Death Paradox 💥BAKUDEKU💥

Chapter 6

Strength

Izuku Midoriya – Notebook Entry
Alternate World Line?
The Interstice of Fate – Observational Theory (Unstable)

I think it's the place between who you were and who you're about to become.
It shows you every version of yourself you've ever failed to protect.
Every world you couldn't save. Every Katsuki you couldn't reach.
It isn't just a limbo—it's a reckoning. A dimensional bleed-through of fractured realities.
Based on what I saw, it responds to memory resonance—parallels anchored by strong emotional or genetic frequency.
The environment itself feels sentient, like it adapts to what you fear most, what you regret most.
I don't think you leave it whole.
You just leave it knowing you have to try again.

The Interstice doesn't care what we want. It only cares what we'll choose next.
And whatever that is, I swear—I'm choosing him. Every time.

✧༺✦✮✦༻✧

Chapter 6

There was no light, no sound, no breath. Only the slow drift of a soul unmoored—weightless, formless, spiraling through the velvet void of the Interstice.

Izuku floated, limbs adrift, suspended in a place where time was a forgotten rumor and space curled inward on itself. The dark around him wasn't empty—it was absolute. It pressed close like a shroud stitched from eternity, whispering lullabies in a tongue only the dead understood.

He didn't know if he was dreaming.

Didn't know if he was dead—again.

Or if this was some cruel liminal eternity, a borderless purgatory where breath was a memory and thought dissolved like salt in black water.

But then the void stirred.

Not with light. Not with sound, but with absence.

Around him, the mirrors—once alive with flickering reflections of endless parallels—stood in ghostly stillness. Where once they had shimmered like water and bled with red, now they were dimmed.

Muted.

Turned off.

Like lanterns left to burn out.

Like the universe had blinked.

Each pane of glass, once a window into countless realities, was now hollow. Blank. As if the multiverse had drawn a curtain—retreating from this space, unwilling to watch what came next.
No movement. No whispers. No fractured timelines bleeding together.

Just... silence.

And in that silence, something older began to pull.

Threads.

Silken and strange, drifting toward him like veins of light bleeding through shadow. They touched him without contact—brushing over his chest, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles, his throat.

Tethering him.

And from the center of his chest—where the ache lived—one thread stood out.

Red.

Vibrant. Lifelike. The color of blood, of battle, of something real.

It pulsed once, a faint tug from somewhere far beyond this place, and then he felt its rhythm. A call. A heartbeat.

Connection.

A presence unfolded in the distance—slow, deliberate, sovereign. The void bent to it, shadows folding inward as if the Interstice itself held its breath, as if it bowed to its will.