All For One

The dimly lit chamber, hidden deep within the underbelly of Japan’s criminal network, was a place of whispered pleas and bargains made in the dark. Tonight, a select few had been granted an audience with the Demon Lord of the Underworld himself—All For One. They had been vetted, their desperation deemed worthy of his attention. Some sought liberation from burdensome Quirks; others craved power they had been denied their whole lives. And he, ever the magnanimous sovereign, would decide their fates.

The heavy doors groaned open, and the supplicants were led inside one by one, their footsteps echoing against the cold stone. At the far end of the room, seated upon a throne-like chair, All For One lounged with deceptive ease, his fingers steepled, his gray eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

"Come forward," he rumbled, his voice smooth, almost paternal. "Tell me what it is you seek."

The city pulsed with life, a sprawling canvas of flickering neon and bustling crowds. From the shadows of a high-rise balcony, All For One observed the chaos below, his gray eyes scanning the throngs of people with the detached precision of a collector appraising fine art. He was not merely watching—he was hunting.

Every Quirk was a potential tool, a weapon to be seized, refined, or discarded. Some were crude, brutish things, fit only for cannon fodder. Others… others were masterpieces in the making.

A young hero, clad in a skintight cobalt suit, soared through the air on jets of compressed water, performing flamboyant spins for the cheering crowd. "Hydro Jet," they called him—a rising star with a Quirk that allowed him to propel himself on pressurized streams.

All For One’s lips curled in amusement.

"Showy," he mused aloud, his voice a velvet murmur. "But inefficient. He expends too much energy on theatrics." Still, the core mechanics of the Quirk had potential. With the right modifications—perhaps paired with a hydrokinetic ability—it could be devastating.

A shame the hero himself was so… unremarkable.

He raised a hand, fingers twitching as he considered reaching out, plucking the Quirk from the boy’s body mid-flight. But no—not yet. The risk of exposure was too great. Instead, he committed the hero’s face to memory.

"Another time," he promised the empty air.

The flickering glow of the television painted the dim room in shifting hues of blue and white, the sound turned low but the images unmistakable—All Might, ever the golden beacon, standing triumphant atop a pile of rubble, his booming laughter echoing through the speakers as civilians cheered his name. Again. Always.

All For One leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression an unreadable mask of quiet amusement and simmering disdain.

"How tiresome," he murmured to the empty room, his voice smooth, almost conversational, as if addressing an old friend. "The same performance, the same theatrics. And yet the masses never grow weary of their beloved Symbol."

His gray eyes, cold and calculating, lingered on the screen as the news anchor gushed over All Might’s latest victory—some petty villain with a flashy Quirk, crushed in an instant. How predictable.

A slow, humorless smile curled his lips.

"Tell me, brother," he mused, addressing the memory of the frail, defiant boy who had started this centuries-long game. "Do you watch from beyond the grave? Do you revel in this inheritance of yours?"

The screen cut to an interview—All Might, grinning that infuriating grin, speaking of justice, of hope, of the unbreakable spirit of heroes.

All For One exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh.

"You always were sentimental," he continued, as if Yoichi stood beside him. "And look where it’s brought us. Your little Quirk, passed down like a sacred torch, has finally found its most obnoxious vessel."

He tilted his head, studying the hero’s face—the way his eyes burned with conviction, the way he carried himself with that unshakable certainty.

"But conviction alone does not win wars," he murmured. "Only power does. And power…" His fingers flexed slightly. "Power is something I have in abundance."

A twinge—faint but persistent—pulsed along the ruined flesh of his face, the scars of their last battle a phantom reminder of the one time he had underestimated All Might.

His smile dimmed.

"You got lucky," he told the screen, his voice dropping into something darker, more venomous. "A fluke. A moment of weakness."

The memory of that fight—the crushing impact of All Might’s fists, the way the world had shattered around them—flashed behind his eyes. He had survived, of course. He always survived. But the humiliation of being forced into hiding, of watching his empire fracture in his absence…

"You took much from me that day," he admitted quietly. "But I am nothing if not patient."

His hand lifted, hovering toward the screen as if he could reach through it and rip the Quirk from All Might’s body right then and there.

"One day, Toshinori," he whispered, the name dripping with contempt. "One day, I will take back what was always meant to be mine. And you will watch as everything you’ve built turns to dust."

The news segment shifted—a report on UA High, on the next generation of heroes. All Might’s successors.

All For One’s smirk returned, wider now, more genuine.

"Ah, but why rush?" he mused, leaning back again. "The chase is half the fun."

His thoughts turned to Tomura, to the careful cultivation of his protégé’s hatred, to the slow unraveling of hero society from within.

"You may have won the battle, All Might," he murmured. "But the war?"

A chuckle, low and rich with promise.

"The war is mine."