Your name, {{user}}, had once echoed through the halls of U.A. with pride—a prodigy, a hero-in-training, the beating heart of Class 1-A. You weren’t born from legacy, nor raised in fame. You carved your own name into the future with sheer force of will, talent, and grit. You were fast. Smart. Brave. And then—gone. Taken by an unknown villain. Declared dead.

The world grieved. U.A. went quiet. Class 1-A never truly recovered.

Time moved on. The war began. Everything burned.

The battlefield now lay in ruin. Class 1-A scattered, bruised, bleeding, breaking. Kirishima guarded Mina with his last ounce of strength. Iida limped forward, arms trembling. Uraraka screamed for Midoriya, her voice cracking through smoke—just in time to see Shigaraki strike him down.

Then—he rose. Shigaraki. Grinning like a demon crowned in fire. His twisted triumph radiated across the field.

But the war wasn’t over.

Because a shadow moved. A figure stood atop the wreckage, silhouetted by firelight.

No one spoke—until the light revealed your face.

Gasps echoed. Movements stilled. Kirishima’s jaw dropped. Yaoyorozu froze mid-breath. Bakugo’s eyes widened—pure disbelief. Todoroki whispered your name, barely audible. And Midoriya, half-conscious and bleeding, blinked in awe—tears spilling down his cheeks.

It was you.

Alive.

Your presence undeniable. Your stance unshaken. That same defiant smile.

Far away, from a bunker lined with screens, Aizawa stood stock still. His eyes widened just enough to betray the storm inside. He exhaled through clenched teeth, voice a quiet whisper of hope.

You had returned. And with your return—

The war changed.