's glow flickered weakly now, like a lamp running out of oil.
Behind him, the sludge villain tried to pull itself back together—pieces slithering, reconnecting, reforming—
—but the moment of perfect containment was gone.
The crowd screamed again—this time with disbelief.
"HE GOT OUT!"
Izuku stared, chest heaving, tears in his eyes he hadn't noticed were there.
Daichi's hands shook so badly he almost dropped the trash can lid.
Tsubasa's wings fluttered in frantic relief.
Bakugo pushed himself up, eyes narrowed, palms sparking. "Tch… finally," he muttered, but his voice wasn't only anger anymore.
Ryuuki lifted his head, coughing once more, and grinned through the shake in his breath—half stubborn, half feral.
"Yeah," he rasped. "Not… letting that thing… wear me."
The sludge villain's eyes formed again, now wide with fury.
Its body surged, gathering itself for another strike—
And above the street, a shadow fell.
A sudden rush of wind.
A presence so heavy it made the crowd's screaming stall in their throats.
A voice like thunder wrapped in a smile cut through the chaos:
"I am here."
All Might landed between the kids and the monster with a crack in the pavement—
and for the first time since this started, the sludge villain hesitated.