The screen flickered slightly until Slur's figure appeared clearly before everyone's eyes. With arms spread wide, as if he were about to embrace the entire world—or crucify it with his words—he remained still. His face held a calm, almost serene expression—no smile, no anger, just an impenetrable emptiness that sent shivers down many spines.
He wore a light gray turtleneck, covering his neck as if to shield himself from the very world around him. Over it, a long beige coat flowed gently in the artificial wind of the recording, reaching below the knees and hiding part of his pants, which matched in color. On his feet, formal white shoes, impeccably clean. Every piece of clothing seemed chosen not out of vanity, but to make a precise impression: that of a man outside the system—yet more refined than it.
"Hello, everyone. I am Slur," he said, his voice calm and steady, clashing violently with the weight of what he was about to unleash upon the world. "And now, let the revelation begin."
In that moment, everyone watching—at home, on the street, in police stations, hospitals, cafés, or even hiding behind an alley—felt a strange pressure in their chest. It wasn't what he said... but how. The serenity in his voice made each phrase feel inevitable, like a truth that had always been there, simply ignored.
"The current system… is broken," he began, and though the words were simple, they echoed with an almost prophetic weight. "I believe you don't hear… the screams. The screams of pain, sorrow, hatred, loneliness. These feelings are everywhere, around every corner—and yet you pretend not to hear. You pretend not to see."
Slur tilted his head slightly, and the screen behind him changed, showing images of dark alleyways, overcrowded hospitals, children crying in forgotten shelters, and teenagers sitting alone in school courtyards, ignored by their peers.
"Those screams belong to the ones abandoned by society. Rejected children, misunderstood people, heteromorphs treated like monsters..." He paused briefly, letting the silence fill the space between his words. "Public opinion is—and always has been—humanity's cancer. Because opinion is unstable. Impulsive. Ignorant."
The streets, the homes, the plazas... erupted in response. Protests began to rise almost instantly, cries of support and outrage merging into a cacophony of chaos. Newspapers started typing headlines in real time, reporters went live with distressed expressions. All Might, watching the broadcast in Tokyo, stood still—his eyes wide open, not in fear, but in silent recognition that the world was changing.
Underground, Detective Tsukauchi, sweat streaming down his temples, barked out orders:
"Trace the signal. Now!"
Meanwhile, Slur continued with the same calm, almost clinical tone.
"Even the heroes are among these individuals," he said, and the screen behind him changed once again, showing images of heroes smiling at press conferences, posing for magazines, starring in advertising campaigns. "Tell me... what kind of hero acts for fame? For money? For status? Is that heroism? Or is it a theater of vanity?"
"Even when they save lives," he continued, "there's always a hidden interest. Always a contract, a policy, a reputation to uphold. So I ask: based on that logic… why do villains exist?"
Silence fell like a storm. No one dared to answer.
Slur then spread his arms a little wider and spoke:
"Are they all psychopaths? Soulless murderers? Of course… there are exceptions. But most—the overwhelming majority—became villains for one simple reason."
The screen shifted once more. Now, two figures appeared: a wild-eyed blonde girl and a man with an empty gaze and short blond hair.
"Toga Himiko... and Jin Bubaigawara," he announced, almost like a master of ceremonies. "She, for having a Quirk based on blood. He, for living alone with a mental disorder that made him create copies of himself just to avoid dying of loneliness. Both were rejected. Both were forced to exist on the fringes."
Slur stepped forward. His eyes now stared directly into the camera.
"How pathetic is this society that judges someone for their Quirk? That marginalizes people for psychological issues? You try to fix people as if they were faulty machines. But they weren't born broken. They just needed... direction."
Toga, still on top of the building next to Stain, stood frozen. Her eyes welled up—not with sadness, but with emotion. For the first time, someone was speaking out loud what she had always known in silence.
And she wasn't the only one. In that moment, thousands, maybe millions of people stopped to listen.
Because even if they disagreed... they couldn't stop listening.
"Let's continue," Slur's voice echoed again, now slightly heavier. "Perhaps dig... a little deeper into the wound."
The image on the big screen flickered for a moment before abruptly changing. The logo of the Hero Public Safety Commission appeared. The cameras zoomed in on a solitary figure: a woman with long, two-toned hair, with a rifle built into her arm—Lady Nagant.
"Everyone knows the hero Lady Nagant," said Slur, his tone almost sarcastic, "a woman the people learned to admire... for a façade. A 'good hero,' as they say. But corrupted by the rotting core of the very Commission that was supposed to protect the truth."
At the Commission headquarters, the current president—a woman with a cold and professional demeanor—began to tremble. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes fixed on the broadcast as assistants around her panicked. Papers were knocked over, calls were made. But nothing could stop what was coming.
Slur's face remained neutral, but now with a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A clear sign: he was just getting started.
"Real name: Kaina Tsutsumi. Trained from a young age, conditioned like a war dog. Not turned into a hero, but into a government assassin, tasked with silently eliminating both heroes and villains deemed 'problematic' by the Commission. All of it... under the blind eyes of the public."
Blurry images and classified files appeared behind him, revealing unrecorded missions, hidden reports, and masked executions.
"Lady Nagant's mental health began to deteriorate... and rightfully so," he continued. "Maintaining a public image while drowning in blood in the shadows? It's almost poetic. And when she had the audacity to question the system—to suggest transparency..."
The image shifted to a file showing the silhouette of an older man: the former president of the Commission.
"She was threatened. Silenced. And he was killed. Officially? A heart attack. Reality? A cover-up. A system that kills its own soldiers when they become aware."
Slur took a step forward. Now, his tone sounded more engaged. "And what did the current president do? Did she show mercy? No... she chose Tartarus. A dark, cold cell, where Lady Nagant was forgotten. Tell me, is that justice? Is that heroism?"
Social media exploded. Words like "conspiracy," "corruption," and "lies" dominated Japan's and the world's trending topics. The protests in the streets were now gaining real momentum. Glass began to shatter. Sirens wailed. And Slur, still within his bubble of calm, did not stop.
"You still think the world is black and white? That good and evil are separated by clear lines? Then let's look at one more case…"
The image froze. And a new name dropped like a bomb:
"All Might."
In Tokyo, the number one hero felt his body tense. His name had been spoken with a tone so cold, so... accusatory, that not even All For One, in his reign of terror, had dared to say it that way.
"The Symbol of Peace," Slur continued, "praised by heroes all over the world. But tell me, All Might… will you ever tell the world… what you did?"
Toshinori Yagi gripped the chair tightly, his fingers trembling. Something he had tried to erase from the world... was about to be exposed.
"In the past, your mentor, Nana Shimura, was killed in action. And you, her student... didn't seek justice. No… you sought revenge."
Silence fell completely.
"Revenge," repeated Slur, now with more weight. "You killed the villain. You didn't defeat him. You didn't capture him. You crushed his head until there was no shape left. An act of fury. An act of hatred. Tell me, do heroes kill? And if they do, what sets them apart from villains?"
The images showed covered-up reports, combat records with redacted sections, and, in the spotlight, a classified file with a red stamp: 'TOP SECRET – NANA SHIMURA INCIDENT'.
"What separates them? Ideals? Costumes? Propaganda?" Slur now rested a hand on his face, as if trying to contain a weariness that came from the depths of his soul. "Or is the only difference between a hero and a villain… the narrative?"
And then, he sighed. A heavy sigh, as if he carried the weight of the world.
"But we're not done yet. There is one name that echoes louder than all the others. A hero whose past is… problematic. Enji Todoroki. Endeavor."
The words sliced through the air like blades.
Slur was about to tear off another mask. And now, everyone knew: no one was safe from the truth.
"Through an old policy... the Quirk Marriage…" Slur began, while the screen now displayed old records, official documents, and images from the wedding ceremony. "Enji Todoroki, known as Endeavor, married Rei Himura... now his current wife…"
The pause was long.
"Or, more truthfully... a child-bearing vessel."
At that moment, Japan came to a halt. Social media froze. On the streets, in bars, in homes, even in the U.A., silence fell like a sentence.
"A hero," Slur continued, his voice slicing through the air like an icy blade, "broken by the death of his father and crushed by the expectations of his mother. A man who, driven by guilt, hatred, and ambition, decided to create a new life… not out of love, but as a project. For power."
Endeavor's face appeared on screen, frozen, alongside Rei's in a hospital, visibly shaken. The images changed in a calculated rhythm, as if each one was a stab to the public's heart.
"All of it to surpass the unreachable symbol: All Might. A project to create the perfect child… And the imperfect ones?" Slur tilted his head, as if genuinely curious. "Rejected, forged in the fire of obsession."
On the couch at home, Fuyumi Todoroki dropped the remote. Natsuo stood up, overwhelmed, while... Shoto remained still. Their past no longer belonged to them. It belonged to the world.
"Guilt consumes everyone," Slur said. "Society, you treat heroes like gods, and villains like demons. But tell me… what god creates trauma? What demon seeks acceptance?"
The words echoed. Chaos was taking shape.
"You attach these labels," he continued, his tone still calm, "because you need something… to love. Something… to hate. Something to hope for. And something to blame."
Slur's eyes gleamed faintly beneath the shadow of his bangs, even as his voice stayed cold as steel.
"Quirks didn't change you. You changed… the Quirks. Turned them into a distorted reflection of what you truly are. Selfish. Cowardly. Blind."
The images in the background showed children abandoned in orphanages for being born with "useless" quirks. Protesters shouting for bans on certain types of individualities. Hospital rejections. Silhouettes of suicides.
"People with rare gifts. With purity. With light. They were shaped... or rather, broken by you."
Slur then took a deep breath, and for the first time… his gaze expressed something close to genuine curiosity.
"I can't say I've seen those people everywhere..." he said vaguely. "But I'm curious. Very curious."
The silence lasted three seconds.
"But let's stop here," he said, taking a step back, as if closing a book. "I have to save some facts for later."
He turned to the side, and for the first time in the entire broadcast, he smiled.
"Now... I have to take care of the new matters that have come up."
BOOM!
An explosion. The screen shook.
The broadcast was cut off.
The city's billboard flickered to black. TV stations crashed. Newspapers began spreading like wildfire. Protesters shattered windows, crowds ran through the streets. Some screamed for justice. Others... for revenge.
Chaos had been unleashed. The birth of X wasn't just a broadcast...
It was the beginning of a revolution.
...
Slur maintained a serene smile as dust still fell from the smoldering debris of the newly destroyed wall. Before him, with his cape billowing like a symbol of hope standing defiant against decay, stood All Might. His eyes were locked onto the figure before him—the man who had just plunged the country into chaos with uncomfortable truths.
"Villain..." growled All Might, his voice echoing through the cracked walls of the broadcast station. "How dare you twist the facts like this!?"
Slur, standing with an almost profane calm, merely tilted his head slightly, as if observing a child throwing a tantrum. His smile wasn't mocking—it was the smile of someone who had already anticipated this reaction.
"Twist?" he murmured, as if savoring the word. "Tell me, are you angry at me because... I told the truth?"
As he spoke, Slur briefly turned toward the station staff. With a calm wave of his hand—like a conductor guiding his orchestra—he dismissed them. Without protest, the crew left, some trembling, others silent, as if they understood that what was about to happen wasn't meant for their eyes. It was something... greater.
"You know it, All Might," Slur continued, turning his gaze back to the symbol of peace. His eyes were locked, cold, intense. "You didn't bring him to justice. You killed him. With your own hands. There was no trial. No redemption. Only... vengeance. And this, you call heroism?"
The words hit like punches. All Might clenched his teeth. His fists tightened. Muscles tensed beneath his suit. Every syllable spoken by Slur seemed to rip out fragments of a past he had tried to bury—memories, decisions, doubts. But he was no longer that lost boy, and his justice, cracked as it may be, was still his.
"Texas... SMASH!" he roared, the air trembling with the raw power of his charge.
In an instant, he shot forward like a human missile, his fist wrapped in atmospheric pressure, tearing through the air like thunder falling straight from the sky.
But Slur didn't move.
Instead, he simply raised his own fist, his voice firm, cold as steel:
"Armament."
His skin shimmered for an instant, as if the light of pure resolve enveloped his arm. The impact came a heartbeat later.
BOOM!
The clash of their fists triggered an explosion of pure brute force — the ground shattered, cameras were hurled against the walls, and the ceiling trembled. A shockwave swept through the corridors, destroying what remained of the broadcasting area.
Slur and All Might were blasted backward like two meteors repelled by opposing forces, crashing through the walls of the station and briefly rising into the air before falling amidst the debris of the external parking lot.
Smoke. Shattered glass. Alarms blaring. Sirens echoing in the distance.
Slur stood up first. His beige coat fluttered, now stained with dust and soot. Yet, the smile remained. Calm. Almost... satisfied.
On the other side, All Might slowly pushed himself up, panting, his eyes locked on the enemy before him — not just a villain. Not just a terrorist.
A revolutionary.
Slur slowly brushed the dust off his shoulder as he walked through the rubble, his footsteps echoing with a dry, rhythmic sound over the cracked concrete. His eyes turned toward All Might, who was still catching his breath, and with the same calm tone as before, he spoke — as if making a simple observation:
"So, this is how it's going to be? Fighting me... with people around? Willing to sacrifice lives?"
Those words fell like poison in the air. All Might clenched his fists again, eyes widening in fury — not at the comment itself, but at how it was delivered. Cold. Rational. And yet... right. He looked around, seeing a few injured staff trying to crawl out from under the wreckage. His hero instinct screamed within him, but the enemy in front of him wouldn't allow his gaze to waver.
Slur tilted his head, curious. As if analyzing the hero's expression like a scientist observing a chemical reaction.
"Be careful, number one..." he said, stepping forward, his voice now lower, more weighted with intent. "Your reputation isn't as stable as it once was."
All Might stepped forward too, eyes fixed, but his jaw trembled slightly. Not out of fear — but doubt. Something that should never exist in someone like him. And Slur saw it.
"You feel it, don't you?" Slur continued, unhurried. "The pressure on your back. The weight of all those lies stacked one over the other. For years, you've held this world on your shoulders... But do you know what happens to fragile structures when they crack at the base?"
He stopped, just a few meters from the hero.
"They collapse. And you, All Might, are the crack."
The words pierced the pride of the Symbol of Peace like shrapnel. What infuriated him the most was the fact that… part of him believed it. He looked at the wreckage, at the civilians, at the cameras that were already recording again from some hidden corner. Every gesture, every action, every word — everything was being documented.
"You speak of morals, of truth..." All Might finally responded, his voice deep and firm, trying to regain control. "But you're manipulating chaos. You want to destroy the world and rebuild it in your image. That's not justice. That's fanaticism."
Slur merely gave a sideways smile, as if he had been expecting that answer.
"Maybe." He raised his hand casually. "But at least I don't pretend the world is working."