Neotory

 The sky above Musutafu was a brilliant, unblemished blue, completely ignorant of the fact that Izuku Midoriya’s world had just ended.

 The scent of morning in the Midoriya household was not defined by the sterile crispness of ozone or the metallic tang of city smog, but rather by the warm, umami-rich aroma of simmering dashi broth. 

 The world is not born equal. 

Long before the advent of Quirks, before the glowing baby in Qingqing City signaled the dawn of a superhuman society, there were myths. Stories passed down through generations to explain the unexplainable, to give a face to the terrifying forces of nature. Among the ancient Greeks, there was the legend of the Nemean Lion. 

The universe, if one looked closely enough, was nothing more than a pantry. 

The world is not governed by physics, nor by the whims of the gods, and certainly not by the heroic ideals plastered across every billboard in Musutafu. The world, Izuku Midoriya learned at the tender age of four, is governed by narrative.

 The world is not equal. That was the harsh, irrefutable reality Izuku Midoriya learned at the tender age of four.