This chapter is going to fun.
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Akira walked up to the stage.
Hands in his pockets. The same lazy, unbothered walk he always had. Like he was walking to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, not standing before a hundred thousand people who were whispering his name with allegations.
The steps to the stage were wide. The cameras followed his every move, broadcasting his face across every screen in the stadium and every television in the country.
But he didn't care.
Midnight stood at the podium, holding the microphone. As Akira approached, she gave him an apologetic look, with a tilt of her head that said, I'm sorry about this.
Akira caught it. He gave her a small smile and walked past her to take the mic.
As he passed, Midnight watched him go. She bit her lip.
God, she thought. Just make him ten years older. That's all I'm asking. Just ten years.
From the field below, several boys in the crowd of students noticed Midnight's expression and looked at Akira with envy.
Momo, standing among Class 1-A, stared daggers at Midnight.
This wh-... bad woman.
Back on stage, Akira stood in front of the microphone.
He waited for silence.
The crowd should have settled. That was how it worked. The representative approaches the mic, the arena quiets down, the pledge is given.
But the whispers didn't stop; all the spectators kept going.
"Criminal."
"Connections."
"Wouldn't be here without his family."
Akira listened, but his expression didn't change. He just stood there, one hand on the mic stand, looking out at a sea of faces that had already made up their minds about him.
"Scatter." He whispered.
BLOOM!
Blue flames exploded from beneath his feet. They spiralled upward in a massive column, twisting into a tornado of fire that engulfed the entire stage.
Then the tornado detonated.
It burst outward, scattering into thousands of wing-shaped blades made of solidified blue flame. They hung in the air above the stadium like a constellation. Hundreds of them, each one suspended in a perfect formation.
The whispers stopped.
A hundred thousand people looked up at the burning sky and said nothing.
In the VIP box, Mei leaned back in her seat and laughed.
"Here we go."
Akira tapped the microphone twice. Two dull thuds that echoed through the silent stadium.
Then he spoke.
"I know many of you have heard about me from the news."
Silence.
"Yes," he said. "I did all of that."
The people gasped, a hundred thousand people at the same time. They had expected a denial, or maybe an excuse.
Bust instead, they got a confession.
"I did what I did at USJ. And I'd do it again."
The gasps turned to murmurs as shock rippled through the stands.
Akira continued.
"Because I don't give a fuck about villains."
The murmurs died as the stadium was silent again.
"When a villain attacks," Akira said, "civilians die."
He let the words settle.
"Heroes die."
Silence.
"Mothers lose their children, children lose their parents, families are destroyed, and above all.... our futures are erased."
He let the crowd absorb his words.
"And what happens to the villains?"
He looked across the arena. Towards the parents, the pro heroes, and the government officials in their private boxes. At the recruiters, the journalists, and the common people.
"They go to jail."
He paused.
"And then they come out."
The crowd stirred. They knew it too.
"Sometimes a corrupt official signs a paper, sometimes a loophole in the law opens a door, sometimes a breakout happens, and nobody is held accountable. And the same villain who killed someone's father, someone's mother, someone's child, walks free. And the cycle starts again."
He looked at the crowd.
"How many of you have lost someone?"
No one answered. But the silence told him everything.
"How many of you have watched the news and seen the same villain arrested twice? Sometime thrice? How many of you have been told that the system works, that justice will be served, and then watched that promise break again and again?"
The stadium was completely still.
"I know because I've been there. I've watched people I cared about die because a villain was strong enough to kill them and the system was too broken to stop him."
His jaw tightened.
"I was thirteen years old at that time."
Something shifted in the crowd. The judgment was fading and the doubt was cracking. In its place, something else was growing. No, it was not sympathy, but understanding.
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Because everyone in that stadium knew he was right. They had seen it. They had lived it. They had buried people because of it.
But nobody talked about it.
Until now.
On the side of the stage, Midnight's hand moved toward her earpiece. She was about to intervene.
Just then a voice came through.
"Nemuri. Stand back."
She paused. "You sure, sir? I don't want this kid to get in trouble with the government."
Nezu's voice was calm. Almost amused.
"That was already dealt with."
Midnight smiled. "Got it, sir."
She lowered her hand and watched the phoenix fly.
Akira continued.
"So tell me," he said, looking directly into the nearest camera. "Why should I go easy on the villains who were trying to kill my classmates?"
No answers.
"Why should I hold back against the people who were trying to kill my teachers?"
Silence.
"Why should I show mercy to the monsters who were trying to kill the girl I love?"
The crowd began to whisper again. But this time, it wasn't doubt. It was agreement. Heads nodding. Fists tightened. People who had lost someone to villain attacks, people who had been told to trust the system and watched the system fail, they were listening. They were hearing their own pain in his words.
Akira flicked his wrist.
Above the stadium, the thousands of wing-shaped blades dissolved. They vanished one by one.
All except one.
A single feather blade drifted down from the sky and landed in Akira's open palm.
He held it up for the cameras to see.
"A blood oath," he said, "is a solemn, binding promise between two or more parties. Historically sealed by the bleeding blood to signify an unbreakable bond."
The arena was confused. A hundred thousand faces asking the same question: Why is he explaining this?
Akira looked at the feather blade.
Then he dragged it across his palm.
The crowd gasped.
Blood welled up immediately, dark red against his skin. He closed his fist and held it over the stage.
Drops of blood fell onto the white surface of the platform.
The stadium was frozen.
Akira raised his bleeding fist. He looked into the camera. Into the eyes of every person watching — in the stadium, in their homes, in their offices, in every corner of this world where this broadcast was being aired.
"This is a message to the world."
His voice echoed.
"I, Akira Shuzenji, will show you all what the future strongest hero in the world looks like."
The crowd held its breath.
"When I reach the top, I will build a world where no one suffers because some lunatic thinks they own this place."
His fist tightened as more blood dripped between his fingers.
"They will be scared of me. Not the civilians, heroes, or the children. The villains. They will hear my name, and they will hesitate. They will see my face, and they will run. They will know that the era of mercy for monsters is over."
He lowered his fist.
"I will be the Symbol of Fear for the villains."
He looked at the camera one last time.
"This... Is my blood oath."
He set the mic back on the stand. And walked towards a sea of shocked kids.
Silence.
The stadium was quiet. A hundred thousand people, motionless. The only sound was Akira's footsteps on the stage stairs, and the faint drip of blood from his hand.
Then, from somewhere in the upper stands, a single voice broke the silence.
"HELL YEAH!!!"
It was a middle-aged man. Standing on his seat as tears streaming down his face.
"I'M WITH THAT KID!! FUCK THE VILLAINS!! THOSE BASTARDS KILLED MY FATHER!!!"
And that set the whole arena on fire.
One voice became ten. Ten became a hundred. A hundred became a thousand. A thousand became a roar that shook the foundations of the stadium.
"FUCK THE VILLAINS! I AM WITH KID!"
"THERE'S NO PLACE FOR THEM IN THIS WORLD!!"
"SYMBOL OF FEAR?! SIGN ME UP!!!"
"AKIRA! AKIRA! AKIRA! AKIRA!"
The chant started in the upper stands and rolled downward like an avalanche. It swept through every section, every aisle, every seat.
Parents were screaming. Pro heroes were on their feet. Children were pumping their fists. Even the government officials were looking at each other, realising that the narrative they had carefully built was crumbling in real time, on live television, in front of the entire world.
A woman in the third row was sobbing, clutching a photo to her chest. A photo of a man in a hero costume. Her husband, gone. Taken by a villain who was currently serving a reduced sentence.
A teenager in the upper section was standing on his chair, tears and snot running down his face, screaming Akira's name until his voice cracked. His older brother had been a hero sidekick before he died at the hands of a villain.
An old man near the aisle was quiet. He wasn't chanting. He wasn't screaming. He was just nodding. Over and over. Like someone had finally said what he had been thinking for thirty years.
On the field, Class 1-A stared at the boy walking back toward them.
Bakugo was grinning unknowingly.
This fucker...
Momo watched Akira walk toward her. His hand was still bleeding, which he was not healing on purpose. His expression was calm. The entire stadium was chanting his name, and he looked like he was thinking about what to eat for lunch.
She sighed.
That's my Akira.
In the VIP box, everyone was on their feet.
Honoka had tears in her eyes. She slammed both hands on the railing and screamed at the top of her lungs.
"THAT'S MY BOY!!!!!!!"
Reika was crying and laughing at the same time. Kiyomasa had his arms crossed, but he was smiling. The twins were cheering. Yu was recording on her tablet. Mei and Nia were cackling as she had just won every bet she had ever made.
Jian stood at the window, looking down at the arena. At the boy who had just told the entire world to fear him then walked off the stage like it was nothing.
He shook his head and smiled.
"Just like the old man."
***
Unknown location:
In a dark office. Two figures sat in front of a large screen, watching the broadcast.
One was an old man in a high-backed chair. He held a cup of tea in one hand and a wide smile on his face.
The other stood beside him, leaning against the wall. He was tall, with messy dark brown hair and a faint scar across one eye. His arms were crossed. His eyes — thunder blue — watched the screen.
The old man chuckled.
"Hohohoho. Indra, this kid reminds me of myself."
Indra looked at the screen. At the boy with the bleeding fist, crimson eyes, and the hundred thousand people chanting his name.
"Why are you lying, old man?" Indra said. "That kid is even crazier than you."
Ming laughed loudly.
"Hohohoho. I guess so."
He took a sip of his tea.
"I guess so."
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