Derek landed forcefully on the peak of a secluded mountain, the impact causing small cracks to form beneath his feet. He had leapt five times in a row, each jump covering approximately one kilometer. The high altitude and the vastness of the sky around him now wrapped him like a silent cloak. During the jumps, the wind slashed across his face, and the power of One For All buzzed through his muscles like thunder. But now, standing on the rocky summit, he finally stopped moving.
The aura of One For All, intense and blazing like bottled lightning, began to gradually fade. The red and black lightning that had surrounded his body ceased, and the air around him, once thick with energy, began to calm. That silence almost felt sacred.
Derek took a deep breath. His shoulders relaxed, and he felt the physical pressure that had accompanied him finally begin to dissipate. It was like removing an invisible armor weighing tons — a prison of strength he had imposed on himself.
He sighed — pure relief. "Ah..."
His mind began to process everything he had done.
'I altered the amount of One For All's energy multiple times during the prison fight. It was a sequence of constant adaptations... A growing pressure that tested my limits every second. But reaching 100%... all for a single punch... that was different. It almost broke me. It didn't hurt — not exactly — but there was an internal weight. An accumulation of insane power on the verge of collapsing my body if I held it any longer.'
Derek placed a hand on his chest, feeling his own heartbeat. It was faster than usual, but still steady. The warmth of residual energy slowly dissipated through his pores.
He then turned, facing the direction he had come from — the destroyed base. The place where he had left behind a trail of chaos, and brought freedom to the imprisoned.
He knew the army wouldn't accept that with open arms. He knew that vengeance, control, and domination would make the military act swiftly.
They would come after him. And the mutants.
Part of him wondered if he should have taken some of them with him. Raw talent. Power. Allies.
But the thought vanished as quickly as it came — not out of coldness, but because another idea took precedence: a study.
It was time to better understand what he carried within his body.
He sat on a flat stone, the wind now whispering in his ears, and let his thoughts flow.
The One For All. A legendary power. A flame passed from hand to hand, bearer to bearer, growing in intensity like an unstoppable tide.
It was, in essence, the opposite of All For One. While that one stole, absorbed, and dominated, One For All stored, accumulated, and inherited. The raw energy grew with each new user. The core expanded, strengthened, becoming a living weapon.
In the beginning, it was nothing more than a spark. So weak that a user with any regular Quirk could carry it without suffering. But that changed — and quickly. It was with the fourth user, Hikage Shinomori, that the power revealed its hidden claws.
"The buildup had become too great. Hikage's body, even without using it in combat, had begun to collapse. Not from injuries, but from within — as if every cell was slowly imploding. Cellular degeneration? Maybe." Derek frowned.
This wasn't just theory. It was a hidden fear. A real possibility.
The subsequent users hadn't lived long enough to study the long-term effects. And the last two, Toshinori Yagi (All Might) and Izuku Midoriya, had something in common: they weren't born with a natural Quirk. They were pure vessels. Empty. The power filled those "clean" bodies more safely.
Just like Derek.
At least, that's what he hoped.
"If I'm the tenth… or maybe the eleventh user… then my body shouldn't possess any Quirk. No previous singularity. But unlike Midoriya, my body can use 100% of One For All evenly. No fractures. No bleeding. Just numbness…"
He looked at his own hand, opening and closing his fingers. They were steady. Strong. Powerful.
"Then why? Why can I endure it? Is it my body's structure? Some kind of mutation? Or… something else?"
Derek wondered this, not out of vanity, but out of caution.
Power without knowledge is suicide.
He lay briefly on the stone, staring at the sky. The cold mountain wind brushed against his face. It was there, alone, above the world, that Derek tried to understand the gift he carried.
The gift that could save — or destroy — everything.
And as clouds gathered in the distance and military helicopters crossed the sky on patrol, Derek sighed.
"Sooner than I expected."
Derek murmured as his eyes locked onto the sky in alert. A subtle, almost imperceptible change spread through the environment — but he felt it clearly. It was as if the very air had grown denser, charged with hidden intentions, with danger. The wind halted for a moment, as if the mountain itself were holding its breath.
Then, with a sharp and pulsing snap, Derek activated One For All.
Dark red lightning danced across his body, wrapped in a fierce aura that made the rock beneath his feet slowly crack. For a moment, his body seemed to grow — not physically, but in presence — a weight impossible to ignore.
And then he leapt.
BOOM!
The sound was like thunder from a storm made of muscle and pure kinetic force. Shattered stone scattered, the mountain groaned under the impact, and Derek vanished into the sky — a dark line slashing across the horizon with fury.
...
"Alpha Squad reporting. No sign of the suspects." The captain's voice came through the communicator firm and steady, but there was something in his tone — perhaps exhaustion, perhaps fear.
"Understood. Maintain contact."
"Yes, Major Styker."
As the call ended, the lieutenant approached from behind, stepping carefully over wet branches and leaves. He adjusted his stance, holding the anti-mutant weapon against his chest with professional rigidity.
"What did they say about this search mission?" he asked, as if expecting something different.
"Fugitive mutants. More than one. We're to recover all of them," the captain replied, but his eyes weren't focused — they were scanning the forest around them, as if expecting it to strike back. He sighed.
The lieutenant mirrored him. Both men knew this mission reeked of a trap. They knew command was hiding something. But it was an order.
"Let's get this over with," the lieutenant muttered, mostly to himself.Then all hell broke loose.
BOOM!
The ground shook.
Something crashed between them.
A black figure with red eyes.
Before anyone could react, two soldiers were already down. Their bodies were thrown like rag dolls, slamming into trees with a grotesque, dry crunch of shattering bones. No screams had time to form — only sharp cracks and the muffled sounds of organs being crushed.
"S-STOP!" one of the squad members screamed in desperation, aiming his weapon at the black blur. He pulled the trigger, the gunshot echoing through the trees.
But it was already too late.
The blur was gone.
The bullets tore through the air… hitting nothing but empty wind.
The next instant, the soldier felt a brutal impact to his chest. A piercing pain exploded through his body. His bones shattered in sequence, like glass under pressure. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, before collapsing—unconscious, or dead.
The figure reappeared among the trees, now motionless. The captain recognized him—even before his mind could accept it.
The tall stature, the absurdly developed physique, the short black hair like blades, the intense eyes. The orange pants with the number 048 printed on them. Bare feet covered in dirt and dried blood.
"D-Derek?" the captain's voice trembled.
His face lost color. His body froze. Sweat rolled down his forehead despite the forest cold.
Derek turned his head slowly, as if pulled by a distant memory.
"Huh? Do I know you?" The question came in a casual, almost confused tone. He truly seemed not to remember.
But to the captain, it was like facing a ghost. Or worse—a demon returned from hell with cold eyes and a body of steel.
He couldn't answer. His lips trembled, his throat locked up. The gun in his hand slowly slipped, falling to the ground.
Derek took a step toward him.
BANG!
The weapons fired. The soldiers' instincts spoke louder than their fear.
But Derek vanished that very instant.
A second later, a shockwave tore through the clearing—compressed air bursting like an inverted thunderclap. Trees bent. Soldiers were hurled like leaves.
Some slammed into trunks with brutal force; others hit the ground with sickening cracks.
The captain was flung against a thick tree, the air escaping his lungs in a dry groan. But he was lucky. He was alive. Dazed, but alive.
The others... were not.
Derek appeared in the center of the battlefield, his eyes slowly turning to the human wreckage scattered around him. His body still pulsed with the lingering traces of One For All.
There was no anger on his face. No pleasure either.
Suddenly, Derek felt something cold and wet land on his shoulder.
He calmly glanced to the side. A solitary drop of water traced a slow path down the curve of his exposed muscle. Then another. And another.
The rain began to fall.
At first, it was soft. Almost shy. But it quickly intensified, transforming the field of destruction into a gray stage of mud and diluted blood. The water flowed down Derek's form, washing away the grime and remnants of battle, leaving his skin gleaming under the dim light of the overcast sky.
The sound of the raindrops hitting leaves and lifeless bodies formed an irregular melody, like impatient fingers tapping against wood. The scent of wet earth mixed with the metallic tang of blood, creating a heavy, inescapable aroma.
Derek turned slowly.
The captain was still alive. Lying on his side, his uniform torn, his face smeared with mud and blood. He looked at Derek with wide eyes — not of anger, not even of pain. But of sheer astonishment.
The ex-prisoner walked toward him with calm, heavy steps. The water hit his body like tiny frozen needles, but he didn't seem to notice. He stopped in front of the captain and looked down at him.
"Give me your clothes." The voice came out low, hoarse. No patience. No humor. Just an order.
"Huh…?" The captain blinked, confused, unsure if he'd heard right. His mind was still trying to grasp whether he was alive — and if he was really seeing Derek standing there, asking… that?
But he didn't have time to react.
Derek crouched down and grabbed him by the collar with one hand.
Without effort, he lifted the captain as if he were a soaked ragdoll. With the other hand, he tore the tactical vest like wet paper. The uniform met the same fate, ripped off piece by piece. The belt dropped to the muddy ground with a faint clink.
The captain tried to resist, but his arms failed him, muscles trembling in pure terror. It was useless.
Derek tore it all.
Anything bearing the army's emblem. The insignias were ripped away with brutal force. The communicator was crushed under his fingers.
The helmet? Shattered. The boots yanked off in a single pull. He wanted nothing that carried the symbol of those who had imprisoned him.
Silence remained.
The captain, now just standing under the rain, trembled — from cold, from fear, from helplessness.
Then, Derek got dressed.
The shirt was tight-fitting, long-sleeved, clinging to the torso, highlighting the character's defined musculature. It had a high collar with a small white detail at the center of the neck, resembling a clerical collar.
The pants were also black, with a tailored cut. They featured extra belts and straps around the legs, suggesting combat or special operations gear. There were side pockets, typical of tactical clothing. A sturdy black belt with a metallic buckle secured the pants, and additional straps indicated he could carry equipment.
Black fitted gloves covered his entire hands.
Black high-top boots, the kind worn by special forces or military units — reinforced and tightly secured.
[Image]
"Consider this... a fair trade." His eyes met the man's, but there was no cruelty in them — only a dangerous indifference.
As if Derek was no longer there — only what he had become.
And then, he turned away.
Outside the Forest – Mountain Base.
Night had grown dense, suffocated by the tension hanging over the military camp. Gray clouds veiled the moon like an opaque shroud, and the silence among the soldiers sounded louder than any siren.
Inside one of the command trucks, lit only by the reddish glow of the communication panels, Stryker was growing impatient.
"Alpha Squad! Report in, Captain Cage!" he shouted into the microphone, his voice thick with urgency.
On the other end — only static. A dry, intermittent noise, like the distant laughter of fate.
"Shit!" With a sharp, brutal strike, he slammed his fist into the iron table in front of him. The microphone jumped from his hand, bouncing off the side of the cabin before landing on the floor.
His chest heaved.
Sweat ran in hot lines down his forehead, marked by the wrinkles of age and frustration. He knew. Deep down, he knew.
They were dead.
Another squad lost.
Another failure.
He tugged at his collar, trying to ease the pressure in his chest, but it did no good. A sharp stab hit him hard — right in the heart — and he staggered a step back, gasping. The pain was familiar. The weight of years commanding inhuman hunts, of cruel decisions made in the name of "security," was collecting its debt.
He had delayed his retirement.
And not for honor.
For ego.
To finish what he started: hunting down every one of those damned mutants who escaped that prison.
That prison he had helped fill.
He wouldn't let this disaster stain his flawless record.
"I can't die... not until I finish this..." He said to himself, gritting his teeth.
BOOM!
A deafening blast shook the entire truck. The ground lifted. The metal groaned. The walls twisted.
The vehicle was slammed sideways by a colossal impact from the outside, as if a meteor had collided with it. Stryker was thrown against the inner wall, tumbling among boxes, wires, and equipment.
"ARRGH!" He screamed, feeling his shoulder dislocate. His body hurt as if it had been run over by a train.
And then...
The truck's door was torn off.
Not opened. Torn off.
A gust of cold wind flooded the warm interior of the truck, along with the rain that was beginning to fall outside. And in the midst of the fog of dust, water, and smoke...
A figure emerged.
A dark blur.
With eyes glowing like molten rubies.
Derek.
His body was pure control and brutality. Soaked by rain, muscles tense beneath the freshly soaked clothes, he seemed more a force of nature than a man. His eyes fixed on Stryker, carrying no anger, only the certainty of the inevitable.
"I know your ways well..." His voice sliced through the silence like a blade. Low. Cold. "And how this will end."
Stryker tried to move, his hand reaching for the pistol in its holster. But he had no time.
Derek raised his hand.
A simple gesture.
Just a flick of his finger.
But that finger carried the power of generations.
BOOM!
The air exploded inside the truck. The structure warped like aluminum foil.
The cab was torn apart by an invisible shockwave, so powerful that the very ground beneath the truck trembled.
The vehicle was hurled backward, spinning, before imploding with a thunderous roar, twisted metal scattering in all directions.
Rain fell.
Silence settled.
And Derek simply watched, motionless amidst the wreckage and the timid flames struggling to survive the rain.
"Goodbye, Sergeant Stryker," he whispered at last.
And then, he turned and began walking down the avenue.