𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗦 ⌈𝐈⌔𝐌 ✗ 𝔽!𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹⌋

Chapter 120

CHAPTER 120: Three Who Inherit the Flame

The smoke clears, but the air still tastes of ash and lightning.

You can feel it — the earth itself trembling beneath your boots, shivering under the weight of what’s left of a world trying not to collapse. Every breath burns in your throat. Every heartbeat feels too loud. But he’s still there.

All Might.

Barely breathing, armor cracked open like a broken shell, one hand twitching weakly in the dust. His body is ruined, yet somehow, he’s alive.

“Izuku—” you whisper, your voice hoarse but steady.

He’s already moving, scrambling to All Might’s side. His hands are shaking as he presses them against the old hero’s chest. “He’s still got a pulse…! He’s still—!”
The relief cracks his voice mid-sentence.

You kneel beside him, pressing your palm over the wound. The faint hum of your quirk flares to life — soft blue light pooling beneath your hand, threads of liquid energy weaving through shattered armor and scorched skin. The hydrolight pulses faintly, keeping rhythm with All Might’s breath. Slow. Fragile. But there.

“Stay with us, sensei…” you whisper, your vision blurring. “You’re not done yet.”

Katsuki’s boots grind against the rubble behind you. He doesn’t speak at first — just stares down at the three of you, eyes shadowed beneath smoke and exhaustion. The faint hiss of his gauntlet adjusting breaks the silence.

“…You two done crying yet?”
His tone is sharp, but not cruel. It’s grounding — a spark of life in the midst of ruin.

Izuku looks up, blinking through the soot. “Kacchan—”

“Don’t ‘Kacchan’ me, nerd,” he cuts him off, stepping forward. His arms tremble from strain, but his gaze is solid steel. “That freak’s still breathing. We end this before he starts talking again.”

You glance over your shoulder, the corner of your mouth twitching into something almost like a smile. “Then quit talking and move, damn it.”

Something unspoken passes between the three of you — years of battles, lessons, pain, and the fragile thread of hope that somehow survived it all. Every scar, every breath, every time you refused to stay down — it all leads here.

You rise as one.

The wind howls through the ruins, sweeping dust into spirals. Water ripples outward beneath your feet, reflecting flashes of green and gold. Sparks of fire crackle in the air, burning away what’s left of the night.

For a single, fragile heartbeat, everything syncs — three souls, one rhythm.
Three hearts.
One storm.

Then, the ground trembles.

From beneath the wreckage, a low, broken sound rises — like thunder dragging chains across the earth. You freeze, breath caught between anticipation and dread.
And then you see him.

Shigaraki.
Or what’s left of him.

He drags himself upright, body trembling, half buried in rubble. His flesh is torn, his skin split by jagged veins of black sludge. Dozens of hands — some cracked, some twitching — cling to his frame like parasites, fusing into the armor that binds him. His eyes burn red through the haze — hatred given form.

The world itself seems to recoil around him. Even the rain slows, as if the sky itself hesitates to touch him.

Then he laughs.