The first sensation that registered in Shota Aizawa's mind, cutting through the thick fog of shock and agony, was the metallic smell of his own blood mixed with the acrid, strangely hot odor left by the attack that had struck him. He was on the cold, dirty floor of the industrial yard, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. Looking down was a mistake. His right shoulder was an unrecognizable mass of burned tissue and exposed bone where the dark red beam had pierced through. His left leg was worse; the beam had passed cleanly through, but he could feel the disconnected sensation below the wound on his thigh, the bone clearly shattered, the muscles a mutilated mess.
He gritted his teeth, trying to fight the darkness threatening to engulf his consciousness. Red and blue lights began to paint the walls of the nearby warehouse, the growing sound of sirens finally piercing the ringing in his ears. Reinforcements. Finally.
Paramedics were the first to reach him, their professional faces tight with barely concealed shock at seeing the extent of the injuries on a known Pro Hero. "Eraser Head! Can you hear me?" an urgent voice asked as skilled hands applied pressure, bandages, and assessed his vitals.
"Blood... King..." Aizawa managed to say, each syllable an effort. "Not... Quirk... Careful..."
The words were a fragmented warning, but the urgency was clear. Police officers began securing the perimeter, their expressions tense as they watched the incapacitated smugglers being cuffed by another team and the minor trail of destruction left by the brief, brutal fight. There was no sign of the attacker.
The ambulance ride was a blur of drug-muted pain, flashing lights, and the overwhelming sense of failure. He had not only failed to capture the target but had been completely overpowered, neutralized in a way he had never experienced. His greatest weapon, his identity as Eraser Head, had been useless. Worse, it had been treated with contempt by his opponent. That cold, alien power... it was unlike anything he had ever faced in the darkest corners of hero society.
In the hospital, under the sterile lights and the constant beeping of monitors, the assessment was grim. The damage was extensive. The eye beams hadn't just cut; they seemed to cauterize and disintegrate at a cellular level. Recovery would be long and painful, even with the aid of the best healing Quirks available. There was a possibility of permanent nerve and muscle damage, perhaps a limitation in his future mobility. Scars, both physical and psychological, were a certainty.
As soon as he had a moment of relative clarity, free from immediate medical procedures and with the pain managed to a bearable level (though still excruciating), Aizawa made the calls.
First, Tsukauchi. The detective's voice was tense on the other end of the secure line. "Eraser? We got the alert. What's the situation?"
"Target encountered. Engaged," Aizawa reported, his voice hoarse from pain and the dryness of his throat. "Confirming: Erasure is ineffective. Repeat, ineffective." He paused, taking a deep breath. "His power is not a Quirk, Tsukauchi. The strength and speed are... monstrous. Far beyond the reports. He uses throwing knives with lethal precision. And there's more." He described the unnatural cold, the frost forming, the freezing ability by touch. And then, the final weapon. "Beams. Fired from the eyes. Dark red. Not pure energy... they cut and burn. That's what got me." He closed his eyes briefly, the memory of the impact vivid. "He's smart, tactical. Toyed with me before incapacitating me. Retreated when he heard the sirens."
There was a heavy silence on the other end before Tsukauchi responded, the concern clear in his voice. "Understood, Eraser. Your information is... deeply disturbing. Immunity to Erasure and these abilities... This changes everything. Focus on your recovery. Your life is the priority. We'll have to rethink the entire strategy. Take care, Shota."
The second call was to Nezu. The principal answered immediately, his voice calm as ever, but Aizawa could detect the underlying current of intense concentration. He repeated the report, sparing no detail about his Quirk's failure, the demonstration of multiple anomalous powers, and the devastating force of the final attack.
"Severe injuries, you say? And confirmation of Erasure's ineffectiveness," Nezu mused, the calmness in his voice almost more unsettling than panic would have been. "This solidifies the non-Quirk nature of our 'Blood King'. Fascinating, in a purely academic sense, and terrifyingly dangerous in all others. The eye beams... a manifestation of concentrated biological energy? And the freezing... thermal manipulation via an unknown biological process?" Nezu's mind was clearly working at high speed, analyzing the possibilities.
"Principal, he's more than a scientific anomaly," Aizawa insisted, pain lending a harsh edge to his voice. "He's a predator at the peak of his physical power, with lethal weapons and a mindset that despises our laws. He neutralized me with ease when he decided to stop playing."
"I don't disagree about the threat, Aizawa-kun," Nezu replied, his tone still balanced but with a new intensity. "But the intelligence and control you describe, even amidst the brutality, are noteworthy. He incapacitated you severely, yes, but he didn't kill you, despite having the opportunity. He retreated when reinforcements arrived. He operates with a degree of calculation, not just savagery."
There was a pause, and Aizawa felt a chill run down his spine, despite the painkillers. He knew that tone in Nezu's voice – it was the tone that preceded an audacious and potentially dangerous idea.
"In fact, Aizawa-kun," Nezu continued, almost casually, "your description only reinforces a line of thought I've been considering since the first anomalous reports. A young individual – we assume from his silhouette and movement – with immense power operating outside known norms. Rejected by society, perhaps? Operating with his own distorted code, but with undeniable intelligence..."
"Principal, what are you getting at?" Aizawa asked apprehensively.
"I'm thinking about the potential, Aizawa-kun," Nezu answered, and Aizawa could almost hear the gleam in the principal's eyes. "Raw potential. Uncontrolled, certainly dangerous at the moment, but undeniably vast. The kind of potential that, if left to fester in the shadows, could spawn a villain of catastrophic proportions. But which, if brought into the light, if exposed to a structured environment, could perhaps be... understood. Guided."
"Brought into the light? Guided? Principal, we're talking about the Blood King!" Aizawa exclaimed incredulously, ignoring the twinge of pain in his ribs.
"Exactly! What better place to observe, analyze, and potentially influence such a powerful anomaly than right here, at U.A.?" Nezu asked, cold logic in his voice. "Think about it. Bringing him into our controlled environment. Exposing his ideas to the philosophy of heroism. Challenging his power within our parameters. It would be the ultimate experiment, the opportunity to transform an existential threat into... something more. Or, at the very least, to contain him under our watchful eye."
Aizawa was speechless for a moment. The audacity of the idea was typical of Nezu, yet still shocking. "Are you suggesting... recruiting the Blood King to U.A.? Admitting him as a student?"
"Considering the entrance exam is less than a year away," Nezu replied calmly, "and that he has demonstrated an interest in challenging heroes and power, it's not illogical to assume he might see U.A. as the next logical step in his... escalation. If he applies, and if he passes the objective criteria – which, given the strength you describe, seems likely – we would have the perfect justification to bring him inside."
"But the risk!" Aizawa protested. "To the other students! To the staff!"
"Calculated risks are the essence of strategy, Aizawa-kun. And the risk of letting him evolve unchecked out there is, in my assessment, far greater in the long run," Nezu stated. "Of course, we would take every imaginable precaution. Your role would be crucial in this, as someone who has faced him and understands the threat. But the opportunity to study and perhaps redirect such power... it's unprecedented."
Aizawa felt a chill. The idea was insane. But, coming from Nezu, there was a terrifying logic behind it. "Principal... this is..."
"Something for us to consider seriously," Nezu concluded. "For now, your recovery is the priority. But keep this possibility in mind. The future may demand... extraordinary measures. Rest well, Aizawa-kun. You've earned it."
The call ended, leaving Aizawa in stunned silence, the physical pain momentarily forgotten by the magnitude of Nezu's idea. Bring the Blood King to U.A.? It was madness. Or was it the kind of strategic, risky brilliance only Nezu could conceive? He couldn't tell, but one thing was certain: the game had just become infinitely more complicated and dangerous.
Far away, in the dark sanctuary of the abandoned industrial complex, Reiji Kinzoku felt the last vestiges of the sharp pain from the SRSE fade, replaced by the familiar cold energy coursing through his veins. The blood he had taken from the smugglers before the fight with Aizawa helped speed his ocular recovery. He stood, mask and hood removed, staring at his distorted reflection in a shard of broken glass propped against the wall.
The fight against Eraser Head was... illuminating. The confirmation of Erasure's uselessness was a balm to his growing arrogance. The controlled, devastating use of the SRSE under pressure was a personal milestone, a significant step in mastering Dio's legacy. Aizawa's combat skill, his tricks and tenacity, were a useful reminder that even "inferior" humans could be dangerous if underestimated. But in the end, the result was undeniable: he had won. He had left one of the most respected underground heroes broken and humiliated.
However, the experience also crystallized a strategic need. The hunt for the remaining pages of the journal. It was crucial. The knowledge they contained – about other powers, perhaps about the "Stands" Dio barely mentioned as a higher form of power in a cryptic footnote, or about the ultimate goal of "Heaven" – was essential for his continued ascension. But hunting those pages alone, infiltrating museums and archives across the country, was slow, risky, and exposed him unnecessarily.
He needed eyes and ears. He needed agents who could conduct preliminary research, follow the faint clues, identify the likely locations of the pages without attracting the attention he himself inevitably would. He didn't need soldiers to fight his battles yet, but discreet, intelligent scouts to pave his way.
The passage in the journal about creating servants returned to his mind. "A controlled infusion transforms weak flesh, creating a servant, an extension of your will... The bond of blood is strong..." It was time to test that part of Dio's legacy. It was time to create his first conscious tools.
He wouldn't seek the strong or the obviously powerful for this task. They might be useful later, for combat, but for research and discreet infiltration, he needed other attributes. Intelligence. Discretion. And above all, the right kind of motivation: the resentment and desperation of the marginalized, those who would gladly trade their miserable existence for a glimpse of power and purpose, no matter how dark.
He thought of the Quirkless he knew at Aldera, the students with minor mutations who were constantly ridiculed. He thought of the online forums he had discovered, where the rejected vented their bitterness against hero society. There were many potential candidates.
His first creation would be a careful experiment. He needed to understand the process, the strength of the bond, the limitations of the created servants. He needed to ensure they were tools, not future rivals, as Dio wisely warned.
He stood up, the decision made. The night was still young. While the Underground Hero lay in a hospital bed, the Blood King was ready to take the next step in his plan. He would go out into the streets not to hunt for blood or power for himself, but to find the right clay from which to mold his first loyal servants. The seeds of his organization were about to be planted, not for immediate combat, but for the silent harvest of Dio's lost knowledge. The game was becoming wider, more subtle, and Reiji felt he was beginning to play it with the mastery his predecessor would approve of.