Chapter 76:- Purging Fukuoka 3

(A/N:- Tried a new way of writing, I don't know whether it's good or not, so do let me know if it's good or it needs changes... I am open to your suggestions)

"In the darkest depths of despair, hope is but a single ember. Yet, tend it with care, and it shall burst into a roaring blaze that no tempest can extinguish." - Jaina Proudmoore, World of Warcraft

And if the authorities were getting killed now could they say for sure that they would be safe, they didn't think about pro heroes blinded by fear, but isn't that right as well, for if someone was able to kill all these policemen that is total 32 policemen in one night and even spike them in the very police station they worked in, beheaded them, stick all the confidential papers on them, while also leaving a message behind for others, that too within just 10 hrs, right under the nose of these pro heroes, yet they didn't even know what happened or who did it, it was obvious that they felt fear.

Then for the whole day, there was total mayhem in Fukuoka Prefecture, regarding what was happening in the city while no one knew about it, they even tried contacting other cities but they couldn't, as Izuku had already jammed the signals in such a way that it was like the whole city was completely cut off from the whole world.

People of Fukuoka could communicate with each other inside the city, but any help they asked for from outside was redirected to Izuku.

So no one in Fukuoka could sense that they were completely cut off from the world, The same goes for the whole of Japan as well, as all the communication that came from other prefectures were also intercepted by Izuku so getting no answers or help from outside increased even more chaos as fear crept in their hearts.

Fukuoka Prefecture plunged into an abyss of uncertainty. News of the city's upheaval remained eerily contained, locked within its concrete borders. Like a ship severed from its anchor, the city drifted alone, unable to send out an SOS. 

Izuku's digital blockade was a silent chokehold, severing Fukuoka's communication arteries to the outside world. Phone calls to neighboring cities met with dead ends, emails bounced back, and social media posts vanished into a digital void. The internet, which was once a bustling highway of information for everyone, had become a deserted wasteland for the people of Fukuoka Prefecture.

Even within the city walls, communication was a twisted labyrinth. Messages reached their intended recipients, yes, but their true destination was a single pair of red eyes. Izuku, the puppeteer, monitored every syllable, every pixel, crafting the illusion of normalcy while tightening his grip on information. 

Whispers of unease rippled through the streets, the silence from beyond the city limits amplifying the fear gnawing at Fukuoka's heart. 

The lack of news wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a gnawing dread, a chilling confirmation that they were truly alone.

Across Japan, life continued its familiar rhythm. The cherry blossoms in Kyoto danced in the spring breeze, Osaka thrummed with bustling markets, and in Tokyo, salarymen rushed to catch their bullet trains. News flowed freely, headlines buzzing with many pro heroes' accomplishments and new heroes' debuts. No inkling touched these distant cities of the storm brewing in Fukuoka.

But within the invisible wall Izuku had erected, chaos reigned. The initial shock wave of violence ripples outward, a wave of crimson crashing against the lives of ordinary people. 

Mr. Tanaka, a baker who once scoffed at heteromorphs, now cowered behind his counter, the memory of a murdered officer painting his apron with fear. 

Young Ayako, once a playground bully, stumbled home through darkened streets, clutching her phone that stubbornly refused to connect, a chilling fear that mirrored the static clinging to her dead phone. 

The city, once pulsing with life, became a cacophony of terror. Sirens wailed, unanswered, their pleas swallowed by Izuku's digital prison. 

Pro heroes, the supposed guardians of peace, found themselves powerless, their quirks useless against the unseen puppeteer pulling the city's strings. Buildings, once havens of glass and steel, stood hollowed out, silent testaments to the rebellion's brutal efficiency.

Panic bloomed like wildfire. In grocery stores, shelves emptied faster than they could be stocked. On sidewalks, whispers mingled with sobs, stories of murdered citizens traded in hushed tones. Children clung to their parents, their wide eyes reflecting the city's shattered facade. 

Parents clutching their children tightly fearing that their kids might get killed for all the discrimination encouraged by their parents. Fukuoka, once a bustling metropolis, had become a ghost town, the air thick with the stench of smoke and uncertainty.

Yet, amidst the chaos, sparks of defiance flickered. Whispers of resistance coalesced into small acts of solidarity. Neighbors shared dwindling supplies, strangers offered words of comfort, and in darkened bedrooms, messages coded in a light flickered between windows, fragile threads of hope woven in the digital darkness.

Pro heroes, clad in their flamboyant costumes, were reduced to frustrated statues, their quirks rendered useless by the digital puppeteer. For the people of Fukuoka, this was no longer just a rebellion; it was a reckoning. 

The fear they had inflicted on heteromorphs now mirrored back at them, a bitter taste of their own prejudice. And within that fear, a seed of understanding began to sprout, a fragile empathy pushing through the cracks of their shattered world.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the ravaged city, one question echoed in every heart: Would dawn bring liberation or complete annihilation? The answer, it seemed, lay in the hands of a lone city, isolated from the world, yet fighting for something that resonated within them all - the right to exist, to be heard, to simply be.

The sun climbed the sky, painting the steel bones of Fukuoka with fragile hope. The digital shroud remained, cloaking the city in an uneasy silence, but beneath its suffocating grip, something had shifted. Fear still lingered, bitter and cold, but alongside it bloomed a hesitant defiance, a whisper of change carried on the smoke-tinged wind.

But amidst the terror, a spark flickered. A young heteromorph, Kai, the son of a customer often met with disdain, stood at the counter, eyes wide and vulnerable. A single loaf of bread sat before him, untouched, the unspoken question dangling in the air.

Mr. Tanaka's hand trembled as he reached for the bread. This simple act, the offering of sustenance to a creature once deemed lesser, felt monumental. Kai met his gaze, wary yet hopeful. As the bread passed between them, a bridge of fragile trust was built, a testament to the possibility of understanding woven from the ashes of fear.

Across the city, similar threads of connection emerged. Ayako, the bully, stumbled upon a makeshift clinic, run by a heteromorph doctor with nimble, scaled hands. Her fear, raw and desperate, met the doctor's calm empathy, a mirror reflecting back the hurt she had inflicted on others. Bandages were applied, not just to wounds, but to the tattered remnants of Ayako's conscience.

News, once choked by Izuku's digital noose, trickled through the city in hushed whispers. Stories of fallen officers morphed into tales of their corruption, tales whispered by disgruntled colleagues, their fear giving way to a thirst for truth. 

The heroes, useless against the invisible enemy, found themselves facing a different battle - the battle against their own ignorance, the battle to understand the anger festering beneath the surface of a city they thought they knew.

He watched Mr. Tanaka share his bread, Ayako offers assistance at the clinic, and a hero, stripped of his flashy quirk, engage in a quiet conversation with a young heteromorph, their voices weaving a tapestry of shared humanity.

Seeing the change in the city with just 32 dead bodies, Izuku felt satisfied and knew that this was just the beginning of a stronghold he was envisioning over piles of dead bodies, a peace not built over thin threads but over piles of dead bodies telling the tale of blood. 

As the days bled into weeks, almost all the police officers and pro heroes meaning all the security agencies held within Fukuoka were attacked, their dead bodies were branded on their very own workplace, all of them having their heads beheaded, chests branded with files filed with corruption, and by the time things settled down, the city had become a lawless zone.

Some people that had a major involvement in discrimination that is the bigshots who used their influence to kill the heteromorphs and increase discrimination were also killed in their house, however, the majority of the normal people were alright as just the horrifying scene of all these killing was more than enough to break their spirit as now none of them would dare to do anything at all, the digital blockade cracked.

Fukuoka would always be different. The scars of violence, the echoes of fear, would linger long after the smoke cleared. But amidst the ruins, amidst the whispers of change, a new Fukuoka was being born.

A city where fear had given way to understanding, where prejudice was challenged by empathy, and where the right to simply be bloomed like tenacious wildflowers pushing through the cracks of a broken world.

The seeds of change were sown, watered by sacrifice, and nurtured by the fragile hope that one day, Fukuoka would bloom anew, a haven for all, heteromorph and human alike.

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