-THREE MONTHS LATER-
The sun had just broken the horizon, casting long shadows through rusting microwaves and shattered televisions. Wind whipped through the debris fields as Jura exhaled, shirt already damp with sweat.
All Might towered across from him, in his powered-up form, grinning like this was the best part of his day.
"Ready, Jura?"
Jura nodded once. "You're not holding back today."
All Might chuckled. "Not too much. Try to keep your bones intact."
Then, without warning—
He moved.
A crack of air, and the ground behind All Might exploded from his takeoff. Jura sidestepped in a blur, narrowly avoiding a sweeping blow that tore through two rusted vending machines.
He flipped backward, landing lightly on the rim of a broken shopping cart, and launched forward—flickering from metal to concrete like a human bullet.
Jura's hands shot forward in a twisting spiral—open palms striking like hammers toward All Might's solar plexus. All Might caught them with forearms, the impact kicking up a shockwave that flattened the nearby trash.
Jura used the momentum, pushed off All Might's arms, flipped in mid-air, and dropped into a low spinning heel kick.
All Might leapt back—barely.
But Jura wasn't done.
He grabbed a metal pole from a collapsed fence mid-spin and slid under a washing machine as it toppled. Reappearing on the other side, he kicked the washer at All Might like a projectile.
All Might shattered it with a backfist.
By the time the fragments cleared, Jura was already airborne, flipping heel-over-head.
All Might punched upward.
Jura twisted mid-fall and used All Might's own fist like a launchpad to spring higher—then spun in the air, heel-first, bringing a full vertical axe kick down like a guillotine.
All Might blocked, but his knees bent slightly.
"Ho ho!" he laughed through grit teeth. "Your timing's sharper this month."
Jura didn't answer. He landed in a low stance, fists flicking like coiled serpents.
Then he stepped forward—fast.
One-two. Left elbow to ribs. Duck. Knee to thigh. Twist. Uppercut palm to jawline.
All Might parried, countered—jab to Jura's shoulder, enough force to send a normal man flying.
But Jura shifted his weight, rolled with it, turned the momentum into a cartwheel, landing perfectly balanced on a rusted-out car hood.
He exhaled through his nose.
All Might smiled. "You're not just fast now. You're starting to think like a fighter."
Jura's brow furrowed. "I was always a fighter. I'm just… remembering how."
The echo of fists and impacts slowly died down.
Dust settled.
Jura landed from his final vault, breathing hard but standing tall.
All Might reverted with a hiss of steam. "That's enough for today."
From the edge of the lot, Izuku clapped—slow at first, then picked up.
"That was amazing!" he said, eyes bright. "The way you used the washing machine to force him back…! And the way you redirected his punch mid-air—that's not even in any martial arts form I've studied! It's like a hybrid of—of Muay Thai and parkour and—and—"
He trailed off.
Jura turned. "Something wrong?"
Izuku blinked, his smile dimming. "No, I just…"
He looked down at his notebook, full of frantic scrawlings.
Izuku didn't look up. His voice was thin—like it had been hiding in his throat for weeks.
"I know it's dumb to say. I just…"
He clenched his fists at his sides, fingernails pressing into skin, knuckles going pale. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, where his notebook lay shut, like a monument to dreams he couldn't reach.
"I watch you two fight," he said, the words trembling, "and it's like watching something out of a manga. You move like the laws of physics aren't even real. Like gravity gave you permission to break the rules."
His voice dropped lower.
"And then there's me. Struggling just to keep up with push-ups. Getting bruises from lifting bags of trash. Watching from the sidelines—again."
He swallowed hard, voice cracking.
"Sometimes I wonder if this is just me… pretending I belong."
There was a pause.
Then—"It's not dumb," Jura said.
The words weren't loud. But they were firm. Immediate.
Izuku blinked, startled, like he hadn't expected to be heard—let alone understood.
Jura stepped closer. "I get it," he said, softer now. "You're standing in a world where everyone's got a starting line twenty meters ahead of you. Where power's not earned—it's inherited. Expected. Some people get quirks just for breathing."
Izuku looked down, biting the inside of his cheek.
"And you," Jura continued, "you're the kid trying to outrun fate with nothing but callouses and stubbornness."
He reached out and tapped Midoriya's chest lightly with two fingers, right over the heart.
"That kind of fight?" Jura said. "That's the hardest one to win."
Izuku didn't answer at first. He just stood there, breathing unevenly, eyes burning. "So then what do I do? Just keep running? Until what—someone notices?"
Jura looked out toward the ocean. A gull cried in the sky overhead, gliding like it didn't have to care. Wind stirred through the wreckage on the beach—bits of paper and rusted foil lifting briefly, like the world was stretching in its sleep.
"…I mean sometimes," Jura said slowly, "power isn't something you're born with."
He paused.
"It's something someone gives you."
The words didn't just settle in the air—they hung there, like a string pulled taut between them.
Izuku blinked. "Gives…?"
Jura didn't meet his eyes. Not yet. His gaze drifted toward the place All Might had disappeared—around the bend, behind the rusted container. Out of sight, but not out of reach.
"Or maybe," Jura murmured, "they pass it on because they see something. Something even you don't see yet."
Izuku's brows knit together. The gears behind his eyes were turning now, fast.
"You're not just talking about me," he said, almost accusingly.
Jura turned to him at last, and for a moment, his face was unreadable. Not cold—just… far away. Like he was remembering something from a life that didn't quite fit here.
"Let's just say," Jura said, smirking faintly, "I've seen that kind of weight change hands before. It's not easy. But it's real."
Izuku stared at him—studying him, like he was trying to read between the lines of an unfinished sentence.
But Jura broke the silence first, slapping his shoulder with a light thwap.
"C'mon," he said. "You're not out of the fight yet. The story's barely started."
Izuku stood still for a second longer.
Then he nodded. A smile, small but steady, cracked through the fog of doubt.
"Right…"
They started walking toward the edge of the beach, where a few water barrels waited beneath a broken umbrella.
-3 MONTHS LATER-
Another three months went by only having four months left.
Two dishwashers.
One stacked on each shoulder, duct-taped with frayed wire and pure spite. Their rusted frames creaked every time he took a step, the insides clinking like broken bones in a tin man's coffin.
Sweat beaded down Jura's spine in rivulets, soaking through his tank top. The soles of his sneakers were worn so thin he felt every shard of gravel dig into the softest parts of his heel. Each step was its own micro-war.
And still, he walked.
Across the junk field. Back and forth. Uphill. In sand. Under the rising sun.
Because somewhere deep in his body, just behind the heartbeat, the Second Gate pulsed.
It was always there now. Whispering.
Gate of Healing.
It allowed enhanced regeneration. Temporary stamina boost. And hormonal overclock.
Also: Internal burnout, body stress accumulation, and the risk of system backlash.
It had nearly torn his ligaments the last time he activated it for more than ninety seconds. Not because of the initial force — but the aftermath.
Jura grimaced as he stepped over a warped TV frame.
It's too brute-force. Too sudden. Like lighting your bones on fire to make them move faster.
What he needed now wasn't just power.
He needed tempo.
So he walked.
He walked with machines chained to his back until his knees shook.
"…Prolong the strain," he muttered to himself. "Force it to bloom slow. Not like a punch. Like a draw."
He focused on the inner structure. The node he'd found in his brain's right hemisphere, increases the his physical strength. This also has the added effect of re-energising the body, enabling it to rapidly recover from exhaustion
Open it too fast, and I burn out in ninety seconds. But if I thread it into my breath, let it open like a tide—
Another step. The dishwashers groaned like dying metal whales.
Maybe I can turn seconds into minutes. Maybe I can stabilize.
The memory of that second activation still haunted him — the searing clarity, the surge of energy, and the crash that left him vomiting behind a dumpster for an hour afterward. All Might hadn't even seen it happen. Thank god.
But he knew.
He knew that if he could master it—really master it—he wouldn't just be faster or stronger.
He'd be unbreakable.
Another step. Then another.
The wind picked up, and distant on the beach, Izuku was doing his weighted squats under All Might's direction — shouting numbers through gritted teeth.
Jura didn't look at them.
He just whispered to himself again:
"Hold the line. Let it stretch. No combustion. No panic."
Because the second gate wasn't about anger.
It was about endurance. About choosing pain and not flinching.
And Jura Lee intended to own it.
.
.
.
The sun hung high now, baking the sand until it shimmered like a cracked mirror. Most of the garbage had been cleared — not by city crews, but by two lunatics with quirks and dreams.
And now one of them stood shirtless in the sand, stretching his shoulders, breath slow and deliberate.
Jura's skin was flushed red. Not from heat — from what churned inside.
The Second Gate pulsed under the surface like a submerged engine.
All Might stood across from him, powered up, arms folded. "We'll start light," he said. "Your goal is simple. Don't burst. You hold that gate like you'd hold a blade. Not too tight… not too loose."
Jura nodded once. "Got it."
Then, with a breath that shuddered the air around him, he opened it.
It wasn't a slam this time.
Not a mental wrecking ball.
It was a thread. A line of heat drawn up from his stomach to his spine, weaving itself through muscle, bone, tendon. The first time, it had felt like igniting himself with rocket fuel. Now… it was a simmer.
His blood vibrated. His pulse accelerated. But not wildly.
He let the power rise one inch at a time.
Steam lifted from his shoulders. Veins bulged. His breath came in sharp rhythms—measured. Calculated.
"Good…" All Might said, eyes narrowing. "Now move."
Jura launched.
He didn't go for raw speed. He adjusted his momentum like shifting gears in a machine.
First move: low dash—sweeping feint to All Might's left thigh. Faint sparks trailed behind his knee.
All Might blocked, but Jura didn't commit. He pivoted mid-air, slamming his elbow toward the floating ribs.
All Might stepped back, letting the strike whistle past, then countered with a forearm meant to check Jura's shoulder.
Jura dipped under it, caught the ground with his fingers, and sprung into a spinning backward arc kick—just enough to test spacing, not overextend.
His body wanted to go faster.
It craved the burn.
But Jura clenched his jaw.
No.
Don't sprint. Stretch. Sustain.
After twenty rapid exchanges, they broke.
All Might watched closely as Jura skidded to a stop, steam rising from his forearms.
"How do you feel?" the hero asked.
Jura didn't answer at first. He focused inward.
The gate was still open.
His legs trembled, but they held. His lungs burned, but they weren't failing.
"…like I'm sitting on top of a missile," Jura said. "And the countdown's slowing."
All Might grinned. "Excellent metaphor. Now round two."
This time All Might moved first. Not with killing intent, but with challenge. His punch was a vacuum in motion—a test of reflex, not force.
Jura bent backward like a reed in wind, then rolled beneath the follow-up strike, springing off a broken fridge. He used debris like stepping stones, bouncing from rusted hood to washing machine to wooden crate.
Midair, he twisted and aimed a clean, surgical palm strike for All Might's jaw.
All Might caught it—but he grunted.
It had weight.
"Balance is improving," he said, stepping back.
Jura staggered slightly as he landed.
He felt it now — the second gate's cost beginning to climb.
Not a burn… but a fray. Like a thread being pulled thin.
Still, he exhaled. Centered himself.
And kept going.
All Might raised a hand. "That's enough!"
Jura stopped immediately, stumbling to one knee as steam hissed from his spine. His breath came in controlled gasps, and behind his eyes — that throb of wild chakra — finally dimmed.
The Second Gate receded.
And this time, he didn't crash.
He just knelt there, smiling faintly through grit teeth.
"I kept it open for three minutes, twenty-seven seconds."
All Might smiled. "And you didn't rupture a tendon or black out. That's progress."
Jura looked down at his hands.
No tremor.
No bleeding.
Just power — coiled, restrained, and finally… his.