The Last True Hero: Izuku's Legacy
Fifty years after the Golden Age of Heroes, the world had forgotten what it meant to dream without conditions attached.
In the sprawling metropolis of 2080, where artificial intelligence governed most decisions and human connection had been largely digitized, Izuku Midoriya sat in his modest study, surrounded by journals filled with a lifetime of observations. At sixty-five, his once-vibrant green hair had turned silver, but his eyes still held that unmistakable spark—the flame of someone who had never stopped believing in humanity's potential for greatness.
The young reporter across from him shifted uncomfortably, her neural interface blinking as she processed his words in real-time. "But Professor Midoriya," she said, "surely you understand that modern society has evolved beyond such... naive idealism? Our algorithms can predict and prevent crime before it happens. We've optimized human behavior. Why do we still need heroes?"
Izuku smiled gently, that same warm expression that had once comforted countless victims and even reformed the most hardened villains. "Tell me, Yamamoto-san, when was the last time someone helped you without expecting anything in return?"
The question hung in the air like morning mist. The reporter's interface flickered as she searched her memory banks, but Izuku could see the realization dawning in her natural eyes—she couldn't remember.
"You see," he continued, rising slowly and moving to the window that overlooked a city where people walked in isolation despite being surrounded by millions, "we created a world so efficient at solving problems that we forgot why those problems mattered in the first place. We optimized away struggle, and with it, we lost the very thing that makes us human—the choice to help others when we don't have to."
His weathered hands, still scarred from decades of heroic battles, gestured toward a photo on his desk. It showed Class 1-A from their graduation day—twenty young faces blazing with determination and hope. "My classmates and I, we weren't products of perfect algorithms or genetic optimization. We were forged in the fires of genuine challenge, shaped by our failures as much as our victories. We learned that true strength isn't the absence of fear—it's choosing to act despite it."
The reporter leaned forward, genuinely curious now rather than just collecting data. "But surely such qualities are inefficient? Our current hero system operates with ninety-nine percent accuracy—"
"At preventing physical harm, yes," Izuku interrupted gently. "But what about spiritual harm? What about the damage done to a society that has forgotten how to sacrifice for others? Your generation has never seen someone choose the difficult path simply because it was right, not because it was optimal."
He pulled out an old notebook, its pages yellowed and edges worn from decades of use. "This was my hero analysis book from middle school. Before I had a Quirk, before I had any reason to believe I could become a hero, I spent countless hours studying other heroes—not their power levels or efficiency ratings, but their hearts. I wanted to understand what drove All Might to smile even when he was afraid, what made heroes run toward danger when every instinct screamed to run away."
Opening the notebook, he showed her pages of detailed observations, strategic analyses, and most importantly, notes about each hero's motivation and character. "This is what I fear we've lost—the ability to see past the surface, to understand that heroism isn't about being the strongest or most efficient. It's about having an indomitable spirit that refuses to give up on people, even when they've given up on themselves."
The reporter found herself genuinely moved, her interface forgotten. "How do we get it back?"
Izuku's smile broadened, and for a moment, she could see the young boy who had once dreamed impossible dreams. "The same way it was always done—one person choosing to care about another, without algorithm or instruction. One person deciding to be kind when kindness serves no strategic purpose. One person refusing to give up, even when all the data suggests they should."
He closed the notebook and looked directly at her. "The question isn't whether the world needs heroes, Yamamoto-san. The question is: will you choose to be one?"
In that moment, in a world that had forgotten how to dream, a spark of something ancient and powerful flickered to life in a young woman's eyes—the same spark that had once driven a Quirkless boy to chase an impossible dream.
NEAL LLOYD
