God of Heroics: Comicman!

Class 1-B gathered at the train station in their school uniforms, each carrying a silver briefcase stamped with their seat number. Inside each one, folded neatly and wrapped in protective lining, sat their hero costumes. Vlad King stood at the head of the platform with his arms crossed and his grey-white hair catching the wind, looking at his students the way a general might look at recruits shipping out for the first time.

"You've got your costumes. Don't wear them in public and don't lose them." His eyes moved across the group. "Mind your manners. Represent the school well. And come back actually having learned something."

"YES, SENSEI!" Tetsutetsu bellowed, earning several stares from commuters.

"Please mind your voice in public…" Kendo said.

Manga stood near the edge of the group with his briefcase in one hand and his school bag over the opposite shoulder. His bubble displayed a small train icon, cycling through departure times. The train to Minato, Tokyo, was leaving in twelve minutes.

Tokage bumped her shoulder against his. "Text me every night."

"Every night?"

"Every. Night." She held up her phone.

"What if I'm too tired?"

"Then text me that you're too tired. That counts."

He laughed. A small star emoji popped into his bubble. She flicked it.

"Don't do anything crazy."

"It's an internship, what crazy thing could happen?"

"With you, there's no telling." She sighed. Having the most popular boyfriend in Japan was a headache but damn if it didn’t feel awesome.

Their trains were on different platforms. Tokage heading south toward Majestic's agency, Manga heading into central Tokyo. They split at the junction with a wave and a grin, and then the crowd swallowed her green hair and she was gone.

Around the station, the rest of Class 1-B scattered toward their respective platforms. Tetsutetsu and Kirishima from 1-A discovered they were heading to the same station for Fourth Kind and spent the entire wait catching up since their match in the Sports Festival. Kamakiri slouched toward a bench, green mohawk visible above the crowd like a dorsal fin, his ticket for Best Jeanist's Genius Office in Tokyo tucked into his pocket alongside what was apparently another first-year from 1-A with spiky blond hair and a permanent scowl. Neither of them looked excited.

Monoma stood alone at the far end of Platform 6, waiting for the express to Hiroshima. He hadn't told anyone much about his choice. When Manga had asked, he'd only said, "Someone who can help me defeat you next time."

Manga's train arrived on time. He boarded, found a window seat, and set his briefcase on the rack above. The train pulled away from the station and Tokyo's skyline grew in the distance, steel and glass stacking upward into a haze of morning light.

He pulled out his phone and opened the notes app. In it was everything he'd been able to find about Sir Nighteye's agency. A five-story building in Minato. Two sidekicks: Bubble Girl and Centipeder. Nighteye himself. All Might's former sidekick. A man who could see the future.

Manga set the phone down and looked out the window. The city blurred past, and his bubble displayed a single drawn image: a tiny speech bubble with an exclamation mark inside it.

He was excited. What could the sidekick for the #1 hero teach him, the man who planned to surpass God?

…

The Nighteye Agency was exactly where the address said it would be, a tall, professional, five-story building in a commercial district, its exterior unremarkable save for a small plaque by the entrance. Manga stood in front of it, took a breath, and pushed the door open.

The lobby was quiet. Professional. A front desk, a few chairs, muted lighting. And behind the desk, a young woman with light blue skin, a transparent visor resting loosely around her neck, and a smile that immediately put him at ease.

"You must be Fukidashi-kun!" She stood up and came around the desk. "I'm Bubble Girl. Welcome to the agency!"

"Thank you for having me." He bowed. His bubble displayed a smiling emoji.

"Oh, that's adorable. Your head does that?" She leaned in slightly. "Does it always show what you're thinking?"

"Yes it does." The smile changed into Bubble Girl’s image briefly before shifting back to the smile.

"That's going to be a problem during poker night." She giggled and gestured for him to follow. "Come on, I'll show you around before you meet Sir."

The tour was brief. Ground floor: lobby, meeting room, communications. Second floor: larger meeting room with a long table and wall-mounted screens. Third and fourth: offices, file storage, a large advanced gym. Fifth: Sir Nighteye's personal office.

Every hallway had at least one piece of All Might merchandise. A poster here. A figurine there. A framed photograph of All Might mid-punch that looked like it belonged in a museum. Manga's bubble cycled through increasingly impressed emojis.

"Sir is a collector," Bubble Girl said, noticing his reactions. "Don't touch anything in his office unless you want a historic lecture about which printing run it came from."

On the third floor, they passed a tall figure in a suit. Very tall. Manga looked up and kept looking up. The man's neck was unusually long, coiled slightly, and above it sat a head that was... a centipede. A curled centipede head with mandibles and regular eyes. But his posture was friendly, his suit was impeccable, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and elegant.

"You must be the intern. Centipeder." He extended a hand.

Manga shook it. The hand was human. "Comicman! Nice to meet cha!"

"Likewise. Sir is expecting you. Fifth floor." Centipeder nodded once and continued down the hallway.

Bubble Girl led Manga up the final flight of stairs. She paused outside a heavy wooden door.

"Quick warning. Sir is... intense. He'll seem mean at first. Don't let it shake you. And whatever you do, don't fake anything. He can tell."

She knocked twice and opened the door.

The office was large, well-lit, and obsessively curated. Every wall held All Might posters, some standard, some limited edition, some that Manga guessed as one-of-a-kind prints. The bookshelves were lined with volumes: All Might's Path, Part I and II. Heart of a Hero. All Might Photo Collection. A desk dominated the center of the room, clean and organized, with a laptop, a stack of files, and a single heavy object that looked like an ornate stamp, sitting beside a sealed ink pad.

Behind the desk sat Sir Nighteye.

He was taller than Manga expected, even seated. Lean. Sharp. His dark green hair was smoothed and parted, three yellow streaks running through the front. Triangular glasses framed yellow eyes that didn't blink when Manga entered the room. He wore a white suit with gold buttons, a red polka-dot tie, and the expression of a man who didn’t seem happy at what he was seeing.

"Fukidashi Manga. Winner of the U.A. Sports Festival." His voice was flat and low. Not unfriendly. Just devoid of anything unnecessary. "Sit."

Manga sat in the chair across from the desk. His bubble went blank. Nighteye studied him for several seconds without speaking. Then:

"You’ve no doubt received thousands of invitations. Agencies from every prefecture in Japan expressed interest." He spoke. "And you chose mine."

Manga nodded.

"Why?"

"Because of what you stand for."

A beat.

"Elaborate."

"You believe heroes should make people laugh. That humor and joy are vital to the future of society." Manga's voice was steady. "My dream is to become a hero who makes children smile. Not just by saving them, but by being the kind of person they look at and feel happy. That's why I became Comicman. And that's why I'm here."

Nighteye's expression didn't change. His yellow eyes held Manga's gaze for a long, uncomfortable stretch.

"Idealistic. Sincere. And entirely insufficient."

The words landed like a slap.

“B-”

"Do not interrupt me." Nighteye leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced. "What you can gain from working here is abundantly clear. But what do I have to gain by taking you on? My agency employs two sidekicks and one student already, and it operates without issue. What profit does your internship offer me?"

Manga opened his mouth. Closed it.

"How can you contribute to society? In what way does your presence benefit others? You must demonstrate these things if you wish for my approval." Nighteye's gaze was unrelenting. "All Might did so with his humor and his power. He gave hope to those threatened by villainy. That is why people accepted him." He paused. "Determine what benefit you will afford my agency and show me through your actions, not words."

Silence.

Manga's bubble had gone completely blank.

Then, slowly, a single line of text appeared in his bubble. Small, handwritten, like a margin note in a manga panel.

I'll show you.

Nighteye's eyes flicked to the text.

Nighteye stood. He was very tall standing up. He picked up a stamp from his desk, the ornate seal, and held it in one hand like it weighed nothing.

"Bubble Girl. Please leave the room."

Bubble Girl, who had been standing quietly by the door, gave Manga a small thumbs-up and slipped out. A moment later, heavy footsteps receded down the hallway.

Nighteye faced Manga.

"Three minutes. Seize my seal from me in the next three minutes." He held it up, the black object absorbing the light. "I will not fight back. Come at me with whatever sort of attacks you wish. Any amount of damage to this room is acceptable as long as you steal my seal."

Manga looked at the room. The All Might merchandise everywhere. The limited-edition prints. The collector's items.

"And if you truly wish to learn about heroism at my side," Nighteye continued, "this is your second test."

Manga stood. He didn't need to be told twice.

Nighteye reached across the desk, his free hand extending toward Manga. "Your hand."

Manga blinked, then offered it. Nighteye's grip was firm, cold, and brief. Their eyes met. Manga felt nothing unusual, but Nighteye's pupils seemed to sharpen for a fraction of a second.

Foresight. Activated.

Every move Manga would make in the next hour was now visible to Sir Nighteye, playing out in a third-person perspective somewhere behind those yellow eyes. Every feint, every pivot, every angle of approach, laid bare before the fight had even started.

Nighteye released his hand and stepped back. "Begin."

Manga burst ahead.

He exploded from his position, legs driving into the floor with the compressed force of months spent training under increased gravity. The first step cracked the tile. The second carried him across half the office.

Nighteye sidestepped.

Manga was different from what he expected.

He was fast. Too fast for a first-year. Nighteye saw the move coming, knew exactly where Manga would be, but his body had to actually respond to avoid it.

Nighteye shifted right. Manga's hand swiped through empty air where the seal had been. He planted his foot on the bookshelf and launched off it, reversing direction, coming in from behind. Nighteye pivoted, the seal switching hands behind his back, and Manga's fingers grazed his sleeve.

Close.

The room became a blur of movement. Manga used the furniture like terrain, off the desk, off the chair, off the wall, his body twisting and redirecting effortlessly. He wasn't using his quirk. Just speed, agility, and a relentless refusal to stop.

Nighteye saw every attack before it came. Every feint, every angle, every shift in weight. His Foresight was absolute. But absolute knowledge didn't mean absolute safety, not when the kid closing in on him had the speed to make the predicted future arrive before he could comfortably reposition.

They crashed through the office. A chair went over. A stack of files scattered. Manga rebounded off the wall next to a limited-edition Silver Age poster, tucked his shoulder, and threw himself at Nighteye from an angle that would have required a full body rotation to dodge.

Nighteye rotated. Barely. The seal stayed in his right hand, raised above his head, and Manga's palm slapped against his forearm instead.

One minute down.

Manga's bubble was cycling through images. Action lines. Speed marks. The kind of visual language you'd see in a manga panel during a chase scene. His entire head had become a comic strip in motion.

He changed patterns. Stopped going for the seal directly. Started going for Nighteye's body instead, grabbing at his wrist, his elbow, his suit jacket, trying to create a moment where the seal would be exposed. Nighteye adjusted. Manga adjusted to the adjustment. They were reading each other now, one through Foresight and the other through instinct, and the gap between prediction and execution was shrinking with every exchange.

Two minutes.

Manga feinted left. Nighteye saw it coming and leaned right. But Manga's feint was a feint within a feint, his left foot planting and his body snapping back the other direction with a speed that made his uniform snap like a flag in wind. His hand shot up, past Nighteye's guard, and closed around the seal.

The weight hit him like a brick.

Several kilograms. In a stamp-sized object. His hand didn't drop, but his entire arm flexed under the sudden load, bicep and forearm straining against what felt like someone had welded a dumbbell to his palm.

He held it.

His bubble displayed a single word in bold, shaky letters: HEAVY. SUPER FREAKING HEAVY. WHAT THE CRAP?! WHO HAS A STAMP THAT WEIGHS A KAJILLION POUNDS IN HIS OFFICE?!

Nighteye looked at him. The seal was gone from his hand. The boy was standing in the wreckage of what had been a very organized office, breathing hard, holding the stamp like it was a trophy, and his speech bubble head was displaying his thoughts in a font that looked like it was sweating.

Something happened to Nighteye's face.

It wasn't quite a smile. It was the ghost of one, a fraction of a muscle twitch at the corner of his mouth that a less observant person might have missed entirely.

"Your sense of humor is quite natural and suits you rather well. I accept you, Fukidashi."

Manga's arm was shaking. "T-Thank you, sir!"

"Your placement here was decided the moment I sent you an offer. And I knew all along that you wouldn't be completely useless to me." Nighteye took the seal back with one hand and set it on his desk. "You will gain the experience in this pro hero office that will make you very aware of how to use your great potential."

He straightened his tie. Adjusted his glasses. Looked at the destroyed office with the expression of a man who was already calculating how long the cleanup would take.

"Now. Let's discuss your internship."

The door opened. A blond head appeared, beady blue eyes wide and cartoonish, a grin so broad it seemed to occupy more of his face than physics allowed.

"DID HE PASS?!" A strange looking boy burst in the room.

He was tall. Fit. Handsome. But his face looked like it belonged in a European comic strip, round and simple, his nose a perfect circle, his eyes two dots of blue with no visible sclera. He wore a school shirt that strained across his chest and a belt with a gold buckle shaped like a mouth.

"He passed," Nighteye said.

"YEEEEAAAH!" Mirio threw both fists in the air. "POWER!"

He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Manga's hand, shaking it with the enthusiasm of someone who had just won the lottery and wanted to share.

"Togata Mirio ! Lemillion! I watched your Sports Festival fights, and man, you are something else, Freshie! That final against the explosion kid? I was screaming at my screen! POWER!" He pumped his fist again. "Welcome to the agency!"

Manga's bubble filled with sparkles and exclamation marks. "Fukidashi Manga or Comicman in my costume. It’s nice to meet ya dude."

Mirio laughed. "Dude, you won the whole Sports Festival without even really using your quirk in that final round! That's insane! So you're with us for the week, huh? This is gonna be great. I'll show you the patrol routes, the gym equipment, the ramen spot around the corner that Sir pretends he doesn't like but orders from three times a week."

"Once a week," Nighteye corrected.

"Three times," Mirio stage-whispered to Manga. "He gets the miso tonkotsu with extra pork."

Manga couldn't help it. He laughed. His bubble filled with a drawn bowl of ramen, steam rising from the noodles, and Mirio pointed at it with pure delight.

"YOUR HEAD DREW THAT?! That's the coolest thing I've ever seen! Can it draw me? Draw me!"

The bubble shifted. A quick, cartoon sketch of Mirio appeared, exaggerated grin and all, his muscles too big and his eyes too small, like a caricature from a festival booth.

Mirio stared at it.

Then he burst into laughter so loud that Bubble Girl and Centipeder both looked up from the floor below.

"SIR! SIR, LOOK AT THIS! He drew me! I look like someone in a comic book!"

Even Nighteye looked. His eyes moved from the caricature to Manga and back.

"The likeness is exact," he said. And turned away before anyone could see his expression.

The Genius Office sat in central Tokyo, a sleek building with the word "GENIUS" emblazoned across the front. Inside, the décor was all clean lines, polished surfaces, and the faint scent of whatever fabric softener Best Jeanist used on his entire life.

Kamakiri stood in the lobby next to Bakugo. Neither of them had spoken to each other on the train. They'd sat on opposite ends of the car, Kamakiri with his arms crossed and his cheek-blades catching the overhead light, Bakugo with his feet on the seat in front of him and murder in his eyes.

Best Jeanist appeared from the elevator.

He was tall, lean, and wrapped in denim from neck to toe. His face was almost entirely obscured by his high collar, only his eyes visible. His hair was a sweeping blond wave.

"To be honest," he said, looking at both of them, "I'm not a fan of either of you."

Kamakiri's blades extended half an inch from his cheeks. "Then why'd you draft us?"

"You're the first in a long time who..." Best Jeanist paused, studying them. "All I've had lately are little do-gooders. But you two..." He looked at Bakugo. "And I imagine the only reason you chose my agency is because I'm one of the top five most popular heroes, right?"

"So what?" Bakugo didn't deny it.

"And you." He turned to Kamakiri. "Same reason, I'd wager."

Kamakiri shrugged. "Top four's top four."

Best Jeanist adjusted his collar. "You're both a bit more ferocious than the usual sort. And my job as a hero is reforming people like you." His eyes narrowed above the denim. "Heroes and villains are two sides of the same coin. I can see it in both your glares. So, what is it that really makes someone a hero?"

Bakugo's palms crackled. Kamakiri's blades twitched. Neither answered.

"We'll find out together." Best Jeanist turned and walked toward the elevator. "Follow me. We have work to do."

The elevator doors closed behind the three of them.

Inside, Best Jeanist's sidekicks were already gathered, all of them clad in matching denim. Bakugo took one look at the room and said, loudly: "I came to the wrong place."

Kamakiri, for the first and perhaps only time in his life, agreed with Bakugo. “You’re telling me.”

Fourth Kind's Hero Agency was a squat, professional-looking building with a sign that read "HERO AGENCY" in bold characters. Inside, it smelled like floor wax and discipline.

Fourth Kind stood at the center of his office, all four arms crossed, his metal jaw guard gleaming. He was huge and dressed in a three-piece suit that barely contained him. He looked more like a four-armed bouncer than a government employee, but that was exactly what he was.

"It's true. I get paid by the state, which technically makes me a government employee." He uncrossed two of his arms and gestured at the building around him. "But given my status, I'm nothing like your average government worker."

Tetsutetsu and Kirishima stood side by side, both in their school uniforms, both vibrating with excitement that neither could contain.

"I was allowed to take on two students," Fourth Kind continued, "so I want to tell you both about what this work is actually like."

"YES SIR!" They said in unison, then looked at each other, grinned, and bumped fists.

Fourth Kind watched them.

Then he hit them both on the head. Two of his four hands, moving simultaneously, cracking down on their skulls hard enough to send them stumbling.

"OW!"

"When I'm speaking, you stand at attention and you listen. This isn't a playground." He straightened his tie with his remaining two hands. "You want to learn what a hero does? A hero serves. A hero cleans. A hero prepares tea for his clients, and that tea had better not be lukewarm, or I'll demonstrate what all four of these arms can do."

Tetsutetsu's eyes were watering. Kirishima's were too.

They'd both instinctively activated their hardening quirks but it did nothing against a pro’s strength.

"Now." Fourth Kind pointed at the kitchen. "Tea. Both of you. Go."

They went.

Hiroshima.

The train ride had been long. Monoma had spent it reading, a novel with a blue cover whose title he kept facing away from anyone who tried to look. When the train pulled into the station, he gathered his things, stepped onto the platform, and followed the address on his phone to a nondescript street in a district that smelled like salt air and fried food.

There was no agency building. No office. No sign.

Just a woman standing in the middle of a rooftop parking lot, arms crossed, long white hair blowing in the wind. Her rabbit ears, tall and sharp, twitched once when she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Mirko.

The Rabbit Hero. Number Five. A freelancer who didn't work at an agency, didn't have sidekicks, and didn't take interns. A pioneer who worked solo and considered anyone who joined a team to be a coward. She fought entirely with her body and had never once lost to an opponent she could reach.

She was shorter than Monoma expected. Dark-skinned, white-haired, red-eyed, lean and ripped in a way that made her look like she'd been born in a gym. Her hero costume, a white leotard with a yellow crescent moon across the chest and thick purple boots, made no attempt to hide the muscular build underneath.

She looked at him.

Then she looked at the briefcase.

Then she looked at him again.

"You're the Copy kid."

"Monoma Neito . Phantom Thief. I'm honored to be here." He gave a shallow bow.

"Don't be honored. Be ready." She uncrossed her arms. "I saw your tournament. You're clever. You've got guts." She paused. "But every fight you were in, the moment it came down to fists, you got destroyed."

Monoma said nothing. His jaw tightened, barely, but he didn't argue.

"That's why you're here?"

"Yes."

"Good. At least you're honest." She rolled her neck. Something popped. "I don't take interns. I don't do team-ups. I don't hold hands. The only reason I said yes to you is because a kid whose quirk does nothing by itself making it to the semi-finals of the Sports Festival is the most interesting thing I've seen from U.A. in years."

She took a step forward. Then another. Until she was close enough that Monoma could count the muscles in her forearms.

"Throw a punch."

He did. Right hand, straight jab, decent form.

She caught it with her palm. Her fingers closed around his fist. And then the world inverted.

Monoma hit the concrete on his back. The air left his lungs. His briefcase clattered away. The sky above him was very blue and very far away and Mirko was standing over him with one boot on either side of his ribs, looking down with the expression of someone inspecting a bruised peach.

"That's what I thought." She stepped off him. "We start at dawn. Every morning. You bring water, a towel, and nothing else. No costume. No quirk. Just your body and willpower."

She walked away.

Monoma lay on the concrete, staring at the sky, his back throbbing, his fist still tingling from where she'd grabbed it.

He had a feeling he was going to regret this immensely and at the same time benefit greatly.

Monoma sighed. He was the one who chose this. This crazy woman was definitely going to help him win against Manga…

Tokage arrived at Majestic's agency in the early afternoon. The building was mid-sized, professional, with a wizard-hat logo above the entrance that somehow managed to look serious. The Magic Hero met her at the door, a slim man with a goatee, an orange robe, a pointed scarlet hat, and fabric blindfolding his eyes that he apparently saw through perfectly well.

"Tokage Setsuna. Lizardy." He offered a handshake.

"Thank you, sir."

"Your quirk allows you to divide your body into pieces and control them independently."

"That's right."

"How many can you manage at full combat effectiveness?"

"Comfortably? All fifty."

Majestic nodded. "Tell me something." He tilted his head, the blindfolded eyes somehow finding hers. "Why me?"

Tokage grinned, all teeth. "You specialize in wide-area combat and predictive analysis. I want to learn how to see three moves ahead."

"Only three?"

"Gotta start somewhere, sir."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I think we'll get along. Come inside. We have a lot of ground to cover."

That night, Manga lay on the fold-out bed in the guest room on the third floor of the Nighteye Agency. His briefcase sat on the desk beside him, unopened. His costume inside, waiting.

Sir Nighteye had laid out the week's schedule before dismissing him. Patrols in the morning and evening. Combat training in the afternoons. And a standing instruction that hung in the air like a rule carved into stone:

"Those standing at the top must never openly show their doubt and unease. By understanding that, they can hold on to their vision and act accordingly."

Manga pulled out his phone and opened a message thread.

To: Tokage SetsunaDay 1 report. Made it. Met Nighteye. He's terrifying. Met a third-year from school. He's awesome. Passed two tests. My arm hurts. His office has more All Might merch than an All Might museum. The ramen is apparently incredible. I start real training tomorrow.

The reply came thirty seconds later.

From: Tokage SetsunaMajestic is cool. Hobo wizard vibes. Already quizzed me on my quirk limits. Told me we'd "expand them." I think he means it literally. Miss you already, dork.

Manga smiled. A small heart emoji appeared in his bubble, glowing softly in the dark room.

He set the phone down after texting her a miss you too. Closed his eyes.

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