Idol: The Roar Of The Spark

by Scoregirl

Summary:

The U.A sports festival is around the corner. People all over Japan line to see the how much power the next generation has. The festival consists of various competitive events, including an obstacle race, cavalry battle, and one-on-one battles. Each event tests the students' physical abilities, strategic thinking, teamwork, and individual combat skills. The obstacle race challenges participants to navigate a perilous course filled with traps and obstacles, while the cavalry battle emphasizes teamwork and tactical prowess. The one-on-one battles, often the most intense and thrilling segment, highlight the students' combat abilities and unique Quirks in direct confrontations. Shoto is very exited for the sport festival considering his brother won his own but it seems like others are not as exited like Shoto.

Enji: Rei, Honey, I'm going to need to not make a giant Bobble head of our child this time around.

Rei: But I'm only trying to support our children!

Part 2 of AKA: Where Rei is the reincarnation of Douma and she makes it her husband's problem, but now it's everyone problem.

Notes:

Hi Pookies, I'm Back! did you Miss me? We're finally starting the U.A sport festival and a lot of secrets will be revealed.

This chapter is About Hiro and Yumi becuase they need story time just as much as any character here.

Chapter 1: Different Dreams

The kitchen was alive with the rhythmic chop of Hiro's knife against the cutting board. At twelve, he had recently convinced Papa to teach him proper knife skills, and he took the responsibility of preparing vegetables for dinner with solemn dedication. Beside him, six -year-old Yumi stood on a step stool, carefully measuring rice into the cooker.

It was their weekly ritual—Wednesday evening dinner prep while their fathers were both working late. Usually, they worked in companionable silence or chattered about school, but today Yumi practically vibrated with excitement.

"Do you think Uncle Shoto will win this year?" she asked, nearly spilling rice in her enthusiasm.

Hiro glanced at his sister, pausing his methodical dicing of carrots. "Win what?"

"The Sports Festival! Everyone at school was talking about it today." Yumi looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "How can you not know about it? It's in two weeks!"

Hiro vaguely recalled hearing something about a festival during homeroom announcements, but he'd been finishing math homework and hadn't paid attention. "Is it a big deal?"

Yumi's jaw dropped. "A big deal? It's only the biggest hero school competition in Japan! Millions of people watch it on TV!" She dumped the last of the rice into the cooker and hopped down from her stool. "Yamato-sensei said we're going to watch parts of it in class since it's an important cultural event."

Her eyes shone with excitement as she continued, "All the hero course students compete against each other in different challenges. They get to use their quirks and everything! And the top students get scouted by pro heroes!"

Hiro returned to his chopping, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Sounds intense for a school event."

"It's supposed to be intense," Yumi countered, moving to grab dishes from the cabinet. "Yamato-sensei said it's to prepare them for real hero work. She showed us clips from past festivals, and it was amazing! There was this girl who made a huge ice wall and a boy who could control metal and—"

"Uncle Shoto is competing?" Hiro interrupted, suddenly more interested.

Yumi nodded vigorously. "It's his first year at U.A. Dad said he placed First  in his first year and second in his second year."

"Huh," Hiro said, scraping carrots into a bowl. Yumi started setting the table, carefully placing chopsticks beside each plate. "When I go to U.A., I'm going to win first place."

Hiro's hand stilled on the knife. "You want to go to U.A.?"

"Of course!" Yumi beamed. "I'm going to be a hero like Dad and Papa and Uncle Shoto and fight villains and save people!"

Hiro set down his knife, turning to face his sister fully. "Being a hero isn't just about winning competitions, Yumi."

"I know that," she said, rolling her eyes in the exaggerated way only a six-year-old could perfect. "It's about helping people. But the competitions help you get noticed so you can get a good agency position."

The matter-of-fact way she spoke, parroting what must have been an adult's explanation, unsettled Hiro. He moved to the sink to wash his hands, choosing his words carefully.

"Don't you think it's weird that they make kids fight each other on national television?"

Yumi tilted her head, considering this. "But they're not little kids. They're high schoolers."

"Still kids," Hiro insisted, drying his hands. "Fifteen, sixteen years old. Not much older than me."

"You're practically ancient," Yumi teased, but her smile faltered when she saw his serious expression.

Hiro leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "I heard Papa talking to Dad last week about the festival. Apparently, last year two students ended up in the hospital with serious injuries. One of them still hasn't fully recovered."

Yumi's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really," Hiro confirmed. "And that's just a school competition. Think about what actual hero work is like."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as Yumi returned to setting the table, her movements less enthusiastic than before. Hiro felt a twinge of guilt for dampening her excitement but pressed on.

"Every time Dad comes home with new injuries, or Papa has those nightmares that make the room cold... that's what being a hero means, Yumi. It's not glory or winning festivals."

"But they help people," Yumi said stubbornly. "They save people who need saving. That's important."

"At what cost?" Hiro challenged, his voice rising slightly. "Dad was in the hospital for a week last month because some villain with a corrosion quirk melted part of his wing. Papa pretends he's fine, but I see how he checks the locks three times every night since that break-in attempt."

Yumi's lower lip trembled slightly, but her eyes flashed with determination. "That's why I need to be strong! So I can help them and protect people too! I want to be a hero like them and Uncle Shoto!"

"It's not a game, Yumi!" Hiro snapped, frustration bubbling over. "People almost died at that festival! Think of Dad fighting on the front line just to protect us, coming home hurt and exhausted! Is that really what you want?"

Yumi flinched at his tone, tears welling in her eyes. Before she could respond, a gentle voice interrupted from the doorway.

"What's all this about?"

Both children turned to see their grandmother, Rei Todoroki, standing there with a small bag of groceries. Her white and red hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands framing her face. Despite the warmth of the kitchen, she wore a light sweater—a habit she'd never broken.

"Grandma" Yumi recovered first, running to hug the older woman. "We didn't know you were coming over tonight."

"Your fathers called and asked if I could check in on you both," Rei explained, setting down her bag and returning Yumi's hug before looking at Hiro with concerned eyes. "Now, what has you so upset, darling?"

Hiro's shoulders slumped. "Nothing. Just a disagreement."

"About the Sports Festival," Yumi added, wiping at her eyes. "And about being heroes."

Rei's expression softened with understanding. She gestured toward the living room. "Let's sit down for a moment, shall we? Dinner can wait a few minutes."

The three of them moved to the couch, Yumi immediately curling up next to Rei while Hiro sat slightly apart, arms still crossed defensively.

"Now," Rei began, her voice gentle but firm, "tell me what's troubling you both."

Yumi spoke first, words tumbling out. "I want to be a hero like Dad and Papa and Uncle Shoto, but Hiro says it's too dangerous and that the Sports Festival is wrong because kids get hurt."

Rei nodded, turning her gaze to her grandson. "And you, Hiro? What are your thoughts?"

Hiro stared at his hands for a moment before responding. "I think... I think hero society asks too much of people. They're training children to fight and get injured for entertainment, and then sending them out to face villains who want to kill them. It's wrong."

"I see," Rei said, taking both children's hands in her own—one warm, one cool, a quirk of her dual temperature control. "You're both right, in your own ways."

This caught both children's attention, their eyes lifting to her face.

"Yumi, your admiration for your fathers and uncle is beautiful. They are indeed heroes worth looking up to, and their work helps many people. That desire to help others is a wonderful thing to hold in your heart."

Yumi smiled, sitting up straighter.

"And Hiro," Rei continued, turning to her grandson, "your concerns are equally valid. The hero system as it exists today does place tremendous burdens on young people. It asks for sacrifices that, in an ideal world, wouldn't be necessary."

Hiro blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting his grandmother to agree with him.

"The truth," Rei said, squeezing both their hands, "is that we live in an imperfect world, with an imperfect system. Your fathers and I have had many conversations about this very topic."

"You have?" Hiro asked, his posture relaxing slightly.

Rei nodded. "Touya especially has strong feelings about how hero education is structured. Did you know he's been working with the Hero Commission to revise training protocols for younger heroes?"

Both children shook their heads.

"He believes, as you do, Hiro, that the current system puts too much pressure on children too young. And Keigo..." A small smile touched her lips. "Keigo has been quietly funding alternative hero education programs that focus on rescue operations and quirk control rather than combat."

"I didn't know that," Yumi whispered, wide-eyed.

"They don't talk about it much," Rei acknowledged. "But they are both trying, in their own ways, to change things for the better." She looked directly at Hiro. "You're right to question a system that normalizes children fighting on national television. That critical thinking is important."

Hiro uncrossed his arms, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing.

"And Yumi," Rei continued, "your enthusiasm for heroism itself—the core of it, helping people who need help—that's the seed from which real change grows."

She released their hands, leaning back slightly. "Do you know why Shoto is competing in the Sports Festival, even though he has similar concerns to yours, Hiro?"

Both children shook their heads.

"Because he believes in showing a different kind of heroism. He wants to demonstrate that strength doesn't have to mean aggression, that you can win without hurting others." She smiled softly. "He's been training to use his ice quirk for immobilization rather than injury—techniques that stop opponents without causing them pain."

"Really?" Yumi asked, fascinated.

"Really," Rei confirmed. "Shoto, Touya, and Keigo are all working toward the same goal: creating a world where heroes like them might not be necessary in the same way anymore. They're fighting now so that, hopefully, you won't have to."

Silence fell as the children absorbed this. Outside, the evening light cast long shadows through the windows, bathing the living room in warm golden hues.

Finally, Hiro spoke, his voice quiet but steady. "I think... I think I'd still like to help people. But maybe not as a combat hero. Maybe there are other ways."

"There absolutely are," Rei assured him. "Support heroes, rescue specialists, quirk counselors—there are many paths to helping others that don't require you to fight."

"But I still want to fight villains," Yumi declared, then quickly added, "But only bad ones who hurt people. And I'll be super careful."

Rei chuckled softly. "You have time to figure out exactly what kind of hero—or person—you want to be. Both of you do."

Hiro fidgeted with the hem of his shirt before asking, "Grandma? Do you think... would it be okay if I wrote Uncle Shoto a letter before the Sports Festival? To wish him luck?"

Rei's eyes sparkled. "I think that's a wonderful idea. But you know what might be even better?"

"What?" Hiro asked.

"You can tell him yourself," Rei said warmly. "He's coming for dinner , before the festival begins. He specifically asked if you both would be here."

Yumi gasped with delight, bouncing in her seat. "Really? Uncle Shoto is coming here?"

"Really," Rei confirmed. "He said something about wanting to see his favorite niblings before the competition."

"We're his only niblings," Hiro pointed out, though he couldn't hide his small smile.

"All the more reason for you to be his favorites," Rei replied with a wink. She glanced at the kitchen clock. "Now, I believe we have a dinner to finish preparing. Who's going to show me what you've done so far?"

As they returned to the kitchen, Yumi chattering excitedly about what she would ask Uncle Shoto about the festival, Hiro fell into step beside his grandmother.

"Grandma?" he said quietly, so Yumi wouldn't hear.

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you ever worry about them? Dad and Papa and Uncle Shoto even Granpa?"

Rei's pace slowed slightly, and she placed a gentle hand on Hiro's shoulder. "Every day," she admitted softly. "That's part of loving heroes—the worrying. But I also trust them, and I'm incredibly proud of the men they've become."

Hiro nodded, processing this. "I think... I think I'm proud of them too. Even if it's scary sometimes."

"That's very grown-up of you," Rei said, squeezing his shoulder. "Now, why don't you show me those knife skills Touya's been teaching you? I heard you've become quite the sous chef."

As they entered the kitchen, the earlier tension dissolved into the comfortable rhythm of meal preparation. Hiro returned to his vegetables with renewed focus, occasionally glancing at Yumi, who had already moved on from their argument and was enthusiastically telling Rei about her school day.

Later, as they sat down to eat the dinner they'd prepared together, Hiro found himself thinking about what his grandmother had said—about Touya and Keigo working to change the system from within, about Shoto showing a different kind of heroism. Perhaps there wasn't just one way to be a hero, just as there wasn't just one way to help people.

"Grandmother," he said suddenly, interrupting Yumi's detailed explanation of her art project, "do you think Dad would let me watch the Sports Festival with him? The whole thing, not just the parts they show at school?"

Rei's eyes crinkled with her smile. "I think he'd love that, Hiro. Nothing would make him happier."

Yumi looked between them, beaming. "Can I watch too? Please?"

"Of course," Hiro said, surprising himself with his answer. "We can cheer for Uncle Shoto together."

As Yumi launched into elaborate plans for making supportive signs, Hiro caught his grandmother's approving gaze. He still had his concerns about the hero system—valid ones, she'd confirmed—but perhaps understanding it better was the first step toward changing it someday.

For now, though, he would focus on supporting the heroes he already had in his life—the ones who came home each night, wings ruffled and sometimes bandaged, but always with enough love to make the world feel a little safer.

Chapter 2: If It’s War That You Want? Then You Got It!

Summary:

Denki The MVP

Notes:

All I'm going to say is shit is about to go down.

Shoto thought today would be a normal day-at least, as normal as life could get after the USJ incident. His mother was still fussing over him every morning, checking for bruises and making sure he ate a proper breakfast. His father had tried to help, but Rei’s pointed question-“Do you want to fuss over him like I do?”-had sent Endeavor backing off, muttering something about not wanting “hickeys on his neck again” and apologizing to Shoto before leaving for work. It was a strange, almost comedic start to the day, but it grounded Shoto in the ordinary chaos of family life.

By the time he reached U.A., the world outside felt anything but ordinary. The campus was still buzzing with the aftermath of the villain attack, and the media coverage hadn’t let up. As he entered the classroom, Kirishima leaned over, concern in his eyes. “Hey, Todoroki, how’s your family holding up after all that USJ craziness?”

Mina piped up, “My parents were freaking out! They called, like, ten times just to make sure I was okay. I swear, I thought they were going to show up at the gates with a sleeping bag.”

Shoto gave a small, reassuring smile. “We’re alright. My mother’s just a little more… attentive than usual.” He left out the part about his unconventional climb into the building, which Mina and Kirishima would no doubt tease him about later.

The classroom buzzed with chatter about their appearances on the news. Some students were excited, others embarrassed, but all were aware that the world was watching them now. The door slid open and, to everyone’s shock, Aizawa entered, wrapped in bandages like a mummy. He moved with his usual stoic energy, ignoring the gasps and whispers.

“My injuries are irrelevant,” Aizawa said, voice flat as ever. “There’s something more important coming up: the U.A. Sports Festival.”

Shoto blinked. Huh?

Aizawa explained, “The Sports Festival is one of the most-watched events in the world. It’s a chance for you to show off your skills-not just to the public, but to pro hero agencies looking for new talent. It’s too important to cancel, even after what happened at USJ.”

A ripple of concern passed through the class. Some students wondered if it was too soon after the attack, but Aizawa insisted, “The festival is a statement. It shows that U.A. can handle a crisis and that our students are still the best. It’s your chance to prove yourselves.”

Shoto’s mind wandered. If he did well, could he be scouted by Keigo’s agency? The thought was tempting, but he pushed it aside. Now wasn’t the time for daydreams. The festival was in two weeks-he needed a plan to train, to sharpen his skills, and to make sure he was ready for whatever challenges lay ahead.

At lunch, the mood in Class 1-A shifted. The students gathered in the cafeteria, deciding to put the attack behind them and focus on the future. Ochaco, usually quiet, was the most fired up of all. She stood on her chair and declared, “I’m going to do my best at the Sports Festival! Let’s all show them what we’re made of!”

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and the class responded with cheers and laughter. Even Bakugo, sitting with his usual scowl, seemed less tense than usual. Shoto found himself seated with Mina, Kirishima, Denki, and Bakugo, the conversation flowing easily. They joked about the media circus, swapped stories about their families’ reactions, and speculated about the festival events. Kirishima nudged Shoto. “You think you’ll get scouted, Todoroki?” 

Shoto shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “If I do, I hope it’s by someone who values more than just flashy powers.” Bakugo scoffed. “You’ll get scouted. Half-and-half, you’re a walking highlight reel.” 

Denki grinned. “Just don’t let the pressure get to you. I hear the festival’s more intense than the Olympics.”

Mina leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Let’s make a pact: no matter what happens, we all give it our best shot.”

Shoto nodded, feeling a rare sense of camaraderie. For the first time since the USJ attack, hope and excitement outshone the anxiety. The Sports Festival was more than just a competition-it was a chance to prove themselves, to move forward, and to show the world that U.A.’s future heroes were ready for anything.

Once the school day ended, Class 1-A's students found themselves unable to leave. The exit was blocked by a crowd of students from other classes, their faces a mixture of curiosity and challenge.

"What the hell is this?" Mina whispered, her pink skin flushing a shade darker with anxiety.

Shoto stood near the back of the classroom, assessing the situation with cool detachment. But beneath his calm exterior, something uncomfortable stirred. The memory of USJ was still too fresh—the villains, the fear, the helplessness. Now they were being cornered again, albeit in a very different context.

Katsuki stepped forward, his posture relaxed but commanding. "They're here to scout out the competition," he said, his voice surprisingly measured. No explosion of rage, just a cold analysis of the situation. "Move it," he instructed the crowd. "You're in our way."

A student with tired eyes and purple hair pushed through. Hitoshi Shinso, from the general studies course. He fixed his gaze on Katsuki, then swept it across Class 1-A.

"So this is the famous hero class that survived a villain attack," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I'm here to make a declaration of war."

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees. Shoto felt his right side instinctively cooling in response to the threat, however academic it might be.

"The U.A. Sports Festival isn't just a showcase for you hero course students," Shinso continued. "If students from other courses perform exceptionally well, they can be transferred into the hero course. And that means some of you will have to be transferred out."

His eyes narrowed as he focused his attention back on Katsuki. "I plan on taking your place. Consider this my declaration of war against Class 1-A."

Something unreadable flashed across Katsuki's eyes—not anger, something deeper and more controlled. Before he could respond, another voice cut through the tension.

"Hey, hey, hey!" A blond boy with a smug grin pushed his way to the front. "I just wanted to see the famous Class 1-A that defeated actual villains." He looked around with exaggerated disappointment. "But all I find is a bunch of condescending brats who think they're hot shit because they got lucky once."

The boy from Class 1-B, Neito Monoma, smirked as he continued. "Must have been nice getting all that special attention. Did you enjoy your little brush with danger while the rest of us had to watch from the sidelines? I bet it was quite the thrill."

The hallway went deadly silent. Several students from Class 1-A visibly stiffened.

Then, unexpectedly, Denki Kaminari stepped forward, a bandage still visible at his hairline where stitches had been placed after the USJ incident. His usual dopey smile was gone, replaced by something sharp and cutting.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Denki said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Did you say something? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my classmates and I actually fighting for our lives while you were safe and sound in your classroom."

Monoma's smirk faltered slightly.

"What exactly is your deal?" Denki continued, electricity crackling subtly between his fingers. "Are you jealous that we got attacked by villains? Would you like us to arrange a private session for you? I'm sure we could find someone willing to break your bones and give you a near-death experience if that's what you're into."

Monoma's face reddened. "You don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand," Denki cut him off, his voice sharper than anyone in Class 1-A had ever heard it. "While you were worrying about your next pop quiz, I was getting my head split open protecting my classmate." He pointed to the bandage. "Sixteen stitches. Want to see? It's quite the fashion statement."

The students from Class 1-B shifted uncomfortably. They hadn't expected this level of hostility—certainly not from Kaminari, who had a reputation for being one of the more laid-back students.

"You think this is a game?" Denki asked, taking another step forward. "You think declaring 'war' on us after what we just went through is appropriate? Cute. Real cute."

Monoma attempted to regain his composure. "Don't act so superior—"

"We're not acting superior," Denki interrupted again. "We're acting traumatized. There's a difference. But I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand the distinction."

The hallway temperature continued to drop as Shoto's control over his right side began to slip. Ice crystals formed on the floor around his feet, spreading outward in a thin layer. Several students stepped back, alarmed by the physical manifestation of his anger.

Monoma noticed and directed his attention to Shoto. "Got something to say, half-and-half?"

Shoto wasn't normally one for direct confrontation—that was more his brother Touya's style. But in this moment, he found himself seriously considering violence. His hands clenched into fists, frost forming around his knuckles.

"I think," Shoto said quietly, each word precise and cold as an icicle, "that you should consider very carefully what you're implying."

The crowd grew as more students noticed the confrontation. The tension in the air was palpable, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Izuku Midoriya stepped up beside Denki, his arm still in a cast from being broken at USJ. "We're not looking for enemies within U.A.," he said, his voice soft but firm. "But we won't stand here and let you trivialize what happened to us."

Tenya Iida joined them, pushing his glasses up with a rigid finger. "Kaminari sustained his injury protecting me," he stated, his voice tight with controlled anger. "He gave me the opportunity to escape and alert the teachers. That's the only reason we all survived. This isn't about pride or reputation—it's about respect for what we endured."

Tsuyu Asui moved forward, her large eyes unusually narrowed. "We watched our classmates get hurt, ribbit. We were helpless. Do you understand what that feels like? To watch someone break your friend's arm and know you can't do anything to stop it?"

Mineta, usually cowardly, stood with surprising firmness. "I still have nightmares," he admitted, his voice small but steady. "About what would have happened if the teachers hadn't arrived when they did."

Class 1-A had formed a united front, standing together in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder. The students from other classes began to look uncomfortable, sensing they'd crossed a line they hadn't fully understood.

Bakugo, who had remained unnervingly quiet throughout the exchange, finally spoke. He stepped forward, placing himself between Denki and Monoma.

"You wanted to know if we're declaring war?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. The unusual calmness in his tone was more unsettling than any of his usual shouting.

Monoma, still trying to maintain his bravado, nodded. "Yes. That's what I said."

A million emotions passed through Bakugo's eyes in an instant—anger, pain, determination, and something deeper that few recognized. Then, slowly, his lips curved upward into a smile.

It wasn't his usual aggressive grin. This was something else entirely—a smile that seemed to reach into the darkest corners of his being. His eyes, normally crimson, seemed to shift for a moment, taking on a molten gold quality that reflected the hallway lights in an almost supernatural way. The smile revealed the edges of canines that looked unnaturally sharp, giving his expression a predatory quality that made everyone, even his classmates, take an instinctive step back.

It was a smile that promised pain, that declared with absolute certainty that anyone standing against him had made a fatal error in judgment. It was there for just a heartbeat—a flash of something ancient and terrifying—and then it was gone, his face returning to normal so quickly that many wondered if they'd imagined it.

But those who had seen it knew what they had witnessed. It wasn't normal. It wasn't human.

"Fine," Bakugo said, his voice back to its usual gruff tone. "We'll accept your declaration of war, but only if you apologize for what you just said."

Monoma blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden shift. "Apologize?"

"For undermining our trauma," Bakugo clarified. "Especially you," he added, looking directly at Shinso, who had started the confrontation. "My class went through hell at USJ. I won't let anyone trivialize that."

The hallway fell silent. Even the most confrontational students from other classes seemed to recognize that a line had been crossed. After a long moment, Monoma nodded stiffly.

"I... apologize," he said, the words clearly difficult for him. "I went too far."

Shinso looked less willing to back down, but after a tense moment, he inclined his head slightly. "It was insensitive. I apologize."

The air in the hallway shifted, the tension breaking like a fever.

"Good," Bakugo said, turning back to his classmates. "Now let's go."

As one unit, Class 1-A moved forward through the crowd, which parted to let them through. They walked together, a united front, their shared experience at USJ having forged them into something stronger than just classmates.

But the confrontation wasn't quite over.

As Class 1-A made their way down the hallway, Monoma couldn't seem to let it go. He followed a few paces behind, his pride still smarting.

"Don't think this changes anything," he called after them. "Class 1-B is still going to outshine you at the Sports Festival. Your little villain encounter doesn't make you special."

Denki stopped walking. The rest of Class 1-A continued ahead, but he turned slowly, his usual easygoing expression replaced by something far more cutting.

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Denki asked, his voice carrying a sharp edge that made several students from Class 1-B flinch. "Is it that hard for you to just walk away with a shred of dignity?"

Monoma's face flushed. "I won't be talked down to by the class clown."

Denki's laugh was startlingly cold. "Class clown? Is that what you think I am? Interesting assessment from someone who's never fought for his life." He tapped the bandage on his head. "You see this? This is what happened when I stepped between a villain and my classmate. What's your battle scar, Monoma? A paper cut from turning pages too aggressively?"

"You're not special just because you got hurt," Monoma retorted, but his voice lacked conviction.

"No, I'm not special," Denki agreed, surprising everyone. "None of us are claiming to be special. We're claiming to be traumatized. There's a difference." He took a step closer to Monoma. "But since you seem determined to make this a competition, let me ask you something: What would you have done?"

Monoma blinked. "What?"

"If you were at USJ. If you were facing a villain who could move faster than you could see. If you watched them break your classmate's arm like it was nothing." Denki's voice grew quieter with each word. "What would you have done, Monoma? Would you have frozen? Run? Or would you have thrown yourself at them knowing you couldn't win?"

The hallway had gone completely silent. Even the students from other classes who had gathered to watch were holding their breath.

"I..." Monoma started, then faltered.

"You don't know," Denki finished for him. "And thank whatever gods are listening that you don't have to know. But we do." His eyes swept over the crowd. "All of us in Class 1-A know exactly what we did in that moment. Some of us are proud of it. Some of us aren't. But we all have to live with it."

He turned to leave, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "By the way, I'm not the class clown. I'm the asshole who will absolutely destroy anyone who messes with my friends. Remember that during the Sports Festival."

With that, he walked away, catching up to his classmates who had waited for him further down the hall. As they continued on their way, whispers broke out behind them.

"Did you know Kaminari could be like that?" a girl from Class 1-C asked her friend.

"I always thought he was just the goofy one," someone else muttered.

Tetsutetsu, one of the more level-headed students from Class 1-B, approached Monoma. "Dude, I think you need to let this go," he said quietly. "They've been through something we haven't."

"Don't tell me you're taking their side," Monoma snapped.

"It's not about sides," Tetsutetsu replied. "It's about respect. They faced real danger. Maybe tone it down a bit."

As Class 1-A exited the building, Mina nudged Denki. "I've never seen you go off like that," she said, a mixture of concern and admiration in her voice.

Denki shrugged, some of his usual humor returning to his eyes. "Someone had to put him in his place. Might as well be me—I've got nothing to lose since everyone already thinks I'm an idiot."

"No one thinks that," Shoto said quietly. When everyone looked at him in surprise, he added, "Not anymore. Not after USJ."

Denki offered him a small, genuine smile. "Thanks, Todoroki."

"You know Monoma's going to be gunning for you specifically now, right?" Kirishima pointed out.

Denki's grin widened, a spark of his old mischief returning. "Good. I hope he tries. It'll be entertaining to watch him fail."

"When did you get so savage?" Mina asked, laughing despite the tension of the confrontation.

"I've always been this way," Denki replied with a wink. "Most people just don't push me far enough to find out."

Bakugo, walking ahead of them, snorted. "About time you showed some backbone, Pikachu."

Coming from Bakugo, it was high praise. Denki grinned and caught up to walk beside him. "Does this mean we're friends now?"

"Don't push it," Bakugo growled, but there was less heat in it than usual.

As they walked toward the train station, the conversation shifted to training plans for the Sports Festival. The confrontation had shaken them, bringing back memories of USJ they'd been trying to suppress, but it had also reminded them of something important: they weren't just individuals anymore. They were Class 1-A, forged in fire, united by shared trauma.

And no one—not Class 1-B, not the general studies students, not anyone at U.A.—was going to break that bond.

---

The following morning, Class 1-A arrived to find the atmosphere at U.A. had changed. Word of the confrontation had spread throughout the school, and now other students gave them a wider berth in the hallways. Whether it was respect or wariness was hard to tell.

As they settled into their seats, Aizawa entered the classroom, still wrapped in bandages but moving with surprising agility.

"I heard about yesterday's incident," he said without preamble, his voice muffled by the bandages around his face.

The class tensed, preparing for a lecture about proper behavior.

"While I don't encourage antagonizing your fellow students," Aizawa continued, "I understand the circumstances. The Sports Festival will be a chance for everyone to prove themselves based on merit, not reputation. Let your actions speak for you."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the classroom. "That said, I'm... proud of how you stood together. Unity is a strength that can't be taught."

Coming from Aizawa, this was practically a tearful speech of devotion. The class sat in stunned silence.

"Now," he continued, his tone shifting back to its usual dryness, "let's talk strategy for the festival."

As Aizawa began outlining the different events they might face, Denki found a note on his desk. He unfolded it discreetly.

"Thanks for yesterday. I never properly thanked you for USJ either. —Iida"

Denki glanced over at Tenya, who gave him a solemn nod. He smiled and tucked the note into his pocket. Maybe being the class asshole when necessary wasn't such a bad role after all.

During lunch, they found themselves sharing a table with a few students from Class 1-B—Tetsutetsu, Kendo, and Shiozaki. The atmosphere was tense at first, but Tetsutetsu broke the ice.

"So, about yesterday," he began awkwardly. "Monoma doesn't speak for all of us. Some of us actually wanted to check if you guys were okay after USJ."

Kendo nodded. "He gets carried away with the rivalry thing. We were worried about you."

"Rivalry is natural," Shiozaki added, her vine-like hair moving gently. "But there are boundaries that shouldn't be crossed."

The tension around the table eased slightly.

"Well, if you want a rivalry," Denki said, leaning back in his chair with a challenging grin, "we're happy to oblige. Just keep it about skill and not about... you know, trauma."

"Deal," Tetsutetsu agreed, extending his hand. Denki shook it, and a tentative peace was established.

As lunch continued, they found themselves discussing the upcoming festival, sharing theories about what events might be included and how they might prepare. It wasn't friendship, exactly, but it was respect—a recognition that they were all striving for the same goal, just taking different paths to get there.

When Monoma entered the cafeteria and saw the mixed group at the table, his face darkened. He started toward them, clearly ready to cause trouble, but Kendo intercepted him.

"Not today, Monoma," she said firmly. "Let it go."

For a moment, it looked like he might argue, but something in her expression made him reconsider. He stalked off to another table, casting occasional glares in their direction.

"Sorry about him," Kendo said when she returned to their table. "He'll come around eventually."

"No rush," Denki replied with a smirk. "I kind of enjoy having a nemesis. Makes me feel like a real hero."

The table erupted in laughter, even Shoto cracking a small smile. For a moment, it felt almost normal—just students enjoying lunch, teasing each other, forming the bonds that would carry them through their hero careers.

But beneath the laughter, there was a new awareness. Class 1-A had changed. The USJ incident had marked them, shaped them, united them in ways they were only beginning to understand. They weren't just classmates anymore—they were survivors, together.

And as the Sports Festival approached, they would show the world—and themselves—exactly what that meant.

Chapter 3: Training Season

Summary:

Training montage

Notes:

There will be a small arc focusing on training for the sports festival. Each chapter will do a different person. Today we're doing Shoto and Kirishima. I might put some other stuff like what the other todoroki siblings are doing as well before we start going into the sports Festival becuase that is going to be a hay day.

The Todoroki household was uncharacteristically quiet, save for the crisp crackle of ice fractals blooming over the training field in the backyard. Shoto stood in the center, shirt discarded, breathing slow and measured. Each exhale escaped him like a prayer to the cold.

Across from him, Rei Todoroki raised a fan in one hand, her sleeves tucked tightly against her wrist. She moved like falling snow—graceful, deliberate, deadly.

“You’re hesitating,” Rei said gently, her tone as calm as winter twilight. “Again.”

Shoto refocused. His right hand held a similar Japanese war fan, lacquered in deep blue and silver. His left hand twitched, heat simmering in his palm, but he didn’t use it.

He charged forward. Rei danced sideways. Their fans clashed with a flurry of sharp cracks , each blow sweeping up bursts of frost and flaring wind. She tested his defenses, brushing past his guard with slicing precision. Shoto's movements were fast, ruthless—tessenjutsu woven together with footwork Keigo had helped him refine for speed and aerial mobility.

“Better,” Rei nodded, sidestepping his Frozen Lotus with an icy fan swipe of her own. “But don’t just mimic. Make it yours, Shoto.”

From the roof above, Keigo observed with a half-eaten apple in one hand, grinning.

“Looks like someone’s finally trying to outgrace his mom.”

Rei shot him a look over her shoulder. “He’ll need more than grace if he’s serious about being number one.”

Keigo dropped to the ground in one effortless sweep of his wings, the force scattering Shoto’s frost.

“I heard the sports festival’s gonna be rough this year,” Keigo said, tossing the core and pulling on fingerless gloves. “If you want the crowd to remember your name, you’ll have to go beyond ‘efficient.’ Make them feel it.”

Shoto glanced between his mother and Keigo, brushing sweat from his brow. “I don’t care about flash. I care about winning.”

Rei’s expression softened with pride, but Keigo smirked knowingly.

“Winning isn’t just about beating the other guy, kid. It’s about making them think there was no chance to begin with.”

Keigo stepped forward and threw a low kick. Shoto barely blocked in time, countering with an ice bloom across the floor. The fight changed rhythm. No longer practice—it was a lesson.

Shoto’s movements became sharper, faster, more personal. He combined his mother’s elegance with Keigo’s unpredictability. When he summoned the Lotus Vines to ensnare Keigo, the older hero evaded with a whistle and launched feathers that Shoto froze mid-air with a sweep of his fan.

“Well, damn,” Keigo muttered as he landed again. 

Rei chuckled low in her throat, folding her fan. “He has discipline.”

Shoto exhaled, falling into a ready stance. “I won’t lose. Not at the festival. Not to Bakugo. Not to Midoriya. I’ll win—because I have to.”

Rei walked toward him and placed a cool hand on his cheek, her eyes soft and oddly distant. “Then make sure the world sees you for what you are, not just what they expect. Show them the boy I raised.”

Shoto nodded once.

From the house, Yumi’s voice called from the window, “Dinner’s ready! Come eat before you freeze yourselves to death!”

Keigo sighed. “I think that one takes after me.”

Rei gave him a side glance. “That’s what worries me.”

As they walked in, Rei glanced over her shoulder. For a moment, her smile dropped, and her eyes scanned the skyline. “Something’s coming,” she murmured.

Shoto heard her but said nothing.

---

The sun had barely risen the next morning when Shoto stepped into the courtyard again, his breath fogging in the crisp spring air. He expected silence, solitude, focus—

—but instead, he found Eijiro standing just inside the gates, looking nervous but resolute.

“...You’re here early,” Shoto said, a bit surprised.

“Yeah,” Kirishima scratched the back of his head, trying to look casual, though his fists were clenched. “I was wondering… if it’s cool with you… can I train with you until the Sports Festival?”

Shoto blinked. “Why?” Kirishima’s jaw tensed. He looked away for a second, gripping his own arm before locking eyes again with rare seriousness.

“Because at USJ, I was useless.”

Shoto’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“I just—stood there. While the others were getting hurt. You, Midoriya, Bakugo, even Kaminari and Asui… you all did something. Me? I barely made it through. I’m tired of calling myself a future hero if I can’t back it up when it counts.”

His words hung heavy in the morning air. Shoto studied him quietly, noting the bruises on his knuckles, the exhaustion under his eyes. This wasn’t bravado. It was real.

“Are you sure?” Shoto finally asked. “Training with me isn’t like sparring in class. I don’t hold back.”

Kirishima grinned, but it was tight around the edges.

“That’s exactly why I’m asking.”

Shoto didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—respect, perhaps. He turned and gestured to the open courtyard. "This is my mother. She'll be training us."

Kirishima's eyes widened as he took in Rei's slender frame and gentle appearance. She looked like she might blow away in a strong breeze—nothing like the powerhouse he'd expected to have trained someone as formidable as Shoto.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said, bowing respectfully. "I, uh... thought we might be training with your father," he admitted to Shoto. "This might be easier than I expected."

Rei's eyes glinted with amusement as she exchanged a look with Keigo, who was trying and failing to suppress a laugh.

"Is that so?" she asked, her voice melodic and calm. "We'll start with the basics."

Kirishima soon discovered that "basics" in the Todoroki household meant standing barefoot in freezing water while performing precise breathing exercises. By midmorning, his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

"Maintain your breathing rhythm," Rei instructed, circling them like a winter shadow. "Total concentration. The water isn't your enemy—it's merely your environment."

From the porch, six-year-old Yumi cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, "You can do it, Kirishima-san! Shoto does this every day!"

Next to her, Twelve-year-old Hiro nodded solemnly. "Grandma says it builds character."

Kirishima's legs had gone numb an hour ago. "H-how much longer?" he managed through chattering teeth.

"Until you stop asking," Rei replied serenely, demonstrating a fan technique for Shoto, who was now balancing on one foot atop a wooden pole, his right side casting elaborate ice patterns that he had to maintain without letting them touch the ground.

By afternoon, they moved to reflex training. Rei's methods were nothing like UA's—she threw needles made of ice that they had to deflect or evade. Kirishima's hardening quirk helped, but she seemed to always find the weak spots in his defense.

"Your quirk is powerful," she noted as another needle found its mark, "but you rely on it too much. What happens when you meet someone who can break through it?"

Three days in, Kirishima collapsed onto the tatami after training, every muscle screaming. Shoto handed him a cup of tea, unfazed by the grueling regimen.

"How did you get so strong?" Kirishima groaned. "Your mom looks so delicate, but she's a complete demon during training."

Something flickered in Shoto's expression. "She has her methods," he said carefully. "Our family... has certain traditions. Discipline is everything."

Keigo strode in, wings folded neatly behind him. "Rei's putting you through the special curriculum, huh?" he asked, ruffling Kirishima's hair. "Just wait till she brings out the waterfall training."

"The what now?" Kirishima squeaked.

Yumi skipped in with rice balls. "Don't worry, Kirishima-san! You're doing way better than the last friend Shoto brought home. She cried after day two."

"Mina didn't cry," Shoto corrected. "She just... strategically retreated."

Kirishima's eyes widened. "Ashido trained here too?"

“She asked to train two days ago," Shoto confirmed. “She didn’t make it far.”

As the days passed, Kirishima began to notice the subtleties in Rei's training. It wasn't just physical—there was something almost ritualistic about the breathing patterns, the precise movements, the way she emphasized controlling one's internal temperature and energy.

One evening, after a particularly brutal session, Rei offered them both hot tea as they sat on the porch watching the sunset.

"You're improving," she told Kirishima. "Your spirit is strong, even when your body wants to give up."

"Thanks," he mumbled, honored by the rare praise. "I just wish Shoto didn't get different training. I could handle the advanced stuff too."

Rei's smile held secrets. "Shoto's training is different because his path is different. Our family has... special abilities that require specific focus."

Kirishima caught Shoto shooting his mother a warning glance, but she simply sipped her tea.

"When do we get to train with your dad?" Kirishima asked, changing the subject. "Is he coming home soon?"

"Father's busy with hero work," Shoto replied. "He's been taking extra shifts lately."

"They have a good arrangement," Keigo added, landing silently on the railing. "Enji and Rei balance each other well."

Later that night, as they applied healing salve to their bruises, Kirishima watched Shoto create intricate ice sculptures with a mere gesture.

"Your control is insane," he marveled. "No wonder you're top of the class."

Shoto crafted an ice lily in his palm. "My mother says our power comes from breath and blood. Everything else is just application."

In the final days before the sports festival, Rei's training intensified. They ran up mountains carrying weighted backpacks, practiced fighting while blindfolded, and learned to regulate their breathing even while exhausted.

"The festival will test more than just your quirks," Rei warned them. "It will test your resolve. When that moment comes, remember what I taught you—breath is the foundation of all power."

On their last training day, Yumi and Hiro presented them with hand-painted headbands.

"For good luck!" Yumi announced proudly.

Hiro nodded seriously. "Mom says you're both ready."

As they walked back to the dorms that evening, Kirishima's body ached, but his spirit felt forged anew.

"Your family is intense," he told Shoto. "But now I get it. I get why you're so strong."

Shoto nodded, a rare half-smile appearing. "Just remember—at the festival, we're rivals."

Kirishima grinned, bumping his shoulder against Shoto's. "Wouldn't have it any other way. But fair warning—I'm coming for that number one spot too."

"Good," Shoto replied. "I wouldn't expect anything less from someone who survived my mother's training."

Notes:

Next we're doing Bakugo

Chapter 4: Let’s Get Physical

Summary:

All night, I'll riot with you
I know you got my back, and you know I got you
So come on (come on), come on (come on), come on (come on)
Let's get physical

(Training For Bakugo)

The sun had barely risen over U.A.'s campus when Bakugo arrived at Training Ground Beta. The massive concrete arena stood empty, bathed in early morning light that cast long shadows across its surface. Perfect. No distractions, no spectators, no one to witness the transformation he had committed himself to.

Five days had passed since the USJ incident. Five days of simmering rage and brutal self-reflection. Five days of watching his classmates recover from injuries that might have been prevented if he hadn't been so stubbornly limiting himself.

Bakugo dropped his gym bag and rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tension that had built there over years of disciplined training. He began his warm-up routine—movements that flowed as naturally as breathing, muscle memory from both this lifetime and another.

"Enough playing at half-strength," he muttered to himself as he completed his stretches.

He stepped to the center of the training ground and assumed the stance that felt as familiar as his own heartbeat—knees bent in a half-crouch, right arm extended with a half-clenched fist facing his body, left arm bent with an open palm. The foundation of the Soryu Style.

For a moment, he simply breathed, centering himself in the stance that had once been the cornerstone of his existence. Then, deliberately, he uncurled his extended right fist and let his palm face outward.

The modification felt strange, even sacrilegious, but necessary. His palms were where his power now flowed from.

Bakugo closed his eyes, visualizing an opponent before him. He launched into a flurry of strikes, each movement precise and economical—no wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish. The techniques flowed through him like water, a perfect harmony of breath and movement.

But there was no explosion. Not yet. First, he needed to remember what it felt like to move without restraint.

"Again," he commanded himself, repeating the sequence faster this time, pushing his body to its limits. By the fifth repetition, sweat beaded on his forehead, but his movements remained sharp and focused.

Only then did he add the first small explosion.

A controlled pop erupted from his right palm as he executed a straight punch. The recoil altered the force and trajectory of his strike in a way he hadn't fully anticipated, sending his arm slightly off course.

"Tch." Bakugo scowled, resetting his stance. He'd been holding back for so long that he'd forgotten how to properly incorporate his quirk into his movements.

"One more time," he growled, resuming the sequence.

This time, he anticipated the recoil, using it to add momentum to his follow-up strike. The explosion pushed his arm back, but instead of fighting against it, he channeled that energy into a spinning elbow strike that cracked through the air with startling speed.

For nearly an hour, Bakugo worked through basic Soryu combinations, gradually introducing explosions of increasing intensity. Each failure was met with a curse, each success with grim satisfaction. Sweat soaked through his tank top as the morning sun climbed higher.

"It's not enough," he muttered, breathing hard. "Not even close to enough."

He reached into his gym bag and pulled out three tennis balls, tossing them high into the air. As they fell, he launched himself with an explosion from his right palm, propelling his body upward. Midair, he twisted, striking each ball with precise, explosion-augmented blows that sent them rocketing into the concrete walls of the training ground.

The first ball hit its target. The second went wide. The third escaped his reach entirely.

"Dammit!" Bakugo landed in a crouch, glaring at the fallen ball.

"The force vector's all wrong," came a voice from behind him. "You're fighting against your own quirk."

Bakugo whirled around to find All Might standing at the entrance to the training ground, his perpetual smile firmly in place despite the early hour.

"What do you want?" Bakugo snapped, embarrassed at being caught struggling.

"Just making my morning rounds," All Might replied cheerfully. "And what do I find but a student working harder than anyone else! That's the U.A. spirit!"

Bakugo turned away, grabbing his water bottle. "I don't need praise for doing what should be obvious."

All Might approached, his footsteps echoing across the concrete. "I noticed something interesting about your training just now, young Bakugo. You've been holding back on using your quirk in combat training, haven't you?"

Bakugo froze mid-drink.

"And now you're trying to integrate it fully," All Might continued. "A wise decision, especially after what happened at USJ."

"I don't need you to tell me that," Bakugo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I already know I was being stupid."

All Might laughed heartily. "Self-reflection is a rare quality in someone so young! But that's not what I came to say. I wanted to offer an observation, if you'll permit it."

Bakugo said nothing, which All Might apparently took as permission.

"Your fighting style is remarkable—precise, economical, powerful. But it was developed without your explosions in mind. You're trying to add your quirk to your techniques, when perhaps you should be redesigning your techniques around your quirk."

Bakugo's eyes narrowed. The idea felt wrong, like betraying the foundation of everything he knew. And yet...

"Your explosions create recoil, yes?" All Might continued. "Rather than seeing that as an obstacle to overcome, what if it became the centerpiece of your approach? The force that drives every movement?"

The words struck Bakugo like a physical blow. Of course. He'd been thinking about this all wrong.

"I don't need your help," he said finally, but there was less heat in his voice.

All Might's smile never faltered. "Of course not! You would have figured it out yourself eventually. You're one of the most promising students in your class." He turned to leave, then paused. "The Sports Festival is coming up. It will be an excellent opportunity to show everyone what you're truly capable of."

After All Might departed, Bakugo stood motionless for several minutes, processing the pro hero's words. Then, with renewed determination, he resumed his stance.

This time, instead of adding explosions as an afterthought, he built each movement around them. He let the recoil from one explosion propel him into the next strike, creating a continuous flow of force and counterforce. His body twisted and pivoted, using the momentum generated by each blast to enhance his speed and power.

It was rough, unrefined, and at times he lost control completely—sending himself stumbling across the training ground. But by mid-morning, he had begun to grasp the fundamentals of this new approach.

"Not redesigning," he muttered to himself during a water break. "Evolving."

The Soryu Style had always been adaptable, malleable to the user's strengths. Now it would evolve again, incorporating the explosive power that flowed from his palms.

Bakugo spent the remainder of the morning experimenting with how his explosions could augment different aspects of his fighting style. He discovered that small, controlled blasts could increase the speed of his strikes without sacrificing accuracy. Larger explosions could propel him across the training ground with startling velocity, enabling him to close distance in the blink of an eye.

Most importantly, he began to understand how to use the recoil defensively—how a well-timed explosion could pull him out of an opponent's reach or redirect his momentum mid-air.

By noon, exhaustion had set in. His muscles burned, his palms were raw, and his tank top was in tatters from the constant explosions. But for the first time since the USJ attack, Bakugo felt something other than rage and self-recrimination.

He felt purpose.

The next morning he found himself back at Training Ground Beta before dawn, this time with a specific goal in mind. If he was going to truly master this evolved fighting style before the Sports Festival, he needed to push his limits further.

Bakugo set up a series of training dummies in a wide circle around the center of the arena. Each was positioned at a different distance—some close enough to reach with conventional strikes, others requiring him to close distance quickly.

He stood in the center, assumed his stance, and took a deep breath.

"Five seconds," he announced to the empty training ground. "I'll take them all down in five seconds."

Bakugo launched himself toward the first dummy with an explosion that sent him rocketing across the concrete. His right hand connected with its head in a devastating strike while his left palm released a blast that simultaneously destroyed the target and propelled him toward the second dummy.

He moved like a pinball, each explosion serving dual purposes—destroying one target while launching him toward the next. His movements were no longer purely those of the Soryu Style, nor were they the wild, uncontrolled blasts he'd relied on when he first entered U.A. This was something new, something uniquely his own.

Four seconds and six dummies later, Bakugo landed in a crouch, breathing hard as he surveyed his work. One dummy remained standing at the far edge of the training ground.

"Not good enough," he snarled, rising to his feet.

He repeated the exercise again and again, refining his approach each time. By the tenth attempt, he could destroy all seven dummies within the five-second limit, his body moving with a fluid grace that belied the explosive force behind each strike.

"Again," he demanded of himself, resetting the dummies.

"You know, normal people take breaks sometimes," came a voice from the sidelines.

Bakugo turned to see Sero watching him, a protein bar in hand and an impressed expression on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Bakugo demanded.

Sero shrugged. "Heard someone was hogging Training Ground Beta at dawn every day. Figured it had to be you." He tossed the protein bar, which Bakugo caught reflexively. "You missed breakfast. Again."

Bakugo wanted to snap at him, to tell him to mind his own business, but the protein bar reminded him that he hadn't eaten since dinner the previous night. "Thanks," he muttered instead, tearing open the wrapper.

"That was pretty impressive," Sero said, gesturing to the scattered remains of the training dummies. "I've never seen you move like that before."

Bakugo took a bite of the protein bar, chewing thoughtfully. "I've been holding back."

"Yeah, no kidding. Those moves were insane! Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

Bakugo considered his answer carefully. "I've been training in martial arts since I was a kid," he said finally. It wasn't a lie, just not the complete truth.

"Well, it shows," Sero grinned. "Gotta say, I'm even more pumped for the Sports Festival now! If you're bringing your A-game like this, the rest of us better step up."

Bakugo finished the protein bar, crumpling the wrapper in his fist. "You planning to train here?"

"If you don't mind the company."

Bakugo hesitated. His instinct was to refuse—this was his space, his time to refine his technique without distraction. But something stopped him.

"Fine," he said finally. "But don't get in my way."

Sero's presence turned out to be unexpectedly useful. Having a moving target that could evade and counter with his tape provided Bakugo with challenges that the static dummies couldn't. They fell into a rhythm—Bakugo practicing his explosive strikes and evasions against Sero's tape attacks, while Sero worked on improving his reaction time and tape accuracy against Bakugo's unpredictable movements.

"You know," Sero said during a water break, "you've changed since USJ."

Bakugo scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not in a bad way," Sero clarified quickly. "You're just more... focused. Like you've got something to prove."

"I've always had something to prove," Bakugo retorted.

"Yeah, but before it seemed like you were trying to prove it to everyone else. Now it feels like you're trying to prove something to yourself."

Bakugo stared at him, momentarily caught off guard by Sero's unexpected perceptiveness. He turned away without responding, but Sero's words lingered in his mind throughout the remainder of their training session.

Was that true? Had he been so consumed with outdoing others—with beating Deku, with being the best—that he'd lost sight of what truly mattered?

As the days passed and the Sports Festival drew nearer, more of their classmates began joining the early morning training sessions. Bakugo initially resented the intrusion, but gradually came to appreciate the varied challenges each of them presented. Sero's tape required him to develop quick defensive maneuvers. Ashido's acid meant he had to improve his aerial mobility. Tokoyami's Dark Shadow forced him to refine his timing and precision.

Through it all, Bakugo continued to evolve his fighting style, incorporating elements of the Soryu techniques that had once defined him while embracing the explosive power that now flowed through his veins.

One week before the Sports Festival, Bakugo arrived at the training ground to find Aizawa waiting for him.

"Sensei," he acknowledged, dropping his gym bag.

"I've been hearing reports about your training regimen," Aizawa said, his voice neutral. "Impressive commitment."

Bakugo said nothing, waiting for the criticism or warning that surely would follow. Aizawa wasn't known for offering praise.

"I also noticed that you've been helping your classmates improve their quirks," Aizawa continued.

"I haven't been helping anyone," Bakugo objected. "They just show up and train while I'm here."

Aizawa's expression didn't change. "And yet Sero's developed new applications for his tape. Ashido's mobility has improved significantly. Tokoyami's gaining better control over Dark Shadow in bright conditions."

Bakugo frowned. He hadn't been trying to help them. He'd been focused on his own training, on developing the perfect synthesis of his fighting techniques and his quirk.

Hadn't he?

"The Sports Festival isn't just about showing off individual power," Aizawa said. "It's about demonstrating the qualities that make a hero. Power, yes, but also adaptability, strategy, and the capacity to bring out the best in others."

"I'm not here to bring out the best in anyone else," Bakugo growled. "I'm here to win."

"Those goals aren't mutually exclusive," Aizawa replied. "But I'll leave you to figure that out for yourself." He turned to leave, then paused. "By the way, I've scheduled Training Ground Beta exclusively for Class 1-A's use each morning this week. Thought you might appreciate not having to chase away students from other departments."

As Aizawa walked away, Bakugo stood frozen, processing what had just happened. Had Aizawa actually just encouraged the impromptu training sessions that had been developing?

More importantly, had Bakugo inadvertently been helping his classmates all along?

The realization should have angered him—the idea that he'd been wasting time that could have been spent on his own development. Instead, he felt an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction. His classmates were growing stronger alongside him, pushing him to refine his techniques further than he might have on his own.

Later that morning, as Sero and the others arrived for what had become their regular training session, Bakugo made a decision.

"Listen up," he announced, his voice cutting through their usual chatter. "The Sports Festival is in a week. If you're serious about not embarrassing yourselves, then we need to get organized."

His classmates stared at him in surprise.

"Sero, your tape has range but you telegraph your movements. Ashido, your mobility is good but your technique is sloppy. Tokoyami, Dark Shadow gets weaker in bright light but your own physical technique is underdeveloped."

He pointed to different areas of the training ground. "Sero, practice shooting from different angles without changing your stance. Ashido, work on your footwork patterns. Tokoyami, focus on developing combat techniques for when Dark Shadow is weakened."

There was a moment of stunned silence before Sero broke into a wide grin. "You got it, man!"

As his classmates moved to their assigned areas, Ashido sidled up to Bakugo. "So, what's my weakness, O Great One?" she asked teasingly.

Bakugo scowled at her. "Your acid's strong but your footwork is sloppy. You rely too much on your sliding and not enough on actual combat technique."

Instead of being offended, Ashido laughed. "Fair enough! What do you recommend?"

"Come with me," Bakugo said, leading her to an open area. "I'll show you a basic stance that will give you more stability without sacrificing mobility."

To his surprise, Bakugo found himself not just demonstrating techniques but explaining the principles behind them—concepts of balance, momentum, and energy efficiency that had been ingrained in him through years of rigorous training in another life.

The morning passed quickly, with Bakugo dividing his time between his own training and overseeing his classmates' progress. By the end of the session, everyone was exhausted but visibly improved.

"Same time tomorrow?" Sero asked as they gathered their gear.

Bakugo nodded. "Don't be late."

As his classmates filed out, Bakugo remained behind, moving to the center of the training ground. He assumed his stance—the modified Soryu position that had become his new foundation. His right palm faced outward now, ready to channel his explosive power, while his left remained in the traditional open-hand position.

He closed his eyes, visualizing the Sports Festival arena, filled with spectators and competitors. In his mind, he saw himself moving through the challenges with the perfect integration of power and technique, overcoming every obstacle not through raw strength alone but through the harmonious application of both his past and present abilities.

"I'm ready," he whispered to himself, feeling the certainty of it in his bones.

The Sports Festival would be more than just a competition. It would be his declaration to the world—and to himself—that Katsuki Bakugo was no longer fighting with half his potential. He was no longer denying any part of himself.

He was, at last, complete.

Bakugo opened his eyes, raised his palm toward the sky, and let a controlled explosion burst forth—not in anger or frustration as before, but in affirmation.

This was who he was now. And he was stronger for it.

Notes:

Next Chapter Denki.

Chapter 5: Prove Them Wrong

Summary:

Ah yes, Our lovable Denki

The morning air was crisp as Denki Kaminari made his way to U.A.'s training grounds. Two weeks until the Sports Festival. Two weeks to transform himself from the guy who short-circuited into a drooling mess into someone the pro heroes would actually want to recruit.

He'd initially planned to use Ground Beta, but as he approached, he could already hear the distinctive sounds of Bakugo's explosions echoing through the urban training zone. Of course Bakugo would be here at dawn—the guy never stopped pushing himself.

"So much for that plan," Denki muttered, adjusting course toward Ground Gamma instead—the industrial zone with its maze of pipes and platforms. It wasn't his first choice, but the complex terrain might actually offer some interesting training opportunities. He needed privacy for what he was planning.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, dropping his gym bag on the ground. "Time to get serious."

He pulled out a notebook filled with hastily scrawled diagrams and notes. Unlike Midoriya's hero analysis books, Denki's notebook was chaotic—ideas crossed out, rewritten, arrows connecting seemingly random thoughts. To anyone else, it would look like the work of a madman, but to Denki, it represented his future.

He flipped to a page titled "THUNDER BREATHING TECHNIQUES" underlined three times.

"Let's start with the basics."

Denki took a deep breath, centering himself. He'd been having strange dreams lately of a man with black hair and a necklace that looked eerily similar to the one he had. He also started noting his own movements that he never really realized before.  He noted his movements he'd never learned, stances he somehow knew. When he tried to recreate them during training, his body moved with a familiarity that confused him. It was as if his muscles remembered something his mind did not.

At first, he'd dismissed it as déjà vu. But after the USJ incident, when he'd instinctively countered Yoru's attack with movements he couldn't explain, he decided to document everything. The techniques felt like ancient martial arts forms perfectly suited to his electrical abilities. What he was discovering was that lightning wasn't just about raw power—it was about precision, timing, and flow.

He moved into a starting stance that felt unnaturally natural—legs slightly bent, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced in a way he couldn't remember learning. Then, with a burst of speed that would have shocked his classmates, he launched into a series of movements—fluid strikes interspersed with moments of absolute stillness. Each time he paused, tiny sparks of electricity danced across his fingertips.

Strike. Flow. Pause. Electricity.

His body moved with a grace that didn't match his usual clumsiness, executing forms that felt ancient and powerful. Sometimes his hands would settle into positions he never consciously decided on—fingers spread in specific patterns that seemed to channel his electricity more efficiently.

This was the foundation of what he was calling "Thunder Breathing"—a fighting style that mimicked the natural patterns of lightning. Strike fast, then redirect, creating a path of least resistance. Though he'd named it himself, sometimes the term echoed in his mind in a voice that wasn't quite his own.

"The problem isn't power," he reminded himself, executing a spinning kick that ended with his palm extended, a small arc of electricity jumping from finger to finger. "It's control."

Since entering U.A., Denki had struggled with the limitations of his quirk. While his classmates seemed to grow stronger each day, his own progress felt stagnant. He could discharge massive amounts of electricity, sure, but what good was that if it left him useless afterward?

"I need to be more than a one-hit wonder," he muttered, frustration edging into his voice.

He moved to a practice dummy he'd set up earlier, taking a defensive stance. Instead of blasting it with electricity as he normally would, he concentrated on channeling a thin current through his arms into his fingertips. When he struck the dummy, a small but concentrated electrical charge transferred on impact.

The dummy didn't explode or catch fire—instead, a precise burn mark appeared exactly where he'd struck.

Denki grinned. "Now we're talking."

He continued practicing this technique, gradually increasing the voltage while maintaining precision. By the time the sun had fully risen, he was able to deliver controlled electrical strikes that could potentially paralyze specific muscle groups without damaging surrounding tissue.

It wasn't flashy like Bakugo's explosions or impressive like Todoroki's ice and fire, but it was his —a fighting style uniquely suited to his abilities.

As he paused to take a drink of water, a voice behind him made him jump.

"Not bad for the class clown."

Denki whirled around to find Hitoshi Shinso leaning against a nearby building, his perpetually tired eyes fixed on him with an unreadable expression.

"How long have you been standing there?" Denki asked, immediately on guard. The confrontation in the hallway was still fresh in his mind.

"Long enough," Shinso replied. "Didn't know you could move like that. You've been holding out on your classmates."

Denki's usual instinct would be to deflect with a joke, but after his outburst against Monoma, he found himself less inclined to play the fool.

"Yeah, well, we've all got our secrets," he said instead, taking another sip of water. "What are you doing here? Come to declare war again?"

Shinso pushed off from the wall and walked closer. "Actually, I came to train. This area is supposed to be empty."

"Funny, that's why I chose it too."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, sizing each other up. Despite their confrontation, Denki couldn't help but feel curious about the general studies student who so boldly challenged the hero course.

"Your quirk," Denki said finally. "What is it? If you're gunning for the hero course, you must have something good."

Shinso's expression darkened. "Why? So you can prepare to counter it at the festival?"

Denki shrugged. "Just making conversation. But sure, tactical advantages are always nice."

After a moment's hesitation, Shinso answered. "Brainwashing. If someone responds to me verbally, I can control their actions."

Denki whistled. "Damn. That's actually perfect for hero work. Hostage situations, talking down jumpers..." He tilted his head. "So why aren't you already in the hero course?"

Something flickered across Shinso's face—surprise, maybe, at not being immediately judged.

"The entrance exam favors combat quirks," he said bitterly. "Hard to show off mind control against robots."

Denki nodded thoughtfully. "That's bullshit."

"What?"

"I said it's bullshit," Denki repeated. "Your quirk sounds way more useful for actual hero work than half the quirks in my class. Hell, probably more useful than mine in the long run."

Shinso stared at him, clearly caught off guard by the blunt agreement.

"Why are you being... reasonable?" he asked suspiciously. "After that scene in the hallway—"

"That was about you guys trivializing USJ," Denki cut in. "Not about your ambition. Actually, I respect that part. Wanting to prove people wrong? I get that more than you know."

Shinso's posture relaxed slightly. "Really."

It wasn't a question, but Denki answered anyway.

"Really." He hesitated, then made a decision. "Look, I was planning to run some scenarios. Could use someone to spar with who doesn't already know all my moves. Interested?"

Shinso raised an eyebrow. "You realize my quirk would make that a very short sparring session?"

Denki grinned. "Only if I answer you. Which is actually perfect training for both of us. You get to practice against someone who knows your quirk, and I get to practice fighting without running my mouth."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Shinso's face. "That does sound like quite a challenge for you."

"Low blow, man."

"You walked right into it."

Despite himself, Denki laughed. "Fair enough. So, what do you say? Temporary truce for the sake of training?"

After a moment of consideration, Shinso nodded. "Alright. But don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're being surprisingly decent."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They moved to a clearer area and took up positions across from each other. Denki settled into his Thunder Breathing stance, while Shinso adopted what appeared to be a basic defensive posture.

"Ready?" Denki asked.

Shinso nodded, a calculating look in his eyes.

"Begin!"

What followed was one of the strangest training sessions Denki had ever experienced. Every instinct screamed at him to talk trash, to make jokes, to fill the silence—but doing so would mean instant defeat. Instead, he had to focus entirely on his movements and expressions.

Shinso, for his part, kept trying to provoke responses. "Your stance is sloppy," he'd comment. Or, "Is that the best you can do?"

But Denki maintained his silence, communicating only through attacks and dodges. It was surprisingly liberating to let his body do the talking. 

After an hour, they were both sweating and breathing hard. Denki had managed to land several of his precision electrical strikes—nothing powerful enough to cause damage, but enough to demonstrate what he was working on. Shinso had countered with surprisingly effective physical techniques despite not being in the hero course.

"Not bad for a brainwasher," Denki said as they took a break, finally allowing himself to speak.

"Not bad for a human stun gun," Shinso replied, the insult lacking any real heat.

They sat on a nearby bench, drinking water and catching their breath.

"So what's your deal anyway?" Shinso asked after a while. "Most of your classmates fit the typical hero mold. You don't."

Denki considered deflecting but decided against it. Something about Shinso's directness invited honesty.

"I grew up in a rough area of Saitama," he said, looking up at the sky. "The kind of neighborhood pro heroes only visit when there's a villain attack worth the publicity."

Shinso's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"My quirk manifested early—I was four. Blew out every electrical appliance in our apartment building." A wry smile crossed Denki's face. "Neighbors weren't exactly thrilled."

He took another sip of water.

"After that, I got labeled as 'dangerous.' Kids at school were afraid to touch me. Teachers kept their distance. And honestly? I started living up to the reputation. If everyone already thought I was a problem, why disappoint them?"

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit.

"The weird thing is, even when I was causing trouble, I always felt this... I don't know how to explain it... this pull toward something greater. Like I had unfinished business. Sometimes I'd get these flashes of rage that didn't feel like my own, this overwhelming need to prove myself better than everyone else."

Denki's gaze drifted to the horizon as memories surfaced.

"By middle school, I was getting into fights weekly. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone—I just hated the system that decided some quirks were 'heroic' and others were 'villainous.' My quirk made people uncomfortable, so I was automatically suspicious."

He ran a hand through his blonde hair, static electricity making it stand on end for a moment.

"I hung out with kids who felt the same way. We weren't bad kids, not really. Just angry. Felt like the hero society had already decided our futures based on what powers we were born with."

"I know that feeling," Shinso said quietly.

Denki nodded. "I bet you do." He paused. "Anyway, this one time, we were in this abandoned building where we'd go to practice using our quirks without adults freaking out. One of the kids—Ryota—had a fire manipulation quirk. Nothing major, just could make small flames. But he lost control, and suddenly the whole place was burning."

His voice grew more somber.

"Everyone panicked. Running in different directions. I remember Ryota was frozen in place, terrified. The fire was spreading toward him, but he couldn't move. And in that moment, I just... acted. Used my electricity to overload the building's ancient sprinkler system. Got everyone out. Including Ryota."

Denki's fingers sparked unconsciously as he recalled the moment.

"A pro hero showed up eventually—some sidekick, not even a name brand. But he looked at me differently than anyone ever had. Said I had good instincts. That my quirk saved lives that day." He shrugged. "First time anyone had ever suggested my electricity could be something other than destructive or comic relief."

"So that's when you decided to become a hero?" Shinso asked.

"Not immediately. But it planted the seed. Made me think maybe I could prove everyone wrong—show that the 'dangerous' kid could actually protect people." Denki looked directly at Shinso. "That's why I get it. Your need to prove people wrong about your quirk. To show them that their assumptions about brainwashing being 'villainous' are bullshit."

Shinso was quiet for a long moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, "My whole life, people have taken one step back when they learn what I can do. Like I might steal their free will for my own amusement."

"People fear what they don't understand," Denki replied. "And they really hate feeling vulnerable."

"How did you get past it? The anger at being prejudged?"

Denki's expression turned thoughtful. "I didn't, not completely. But I channeled it. Started training seriously. Got my grades up enough to apply to U.A. Decided that instead of fighting against the hero system, I'd change it from within."

He grinned. "Plus, being underestimated has its advantages. Nobody expects much from me, which means I can surprise the hell out of them when it matters."

"Like you did with Monoma in the hallway," Shinso observed.

"Exactly. The look on his face was priceless."

They shared a moment of understanding silence before Denki spoke again.

"So, what's your training regimen like? Since your quirk doesn't work on robots, I'm guessing you've had to get creative."

For the next hour, they exchanged training techniques. Shinso had developed an impressive physical fighting style to compensate for situations where his quirk might not work, while Denki demonstrated more of his Thunder Breathing techniques. By the time noon approached, they had moved from reluctant sparring partners to something resembling friends.

"You know," Denki said as they packed up their gear, "we should do this again. I think we could actually help each other improve."

Shinso looked surprised. "Even though we'll be competing against each other at the festival?"

"Especially because of that," Denki replied. "Iron sharpens iron, right? Besides, your quirk forces me to fight smarter, not just harder. I need that kind of challenge."

After a moment's hesitation, Shinso nodded. "Tomorrow, same time?"

"It's a date," Denki said with a grin, then immediately flushed. "I mean, not a date date. A training date. A training session. You know what I mean."

Shinso's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "I know what you meant, Kaminari."

As they walked back toward the main campus, Denki found himself genuinely looking forward to their next session. There was something about Shinso that intrigued him—a kindred spirit who understood what it meant to be misjudged based on your quirk.

"Hey," he said as they were about to part ways. "For what it's worth, I think you'd make a great hero. The kind who could talk villains down instead of just punching them into submission. The world needs more of that."

Shinso stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his tired eyes.

"Thanks," he said finally. "See you tomorrow, Kaminari."

"Call me Denki," he replied on impulse.

Shinso paused, then nodded. "Hitoshi."

As Denki watched Hitoshi walk away, he couldn't help but feel that something significant had just happened—the beginning of a connection he hadn't anticipated but somehow felt right.

Over the next week, their morning training sessions became a routine. Each day, Denki would arrive at Ground Gamma to find Hitoshi already there, and they would spend hours pushing each other to improve. Gradually, their initial wariness gave way to genuine camaraderie.

Denki continued refining his Thunder Breathing techniques, learning to channel electricity through different parts of his body in varying intensities. He discovered he could create a low-level current across his skin that enhanced his reflexes, allowing him to move with lightning speed for short bursts.

"It's like your whole body becomes a conductor," he explained to Hitoshi during one session. "The electricity stimulates my muscles directly, bypassing some of the normal neural pathways."

"That explains why you're suddenly faster," Hitoshi replied. "But doesn't that drain your batteries quickly?"

Denki had started referring to his energy reserves as "batteries," and Hitoshi had picked up the terminology.

"Less than you'd think," Denki said. "It's actually more efficient than releasing big discharges. Small currents, precisely controlled."

He demonstrated a move where electricity flowed through his arm in a coiling pattern before concentrating at his fingertips. It was a technique he'd executed without thinking during the USJ incident when he'd faced Yoru.

"That looks practiced," Hitoshi observed. "Like you've been doing it for years."

Denki paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "It feels that way sometimes. Like my body remembers things my mind doesn't. Muscle memory from... somewhere."

Hitoshi nodded. "Smart regardless. You're working with your quirk's nature instead of forcing it."

That was another unexpected discovery of their training partnership—Hitoshi had a keen analytical mind. He noticed patterns and weaknesses in Denki's fighting style that even Denki himself had missed, offering suggestions that invariably improved his techniques.

In return, Denki helped Hitoshi with his physical combat skills, incorporating some of the Thunder Breathing principles of flow and redirection that worked even without electrical abilities.

"It's all about creating paths of least resistance," Denki explained as they practiced, guiding Hitoshi through a stance adjustment. His hands moved with practiced precision, as if he'd taught these techniques before. "Just like electricity, you want to flow around obstacles rather than pushing directly through them."

Once, when demonstrating a particularly complex sequence, Denki found himself saying, "The Fifth Form is designed to—" before stopping abruptly, confused by his own words.

"Fifth Form?" Hitoshi repeated.

"I... don't know why I said that," Denki admitted, a strange disorientation washing over him. "Just came out."

By the end of the week, they had developed a training routine that played to both their strengths. Mornings began with quirk-specific practice, followed by sparring sessions where Denki would fight without speaking (harder than it sounded for someone as naturally talkative as him), and Hitoshi would fight without using his quirk.

After training, they would often grab breakfast together in a small café near campus, discussing strategy for the upcoming festival. These conversations gradually expanded to include their childhoods, their favorite movies, their hopes for the future—all the small details that transform acquaintances into friends.

Denki learned that Hitoshi lived with his grandmother, that he secretly loved cat videos, that he stayed up too late reading mystery novels. In turn, he shared his own quirks and habits—his collection of vintage video games, his inability to cook anything more complicated than instant ramen, his hidden talent for remembering song lyrics.

Three days before the Sports Festival, as they finished their most intense training session yet, Denki collapsed onto the ground, exhausted but satisfied.

"I think I might actually have a shot at making a decent showing," he said, staring up at the clouds.

Hitoshi sat down beside him. "More than decent. You've improved exponentially in just two weeks."

"So have you. Your takedown technique is scary good now."

A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by their gradually steadying breaths.

"Hey," Denki said after a while. "Whatever happens at the festival... I'm glad we did this."

Hitoshi glanced at him. "Even if I use everything I've learned to try and take your spot in the hero course?"

"Even then," Denki confirmed without hesitation. "Because you deserve a shot as much as any of us. More than some, honestly."

Something shifted in Hitoshi's expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of his perpetually tense shoulders.

"I feel like I should thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For seeing me as more than my quirk. It doesn't happen often."

Denki propped himself up on his elbows. "Well, get used to it. Because after you make it into the hero course—which you will, eventually—people are going to start seeing what I see."

"And what's that?" Hitoshi asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"A badass hero-in-training with a quirk that could save a lot of lives and the determination to actually do it." Denki grinned. "Plus, you know, killer eye bags. Very mysterious and brooding. The ladies will love it."

Hitoshi rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "You're ridiculous."

"Part of my charm," Denki replied cheerfully. Then, more seriously, "Really though, don't thank me. This partnership has been mutually beneficial. I needed someone who would push me beyond my limits, and you've definitely done that."

As they gathered their things to leave, Denki felt a strange mixture of emotions. Pride in how far they'd both come. Excitement for the festival. Anxiety about competing against someone he now considered a friend. And something else—something warm and unfamiliar that sparked in his chest whenever Hitoshi actually smiled at one of his jokes.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked as they reached the point where their paths diverged.

Hitoshi nodded. "Last training session before the festival. Make it count."

"Always do," Denki replied with a salute.

As he watched Hitoshi walk away, Denki couldn't help but think about how strange life was. Two weeks ago, they'd been adversaries—Hitoshi declaring war on Class 1-A, Denki defending his classmates with uncharacteristic viciousness. Now, they were... what exactly?

Friends, certainly. But there was something else there too, something Denki wasn't quite ready to name. A connection that felt simultaneously new and familiar, like recognizing a song you've never heard before.

That night, lying in his dorm bed, Denki dreamed of lightning and swords, of betrayal and regret. He woke with tears on his face and a name on his lips he couldn't remember by morning. The only thing that remained was a burning determination to master the Thunder Breathing techniques that seemed to live in his blood.

Whatever was happening between him and Hitoshi would have to wait until after the Sports Festival. They both had goals to achieve, points to prove, expectations to shatter. The world was watching, and neither of them could afford to be distracted.

But as Denki practiced one last time in his room, electricity dancing in controlled patterns between his fingertips, he couldn't help but look forward to whatever might come next—in the festival and beyond. Something in him felt like it was waking up, a power and knowledge older than himself, waiting to be remembered.

Notes:

Looks who's remembering...
Tee-hee!

Chapter 6: Cold

Summary:

Investigation on the Frost demon. You can do it Touya!

Touya stared at the case files spread across his desk, frustration etching deep lines into his forehead. Three weeks into the Frost Demon investigation, and he had precisely nothing to show for it. The photos of the crime scenes—clinical, almost artistic in their precision—offered no clues. Bodies frozen from the inside out, organs selectively missing, and not a single trace of evidence left behind.

No residual ice particles with unique quirk signatures. No fingerprints. No DNA. No witnesses. Nothing on surveillance. The Frost Demon was a ghost—striking with surgical precision before vanishing without a trace.

With a frustrated growl, Touya shoved the files aside and ran his hands through his white hair. The only common denominator between the victims was their character: corrupt officials who took bribes to look the other way while children suffered, heroes with gleaming public personas who abused their power behind closed doors, criminals who specialized in trafficking. People who wore masks of respectability while committing atrocities.

"Getting anywhere?" came a voice from his office doorway.

Touya looked up to see his partner from the underground hero division leaning against the frame, watching him with sympathetic eyes.

"Not a damn thing," Touya admitted. "It's like chasing smoke. Whoever this is, they're good. Too good." He gestured at the scattered files. "The Commission's breathing down my neck for results, but there's nothing to find. Even the ice itself is ordinary water—no chemical markers, no unique crystalline structure. Just... perfect ice."

His colleague winced. "That's rough. Want me to take a look?"

"Thanks, but no. This case is... sensitive." Touya gathered the photos back into their folder. "I'll figure it out."

After his colleague left, Touya stared at the ceiling, troubled thoughts swirling. The Hero Commission had been unusually insistent that he personally lead this investigation. Something about his "unique understanding" of ice-based quirks. But their eagerness felt wrong somehow, forced.

His phone buzzed—a text from Keigo.

Coming home early tonight. Need to talk. Important.

Touya frowned at the cryptic message. Since Keigo had been assigned that international mission in Mongolia, their communication had been sporadic at best. For him to cut it short and return home...

Something was very wrong.

By the time Touya arrived home, the apartment was quiet. Hiro had taken Yumi to her ballet lesson, according to the note on the refrigerator. The silence felt heavy, anticipatory.

Keigo was standing on their balcony, red wings twitching slightly—a tell Touya recognized as deep agitation. He didn't turn when the balcony door slid open, his golden eyes fixed on the distant skyline.

"You're back early," Touya said quietly, coming to stand beside him.

"I never left," Keigo replied, his voice tight. "The Mongolia assignment was a diversion."

Touya's mismatched eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Keigo finally turned to face him, expression hard in a way Touya rarely saw outside of combat situations. "We need to talk about the Frost Demon case. And about why you were assigned to it."

The pieces clicked into place instantly. "The Commission. This is about the Commission."

"Let's go inside."

In their living room, Keigo pulled out a small device and activated it. A soft blue light blinked once, then remained steady.

"Anti-surveillance," he explained, noting Touya's raised eyebrow. "I've been sweeping the apartment daily since you got assigned to the case. Nothing yet, but better safe than sorry."

"Keigo, what's going on?"

The winged hero sank onto their couch, suddenly looking exhausted. "The Commission knows I've been defying orders. They think you're the reason why."

"Me?"

"Us. This." Keigo gestured at their home, at the family photos lining the wall. "They think I've gone soft. That my priorities have shifted." A bitter smile touched his lips. "They're right about that much, at least."

Touya sat beside him, concern deepening. "And the Frost Demon case? How does that connect?"

Keigo's expression darkened. "They're setting you up, Touya. They've connected your mother to the case—fabricated evidence placing her near crime scenes. They assigned you to the investigation knowing you'd pursue it relentlessly, especially once you discovered the implications for your family."

"My mother?" Touya's voice went cold. "What the hell does my mother have to do with this?"

"They're trying to drive a wedge between us. They want me isolated, back under their complete control." Keigo's wings twitched with suppressed anger. "They think if they can make you question everything—your mother's innocence, your own judgment—it'll create enough strain to break us apart."

Touya stared at him, ice-cold anger radiating from his usually controlled demeanor. "And you knew about this? For how long?"

"Three weeks. Since the night before you got the assignment." Keigo met his gaze unflinchingly. "I hacked into their surveillance system."

"And you didn't tell me."

"I couldn't. Not right away." Keigo's expression was pained. "If I had told you immediately, you would have reacted—and they would have known I was onto them. I needed time to counter-investigate, to set up safeguards, to make sure Hiro and Yumi were protected."

Touya stood, too agitated to remain seated. "All this time I've been investigating this case... and you knew they were manipulating me?"

"Yes." Keigo didn't flinch from the accusation. "And there's more."

Touya turned, his mismatched eyes narrowing. "More?"

Keigo took a deep breath. "The Commission's original assignment when they paired us together five years ago... it wasn't just a standard hero partnership." His golden eyes held a mix of shame and defiance. "They assigned me to bring you in line. To make you more compliant with their methods. To gain your trust and redirect your... independent tendencies."

The silence that followed was deafening. Touya's expression went completely blank—the dangerous calm that preceded his most lethal combat maneuvers.

"So our partnership was a lie from the start." His voice was terrifyingly quiet.

"No." Keigo stood, wings flaring slightly. "The assignment was real. What happened after... what we became to each other... that wasn't part of any plan."

Touya turned away, his hands clenched at his sides. "Why tell me this now?"

"Because you need to know what we're up against." Keigo moved closer, though he didn't touch Touya. "The Commission doesn't just want me back under control—they want to own me, completely. The way they did when I was a child. And they'll destroy anything that stands in their way—including you, including our family."

"Why did you go along with it? All those years ago?"

Keigo's expression hardened. "You know why. I didn't have a choice back then. The Commission had been my entire life since I was seven years old. They controlled everything—where I lived, how I trained, who I interacted with. They made it very clear what happened to people who defied them." His voice lowered. "I was afraid, Touya. Afraid of what they could do to me. What they might do to others if I didn't comply."

Touya was silent for a long moment, tension radiating from his rigid posture. Then, gradually, his shoulders relaxed. When he turned back to face Keigo, his eyes had softened slightly.

"Fear," he said quietly. "That's something I understand all too well."

The admission hung between them, heavy with shared history.

Keigo took a careful step closer. "I should have told you sooner. About the original assignment, about everything. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you should have." Touya's gaze was direct, but the initial coldness had thawed. "But I understand why you didn't."

"Where do we go from here?" Keigo asked.

Touya's lips curved into a slight smile—not warm, but determined. "We do what we've always done. We protect our family." He reached out, his scarred hand finding Keigo's. "Together. The Commission doesn't know who they're dealing with if they think they can manipulate us this easily."

Relief flooded Keigo's expression as he squeezed Touya's hand. "I was afraid you'd never forgive me."

"We both have pasts we're not proud of," Touya replied simply. "What matters is who we choose to be now." His expression hardened again. "But we need a plan. The Commission won't back down easily."

"I've already started gathering evidence of their manipulation," Keigo said, sitting back down and pulling out a secure tablet. "We can use it as leverage if necessary."

For the next hour, they mapped out contingencies, identifying allies they could trust, weaknesses in the Commission's structure they could exploit, and ways to protect Hiro and Yumi from becoming pawns in this dangerous game.

"First priority is clearing your mother from suspicion," Keigo said, making notes on their secure server. "If we can identify the real Frost Demon—"

"That might be more complicated than you think," Touya interrupted, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "I need to talk to my mother directly."

Keigo glanced up. "You suspect something?"

"Just... a feeling." Touya frowned. "Something about these cases has been nagging at me. The precision of the kills, the selective removal of organs, the complete absence of evidence... it's all too perfect."

"Too perfect for a human quirk user," Keigo said slowly, catching on.

"Exactly." Touya stood. "I need to make a visit to my mother. Alone."

Keigo nodded. "I'll keep digging into the Commission's plans. And I'll be home when Hiro brings Yumi back from ballet."

As Touya prepared to leave, Keigo caught his wrist. "Touya... whatever you find out about the Frost Demon, whatever your mother says... we'll handle it. All of it. Together."

Touya leaned down and pressed his lips against Keigo's in a brief, fierce kiss. "I know we will. They won't tear us apart. Not now, not ever."

---

His mother was waiting for him at the doorway, as though she had sensed his approach. Her white hair was pulled back in a simple knot, her pale face serene as always.

"I've been expecting you," she said softly, stepping aside to let him in. "You've come about the murders."

Touya froze, searching her face. "How did you know?"

Rei smiled, leading him to the small tea room. "A mother knows when her children are troubled. And when her children are assigned to cases that might lead back to her doorstep."

The casual confirmation sent a chill down Touya's spine that had nothing to do with the winter air. He watched as his mother prepared tea with practiced movements, her hands steady and sure.

"So the Hero Commission was right," he said carefully. "You are connected to the Frost Demon cases."

Rei set the teapot down with precise care. "They are right for entirely the wrong reasons." She looked up at him, her eyes changing subtly—the normal soft gray bleeding into a prismatic rainbow hue that made Touya's heart stutter. "Do you remember the stories I used to tell you? About the man-eating demons from ancient times?"

Touya stiffened. "Those weren't just stories."

"No," Rei agreed, a small, cold smile playing on her lips as fangs—actual fangs—elongated slightly in her mouth. "They weren't."

"Mother..." Touya's voice was barely above a whisper. "What are you?"

"I am what I have always been," she replied, her voice taking on a strange, doubled quality—her usual gentle tones overlaid with something colder, more calculating. Touya stared at her, memories flooding back—moments in his childhood when his mother had seemed... different. Times when her eyes had changed, when her gentle nature had given way to something colder, more calculating. The way she sometimes smiled without emotion, how she would occasionally speak with unsettling precision about human nature.

"The Frost Demon murders," he said slowly. "That was you."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Rei sipped her tea calmly. "They were interfering with my family's happiness."

"Interfering how?" Touya managed to ask, still processing the revelation that his mother—his gentle, kind mother had been systematically murdering people.

"The first was a judge who was going to rule against Shouto in that case last year. One You remember when Shto got into that fight during middle school? The one that would have exposed his heritage." Her rainbow eyes gleamed coldly. "The second was planning to expose your father's training methods to gain political leverage. The third was investigating you and Keigo, looking for ways to separate you."

She listed the kills with such matter-of-fact precision that Touya felt a chill run down his spine.

"And the others?" he asked.

"All threats to this family." She smiled, an empty expression that didn't reach her eyes. "All people who would have caused harm to those I care about. People who hide their true intentions behind masks of respectability while plotting to destroy what I have worked so hard to protect."

"That's not your decision to make," Touya said, finding his voice. "The law—"

"The law?" Her laugh was silver bells tinkling in winter air. "You don't believe in the law any more than I do, Touya. You never have. That's why you became an underground hero instead of following the approved path. That's why you break rules when they interfere with justice. That's why Keigo fell in love with you, despite his orders to bring you to heel."

Touya stared at her, unsettled by how accurately she had read him. "You're right," he admitted finally. "I don't always believe in the law. But I believe in protecting people, not just eliminating those who might be threats."

"I protected our family," she countered, her voice growing cooler. "Just as you protect yours. The methods differ, but the motivation is the same."

She reached across the table, her hand icy cold as it covered his. "You won't report me," she stated with absolute certainty. "Not just because I'm your mother, but because deep down, you understand the necessity."

Touya pulled his hand away, troubled by the truth in her words. "The Hero Commission is using this case to target Keigo. To separate us."

Rei's expression shifted, the rainbow fading from her eyes as her more familiar maternal concern resurfaced. "Then we must ensure they fail."

"How?" Touya asked. "They've already fabricated evidence connecting you to the scenes."

A small, sweet smile curved her lips, but Touya could now see the predatory edge beneath it that he had always missed before. "I have a plan," she said, pouring more tea with perfect composure. "One that will not only clear my name but will also solve your problem with the Commission."

As she began to outline her strategy, speaking with the cold calculation of a chess master setting up an endgame, Touya realized with uncomfortable clarity that his mother had never been as helpless as they had all believed.  The Frost Demon would never be caught. But the Hero Commission was about to face a far more dangerous adversary than they had anticipated.

And for better or worse, Touya was now complicit in whatever came next.

Notes:

Mom and Son are partners in crime.

Chapter 7: You'll Be In My Heart

Summary:

Meanwhile with the league of Villains...

Notes:

I hope you guys enjoy the chapter. I don't know what I did during this chapter but it's freaken Wholesome.

The hideout had settled into a strange rhythm in the weeks following their failure at USJ. Where chaos and discord should have reigned after such a defeat, an unexpected harmony had emerged instead—one built on routine, on quiet understanding, and on the gradual healing of both body and pride.

Tomura's recovery had been slow and stubborn, much like the man himself. His wounds, while not life-threatening, had left him irritable and restless, confined to the hideout while his body knit itself back together. This forced inactivity had only sharpened his already caustic temperament, turning him into something like a caged animal—dangerous, unpredictable, and perpetually seething.

Yet somehow, between Yoru's patient attention and Kurogiri's steadfast presence, they had managed to establish something almost resembling normalcy.

It began with small things.

Each morning, Kurogiri would prepare breakfast—simple but nourishing meals that appeared without comment before Tomura's door. Some days, the food would remain untouched for hours; other days, the plate would be cleared almost immediately, though Tomura never acknowledged either the offering or the gesture behind it.

Yoru took charge of changing Tomura's bandages, a delicate task that initially provoked violent resistance but gradually became an accepted part of their daily rhythm. There was a peculiar intimacy to these sessions—Tomura sitting in sullen silence while Yoru worked, his touches clinical yet considerate, neither of them acknowledging the growing ease between them.

On the third day of this arrangement, Kurogiri had entered the room during one such session, bearing fresh bandages and antiseptic. He had watched Yoru work for a silent moment before asking, "May I assist?"

The question had been directed at both of them, yet somehow required only Tomura's grudging shrug to be answered. And so it had begun—the three of them locked in a strange dance of care that none would name as such.

"This is healing well," Yoru observed one evening, carefully inspecting the wound on Tomura's shoulder. The angry red had faded to pink, new skin forming along the edges of the gash. "Another week, and you'll hardly know it was there."

Tomura merely grunted, eyes fixed on the wall ahead as if the peeling wallpaper contained secrets of profound importance. His hair had grown longer during his convalescence, falling in pale strands across his face, obscuring the perpetual rawness around his eyes.

"I could cut your hair," Yoru offered unexpectedly, the words surprising even himself. "If you want."

Tomura's gaze shifted to him then, suspicious and evaluating. "Why would you do that?"

Yoru shrugged, finishing the bandage with practiced ease. "It's in your eyes. Must be annoying."

A silence stretched between them, taut with unspoken things. Finally, Tomura looked away again.

"Whatever," he muttered, which Yoru had learned was as close to agreement as Tomura ever came.

Kurogiri materialized in the doorway just then, as if summoned by some unheard signal. "I have clean towels," he announced, placing them on the nearby table with meticulous precision. His golden eyes moved between them, reading the atmosphere with uncanny accuracy. "Are we providing grooming services now?"

There was something almost like amusement in his tone—a subtle warmth that Yoru had begun to recognize beneath Kurogiri's formal demeanor.

"Apparently," Yoru replied with a small smile, rising to his feet. "Would you mind getting a pair of scissors? And perhaps a basin of warm water?"

Kurogiri inclined his head in acknowledgment and disappeared in a swirl of dark mist. Tomura watched him go, then turned his attention back to Yoru.

"You two have gotten... friendly," he observed, the word 'friendly' twisting in his mouth like something foreign and suspicious.

Yoru paused, considering his response carefully. "Is that a problem?"

Tomura's bloodshot eyes narrowed slightly. "No," he finally said, though his tone suggested the jury was still out. "Just weird."

Before Yoru could respond, Kurogiri returned with the requested items, setting them down with careful movements. "Will there be anything else?"

"Actually," Yoru said, "would you mind staying? An extra pair of hands would help."

Something flickered in Kurogiri's luminous eyes—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity. "Of course."

What followed was one of the strangest half-hours of their collective existence. Tomura, rigid with tension but allowing the contact; Yoru, steady-handed and focused as he carefully trimmed the pale strands; and Kurogiri, silently assisting, holding tools and occasionally steadying Tomura when he fidgeted too much.

"Stop moving," Yoru murmured at one point, his fingers gentle but firm against Tomura's scalp. "Unless you want to lose an ear."

"Tch. Like you would," Tomura retorted, but he stilled nonetheless.

Kurogiri made a sound that might have been a chuckle—a soft, misty exhalation that Yoru felt more than heard. Their eyes met briefly over Tomura's head, a moment of shared amusement that felt strangely significant.

When the impromptu haircut was finally complete, Tomura raised a hand to his now-shorter locks, fingers exploring the unfamiliar neatness with something like bewilderment.

"Better?" Yoru asked, brushing stray hairs from Tomura's shoulders with careful motions.

Tomura didn't answer directly. Instead, he simply stood, stretching his lanky frame with a wince as healing wounds protested. "I'm hungry," he announced, as if this constituted a response.

"I'll prepare something," Kurogiri offered immediately, already moving toward the door.

"Not that instant ramen crap again," Tomura called after him, a childish petulance coloring his voice.

Kurogiri paused, looking back with what might have been exasperation had his features been capable of it. "Then perhaps you'd prefer to cook for yourself?"

Tomura scowled but said nothing, acknowledging defeat with poor grace.

"I could cook," Yoru suggested, gathering the scattered hair trimmings. "If we have actual ingredients."

Both Tomura and Kurogiri turned to look at him then, wearing identical expressions of surprise despite their vastly different physiologies.

"You cook?" Tomura sounded so genuinely baffled that Yoru couldn't help but laugh.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes," Tomura stated flatly.

Yoru shook his head, still smiling. "Everyone has hidden talents, Tomura-kun."

The honorific slipped out without thought—a casual familiarity that would have been unthinkable just weeks earlier. Yoru froze momentarily, expecting rebuke, but Tomura merely rolled his eyes and slouched toward the door, pausing only to glance back over his shoulder.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

The question was directed at both of them, an inclusion so subtle it might have been missed if they hadn't been watching for it. Kurogiri's mist shifted in what Yoru had come to recognize as pleasure, and they followed Tomura into the main room of the bar.

That evening marked a shift in their dynamic—not dramatic, not acknowledged, but undeniably real. As Yoru cooked with ingredients Kurogiri procured from some mysterious source, and Tomura watched from his perch at the bar with critical commentary that lacked real venom, something settled into place between them. A foundation upon which something new began to build.

Days bled into 2 weeks, and the rhythm of their strange coexistence grew more fluid, more natural. Mornings found Kurogiri and Yoru often sharing quiet conversation over coffee before Tomura emerged, bleary-eyed and taciturn, from his rooms. Evenings frequently ended with the three of them in the main bar area—Tomura absorbed in planning their next moves, while Kurogiri and Yoru engaged in conversations that ranged from philosophical to mundane.

It was during one such evening, with Tomura having retreated to his quarters after a particularly intense strategy session, that Kurogiri finally asked the question that had been hovering between them for weeks.

"Why do you care for him so deeply?"

Yoru looked up from the book he'd been reading—one of the few forms of entertainment available in their spartan hideout. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, filling the silence with gentle white noise.

"For Tomura?" he clarified, though he knew perfectly well whom Kurogiri meant.

Kurogiri nodded, his misty form seeming more substantial than usual in the low lamplight. "You treat him with a gentleness that seems... incongruous with your role here."

Yoru closed his book, considering his response. It was a dangerous question, touching on loyalties and motivations that were meant to remain unexamined in their world. And yet, there was something in Kurogiri's tone—not accusation, but genuine curiosity—that invited honesty.

"I see something in him," Yoru finally said, his voice soft but certain. "Something raw and unfinished, but... powerful. Not just his quirk, but who he is. Who he could become." He traced the worn cover of his book absently. "He's been shaped by pain, left to grow wild and thorny. But with the right guidance..."

"You sound like a gardener discussing a particularly difficult plant," Kurogiri observed, moving to sit across from him. The motion was fluid, ghostly limbs taking solid form as he settled into the chair.

Yoru smiled at the comparison. "Perhaps that's not far off. Though I doubt Tomura would appreciate the metaphor."

"No," Kurogiri agreed, a touch of warmth coloring his formal tone. "He would not."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the rain growing heavier outside. Yoru found his gaze drawn to Kurogiri's form—the elegant eddies of his mist, the gleam of golden eyes in the shadowed bar. There was something mesmerizing about him, something that called to a place deep within Yoru that he couldn't quite identify.

"And you?" Yoru asked suddenly. "Why do you care for him?"

Kurogiri seemed surprised by the question, his mist shifting in what might have been discomfort. "It is my assigned duty to—"

"No," Yoru interrupted gently. "Not duty. You care. I've seen it."

Kurogiri fell silent, his luminous eyes fixed on some middle distance. When he finally spoke, his voice had softened to something almost vulnerable.

"I don't remember much of my life before this form, before my service to Sensei. But I remember... caring for someone. I remember what it felt like." His mist contracted slightly, like a human drawing in a deep breath. "Tomura reminds me of that feeling. As if I'm meant to guide him, to protect him. Not just because Sensei commands it, but because some part of me... recognizes the necessity."

The confession hung between them, fragile and significant. Yoru felt something stir in his chest—a resonance, an echo of understanding so profound it almost hurt.

"Like you've known him before," Yoru murmured, the words emerging unbidden. "In some other life."

Kurogiri's eyes snapped to his face, startled intensity in that golden gaze. "Yes," he said, the word barely more than a whisper. "Exactly like that."

Something electric passed between them then—a current of shared understanding that transcended their brief acquaintance. Yoru felt his pulse quicken, an inexplicable sense of rightness washing over him.

"I feel that too," he admitted. "Not just with Tomura. With..." He hesitated, suddenly unsure of his footing in this new, unfamiliar territory. "With this place. This purpose."

With you , he didn't say, though the words trembled on the edge of his tongue, dangerous and tempting.

Kurogiri seemed to hear them anyway, his mist shifting closer across the table, not quite touching Yoru's outstretched hand but hovering just above it—a gesture of connection that respected boundaries neither of them were ready to cross.

"Perhaps," Kurogiri said softly, "there are some connections that transcend understanding."

Yoru nodded, unable to articulate the strange certainty growing within him—that this moment, this conversation, was simultaneously new and ancient, like meeting someone you'd known all your life but had somehow forgotten.

The moment was shattered by a crash from Tomura's room, followed by cursing that suggested he'd knocked something over in his sleep-deprived state. Both Yoru and Kurogiri rose immediately, their shared concern overriding any awkwardness that might have followed their conversation.

"I'll check on him," Yoru said, already moving toward the hallway.

"I'll bring water," Kurogiri added, their movements synchronizing with practiced ease.

They found Tomura tangled in his bedsheets, having apparently fallen while attempting to reach the bathroom. His face was flushed with fever, eyes glassy and unfocused as he cursed weakly at his own weakness.

Without exchanging a word, they moved into action—Yoru lifting Tomura back onto the bed with careful strength, while Kurogiri produced cool cloths and water seemingly from nowhere. Their movements were choreographed by unspoken understanding, each anticipating the other's needs as they worked to bring Tomura's fever down.

"His wound must be infected," Yoru murmured, checking the bandage on Tomura's shoulder with gentle fingers. "We need antibiotics."

"I can procure them," Kurogiri replied immediately, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Tomura watched them through half-lidded eyes, his usual hostility tempered by exhaustion and fever. "Stop... fussing," he managed to rasp, though he made no real attempt to push them away.

"Be quiet and let us help you," Yoru chided, smoothing back sweat-damp hair from Tomura's forehead with a tenderness that would have been unthinkable weeks earlier. "You're not invincible, you know."

Tomura's lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at his usual scowl. "Don't... tell me what to do," he mumbled, though the words lacked any real heat.

"Then stop acting like a child," Yoru retorted, but his tone was warm with affection rather than annoyance.

Kurogiri made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. "I'll return shortly with medicine. Try to make him drink some water while I'm gone."

Yoru nodded, already reaching for the glass Kurogiri had prepared. As the portal-maker vanished in a swirl of dark mist, Yoru turned his attention back to Tomura, who was watching him with fever-bright eyes.

"You don't have to do this," Tomura muttered as Yoru helped him sit up enough to drink.

"I know," Yoru replied simply. "I want to."

Tomura stared at him for a long moment, something vulnerable and confused flickering across his usually guarded features. "Why?" he finally asked, the word cracking slightly at the edges.

Yoru considered how to answer—how to explain the complex tangle of emotions that had grown within him, the unexpected protectiveness he felt toward this broken, angry young man. In the end, simplicity seemed best.

"Because I care about you," he said, echoing his words from that first night after USJ. "And so does Kurogiri."

Tomura looked away, apparently finding the wall intensely interesting. "Like a stray dog you found," he muttered, but there was less venom in the words than there might have been once.

Yoru smiled slightly. "More like family, I think."

The word hung in the air between them, weighty and significant. Tomura's eyes widened slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face before he concealed it beneath his usual scowl.

"Don't say stupid things," he mumbled, sinking back into his pillows with deliberate carelessness.

Yet he didn't reject the notion outright, which Yoru counted as progress.

When Kurogiri returned with antibiotics and more supplies, he found Tomura dozing fitfully while Yoru sat nearby, keeping silent watch. Their eyes met over Tomura's sleeping form, another moment of perfect understanding passing between them.

They would get through this night together, as they had gotten through the weeks since USJ—one step at a time, building something neither of them had expected to find in the shadowed world of villainy: connection. Trust. Perhaps even belonging.

Morning found the three of them exactly where they had been—Tomura sleeping more peacefully as the medicine took effect, and Yoru and Kurogiri maintaining their vigil, having spoken little through the night but communicated much in shared glances and synchronized movements.

As dawn's pale light filtered through the grimy windows, Kurogiri's misty hand hovered near Yoru's where it rested on the edge of Tomura's bed. Not quite touching, but close enough that Yoru could feel the cool whisper of his presence.

"Thank you," Kurogiri said softly, his formal tone gentled by genuine gratitude. "For being here."

Yoru didn't look up, afraid of what might show in his eyes if he met that golden gaze. Instead, he simply turned his hand palm-up, an invitation without demand. After a moment of hesitation, Kurogiri's mist settled against his skin—not quite solid, not quite ephemeral, but undeniably real.

"Where else would I be?" Yoru asked, the words carrying more weight than either of them acknowledged.

They remained that way as morning crept across the room, neither willing to break the fragile connection that had formed between them—a connection built on shared purpose, shared concern, and the quiet understanding that somehow, inexplicably, they had found themselves creating something like a family in the most unlikely of places.

And if Tomura, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, noticed their joined hands resting near his own, he gave no sign—save perhaps for the slight relaxation of his perpetual scowl, and the way he leaned, ever so slightly, into the touch of the two people who had somehow become the closest thing to parents his broken heart had known in years.

Outside, beyond the hideout's walls, the world continued its relentless spin. Soon, they would need to return to their plans, their missions, their designated roles in the grand scheme Sensei had designed. But for now, in this quiet moment suspended between night and day, they were simply three souls finding unexpected solace in each other's presence—building a foundation for whatever might come next, one shared silence, one careful touch, one moment of unacknowledged tenderness at a time.

Chapter 8: I’m Not Just A Todoroki

Summary:

Natsuo's time to shine. Natsuo needs more story time.

The neon lights of downtown Hosu cast long shadows across the wet pavement as Natsuo and Hana stepped out of the small ramen shop, the warm glow from inside briefly illuminating their exit before the door swung shut. Steam rose from the vents lining the alley, adding to the ambient mist of the cool evening air.

"I still can't believe you demolished three bowls," Hana laughed, nudging Natsuo with her shoulder as they walked. "Where do you even put it all?"

Natsuo grinned, patting his stomach. "Med school diet. My body's learned to store food like a camel because I never know when I'll get to eat again."

"A camel with a metabolism like yours? Not buying it." Hana's eyes crinkled when she smiled, something Natsuo had noticed the first time they'd met in their shared biochemistry class.

They turned down the narrow side street that would lead them back to the main thoroughfare. It was a shortcut they'd taken dozens of times—a maze of alleys that the locals used to avoid tourist foot traffic.

"Did I tell you I passed that practical exam? The one with the trauma simulation?" Natsuo said, his breath fogging slightly in the cool night air.

"That's amazing! I knew you would—" Hana's congratulations cut short as three figures stepped out from the shadows ahead, blocking their path.

Natsuo's posture shifted almost imperceptibly. "Evening," he said calmly, his voice betraying none of the sudden alertness coursing through him.

The tallest of the three stepped forward—early twenties, wiry build, a jagged scar running from the corner of his mouth. "Nice night for a walk," he said with exaggerated politeness. "Bit dangerous though. Wouldn't you agree, boys?"

Laughter echoed off the narrow walls of the alley as the other two men spread out slightly, one moving to block the exit behind them. The smell of cheap alcohol and cigarettes hung in the air.

"We're just passing through," Natsuo said, his voice even. He could feel Hana's hand tighten on his arm.

"Passing through our territory," the leader replied. "There's a toll for that." His eyes flicked to Hana, then back to Natsuo. "Cash or valuables. Your choice."

Natsuo kept his face carefully neutral. "We don't want any trouble."

"Should've thought of that before coming down this way." The man stepped closer, the dim light catching on something metallic in his hand—a switchblade, flicked open with practiced ease.

The shortest of the three squinted at Natsuo, recognition dawning on his face. "Hold up—I know this guy. That's Endeavor's kid. The middle one." He snorted. "Daddy's not here to bail you out with his fire, rich boy."

Something cold and focused settled in Natsuo's chest at the mention of his father. Not anger, not fear—just crystalline clarity.

"Hana," he said quietly, "step back."

"Natsuo—" she began, concern edging her voice.

"It's okay," he assured her, gently moving her behind him. "I've got this."

The leader's smile widened, revealing a chipped front tooth. "Looks like hero boy wants to play tough." He gestured to his companions. "Show him what happens to heroes in our neighborhood."

As the first thug lunged forward, Natsuo exhaled deeply, feeling his diaphragm expand as he slipped into the breathing pattern his mother had taught him years ago. Total Concentration Breathing —the technique she'd shown him during those quiet afternoons when his father was away, when she would teach him how to find calm in chaos, how to center himself when anxiety threatened to overwhelm him.

Time seemed to slow as oxygen flooded his system. His stance shifted—weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands raised in a relaxed guard position. Not the showy stance of a pro hero, but the efficient, practical form of Muay Thai that he had practiced in the secrecy of his room, away from his father's disapproving eyes.

The first attacker swung wildly—a telegraphed haymaker that Natsuo read like an open book. He pivoted, allowing the punch to sail past his ear, then countered with a precisely timed roundhouse elbow that connected with the man's temple. Not hard enough to cause serious damage, but enough to send him staggering back, dazed and disoriented.

The second man rushed in from the side, switchblade slashing in a wide arc. Natsuo dropped his weight, the blade whisking harmlessly over his head as he swept his leg in a low arc, catching his attacker's ankles and sending him crashing to the wet pavement. The knife clattered away into a puddle.

"What the hell?" the leader snarled, pulling his own blade from his jacket. "You're dead meat now, Todoroki!"

Natsuo didn't respond. His breathing remained steady, controlled—each inhale and exhale measured and deliberate as his mother had taught him. "Control your breath, control your mind. Control your mind, control the situation." Her voice, calm and instructive, echoed in his memory.

The leader charged, blade extended. Natsuo sidestepped with fluid grace, catching the man's knife hand and twisting sharply at the wrist while driving his elbow into the attacker's ribs. As the man gasped for air, Natsuo continued the motion, bringing his knee up to connect with the extended arm. The knife fell from nerveless fingers.

With a quick sweep and pivot, Natsuo had the leader face-down on the ground, arm locked behind his back at a painful angle. The man struggled briefly, then went still as Natsuo applied precise pressure to his shoulder joint—another technique his mother had shown him during those training sessions with his siblings.

"I don't want to hurt you," Natsuo said calmly, his breathing barely elevated despite the exertion. "But I will if I have to."

The first attacker had recovered enough to stumble to his feet, looking at his downed companions with wide eyes before turning tail and limping away into the darkness. The second followed shortly after, leaving only the leader pinned beneath Natsuo's hold.

"You got lucky," the man spat, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his bravado.

Natsuo leaned down slightly. "No. I just had a good teacher." He released the hold but maintained a ready stance. "Now go, before I change my mind."

The leader scrambled to his feet, shooting Natsuo a venomous glare before retreating down the alley, his earlier confidence completely evaporated.

Only when the sound of running footsteps had faded did Natsuo finally relax his stance. He turned to Hana, concern replacing the focused calm of combat. "Are you okay?"

Hana stared at him, eyes wide with astonishment. "Am I okay? Natsuo... that was incredible! Where did you learn to fight like that?"

Natsuo rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "My mom taught me the breathing techniques when I was a kid. Said it would help with my anxiety." A small smile touched his lips. "The rest I picked up over the years."

"But you didn't use your quirk at all," Hana said, stepping closer to examine him for injuries. "Not even once."

"Didn't need to." Natsuo shrugged. "Mom always said quirks aren't everything. That sometimes the most powerful weapon is a clear mind and disciplined body."

Hana shook her head in amazement. "You're amazing," she breathed. "You didn't even flinch."

Natsuo gave a tired laugh, the adrenaline beginning to fade from his system. "I was plenty scared," he admitted. "I just... didn't let it control me."

They began walking again, Natsuo keeping a vigilant eye on their surroundings until they reached the main street, alive with evening foot traffic and the comforting presence of other people.

"Could you teach me?" Hana asked suddenly, her expression serious. "Not the fighting necessarily, but the breathing? The focus?"

Natsuo blinked in surprise. No one had ever asked him to teach them anything before. But here was Hana, looking at him with genuine admiration—not for his family name or his quirk, but for something he had cultivated himself.

"You really want me to teach you?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

"Of course I do," Hana replied, squeezing his hand. "You were incredible back there. Calm, focused, efficient. I want to learn that kind of control."

Natsuo hesitated only briefly before a warm smile spread across his face. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think you'd be good at it."

As they continued walking through the bustling streets of Hosu, pedestrians flowing around them like a river around stones, Natsuo felt something shift within him—a quiet realization taking root. All these years, he'd defined himself by what he wasn't: not a hero like his father wanted, not a prodigy like Shouto, not damaged in the same visible ways as Touya.

But tonight had reminded him of what he was: his mother's son, through and through. Not just in his white hair or his gentle demeanor, but in the quiet strength she had cultivated in him—the ability to remain calm in crisis, to protect without destruction, to find power in stillness.

The city lights reflected in puddles beneath their feet as they walked, hand in hand, through the night. For perhaps the first time in his life, Natsuo felt not like the forgotten Todoroki, but simply like himself—and discovered that was more than enough.

Chapter 9: Not A Villain

Summary:

Fuyumi fights the system

Notes:

It's Fuyumi's time to shine.

Fuyumi Todoroki’s day began as it always did-with a smile, a stack of lesson plans, and a quiet promise to herself that she would see the children in her care, not just their records. The community center’s education program was modest: a few classrooms, battered desks, and a staff that rotated too often. But to Fuyumi, it was a place where overlooked children-labeled “problem cases” by the system-could find a foothold before being swept away.

 

Most of her students were pre-teens, each with a file that read like a warning: vandalism, petty theft, minor quirk abuse. The system saw them as a step away from villainy. But Fuyumi saw something else.

 

She saw hurt. She saw fear. She saw kids who just needed someone to believe in them before society gave up. Daigo was the hardest case. He was quick to anger, his quirk dangerously destructive when triggered by emotion. Every adult he’d met saw a liability. But Fuyumi noticed the careful way he stepped between smaller kids and bullies. She saw the sketches he hid in his bag-fantastical creatures and quiet landscapes. She saw how he always showed up early, even when he pretended not to care.

 

But the world didn’t see what Fuyumi saw. When a misunderstanding led to Daigo nearly hurting another student with his quirk, the school board moved fast. They wanted him expelled, sent to a juvenile suppression facility. “It’s only a matter of time,” one board member muttered, “before he crosses the line.”

Fuyumi refused to let that happen.

---

"Miss Todoroki, are you sure about this?"

Principal Nakamura's voice carried a mixture of concern and skepticism as he glanced down at the file on his desk. The folder was thick with incident reports, each page detailing another disruption, outburst, or property damage incident.

Fuyumi adjusted her glasses, meeting the principal's gaze with calm determination. "I'm certain, sir. Daigo doesn't belong in a suppression facility. He belongs here, with proper support."

Nakamura sighed, leaning back in his chair. The Musutafu Community Youth Program had been his brainchild—a last-chance intervention for children on the edge, those the system had nearly given up on. But even he had his limits.

"His quirk destroyed half the science lab last week."

"Because Sato was threatening a younger student," Fuyumi countered. "Daigo was protecting him."

"Noble intentions don't repair laboratory equipment, Miss Todoroki."

Fuyumi resisted the urge to sigh. She'd been having variations of this conversation for weeks now, ever since she'd started her part-time position at the program. Six months in, and she was still fighting the same battles against the same prejudices.

"Give me until the board meeting next Friday," she said. "I have a comprehensive plan for quirk management training. If they still want to transfer him after that, I won't stand in their way."

Nakamura studied her for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. "One week, Miss Todoroki. But if there's another incident before then..."

"There won't be," she promised, hoping her confidence wasn't misplaced.

As she left the principal's office, Fuyumi allowed herself a moment to lean against the wall, eyes closed. The hallway was quiet, classes already in session. Through the nearest door, she could hear Yamada-sensei's enthusiastic voice leading a mathematics lesson.

A crash from further down the corridor jolted her from her moment of respite.

"Get away from me!" A boy's voice, familiar in its anger and fear.

Fuyumi hurried toward the sound, rounding the corner to find a scene she'd witnessed too many times before: Daigo Tanaka, backed against the lockers, hands glowing with the telltale orange light of his quirk activation. Two older boys stood facing him, one sporting a bleeding nose.

"Daigo," she called, keeping her voice level as she approached. "Deep breaths, remember?"

The twelve-year-old's head snapped toward her, his eyes wide with panic. The glow around his hands pulsed brighter—Destabilize, his quirk, could weaken the molecular bonds of anything he touched when emotionally triggered. In his current state, a single touch could turn the metal lockers to dust.

"They started it," he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his fear.

"I don't care who started it," Fuyumi replied, stepping between Daigo and the other boys. "I care about how we finish it." She turned to the other students. "Mori, Kaneda, back to class. Now. We'll discuss this later."

The boys hesitated, then retreated, muttering under their breath.

Once they were gone, Fuyumi turned her full attention to Daigo. "May I?" she asked, gesturing to the space beside him.

After a moment, he nodded, sliding down to sit on the floor. Fuyumi joined him, careful to give him enough space. The orange glow around his hands was already dimming, but she knew better than to rush him.

"Want to tell me what happened?" she asked after a minute of silence.

Daigo shrugged, studying his hands. "Mori was picking on Yui again. Calling her names because her quirk makes her stutter. I told him to stop."

"With words or with this?" Fuyumi gestured to his still-faintly-glowing hands.

"Words first," Daigo muttered. "He didn't listen."

Fuyumi nodded, unsurprised. "And then?"

"He pushed Yui. So I pushed him back." Daigo's expression darkened. "I didn't mean to use my quirk. It just... happened."

"Is that when he got the bloody nose?"

Daigo shook his head. "No. That was after. He tried to hit me, and I dodged. He ran into the locker." A hint of pride flickered across his face before vanishing. "Then Kaneda came, and I... I got scared." He flexed his fingers, watching the last traces of orange light fade. "I hate it when this happens."

"I know you do," Fuyumi said softly. "But you controlled it this time. You didn't touch anything. That's progress."

Daigo looked up at her, a mixture of hope and suspicion in his eyes. "You're not mad?"

"I'm concerned," she corrected. "But no, I'm not mad. You were protecting someone who needed help." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "That's what heroes do, Daigo."

He snorted. "I'm not a hero. Everyone says I'm going to be a villain."

"Everyone is wrong." Fuyumi's voice was firm. "Who you become is your choice, not theirs."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered. "You're a Todoroki."

Fuyumi didn't flinch at the accusation in his tone. She'd heard it before—the assumption that her life must be perfect because of her family name, that she couldn't possibly understand what these children faced. If only they knew.

"Being a Todoroki doesn't make choices easier," she said quietly. "Sometimes it makes them harder." She stood, offering him a hand. "Come on. You can help me in the art room until next period."

Daigo hesitated before accepting her hand, careful to keep his quirk dormant. As they walked, Fuyumi noticed the sketchbook tucked under his arm—the one he thought no one knew about, filled with detailed drawings of hero costume designs and quirk adaptation gear.

"I heard the board meeting's next week," Daigo said suddenly. "They're going to kick me out, aren't they?"

Fuyumi's step faltered. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody had to. I'm not stupid." His fingers tightened on the sketchbook. "This always happens. No school wants to deal with a kid whose quirk can turn things to dust."

"This school is different," Fuyumi insisted. "And I'm not giving up on you, Daigo."

He looked up at her skeptically. "Why not? Everyone else does."

The simple question struck Fuyumi like a physical blow. How many adults had failed this child before he'd landed here? How many had seen only the danger, never the potential?

"Because," she said finally, "I know what it's like when people only see your quirk, not you."

They reached the art room, a space Fuyumi had gradually transformed over her months at the program. Unlike the sterile classrooms, this room burst with color—student artwork covered the walls, shelves overflowed with supplies, and large tables encouraged collaboration.

"Find your project from yesterday," she instructed, moving to prepare materials for her afternoon class. "I need to finish these lesson plans."

As Daigo settled at his usual corner table, pulling out a half-completed design for quirk-resistant gloves, Fuyumi watched him from the corner of her eye. His face softened in concentration, the perpetual tension in his shoulders easing as he lost himself in his work.

This was why she fought so hard. Not just for Daigo, but for all of them—these children society had labeled as problems, as risks, as potential villains before they'd even had a chance to decide who they wanted to be.

Before she could return to her lesson plans, her phone buzzed with a message.

Emergency staff meeting, 3PM. Re: Tanaka incident. Safety Review Board representatives will be present.

Fuyumi's heart sank. The "Safety Review Board" meant pro heroes assigned to evaluate potential security threats in educational settings—a relatively new initiative following several high-profile incidents at schools.

They were moving faster than she'd anticipated. She had less time than she thought.

---

The conference room was already full when Fuyumi arrived. Principal Nakamura sat at the head of the table, flanked by two heroes in civilian clothes whom Fuyumi didn't recognize. The school counselor, several teachers, and a severe-looking woman from the Education Bureau completed the assembly.

"Miss Todoroki," Nakamura gestured to the one empty seat. "Thank you for joining us. I believe you're acquainted with today's situation."

Fuyumi took her seat, setting her folder of documentation on the table. "If you're referring to the altercation between Daigo Tanaka and Hitoshi Mori, yes. I was the one who intervened."

"This is the third quirk-related incident involving Tanaka this month," stated the woman from the Education Bureau, consulting her tablet. "And according to his file, the seventeenth since the school year began."

"Context matters," Fuyumi replied evenly. "In today's incident, he was defending a younger student from bullying."

"Noble intentions don't negate the danger," said one of the heroes—a tall man with unusually elongated fingers. "His quirk assessment places him in the high-risk category. Destabilize has significant destructive potential, especially given his lack of control."

"He's twelve," Fuyumi countered. "Of course his control isn't perfect. That's why he's here—to learn."

The hero frowned. "Miss Todoroki, I understand your... compassionate approach. But we must consider the safety of all students. This morning, he nearly disintegrated another child's face."

"That's not—" Fuyumi stopped herself, taking a deep breath. "That's not what happened, and the incident report I filed states as much. Daigo activated his quirk defensively but maintained enough control to avoid contact. The other student's injury was self-inflicted when he ran into a locker."

"Nevertheless," the Education Bureau representative interjected, "the pattern of behavior is concerning. The Safety Review Board has reviewed his case and recommends immediate transfer to the Musutafu Juvenile Quirk Suppression Center for specialized containment training."

"Containment training?" Fuyumi repeated, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "He's not a weapon to be contained. He's a child who needs guidance."

Principal Nakamura shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Todoroki, I understand your attachment to your students, but the board's recommendation is quite clear. Daigo Tanaka presents an escalating risk."

"May I present my alternative proposal?" Fuyumi asked, already opening her folder.

The room fell silent as she distributed copies of the document she'd spent weeks preparing—a comprehensive quirk management plan tailored specifically for Daigo, including emotional regulation techniques, controlled quirk activation exercises, and practical applications that would help him see his power as something other than a threat.

"This is... quite detailed," the female hero admitted, scanning the pages.

"I've been working with Daigo for six months," Fuyumi explained. "In that time, he's made significant progress. Yes, there are still incidents, but look at the data." She pointed to a chart in their packets. "The severity has decreased consistently. He's learning control."

"Learning isn't enough if another student gets hurt in the process," the male hero argued.

"With all due respect," Fuyumi said, straightening her shoulders, "sending Daigo to a suppression facility won't help him. It will only reinforce what he already believes—that he's dangerous, that his quirk makes him a villain in waiting."

"Sometimes difficult decisions must be made for the greater good," the Education Bureau representative stated. "His potential for destruction—"

"Is precisely that—potential," Fuyumi interrupted. "Just like his potential for heroism, which none of you seem interested in discussing."

She pulled additional papers from her folder—Daigo's designs for support gear, assessments showing his above-average understanding of quirk mechanics, notes from younger students thanking him for standing up to bullies.

"Before we declare a child beyond help," she continued, her voice steady despite her racing heart, "shouldn't we exhaust every possibility? Isn't that what heroes are supposed to do?"

The male hero leaned forward. "Miss Todoroki, while your family name carries weight in hero circles, it doesn't grant you expertise in security assessment."

Fuyumi felt a flash of anger, quickly suppressed. "I'm not speaking as a Todoroki. I'm speaking as Daigo's teacher, who sees him every day—not as a file or a quirk assessment score, but as a whole person."

She rarely used her family connections—in fact, she typically avoided mentioning her surname at all. But if it would make them listen...

"But since you brought up my family," she continued, her voice cooling slightly, "perhaps I do have some relevant perspective."

The room fell silent, discomfort evident on several faces. Everyone in the hero community knew something of Endeavor's controversial training methods, even if the full truth remained private.

"I'm not asking you to ignore the risks," Fuyumi said, softening her tone. "I'm asking you to see the whole picture. Daigo needs structure and support, not isolation and suppression. His quirk isn't the enemy—it's his lack of belief that he can be anything but what everyone expects him to be."

The female hero—whom Fuyumi now recognized as Verdant, a plant manipulation specialist—studied her thoughtfully. "Your proposal includes regular sessions with a licensed quirk counselor. Who would that be?"

"I've already spoken with Recovery Girl," Fuyumi replied. "She's willing to oversee his case, with weekly evaluations."

Eyebrows raised around the table. Recovery Girl's endorsement carried significant weight.

"And what about liability?" asked the Education Bureau representative. "If another incident occurs..."

"I'm willing to take personal responsibility for his oversight," Fuyumi stated firmly. "Three months of my proposed program. If there's no improvement, I won't oppose your recommendation."

Principal Nakamura exchanged glances with the heroes. "You're asking for a significant exception to protocol, Miss Todoroki."

"I'm asking you to see Daigo as more than his worst moments," she corrected. "To judge him by his potential, not just his mistakes."

The meeting continued for another hour, with Fuyumi defending every aspect of her proposal against increasingly technical questions. But she had done her research—for every concern raised, she had data, precedent, or a carefully considered solution.

Finally, Verdant set down her copy of the proposal. "I'm inclined to support a probationary implementation," she announced. "With additional safety protocols and weekly reporting to the Safety Review Board."

Her male counterpart frowned but eventually nodded. "Three months, as suggested. With immediate review if any serious incident occurs."

The Education Bureau representative looked less convinced but was clearly outnumbered. "The Bureau will require signed liability waivers from all parties," she said stiffly. "And reserves the right to terminate the arrangement at any time."

Principal Nakamura looked at Fuyumi with new respect. "Well, Miss Todoroki, it seems you've earned your chance. I hope your faith in young Tanaka is warranted."

"It is," Fuyumi said with quiet certainty. "Thank you."

As the meeting adjourned, Verdant lingered, waiting until they were alone before speaking.

"That was impressive advocacy," she said. "Not many would have fought so hard for a child with his record."

Fuyumi gathered her materials, suddenly exhausted now that the adrenaline was fading. "Every child deserves someone who will fight for them."

"Indeed." Verdant studied her with curious eyes. "You know, with your quirk control and analytical skills, you could have been a formidable hero yourself."

The comment wasn't meant to sting, but Fuyumi felt it nonetheless—the familiar suggestion that teaching was somehow less than heroism.

"I am exactly where I need to be," she replied, with a certainty that surprised even her. "Some battles aren't fought with quirks or costumes. Some are fought in classrooms and meeting rooms, one child at a time."

Verdant's expression shifted to one of understanding. "Of course. Forgive me—I didn't mean to imply otherwise." She paused. "For what it's worth, I think Daigo is lucky to have you in his corner."

After Verdant left, Fuyumi remained in the empty conference room, allowing herself a moment of relief before the real work began. Three months to prove that compassion could succeed where punishment had failed. Three months to help Daigo see himself as more than a potential villain.

She gathered her papers and headed toward the art room, where she knew Daigo would be waiting, pretending not to care about the meeting's outcome while caring more deeply than anyone realized.

As she walked, Fuyumi reflected on the patterns she'd seen repeated throughout her life—how quickly society labeled children, how easily potential could be crushed under the weight of expectation. How Touya had almost been pushed to the brink. How Natsuo had withdrawn himself rather than fight for recognition during their childhood. Things are better but that doesn’t erase the scars.

She found Daigo exactly where she expected—hunched over his sketchbook, furiously drawing what appeared to be new designs for quirk-dampening gloves. He looked up when she entered, his expression carefully guarded.

"So? When do I leave?" he asked, trying to sound indifferent.

Fuyumi set her materials down and pulled up a chair across from him. "You don't. You're staying here."

Disbelief flickered across his face. "But the board—"

"Agreed to my proposal. Three months of specialized training with Recovery Girl's oversight." She smiled slightly. "It won't be easy. We'll be working harder than ever on your control."

Daigo stared at her, his tough facade cracking to reveal the vulnerable child beneath. "Why would you do that? Fight for me?"

The question was so similar to what he'd asked earlier that Fuyumi felt her heart constrict. But this time, she had a better answer.

"Because that's what heroes do, Daigo," she said simply. "They see the good in people, even when others don't. Even when it's hidden. Even when it's hard." She nodded toward his sketchbook. "And because those designs are too good to waste. The hero world needs innovative thinkers like you."

For the first time since she'd known him, Daigo's perpetual scowl softened into something approaching hope. It wasn't a dramatic transformation—no tears or grateful hugs like in a movie. Just a small nod, a fractional lowering of defensive walls.

"I won't mess it up," he promised quietly.

Fuyumi slid a blank sketchpad toward him. "Let's start by redesigning those gloves. I have some ideas about incorporating feedback sensors to help you gauge quirk activation levels."

As they worked, other students gradually filtered into the art room for the afternoon session. Fuyumi noticed how Yui, the young girl from the morning's incident, hesitantly approached their table.

"Can... can I... sit here?" she asked, her quirk-induced stutter more pronounced when nervous.

Daigo looked surprised but quickly shifted to make room. "Yeah. I'm working on support gear designs. Wanna see?"

The interaction was small—two outcast children finding common ground—but to Fuyumi, it represented everything she fought for. Not grand heroic gestures that made headlines, but the quiet moments of connection that could change a life's trajectory.

This was her form of heroism. Not flashy battles against villains, but daily resistance against the societal forces that created villains in the first place. Fighting not with ice or fire, but with persistence, understanding, and an unwavering belief that every child deserved the chance to write their own story.

As she moved around the classroom, helping students with their projects, Fuyumi felt a sense of purpose more powerful than any quirk. In a family of exceptional heroes, she had found her own path to making a difference—one overlooked child at a time.

Chapter 10: Feathers in the Dark

Summary:

Welcome back Keigo

Notes:

I think this might be the second to last chapter until we start the Sport's festival.

This might be shorter than the others.

Keigo slipped through the darkness like a phantom, his wings pulled tight against his back to minimize his silhouette against the night sky. The Hero Commission's eastern wing loomed before him, a fortress of glass and concrete that had once felt like home. Now it was enemy territory.

Three a.m. Security would be at its lowest point—a skeleton crew manning the monitors, most of them battling drowsiness in the quiet hours before dawn. Perfect timing.

A single red feather detached from his wing, gliding ahead as his scout. Through his quirk's connection, Keigo watched the feather's journey through the building's ventilation system, mapping the positions of guards, checking for any changes to the security protocols since his last infiltration.

Nothing new. They still think their systems are impenetrable. They still think I'm loyal.

The irony wasn't lost on him. The Commission had trained him too well, taught him every weakness in their security infrastructure, drilled him in the art of infiltration until it was second nature. Now he was using those very skills against them.

Keigo landed silently on the roof, crouching behind an air conditioning unit as he waited for the patrol guard to pass. The man moved with the bored precision of someone who had walked the same route thousands of times without incident. He never looked up—they never did.

Once the guard disappeared around the corner, Keigo moved swiftly to the maintenance hatch he'd identified during his last visit. The lock was electronic, requiring a keycard and six-digit code that changed daily.

He pulled a small device from his utility belt—one of Touya's designs, ironically created for Commission-sanctioned operations. It intercepted the signal from the last authorized entry and replicated it perfectly. The lock clicked open with a soft beep.

Thank you, love. Your paranoia is finally paying off.

Inside, the corridors were dimly lit by emergency lighting, casting long shadows that Keigo used as cover. He moved with practiced ease, sending feathers ahead to scout each junction before proceeding. The real target was four floors down: Commissioner Akiyama's private office.

Two guards passed by, their conversation a low murmur about weekend plans. Keigo froze, pressing against the wall, his body so still he could have been mistaken for part of the architecture. The guards never noticed the shadow that didn't quite match the contours of the hallway.

When they were gone, Keigo continued his descent, using the emergency stairwell rather than the elevator. At the fourth floor, he paused, sending three feathers out to scan the corridor. One returned almost immediately—the way was clear.

Akiyama's office was at the end of the hall, a corner suite with windows overlooking the city. The door required palm recognition and retinal scan—significant upgrades since Keigo's last infiltration. The Commission was getting paranoid.

Good. They should be.

He pulled out another device, this one specially designed for biometric systems. Pressing it against the scanner, he watched as it cycled through patterns until it found the match stored in the system's memory. A quiet chime, and the lock disengaged.

The office was spacious but austere—Akiyama had never been one for personal touches. A desk of polished mahogany dominated the space, flanked by filing cabinets and a wall of monitors displaying surveillance feeds from across the city.

Keigo moved directly to the computer terminal, inserting a specialized drive into the port. Bypassing the security took ninety seconds—an eternity in infiltration time, but necessary for the level of encryption the Commissioner employed.

Once in, Keigo's fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing classified files on the Frost Demon investigation. He needed to understand exactly what evidence they'd fabricated against Rei Todoroki, how deep the deception went.

The files loaded, revealing doctored surveillance footage placing Rei near crime scenes, falsified witness statements, even manufactured DNA evidence. The Commission had been thorough—worryingly so.

Keigo's eyes narrowed as he reviewed the case files. The plan was more elaborate than he'd initially realized. They weren't just trying to implicate Rei; they were constructing a psychological trap for Touya, one designed to make him question everything he believed about his family.

Bastards. They've thought of everything.

He downloaded the files to his device, then navigated deeper into the system, searching for the operational directives that would reveal the Commission's endgame. What he found made his blood run cold.

Project Reclamation.

The file detailed not just the plan to separate him from Touya, but a comprehensive strategy to "recondition" Keigo once the separation was complete. Psychological manipulation, enforced isolation, even medical interventions designed to strengthen his compliance.

They planned to destroy everything he had built—his family, his independence, his very sense of self—and rebuild him into their perfect weapon once more.

Keigo's wings bristled involuntarily, feathers standing on edge in a primal display of aggression. The seasonal instincts coursing through him—already heightened by the perceived threat to his family—surged to the surface, demanding immediate action.

Kill them. Destroy them. Protect what's yours.

He fought down the impulse with practiced control, forcing himself to focus on the mission. Emotion would only lead to mistakes, and mistakes would endanger Touya and the children.

Instead, he methodically planted false leads in the system—subtle alterations to case files that would send investigators down blind alleys, corrupted evidence files that would appear intact until crucial moments, and most importantly, a backdoor that would allow him to monitor the Commission's moves remotely.

As he worked, Keigo accessed the personnel files, searching for potential allies within the Commission itself. He needed someone on the inside, someone with access who might be sympathetic to his cause.

Kimura's file appeared on the screen—the youngest Commissioner, with a record of questioning some of the organization's more extreme methods. The surveillance log showed Kimura had accessed the Frost Demon file multiple times since the meeting, reviewing sections related to ethical concerns and procedural violations.

Interesting. Not everyone is on board with Akiyama's plan.

Keigo made a mental note to approach Kimura carefully. A potential ally could become their most dangerous enemy if mishandled.

The timer on his wrist device beeped softly—fifteen minutes until the next security sweep. He needed to wrap this up.

With swift precision, he planted one final piece of insurance: a self-destructing file containing evidence of the Commission's numerous ethical violations over the past decade. If triggered, it would automatically distribute itself to every major news outlet in the country.

Mutually assured destruction.

As he prepared to leave, a notification popped up on the screen—a new mission assignment for Touya, scheduled to be delivered later that morning. The Frost Demon Task Force.

So it was beginning.

Keigo memorized the details, then erased all traces of his presence from the system. The drive withdrawn, the computer returned to sleep mode, the chair positioned exactly as he'd found it.

He was about to exit when he spotted a physical file on Akiyama's desk—one marked with both his and Touya's code names. Curiosity overrode caution as he flipped it open.

Inside were photos—surveillance images of their family. Touya walking Yumi to school. Hiro at his martial arts class. Keigo himself, in civilian clothes, shopping for groceries.

They'd been watching. For how long?

The realization sent a chill through him unlike anything he'd felt before. This wasn't just about his insubordination or Touya's influence. The Commission had targeted his entire family.

With careful control, Keigo placed the file back exactly as he'd found it, though every instinct screamed at him to destroy it, to burn the entire building to the ground. But that would only accelerate their plans, force their hand before he was ready.

Instead, he slipped out the way he'd come, erasing all evidence of his presence. By the time he reached the roof, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten—he'd been inside longer than planned.

As he launched himself into the pre-dawn air, wings spreading to catch the currents, Keigo's mind was already racing ahead, formulating contingencies. The Commission had seriously underestimated what he was willing to do to protect what was his.

They had created him to be the perfect weapon—trained him in espionage, combat, psychological warfare. Taught him to identify weaknesses, to exploit vulnerabilities, to strike without mercy.

Now, all of that training would be turned against them.

Flying high above the sleeping city, Keigo's expression hardened into something cold and predatory. The Commission thought they were setting a trap for Touya, using Rei as bait.

They didn't realize they were the ones being hunted.

By the time he landed on the balcony of their apartment, the first rays of sunrise were painting the horizon in shades of gold and crimson that matched his wings. Inside, Touya would be sleeping—or more likely, pretending to sleep while waiting for his return.

Keigo paused, staring at the city below as he gathered his thoughts. How much should he tell Touya? The truth would send him straight into confrontation with the Commission—exactly what Akiyama wanted.

But keeping him in the dark meant allowing him to walk into their trap blindly.

There was no perfect solution, only calculated risks. For now, Keigo would have to play both sides—appearing to follow the Commission's orders while systematically undermining them from within.

As he slid open the balcony door, Keigo's resolve hardened. The Commission had made a critical error. They assumed his loyalty to them had merely been redirected to Touya—that by separating them, they could reclaim their weapon.

What they failed to understand was that Touya hadn't changed Keigo's loyalties.

Touya had shown him he could have loyalties of his own choosing.

And that made Keigo more dangerous than they could possibly imagine.

Chapter 11: Small Hands, Big Flames

Summary:

Grandpa Enji

On a side note:

Dad: Touya
Papa: Keigo

Notes:

I'm going to be honest with you guys, I didn't try for the chapter. But Yes, this is the last chapter before the sport's festival and shit hits the fan. I'm trying to write that chapter now so I didn't really put alot of effort into this one and I'm sorry for that. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter.

Enji Todoroki had faced villains, disasters, and the weight of his own mistakes-but nothing made him as nervous as being “Grandpa” for the weekend. For the first time, he and Rei would be watching Yumi and Hiro-Keigo and Touya’s children-by themselves. No backup, no distractions, just the four of them and a house that suddenly felt much too small for all his uncertainty.

The Todoroki household was unusually quiet when Yumi and Hiro arrived with their overnight bags. Rei greeted them with warm arms and a soft smile, ushering them in with ease. Enji stood behind her, towering, a bit stiff. He wasn't used to the title they used so freely now.

"Grandpa."

The word still made his spine tense.

"Hi, Grandpa!" Yumi beamed as she hugged Rei tightly, then looked up at Enji expectantly.

"...Hello," he said, a bit too formally.

Hiro offered a respectful nod. "Sir."

Rei chuckled softly and nudged Enji with her elbow. "You don't have to salute the children."

Later that evening, Rei prepared dinner while Enji sat awkwardly with the kids in the living room. Yumi was coloring, lying on her stomach on the carpet, while Hiro read a book on quirk theory. But it wasn't long before Yumi scooted over to Enji with a curious tilt of her head.

"Your quirk is fire, right?"

Enji blinked. "Yes."

"Can you show me?"

He hesitated. "It's not a toy, Yumi."

"I know that!" she huffed. "But Uncle Shoto lets me see his tiny fire. Can you make a tiny one?"

For a moment, Enji hesitated. His power had always been about domination, about intensity. He was the number two hero because he burned hotter than anyone else. But here was this little girl asking for something small. Something gentle.

He held out his hand and sparked a small flame into existence—no larger than a candle's flicker.

Yumi gasped in awe.

"That's so cool! It's like a baby dragon!"

Hiro leaned in with quiet interest. "How do you control the heat output like that?"

Enji blinked at the question. "You're studying advanced fire dynamics?"

"Papa makes us read a lot," Hiro replied with a faint shrug.

Enji nodded, but inside something stirred—something warm. Not fire. Something different.

After dinner, the kids begged to go outside. Rei gave her blessing, and Enji watched as Yumi dragged him to the backyard. She pointed to the sky.

"Uncle Shoto taught me breathing techniques! Can you show me yours?"

"…My breathing?"

"Yeah! Like when you use fire. Don't you have, like, cool techniques or stances?"

Enji chuckled. "I trained more like a brawler than an artist. But… your grandma did teach your father a few things. I could show you Total Concentration Breathing."

"YES!"

He lowered himself onto the grass and demonstrated slowly, surprised when Hiro joined them and sat in perfect form. Enji guided them both, voice steady.

"Inhale… deep. Fill your lungs fully. Hold… then exhale through your core."

They sat in the dark, breathing together in rhythm. The backyard filled with a peaceful silence that reminded Enji of how much he had missed. How much he never knew he needed.

As the stars came out, fireflies began to glow softly around them. Yumi was chasing them barefoot through the grass, laughing wildly. Hiro sat beside Enji, arms crossed.

"She really likes you, you know."

Enji raised an eyebrow. "I haven't done much."

"You don't have to. You're here. That's enough for her."

The simplicity of that statement struck him harder than any villain ever could.

Yumi eventually crawled back to him, eyes wide with sleepiness.

"Can you tell us a story?" she yawned.

"…A story?" Enji repeated.

"Yeah. About when you were a new hero.”

Enji looked out into the night, then back at them. He didn't tell a story about fame or power. Instead, he cleared his throat and began:

"There was a fire in a residential building, years ago. Not a villain attack—just an electrical fault. By the time we arrived, most people had evacuated, and we were clearing the last few floors. The structure was becoming unstable."

Yumi's eyes were wide, her chin resting on her hands. Hiro leaned in slightly.

"I heard something faint—a sound most heroes would have ignored given the circumstances. A small cry coming from an apartment we'd already marked as clear."

Enji's voice softened, his massive hand gesturing as if he were back there again.

"The other heroes told me to leave it. The building was coming down, and we had accounted for all residents. But something made me go back."

His eyes grew distant, remembering.

"In the corner of a bathroom, hiding behind a fallen cabinet, was a small calico cat. Terrified. Burned on one paw. The smoke was thick, but I could see its eyes—bright yellow, staring right at me. I had two choices: follow protocol or save one insignificant life that policy said didn't matter."

"What did you do?" Yumi whispered, though she already knew.

"I made a heat shield around us both. Used careful temperature control to keep the flames back without harming the cat further. It was... delicate work."

Enji looked at his palm, the same one that now created gentle flames for his grandchildren.

"The building partially collapsed as we exited. My superior reprimanded me for the risk. Said I endangered the mission for a pet. But the next day, a little girl came to the agency with flowers. The cat was her best friend, the only thing she had left after losing everything else in that fire."

Enji's voice grew thick.

"She said, 'Thank you for saving my family.' I realized then that heroes don't get to decide what matters most to people. Sometimes the smallest rescues mean the most."

He looked at both children, his expression softer than they'd ever seen it.

"Sometimes being a hero isn't about the big things," he finished. "Sometimes it's about making sure one small life makes it home."

The next morning, Enji woke earlier than usual. A habit from his hero days that never quite faded. He moved through the kitchen with surprising quietness for a man his size, brewing tea when he heard the soft padding of feet.

Hiro stood in the doorway, already dressed despite the early hour.

"You're up early," Enji commented.

"Papa says the early bird gets the worm." A pause. "Papa makes a lot of bird jokes."

A rare smile cracked Enji's stern face. "He always did."

They sat in comfortable silence until Hiro spoke again. "Could you teach me something today?"

"About quirks?"

"About being brave." The boy's voice was soft but serious. "Dad—Touya—says you were never afraid of anything."

Enji's cup paused halfway to his lips. The statement hung in the air, heavy with history neither of them fully understood.

"Your father is wrong about that," Enji finally said. "I've been afraid many times."

"But you're Endeavor."

"Even Endeavor feels fear. The difference is what you do with it." He set his cup down and looked Hiro in the eyes. "True bravery isn't about not being afraid. It's about feeling that fear and choosing to act anyway."

Hiro considered this with the gravity of someone much older than his years. "Is that what you did?"

"Not always," Enji admitted. "Sometimes I let the fear control me in ways I didn't even recognize. Fear of failure. Fear of weakness." His voice grew softer. "But I learned. Eventually."

Yumi burst into the kitchen an hour later, her energy filling the room like sunshine. Rei followed, carrying a basket of laundry.

"Can we make pancakes? Dad always makes us pancakes on Saturdays!" Yumi announced.

Rei laughed. "Of course we can."

To everyone's surprise, Enji stood. "I'll help."

"You?" Rei's eyebrows shot up. "When's the last time you cooked anything?"

"I'm not completely useless," he grumbled, but there was no bite to his words.

Soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of batter and the sound of Yumi's constant chatter. Enji found himself tasked with flipping duty, which he approached with the same intensity he once reserved for villain takedowns.

"Grandpa, that one looks like your face!" Yumi giggled, pointing to a particularly scowling pancake.

Enji looked at it critically. "Hm. Needs more fire."

With precision control, he heated one fingertip and drew a tiny flame pattern on the pancake. Yumi squealed in delight.

Later, when Yumi scraped her knee chasing butterflies in the garden, it was Enji who carefully cleaned the wound and applied a bandage. His massive hands, once weapons of destruction, now moved with deliberate gentleness.

"Does it hurt?" he asked gruffly.

Yumi shook her head bravely, though her eyes were wet. "Heroes don't cry over little things, right?"

Enji surprised himself with his answer. "Even heroes cry sometimes, Yumi. Pain doesn't make you weak."

As she wrapped her small arms around his neck, he realized how much he had missed by denying himself this simple truth.

That night, a summer storm rolled in unexpectedly. Thunder crashed, and Yumi appeared at their bedroom door, clutching her plush hawk.

"I don't like the thunder," she whispered.

Rei began to rise, but Enji touched her arm gently. "I'll handle it."

He followed Yumi back to her room, where Hiro was pretending to be asleep but clearly awake, eyes tightly closed.

"Move over," Enji said, and to his surprise, both children immediately made space for him on the bed that suddenly seemed far too small for his frame.

"Can you make the storm go away?" Yumi asked.

"No," he said honestly. "But I can stay until it passes."

"Can you tell us about Dad?" Hiro asked suddenly. "About when he was little?"

The question caught Enji off-guard. He had spent years trying not to think about the boy Touya had been. Even if Touya had forgiven him and they were both in better places, there were still scars. Now, here were Touya's children, asking for those memories he had buried.

Slowly, carefully, he began to speak. Not about training or quirks or disappointments. Instead, he told them about Touya's favorite story book. How he would hide under blankets with a flashlight well past bedtime. How he once rescued a bird with a broken wing and nursed it back to health.

As the thunder faded into the distance, Enji found himself humming a lullaby Rei used to sing—one he had rarely taken the time to listen to when his own children were small.

Both children drifted to sleep against him, Yumi's head on his chest, Hiro leaning against his arm. Enji didn't move for hours, afraid to disturb the peace they had found together.

When Rei found them, she stood silently in the doorway, tears in her eyes.

"I never thought I'd see this," she whispered when he finally extricated himself.

"Neither did I," he admitted.

_______

Sunday afternoon came too quickly. Touya and Keigo arrived to pick up the children. Yumi ran to them, shouting, "Dad! Papa! Grandpa taught us fire breathing!"

"Fire what?" Keigo blinked, giving Enji a questioning look.

"Concentration breathing," Enji corrected. "For focus."

"And he made us pancakes with fire pictures!" Yumi continued. "And told us about when Dad was little!"

Touya stood frozen, eyes locked with his father's. There was a moment of unspoken communication.

"Thank you," Keigo said quietly, "for watching them."

"They're welcome anytime," Rei replied.

"Yes," Enji agreed, his voice gruff but sincere. "Anytime."

As the children gathered their belongings, Hiro approached Enji with something in his hand—a carefully folded paper crane.

"It's for you," he said simply. "Dad taught me how to make them. They're supposed to grant wishes."

Enji accepted it with the reverence of receiving a priceless artifact. "What should I wish for?"

Hiro shrugged. "Maybe that we can come back soon?"

After they left, Enji stood in the doorway longer than necessary, watching until their car disappeared around the corner. Rei stood beside him, her hand finding his.

"You did well," she said. "For your first weekend as Grandpa."

Enji looked down at the paper crane in his palm—fragile, perfect, a symbol of something he thought he'd lost forever.

"I'm learning," he said quietly.

On the refrigerator, held by a magnet, Yumi's drawing showed three figures: two small, one large, all surrounded by gentle flames that looked more like a protective embrace than a destructive force.

Beneath it, in crayon: "Grandpa's fire keeps us safe."

Notes:

Next up Sports Festival.
Stay classy pookies!

Chapter 12: Fly High

Summary:

Time to Start the Sport's Festivla

Notes:

I'm tired

The morning sky blazed a brilliant blue as Izuku Midoriya stood at his front door, backpack slung over his shoulder. Today wasn't just any day—it was the U.A. Sports Festival.

"Izuku," his mother called, her voice trembling slightly as she approached him. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but her smile was bright and encouraging. "Do your best out there."

He nodded, determination setting his jaw. "I will, Mom."

As he made his way to U.A., the streets were unusually crowded. Civilians chatted excitedly about the upcoming broadcast, debating which first-year would shine brightest. The shadow of the USJ incident still loomed, but today was about looking forward.

U.A.'s campus had transformed overnight. Massive security barriers encircled the perimeter, and Pro Heroes patrolled in groups. Television crews set up equipment around the stadium, preparing to broadcast the spectacle to millions across Japan.

Near the main entrance, Mt. Lady posed for photographers, her smile dazzling as she waved at passersby.

"Security detail?" Kamui Woods muttered as he walked past her, his wooden arms crossed. "Or publicity stunt?"

"Both," she replied with a wink. "A girl's got to multitask."

Death Arms joined them, his massive forearms tensed as he scanned the crowd. "Keep focused. After USJ, we can't be too careful."

Mt. Lady's expression sobered momentarily. "I know. But the kids deserve their moment in the spotlight." Her smile returned as she spotted a group of reporters. "Speaking of spotlight—"

Kamui watched her sashay toward the cameras. "There she goes."

"Let her be," Death Arms said with a resigned sigh. "We've got work to do."

By noon, Mt. Lady had somehow managed to secure lunch from an admiring food vendor. The three pros sat in a small security booth, watching monitors that displayed various parts of the campus.

"You have to admit," Mt. Lady said between bites of her free takoyaki, "U.A. isn't messing around. Every top hero agency sent someone today."

Kamui nodded. "Principal Nezu pulled all the strings he could. The safety of these students is paramount."

"Especially Class 1-A," Death Arms added. "After facing real villains, they'll be the ones to watch today."

_____

In the Class 1-A waiting room, nervous energy crackled like electricity. Students tugged at their blue P.E. uniforms, the standardized clothing a reminder that today, they would compete on equal footing—no hero costumes, no support items.

Mina stretched her arms overhead, her pink skin flushed with excitement. "I can't believe this is happening! My family's watching at home!"

Beside her, Kirishima clenched his fists. "Time to show what two weeks of hell training can do!" He shot a glance at Shoto, who stood silently by the window. "Right, Todoroki?"

Shoto didn't respond, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on the distant stadium seats filling with spectators.

Across the room, Denki fidgeted with the collar of his uniform. "Man, I barely slept last night. All of Japan's watching today!"

"Try not to short-circuit before we even start," Jirou teased, twirling one of her earphone jacks.

The door slid open with force as Tenya entered, his hand movements characteristically rigid. "Everyone! We will be entering the arena in precisely ten minutes! Please prepare yourselves mentally and physically for this momentous occasion!"

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the room, the tension momentarily broken by Tenya's earnestness.

Izuku sat quietly, his notebook open before him, filled with last-minute strategies and observations. He could feel All Might's expectations weighing on him—this was his chance to declare "I am here" to the world.

The room fell into sudden silence as Shoto pushed away from the window and walked deliberately toward Izuku. His footsteps echoed in the hushed space, drawing every eye.

Stopping before Izuku's desk, Shoto's cold gaze bore down on him. "Midoriya."

Izuku looked up, startled. "Todoroki? What is it?"

"Looking at the festival objectively," Shoto's voice was casual, almost conversational, "we all have different paths here."

The air seemed to shift around them. Izuku slowly closed his notebook, sensing something beneath Shoto's measured tone.

"I suppose we do," Izuku replied carefully.

"Some earned their way through skill and preparation," Shoto continued, his eyes flicking briefly to Momo, then back to Izuku. "While others... had fortune smile upon them at just the right moment."

Only those watching closely—Bakugo, Kirishima, Mina, and perhaps Izuku himself—caught the pointed edge beneath Shoto's polite words.

"All Might seems particularly invested in your development," Shoto added, his inflection barely changing. "It's interesting how quickly things can change for someone who struggled so visibly in the entrance exam."

Kirishima stepped forward, his brow furrowed. He knew his childhood friend well enough to recognize when Shoto was deliberately pressing buttons. "Hey, Todoroki, everyone here earned their spot, right?"

Mina joined him, her usually cheerful expression clouded with concern. "Yeah, Shoto. What's this really about?"

Shoto didn't acknowledge them, his gaze never leaving Izuku. His voice remained perfectly neutral as he said, "I look forward to seeing how our respective merits compare today, Midoriya."

There was something in his voice—something that hadn't been there during their shared childhood training sessions. Kirishima and Mina exchanged worried glances, recognizing that this wasn't their friend's usual competitive spirit.

"What's this about, Todoroki?" Izuku asked, standing to meet Shoto's stare. "Why me specifically?"

Shoto remained silent for a moment, as if considering whether to answer. "You... remind me of something I need to overcome."

He turned to leave, but Izuku's voice stopped him.

"Todoroki," Izuku called, his voice steady despite the subtle tremor in his hands. "I appreciate your... observation."

The room fell silent, most students missing the tension threading between the two.

"You're right that many of us have different starting points," Izuku continued carefully, his green eyes meeting Shoto's mismatched ones without wavering. "And yes, some of us had to catch up quickly."

Shoto remained perfectly still, watching.

"But the finish line is the same for all of us," Izuku added, his words deliberate. "And I intend to cross it on my own merit."

In the back of the room, Bakugo's eyes narrowed as he caught the underlying current. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face, a rarely-seen fang catching the light. Unlike their oblivious classmates, he recognized the declaration of war for what it was.

Denki leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His expression remained disinterested, but something in Midoriya's response made his eyes sharpen. He still didn't like the guy—something about him set Denki's teeth on edge in a way he couldn't explain—but the quiet determination was impossible to dismiss. Irritating as it was to admit.

"Good luck with your preparations," Shoto said with perfect politeness as he turned away, only those who knew him well catching the frost beneath his courteous tone.

As he left, Kirishima approached Izuku, keeping his voice low. "That was... weird. I've known Shoto since we were kids, and he's usually straightforward when he has an issue."

Mina sidled up beside them, her expression concerned. "Yeah, he's never this... pointed. Something about you really got under his skin, Midoriya."

"Or maybe," Bakugo's voice drawled from nearby, just loud enough for their small group to hear, "Icy-Hot finally sees what I've been saying all along." His smile was all predator, eyes gleaming with battle-lust. "Deku's hiding something, and Half-and-Half isn't buying the act either."

The loudspeakers crackled to life: "All first-year students, please proceed to the stadium entrance. The U.A. Sports Festival will commence in five minutes."

Tenya clapped his hands. "Class 1-A! It's time to show the world what we're made of!"

As they filed out of the waiting room, Izuku took a deep breath. The weight of All Might's legacy, Shoto's challenge, and his own dreams pressed down on him. But instead of crushing him, it only strengthened his resolve.

Today, the world would be watching. Today, he would take his first real step toward becoming the hero he was meant to be.

Outside, the roar of the crowd awaited them.

Meanwhile, in the stadium's VIP section, the Todoroki family made their entrance. Heads turned as the number two hero Endeavor walked in, his flame beard crackling slightly in the air-conditioned space. Beside him, Rei Todoroki moved with elegant grace, though her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement.

Behind them followed their children: Fuyumi adjusting her glasses nervously, Natsuo grinning at the spectacle, and Touya—his white hair a stark contrast to his dark hero costume peeking out from under his civilian clothes. Two small children bounded at his side—Hiro, a serious-looking boy of twelve, and six-year-old Yumi, whose eyes widened at the enormous stadium.

"This is amazing!" Yumi squealed, tugging on Touya's sleeve. "Can we get closer to see Shoto?"

Touya smiled down at her. "We've got the best seats in the house, kiddo. You'll see him just fine."

Rei couldn't contain herself as she leaned over the railing. "I can't wait to see what he's learned! Those two weeks of training with Kirishima were so productive!"

Enji placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Remember, dear, let's try to keep it down today. We don't want a repeat of Touya's festival."

Touya's face flushed nearly as red as his hero costume. "Dad, please. We agreed never to speak of that again."

Natsuo snickered. "Mom's cheering was legendary. I think they still have videos circulating online."

"It was enthusiastic support," Rei defended with a sniff, though her eyes twinkled mischievously.

Hiro tugged at Rei's sleeve. "Where's Papa? Is he coming to watch too?"

Rei knelt down to his level. "Your father is doing hero work right now, but he promised he'd be here later. Hawks never breaks a promise, does he?"

Both children shook their heads emphatically.

"No way!" Yumi declared. "Papa always comes, even if he's late!"

"He wouldn't miss seeing Uncle Shoto," Hiro added more solemnly.

Fuyumi smiled at the children. "In the meantime, you have all of us to cheer with. I brought snacks!"

Enji surveyed the stadium with pride, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "This year's first-years are exceptional. Especially after the USJ incident."

"Shoto will shine," Rei said confidently. "He's ready."

Touya nodded, his expression thoughtful as he adjusted his hero gear beneath his jacket. As the underground hero Aegis, he had a different perspective on what these students would face. "They all need to be ready. The hero world is changing."

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Class 1-A emerged into the sunlight. The stadium stretched around them like a coliseum, packed to capacity with spectators and heroes alike. Camera drones buzzed overhead, broadcasting their entrance to millions.

"WELCOME TO THIS YEAR'S U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL!" Present Mic's voice boomed over the speakers. "THESE FIRST-YEARS HAVE BARELY BEGUN THEIR HERO JOURNEY, BUT SOME HAVE ALREADY SEEN MORE ACTION THAN MOST! GIVE IT UP FOR CLASS 1-A!"

The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing across the stadium.

From the VIP seats, Yumi jumped up and down. "There's Shoto! There he is!"

Rei grabbed Enji's arm, her eyes shining. "Look at him! So composed!"

Enji nodded, pride evident in his stance despite his attempt at stoicism. "Let's see what he's learned."

One by one, the other freshman classes filtered into the stadium: 1-B from the hero course, followed by the support, business, and general studies departments. The collective energy of U.A.'s entire first-year body gathered in the center of the arena.

At the elevated platform in front of them stood Midnight, the R-Rated Hero, wielding her whip with a flourish that sent a ripple of surprise through the audience. Her hero costume hugged her curves as she addressed the students.

"Welcome to the U.A. Sports Festival!" she called, her voice sultry yet commanding. "Before we begin, we'll have a student representative lead the pledge." She consulted her clipboard. "This year, that honor goes to Katsuki Bakugo of Class 1-A, who placed first in the entrance exam."

Murmurs spread through the other classes as Bakugo stepped forward. Many expected arrogance from the explosive teen, whose reputation for aggression preceded him.

Bakugo approached the microphone, his posture straight, his expression uncharacteristically composed. The stadium fell silent in anticipation.

"Today," he began, his voice clear and strong, carrying across the arena without shouting, "we stand at a crossroads—not just as students, but as the next generation of heroes."

The unexpected eloquence drew surprised looks from his classmates.

"The path before us isn't just about individual glory or proving ourselves better than the person standing next to us," he continued, his crimson eyes sweeping across the assembled students. "It's about forging a new way forward for hero society itself."

In the stands, the Todoroki family exchanged glances. This wasn't the brash speech they had expected from the boy Shoto had mentioned.

"We inherit a system built by those who came before us," Bakugo said, his voice gaining conviction. "A system with strengths—" his eyes flicked briefly toward All Might in the stands, "—and flaws that need correction."

Izuku felt a chill run down his spine as Bakugo's gaze passed over him for the briefest moment.

"Some believe that following in the footsteps of those who came before is enough," he continued, the subtle jab at idealistic hero-worship clear to those who knew him well. "But true progress doesn't come from imitation. It comes from looking clearly at what works, discarding what doesn't, and having the courage to build something better."

The crowd had fallen into a reverent silence.

"Today, we compete as individuals," Bakugo's voice grew stronger, "but tomorrow, we'll stand as the heroes who either maintained the status quo or had the strength to change it. I intend to be the latter."

He paused, his expression fierce with conviction that seemed to reach beyond his years.

"Our duty isn't just to win today. It's to become the change we want to see—to push forward and correct the system we live in for the generations that will follow us." His voice rose to a powerful conclusion. "So let's show them all exactly what that change looks like!"

The stadium erupted in thunderous applause. Even students from other classes couldn't help but be moved by the unexpected depth of his words. Faculty members exchanged impressed glances.

In the Todoroki family box, Touya leaned forward. "That kid... he sees it too," he murmured.

As Bakugo turned from the microphone, Denki gave him a thumbs up, clearly impressed. Most of their classmates stared in shock, having never heard such articulate passion from their explosive peer.

Izuku watched him with mixed emotions—respect for the powerful speech warring with unease at the subtle challenge to his own ideals. There had been something in Bakugo's words, a philosophy that felt both familiar and contradictory to his own vision of heroism.

Bakugo returned to his place among the students, a sweet smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. As he passed Izuku, he murmured just loud enough for him to hear: "The real battle starts now, Deku."

It wasn't a threat—it was a declaration. Bakugo would forge his own path, unburdened by their shared history or competing ideologies. He had done the work, and he would proudly show its results.

Midnight reclaimed the microphone. "Well! After that inspiring speech, let's move on to our first event!"

As she began explaining the rules, the energy in the stadium shifted from ceremonial to competitive. The U.A. Sports Festival had officially begun.

Notes:

I sleep now.

Sleep well pookies!

Chapter 13: Running

Summary:

The race begins.

Midnight cracked her whip, silencing the excited murmurs that followed Bakugo's speech. "Now for the first event of the day!" The giant screen behind her lit up with flashing graphics. "This preliminary round will determine who moves on to the main competition!"

She gestured dramatically as the screen displayed a map. "An obstacle race! All eleven classes will compete in a four-kilometer course around the stadium complex!" Her smile turned wicked. "I won't spoil the surprises waiting for you out there, but trust me—they'll be challenging!"

The students began shifting nervously, sizing up their competition.

"Take your positions at the starting gate!" Midnight announced. "The race begins in five minutes!"

As the crowd filed toward the red arch that marked the starting line, Momo found herself next to Denki. They hadn't spoken much since their heated debate in class last week about the ethical implications of certain hero regulations.

"Kaminari," she acknowledged with a slight nod.

"Yaoyorozu," he replied, a hint of his usual smirk playing on his lips. "Ready to put those fancy creation skills to the test?"

Momo adjusted her tracksuit, her expression thoughtful. "I've prepared several strategies."

"Of course you have," Denki said, but the usual edge in his voice was softer. "Always by the book."

For once, Momo didn't bristle at his comment. Instead, she looked ahead at the looming gate, her eyes distant. "The USJ changed things," she said quietly. "The rulebook didn't exactly cover what to do when real villains appear."

Denki glanced at her, genuinely surprised by her candor.

"I had to improvise," she continued. "Create weapons I'd never practiced with. Make decisions without complete information." She met his gaze directly. "The world isn't as orderly as I once thought."

A flash of something—respect, perhaps—crossed Denki's features. "Welcome to reality, Class Rep. Messy, isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean we abandon structure entirely. Rules exist for a reason."

Denki stretched his arms overhead, electricity crackling faintly at his fingertips. "Sure. But knowing when to break them matters too."

They moved forward as the crowd pressed toward the starting line.

"Your speech about hero society three weeks ago," Momo said after a moment. "About how the licensing system creates artificial barriers—I still don't entirely agree, but..." she hesitated. "I understand your perspective better now."

Denki raised an eyebrow. "Yaoyorozu admitting I might be right about something? Should I check for flying pigs?"

Momo rolled her eyes. "Don't push it, Kaminari. I still think you're insufferably rude and needlessly antagonistic."

"Part of my charm," he replied with a grin.

"But," she continued more seriously, "your ambition to create a better system... I respect that. Even if your methods are questionable."

Denki studied her for a moment, his usual flippant demeanor falling away. "You know what your problem is, Yaoyorozu? You've got all these ideals about perfect heroes following perfect rules, but real heroism happens in the gaps—in the split-second decisions no rulebook can prepare you for."

Momo considered his words. "Perhaps. But without standards, how do we distinguish right from wrong?"

"By using this," Denki tapped his temple, "and this." He placed a hand over his heart. "Not by consulting a manual."

The one-minute warning blared overhead. Students jostled into position, tension mounting.

"For what it's worth," Momo said as they took their places, "I think somewhere between your chaos and my order is probably where the truth lies."

Denki's lips quirked into a genuine smile. "Look at you, finding middle ground. USJ really did change you."

"Don't get used to it," she replied with the hint of a smile. "I still plan to outrank you in every assessment."

"Bring it on, Class Rep," Denki extended his hand. "May the best hero win."

Momo accepted the handshake, her grip firm. "Indeed."

The countdown began, echoing across the stadium.

"THREE!"

Bakugo cracked his knuckles, his eyes focused on the path ahead.

"TWO!"

Izuku took a deep breath, One For All humming beneath his skin.

"ONE!"

Shoto's right side frosted over as he lowered into a starting position.

"START!"

The mass of students surged forward as one body, funneling toward the narrow exit gate. The U.A. Sports Festival had officially begun, and with it, the first true test of their heroic potential.

---

In the stands, Rei Todoroki leaned forward, her eyes tracking her son's distinctive red and white hair among the crowd.

"And they're off," Enji murmured beside her.

Touya smiled slightly. "Now we see what they're really made of."

Yumi jumped up and down, waving a homemade flag with Shoto's face on it. "Go, Uncle Shoto!"

---

The moment Midnight's signal sounded, the crowd of first-years surged forward like a tidal wave, only to immediately crash against the narrow exit corridor. Bodies pressed against bodies as hundreds of students tried to force their way through a passage designed for orderly movement, not competitive rushing.

"It's a bottleneck," Izuku realized, momentarily trapped between taller students. "The first obstacle is the exit itself!"

From his position near the front, Shoto assessed the situation with clinical precision. This was exactly the kind of tactical challenge his father and mother had prepared him for. Without hesitation, he dropped to a crouch, his right palm slapping against the ground.

"Sorry about this," he murmured, ice crystals already forming around his fingers.

A wave of frost shot forward, spreading across the ground in a beautiful latticework pattern that sparkled under the stadium lights. Temperature plummeted as the ice raced beneath the feet of unsuspecting students, climbing up their ankles and calves in an instant.

"Too slow," Shoto said as he propelled himself forward on a self-created ice path, gliding effortlessly past the immobilized competition.

Behind him, cries of surprise and frustration filled the air as dozens of students found themselves frozen in place. But not everyone was caught off guard.

Katsuki's reflexes kicked in the moment he saw Todoroki move. With a controlled explosion from his palms, he launched himself skyward, sailing over the frost-covered ground.

"Nice try, Todoroki!" he called out, propelling himself forward with sequential blasts. "You'll need more than a parlor trick to stop me!"

Momo had been waiting for something like this. The moment she spotted Todoroki's distinctive movement, she created a metal pole from her arm, using it to vault over the spreading ice. Her landing was graceful as she continued running, already formulating her next creation.

Nearby, Yuga spun dramatically, his navel laser shooting him backward just as the ice reached where he'd been standing. "Such brutish tactics," he sighed, adjusting his trajectory to follow the leaders. "But nothing can dull my sparkle!"

Eijiro hardened his body just before the ice reached him, the frost cracking against his rock-like skin as he powered through it. "Getting creative already, Todoroki!" he shouted, a grin splitting his face as he charged forward.

Not everyone was so fortunate. Denki found himself caught in the initial freeze, ice encasing his legs up to his knees. Frustration flashed across his face as he watched others pull ahead.

"Damn it," he growled, his hands clenching into fists. Something fierce and primal surged within him—a feeling he couldn't name but somehow recognized. His breathing changed, unconsciously shifting into a rhythmic pattern that sent warmth spreading through his limbs.

Inhale. Four counts. Hold. Four counts. Exhale. Four counts.

The air seemed to vibrate around him as his muscles tensed. With a sharp crack, the ice around his legs shattered. Students nearby glanced at him in surprise—the force had been unexpected, almost unnatural for someone whose Quirk involved electricity.

Denki's eyes narrowed as he felt an unfamiliar energy coursing through his body. It wasn't his Quirk—it was something deeper, something that felt like it had always been there, dormant until now. His lungs expanded fully, oxygen flowing through him in a controlled, powerful stream.

"Out of my way," he snarled as he shot forward, pushing past Momo with unexpected speed. He overtook Yuga next, then Eijiro, his movements fluid and aggressive.

Momo blinked in surprise as Denki passed her. "Since when is Kaminari that fast?"

Ahead, Shoto maintained his lead, creating a continuous ice path that propelled him forward while simultaneously slowing those behind him. But when he glanced back, his eyes widened slightly to see how many had avoided his initial attack.

"They're not making this easy," he muttered, increasing his pace.

The race had barely begun when a familiar shadow loomed ahead—massive robotic figures blocking the path. The same zero-point robots from the entrance exam towered over the course, their red sensors glowing ominously.

"The robo-inferno from the entrance exam!" Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium. "These babies were designed to test applicants' combat abilities! Let's see how our students handle them now!"

Shoto didn't break stride. Frost gathered around his right arm as he approached the mechanical behemoths. "I don't have time to deal with these," he stated coldly.

Behind him, Minoru Mineta had been gaining ground, bouncing from ball to ball with surprising agility. "Todoroki!" he called out, a slightly manic grin on his face. "Don't think you'll get away that easily!"

He launched himself forward, sticky purple spheres ready in his hands as he aimed directly for Shoto's back. "I'll show everyone that size doesn't matter in heroics!"

Before he could make contact, a metallic arm swung through the air. One of the smaller villain robots had detected the approaching students and activated its defense protocols. The metal limb connected with Mineta's small body, sending him flying sideways with a startled cry.

"And there goes our first casualty!" Present Mic announced as Mineta tumbled through the air. "The race claims its first victim!"

Katsuki snorted as he blasted past the fallen student. "Focus on the goal, not on bringing others down, grape-head!"

The robot army now stood between the lead pack and the rest of the course. Shoto faced them head-on, determination setting his mismatched eyes ablaze. The real challenge was just beginning.

Several students skidded to a halt, panic flashing across their faces as they remembered their first encounter with these behemoths. Even some from the hero course hesitated, calculating their odds against such overwhelming obstacles.

Not Shoto. He didn't break stride, his expression unchanged as he approached the mechanical army. His dual-colored eyes assessed the situation with practiced calm.

"I was hoping for something more challenging," he said, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment. The temperature around him plummeted as he raised his right hand, frost crystals dancing at his fingertips.

"Cold White Princesses," he whispered, his breath visible in the suddenly frigid air.

From the ground on either side of him, two enormous ice formations burst forth like blooming lotuses. They unfurled to reveal exquisite female figures, their features delicately carved in crystalline detail, rising to nearly half the height of the zero-pointer. Their empty eyes turned toward the robot as their mouths opened in silent screams.

A blast of arctic air erupted from the ice maidens, so intensely cold that moisture in the surrounding atmosphere instantly crystallized. The gale hit the zero-pointer with tremendous force, flash-freezing its metal chassis. Frost spread across its surface like lightning, encasing every joint and gear in thick ice until the entire behemoth stood frozen in mid-step, its internal mechanisms grinding to a halt with an agonized mechanical whine.

"WHAT AN INCREDIBLE DISPLAY OF POWER!" Present Mic shouted as the crowd erupted. "TODOROKI HAS COMPLETELY IMMOBILIZED THE ZERO-POINTER WITH A SINGLE ATTACK!"

With perfect timing, Shoto directed another pulse of ice at the robot's legs, creating structural weakness precisely where the weight distribution would cause maximum instability. The frozen giant began to tilt forward, its massive body groaning as gravity took hold.

"He's bringing it down!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Shoto didn't wait to watch his handiwork. He sprinted forward, sliding beneath the tilting robot with calculated precision. Just as he cleared the other side, the enormous machine crashed to the ground behind him, shattering into countless frozen fragments that created a wall of debris blocking the path for those following.

In the VIP section, Rei Todoroki had jumped to her feet, hands clutched to her chest, her eyes wide with maternal pride and professional appreciation.

"THAT'S MY BOY!" she screamed, her voice carrying across several rows of seats. "I TAUGHT HIM THAT TECHNIQUE! DID YOU SEE THOSE ICE FORMATIONS? THE PRINCESSES WERE PERFECT!"

Enji placed a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, trying to maintain his dignified composure despite the smile tugging at his lips. "Rei, dear, please sit down. You're causing a scene."

"I DON'T CARE!" Rei continued, practically vibrating with excitement. "THAT'S TEXTBOOK EXECUTION! THE TEMPERATURE CONTROL! THE STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY! PERFECT!"

Hiro and Yumi were jumping up and down beside her, caught up in their grandmother's enthusiasm.

"Uncle Shoto is the strongest!" Yumi declared, waving her hand-made flag wildly.

"That was so cool!" Hiro added, his eyes wide with admiration. "I want to learn that!"

Touya couldn't help but laugh at his mother's display. "Some things never change," he said to Fuyumi, who was trying to hide her own smile behind her hand.

"Remember when she nearly got thrown out during your festival?" Fuyumi whispered back.

"How could I forget? Dad was mortified."

A shadow fell over them as someone new joined their box. Keigo Takami—the winged hero Hawks—slipped quietly into the seat beside Touya, his red wings folded neatly behind him. Despite his attempt at discretion, several heads turned in recognition of the top-ranked hero.

"Did I miss anything good?" he asked in a casual whisper, draping an arm around Touya's shoulders.

"Papa!" Hiro immediately turned to him. "Where have you been? Uncle Shoto just froze a whole giant robot!"

Keigo ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "Sorry I'm late, kiddo. Had some stuff to take care of." His eyes met Touya's briefly, communicating something unspoken before he turned back to the children with his easy smile. "But I'm here now, and I wouldn't miss watching your uncle for anything."

Yumi climbed into his lap, nestling against the soft feathers of his wings. "You missed Grandma screaming," she informed him solemnly.

"Again?" Keigo asked with mock surprise, shooting a grin at Rei who was still gesturing animatedly as she recounted Shoto's technique to an amused Enji. "Some traditions are sacred, I guess."

Back on the race course, the rest of the students had reached the robot obstacle. With Shoto's zero-pointer blocking the direct path, they were forced to either climb over the frozen debris or find ways around the smaller robots that still patrolled the area.

Notes:

Rei you keep being a proud mother.

I know it kind of sounds unfinished becuase this is part one of the race so yeah.

Chapter 14: Defying Gravity

Summary:

So if you care to find me
Look to the western sky
As someone told me lately
"Everyone deserves the chance to fly"

What does this have to do the story? Nothing!

Notes:

Enjoy the chapter pookies!

The massive zero-point robot that Shoto had frozen crashed to the ground with a thunderous impact, ice shards exploding outward like crystalline shrapnel. The debris created an imposing barricade across the track, forcing the trailing competitors to either climb over or find another way around.

Beneath the frozen wreckage, a frustrated growl echoed as ice cracked and splintered. Two figures burst through the debris simultaneously—one with spiky red hair hardened to razor-sharp points, the other with a metallic silver body that gleamed under the stadium lights.

"Man, that was close!" Eijiro Kirishima exclaimed, shaking ice fragments from his hardened arms. "Todoroki's not messing around!"

Beside him, Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu from Class 1-B emerged in an identical pose, his steel body shedding frost. "Class 1-A think they're so special! I'll show them what real determination looks like!"

Eijiro turned, blinking in surprise at his metallic doppelganger. "Wait, your Quirk..."

"Steel!" Tetsutetsu proclaimed proudly, banging a fist against his chest with a hollow clang. "I can turn my entire body into solid metal! Nothing can break me!"

Eijiro's face fell. "That's... basically the same as my Hardening."

They stared at each other for a moment, the similarity of their powers and even their aggressive personalities suddenly apparent.

"Oh come on!" Eijiro groaned. "I thought my Quirk was unique!"

"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT, FOLKS?" Present Mic's commentary blared overhead. "TWO STUDENTS WITH REMARKABLY SIMILAR QUIRKS HAVE BOTH ESCAPED THE ROBOT'S COLLAPSE! IT'S A BATTLE OF HARDENING VERSUS STEEL!"

Tetsutetsu grinned, his metallic teeth flashing. "May the best man win!" He took off running, charging through the remaining villain bots with reckless abandon.

Eijiro shook off his disappointment and sprinted after him. "Don't count me out yet!"

Above the battlefield, a series of explosions popped like firecrackers as Katsuki propelled himself through the air. His face was set in a determined scowl as he used precisely controlled blasts to navigate over the robot obstacles.

"Out of my way,” he shouted, rocketing forward with impressive speed and control. "First place is mine!"

Not far behind, Hanta Sero shot streams of tape from his elbows, using them to swing Tarzan-style over the mechanical menaces. His movements were fluid and practiced, each release and attachment timed perfectly.

"Thanks for the inspiration, Bakugo!" he called out cheerfully. "Going airborne is definitely the way to go!"

Dark tendrils extended from Fumikage Tokoyami's shadow, Dark Shadow clawing at robots and debris alike, clearing a path for its master. "Proceed with haste," the bird-headed student commanded as his sentient Quirk propelled him forward.

From somewhere in the middle of the pack, Denki Kaminari burst through the robot line with surprising agility, his movements sharp and purposeful. The focused breathing pattern he'd unconsciously adopted earlier continued to fuel his muscles with oxygen, enhancing his natural speed.

"Keep breathing," he muttered to himself, the rhythm coming to him as naturally as if he'd trained with it for years. "In... four... out... four..."

In the commentator's booth, Pro-Hero Snipe leaned forward, his mask hiding his expression as he tracked the leaders through specialized binoculars.

"Interesting," he drawled in his Western-inspired accent. "Most of the frontrunners are from Class 1-A. Something's different about them compared to the other first-years."

Beside him, Eraser Head—Shota Aizawa—nodded slightly, his bandaged face betraying no emotion. "They've grown since the USJ incident," he stated matter-of-factly. "When faced with real danger, they learned a crucial lesson that can't be taught in a classroom."

"And what's that?" Snipe asked.

"Not to hesitate," Aizawa replied simply. "When villains attacked, they didn't have the luxury of second-guessing themselves. Act or die—that was their reality. Now we're seeing the results."

In the VIP section, Rei Todoroki remained on her feet, cupping her hands around her mouth as she continued her enthusiastic cheering.

"THAT'S MY SON!" she shouted as Shoto maintained his lead on the giant screen. "LOOK AT THAT FORM! PERFECT ICE CONTROL!"

Touya had slid down in his seat, a hand partially covering his face in embarrassment. "Mom, please," he groaned. "Everyone's staring."

Yumi patted her father's arm consolingly. "Don't be embarrassed, Dad. Grandma's just excited!"

"Yeah, it's tradition," Hiro added with a grin. "Remember when she made those giant ice sculptures of your face at your festival?"

Touya groaned louder. "Don't remind me."

Keigo watched the family interaction with undisguised amusement, his wings fluttering slightly behind him. "I think it's cute," he said, nudging Touya with his elbow. "Your mom's enthusiasm is legendary. The hero world wouldn't be the same without Rei Todoroki's sideline commentary."

"Says the man who can fly away when it gets too embarrassing," Touya muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

Back on the course, the remaining students faced the challenge of the robot army with growing confidence. Class 1-A, in particular, showed remarkable adaptability as they implemented various strategies to overcome the mechanical obstacles.

Izuku Midoriya found himself surrounded by three smaller villain bots, their sensors locking onto him with predatory precision. Instead of panic, his eyes darted around analytically, spotting a large metal plate from the destroyed zero-pointer nearby.

"That'll work," he muttered, diving for the jagged piece of debris. His fingers wrapped around the edge, One For All pulsing through his arm—just enough power to lift it without breaking his bones.

As the first robot charged, Izuku swung the makeshift weapon with calculated force. The metal plate sliced through the villain bot's hydraulic system, sending fluid spraying as the machine ground to a halt.

"He's using the environment!" Eraser Head noted from the commentator's booth. "Smart boy."

The remaining robots converged on Izuku, but he was already moving, his analytical mind processing attack angles and structural weaknesses. Each swing of his improvised weapon was precise, disabling rather than destroying, conserving energy for the rest of the race.

Elsewhere on the course, the thunderous boom of an explosion drew all eyes to a rising plume of smoke. Momo Yaoyorozu stood amid the wreckage of several zero-point villains, a massive cannon materialized from her arm still smoking from discharge.

"Target neutralized," she stated calmly, already calculating the most efficient way to catch up to the leaders as her creation dissolved back into her body. "On to the next obstacle."

"AND YAOYOROZU TAKES DOWN MULTIPLE ZERO-POINTERS WITH A SINGLE BLAST!" Present Mic shouted in amazement. "THESE FIRST-YEARS ARE BRINGING THEIR A-GAME TODAY!"

The robot obstacle had effectively separated the serious contenders from the rest. As the dust settled, a clear group of frontrunners emerged, charging forward toward whatever challenge awaited them next—with Shoto Todoroki still maintaining his commanding lead.

That lead brought him to the second major obstacle of the course: a massive canyon that split the track like an open wound in the earth. Across the gaping void, several thin cables stretched from one side to the other—the only path forward.

"WELCOME TO THE FALL!" Present Mic announced with sadistic glee. "ONE WRONG STEP AND YOU'RE TAKING THE EXPRESS ROUTE TO THE BOTTOM OF THE CANYON!"

Shoto approached the edge without breaking stride, immediately stepping onto one of the tightropes with perfect balance. His movements were fluid and controlled, betraying years of physical training beyond just his Quirk mastery.

Behind him, other students began to arrive at the canyon's edge, each facing the same dilemma. Some hesitated, gauging the risk, while others quickly determined their strategy.

"Excuse me! Coming through! Future support company CEO making her debut!"

A girl with pink dreadlocks and an array of mechanical devices strapped to her body pushed her way to the front of the pack. Mei Hatsume's eyes, magnified by specialized goggles, gleamed with manic enthusiasm as she surveyed the obstacle.

"Perfect!" she exclaimed, drawing curious looks from those around her, particularly Mina Ashido and Ochaco Uraraka who had arrived at the same time.

"What's perfect about this?" Mina asked, eyeing the tightropes with concern. "I'm not exactly a circus performer."

Mei's smile widened as she adjusted various contraptions on her body. "This is my chance to shine! You see, while you hero course students have been practicing punches and rescue scenarios, I've been building the future of hero support equipment!"

She gestured dramatically to her gear. "Support course students are allowed to use their custom equipment in the festival! It levels the playing field against you Quirk-blessed heroes!"

With a flick of a switch, mechanical extensions shot from the sides of her boots, gripping the cable securely. Another device on her back hummed to life, projecting her forward with controlled bursts.

"IS THAT EVEN ALLOWED?" Present Mic questioned as Mei zipped across the canyon with surprising speed.

"The support course has special permission to showcase their inventions," Midnight's voice replied over the speakers. "It's their chance to attract attention from support companies!"

Mei turned back toward the cameras, flashing a grin and a peace sign. "That's right! Support Item Babies #25 through #40, performing perfectly as designed by yours truly, Mei Hatsume! Pro Hero support companies, take note!"

Mina and Ochaco watched her speed away, mouths agape.

"That's... actually pretty smart," Ochaco admitted.

"And totally unfair!" Mina added, though she couldn't help but smile at the support student's audacity.

Across the canyon, Shoto was already climbing onto solid ground, maintaining his lead. His movements were economical and precise—not a single wasted motion or ounce of energy.

Up in the commentator's booth, the camera focused on his progress as he sprinted toward the final obstacle.

"Todoroki is showing exceptional physical prowess today," one of the guest commentators observed. "His balance and coordination on the tightropes were impeccable."

Another commentator nodded sagely. "What else would you expect from Endeavor's son? The Number Two Hero's training regimen must be incredibly intense. That boy has inherited more than just a powerful Quirk!"

In the VIP section, the temperature suddenly spiked as Enji Todoroki's flames flared with irritation. Beside him, Touya's expression darkened dangerously.

"Here we go again," Touya muttered, his voice low and tense. "Always about the 'Endeavor legacy.'"

Enji's massive hand clenched into a fist. "Shoto earned this on his own merit," he said through gritted teeth. "His mother's teaching and his own dedication made him who he is."

"Exactly," Touya agreed, the rare moment of alignment with his father not lost on him. "Shoto isn't defined by his parentage—he's defined by his character and choices."

Rei placed a calming hand on both their shoulders. "Both of you, settle down. The commentators don't know any better." Despite her words, her own eyes had narrowed slightly at the remark. "Shoto knows the truth. That's what matters."

Keigo watched the exchange with interest, his sharp eyes noting the genuine progress in the family dynamics—how different this reaction was compared to years past. "The kid's blazing his own trail," he commented. "Anyone watching closely can see that."

Back on the course, Katsuki Bakugo had reached the canyon, his explosions launching him through the air with precise control. He bypassed the tightropes entirely, using sequential blasts to propel himself across the gap in a stunning display of Quirk mastery.

"BAKUGO IS GAINING ON TODOROKI!" Present Mic shouted as Katsuki landed on the other side, immediately sprinting forward. "THE GAP IS CLOSING!"

Shoto had already arrived at the final obstacle: a vast expanse of seemingly innocuous dirt that stretched toward the finish line. A large sign warned: "DANGER: MINES."

"THE MINEFIELD!" Present Mic announced. "THESE LANDMINES WON'T KILL YOU, BUT THEY PACK ENOUGH PUNCH TO MAKE YOU WISH THEY HAD!"

Shoto's pace slowed considerably as he began to pick his way through the field, eyes scanning the ground for subtle disturbances that might indicate a buried explosive. Without his ice to create a safe path—which would only help those behind him—he was forced to proceed with caution.

That caution cost him precious seconds as Katsuki burst onto the scene, his momentum carrying him forward. Rather than slow down, Katsuki used his explosions to launch himself over the minefield in controlled arcs.

"TOO SLOW, Todoroki!" he roared, catching up to Shoto with frightening speed.

Shoto glanced back, his eyes narrowing as Katsuki closed the distance between them.

"BAKUGO IS USING HIS QUIRK TO AVOID THE MINES ENTIRELY!" Present Mic narrated excitedly. "WHAT A STRATEGY!"

With a final explosive burst, Katsuki launched himself directly at Shoto, his palm crackling with energy as he prepared to blast his rival aside.

"You challenged Izuku and not me?" Katsuki snarled as he closed in. "You think that nerd is worth your attention more than I am? I thought were were friends!"

Shoto pivoted at the last second, ice erupting from his right side as he attempted to counter Katsuki's attack. The explosion met the ice with a loud crack, the force sending both boys staggering.

"My reasons are my own," Shoto replied, already moving forward again. "This isn't about you, Bakugo."

"Like hell it isn't!" Katsuki fired back, matching Shoto's pace as they navigated the minefield side by side. Their clash had triggered several mines, the pink explosions sending dirt and smoke into the air. Through the haze, they continued their battle for first place, neither willing to yield an inch.

Behind them, a figure moved with startling grace through the minefield. Denki Kaminari had reached the final obstacle, and unlike his usual impulsive approach, he was navigating it with unexpected precision.

His breathing remained measured and rhythmic, almost meditative. With each controlled breath, his movements became more fluid, more instinctive. He stepped between mines with feline agility, his body flowing around the danger rather than charging through it.

"Look at Kaminari!" someone in the crowd pointed out. "Since when does he move like that?"

"It's like watching a cat," another spectator observed. "I thought his Quirk was electricity, not enhanced agility."

In the hero section of the stands, several pros leaned forward with professional interest.

"That's not just natural talent," Mirko, the Rabbit Hero, commented as she watched Denki weave through the minefield. "That's a specific breathing technique. Look at his chest expand and contract—perfectly timed."

Beside her, Gran Torino nodded. "The kid's using his full lung capacity to maximize oxygen flow. That's advanced stuff—not something you pick up by accident."

Denki himself wasn't fully aware of the attention he was drawing. His focus was entirely on the race—and on the battle between Shoto and Katsuki ahead of him.

"Why Midoriya?" he muttered to himself as he narrowly avoided a mine, the question echoing Katsuki's. "What makes him special enough to call out?"

As he gained ground on the two leaders, his instincts seemed to sharpen even further. The peculiar energy that had been building inside him all day continued to grow, guiding his movements with an almost supernatural awareness.

"Something's not right," Denki growled under his breath, his stride lengthening as he closed the distance. "And I'm going to find out what it is."

The three frontrunners carved their path through the minefield—Shoto with tactical precision, Katsuki with explosive force, and Denki with an uncanny grace that seemed to defy explanation—each driven by their own ambitions and mysteries as they raced toward the finish line.

Back at the minefield, Izuku surveyed the obstacle with calculating eyes. While the frontrunners had surged ahead, his analytical mind was already formulating a plan. The jagged metal plate from the destroyed zero-pointer still clutched in his grip gave him an idea.

"If I can't outrun them conventionally..." he murmured, dropping to his knees and beginning to dig feverishly at the ground with the metal shard.

From the commentator's booth, Present Mic's voice boomed with confusion. "WHAT'S THIS? MIDORIYA SEEMS TO BE... DIGGING? AN UNUSUAL STRATEGY IN THE MIDDLE OF A RACE!"

"He's exposing the mines," Aizawa observed, his tired eyes narrowing with interest. "But why?"

Students and pro heroes alike watched with bewilderment as Izuku methodically unearthed mine after mine, carefully piling them into a growing mound. His movements were precise despite the urgency, fingers nimble as he arranged the explosives with surgical care.

"IS HE BUILDING A TRAP?" Present Mic questioned, voice rising with disbelief. "OR MAYBE HE'S JUST GIVEN UP ON WINNING?"

In the stands, All Might watched in his diminished form, a knowing smile spreading across his gaunt features. "No, young Midoriya hasn't given up," he whispered. "He's thinking beyond the obvious path."

With a final adjustment to his explosive pile, Izuku positioned his metal plate like a shield against his chest and drew in a deep breath. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, eyes fixed on the distant figures of Shoto, Katsuki, and the surprisingly agile Denki.

He jumped.

The resulting explosion was spectacular—a massive pink mushroom cloud that erupted with such force that the entire stadium fell silent for a split second before erupting into chaos. The concussive blast launched Izuku skyward like a human rocket, his body soaring over the minefield in a graceful arc that defied gravity.

"MIDORIYA IS FLYING!" Present Mic screamed, nearly toppling backward in his chair. "HE'S ACTUALLY FLYING!"

In the air, Izuku's face was a mixture of terror and exhilaration, his hair whipped back by the wind, arms stretched forward in a pose reminiscent of a comic book hero. The metal plate clutched against his chest reflected sunlight in brilliant flashes as he sailed over the battlefield below.

Near the front of the pack, Denki glanced up at the shadow passing overhead, his jaw dropping in disbelief. "Hah?" he sputtered, nearly stepping on a mine in his distraction. "Is he defying gravity ?"

Ahead of him, both Katsuki and Shoto turned at the commotion, their rivalry momentarily forgotten as they witnessed Izuku's audacious strategy.

"That damn nerd," Katsuki growled, though there was a hint of impressed admiration beneath his rage. "Always finding a way!"

Shoto's heterochromatic eyes widened slightly. "So this is what you're capable of, Midoriya," he murmured.

Izuku's momentum began to wane as gravity reasserted its hold, his trajectory bringing him down directly behind the three frontrunners. His mind raced faster than his body had flown—he knew he'd lose his advantage the moment he touched down.

Unless...

With split-second calculation, Izuku adjusted his falling path, angling the metal plate beneath his feet as he descended toward the trio. Instead of landing on the ground, he planted his makeshift shield squarely on the backs of his startled competitors, using them as a human springboard.

"Sorry about this!" he called out, already driving the edge of his metal shard into the ground in front of them. The contact triggered a chain reaction of mines they hadn't yet seen, creating another explosive wave.

The second blast catapulted Izuku forward once more while simultaneously knocking his rivals backward. The shockwave struck Denki hardest, sending him tumbling several meters back into the minefield.

"AN INCREDIBLE DOUBLE PLAY BY MIDORIYA!" Present Mic bellowed, his voice cracking with excitement. "HE'S LEAPFROGGED THE LEADERS AND BLASTED HIMSELF INTO FIRST PLACE!"

As pink smoke cleared from the second explosion, Katsuki recovered first, his face contorted with fury. "IZUKUUUU!" he roared, palms exploding with concentrated rage as he launched himself forward. Shoto was close behind running using total concentration to speed his pursuit.

But it was Denki who felt the blast most keenly—not just physically, but emotionally. Sprawled on his back among disturbed soil and undetonated mines, frustration surged through his veins like the electricity he commanded.

"No way," he growled, climbing to his feet, golden eyes flashing with an intensity that seemed out of character. "No way in hell am I going to be bested by the bootleg version of the Wicked Witch of the West!"

Something strange was happening inside him—a familiar yet foreign sensation that buzzed through his nerves like static before a storm. As he staggered upright, the world around him seemed to slow down, his vision tunneling on the retreating figures ahead.

Then, without warning, his mind fractured—present dissolving into past as foreign memories crashed through his consciousness.

A dark dojo. Rain pattering against paper screens. The acrid smell of ozone in the air.

A stern man with a sword at his hip stood before him, expression severe but not unkind. His right eye bore a distinctive marking—like lightning frozen mid-strike.

"Listen carefully," the man said, his voice resonating with authority. "In Thunder Breathing, you focus on your legs the most. Your strength doesn't come from your arms or your blade—it comes from the earth itself."

The man demonstrated a stance, feet planted firmly on the tatami. "Circulate the air into every fiber of your muscles, into every blood vessel. Feel it building in your legs like a gathering storm."

A sudden movement—too fast to track with untrained eyes—and the man was across the room, wooden training sword extended. A sound like thunder followed in his wake.

"Build the strength in your legs," the man continued, returning to his starting position, "and then blast it in a single breath like a thunderclap cutting through the air."

Denki gasped as the vision receded, leaving him disoriented yet strangely energized. The memory wasn't his—couldn't be his—yet felt intimately familiar, like a forgotten verse of a childhood song.

Without conscious decision, Denki settled into a stance mirroring the one from his vision. His breathing changed—deepened—as he drew air into his lungs and held it, feeling it somehow energize every muscle fiber in his legs.

In the stands, several pro heroes leaned forward in sudden interest.

"What's happening to Kaminari?" Midnight asked, her whip tightening in her grip.

"His posture changed," Edgeshot observed quietly. "And his breathing pattern..."

On the track, Denki's focus narrowed to a pinpoint. The world seemed to slow around him as he gathered energy not just in his Quirk but throughout his entire body. Electricity crackled along his skin, but different somehow—more controlled, more directed than his usual discharges.

Then he moved.

The sound was what registered first—a deafening crack that echoed through the stadium like a thunderclap directly overhead. The ground beneath Denki's feet cracked from the force of his launch, a perfect footprint indented into the concrete.

On the monitors throughout the stadium, all anyone could see was a jagged line of blue-white lightning streaking across the minefield. Mines detonated in his wake, explosions following seconds after he'd already passed.

"WHAT... WHAT ARE WE WITNESSING?" Present Mic's stunned voice barely registered over the crowd's astonished roar. "KAMINARI IS MOVING AT SPEEDS WE'VE NEVER SEEN FROM HIM BEFORE!"

In the VIP section, Rei Todoroki stood frozen, her cheer for Shoto dying on her lips as she watched the display of raw speed, something ancient and familiar stirring in the depths of her memory.

"That's not just his electric Quirk," Touya murmured, leaning forward with intense focus. "That's something else entirely."

Keigo's wings twitched with professional interest. "A secondary ability manifesting under stress? Or something he's been hiding?"

Beside them, Hiro and Yumi leapt to their feet, their enthusiasm undimmed by their uncle's third-place finish.

"Uncle Shoto still did amazing!" Hiro shouted, pumping his fist in the air. "Third place out of hundreds of students!"

Yumi nodded vigorously, her eyes shining with admiration. "He was so cool with his ice! Nobody else could have gotten across that first obstacle so fast!"

Rei clapped along with her grandchildren, a proud smile fixed on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes. On the surface, she was the picture of maternal pride, but beneath, her mind raced with troubling questions that had nothing to do with her son's performance.

Thunder Breathing.

She knew that technique—knew it intimately. he distinctive stance, the lightning-fast movements, the focused breathing pattern... these weren't merely coincidences or a quirk manifestation. What she had just witnessed was the genuine article: a breathing technique that, by all rights, should be lost to history.

Only demon slayers could use breathing techniques with such proficiency, she thought, her applause becoming mechanical as her thoughts drifted. And the last I checked, those techniques had devolved into nothing but traditional dances preserved by a handful of families. No one practices them as combat arts anymore... no one from this era, at least.

Her gaze sharpened on the blonde boy who now stood bewildered in second place, staring at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. Something glinted at his neck—a small pendant that caught the stadium lights. Rei's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the distinctive magatama shape.

No... it can't be.

With perfect clarity, memories from another life surfaced—memories of ice and blood and insatiable hunger. Of a handsome face smiling while committing unspeakable acts. Of keeping meticulous tabs on every demon and slayer across Japan, including a particular Upper Moon Six who wore just such a pendant.

Kaigaku.

The name surfaced from centuries past. The disgraced demon slayer who had betrayed his master and comrades for power, becoming the newest addition to the Upper Moons before the final battle. And if that boy was indeed Kaigaku reincarnated...

Rei's eyes drifted to her son and grandson. To anyone watching, she appeared to be a proud mother and grandmother. Only she knew the cold calculation happening behind her warm smile.

If that boy remembers his past life... if he recognizes what Touya and Shoto are...

For Touya and Shoto carried demon blood in their veins. Rei's fingers tightened slightly on the armrest, the only outward sign of her inner turmoil. What should I do with this information?

She watched as Katsuki approached Denki, noted the suspicious look in the explosive boy's eyes. Another one who remembers? How many are there?

After a moment's consideration, her shoulders relaxed imperceptibly. It doesn't matter, she decided. As long as they don't harm or interfere with my family, I'll leave them to their own devices.

The thought of anyone threatening her family caused a flicker of something cold and merciless to stir within her—the remnant of a nature that had once delighted in consuming others. While the person she was now abhorred her past as Douma, the Upper Moon Two demon, the protective instinct remained, refined into something less monstrous but no less dangerous.

My family comes first. Always.

Outwardly, she continued to smile and celebrate, drawing her grandchildren into a warm embrace, but her eyes never left the electric-Quirk user who had unwittingly revealed himself as something more than just another U.A. student.

On the track, Izuku had nearly reached the tunnel leading to the stadium finish line when he sensed something approaching from behind—something fast. Turning his head, his eyes widened at the blur of motion and crackling energy rapidly closing the distance.

"Kaminari?" he gasped in disbelief.

The lightning streak blazed past both Katsuki and Shoto, who stopped their pursuit momentarily, equally stunned by the display.

"What the hell?" Katsuki growled, crimson eyes narrowing as he watched the familiar yet somehow different energy signature. Something about it tickled at deep memories he couldn't quite place, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine.

Denki closed the gap with impossible speed, each stride covering meters of ground, his body moving with fluid grace that contradicted his usual uncoordinated demeanor. For a moment—just a moment—it seemed he would overtake Izuku before the finish line.

But the tunnel's entrance loomed too close, and Izuku's headstart proved just enough. As they burst into the stadium proper, the roar of the crowd washed over them like a physical wave. Izuku crossed the finish line first, arms pumping, face flushed with triumph and exertion.

A mere half-second later, Denki flew across, his momentum carrying him several meters beyond before he could slow his impossible speed. As his feet skidded across the stadium floor, the mysterious energy that had propelled him forward dissipated like steam, leaving him wobbling on suddenly weak legs.

Shoto crossed third, his expression a careful mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts, ice crystals still clinging to his right side.

Katsuki's fourth-place finish was announced to thunderous applause, though his face was twisted in a furious scowl that promised retribution in future events.

"WHAT AN UNBELIEVABLE FINISH!" Present Mic screamed into his microphone, voice hoarse with excitement. "MIDORIYA CLAIMS FIRST WITH AN INGENIOUS STRATEGY, BUT THE REAL SHOCKER IS KAMINARI'S LAST-SECOND SURGE THAT NEARLY STOLE THE VICTORY!"

While the crowd celebrated and commentators analyzed, Denki stood apart, staring at his trembling hands with confused wonderment. The euphoria of his near-victory was overshadowed by disturbing questions about what had just happened—about the memory that couldn't possibly be his, about the technique he'd never learned yet executed flawlessly.

"Thunder Breathing," he whispered,  the words leaving a metallic taste in his mouth like blood or fear.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. He looked up to find Katsuki standing beside him, expression uncharacteristically serious.

"You did your best," Katsuki said gruffly, though his eyes held something Denki couldn't quite identify—caution? Recognition? "There'll be other chances to show off your skills."

"Yeah," Denki replied uncertainly, still shaken. "Thanks, man."

As Katsuki walked away, his eyes lingered on Denki for a moment longer, narrowed with suspicion and something darker—something like ancient recognition. In the depths of his mind, memories not his own stirred like disturbed ashes: combat arenas, blood-soaked fists, the thrill of battle against worthy opponents.

"Kaigaku," he murmured under his breath, the name arising from nowhere yet feeling significant. "Upper Moon Six."

A surge of conflicting emotions rose within him—the desire to test this opponent's strength battling with a strange protectiveness toward his classmate. In another life, as Akaza, the Upper Moon Three, he would have challenged such a fighter immediately, reveling in the combat. Now, those instincts were tempered by something he was still learning to recognize: friendship.

His gaze drifted upward to the VIP section where he spotted the Todoroki family. For a brief moment, his eyes locked with Rei Todoroki and a shiver ran down his spine.

Neither boy noticed Aizawa watching them intently from the sidelines, his tired eyes missing nothing—not Denki's transformed movements nor Katsuki's strange reaction. The underground hero made a mental note to keep a closer eye on them in the coming trials.

The first event of the U.A. Sports Festival had concluded, but the mysteries it unveiled were just beginning to unfold.

Chapter 15: The Nicest Kids In Town(Wink, Wink)

Summary:

It’s Ironic because everyone within this chapter is not.

Notes:

We finally reached the Calvary battle.

This is probably the longest chapter I have made and on top of studying for finals this really took a while.

Enjoy our devil childern.

Midnight's announcement echoed across the stadium as the remaining thirty-nine qualifiers gathered in the arena. "And now, we welcome back our top performers! Let's give them all a hand!"

The crowd erupted with enthusiastic applause, banners waving and cameras flashing as the students lined up on the field. Among them, Izuku stood at the front, still breathing heavily from his explosive victory. His emerald eyes scanned the audience until they found what they were searching for—All Might, in his diminished form, sitting with a beaming, proud grin directed squarely at him.

Tears welled in Izuku's eyes, his lip quivering slightly at the sight of his mentor's approval. It wasn't just a victory for him; it was validation of everything they'd worked for together.

In the teacher's section, All Might nodded slightly, his sunken features softening. "I had nothing to worry about," he murmured to himself. "You showed them all, young Midoriya—you're a fighter whose selflessness doesn't hold you back. It propels you forward."

Near the competitor's entrance, a small group of business course students huddled together, clipboards in hand as they analyzed the performances with calculating eyes.

"The problem with Midoriya is marketability," one student remarked, adjusting his glasses. "He took first place but didn't showcase his Quirk at all. What kind of hero merchandise could you even make from that?"

"Agreed," another added. "In today's hero economy, brand identity is everything. Without a signature move or—"

"Shut. The hell. Up."

The business students turned to find Katsuki Bakugo standing behind them, a smile on his face that was somehow more terrifying than any scowl. It was the kind of smile a predator might wear before lunging—sweet on the surface but promising violence underneath.

"That 'unmarketable' nerd just outsmarted everyone on the field," Katsuki continued, his voice unnervingly calm despite the explosive anger radiating from him. "Maybe instead of worrying about selling his action figure, you should be taking notes on how he kicked all our asses without even showing his Quirk."

The students backed away, muttering hasty apologies as they retreated from his unsettling, pleasant expression.

As Katsuki turned away, his eyes briefly met Denki's across the field. The electric user quickly averted his gaze, unsettled by something in his classmate's demeanor that seemed...off. Familiar in the worst possible way.

Midnight cracked her whip, drawing all attention back to the central platform. "Now for the final standings from our first event!" The giant screen behind her displayed the rankings, with Izuku's name emblazoned at the top, followed by Denki, Shoto, and Katsuki.

"And without further delay, let's move on to our second event!" Midnight's voice carried a sadistic glee as she gestured dramatically to the screen behind her. "The Cavalry Battle!"

The screen changed to display an animation of students arranged in human formations—riders atop the shoulders of their teammates.

"The qualifying students have fifteen minutes to form teams of two to four people," Midnight explained, her voice sultry yet commanding. "Each person's point value will depend on their placement in the Obstacle Race."

She paused for dramatic effect, her whip snapping. "And after getting first place, Izuku Midoriya is worth... ten million points!"

A collective gasp swept through the student body as all eyes turned toward Izuku, whose face drained of color.

"T-ten million?" he stuttered, suddenly feeling the weight of dozens of predatory gazes.

"This simulates how difficult it is to be at the top," Midnight continued with sadistic pleasure. "Each team's point value will be the accumulation of its members' points, displayed on headbands worn by the rider. The objective is simple: steal as many headbands as possible while protecting your own!"

As she detailed the remaining rules—teams could continue competing even after losing their headband, intentional falls were prohibited, and only the top four teams would advance—Izuku felt the pressure mounting. What had been triumph minutes ago had transformed into a massive target painted squarely on his back.

"You have fifteen minutes to form your teams," Midnight announced, checking her watch. "Starting now!"

The arena erupted into chaos as students began frantically seeking alliances. Izuku found himself alone in a widening circle, other competitors eyeing him like vultures circling a wounded animal.

"So all we need to do is take down Midoriya's team," someone muttered.

"Exactly," another replied. "One headband to rule them all."

Across the field, a sinister grin spread across Katsuki's face—not his usual aggressive scowl, but something more calculated, more primal. It was the kind of smile that didn't belong on a fifteen-year-old boy's face—rather, it belonged to a warrior who had tasted countless battles and hungered for more.

Denki, who happened to be passing by, froze at the sight. A chill ran down his spine, accompanied by a flash of déjà vu so strong it made him dizzy.

"Why does that look so familiar?" he whispered to himself, a phantom memory of moonlight glinting off red markings and cruel, excited eyes dancing at the edge of his consciousness.

In the break room designated for professional heroes, Death Arms leaned back in his chair, watching the proceedings with critical eyes.

"People misunderstand what the Festival is truly simulating," he commented to his colleagues. "It's not just about how prepared the students are for villain fights. It's about the real Pro-Hero competition."

Mount Lady sighed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "It's kind of sad when you think about it—having to step over other heroes just to get ahead in this business."

"Oh?" Kamui Woods turned sharply toward her, his wooden features contorting with irritation. "That's rich coming from someone who had no problem stealing my spotlight during my debut!"

Mount Lady smiled sweetly. "All's fair in love and heroics, Kamui."

Despite their bickering, all three pros nodded in agreement when Death Arms added, "Unlike the Obstacle Race, this Cavalry Battle is definitely meant to simulate hero team-ups. Sometimes you have to work with heroes whose Quirks complement yours, even if you've never met before."

Back on the field, Eijiro Kirishima approached Shoto with a friendly wave. "Hey, Todoroki! Want to team up with me and Mina for the Cavalry Battle? Between your ice and fire, my hardening, and her acid, we could be unstoppable!"

Shoto considered the offer for a moment, a slight softness breaking through his usually stoic expression. "I appreciate the offer, Kirishima, but I'll have to decline."

"Oh," Eijiro's bright expression dimmed slightly. "That's cool, man. No pressure."

Shoto shook his head. "It's not personal. This is a competition, and while I value our friendship, I want you and Ashido to have the opportunity to grow without me potentially overshadowing you." His mismatched eyes met Eijiro's directly. "You're strong, Kirishima. Show everyone what you can do."

Eijiro's sharp-toothed grin returned full force, his spirits visibly lifted by Shoto's words. "That's manly as hell, Todoroki! Alright then—may the best team win!"

They clasped hands briefly before Eijiro bounded off toward Mina, calling over his shoulder, "See you and Mina in the finals—if you make it that far!"

A hint of a smile touched Shoto's lips at the friendly challenge. "I look forward to it."

Meanwhile, a crowd had formed around Katsuki, various classmates vying for his attention.

"Bakugo, team up with me!" "No, pick me! My Quirk would work great with yours!" "Bakugo, remember me from yesterday's training?"

Katsuki's brow furrowed in genuine confusion as he stared at his classmates. "Um... tape elbows? No, wait... sticky hair? Damn it, who are you people and why can’t I remember people’s names?!"

His inability to remember their names and Quirks sent several students stomping away in irritation, muttering about his inflated ego.

From the stands, All Might watched the scene with amusement. "Young Bakugo certainly attracts attention," he commented to himself. "For all his temperamental flaws, his impressive showing in the obstacle course and his remarkably versatile Quirk make him a valuable ally. His challenge will be learning to work with others effectively."

As the crowd around Katsuki thinned, Eijiro approached, having been rejected by both Shoto and apparently turned down by Mina as well.

"Yo, Bakugo!" he called, flashing his shark-toothed grin. "Let's team up! My Hardening is the perfect defense for your explosions. Plus, I'm one of the few people who can actually stand being around you!"

Katsuki opened his mouth for what would typically be a scathing retort, but then paused, his eyes briefly flicking to where Denki stood across the field. The electric-user was currently talking to Kyoka Jiro, but Katsuki's gaze lingered on him with an intensity that went beyond casual interest.

"I need someone else on the team too," Katsuki stated, his tone unusually thoughtful. "Someone who can discharge electricity."

Eijiro blinked in surprise. "You mean Kaminari? That's... surprisingly strategic of you."

"I'm always strategic, Shitty Hair," Katsuki snapped, the familiar aggression returning to his voice. "Kaminari's electric attacks could immobilize enemies while we swoop in for their headbands. Plus..."

He left the sentence hanging, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued to watch Denki.

Plus, I need to keep an eye on him, he finished silently, phantom memories of combat arenas and worthy opponents stirring in the recesses of his mind.

"Well?" Eijiro prodded, oblivious to Katsuki's internal thoughts. "Are we teaming up or not?"

Katsuki finally turned back to him, the strange intensity in his eyes fading back to his usual competitive fire. "Fine. You're in, Shitty Hair. Let's go recruit Pikachu before someone else does."

As they moved across the field toward Denki, Katsuki's gaze briefly drifted up to the VIP stands where the Todoroki family sat. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully on Shoto's form as the dual-Quirk user methodically assembled his own team.

Something about him reminds me of Douma. Katsuki's thoughts drifted to fragmented memories—a beautiful demon with Blond hair and deadly ice powers. Is that possible?

He shook his head slightly, dismissing the thought. Shoto had shown no sign of remembering anything from that past life—if he even was who Katsuki suspected. For now, his focus would be on the immediate challenge: forming a team capable of securing victory... and keeping close watch on the suddenly lightning-fast Denki Kaminari.

While Izuku found himself isolated by his ten million points, Shoto moved with calculated purpose through the crowd. His heterochromatic eyes scanned the field, methodically assessing his classmates' abilities against the requirements of the upcoming battle.

He approached Tenya first, catching the class representative as he deliberated among several offers.

"Iida," Shoto called, his voice quiet but commanding. "Join my team."

Tenya adjusted his glasses, considering Shoto with measured interest. "Todoroki. I was wondering if you'd seek me out. Your ice abilities combined with my Engine would make for quite the tactical advantage."

"Exactly," Shoto nodded. "Your speed is unmatched in our class, and your analytical mind will be valuable."

Tenya stood a bit straighter at the acknowledgment, clearly pleased by Shoto's assessment. "I accept your offer. Who else are you considering?"

"Yaoyorozu," Shoto replied without hesitation. "Her Creation Quirk gives us unlimited tactical options. And—" he paused, his gaze drifting across the field to where Denki stood chatting with Kyoka Jiro, "—Kaminari."

Tenya's eyebrows rose slightly behind his glasses. "Kaminari? An interesting choice. His electricity is powerful, but his control is... questionable."

"He's more capable than he seems," Shoto said, remembering the lightning-fast movements he'd witnessed during the obstacle course. There had been something different about Denki in those moments—something controlled and precise that contradicted his usual scatterbrained persona.

"If you're certain," Tenya conceded. "I'll trust your judgment."

Together, they made their way toward Momo, who was surrounded by classmates eager to recruit her versatile Quirk. She noticed their approach immediately, her intelligent eyes assessing them even as she politely declined another offer.

"Yaoyorozu," Shoto said. "Will you join our team?"

Momo tilted her head slightly, considering. "Todoroki, Iida," she acknowledged with a nod. "That would be a formidable combination already. What role do you envision for me?"

"Your Creation Quirk gives us adaptability," Shoto explained. "Combined with my ice and Iida's speed, we'd have offense, defense, and mobility covered."

"And who would be our fourth?" she asked, already reaching for her notebook to sketch potential formations.

"Kaminari," Shoto replied.

Momo's pen paused mid-stroke, her expression shifting to one of mild surprise. "Kaminari? I wouldn't have expected that choice."

"Something wrong with him?" Shoto asked, noting her reaction.

Momo composed herself quickly. "Not at all. His electrical discharge is certainly powerful. I simply..." she hesitated, searching for diplomatic phrasing, "...question his strategic thinking at times."

"He has potential," Shoto insisted. Momo nodded thoughtfully. "You're right. He is unpredictable but very well rounded . Very well, I'm in."

Across the field, Katsuki was making his way toward Denki with Eijiro in tow, determination written across his features. But Shoto had anticipated this move and quickened his pace, reaching the electric-user first.

"Kaminari," Shoto said, cutting off whatever conversation Denki was having with Kyoka. "Join my team."

Denki blinked in surprise, glancing between Shoto and Kyoka. "Uh, what? You want me on your team, Todoroki?"

"Is that so surprising?" Shoto asked.

"Kind of, yeah," Denki admitted with his usual candor. "I figured you'd go for someone like... well, not me."

Before Shoto could respond, Katsuki arrived, his scowl deepening as he realized what was happening.

"Oi, Denki," Katsuki barked. "You're on my team. Let's go."

Denki looked between the two powerhouses of Class 1-A, clearly caught off-guard by suddenly being in demand. "Whoa, seriously? Both of you want me?"

"I asked first," Shoto stated calmly, meeting Katsuki's glare with icy composure.

Katsuki's palms sparked with irritation. "Like hell that matters! Kaminari, we already discussed strategy. You're with me and Shitty Hair."

"Actually..." Denki rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. "I don't remember agreeing to anything, Bakugo."

Something flickered in Katsuki's eyes—not just anger, but a momentary flash of calculation that seemed eerily out of place on his usually straightforward features. "You're making a mistake," he said, his voice dropping to an unusually quiet tone.

Denki felt a chill run down his spine at Katsuki's words, though he couldn't explain why. For a brief moment, those crimson eyes seemed to hold ancient knowledge—a warning from one predator to another.

"Sorry, man," Denki shrugged, trying to dispel the strange tension. "I think I'm going with Todoroki on this one."

Katsuki's jaw tightened, but he didn't explode as expected. Instead, he gave a short nod that seemed loaded with unspoken meaning. "Your loss, Sparky," he said, before turning away. "Come on, Shitty Hair. We need to find someone else."

As Katsuki stalked off with Eijiro trailing behind, Denki turned back to Shoto, still puzzled. "So... why me?"

"Your Quirk complements our strategy," Shoto replied simply. "Yaoyorozu and Iida have already agreed."

Denki's eyes widened slightly. "Wait, Yaoyorozu? You got Miss Perfect on our team too?"

"Is that going to be a problem?" Shoto asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nah, just..." Denki grinned, a mischievous light entering his eyes. "This is gonna be fun. She's always so proper, but I love finding ways to get under skin.”

Shoto didn't respond to this, simply turning to lead Denki back to where Momo and Tenya waited. As they approached, Momo straightened her posture slightly, her expression turning more professional.

"Kaminari," she greeted with a polite nod. "I see Todoroki convinced you to join us."

"Hey, Yaoyorozu," Denki replied with an easy smile. "Looking forward to working with the class genius. Maybe some of that brainpower will rub off on me, huh?"

Momo's lips thinned slightly. "Perhaps some of my strategic discipline might be beneficial, yes."

"Ouch," Denki clutched his chest in mock hurt. "Already with the burns, and we haven't even started yet."

"I simply meant—" Momo began, flustered.

"He's messing with you, Yaoyorozu," Tenya interjected, adjusting his glasses. "Though this is hardly the time for joking. We have a competition to prepare for."

"Always so serious, Iida," Denki sighed, clapping the taller boy on the shoulder. "You know, it's possible to have fun and win at the same time."

"Kaminari has a point," Shoto said unexpectedly, drawing surprised looks from all three teammates. "Having fun doesn't preclude victory."

A moment of silence followed this statement, as none of them had expected such sentiment from the usually stoic Shoto.

"Well, well," Denki grinned, "looks like there's hope for you yet, Todoroki."

Momo, recovering first, cleared her throat and opened her notebook. "Let's discuss formation. As the one with the highest point value among us, Todoroki should be our rider."

"Agreed," Tenya nodded. "My Engine Quirk makes me ideal for the front position. I can provide both forward momentum and sudden directional changes."

"I'll take the left side," Denki offered, surprising the others with his initiative. "I can discharge electricity to keep other teams from approaching from that direction."

"Leaving me on the right," Momo concluded. "I can create defensive items as needed, plus offensive weapons for Todoroki to use."

Shoto nodded his approval. "That works. Yaoyorozu, can you create insulated materials to protect you and Iida from Kaminari's electricity?"

"Of course," Momo replied, already sketching designs in her notebook. "I can make rubber-soled boots and gloves for us all, plus insulated handholds."

"Smart," Denki nodded appreciatively. "That way I can go all out without worrying about zapping you guys."

"Not completely all out," Momo cautioned, giving him a pointed look. "We still need you functioning, not in your... compromised state."

Denki winced. "Yeah, yeah, I know my limits. No thumbs-up 'wheeey' mode today, promise."

"Good," Tenya said firmly. "Now, Todoroki, I assume your plan involves using your ice and fire powers as diversions while we secure headbands?"

Just as he asked this question, the one-minute warning sounded across the stadium.

"Actually," Shoto replied with the ghost of a smile, "I have something else in mind."

Before he could elaborate, Denki's attention was caught by Izuku across the field, who had somehow managed to form a team despite his ten-million-point target. Something about seeing the green-haired boy looking determined rather than defeated sparked a question in Denki's mind.

"Hey, Todoroki," he said suddenly, "why'd you challenge Midoriya before the race and not Bakugo? What's so special about him?"

The question seemed to catch Shoto off-guard. His mismatched eyes narrowed slightly as he considered Izuku from across the field.

"I don't like him," Shoto stated flatly.

"What?" Denki blinked, surprised by the blunt response.

Shoto's expression remained impassive, but something cold flickered in his heterochromatic eyes. "I don't like Midoriya. There's something about him that... irks me. For no apparent reason."

Momo and Tenya exchanged concerned glances, clearly taken aback by Shoto's uncharacteristic admission.

"That's... rather personal," Tenya commented carefully.

Shoto shrugged, his gaze still fixed on Izuku. "I want to understand why I dislike him, but I also want to destroy him and any set of beliefs he holds."

The statement hung in the air between them, unexpectedly harsh from the usually controlled Shoto. For a brief moment, something almost predatory gleamed in his eyes—something hungry that seemed out of place on his teenage face.

Across the field, Katsuki's head snapped up as if he'd somehow heard the conversation despite the distance. His crimson eyes narrowed as he observed Shoto, a flash of recognition and concern crossing his features before he forcibly looked away, muttering something under his breath.

"I thought by confronting him directly," Shoto continued, seemingly unaware of the effect his words were having, "I might understand myself better. This has nothing to do with Midoriya personally—it's about sorting out my own feelings."

Denki found himself nodding, a strange sense of kinship washing over him. "You know what? I get that. For some reason, he kinda irks me too."

"Oh?" Shoto's attention shifted fully to Denki now, curiosity replacing the cold calculation in his eyes.

"Yeah," Denki blurted out, surprising himself with his vehemence. "It's his whole mindset, you know? Plus..." he hesitated, then finished with a sheepish grin, "his face is just kind of punchable."

Shoto's laugh was so unexpected that all three teammates stared at him in shock. It wasn't loud or long—just a brief, genuine chuckle that transformed his usually stoic features.

"We should probably get ready for the cavalry battle," Shoto said, composure returning as quickly as it had slipped.

As they moved into formation, Momo still looking slightly concerned about the previous exchange, none of them noticed Rei Todoroki in the VIP stands. Her hands gripped the armrests of her seat tightly, her serene smile fixed in place while alarm flashed behind her eyes as she watched her son laughing with the reincarnation of a former demon slayer/demon.

"God dammit," she whispered under her breath, the words lost in the roar of the crowd as Midnight raised her whip to signal the start of the Cavalry Battle.

"START!" Midnight's whip cracked through the air, and the stadium erupted with movement.

As if guided by a single predatory instinct, nearly every team in the arena turned toward Izuku Midoriya and his ten million points. Team Midoriya—consisting of Izuku as the rider with Ochaco, Mei Hatsume, and Fumikage Tokoyami as his supports—immediately found themselves surrounded.

"Just as we expected," Izuku muttered, his knuckles white around his headband. "Everyone's coming for us!"

Mei's face split into a manic grin. "Perfect opportunity to showcase my babies!" She adjusted the gleaming jetpack strapped to Izuku's back and the hover soles attached to Ochaco's feet. "Support Company executives won't be able to take their eyes off these beauties!"

"Focus, Hatsume," Fumikage growled, Dark Shadow already emerging from his body in anticipation. "They're closing in."

Team Tetsutetsu struck first, their formation surging forward with coordinated precision. Juzo Honenuki, their front support, slammed his palm against the ground.

"Softening!" he called out, and instantly the earth beneath Team Midoriya liquefied into a quicksand-like consistency.

"We're sinking!" Ochaco cried as they began to slip into the ground.

"Now, Uraraka!" Izuku commanded.

With a determined nod, Ochaco activated her Zero Gravity Quirk on herself and her teammates, while Mei simultaneously engaged the jetpack and hover soles. The combination launched Team Midoriya skyward, escaping the softened ground trap with an explosive burst that drew gasps from the crowd.

"WHAT INCREDIBLE TEAMWORK!" Present Mic's voice boomed over the speakers. "TEAM MIDORIYA TAKES TO THE AIR TO ESCAPE CAPTURE!"

From below, Kyoka Jiro extended her Earphone Jacks, the flexible appendages whipping through the air toward Izuku's headband. Just before they could make contact, Fumikage's Dark Shadow intercepted, batting the jacks away with a screech.

"Good save, Tokoyami!" Izuku called out, relief evident in his voice. "Your Dark Shadow is perfect for this competition—it gives us offense and defense without breaking formation!"

The avian-headed boy nodded solemnly. "We should descend soon. Hatsume's equipment has limitations."

As Team Midoriya touched down on solid ground again, they heard a triumphant laugh from nearby. Kyoka's team was frantically searching their rider's head, and Izuku spotted the reason why—Neito Monoma of Class 1-B stood several meters away, twirling a headband around his finger.

"That was too easy," Neito taunted, securing the stolen headband around his own neck. "Class 1-A's situational awareness is even worse than I expected!"

Kyoka's expression darkened. "Give that back, you creep!"

"No time to worry about that," Izuku warned his team as he spotted another approaching threat. "We've got company!"

Mezo Shoji barreled toward them, his multiple arms extended and seemingly alone—until Izuku realized something was wrong.

"Wait, where are his teammates?" Izuku scanned the approaching figure.

His question was answered when Mezo's tentacles briefly parted, revealing Tsuyu Asui and Minoru Mineta hidden within the protective cocoon of his arms.

"Surprise!" Mineta yelled, launching several sticky purple spheres from his head.

Simultaneously, Tsuyu's tongue shot out, wrapping around Izuku's arm and pulling him off-balance.

"They were hiding their formation!" Izuku gasped as one of Mineta's spheres struck their hover sole, effectively gluing them in place.

"We can't move!" Ochaco strained against the adhesive sphere, but it held firm.

Before they could devise a counter-strategy, Team Tetsutetsu circled back, closing in from the opposite direction.

"We're surrounded," Fumikage observed grimly, Dark Shadow expanding to cover them from multiple angles.

Izuku made a split-second decision. "Uraraka, break the hover soles!"

"But Deku—"

"Do it!"

With a determined grunt, Ochaco stomped down hard, shattering the mechanical soles. The sudden force broke them free from Mineta's sticky trap, allowing them to leap away just as the two attacking teams converged on their position.

"Now, Hatsume!"

Mei activated the jetpack again, sending Team Midoriya soaring back into the air. The sudden maneuver earned them a few precious seconds of breathing room—but not for long.

A series of explosions erupted below them, and Katsuki Bakugo rocketed upward, propelled by blasts from his palms. His face was contorted in a feral grin as he pursued them through the air.

"DON'T THINK YOU CAN ESCAPE BY FLYING, IZUKU!" he roared, closing the distance with frightening speed.

Izuku braced himself. "Tokoyami!"

"On it," Fumikage responded calmly, Dark Shadow surging forward to intercept Katsuki mid-air.

The explosive collision between Dark Shadow and Katsuki's blast lit up the sky, temporarily blinding spectators. When the light faded, Katsuki was plummeting back toward the ground, his attack thwarted.

"BAKUGO IS FALLING!" Present Mic shrieked. "IS THIS THE END FOR TEAM BAKUGO?"

Just before Katsuki could hit the ground, a strip of gray tape shot out, wrapping around his waist. Hanta Sero, positioned on Katsuki's team, had caught him with his Tape Quirk, yanking him back to safety.

"Nice save, Sero!" Eijiro called out as Katsuki landed back in position, his expression thunderous.

Midnight cracked her whip for attention. "Since Bakugo didn't touch the ground, his maneuver was completely legal!"

The crowd erupted in cheers, impressed by the daring aerial exchange.

In the VIP stands, Keigo Takami leaned forward, wings twitching with professional interest. "These kids are something else. That Bakugo kid especially—he's got killer instincts."

"His aerial control is impressive," Touya agreed, his scarred face betraying a hint of a smile. "Though I'm more interested in how Shoto's team is handling this."

"Uncle Shoto is playing it smart!" Hiro bounced excitedly in his seat. "Look, they're not chasing the ten million points like everyone else!"

"They're waiting for the right moment," Yumi added, eyes wide with excitement. "Classic Todoroki strategy!"

Indeed, Team Todoroki had yet to make any aggressive moves. They stood in formation on the periphery, Shoto surveying the battlefield with calculating eyes as Tenya maintained their position with precise movements. Momo had already created several items they held in reserve, while Denki's electricity crackled around them in warning bursts, deterring teams from approaching too closely.

"I'M SHOCKED TO ANNOUNCE," Present Mic's voice cut through the chaos, "THAT OTHER THAN TEAM MIDORIYA, NO ONE FROM CLASS 1-A IS CURRENTLY PLACED IN THE TOP FOUR! CLASS 1-B IS DOMINATING THE SCOREBOARD!"

"What?" Katsuki snarled, scanning the field until his eyes landed on Neito Monoma, who was now wearing multiple headbands around his neck.

Neito caught his gaze and smirked, deliberately adjusting his collection of stolen points.

"Wondering how this happened, Class 1-A?" Neito called out, his voice carrying across the field. "It's simple strategy—something you hotshots apparently lack."

He guided his team closer to where Katsuki stood seething, just out of explosion range.

"Some of us purposely threw the Obstacle Race," Neito explained with theatrical smugness. "We stayed in the top forty without revealing our Quirks, while you and your classmates showed off every trick in your arsenal. You gave us a perfect scouting opportunity!"

Katsuki's palms began to smoke dangerously. "You sneaky little—"

"It was foolish to obsess about the preliminary round," Neito continued, clearly enjoying Katsuki's growing rage. "But I wouldn't expect better from someone who became famous for being a victim."

Katsuki froze, his expression shifting from anger to something darker.

"A victim?" he repeated slowly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Oh yes," Neito pressed on, either missing or ignoring the warning signs. "The Sludge Villain incident—everyone knows about the helpless middle schooler who had to be rescued by All Might. Tell me, did you enjoy being the damsel in distress?"

Something in Katsuki's eyes changed—a flicker of something ancient and predatory that didn't belong on a teenager's face. His usual explosive anger gave way to a cold, calculating fury that was somehow more terrifying, something ancient and terrible awakened within him. His vision blurred, overlaid with memories not his own—yet intimately familiar.

The boy with the hanafuda earrings, screaming his name in rage. "Don't you dare run away! COWARD!"

The blade piercing his chest. The burning sunrise. The despair and fury on Tanjiro's face as Akaza retreated into the shadows.

Katsuki's crimson eyes dilated, pupils narrowing to feral slits. His canines lengthened imperceptibly behind his snarling lips. Across his exposed forearms, faint blue-pink markings flickered like ghostly tattoos—there one moment, gone the next, as if his very skin was remembering a pattern etched into his soul over three centuries ago.

What he wanted was simple: to grab Neito by the throat. To feel the boy's pulse quicken beneath his fingers. To break him piece by piece, joint by joint. To carve those smug features into a mask of terror. To make him feel the desperate helplessness of true combat—not this sanitized sport, but the primal fear of facing someone who had killed hundreds.

I could crush his windpipe before anyone could stop me, the part of him that was Akaza whispered. I could shatter his jaw with one strike. Make him swallow those teeth along with his words.

The desire to see Neito's eyes widen in horror, to watch realization dawn that he had provoked something far beyond a mere teenager, was overwhelming. Katsuki—no, Akaza—wanted to drive his fist through the boy's chest and watch hope drain from his eyes.

But they were in an arena. Surrounded by heroes. By civilians. By cameras.

Not here. Not now.

With tremendous effort, Katsuki unclenched his fists. The phantom markings faded completely from his skin. And then, most terrifying of all, he smiled.

It wasn't Katsuki's usual savage grin, full of competitive fire. This was Akaza's smile—serene, pleasant, and utterly at odds with the bloodlust radiating from him. A predator's smile, honeyed with false gentleness.

"Todoroki," Katsuki said, his voice unnervingly soft as he turned to Shoto. "What do you say we put aside our rivalry for a moment? Class 1-B seems to have forgotten their place."

He nodded toward Neito, his smile never wavering. "I suggest we form a temporary alliance. Annihilate these cocky bastards first, then settle things between ourselves when we go after Deku."

Shoto, who had witnessed the entire transformation—subtle as it was—narrowed his heterochromatic eyes. Something about Katsuki's controlled rage resonated with him on a level he couldn't articulate.

"Agreed," Shoto responded immediately, surprising his teammates. "What they said crosses a line."

Momo nodded firmly. "That was unconscionably disrespectful, Monoma. We may be rivals, but there are boundaries."

Tenya adjusted his glasses, his expression severe. "As Class Representative, I cannot condone such behavior between hero course students."

As the impromptu alliance formed, something shifted in Denki's expression. His usual carefree demeanor flickered, like a television losing signal. His honey-colored eyes widened slightly, then hardened—the warm amber cooling rapidly to an icy turquoise that didn't belong in his face.

For a split second, the electric-user's features seemed sharper, more calculating. His posture straightened from its habitual slouch into something more disciplined, more dangerous.

Katsuki caught the change immediately, his own eyes locking onto Denki's transformed gaze. There you are, Kaigaku, he thought, a mix of satisfaction. Denki blinked rapidly, the turquoise fading back to amber as quickly as it had appeared. He shook his head slightly, as if clearing cobwebs, then looked up to find Katsuki watching him with knowing intensity.

"What's the plan?" Denki asked, his voice slightly rougher than usual. "How do we take down Class 1-B?"

"First," Katsuki said, the Akaza-smile still playing on his lips as he turned back toward an increasingly uncomfortable Neito, "we make them regret ever opening their mouths."

Facing the smug Class 1-B team, Neito doubled down on his taunts toward Katsuki. "What's wrong, explosion boy? Can't handle a little truth about your damsel days?"

Before Katsuki could respond with violence, Denki stepped forward, positioning himself between them. Something in his stance had changed—more confident, almost predatory.

"You know what's funny about you, Monoma?" Denki called out, his usual easygoing tone replaced with something sharper. "You're like the kid who wasn't good enough for the first-string team, so you spend all your time trash-talking from the sidelines."

Neito's smirk faltered. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Denki's smile grew wider, almost cruel. "Class 1-B: eternally second-best and bitter about it. How's it feel to be the perpetual silver medalists?"

Momo gasped beside him. "Kaminari! That's—"

"Exactly what they deserve," Denki finished. "Come on, Yaoyorozu, give it a try. Tell them what you really think."

Momo blushed furiously. "I... I don't think it would be appropriate for me to—"

"Just try," Denki encouraged. "Something formal but with heat."

Momo cleared her throat, straightening her posture. "Your... your strategic approach demonstrates a profound lack of... of..."

"Balls?" Denki suggested.

"Courage!" Momo corrected, her face burning brighter. "And reflects poorly on your... future hero prospects."

"That was terrible," Denki sighed. "But A for effort."

Tenya adjusted his glasses, stepping forward. "Allow me! As Class Representative, I must inform you that your behavior is MOST UNBECOMING of hero students and represents a SERIOUS BREACH of professional etiquette!"

An awkward silence followed his robotic delivery.

"Yeah, no," Denki shook his head. "I'll handle this."

He turned back to Neito's increasingly irritated team. "You Class 1-B rejects are so desperate for attention, you'd rather steal our spotlight than earn your own. That's not strategy—it's being a jealous little parasite."

"You don't have the right—" Neito started.

"Oh, I have every right," Denki cut him off, a cold glint in his eyes. "You want to play psychological warfare? Amateur hour's over. The big boys are here now."

Katsuki moved up beside Denki, that unnerving pleasant smile still fixed on his face. "What's wrong, Copycat? Can't handle getting as good as you give? Maybe if you spent less time running your mouth and more time training, you wouldn't need to leech off others' accomplishments."

In the VIP stands, young Hiro tugged at Touya's sleeve. "What are they doing? I thought they were supposed to be fighting, not arguing!"

Touya's scarred lips curved into a knowing smile. "Watch closely, kid. Sometimes the best battles start with words."

On the field, Momo noticed Shoto slowly shifting his position, subtly moving his right hand toward the ground while maintaining eye contact with Neito's team. Ice crystals began forming at his fingertips, but they were different—glittering with an inner fire, like diamonds with flames trapped inside.

"Is that—?" she whispered.

"Fire ice," Shoto confirmed quietly. "Keep them distracted."

Meanwhile, Denki ramped up his provocations. "Hey, Monoma! I hear you can copy Quirks, but can you copy actual talent? Or a personality that isn't just 'bitter also-ran'?"

Neito's face contorted with anger. "You Class 1-A elitists think you're so special—"

"We don't think we're special," Denki interrupted with exaggerated patience, as if explaining to a child. "We know we are. And deep down, so do you. That's what really eats you up inside, isn't it?"

In the commentator's booth, Aizawa suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses, sliding them onto his face.

"Uh, Eraser Head?" Present Mic leaned over. "Why the sudden fashion statement?"

"I'm covering my eyes," Aizawa replied flatly.

"But... why?"

Aizawa sighed. "Just watch."

Back on the field, Shoto had created a subtle network of fire ice crystals spreading outward from their position. With practiced precision, he formed two ice sculptures resembling elegant female figures atop lotus blossoms—his signature Cold White Princesses technique.

Neito noticed the move and scoffed. "We saw that in the preliminaries, Todoroki! Your ice attacks won't surprise us!"

Shoto merely smirked in response. "My job here is done."

Before Neito could question the statement, Katsuki suddenly shouted, "EVERYONE DOWN!" and launched himself skyward.

In midair, he spun toward the fire ice network and unleashed a controlled explosion. The special ice—infused with Shoto's fire element—ignited instantly.

The resulting blast was blinding—a massive flash bomb that flooded the arena with searing light and concussive force. Teams scattered in confusion, many shielding their eyes too late.

"WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!" Present Mic shrieked into his microphone. "I CAN'T SEE A THING!"

Through the chaos, Hanta's tape shot upward, wrapping around Katsuki's waist to yank him back to safety.

Kosei Tsuburaba from Team Monoma desperately tried to create a solid air barrier, but the flash had already done its work. "I can't see!" he cried out, his Solid Air quirk forming haphazard, useless shields.

Taking advantage of the momentary blindness, Denki moved with that strange new speed. In a blur of motion, he darted forward and snatched two headbands from around Neito's neck before returning to position.

"Got 'em!" Denki announced, holding up his prize.

But Katsuki wasn't satisfied. His eyes remained fixed on Neito, the pleasant smile replaced by something hungrier. "Not enough," he growled.

Other teams, recovering from the flash, began converging on the weakened Team Monoma. Neito, eyes still watering from the blast, managed to copy Kosei's Quirk and created an air shield around his team.

"We've still got one headband," Kosei pointed out, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. "We're still in fourth place. We can settle for that."

"Exactly," Neito agreed, relief evident in his voice. "We can still qualify."

From across the field, they heard Katsuki's laughter—cold and predatory. It wasn't his usual explosive outburst but something darker, something older. The sound rippled across the arena, causing several nearby competitors to instinctively step back.

"Settle?" he called out, voice dripping with disdain. "That's the difference between us, Copycat. You're willing to settle for scraps." His crimson eyes narrowed, radiating pure predatory intent. "I'm taking it all."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Neito's teammates exchanged uneasy glances, suddenly aware that what had begun as simple tournament rivalry had shifted into something far more dangerous.

With frightening coordination, Katsuki directed his team forward. Every movement was precise, calculated—the fluid efficiency of a hunter who had cornered his prey. Eijiro hardened his body to form a battering ram at the front, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by grim determination as he caught the contagious bloodlust radiating from his teammate. Hanta used his tape to pull them forward at increased speed, the sticky strands shooting out with perfect timing.

Kosei reinforced his air shield, sweat beading on his forehead as he poured more power into the barrier. "He's coming!" he warned, voice cracking with the first tendrils of genuine fear.

"Hold steady," Neito commanded, but his usual confidence had evaporated. Something about Bakugo's approach—the deliberate pace, the focused intensity—triggered a primal warning in his brain.

The air shield shimmered before them, Kosei's last desperate defense. For a brief moment, Team Monoma believed it might hold.

Then Katsuki launched himself directly at the barrier, palms blazing. The explosion that followed wasn't just powerful—it was precise, targeted exactly at the shield's weakest point. The solid air shattered like glass, the sound of it breaking nearly drowned out by Katsuki's battle cry. In one fluid motion, he tore through the opening and snatched the final headband from around Neito's neck.

The move was so fast, so efficient, that Neito didn't even realize what had happened until he felt the sudden absence of weight around his throat. His hand flew up to the empty space, eyes widening in horror.

In the teacher's section, All Might nodded with approval, unaware of the darker currents flowing beneath the surface of the competition. "Young Bakugo understands instinctively what some pros never learn—there's a fundamental difference between those who aim for the top and those who settle for less. That difference matters."

Beside him, Aizawa removed his sunglasses, his tired eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the exchange. Something about Bakugo's movements seemed... different. Way different from the training he saw two weeks ago. More controlled than his usual berserker style he was trying to create. More deliberate. More experienced. He made a mental note to review the footage later.

"Class 1-B had a solid strategy," Aizawa commented, careful to keep his concerns from his voice, "but they failed to account for one critical factor: Bakugo's overwhelming tenacity."

As Neito realized his final headband was gone—along with his team's chance at advancement—his expression crumbled. The smug superiority vanished like smoke, replaced by genuine despair that quickly morphed into something deeper: fear. It wasn't just the loss of the competition that struck him; it was the sudden, visceral understanding that he had provoked something far more dangerous than a hot-headed teenager.

Team Monoma huddled closer together instinctively, a primitive response to danger. Kosei was shaking slightly, his Quirk flickering as his concentration wavered. "What's wrong with him?" he whispered. "It's just a school competition..."

But Neito couldn't answer. His throat had gone dry, his usual verbose nature silenced by the predator hovering before him.

Katsuki remained suspended in the air for a moment, savoring the sight. This—this was what he had wanted. Not just victory, but complete subjugation. The absolute dominance of a superior combatant over inferior prey. It wasn't enough to win; he needed to crush, to overwhelm, to take everything they had and leave them empty.

His lips curled into a wicked, sinister grin—teeth gleaming almost like fangs in the stadium lights. It wasn't just victory he was savoring, but the complete destruction of his opponent's confidence. The look in his eyes was ancient, predatory—the gaze of someone who had crushed countless enemies and delighted in their downfall.

For Katsuki—for the part of him that was Akaza—this moment was exquisite. The fear in their eyes. The trembling of their bodies. The unspoken recognition that they were utterly outmatched. It fed something deep within him that had been starved for centuries—the demon's hunger for domination and recognition of strength.

"D-demon," Neito muttered under his breath, shrinking back despite himself. The word escaped his lips unbidden, a primal recognition rather than a conscious insult.

Katsuki's grin only widened at the word, a flicker of recognition dancing in his golden eyes. Yes, some part of him purred in satisfaction. You see me now. You understand what you've awakened.

Team Monoma collectively took another step backward, their formation breaking down as instinct overrode training. They weren't just defeated competitors anymore—they were prey animals sensing a predator's killing intent.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the expression vanished from Katsuki's face, he eyes turned back to normal and his grin was replaced by his usual neutral scowl as he returned to his team. The transition was so abrupt, so complete, that anyone watching might have questioned whether they'd seen anything unusual at all.

"Let's go," he ordered, the headbands secured safely around his neck. His voice was normal again—gruff, impatient, teenage. "We've got bigger fish to fry."

As Team Bakugo moved away, Neito remained frozen in place, a lingering chill running through his body. He would tell himself later that it was just the stress of the competition, the disappointment of defeat. But deep down, he knew he had glimpsed something ancient and terrible behind Bakugo's eyes—something that would haunt his dreams for weeks to come.

From his position in the stands, Aizawa's gaze followed Bakugo's retreat, a slight furrow in his brow. He hadn't caught the smile—that brief, terrible flash of something other—but he had seen the aftermath. The unusual fear in Team Monoma's response. The way Bakugo had moved with such deadly efficiency.

Another note for the file. Another small concern to monitor. Another piece of the puzzle that was Katsuki Bakugo.

In the VIP stands, Rei Todoroki sat rigid in her seat, knuckles white against the armrests as she watched the unfolding battle below. The smile plastered on her face had become brittle, a mask that threatened to crack with each passing moment. Her eyes, however, told a different story—wide with recognition and a touch of fear as they followed Katsuki Bakugo's movements across the field.

That smile. That predatory stance. The way he'd savored Monoma's fear.

"It can't be," she whispered, so softly that even Natsuo beside her couldn't hear.

But it was. The evidence was undeniable. The way Bakugo had transformed during his confrontation with Monoma—the calculated cruelty, the ancient hunger in his eyes, the flash of what appeared to be phantom markings across his skin—it all pointed to one conclusion.

Akaza. Upper Moon Three. The martial artist demon who had claimed countless lives over centuries.

A demon she had known well in another lifetime.

Rei's fingers trembled slightly as memories flooded back—memories of silk robes and war fans, of blood-stained snow and the scent of plum blossoms. Memories of a beautiful, hollow monster who had called himself Douma, who had led a cult and devoured young women while wearing a serene smile.

I was him once , she thought, a familiar chill seeping into her bones despite the warmth of the stadium. Just as that boy is Akaza reborn.

She watched as Katsuki returned to his team, his demeanor shifting back to that of a normal, if aggressive, teenage boy. The transformation was so complete that anyone who hadn't recognized the signs might think they'd imagined the momentary lapse into something inhuman.

But Rei knew better.

"Mom?" Fuyumi's concerned voice broke through her thoughts. "Are you okay? You look pale."

Rei forced her smile to soften, to appear more natural. "I'm fine, dear. Just excited about the competition."

"You were cheering so loudly for Shoto earlier," Natsuo commented, studying her with slight concern. "But now you've gone quiet."

"I'm saving my voice for the finals," Rei replied, patting her son's hand reassuringly. "Shoto will need all our support then."

As her children's attention returned to the field, Rei allowed herself another glimpse of Katsuki. Despite everything—despite knowing what he had been, what he had done in that past life—she couldn't summon hatred or fear for the boy.

He deserves this chance, she thought, surprising herself with the warmth behind the sentiment. As did I.

Unlike her own reincarnation, Katsuki appeared to have been given a clean slate. A loving family. Friends. A path toward heroism rather than destruction.

Good for you, Akaza, she thought, and meant it. We both deserve better lives this time around.

On the field, the battle continued to rage, and Rei turned her attention back to her son—to Shoto, who carried his own burdens from this life, unaware of any past ones. Whatever demons lurked in the memories of others, her priority was protecting her children in this lifetime.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder how many others walked among them—how many souls from that blood-soaked era had found their way into this new world of quirks and heroes.

Notes:

Next chapter we get more of a deep dive on shoto.

Chapter 16: Disturbia

Summary:

I apologize Izuku..... NOT!

For some reason I like torturing this kid.

"JUST TWO MINUTES REMAIN IN THE CAVALRY BATTLE!" Present Mic's voice thundered across the stadium. "AND TEAM TODOROKI IS STILL HOLDING ONTO THE TEN MILLION POINTS!"

Shoto's team moved with mechanical precision across the field, Tenya providing controlled bursts of speed while Momo created defensive barriers to ward off approaching teams. Denki's electricity crackled around them in warning arcs, keeping a perimeter of safety.

"Midoriya's approaching from the left," Momo warned, creating a small shield to deflect incoming attacks.

"And Bakugo from the right," Denki added, electricity dancing between his fingertips. "This is about to get interesting."

Shoto's heterochromatic eyes narrowed as he assessed the battlefield. "Iida, prepare for your special move on my signal. Yaoyorozu, insulated net ready. Kaminari, full discharge the moment Midoriya gets within range."

Team Midoriya surged forward, determination written across Izuku's features. "One last chance!" he called to his team. "Tokoyami, have Dark Shadow ready! Uraraka, prepare for zero gravity! Hatsume, all jets at maximum!"

As the two teams converged, Izuku's mind raced through calculations and observations. Todoroki has the ten million points at the top of his headband stack. If we time this perfectly...

"NOW!" he shouted.

Ochaco activated her Quirk, eliminating their weight as Mei engaged all her "babies" at once. The combination launched Team Midoriya skyward at unprecedented speed, catching Team Todoroki off guard.

"Perfect!" Izuku exclaimed, eyes locked on the headband around Shoto's neck. "Just as planned!"

From the opposite direction, Katsuki rocketed toward them, palms exploding with controlled fury. "DON'T THINK I'LL LET YOU TAKE THOSE POINTS, DEKU!" he roared.

Shoto's eyes widened slightly. "Iida, now!"

"RECIPRO BURST!" Tenya shouted, his engines flaring blue as he activated his ultimate technique. The sudden acceleration was so violent that Team Todoroki became a blur, narrowly avoiding Izuku's grasping hand.

But Izuku had anticipated this. In a desperate gamble, he channeled One For All through his arm, green lightning crackling around his fingers.

"Five percent!" he muttered, pushing his control to its limit.

The surge of power allowed him to extend his reach just enough to snag one of the headbands from around Shoto's neck as they passed. The pain was intense but manageable—progress from his earlier struggles with the inherited Quirk.

"I got it!" Izuku shouted triumphantly, securing the headband around his own neck. "The ten million points!"

His team erupted in cheers, Mei's laughter especially manic as she calculated how many support companies would be clambering to recruit her after witnessing her "babies" in action.

But their celebration was premature.

Shoto's lips curved into a rare, knowing smile. "Check the point value, Midoriya."

Izuku's eyes darted to the headband in confusion. The number printed on it wasn't ten million—it was seventy.

"But..." Izuku stammered, the realization dawning. "You switched the positions!"

Momo nodded, unable to keep a hint of pride from her voice. "I created duplicate headbands with different point values. We placed the ten million at the bottom of Todoroki's stack, not the top."

"A simple misdirection," Tenya added, engines cooling down from his burst. "Precisely calculated to exploit your predictable approach pattern."

Izuku's heart sank as he realized their predicament. Without the ten million points, Team Midoriya didn't have enough to qualify for the next round.

"THIRTY SECONDS REMAINING!" Present Mic announced, his voice reaching a fever pitch.

"One more chance!" Izuku called to his team, determination replacing despair. "We can still do this!"

As Team Midoriya regrouped for a final desperate attack, Katsuki intercepted them midair, his crimson eyes blazing with competitive fire.

"OUT OF MY WAY, IZUKU!" he roared, palms smoking with imminent explosion.

Simultaneously, Shoto directed his team toward them, ice forming around his right hand. "Don't think it'll be that easy," he called out.

The three teams converged in the center of the arena, powers flaring as they prepared to clash. Electricity, explosions, ice, and One For All—all poised to collide in one final, decisive moment.

"TEN!" the crowd began counting down.

Izuku lunged forward, fingers stretching toward Shoto's headbands.

"NINE!"

Katsuki rocketed between them, a feral grin splitting his face.

"EIGHT!"

Denki's electricity arced toward both approaching teams.

"SEVEN!"

Dark Shadow extended, slipping past defenses.

"SIX!"

Ochaco strained to maintain her Zero Gravity as Mei's equipment sputtered.

"FIVE!"

Tenya's engines flared one last time.

"FOUR!"

Momo created a shield to block Katsuki's approach.

"THREE!"

Dark Shadow's claws closed around something.

"TWO!"

Izuku felt his fingertips brush against fabric.

"ONE!"

A horn blared across the stadium, freezing all competitors in place.

"TIME'S UP!" Present Mic screamed into his microphone. "THE CAVALRY BATTLE IS OFFICIALLY OVER!"

"AND NOW FOR THE RESULTS!" Present Mic's voice echoed throughout the stadium. "IN FIRST PLACE, MAINTAINING THEIR IRON GRIP ON THE TEN MILLION POINTS—TEAM TODOROKI!"

The crowd erupted in cheers as Shoto's team stood in formation, their victory secured. Momo allowed herself a small, satisfied smile while Tenya adjusted his glasses, a mixture of pride and disappointment evident in his posture.

"I apologize for the close call," Tenya said formally, bowing to his teammates. "My Recipro Burst should have carried us further from danger."

"Don't be ridiculous, Iida," Momo replied, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Your special move is precisely why we maintained our lead. Without your incredible speed, we would have lost the ten million points several times over."

Denki grinned, clapping Tenya on the back. "Yeah, man! You were awesome! The way you zoomed across the field when Midoriya almost had us? Total pro move!"

Shoto nodded in agreement, his usually stoic expression softening slightly. "We won as a team. Each of us contributed equally."

In second place, Team Bakugo's reception of their silver position couldn't have been more different.

"SECOND?!" Katsuki bellowed, explosions popping from his palms as he stomped across the ground. "SECOND ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH!"

Eijiro attempted to calm his raging teammate. "Hey, we still qualified! That's what matters, right?"

Baukugou sighed, “I guess you’re right but I’m not here to qualify, I’m here to win.” 

Hanta sighed, retracting his tape dispensers. "At least we beat most of Class 1-B after they tried to play us."

The announcement of the third-place team drew confused murmurs from the crowd.

"IN THIRD PLACE—TEAM SHINSO!"

Hitoshi Shinso stood with his makeshift team, a knowing smirk playing on his tired features as he twirled a headband around his finger. Somehow, the general studies student had managed to secure enough points to advance, despite having no obvious physical advantages.

"How did he...?" Tenya wondered aloud, studying the purple-haired boy with newfound respect.

Shoto's eyes narrowed slightly. "His Quirk. It must be something subtle but powerful."

Denki looked at shinso with pride. He was proving everyone wrong at this very moment and he’s proud of him.

Meanwhile, Team Tetsutetsu stood frozen in shock, the iron-skinned student's jaw hanging open in disbelief.

"We... lost?" Tetsutetsu stammered, running a hand through his metallic hair. "But how? We had enough points!"

Juzo Honenuki shook his head in confusion. "We must have lost a headband in that final scuffle without noticing."

"This is karmic punishment!" Sen Kaibara declared dramatically. "Divine retribution for stealing Mineta's headband when he wasn't looking!"

Tetsutetsu hung his head in shame. "You're right... we shouldn't have stooped to such underhanded tactics."

Across the field, Tsuyu approached Mina with a congratulatory smile. "Ribbit! You did well, Ashido-chan."

Mina sighed, her pink skin flushing a deeper magenta with embarrassment. "Not really. I barely contributed to our team's strategy. I just followed everyone else's lead."

"That's not true," Tsuyu replied, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Your acid created perfect distractions at key moments. Don't sell yourself short, ribbit."

Before Mina could respond, Present Mic's voice boomed once more.

"AND FINALLY, IN FOURTH PLACE..."

The audience leaned forward in anticipation. Team Midoriya stood with bowed heads, certain they had failed to qualify after missing the ten million points.

"TEAM MIDORIYA!"

Izuku's head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief. "What? But we didn't have enough points!"

Fumikage stepped forward, Dark Shadow curling around his shoulder with something clutched in its shadowy claws. "While you were distracting Todoroki with your frontal assault, Dark Shadow managed to snatch this from their formation."

He held out a headband worth six hundred and fifteen points.

"I... I don't understand," Izuku stammered, tears already welling in his eyes. "When did you—"

"In those final seconds," Fumikage explained, a rare smile crossing his beak-like features. "Your determination created the perfect opening. Dark Shadow slipped through their defenses while all attention was on you."

Izuku's tears flowed freely now, overwhelmed by the realization that they had qualified after all. "Thank you," he choked out. "All of you—thank you so much!"

Ochaco beamed, wrapping him in a quick hug before remembering herself and stepping back with a blush. "We did it, Deku! We're moving on to the finals!"

In the VIP stands, young Hiro bounced excitedly in his seat, practically vibrating with energy. "Did you see that, Mom? Uncle Shoto was AMAZING! The way he led his team was so cool!"

Yumi nodded enthusiastically beside him. "He totally outstrategized everyone! Classic Todoroki thinking—always three steps ahead!"

"SHOTO! SHOTO! SHOTO!" Rei chanted, her voice rising above the crowd as she cupped her hands around her mouth, all previous tension momentarily forgotten in the joy of her son's victory.

Natsuo leaned toward Fuyumi, relief evident in his voice. "It's so good to see Mom like this again. Enthusiastic, happy... normal."

Fuyumi nodded, though concern still lingered in her eyes. "Yes, but did you notice earlier? During that intense moment with Bakugo and the Class 1-B team? Mom looked... worried. Almost frightened."

"Probably just concerned for Shoto's safety," Natsuo reasoned, watching as their mother continued cheering. "This year's competition is intense—even I was on edge during some of those clashes."

Fuyumi hummed noncommittally, not entirely convinced. Something about their mother's expression had seemed deeper than mere concern for Shoto. It had looked like recognition—like seeing a ghost from the past. But that didn't make sense... unless there was something about Bakugo that their mother knew and they didn't.

As Present Mic announced a lunch break before the afternoon's individual battles, the students began dispersing toward the cafeteria. Ochaco stretched her arms above her head, muscles sore from the intense competition.

"That was exhausting!" she exclaimed. "I'm starving now. Deku, want to grab lunch together?"

When no response came, she turned in confusion. "Deku?"

But Izuku was nowhere to be seen. Unknown to Ochaco, he had been intercepted near the student entrance by Shoto, whose heterochromatic eyes had hardened with purpose as he cornered his green-haired classmate against the wall.

"Midoriya," Shoto said, his voice low and intense. "We need to talk."

As the rest of the students dispersed toward the cafeteria, Shoto's hand closed around Izuku's wrist, his grip firm but not painful. Without explanation, he pulled the green-haired boy away from the crowd.

"Todoroki-kun?" Izuku questioned, stumbling slightly as he was led down a corridor away from the excited chatter of their classmates. "Where are we going?"

Shoto didn't respond, his heterochromatic eyes fixed forward with singular purpose. The temperature around them seemed to drop with each step, a physical manifestation of the cold determination radiating from the dual-quirk user.

They reached the secluded hallway near the student and faculty entrance. The corridor was deserted, everyone else having rushed to the cafeteria to refuel before the afternoon's events. Shoto finally released Izuku's wrist, his grip having left angry red marks on the smaller boy's skin. He positioned himself between Izuku and the exit with calculated precision.

"Um, maybe we should get lunch before they run out of food?" Izuku suggested nervously, rubbing his wrist where the blood was slowly returning. "The cafeteria gets pretty crowded during festival breaks, and—"

"That power," Shoto interrupted, his voice unnaturally light and pleasant, a stark contrast to the cold intensity in his eyes. "During the cavalry battle. It's the same as All Might's."

Izuku froze, his heart hammering against his ribcage. The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop several degrees. "W-what do you mean? My quirk is nothing like—"

"Are you All Might's secret love child?"

The question hung in the air between them, but what unsettled Izuku more than the question itself was the small, empty smile that accompanied it—as if Shoto was merely commenting on the weather rather than potentially exposing Izuku's greatest secret.

"N-no! That's not it at all!" Izuku waved his hands frantically. "It's not like that! I mean, yes, there's a connection, but not—I'm not his son!"

"So there is a connection." Shoto's smile widened slightly, his expression unchanging despite the revelation. "How interesting." He stepped closer, invading Izuku's personal space with deliberate slowness. "But honestly, I don't really care what it is."

"You... don't?" Izuku backed up until he felt the cold wall behind him, a chill running down his spine at the predatory way Shoto was approaching.

"No. I wanted to speak with you for a different reason entirely." Shoto placed both hands against the wall on either side of Izuku's head, effectively caging him. His movements were fluid, almost graceful—like a spider spinning its web. "I need to make something clear."

Izuku's mouth went dry, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. "What is it, Todoroki-kun?"

"I challenged you for one reason." Shoto's voice maintained that eerily pleasant tone, completely disconnected from the menace of his words. "To sort out my feelings. Because for some reason, you fascinate me."

A bead of sweat rolled down Izuku's temple. "I don't understand."

"That's exactly what makes you so interesting," Shoto whispered, leaning closer until Izuku could feel his breath—alternating between unnaturally cold and uncomfortably hot—against his skin. "You've done nothing wrong. You're sweet. Kind. Always striving for justice." His smile remained fixed, never reaching his eyes. "And that's precisely why I want to destroy you."

Izuku's breath caught in his throat, his lungs constricting with pure fear. "D-destroy me?"

Shoto's right hand moved from the wall to Izuku's face, cradling his jaw with a gentleness that felt like mockery. The touch was painfully cold—like pressing against ice.

"I want to see how far you can go," Shoto murmured, studying Izuku's features with the clinical interest of someone examining an insect under glass. "How hard I can push you before you break. I want to dismantle that endless optimism piece by piece until there's nothing left but despair."

His thumb traced Izuku's cheekbone, leaving a trail of frost in its wake. "I want to witness your brilliant mind shatter under pressure. To watch your body strain against its limitations until it collapses."

Izuku stood paralyzed, eyes wide with primal terror—his fight-or-flight response screaming at him to run, but his body refusing to obey. His heart thundered so loudly he was certain Shoto could hear it. Nausea rolled through his stomach as he realized with sickening clarity that the person before him was a stranger wearing his classmate's face.

"Yet at the same time," Shoto continued, his voice taking on a strange, melodic quality that made Izuku's skin crawl, "I find you utterly fascinating. Your determination. Your resilience. The way you throw yourself against impossible odds without hesitation."

As he spoke, something subtle shifted in his appearance. His pupils dilated unnaturally, becoming perfect circles that consumed much of his irises. A faint, prismatic glow surrounded what remained of his heterochromatic eyes—blues, greens, and pinks swirling like oil on water. His canines seemed sharper when he smiled, more pronounced than they had been moments before.

"It makes me wonder just how much it would take to finally break you, Midoriya-kun," Shoto sang, his voice carrying an unfamiliar musical cadence that sent involuntary shivers down Izuku's spine. "Would you still smile so brightly after I've torn away everything you hold dear? Would you still extend your hand in friendship after I've crushed your dreams to dust?"

A whimper escaped Izuku's throat before he could stop it—a sound so pathetic and fearful that it should have elicited some human response: satisfaction, pity, or even disgust. But Shoto's expression remained unchanged, that same hollow smile fixed in place as if he were merely mimicking human expressions without understanding them.

"Everyone has a breaking point," Shoto whispered, leaning in until their faces were mere inches apart. His breath smelled of winter frost and burning embers. "Even heroes like All Might. Even determined little soldiers like you."

His fingers tightened painfully on Izuku's jaw. "I wonder what yours is, hmm? What would it take to make you despair completely? To make you give up? To make you beg ?"

A cruel smile spread across his face, beautiful and terrible simultaneously. "Should we find out together? I think it could be so much fun !" His voice lilted on the word "fun" with such genuine delight that it was more terrifying than any threat could have been.

Izuku's vision began to tunnel, dark spots dancing at the edges as hyperventilation set in. His legs trembled violently, threatening to give out entirely. He couldn't speak, couldn't think—could only stare into those hypnotic, rainbow-hued eyes that regarded his terror with the same interest one might show a mildly entertaining television program.

Suddenly, Shoto blinked—and awareness flooded back into his expression. He stared at his hand still cradling Izuku's face as if it belonged to someone else. Horror dawned in his eyes, the unnatural rainbow glow fading back to normal blue and gray.

"What am I—" he jerked his hand away as if burned, stumbling backward. "Midoriya, I—"

Shoto's face had gone deathly pale, his breathing shallow and rapid. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I don't know what—I didn't mean—"

Without finishing any of his broken sentences, Shoto turned and fled down the corridor, leaving Izuku alone and shaking against the wall.

Izuku's legs finally gave out. He slid down until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, violent tremors wracking his body. He didn't realize he was crying until he felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks, the salt stinging where Shoto's frost had burned his skin. His stomach heaved, and he barely managed to keep from being sick right there in the hallway.

"What was that?" he whispered through chattering teeth, his voice small and broken. The memory of those rainbow-hued eyes and that cruel, playful voice—so at odds with the horrors they promised—would haunt him for months to come. In that moment, huddled alone in the empty corridor, Izuku understood with terrible clarity what true fear felt like: not the adrenaline rush of facing a villain, but the bone-deep terror of confronting something inhuman wearing a human face.

One thought circled in his mind as he struggled to regain control of his breathing: whatever had spoken to him in that hallway hadn't been Shoto Todoroki at all.

---

Shoto raced through the empty corridors, heart pounding in his chest, desperate to put as much distance between himself and Midoriya as possible. He burst through a side door into a maintenance stairwell and collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath.

"Not again," he choked out, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Not again, not again, not again."

But it had happened again. That... thing inside him. That other presence that sometimes rose up when his emotions ran high. The demon his mother had warned him about.

Shakily, Shoto pulled out his phone and looked at his reflection in the black screen. His eyes were normal now—one gray, one turquoise—but the memory of that rainbow shimmer made him nauseous. The cruel words he'd spoken to Midoriya echoed in his mind, words that had felt both foreign and disturbingly natural flowing from his lips.

"I almost hurt him," Shoto whispered, sliding down the wall until he sat on the cold floor.

He needed to talk to his mother. She was the only one who truly understood what was happening to him—what lived inside him. The hereditary curse that she had reluctantly passed down, the demonic presence she called their "ancestral burden."

Shoto pulled out his phone again, fingers hovering over his mother's contact information. She would want to know about this incident—another slip in his control, another moment where the demon had surfaced. But calling her now would mean admitting failure. Admitting that despite all his practice, all his discipline, the demon still held power over him.

And he wasn't ready to face that yet.

Instead, Shoto forced himself to his feet, splashed cold water on his face from a nearby drinking fountain, and headed toward the cafeteria. He would need to apologize to Midoriya properly. He would need to regain control before the individual battles began.

Most importantly, he would need to speak with his mother after the festival ended. Because if the demon was getting stronger—if it could emerge so easily now—then Shoto was in serious trouble.

And potentially, so was everyone around him.

Notes:

NOW if can excuse me I need to figure out how shoto will get out of this Mess.

Stay Classy Pookies.

Chapter 17: Stairway Encounter

Summary:

NO summary...

I don't know how to describe this chapter.

Toshinori Yagi, better known to the world as All Might, bounded up the stairs with his characteristic enthusiasm despite his emaciated true form. His perpetual smile remained in place even without an audience, a habit formed over decades of heroism. As he rounded the landing, he caught sight of a familiar flame-adorned costume and white-haired woman ascending the stairs ahead of him.

"Endeavor! Mrs. Todoroki!" All Might called out, quickening his pace to catch up with the couple.

Enji Todoroki's broad shoulders stiffened at the sound of his rival's voice. He continued climbing without slowing. Beside him, Rei Todoroki glanced back, her delicate features arranged in a polite mask of acknowledgment.

"All Might," Enji grunted without turning. "We're rather busy at the moment."

All Might reached the same step as the couple, slightly out of breath but undeterred. "I just wanted to congratulate you on your son's remarkable performance! Young Todoroki shows incredible promise—a true testament to your guidance."

Enji and Rei exchanged a quick glance that All Might couldn't quite interpret—concern flickering between them like a silent conversation.

"Yes, well," Enji replied stiffly, "Shoto has always had potential."

"Indeed!" All Might continued enthusiastically. "In fact, I was hoping to get some advice from you both. As a teacher at U.A. now, I find myself wondering how best to nurture these young heroes-in-training. You've raised several remarkable children with impressive quirks—surely you must have some insights to share?"

Rei, who had been scanning the upper levels with quiet intensity, suddenly turned her full attention to All Might. Her smile remained perfectly in place, but something in her eyes had changed—a coldness that hadn't been there before, like the stillness of a winter pond just before it freezes completely.

"Enji," she said, her voice soft as falling snow, "why don't you go ahead and check the east corridor for Shoto? I noticed something... concerning during the cavalry battle. Mother's instinct."

The Number Two Hero nodded without question—a response that surprised All Might every time, given Endeavor's notorious stubbornness.

"Of course," Enji said, his gruff voice softening slightly when addressing his wife. "I'll check the training areas too. He might be practicing."

As Endeavor continued up the stairs, All Might found himself alone with Rei Todoroki. Her smile remained unwavering, but the temperature around them seemed to drop several degrees.

"Mrs. Todoroki, I hope I haven't kept you from—"

"All Might," Rei interrupted, her voice maintaining its melodious quality despite the steel underlying her words. "While I'm certain your intentions are admirable, this is hardly the time for professional networking."

"I apologize if I've overstepped," All Might said, his smile faltering slightly.

Rei took a single step closer, and despite being nearly a foot shorter than the skeletal hero, somehow managed to look down at him.

"My son," she continued, her smile never wavering, "is experiencing something quite troubling right now. Something that requires immediate parental attention—not advice from a man who has never raised children."

All Might swallowed hard. "I meant no disrespect—"

"Of course you didn't," Rei agreed pleasantly, her eyes cold as glacier ice. "Just as I mean no disrespect when I say that there are forces at work within Shoto that you could not possibly understand. Forces that require a mother's guidance, not a hero's platitudes."

She adjusted her elegant white shawl, her movements graceful and precise. "My husband may view you as a rival to surpass, All Might, but I assure you—I view you merely as an obstacle between me and my son at this moment."

The smile that accompanied these words was radiant, beautiful even, but utterly devoid of warmth. All Might felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with his weakened condition.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find my son before he—" Rei paused, selecting her words carefully, "—before his inner demons get the better of him."

All Might stood frozen, unsure how to respond to this elegant woman who radiated such terrifying intensity beneath her composed exterior.

"Mrs. Todoroki, if there's anything I can do to help—"

"There isn't," she cut in smoothly, her voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "Though I appreciate the sentiment, Symbol of Peace. Some battles cannot be won with a smile and a catchphrase. Some monsters lurk within our own blood, passed down through generations—and those require a different kind of heroism altogether."

All Might blinked, uncertain if he was imagining the faint rainbow shimmer that briefly passed through Rei's irises.

As suddenly as her intensity had appeared, it vanished. Rei's shoulders relaxed slightly, and a more genuine warmth entered her smile.

"Forgive me, All Might. Maternal worry makes monsters of us all," she said with a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm simply concerned for Shoto. He's been working so hard to control... certain aspects of his quirk."

All Might nodded cautiously. "Of course. Every parent worries for their child."

"Indeed," Rei agreed, her manner softening further. "You should come for dinner sometime, All Might. When this tournament is behind us and things have settled. I make an excellent sukiyaki, and Enji has been wanting to show off his new garden—though he'd never admit it."

The abrupt shift in her demeanor left All Might mentally reeling.

"That would be... lovely," he managed.

Rei nodded, satisfied. "Wonderful. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must find my son."

With a graceful inclination of her head, Rei ascended the stairs, leaving All Might staring after her, bewildered by the encounter.

"So that's Endeavor's wife," he murmured to himself, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

All Might recalled Enji's rare moments of unprompted conversation about his family—how his gruff rival would occasionally soften when mentioning Rei, calling her his "gentle snowflake" and "the kindest soul in Japan." All Might had formed a mental image of a meek, sweet woman who had somehow tamed the fiery hero's notorious temper.

That image now lay shattered at his feet.

Standing side by side, Enji Todoroki had appeared like a cuddly teddy bear compared to the wolf that was his wife. Her serene exterior concealing razor-sharp teeth and unflinching resolve—a predator dressed in cashmere and pearls.

"Note to self," All Might muttered as he turned to search for Midoriya, "never get on Mrs. Todoroki's bad side."

He couldn't help but wonder what "inner demons" the Todoroki family was struggling with—and whether young Shoto might need more support than his parents realized. But that was a concern for another time. For now, he needed to find his own protégé before the individual battles began.

Chapter 18: Take A Moment To Think Of Just

Summary:

Enji finds Shoto

Notes:

I'm out of it tonight

The maintenance stairwell felt like a sanctuary to Shoto—concrete and steel, devoid of human presence, cool enough that his breath formed small clouds in the air. He sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, focusing on the meditation techniques his mother had taught him years ago.

Breathe in for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

His hands still trembled slightly, the memory of Midoriya's frightened eyes etched into his mind. How could he have lost control so completely? The cavalcade of emotions—jealousy, fascination, anger, curiosity—had overwhelmed his defenses, allowing it to surface.

Four. Seven. Eight.

The heavy door to the stairwell creaked open, and Shoto tensed, ready to flee if it was another student. He wasn't prepared to face anyone yet, especially not—

"Shoto."

His father's deep voice echoed in the enclosed space. Shoto didn't look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the concrete floor.

"Go away," he muttered, his voice lacking its usual defiance when addressing Endeavor. "I need to be alone right now."

Instead of retreating, Enji Todoroki closed the door behind him and moved to sit on the step beside his son. Not touching, not speaking—just present. The flames that usually adorned his costume were dimmed to a gentle smolder, casting a warm glow in the otherwise dim stairwell.

Minutes passed in silence. Shoto continued his breathing exercises, and Enji waited patiently—a patience that would have been unimaginable in the flame hero before shoto was born. 

Finally, Shoto spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "It happened again."

Enji nodded slowly. "Your mother sensed it during the cavalry battle. Something was... different about you. But that seemed minor compared to whatever just happened."

"I lost control," Shoto admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. "With Midoriya. I cornered him, and then... it came out. The demon."

Enji's expression remained carefully neutral, but his flames flickered higher for just a moment before settling again. "Did you hurt him?"

"Not physically." Shoto wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. "But I think I terrified him. I said... horrible things. Things I didn't mean. At least, I don't think I meant them."

The uncertainty in his voice hung heavy between them.

"Do you remember what I told you, after you talked to your mother ?" Enji asked, his tone gentler than most of Shoto's classmates would believe possible from the Number Two Hero.

Shoto nodded slightly. "That the demon feeds on doubt. On the parts of ourselves we refuse to acknowledge."

"Exactly." Enji shifted, turning to face his son more directly. "These... ancestral burdens your mother explained to us—they don't create new darkness. They amplify what's already there."

Shoto finally looked up, mismatched eyes meeting his father's steady gaze. "So you're saying I actually do want to hurt Midoriya? That those thoughts are really mine?"

"I'm saying," Enji replied carefully, "that you might have complicated feelings about Midoriya that you haven't fully processed. Feelings that, when left unexamined, create openings for the demon to exploit."

Shoto considered this, remembering the mixture of admiration, envy, and resentment he'd felt watching Midoriya during their time at U.A. The way the other boy seemed to embody everything a hero should be. 

"I don't know what to do," Shoto admitted, the confession costing him dearly. "I can't avoid him for the rest of the festival. We might even face each other in the tournament."

Enji was quiet for a moment, his flames casting dancing shadows across the wall. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight of experience.

"When I first met your mother, I struggled with control more than ever before." A wistful smile crossed his face, so rare an expression that Shoto found himself staring. "Something about her intensity, her quiet strength... it brought out both the best and worst in me."

Shoto blinked in surprise. His father rarely spoke about the early days with his mother.

"What did you do?"

"I remembered what makes me human," Enji said simply. "Not just a vessel for power or ambition or... other things. The connections that ground me to this world, to this life."

He raised his hand, a small flame dancing above his palm—not the roaring inferno of his hero form, but a gentle, controlled light.

"Think of your anchor points, Shoto. The memories, the people, the simple joys that remind you of your humanity."

Shoto closed his eyes, searching for those anchors. Fuyumi's gentle encouragement. Natsuo's boisterous laughter. His mother's hand cooling his forehead during childhood fevers. The satisfaction of mastering a new technique. The taste of cold soba on a summer day.

Slowly, the chaos in his mind began to settle.

"That's it," Enji encouraged quietly. "Find your center."

As Shoto's breathing steadied, Enji continued. "Your mother has carried this burden longer than any of us. She's learned to control it so completely that most days, you'd never know what lives inside her. That same strength is in you."

Shoto opened his eyes, feeling more centered than he had since the cavalry battle. "I still need to apologize to Midoriya."

"Yes," Enji agreed. "And you'll need to tell him something of the truth."

"What?" Shoto straightened, alarm clear on his face. "I can't tell him about—about this . About what our family carries!"

Enji raised a placating hand. "Not the full truth, perhaps. But enough that he understands it wasn't truly you speaking. That boy deserves some explanation after what he experienced."

Shoto's face crumpled slightly. "Mother's going to be so disappointed in me."

A deep chuckle rumbled from Enji's chest, surprising them both. "Your mother? Disappointed in you? Impossible."

"But I lost control—"

"And now you're regaining it," Enji interrupted. "That's what she cares about, Shoto. Not that you never struggle, but that you continue to fight. That you recognize the darkness without surrendering to it."

He stood, offering a hand to his son. "Come. The individual matches will be starting soon, and you'll need to center yourself completely before then."

Shoto hesitated, then accepted the offered hand, allowing his father to pull him to his feet. "I still have to tell Mother."

"NOOOOOO!" The anguished cry echoed dramatically off the stairwell walls, startling them both.

Enji raised an eyebrow, his expression caught between amusement and concern. "It's not quite that dire, Shoto."

"I know, but..." Shoto's shoulders slumped. "She's been so proud of how well I've been doing with the control exercises. And after Fuyumi and Natsuo never showed any signs of the... inheritance... she's been counting on me and Touya to manage it."

Enji placed a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Your mother understands better than anyone the challenges you face. She won't be disappointed—she'll be relieved you're seeking help instead of hiding it."

The tension in Shoto's shoulders eased slightly. "I suppose you're right."

"Besides," Enji added with a rare half-smile, "she's already suspicious. Mother's instinct, she called it."

They walked toward the door together, an unusual peace between them. Before Enji could push it open, Shoto paused.

"Father?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you," Shoto said quietly. "For finding me. For... understanding."

Enji's expression softened in a way few outside their family ever witnessed. "Always, Shoto. Whatever our past differences, whatever challenges lie ahead—I will always be here when that darkness rises."

As they stepped back into the busy corridor, Shoto felt steadier than before. The demon's presence had receded to a manageable whisper at the back of his mind. He still needed to face Midoriya, still needed to confess to his mother, still needed to compete in the tournament ahead—but for now, he was anchored in his humanity once more.

And sometimes, that was victory enough.

---

Rei Todoroki stood by a large window overlooking the festival grounds, her reflection ghostly against the bright sunshine outside. She sensed their approach before she heard them, a mother's awareness—or perhaps something older, deeper—alerting her to her son's presence.

She turned, relief washing over her features as she saw Shoto walking beside Enji, both of them looking calmer than she had dared hope.

"Shoto," she called softly, opening her arms.

Shoto hesitated only a moment before stepping into his mother's embrace. Over his head, her eyes met Enji's, a silent question passing between them.

He's alright, Enji's slight nod assured her. For now.

"I need to tell you something, Mother," Shoto murmured against her shoulder. "About what happened earlier."

"I know, dear one," Rei whispered, stroking his dual-colored hair. "I know. But first, you must find young Midoriya.The final recreational game is about to begin, and that conversation shouldn't wait."

Shoto pulled back, surprise evident on his face. "How did you—"

A small, knowing smile curved Rei's lips. "Mothers always know, Shoto. Especially mothers like me."

For a fleeting instant, something ancient and otherworldly flickered behind her gentle gaze—a reminder of the power she kept so carefully contained. Then it was gone, replaced by simple maternal concern.

"Go," she encouraged, squeezing his hands. "We'll talk later. And Shoto? Remember who you are in this life. Not what came before."

Shoto nodded, determination replacing the uncertainty in his expression. With a respectful nod to his father, he headed down the corridor in search of Midoriya.

As he disappeared around a corner, Rei leaned into Enji's solid presence beside her. "Was it bad?" she asked quietly.

"Not irreparable," Enji replied, his arm coming around her shoulders. "He found his way back."

"This time," Rei murmured, worry creasing her brow.

Enji pressed a gentle kiss to her temple—a tenderness few would believe the flame hero capable of. "Have faith in him, snowflake. He has your strength."

"And your stubborn will," Rei added with a small smile.

Together they watched the corridor where their son had disappeared, two parents united in concern for the battles he fought—both those visible to the world, and those that raged unseen within his blood.

Chapter 19: Victory or Defeat

Summary:

we begin the recreational battles

Notes:

I didn't put a lot of work into and it shows.

The cafeteria buzzed with excited chatter as students refueled before the tournament's final stage. Conversations about quirk matchups and betting pools on potential winners filled the air, creating a din that made it difficult to hear anything beyond your immediate vicinity.

Perfect for private conversations.

Shoto scanned the crowded space, heterochromatic eyes searching for a familiar mop of green hair. He found Midoriya sitting alone at a corner table, hunched over a notebook, absently picking at his food. The usual enthusiasm that radiated from the smaller boy was noticeably dimmed.

I did that , Shoto thought, guilt tightening his chest. I put that fear in him.

Squaring his shoulders, Shoto approached the table. Midoriya didn't notice his presence until Shoto's shadow fell across his notebook, causing him to look up. The flash of alarm in those green eyes was brief but unmistakable.

"Midoriya," Shoto said, his voice carefully neutral. "May I sit?"

Izuku hesitated for a moment before nodding, subtly shifting his chair back a few inches—creating distance. The movement wasn't lost on Shoto.

"I owe you an apology," Shoto began without preamble, lowering himself into the chair across from Izuku. "For my behavior earlier. It was... inexcusable."

Izuku closed his notebook, giving Shoto his full attention despite the wariness in his posture. "It was definitely unexpected," he replied, his voice quieter than usual. "You seemed like a different person."

"In some ways, I was," Shoto admitted, choosing his words with care. He'd rehearsed this explanation in his head during his walk from the stairwell, trying to convey enough truth without revealing too much. "There's something I should explain about my quirk—or rather, an... extension of it that I inherited from my mother's side."

Izuku's natural curiosity visibly battled with his lingering apprehension. Curiosity won. "An extension? You mean beyond your ice and fire?"

Shoto nodded, lowering his voice further. "My mother's quirk isn't just about creating ice. There's a... mutation aspect that affects certain parts of the brain. Emotional regulation, specifically."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The demon blood was a mutation of sorts, passed through his mother's lineage, and it absolutely affected emotional control.

"Under extreme stress or intense emotion," Shoto continued, "this mutation can trigger what my family calls an 'episode.' A temporary shift in personality and perception. My control over it is usually better, but..." He paused, meeting Izuku's eyes directly. "Something about you challenges that control."

"Me?" Izuku blinked in surprise. "What could I possibly—"

"Your connection to All Might," Shoto interrupted, keeping his voice even. "Your unwavering determination despite seemingly insurmountable odds. It... triggers something in me that I don't fully understand."

Izuku seemed to process this, his analytical mind clearly working through the implications. "So earlier, when your eyes changed color and your voice sounded different—"

"A manifestation of the mutation," Shoto confirmed. "It's rare but not unheard of in my family. My brother experienced something similar when we were younger."

Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Outside, the announcement system chimed, indicating fifteen minutes until they needed to return to the stadium.

"I understand why it happened," Izuku finally said, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his notebook. "But Todoroki-kun, you really scared me. The things you said about wanting to—to destroy me, to break me—"

"I know," Shoto said quietly, shame washing over him. "And I'm truly sorry. Those words came from a twisted version of my own competitive feelings, amplified and distorted by the... mutation. It wasn't really me speaking, but it wasn't entirely not me either."

Izuku's brow furrowed as he studied Shoto's face, searching for sincerity. "Does it happen often?"

"It's been years since the last episode," Shoto admitted. "I've worked hard to control it. Today was... a lapse."

"And if we face each other in the tournament?" Izuku asked, the question hanging between them like a challenge.

"It won't happen again," Shoto stated firmly. "I've taken steps to center myself. The mutation feeds on unprocessed emotion and doubt. Now that I'm aware of the trigger, I can maintain control."

Izuku seemed to relax slightly, though wariness lingered in his posture. "I appreciate your honesty, Todoroki-kun. And your apology." A small, hesitant smile tugged at his lips. "Though next time you want to discuss connections to pro heroes, maybe try a less terrifying approach?"

The attempt at humor caught Shoto off guard, a surprised huff of laughter escaping him. "Noted."

As they stood to leave, Izuku paused. "Just to be clear, I'm still a little mad about it," he said, surprising Shoto with his directness. "Understanding why it happened doesn't completely erase how it felt."

Shoto nodded, respecting the boundary. "That's fair. I wouldn't expect it to."

"But," Izuku continued, that familiar determined light returning to his eyes, "if we do face each other in the tournament, I want it to be a fair fight between us—not whatever was speaking through you earlier."

"It will be," Shoto promised. As they walked toward the exit, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Not completely—the demon would always be part of him—but enough to breathe more easily.

Neither boy noticed the spiky blond head that had been just visible over the nearby partition, or the crimson eyes that followed their departure with unusual intensity.

Katsuki Bakugo remained at his table long after Izuku and Shoto had left, his food growing cold as he processed what he'd overheard.

A quirk mutation affecting personality? Episodes that changed eye color and voice? It sounded like bullshit, yet Bakugo had seen something during the cavalry battle—a flash of something other in Todoroki's expression that had triggered his own instincts to react with caution rather than aggression.

This had to be Douma.

"Tch," Bakugo muttered to himself, pushing away from the table. "Focus on the tournament, idiot. Beat these extras first, worry about weird shit later."

In a quiet alcove near the VIP seating area, Enji and Rei Todoroki stood close together, watching as attendees began filtering back into the stadium for the tournament's final stage.

"Did you find Shoto?" Rei asked, though her serene smile suggested she already knew the answer.

"Yes," Enji confirmed. "We talked. He's steadier now—going to speak with the Midoriya boy."

"Good," Rei nodded, satisfaction evident in her voice. "He needs to address what happened directly. Avoidance only feeds the darkness."

Enji studied his wife's profile, noting the subtle tension that had left her shoulders since they'd last spoken. Whatever had troubled her earlier seemed to have eased.

"Speaking of addressing things directly," he began, a hint of amusement in his gruff voice, "what exactly did you say to All Might? The man looked positively haunted when I passed him earlier."

Rei's eyes widened with manufactured innocence, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of her lips. "All Might? Oh, we just had a brief chat while you were searching for Shoto."

"A chat," Enji repeated skeptically. "The Symbol of Peace doesn't typically look like he's seen a ghost after a simple chat."

"Enji," Rei chided playfully, lightly tapping his chest with her delicate hand. "Are you suggesting I would intimidate the Number One Hero?"

"Not suggesting," Enji rumbled, a rare grin spreading beneath his flame beard. "Stating outright. I know that look on your face, snowflake. It's the same one you wore after terrorizing that school principal who tried to expel Natsuo."

Rei's laughter was light and musical, drawing smiles from passersby who would never suspect the steel beneath her gentle exterior.

"Oh, nothing so dramatic," she demurred. "I simply... clarified certain boundaries regarding our son, and perhaps allowed a glimpse of my... maternal concern."

"Maternal concern," Enji echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"I also invited him for dinner," Rei added, smoothly changing the subject as she adjusted her pristine white shawl.

"You what?" Enji's flames flared momentarily higher in surprise.

"Invited him for dinner," Rei repeated calmly. "After the festival, of course. It seemed the polite thing to do after our conversation. Besides," she added, linking her arm with his as they began walking toward their seats, "it's always useful to maintain cordial relationships with your rivals, isn't it?"

Enji shook his head in amused disbelief. "You're terrifying sometimes, you know that?"

"Only when necessary, dear," Rei replied, her smile serene but her eyes glinting with that ancient, otherworldly knowledge that had first drawn him to her decades ago. "Only when necessary."

As they rejoined their children in the family box, Enji couldn't help but marvel at the woman beside him—outwardly the picture of gentle motherhood, inwardly possessing a strength and determination that rivaled his own fiery nature. Whatever had once existed within her—whatever still lingered in her blood and in their son's—had been tempered by her humanity, by her love for her family.

And watching her fuss over Fuyumi's hair and tease Natsuo about his university studies, Enji was reminded once again that some battles weren't won through power or dominance, but through the steady persistence of love—a lesson he was still learning, day by day, under his wife's patient guidance.

From his position in the faculty section, All Might suppressed a shiver as he caught sight of Rei Todoroki across the stadium. Even at this distance, her elegant poise triggered a recent memory of rainbow-hued eyes and words sharp as icicles. ..

He shook his head, dispelling the moment of unease. Whatever secrets the Todoroki family harbored were clearly their own business, and they seemed to have them well in hand. His focus needed to be on his students now—particularly young Midoriya, who appeared to have recovered from whatever had troubled him earlier.

The cafeteria gradually emptied as students made their way back to the stadium. The tension between Todoroki and Midoriya had eased somewhat, though a watchful distance remained between them as they rejoined their classmates.

"WELCOME BACK TO THE U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL!" Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium, eliciting roars from the crowd. "BEFORE WE DIVE INTO THE SERIOUS BUSINESS OF OUR FINAL TOURNAMENT, LET'S LIGHTEN THE MOOD WITH SOME RECREATIONAL ACTIVITIES!"

The jumbotron flashed with colorful animations showcasing various games: obstacle races, target practice, and even a scavenger hunt. Most of the finalist students, however, seemed more interested in mental preparation than participation.

"The recreational games are mainly for the audience's entertainment," Yaoyorozu explained to Jirou beside her. "And to give us finalists a chance to collect ourselves before the matches begin."

Midnight sauntered to the center stage, microphone in hand. "Before the recreational games begin, we need to determine the match-ups for our final event!" She gestured dramatically toward a large box. "Each qualifier will draw lots to create our tournament bracket!"

Eijiro leaned toward Mina, who was eyeing the box with curiosity. "The final round is always one-on-one combat," he explained, "but they change up the format every year."

"Sometimes it's straight knockout," Hanta added, "other years they've done round-robin or even tag team battles."

"Ooh, tag team would've been fun!" Mina replied, bouncing on her toes. "Though going solo means all the spotlight is on you!"

"Before we draw lots," Midnight announced, "does anyone wish to withdraw from the finals? This is your last chance."

A heavy silence fell over the students. Then, to everyone's surprise, Mashirao Ojiro raised his hand.

"I'd like to withdraw," he said firmly, his tail dropping behind him in a posture of resignation.

Gasps erupted from Class 1-A. "Ojiro, why?" Hagakure exclaimed, her floating gloves gesturing wildly.

"During the cavalry battle," Mashirao explained, his voice steady despite the discomfort evident on his face, "I have no memory of what happened. I was used as a puppet by someone else's quirk." His eyes flickered toward a purple-haired student from General Studies. "My pride won't let me advance without knowing how I got here. It wouldn't be right."

Before Midnight could respond, another student—Nirengeki Shoda from Class 1-B—stepped forward. "I'd like to withdraw as well," he said. "For similar reasons. I don't feel I earned my place here."

Midnight considered both students with a thoughtful expression before nodding. "Your reasoning shows true sportsmanship and integrity. I accept your withdrawals." She tapped her chin with her flog. "This means we'll need to fill two spots from the fifth-place team: Team Kendo."

Itsuka Kendo stepped forward, her orange ponytail swinging. "Actually," she said, "I'd like to recommend Team Tetsutetsu for those spots instead. They fought harder during the cavalry battle and deserve the chance."

Tetsutetsu's eyes widened in surprise. "Kendo..." he began, clearly moved by the gesture.

"Very well!" Midnight cracked her flog. "Team Tetsutetsu will advance to fill the empty positions! Now, let's draw lots and determine our match-ups!"

One by one, students approached the box, tension mounting as the bracket began to take shape on the jumbotron. When the final name was placed, excited murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"And here are your first-round match-ups!" Midnight announced as the completed bracket displayed:

• Izuku Midoriya vs. Hitoshi Shinso
• Shoto Todoroki vs. Hanta Sero
• Ibara Shiozaki vs. Denki Kaminari
• Tenya Ida vs. Mei Hatsume
• Mina Ashido vs. Yuga Aoyama
• Fumikage Tokoyami vs. Momo Yaoyorozu
• Eijiro Kirishima vs. Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu
• Katsuki Bakugo vs. Ochaco Uraraka

Izuku stared at his opponent's name, brow furrowed in concentration. The purple-haired student—Hitoshi Shinso—approached him with casual confidence.

"So you're—" Hitoshi began, but was suddenly interrupted when Mashirao appeared between them, placing a hand firmly on Izuku's shoulder.

"Don't answer him," Mashirao warned, pulling Izuku away. "Don't say a word to him."

Izuku blinked in confusion but allowed himself to be led away, glancing back at Shinso who watched them with an amused smirk.

Nearby, Shoto's gaze drifted between his own match-up and Midoriya's. I need him to advance, he thought. I need to defeat him myself.

Katsuki squinted at the board. "Uraraka? Which one is that again?"

"That's me," Ochaco piped up from behind him, her determined expression at odds with her round features. "And I'm going to give it my all, Bakugo."

Katsuki's lips curled into his signature grin. "Bring it, Kirby."

Meanwhile, Tenya found himself cornered by a pink-haired girl with crosshair eyes who was enthusiastically gesturing toward what appeared to be mechanical boots.

"Just imagine the exposure!" Mei Hatsume exclaimed, leaning uncomfortably close. "My babies showcased in front of all those support companies! You'd benefit too, of course—these hover soles could increase your speed by at least 22%!"

"I—That's—" Tenya stammered, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Isn't that against the rules?"

"Not if they're disclosed and offered to everyone!" Mei replied without missing a beat. "So, what do you say, Engine Legs?"

As the recreational games commenced, many finalists retreated to quiet corners to prepare. Izuku found a secluded hallway where he could review his notes on Shinso, though they were frustratingly sparse. All he knew was that Mashirao had warned him not to respond to the other boy's questions—which suggested some kind of voice-activated quirk.

Through the windows, he could see Cementoss on the field, methodically raising concrete walls to form the fighting arena. Each precise movement transformed the stadium floor into a perfect battle stage, surrounded by grass to mark the boundaries.

"There you are, young Midoriya."

Izuku turned to find All Might—in his deflated form—approaching from down the hall.

"All Might! I was just—"

"Preparing for your match, I see." All Might nodded toward Izuku's notebook. "How are you feeling?"

Izuku's shoulders slumped slightly. "Honestly? Like I don't deserve to be here. I only got through the obstacle course because of Todoroki's ice. I only passed the cavalry battle because of Uraraka, Tokoyami, and Mei." He stared at his hands. "It feels like I'm still relying on others instead of mastering One For All properly."

All Might placed a bony hand on Izuku's shoulder. "Young Midoriya, do you know why I chose you as my successor?"

"Because I ran in to save Kacchan when no one else would?"

"That's part of it," All Might agreed. "But also because I saw in you the same thing I see now: a hero's heart that inspires others to action." His sunken eyes crinkled with warmth. "The fact that others believe in you enough to support you is a strength, not a weakness."

Izuku nodded, though doubt still clouded his expression.

"Now," All Might continued, "stand tall. You belong here just as much as anyone else. Show the world what you're made of!"

Though Izuku didn't fully believe the words himself, he felt something ignite within him—the same determination that had driven him to chase after his dream despite being born quirkless.

"I will," he promised.

The speakers crackled to life. "FIRST MATCH COMPETITORS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE STAGING AREA!"

Izuku took a deep breath and closed his notebook. It was time.

As he walked toward the arena, the roar of the crowd grew louder with each step. The tunnel ahead opened to blinding sunlight and a sea of spectators.

"AND NOW, FOR OUR FIRST MATCH!" Present Mic's voice reverberated through the stadium. "FROM THE HERO COURSE, CLASS 1-A: IZUKU MIDORIYA!"

Izuku stepped into the light, heart hammering in his chest.

"VERSUS—FROM GENERAL STUDIES, CLASS 1-C: HITOSHI SHINSO!"

From the opposite tunnel emerged the purple-haired student, his expression bored yet calculating.

In the stands, Class 1-A leaned forward in anticipation. To everyone's surprise, Denki jumped to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"YOU'VE GOT THIS, SHINSO!" he cheered loudly, drawing confused stares from his classmates.

"Kaminari?" Momo asked, brow furrowed. "Why are you cheering for our opponent?"

Denki turned, a genuine smile on his face. "I got to know him while training for the festival. We're friends now—of course I'm going to support him!" He shrugged. "Besides, Midoriya's tough. He can handle the competition."

Below, Izuku and Hitoshi faced each other across the concrete stage, sizing each other up as Midnight raised her flog.

"Begin!" she called, bringing it down with a crack.

"So," Shinso finally spoke, his voice carrying easily in the hushed stadium, "you're the one who made that impassioned declaration at the start, huh? Big talk from someone who looks ready to pass out from nerves."

Izuku clenched his fists but kept his mouth firmly shut, remembering Mashirao's warning.

"Not going to respond?" Shinso's eyes narrowed. "I wondered if someone would warn you. Makes this less interesting, but no matter." He shrugged. "I guess it's easy to stay silent when you're born lucky. Born with a quirk suited for heroics."

Izuku took a cautious step forward, eyes locked on his opponent.

"Must be nice," Shinso continued, his voice taking on an edge. "To never have people tell you that your dream is impossible. To never have them look at you like you're worthless because your quirk isn't flashy or combat-ready."

Something in those words struck a chord with Izuku. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out: "You're wrong—"

Instantly, Izuku felt his mind go blank. His body froze, then relaxed into a puppet-like state. Across from him, Shinso's satisfied smirk confirmed what had just happened.

"I win," he said simply. "Now, turn around and walk out of bounds."

Against his will, Izuku's body began to obey, turning mechanically toward the edge of the ring as gasps erupted from the crowd.

"WHAT'S THIS?!" Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium. "MIDORIYA HAS SUDDENLY STOPPED MOVING ON HIS OWN! HE'S WALKING TOWARD THE BOUNDARY LINE! WHAT KIND OF QUIRK DOES SHINSO HAVE?!"

In the commentator booth, Aizawa leaned toward the microphone. "This is exactly why the U.A. entrance exam is flawed," he stated flatly. "Shinso's Quirk—Brainwashing—allows him to control anyone who responds to him verbally. It's incredibly powerful for hero work, but useless against robots. That's why he ended up in General Studies instead of the hero course."

The crowd watched in stunned silence as Izuku continued his march toward elimination. His movements were stiff and mechanical, his eyes glazed over with a vacant expression.

"You were lucky," Shinso called after him, bitter edges in his voice. "Born with the perfect Quirk for a hero. Some of us have to work twice as hard just to be considered."

In the stands, All Might gripped the railing, his skeletal form trembling. "Stop, young Midoriya!" he shouted, though his weakened voice barely carried. "You can't let it end like this!"

Inside Izuku's mind, a thick fog enveloped his thoughts. He could see what was happening, could feel his legs moving against his will, but seemed powerless to stop it. It was like being trapped behind glass, watching someone else operate his body.

I can't move... I can't stop...

Mashirao's words echoed in his mind: " During the cavalry battle, I was under his control until I physically bumped into Shiozaki. Without outside interference, there's no way to break free. "

The boundary line loomed closer with each unwanted step. Three more steps. Two.

I can't lose here. Not like this. Not after everything...

As despair threatened to overwhelm him, something strange happened. The fog in his mind seemed to part briefly, revealing eight shadowy silhouettes standing before him—human shapes with glowing eyes that pierced through the mental haze. Though their features were indistinct, Izuku felt an overwhelming sense of presence from them, as if generations of power and will stood watching him.

One of the figures reached out, and in that moment, Izuku felt One For All surge through his veins like electricity. The power concentrated in his fingers, and with monumental effort, he managed to move them just enough—

CRACK!

Pain lanced through his hand as his fingers broke under the strain, the shock jolting his system free from Shinso's control. Izuku gasped, stumbling as he regained command of his body mere inches from the boundary.

"What?!" Shinso's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's impossible!"

In the stands, Katsuki Bakugo leaned forward, crimson eyes narrowing in confusion. Something had changed in Deku's presence—like multiple fighting spirits flickering around him for just an instant. Not just one will to fight, but several, each with their own distinct pressure and intent. It reminded him of something he couldn't quite place, a half-remembered feeling that made his blood burn with recognition.

What the hell was that? Katsuki thought, bristling with unease. Since when does Izuku have that kind of presence?

Realizing his Quirk had been broken, Shinso charged forward, his stance revealing trained movements as he aimed a punch at Izuku's face.

"Not bad," he grunted, following with a kick. "Denki's been a decent sparring partner. But you're not the only one who's been preparing!"

Izuku dodged, surprised by Shinso's competent hand-to-hand skills. The purple-haired student pressed his advantage, deliberately targeting Izuku's broken fingers, causing him to wince with each blow.

"Come on, hero," Shinso taunted, circling Izuku with practiced footwork. "Say something! Tell me how much those fingers hurt! Ask me how I learned to fight like this!"

Izuku pressed his lips together, refusing to speak despite the burning desire to respond. Every instinct within him wanted to acknowledge Shinso's skill, to ask questions, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

"I get it now," Shinso continued, feinting left before attempting to push Izuku toward the boundary. "Ojiro warned you. That's how you knew not to respond at first." His eyes darkened. "Must be nice to have friends in the hero course backing you up."

Something about Shinso's bitter tone resonated with Izuku. He recognized that pain—the sting of watching others achieve seemingly effortlessly what you had to struggle for. How many times had he watched Kacchan and others develop their Quirks while he remained powerless?

Even as they grappled at the edge of the ring, Izuku felt a strange kinship with his opponent. But sympathy wouldn't win this match.

Shinso landed a solid punch to Izuku's face, then grabbed his injured hand, squeezing the broken fingers. Pain exploded through Izuku's vision, but he bit down on his lip, refusing to cry out. Using the momentum, Shinso tried to push him over the boundary line.

Now!

In one fluid motion—a technique he'd practiced countless times during combat training—Izuku shifted his weight, hooked his foot behind Shinso's leg, and executed a shoulder throw. The purple-haired student's eyes widened in surprise as he was lifted and tossed over the boundary.

Shinso landed hard on his back outside the ring, the wind knocked from his lungs.

Midnight raised her flog. "Shinso is out of bounds! Midoriya advances to the next round!"

The crowd erupted in cheers as Present Mic's excited commentary filled the stadium: "WHAT A COMEBACK! MIDORIYA SOMEHOW BROKE FREE FROM SHINSO'S BRAINWASHING AND TURNED THE TABLES! THAT'S U.A.'S HERO COURSE FOR YOU!"

In the commentator booth, Aizawa nodded approvingly. "He used every technique he's picked up so far—breaking his fingers to shock himself out of the brainwashing, using his opponent's momentum against him. It wasn't flashy, but it was effective."

Izuku stood in the center of the ring, cradling his injured hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The vision of the shadowy figures still lingered in his mind, raising questions he couldn't begin to answer.

What was that? Who were they?

Across the ring, Shinso pushed himself to his feet, his expression a complex mixture of disappointment and resignation. "Just my luck," he muttered, dusting himself off. "Even when I get this far, it's not enough."

Izuku hesitated, then risked speaking now that the match was over. "You're wrong, you know."

Shinso paused, looking up in surprise.

"About me being lucky," Izuku clarified. "Having a heroic Quirk. The path isn't always what it seems."

A flicker of curiosity crossed Shinso's face, but before he could respond, cheers erupted from the stands.

"SHINSO! SHINSO! SHINSO!"

They both looked up to see students from General Studies on their feet, shouting encouragement. Among them, surprisingly, stood several Pro Heroes who had been watching the match with keen interest.

"Don't give up on your dream!" one shouted.

"Your Quirk is amazing for heroics!" called another.

Even Denki was on his feet with Class 1-A, electric energy sparking around him as he cheered for his friend.

Something in Shinso's expression softened, the bitterness momentarily replaced by surprise. As he turned to leave the stage, he called over his shoulder: "Tell that monkey friend of yours thanks for the warning. But next time, I'll find a way to win." He paused. "And Midoriya? The hero course isn't the only path to becoming a hero. Remember that."

As Hitoshi made his way toward the exit tunnel, a group of students wearing General Studies uniforms rushed down to meet him at the stadium entrance. They surrounded him with excited congratulations despite his loss.

"That was amazing, Shinso!" "You almost had him!" "You proved everyone wrong about your quirk!"

Hitoshi looked genuinely surprised by the warm reception. For someone who had spent years being told his quirk was more suited to villainy than heroics, the support left him momentarily speechless.

Denki pushed his way through the small crowd, hair still crackling with residual electricity from his excitement. "Dude! You were incredible out there!" He threw an arm around Hitoshi's shoulders. "Look over there." He pointed toward a section where several Pro Heroes were animatedly discussing the match.

"—brainwashing would be invaluable for hostage situations—" "—no physical damage necessary to subdue villains—" "—potential for rescue operations is impressive—"

One hero in particular, a tall woman with metallic skin, nodded appreciatively. "That kid's amazing. Hard to believe he's not in the Hero Course already."

Hitoshi's eyes widened slightly as he took in their reactions. Something shifted in his expression—the bitter edge softening into cautious hope.

"Hey," Denki said, giving his shoulder a light punch. "What did I tell you? Your quirk is perfect for heroics. Those pros see it too."

Hitoshi nodded, a rare, small smile forming. He turned back toward the arena where Izuku was still standing with the medical robots.

"Midoriya!" he called, loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

Izuku looked up, surprised.

"I'm still going to become a hero," Hitoshi declared with newfound conviction. "This loss doesn't change anything." The statement held no bitterness now, just determination.

Izuku's face broke into a genuine smile as he nodded back with respect.

"I've got to run," Denki told Hitoshi, already backing away. "Todoroki's match is next, and I don't want to miss it." He grinned. "We'll talk later, yeah? Maybe you can show me that counter you used—caught me off guard during training!"

"Sure," Hitoshi agreed, watching as Denki rushed off toward the stands.

In the stands, Katsuki remained seated while others celebrated, his mind turning over what he'd witnessed. That momentary flash when Deku had broken free of the brainwashing—it had felt like fighting multiple opponents at once, each with their own distinct killing intent. It reminded him of something he couldn't quite place, triggering instincts he didn't fully understand.

There's more to Izuku's Quirk than he's letting on, Katsuki thought, a familiar heat building in his palms. And I'm going to figure out what the hell it is.

As the medical robots approached to escort Izuku for treatment, he glanced up at the tournament bracket where Todoroki's name waited in the next column. The real challenges were only beginning.

Chapter 20: Can’t hold Us

Summary:

The one-on-fights continue

Notes:

I look my Baby Denki!

Hey, just wanted to say that finals is almost done and I have bad news. There might be a chance that I won't update during the summer becuase of my summer job and me doing Online summer classes. Sorry for the bad news. I will try my best to update. Stay classy pookies.

"Honestly, young man, breaking your fingers has become something of a habit for you," Recovery Girl tutted as she finished healing Izuku's hand. The familiar drain of energy that accompanied her quirk left him feeling slightly light-headed. "You need to find better strategies than self-injury."

"I know," Izuku admitted, flexing his newly healed fingers. "But this time was different. I didn't do it on purpose, exactly."

All Might stood nearby in his deflated form, brow furrowed with concern. "What do you mean, my boy?"

Izuku hesitated, unsure how to explain what he'd experienced. "When I was under Shinso's control, just before I broke free, I saw... something. A vision, I think." He looked up at his mentor with uncertainty. "There were people—silhouettes with glowing eyes. Eight of them."

All Might's expression remained neutral, though his eyes widened slightly.

"I felt One For All surge through me then, almost like it was responding to them." Izuku leaned forward. "Do you know what that means? Who they were?"

"Hmm," All Might scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I wouldn't read too much into it, young Midoriya. The mind can produce all manner of hallucinations under stress."

"But it felt so real," Izuku insisted. "And it helped me break free!"

"What helped you break free was your own indomitable spirit," All Might countered, placing a skeletal hand on Izuku's shoulder. "Your passion to win, to keep moving forward despite obstacles—that's what allowed you to overcome Shinso's quirk. Nothing more mysterious than that."

Izuku frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the explanation, but he nodded reluctantly. Something told him there was more to what he'd experienced, but if All Might didn't have answers, he wasn't sure where else to look.

"Now," Recovery Girl interrupted, handing Izuku a gummy candy, "eat this to help restore your energy, and get back to your classmates. The next match will be starting soon."

As Izuku left the office with a respectful bow, Recovery Girl turned to All Might with a knowing look.

"You didn't tell him."

All Might sighed, deflating further into his chair. "What would I say? That he's seeing echoes of previous wielders? That's not something I experienced until much later in my journey with One For All."

"But him seeing you in that vision—that's a good thing, isn't it?" Recovery Girl pressed. "It means the quirk is accepting him fully."

"Yes," All Might agreed quietly. "But he's already carrying enough weight on his shoulders. Let him focus on the tournament for now. There will be time for deeper mysteries later."

Izuku rejoined his classmates in the stands just as Present Mic announced the next combatants. Mashirao caught his eye from across the row and gave him a congratulatory nod, which Izuku returned with a grateful smile.

"Deku!" Ochaco greeted him cheerfully, making room beside her. "Your hand looks better!"

"Recovery Girl fixed me up," he confirmed, settling into his seat. His gaze drifted toward the section where Todoroki's family sat.

The Todoroki family occupied a prime viewing box, with Rei at the center. Beside her, Endeavor sat with uncharacteristic calmness, his flame beard crackling at a lower intensity than usual. On Rei's other side sat a young man with striking resemblance to both parents—Touya Todoroki—whose arm was draped casually over the shoulders of a tall, blond man with impressive crimson wings.

 

Two children, a boy and a girl,were practically bouncing in their seats in front of the adults.

"PAPA, DAD! LOOK!" the girl—presumably Yumi—squealed, pointing at the entrance tunnel. "IT'S SHOTO!"

"We see him, Yumi," Touya replied.

"He's gonna win for sure!" the boy—Hiro—declared confidently.

"Indoor voice, little man," Keigo reminded with a gentle ruffle of the boy's hair.

"IT'S TIME FOR OUR SECOND MATCH!" Present Mic's voice blasted through the stadium speakers. "FROM THE HERO COURSE, CLASS 1-A: HANTA SERO!"

From one tunnel emerged Sero, his confident grin visible even from the stands as he waved to the crowd.

"VERSUS—ALSO FROM CLASS 1-A: SHOTO TODOROKI!"

The temperature in the stadium seemed to drop several degrees as Shoto walked calmly onto the stage, his dual-colored hair shifting in the breeze.

"I'VE GOT A GOOD FEELING ABOUT THIS MATCH-UP!" Present Mic continued enthusiastically. "BOTH COMPETITORS BRING UNIQUE TALENTS TO THE RING!"

In the commentator booth, Aizawa leaned toward his microphone. "Sero has shown remarkable improvement in his combat capabilities since the beginning of the semester.”

"REALLY? TAPE-MAN'S BEEN LEVELING UP?" Present Mic sounded genuinely surprised.

"Don't call him that," Aizawa sighed. "But yes. Sero's quirk offers more versatility than many give him credit for. That said..." his gaze shifted to Todoroki, "he's facing perhaps the most technically proficient student in the entire first year."

On the concrete stage, Sero rolled his shoulders, his usual laid-back demeanor giving way to focused determination. "No hard feelings when this is over, Todoroki," he called across the arena. "I don't plan on making this easy for you."

Shoto nodded respectfully, dropping into a stance that seemed unusually refined—almost classical in its precision. His feet shifted into perfect balance, his hands poised with fingers slightly curved.

"BEGIN!" Midnight's flog cracked through the air.

Sero didn't hesitate. Two strips of tape shot from his elbows with impressive speed—one aimed directly at Shoto's legs, the other arcing high to come down from above. It was a pincer maneuver that showed far more tactical awareness than his previous fighting style.

"CHECK OUT THAT OPENER!" Present Mic shouted. "SERO'S NOT PULLING ANY PUNCHES!"

Shoto moved with fluid grace, stepping aside from the lower tape while simultaneously raising his right hand. A burst of ice intercepted the descending tape, freezing it solid.

Rather than retreat, Sero used the momentum to propel himself forward, launching into the air with a third tape line. He swung in a wide arc, releasing a barrage of shorter tape strips that approached Shoto from multiple angles.

"His aerial mobility has improved significantly," Aizawa commented.

In the stands, Bakugo grunted with grudging approval. "At least Tape Arms is making him work for it."

On the field, Shoto's expression remained calm as he tracked Sero's movements. With a swift motion, he brought his right hand in a circular sweep, ice forming not as a wall or blast, but as something entirely unexpected—an elegant war fan materialized in his grip, its edges gleaming with crystalline sharpness.

"WHOA! IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?" Present Mic exclaimed. "TODOROKI JUST CREATED SOME KIND OF ICE WEAPON!"

"A tessen," Aizawa clarified. "A Japanese war fan. Traditional weapon of samurai and court nobles."

With remarkable precision, Shoto used the fan to slice through the incoming tape strips, his movements flowing like water. The fan caught the sunlight, sending prismatic reflections dancing across the arena.

In the Todoroki family box, Rei leaned forward eagerly. "That's it, Shoto! Show them your form!" she called, her usually serene demeanor giving way to fierce enthusiasm.

"Darling, perhaps a bit quieter?" Enji suggested, though a proud smile was visible beneath his flame beard.

"Can't blame Mom for being excited," Touya murmured to Keigo. "She spent years teaching him that technique."

Keigo chuckled, wings rustling. "Your mother's training methods are... intense."

Below them, the children were equally enthralled. "Papa, look!" Yumi tugged on Keigo's sleeve. "Shoto's using Grandma's special move!"

"I see it, little shadow," Keigo replied affectionately.

On the field, Sero refused to be deterred. Using his tape to rapidly change directions, he fired another salvo while circling Shoto. "Not bad, Todoroki! But how about this?"

He suddenly reversed direction, using his tape to launch himself directly at Shoto's back—a maneuver clearly inspired by Bakugo's aggressive fighting style.

Shoto didn't even turn. In one fluid motion, he created a second ice fan in his left hand and brought both arms out in a spreading gesture. What followed was breathtaking in its execution—Shoto began a spinning technique that created a vortex of frigid air around him. The fans extended his reach, slicing through Sero's tape while simultaneously forming a spiraling barrier of ice crystals.

"INCREDIBLE CONTROL!" Present Mic's voice cracked with excitement. "TODOROKI IS DISPLAYING A LEVEL OF FINESSE THAT'S ALMOST UNHEARD OF IN FIRST-YEAR STUDENTS!"

"His training is evident," Aizawa added, a rare note of admiration in his usually monotone voice. "That's not just raw power—it's technique honed through thousands of hours of practice. His control alone puts him on par with many pros."

In the stands, Izuku watched with wide-eyed fascination, his notebook open as he frantically sketched Shoto's movements. "His breathing pattern... it's different from anything I've seen before. Almost like he's channeling his power through each breath."

Nearby, Tokoyami nodded. "There is a rhythm to his movements that speaks of disciplines."

Sero, realizing his direct approach wasn't working, changed tactics. Landing briefly on the edge of the ring, he fired multiple tape lines at the ground, creating a web-like structure. With impressive agility, he began bouncing between the tape lines, firing shorter bursts from constantly changing angles.

"NOT GIVING UP YET! SERO'S SHOWING SOME SERIOUSLY CREATIVE QUIRK USAGE!"

For a moment, it seemed as though Sero's unpredictable movement pattern might give him an opening. One strip of tape actually managed to catch Shoto's sleeve.

"Got you!" Sero exclaimed triumphantly, pulling hard to disrupt Shoto's balance.

Shoto didn't resist the pull. Instead, he moved with it, allowing himself to be drawn forward—directly toward Sero. In the instant before they would collide, Shoto exhaled deeply, a visible cloud of condensation forming around him.

With perfect control, he slammed both ice fans into the ground. The result was not the massive glacier from his battle with Kirishima during training, but something far more refined—a precise formation of ice that encased Sero from the neck down while stopping mere millimeters from his skin.

"Sero is immobilized!" Midnight declared, examining the ice closely. "Can you move at all?"

Sero strained against the ice for a moment before sighing in resignation. "No, I'm completely stuck. I give up."

"Todoroki advances to the next round!" Midnight announced.

As the crowd erupted in cheers, Shoto approached Sero and carefully melted the ice with his left side, being careful not to burn his classmate.

"That was an excellent match," Shoto said quietly. "Your improvement is impressive."

Sero grinned despite his loss. "Thanks, man. But those ice fans? That was something else. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"My mother," Shoto replied simply.

In the family box, Rei was on her feet, clapping enthusiastically and cheering at a volume that belied her elegant appearance. "THAT'S MY BOY! DID YOU SEE THAT TESSEN TECHNIQUE? PERFECT EXECUTION!"

"Rei, darling," Enji pleaded, attempting to gently guide her back to her seat, though his own expression radiated pride. "Perhaps a bit of decorum..."

"DECORUM BE DAMNED! DID YOU SEE HIS BREATHING CONTROL? THAT'S MY TRAINING!" Rei continued, practically bouncing with excitement.

Touya buried his face in his hands. "And she wonders where Fuyumi gets her enthusiasm from."

Keigo laughed, wings shaking with mirth. "I love your family so much."

"Dad, is Grandma okay?" Hiro asked, turning to Touya with concern.

"She's fine, kiddo," Touya assured him. "Just... passionate about your uncle's success."

"PASSIONATE IS RIGHT!" Yumi mimicked her grandmother's enthusiasm, jumping up and down. "UNCLE SHOTO IS THE BEST!"

As Shoto left the arena, he glanced up at his family and allowed himself a small smile—a rare public display of emotion that only seemed to intensify his mother's enthusiastic celebration.

"THE DIFFERENCE IN SKILL LEVEL WAS APPARENT," Present Mic concluded, "BUT LET'S HEAR IT FOR BOTH COMPETITORS WHO GAVE US AN IMPRESSIVE DISPLAY OF TECHNIQUE!"

"Sero should be proud of his performance," Aizawa added.

As medical robots helped Sero warm up after his icy encounter, Izuku stared thoughtfully at Shoto's retreating form. The controlled power he'd just witnessed was leagues beyond what he'd seen. It was clear that Todoroki had been holding back significantly until now.

I need to be ready for a whole different level of challenge, Izuku thought.

The stadium crew worked quickly to remove the last traces of ice from the arena, steam rising as heating elements beneath the concrete activated to melt Todoroki's creations. The crowd's excited chatter filled the air, still abuzz over the display of precision and skill they'd just witnessed.

"That was incredible," Izuku muttered, pencil moving rapidly across his notebook. "The level of control Todoroki showed with his ice... it's like he's a different fighter from what we've seen in class."

"Makes you wonder what else our classmates have been hiding," Uraraka said, her eyes wide. "Everyone seems to be pulling out all the stops today."

Kirishima punched his fists together. "That's what makes this so manly! We're all pushing past our limits!"

In the tunnel leading to the arena, Denki Kaminari rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off his nerves. His fingers absently traced the magatama necklace hanging at his throat. 

"You've got this," he whispered to himself, feeling the familiar tingle of electricity beneath his skin. "Focus on your breathing, just like during the preliminaries. "

He inhaled deeply, counting the seconds in his mind. Ever since he'd started training with Shinso before the Sports Festival, his control had improved dramatically. No more short-circuiting his brain after going past his limit. Well, usually not, anyway.

"UP NEXT!" Present Mic's voice boomed through the speakers. "OUR THIRD MATCH OF THE FINALS TOURNAMENT! FROM THE HERO COURSE, CLASS 1-A: THE ELECTRIC BLONDE BOMBSHELL, DENKI KAMINARI!"

Denki stepped out into the sunlight, waving to the crowd with his trademark easygoing grin despite the tension coiling in his chest.

"VERSUS—FROM THE HERO COURSE, CLASS 1-B: THE ASSASSIN WITH THE VINES OF FAITH, IBARA SHIOZAKI!"

From the opposite tunnel emerged Ibara, her vine-like hair moving gently as though stirred by an unseen breeze. As she approached the stage, her serene expression suddenly shifted to one of mild indignation.

"Pardon me," she spoke, her melodious voice somehow carrying through the stadium without shouting. "But I must take exception to being labeled an 'assassin.' Such terminology implies sinister intentions that contradict my humble quest to spread good across this world. I would never seek to kill my opponent or anyone else."

In the commentator booth, Present Mic looked flustered. "AH, MY APOLOGIES FOR THE MISCHARACTERIZATION! THE VINE-HAIRED HERO-IN-TRAINING, IBARA SHIOZAKI!"

"Much better," Ibara nodded, resuming her position on the stage.

Across from her, Denki couldn't help but smile. She's actually pretty cute when she gets all righteous like that, he thought. But I can't let that distract me. I'm going to win this thing.

"Both competitors ready?" Midnight asked, raising her whip.

Denki dropped into the stance he'd been practicing—low center of gravity, body coiled like a spring. In his mind, a strange image flickered: himself in different clothing, lightning crackling around a blade in his hand. He blinked the vision away.

"BEGIN!" Midnight declared.

Ibara wasted no time. Her vine-hair shot forward in multiple tendrils, spreading wide to limit Denki's escape options.

"Total Concentration," Denki whispered, the words coming to his lips unbidden. His lungs expanded fully, oxygen flooding his system as electricity sparked between his fingertips.

He moved with startling speed darting between the approaching vines with feline agility. His body twisted in midair, electricity trailing from his hands like extensions of himself.

"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT FOOTWORK!" Present Mic shouted. "KAMINARI IS MOVING LIKE A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FIGHTER FROM WHAT WE'VE SEEN IN THE PRELIMINARY ROUNDS!"

In the teachers' section, Aizawa leaned forward slightly. "His movement pattern has changed again. It’s become more efficient, more... purposeful.”

As Denki landed, he sent a controlled burst of electricity through the ground, just enough to make Ibara's vines recoil. Rather than unleashing his full power indiscriminately as he might have done before, he was channeling it with precision.

"Your electrical abilities are impressive," Ibara called, redirecting her vines for another approach. "But plants routinely withstand lightning strikes in nature. My vines are more resilient than you might expect."

She clasped her hands together as though in prayer, and suddenly her vines multiplied, forming a dense canopy above the arena before diving toward Denki from all directions.

In the stands, Hitoshi Shinso watched with focused intensity. "Come on, Kaminari," he muttered. "You can do this!”

The vines closed in, threatening to ensnare Denki completely. For a moment, it seemed he was trapped—but then a curious expression crossed his face. His eyes narrowed, pupils contracting to pinpoints as his breathing shifted to a rhythmic pattern.

"First Form," he whispered, the words rising from somewhere deep in his subconscious.

Electricity erupted from his body—not in the wild, uncontrolled burst his classmates were familiar with, but in a precise, rotating pattern that sliced through the approaching vines. The scent of ozone filled the air as Denki spun, electricity extending from his fingertips like phantom blades.

"WHAT AN INCREDIBLE DISPLAY OF CONTROL!" Present Mic exclaimed. "KAMINARI IS ACTUALLY SHAPING HIS ELECTRICITY!"

In the family box, Keigo Takami—the Pro Hero Hawks—suddenly sat forward, crimson wings twitching with interest. "Well, that's unexpected," he murmured.

"You see something?" Touya asked, glancing sideways at his boyfriend.

"Kid's got insane spatial awareness," Keigo replied, his sharp eyes tracking Denki's movements. "Look at how he's anticipating where each vine will be. That's not just good reflexes—that's combat intuition you usually only see in pros with years of experience."

On the field, Ibara regrouped quickly, adapting to Denki's unexpected precision. Her vines thickened, forming protective barriers around herself while others shot forward in more complex patterns, crisscrossing to create unavoidable webs.

"Your skill honors our contest," she acknowledged. "But the path of righteousness grants me strength as well!"

Denki found himself having to retreat, electricity crackling around him as he sought an opening. He knew his usual approach—going all out with a massive discharge—would leave him vulnerable if it didn't work. But something inside him was straining against that limit, demanding release.

What's happening to me? he wondered as he ducked beneath a whipping vine. It feels like there's more power than I've ever had before, just waiting to be channeled. A vine caught his ankle, yanking him off balance. More vines rapidly entwined his limbs, pulling tight as Ibara pressed her advantage.

"It appears this contest may be decided," she said calmly, though not unkindly. "Perhaps you should concede before I am forced to restrain you further."

In the stands, Class 1-A watched in concern.

"Come on, Kaminari!" Ashido shouted. "You can do better than this!"

"He's about to short-circuit, isn't he?" Jirou muttered, though there was worry in her eyes.

Denki felt the vines tightening, constricting his movement. The electricity inside him was building, pushing against his usual limits. Two million volts—that was always the threshold where his brain short-circuited, leaving him in his embarrassing "whey" state.

But today... today something was different.

The magatama at his throat seemed to pulse with warmth. Denki closed his eyes, his breathing settling into a rhythm that felt ancient and familiar.

"Thunder," he whispered, the word carrying an unexpected weight.

His eyes snapped open, and with a primal shout, he unleashed his power—far beyond the two million volt limit he'd never safely crossed before. Brilliant electricity exploded outward in controlled arcs, precisely targeting the vines restraining him without spreading further.

The vines withered and charred at the points of contact, dropping away as Denki rose to his feet. Electricity continued to dance across his skin, his hair standing on end—but his eyes remained clear, focused. No short-circuit.

"INCREDIBLE! KAMINARI HAS BROKEN FREE AND STILL APPEARS TO BE IN FULL CONTROL OF HIS FACULTIES!" Present Mic's astonishment was evident even through the speakers.

"He's never maintained consciousness at this output level before," Aizawa noted, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

In the ring, Denki stared at his hands in momentary amazement. I should be drooling right now. What's happening? But there was no time to question it—Ibara was already regrouping, fresh vines sprouting to replace those he'd damaged.

Acting on instinct, Denki began to move in flowing patterns that seemed to come from muscle memory he shouldn't possess. Each step, each turn of his body corresponded with a precisely directed electrical discharge. He wasn't just firing off electricity anymore—he was dancing with it, guiding it, shaping it to his will.

"Second Form," he murmured, the name of the technique just beyond his conscious grasp.

Electricity gathered at his fingertips, condensing into crackling orbs that he launched toward Ibara's approaching vines. Upon impact, they exploded into web-like patterns of lightning that immobilized multiple vines at once without causing permanent damage.

In the Pro Hero seating section, several experienced heroes were now paying close attention to the match.

"That's not standard quirk usage," Kamui Woods observed. "That's a developed fighting style."

"Kid's moving like he's been doing this for decades," Death Arms added.

Hawks simply smiled, a glint in his eyes. 

On the field, Ibara realized she needed to change tactics. With a determined expression, she sent her remaining vines into the ground, burrowing beneath the concrete.

"An admirable display of power," she called to Denki. "But even thunder must eventually pass."

The ground beneath Denki's feet trembled as vines erupted upward, catching him by surprise. Several wrapped around his legs before he could react, while others formed a cage-like structure around him.

"Natural order will prevail," Ibara stated calmly, closing her hands together to tighten the vine prison.

For a brief moment, Denki felt trapped—physically and mentally. The pressure triggered a vivid flash of memory that felt both foreign and intimately familiar:

Rain pounding on thin paper walls, the smell of wet dirt and poverty. A younger version of himself—yet not himself—huddled in the cramped space beneath rotting wooden steps, hunger gnawing at his belly. Around him, the sounds of Taisho-era Japan—horse-drawn carts, distant factory whistles, the occasional automobile backfiring. He was alone, abandoned, surviving by his wits and whatever he could steal.

Then another memory, overlapping: standing in a training hall, drenched in sweat, a stern master watching with disappointed eyes as lightning refused to dance along his blade. "Again," the master commanded. "Control your breathing. Feel the lightning in your blood." But no matter how desperately he tried, how perfectly he mimicked the forms, the First Form of Thunder Breathing remained beyond his grasp. Other children watched, some with pity, others with thinly veiled contempt. The shame burned hotter than any physical pain he'd endured on the streets.

"Perhaps you lack the spirit," the master had finally said, turning away. "Not everyone is meant to master the breath."

The confinement of Ibara's vines squeezed tighter, and Denki's breathing hitched as the emotions from those memories washed over him—desperation, isolation, the bitter taste of failure that had once defined his existence.

No. Not this time.

With deliberate focus, he regulated his breathing again, feeling oxygen flood his system. The electricity within him responded, not as an uncontrollable force but as an extension of himself.

"Total Concentration," he whispered, centering himself. "Thunder Breathing."

The words felt right on his tongue, though he couldn't have explained where they came from. The magatama at his throat grew warmer still.

Electricity began to flow through his body in specific pathways, following meridian lines he'd never consciously known existed. Rather than generating a massive outward discharge, he concentrated the current inward, supercharging his own nervous system.

In an explosion of speed that left spectators gasping, Denki moved within the vine cage—not attempting to break free, but using the confined space to his advantage. His body twisted and contorted with inhuman flexibility, electricity trailing from his fingertips as he touched specific points on each vine.

Instead of destroying them outright, he was inducing electrical signals into the plant tissue itself.

"What is he doing?" Momo wondered aloud from the stands.

They soon had their answer. The vines began to tremble, then slowly, incredibly, started to withdraw—not because they were damaged, but because they were responding to electrical impulses Denki was feeding into them, mimicking the signals Ibara herself would send.

Ibara's eyes widened in shock. "How are you—?"

"Plants respond to electrical stimuli too," Denki called, continuing his precise movements. "If you know the right frequencies, you can speak their language."

He hadn't known that until this very moment—the knowledge had simply been there when he needed it.

As the vines retreated in confusion, Denki saw his opening. With a final deep breath, he channeled electricity through his entire body and launched himself forward at blinding speed.

He closed the distance to Ibara in an eyeblink, electricity forming what almost looked like claws around his hands. At the last second, he pulled his strike, stopping mere inches from her with crackling energy illuminating her surprised face.

"I think this is checkmate," he said quietly.

Ibara blinked, then smiled serenely. "Indeed it is. I concede the match."

"Kaminari advances to the next round!" Midnight announced as the crowd erupted.

As the adrenaline of battle faded, Denki felt a wave of confusion wash over him. He offered Ibara a respectful bow, which she returned gracefully, but his mind was racing. How did I know how to do any of that? I went way past my limit without short-circuiting. What's happening to me?

His fingers found the magatama necklace again, tracing its curved shape as fragments of unfamiliar memories drifted through his consciousness like autumn leaves.

"WHAT AN UNEXPECTED TURNAROUND!" Present Mic was practically vibrating with excitement. "KAMINARI DISPLAYED TECHNIQUES AND CONTROL WE'VE NEVER SEEN FROM HIM BEFORE!"

"His quirk usage has evolved significantly," Aizawa noted. "The precision and application show a depth of understanding that wasn't present in his previous matches."

In the Pro Hero section, Hawks was already on his feet, wings extending slightly in excitement.

"Going somewhere?" Touya asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I need to make a phone call," Hawks replied with a grin. "I think I just found my intern for this year."

As Denki left the arena, he caught a glimpse of crimson wings in the stands and felt a strange sense of familiarity—like another piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was trying to solve.

In the competitor's waiting room, he finally allowed himself to slump against the wall, staring at his hands as small sparks still danced between his fingers.

"Thunder Breathing," he whispered again, testing the phrase on his tongue. It felt right, like a name he'd once known intimately but had somehow forgotten.

The magatama necklace pulsed once more against his skin, and for just a moment, Denki thought he heard the distant rumble of thunder that had nothing to do with his quirk.

Something was awakening within him—something ancient and powerful and not entirely comfortable. But as he watched the electricity dance across his fingertips with newfound control, Denki couldn't help but smile.

As Denki left the arena, he caught a glimpse of crimson wings in the stands and felt a strange sense of familiarity—like another piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was trying to solve.

"Kaminari!"

He turned to find Hitoshi Shinso approaching, a rare smile on his usually stoic face.

"That was incredible," Shinso said, genuine admiration in his voice. "Especially when the odds were stacked against you. The techniques we practiced—you took them to a whole new level."

Denki grinned, though his eyes still held confusion. "Thanks, man. Couldn't have done it without your help." He glanced back toward the arena where Ibara was speaking with Recovery Girl, checking her slightly singed vines. "Give me a sec?"

He jogged over to where Ibara stood. "Hey, Shiozaki!" he called. "You did an amazing job out there. Your quirk is seriously impressive."

Ibara turned, her serene smile returning. "Thank you, Kaminari. Your victory was well-earned." She gestured to her vines, which were already regenerating. "I've never encountered someone who could communicate with my plants through electrical impulses."

"Honestly? Neither had I until today," Denki admitted with a sheepish laugh. "You're going to be a great hero someday. Those vines of yours are no joke."

"Your kind words honor me," she replied with a small bow. "May we both continue to grow in strength and wisdom."

In the stands, the crowd was still buzzing about the match they'd just witnessed.

"That vine girl would make the perfect sidekick for you, wouldn't she?" Mt. Lady nudged Kamui Woods with a playful grin. "All those plants working together."

Kamui merely sighed. "Get back to work. We're here as security, not talent scouts."

Mt. Lady pouted but resumed her vigilant posture, though her eyes continued to assess the students with professional interest.

Meanwhile, in the student section, Izuku's pencil was flying across his notebook, muttering intensely as he analyzed what he'd just seen.

"Kaminari's electrical output seems to have increased by at least 35%, maybe more, and the precision control suggests a fundamental change in how he's channeling it through his nervous system. And Shiozaki's quirk demonstrates remarkable versatility with those underground maneuvers—could potentially be effective against opponents with aerial advantages or—"

"Deku," Ochaco interrupted gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You're doing it again."

Izuku blinked, suddenly noticing the annoyed glare Katsuki was sending his way and the amused looks from his other classmates.

"S-sorry!" he stammered, face flushing. "I just get carried away sometimes."

"We know," several classmates responded in unison.

Ochaco laughed. "It's fine! Just maybe take a breath between thoughts?"

Izuku nodded, then brightened. "Oh! Speaking of analysis, I actually compiled some notes on your Zero Gravity quirk after watching your match. Would you like to see them? I had some ideas about how you might be able to incorporate rotational momentum to—"

As Izuku shared his observations with an attentive Ochaco, up in the family box, Touya Todoroki leaned closer to his mother.

"Mom," he said quietly, "could I talk to you for a minute? In private?"

Rei glanced at her son, noting the serious look in his eyes. She nodded. "Of course, Touya."

Touya turned to Keigo. "Mind watching the kids for a bit?"

"No problem," Keigo replied, ruffling Hiro's hair. "The little monsters and I will hold down the fort. Did I miss anything important while I was making that call?"

"Just Dad nearly having a heart attack when Mom almost jumped over the railing during Shoto's match," Touya replied with a smirk.

"I was simply enthusiastic," Rei defended herself primly, though her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"SUPER enthusiastic!" Yumi mimicked, throwing her hands in the air.

"We'll be back before the next match," Touya promised, guiding his mother toward the private box exit.

Once they'd made their way to a secluded hallway away from the crowds, Touya leaned against the wall, his casual demeanor giving way to focused intensity.

"So," he began, voice dropping to ensure they wouldn't be overheard. "What's the plan for dealing with the Hero Commission?"

Chapter 21: Confrontation

Summary:

Touya has worries

The maintenance corridor beneath the stadium was eerily quiet compared to the thunderous cheers above. Touya led his mother deeper into the labyrinth of concrete passageways, past utility rooms and electrical panels, until he was certain they were truly alone.

"This should be private enough," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his features, accentuating the concerned furrow of his brow.

Rei Todoroki stood with perfect posture, her winter-white hair gleaming even in the unflattering light. Despite the casual elegance of her outfit, there was something fundamentally dangerous about her presence—like frost that could burn if touched.

"You're worried," she observed, her voice melodic and light. Too light, perhaps, for the gravity of their situation. "About the plan."

Touya ran a hand through his hair—a nervous habit he'd never quite outgrown. "Of course I'm worried. We're talking about dismantling one of the most powerful organizations in the country."

"A necessary dismantling," Rei replied, her smile never wavering. Something about that smile had always unnerved Touya, even as a child—the way it never quite reached her eyes when she was planning something. "They crossed a line when they tried to take your children."

"I know what they did, Mom. I was there." The memory of government agents at his door, documentation in hand claiming Hiro and Yumi would be "better adjusted in a more conventional household" still made his blood boil. "But your contact at the intelligence agency mentioned something about 'permanent solutions.' That's what concerns me."

Rei tilted her head, a gesture reminiscent of a bird studying an interesting insect. "Some people cannot be saved, Touya. Surely your hero work has taught you that."

Her fingers traced idle patterns on the concrete wall—patterns that, if one looked closely, resembled ancient symbols from a forgotten language. Frost formed in their wake, crystalline and delicate.

"I'll defy rules. I'll hurt someone until they can't walk if they threaten my family," Touya admitted, his own hands warming in response to his emotions, steam rising faintly from his skin. "But killing is off the table. That's a line I won't cross. We're better than that—better than them."

A soft laugh escaped Rei's lips, a sound like icicles tinkling in winter wind. "Such morality from my son. Enji would be proud."

"Don't bring Dad into this," Touya warned. "This isn't about him."

"Isn't it?" Rei's smile widened, and for a moment—just the briefest flicker—her eyes seemed to shift, pupils expanding to consume the iris before returning to normal. “You and I know better, don't we?”

Touya held his ground despite the chill seeping into his bones. "That's exactly why I'm concerned. The system is broken—I'm not arguing that. The Commission has operated without oversight for too long, manipulating heroes like puppets, deciding who's worthy of protection and who isn't."

He clenched his fists, struggling to keep his own temperature regulated. "But if we respond with the same brutality they've shown, we become exactly what they claim we are. Monsters. Demons."

At the word "demons," something flickered across Rei's face—amusement. "Such interesting terminology," she murmured. "Tell me, my darling son, what is it you fear most? That we might fail? Or that you might succeed—and in doing so, discover how much you enjoy it?"

The question struck Touya like a physical blow. His mother had always been perceptive, sometimes unnervingly so, able to dissect fears he himself hardly acknowledged.

"I fear becoming like them," he admitted quietly. "I fear letting out whatever darkness lives inside me. Dad fought his demons. Shoto fights his. I fight mine every day." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "And sometimes, Mom, I wonder if you've stopped fighting yours altogether."

Rather than offense, Rei's expression showed only pride—as though he'd passed some unspoken test. "Perceptive child. Always were."

She moved to a junction box on the wall, her fingers trailing across the metal surface. Where she touched, frost patterns formed—beautiful, symmetrical designs that looked almost like faces in agony.

"This society," she said contemplatively, "permits the corrupt to walk free. The Commission has destroyed families, sacrificed children for their vision of 'greater good,' and never—not once—faced consequences." She turned back to Touya, her smile now gone, replaced by an expression of cold calculation. "Your morals are admirable. Truly. But they will not help us, not with this plan."

"Then maybe we need a different plan," Touya insisted, stepping forward. "One that exposes them without lowering ourselves to their level. You taught me that, remember? When I was a child, after I first lost control of my flames."

The memory hung between them—a young Touya, terrified of his own power after accidentally burning a playmate, sobbing in his mother's arms. Her voice, soothing yet firm: You are not defined by your power, but by how you choose to use it.

"I remember many things I've told you," Rei replied, her voice softening. "Some true, some... necessary at the time."

"Which was that?" Touya challenged. "Because it's guided me my entire life. It's why I became a hero despite everything. It's why I'm standing here now, telling you there has to be another way."

For a long moment, Rei was silent, studying her son with eyes that seemed to see through him, past him, into realms beyond normal perception. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a weight of centuries.

"There is a fine line between what is good and what is evil," she said quietly. "Between what makes a man and what makes a monster. You walk that line with grace, Touya. Better than I ever could."

Her hand reached up to touch his face, her palm ice-cold against his naturally heated skin. "You fear letting your inner demon out. You fear the harm you could cause if you surrendered to that power." A small, sad smile curved her lips. "But that fear is precisely what makes you human."

"And you?" Touya asked, his voice barely audible. "What makes you human, Mom?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavier than it should have been for a simple mother and son. For a heartbeat, something ancient and terrible gleamed behind Rei's eyes—a hunger that had nothing to do with food, a knowledge that no mortal should possess.

Then it was gone, replaced by genuine warmth that softened her features.

"My family," she answered simply. "You. Your siblings. My grandchildren. Enji, even, in his fumbling attempts at redemption." She lowered her hand from his face. "When I look at all of you, I remember what matters."

Touya exhaled slowly, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. "Then remember that now. This can't be your burden alone. Protecting the family doesn't fall just on your shoulders."

"It has always been my responsibility," Rei countered, a strange inflection in her voice. "Since before you were born."

"Not anymore," Touya said firmly. "We do this together, or not at all. And we do it the right way—no 'permanent solutions,' no bodies left in the wake. We expose them, we bring them down through the system, we make sure they can never hurt another family."

He held her gaze, refusing to look away despite the chill that ran down his spine when her eyes met his. "I won't let you go down that path just to protect us. I couldn't live with myself."

For a tense moment, mother and son stood in silent confrontation, two powerful forces at an impasse. Then, almost imperceptibly, Rei's posture softened.

Rei studied her son's face—the determination, the moral certainty, the fear lurking beneath the surface. It struck her then how much pain she had allowed to befall him. She had taught both Touya and Shoto how to control their demons, how to tame the inhuman power in their blood, but she had never truly addressed their fear. The fear that one day, they might hurt someone they loved. The fear that their control might slip, even for a moment.

A fear she had never shared, because control had never been her struggle—restraint had.

"Your conviction is... admirable," she conceded with a sigh. "Perhaps there is wisdom in restraint. We'll figure out another way, with Keigo's help."

Relief flooded Touya's expression, his shoulders relaxing as tension drained away. In that moment, he looked so much like the little boy who used to run to her with skinned knees and simple problems she could solve with a kiss to the forehead.

Without warning, he stepped forward and embraced her, just as he had as a child—arms wrapped tight around her waist, face pressed against her shoulder despite now being significantly taller.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For listening. For understanding."

Rei brought her arms up to return the embrace, her hands gently stroking her son's back. Her expression, hidden from Touya's view, shifted—the maternal warmth giving way to something calculating.”

I'm sorry, my child , she thought, even as she murmured soothing words aloud. I cannot keep that promise. I will not.

The Commission had threatened her family—her children, her grandchildren. They had tried to take what was hers, to shatter the life she had built over decades. To break apart the only things that anchored her to humanity.

This family is mine. Mine alone.

In the deepest recesses of her mind old memories stirred. Blood on snow. The taste of human flesh. A power that mortals could scarcely comprehend. 

The reality is that even those who live upright and good lives meet with misfortune, while the wicked act as they please , she reflected, feeling the coldness of her true nature spreading through her veins. They enjoy themselves and live life to the fullest. The idea of divine punishment is a joke.

She would do anything for her family. Everything for them. Even become a monster—rather, reveal the monster she had always been beneath the carefully constructed veneer of motherhood and gentility. She would smite the gods themselves if they dared stand between her and her children's happiness.

So I shall become the devil that sends them to hell , she thought, a small smile curving her lips as frost patterns spread invisible beneath her fingers on Touya's back. Because even after humanity has evolved for so long, they're still pathetic. Still fragile. Still so easily broken.

"I love you, Mom," Touya said, his voice muffled against her shoulder, trusting and warm.

"And I love you, more than you could possibly understand," she replied truthfully. Her eyes briefly glowed an inhuman blue before returning to normal. "I would do anything for you. For all of you."

That, at least, was no lie.

"We should get back," he said, finally releasing her. "The next match will be starting soon."

As they turned to leave, Rei paused, placing a hand on his arm. "One question, my son. What would you do if, after all our careful planning and moral considerations, they still came for your children? If Keigo was stripped of his hero license, if Hiro and Yumi were taken away? What then?"

The question pierced Touya to his core, targeting his deepest fear. The answer rose unbidden, from a place within himself he rarely acknowledged.

"Then they would learn why fire is feared," he whispered, blue flames momentarily dancing along his fingertips. "But I would still be their father afterward. I wouldn't lose myself in the process."

Rei's smile returned, cold and knowing, as she patted his cheek. "That's the difference between us, darling. I've never feared becoming a monster." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned closer. "Some of us were never human to begin with."

Before Touya could respond, she was already walking back toward the stairwell, her steps light and graceful. "Come along now. We've got a family to return to, appearances to maintain."

Touya stood frozen for a moment, his mother's words echoing in his mind. Then he shook his head and followed, pushing away the creeping dread her words had evoked.

Not human to begin with. It was just another of her strange sayings, he told himself. Just her peculiar way of expressing her detachment from normal emotions.

But as they ascended toward the light and noise of the stadium, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he'd been given a glimpse of something true—something his mind wasn't ready to fully comprehend.

Something about his mother that explained why, on the coldest nights when he was a child, her embrace had never provided warmth.

Notes:

Yes, I know that they don't talk about the plan but cry me a river boo-hoo.

Rei’s Plan to Dismantle the Hero Commission

Phase 1: Infiltration and Information Control
Rei begins by using her civilian identity and social reputation to build connections — posing as a concerned mother, citizen, and once victim of the hero system. .She taps into her past as a former public figure (the Todoroki name carries weight), quietly networking with disillusioned pro-heroes, support tech developers, and journalists who’ve questioned the Commission before. She collects evidence: classified reports, unethical training programs, manipulated hero rankings, cover-ups of villain rehab failures, and experiments on children with dangerous quirks. Most of this from Keigo.

Phase 2: Public Discrediting
She uses underground media, hacked surveillance, and whistleblowers to leak bits and pieces of the truth. Each scandal seems like a coincidence, but they're timed for maximum impact. She amplifies pro-hero voices who have grievances with the Commission — some who retired early, some who “disappeared” for asking the wrong questions. Rei ensures that public trust in the Commission starts to decay. Slowly, protest groups form.

Phase 3: Internal Collapse
She secretly supports independent hero groups and underground rescue networks that refuse Commission backing. Heroes start to resign. Sponsors back out. The Commission’s influence weakens. Rei manipulates resource distribution — making them appear increasingly irrelevant and outdated. A few key members are exposed for embezzlement, experimentation, and manipulating Quirk laws. These aren’t even the worst crimes, but they’re the first dominos to fall.

Phase 4: Psychological Warfare
She targets the decision-makers, one by one — not physically, yet. Leaked photos of families they hurt. Voice clips of orders to abandon children with “dangerous quirks.” Testimonies from manipulated interns. She makes them feel hunted. Some resign. Some try to retaliate. Some disappear.

Phase 5: Personal Justice
Once the Hero Commission is a shell of its former self, Rei switches tactics. She becomes the ghost in the dark — not as a villain, but as a force of reckoning. One by one, the highest-ranking figures involved in the worst crimes are taken down. Poison, ice, psychological breakdowns, arranged accidents. Rei does not rush. She does not make it flashy. They simply vanish, or are found dead under "suspicious" circumstances.

Touya is fine with the first part of the plan but not murder part. Also I'm not sure when the full plan will be put into action becuase this is going to speed up people's distrust of hero society and might accelerate everything faster.

Chapter 22: Fighting Spirit

Summary:

Fighting! Bakugou vs Ochako!

Notes:

This might be a little cheesy.

The return to the stadium was met with a familiar cacophony of cheers, so different from the eerie silence of the maintenance corridors. Touya settled into his seat beside Keigo, feeling the aftereffects of his conversation with his mother still lingering like frost on his skin.

"What did we miss?" Touya asked, trying to sound casual as Rei took her seat with perfect poise.

Keigo raised an eyebrow. "Two fights, actually. Where'd you two disappear to?"

"Just catching up," Rei answered smoothly before Touya could respond. "Family matters."

Keigo nodded, though his sharp eyes missed nothing of the tension still radiating from Touya. "Well, first was Tenya Iida versus Mei Hatsume. That was... interesting."

"Interesting how?" Touya asked, grateful for the distraction.

"The support course girl—Hatsume—basically turned the whole match into an infomercial," Keigo said with a laugh. "Poor Iida was just a glorified product model. She had him running around demonstrating her 'babies' as she called them—hover soles, auto-balancers, hydraulic bracers—you name it."

"She actually won?" Rei asked, her interest seemingly genuine.

"Nah," Keigo shook his head. "After about ten minutes of sales pitches to the audience and pro heroes, she cheerfully stepped out of bounds. Said she'd accomplished her goal of showcasing her inventions to potential employers. The look on Iida's face when he realized what happened was priceless—caught between relief for winning and utter indignation at being used."

Touya couldn't help but laugh. "Smart girl. Using the festival for what it's really meant for—getting noticed."

"The next match though..." Keigo's expression shifted to something between amusement and concern. "Mina Ashido versus Yuga Aoyama. That one was something else."

"How so?" Touya asked.

"For starters, Aoyama has this... laser quirk he shoots from his navel. Flashy stuff, literally. But he spent half the match pleading with Ashido not to—and I quote—'knock my clothes off.'" Keigo's tone was incredulous. "I'm sitting there thinking, what are they teaching these kids? But apparently his belt is what helps him control his quirk."

Rei's lips curved in a small, amused smile. "And the outcome?"

"Ashido was incredible," Keigo continued. "She's got this acid quirk—can create and control different types of acid. She basically turned the arena into a skating rink, gliding around while Aoyama kept missing with his laser beam. Every time he fired, she'd dodge with these dance-like moves. The kid's got natural athleticism."

"I'm sensing a 'but' here," Touya prompted.

"But," Keigo nodded, "Aoyama's quirk has a major drawback. Overuse causes him stomach pain. About three minutes in, he was doubled over. Ashido just slid right up to him, melted his belt with a precision acid touch, and his quirk went haywire. One big flash later, and he was announcing his surrender in the most dramatic way possible—something about his 'sparkle being temporarily dimmed.'"

"That girl has potential," Rei observed quietly.

"Your son seemed to think so too," Keigo added with a sly grin. "Shoto was actually on his feet cheering with that red-haired kid—Kirishima. Never thought I'd see him so animated."

Before Touya could respond to this interesting development regarding his usually stoic brother, Present Mic's voice boomed throughout the stadium.

"AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, OUR SIXTH BATTLE BEGINS! IT'S CREATION VERSUS SHADOW—YAOYOROZU VERSUS TOKOYAMI!"

The two students took their positions on opposite sides of the concrete stage. Momo Yaoyorozu's expression was a mixture of determination and visible anxiety, her hands already beginning to glow as she prepared to create something. Across from her, Fumikage Tokoyami stood still as stone, his bird-like head giving away nothing of his thoughts.

"Yaoyorozu seems nervous," Rei commented, her keen eyes missing nothing.

"She's overthinking," Touya replied. "You can see it on her face—trying to calculate the perfect counter-strategy."

The moment Midnight signaled the start, Tokoyami wasted no time. "Dark Shadow!" he commanded, and the sentient umbral creature erupted from his body, streaking across the arena like liquid darkness.

Momo barely had time to create a shield before Dark Shadow crashed into it with tremendous force. The shield—a simple metal barricade—held, but the impact pushed her back several feet.

"Smart defensive choice," Keigo noted professionally. "But she's not going to win by just defending."

Dark Shadow continued its relentless assault, pummeling the shield with a flurry of strikes. Each impact drove Momo further back toward the boundary line. Her face showed intense concentration as she tried to create something else behind the protection of her shield, but Tokoyami gave her no opening.

"He's using a simple but effective strategy," Touya observed. "Constant pressure, no time to think or plan."

With a final powerful surge, Dark Shadow slammed into the shield with enough force to send Momo skidding backward. Her heel crossed the boundary line, and Midnight raised her whip.

"Yaoyorozu is out of bounds! Tokoyami advances to the next round!"

The match had lasted barely a minute. In the stands, the crowd's reaction was mixed—appreciation for Tokoyami's efficient victory, but disappointment at the brevity of the contest.

Down in the student section, cameras caught Momo's crestfallen expression as she returned to her seat. She sat heavily, head bowed.

"I didn't even get to show what I could do," she murmured, just loud enough to be caught by the microphones.

Beside her, a blond boy—Denki Kaminari—leaned over. "Hey, don't beat yourself up about it. You did great with what you had to work with."

"But I should have created something offensive immediately, not just defended," she replied, frustration evident in her voice.

"Look," Denki said, his expression unusually serious for his typically carefree demeanor, "that shadow thing was crazy fast. Most of us would've been knocked out completely. You at least held your ground."

When she didn't seem convinced, he continued, "Besides, the internships aren't just about who wins. The pros are looking for potential. And trust me, nobody doubts yours." His smile was genuine and warm. "You'll definitely get offers. Heck, probably more than most of us."

In another part of the stands, Izuku Midoriya was furiously scribbling notes in his notebook.

"Tokoyami's Dark Shadow is incredibly powerful in direct combat," he muttered. "The speed, the strength, the range—it's almost like having two fighters in one. In an enclosed arena like this with minimal obstacles, it's nearly unstoppable."

Beside him, Mashirao Ojiro nodded. "It was over before it really began. I feel bad for Yaoyorozu though. Her quirk is amazing, but it requires time and planning. This tournament format doesn't play to her strengths at all."

"That's what makes her quirk so challenging," Izuku replied thoughtfully. "In real hero work, she could be incredibly versatile—create exactly what's needed for any situation. But here..."

"Here it's all about immediate action," Mashirao finished. "Speed and power get rewarded. Strategy and preparation get punished."

Izuku looked up from his notebook, his expression suddenly pensive. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it? If the Sports Festival really showcases everyone's potential equally. Some quirks just naturally fit this format better than others."

Mashirao glanced at Momo, who was now listening to something Mina was enthusiastically telling her, some of her disappointment seemingly fading. "True," he said. "But I think the pros watching know that. The really smart ones won't just be looking at who wins—they'll be looking at how each student approaches their limitations."

"I hope you're right," Izuku said, turning his attention back to the field as Present Mic announced the next match.

In their section, Rei caught the contemplative look on Touya's face as he observed the students below.

"Something on your mind?" she asked softly.

Touya shook his head slightly. "Just thinking about potential. And how easy it is to miss it when you're only looking at the surface."

Rei's smile was enigmatic as she followed his gaze. "Indeed. The most dangerous powers often lie hidden, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves."

Keigo shot them both a curious look, but said nothing as the next contestants took the field.

Present Mic's voice boomed through the stadium once more. "ALRIGHT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! LET'S KEEP THIS TOURNAMENT ROLLING! OUR SEVENTH MATCH PITS HARDENING AGAINST STEEL—KIRISHIMA VERSUS TETSUTETSU!"

The crowd roared as the two students took their positions on opposite sides of the concrete stage. Eijiro Kirishima rolled his shoulders, his usual sharp-toothed grin firmly in place as he faced his opponent. Across from him, Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu mirrored his stance with an equally determined expression.

"This should be interesting," Touya commented, leaning forward slightly. "Two quirks that are essentially variations on the same theme."

Keigo nodded. "Hardening versus Steel. It's basically going to come down to who hits harder and who can take more punishment."

As soon as Midnight signaled the start of the match, both students activated their quirks simultaneously—Kirishima's skin hardening into jagged, rock-like protrusions while Tetsutetsu's entire body transformed into gleaming metal.

They charged at each other without hesitation, meeting in the center of the arena with a resounding crash that echoed throughout the stadium. Fists collided against hardened bodies, neither competitor giving an inch as they traded blow after powerful blow.

"WHAT AN INCREDIBLE DISPLAY OF RAW POWER!" Present Mic screamed into his microphone. "THESE TWO ARE PRACTICALLY MIRRORS OF EACH OTHER!"

In the commentator's booth, Aizawa sighed. "They're both focusing solely on offense with minimal defense beyond their quirks. At this rate, it'll just come down to stamina."

The battle continued for several minutes, becoming a war of attrition as both fighters began to show signs of fatigue. Sweat poured down Kirishima's face as he blocked another punishing strike from Tetsutetsu, only to counter with a right hook that glanced off the steel student's shoulder.

Meanwhile, in one of the waiting rooms, Tenya Iida found Ochaco Uraraka sitting alone, her expression a mixture of determination and anxiety.

"Uraraka," Tenya greeted formally. "Are you preparing for your match against Bakugo?"

She looked up, forcing a smile. "Oh, Iida! Yes, just trying to focus."

The door slid open again as Izuku Midoriya stepped into the room. "Sorry to interrupt," he said. "Kirishima and Tetsutetsu are still going at it. It's like watching the same fighter battle a mirror image of himself."

"Who's winning?" Ochaco asked, momentarily distracted from her own upcoming fight.

Izuku shrugged. "Hard to tell. They've been trading punches for almost ten minutes now. Neither one seems to have an advantage."

He hesitated before taking a seat across from Ochaco. "I was actually looking for you. About your match with Kacchan..."

Ochaco's expression tightened slightly. "You're worried, aren't you?"

"Kacchan won't hold back," Izuku said carefully. "He'll use his full power against you, just like he would against anyone else."

Tenya nodded solemnly. "Bakugo doesn't believe in giving anyone an advantage, regardless of circumstances."

"I know," Ochaco replied, her voice steadier than before. "Everyone expects me to lose."

"That's not what I—" Izuku started, but Ochaco cut him off with a raised hand.

"It's okay, Deku. I know what people are thinking." She took a deep breath. "Actually, I've been thinking about a strategy. Maybe if I could use my quirk to—"

Izuku's eyes lit up. "Yes! I was thinking about that too! If you could get close enough to touch him, you could float him out of bounds. But you'd need a distraction first." He reached for his notebook. "I've analyzed Kacchan's fighting style, and I think there's a weakness you could exploit if you—"

"Deku," Ochaco interrupted gently. Her smile was genuine but tinged with something else—a quiet determination. "Thank you. But I need to do this on my own."

Both boys looked at her in surprise.

"During the Cavalry Battle, I relied on you," she continued, looking directly at Izuku. "And I was so happy when you chose me for your team. But afterward, I felt... embarrassed. Like I was just riding your coattails." She clenched her fists. "I want to be a hero who can stand on my own two feet. So this time, I need to face Bakugo with my own strategy, my own strength."

Tenya adjusted his glasses, respect evident in his expression. "That's admirable, Uraraka."

Izuku looked momentarily conflicted, but then nodded. "You're right. And you're stronger than you give yourself credit for. Just..." he hesitated, thinking of Bakugo's explosive power, "be careful, okay?"

Ochaco's smile brightened. "I will. And no matter what happens, I'm going to give it everything I've got!"

Back in the arena, the battle between Kirishima and Tetsutetsu had reached a fever pitch. Both were visibly exhausted, their movements becoming slower but no less determined.

As they grappled near the center of the stage, Kirishima found himself being pushed back by Tetsutetsu's relentless strength. For a moment, doubt flickered across his face—but then something clicked in his memory.

That day at USJ... when we were surrounded by villains... Bakugo didn't blast through them. He watched their movements, He used their momentum against them, waited for them to commit...

A new determination hardened in Kirishima's eyes. As Tetsutetsu charged forward with another powerful punch, instead of meeting it head-on as he had been doing, Kirishima pivoted at the last second, grabbing his opponent's arm and using the momentum to throw him off balance.

Tetsutetsu stumbled forward, unprepared for the sudden change in tactics. Before he could recover, Kirishima swept his legs out from under him, sending the steel student crashing to the ground with his own weight and momentum working against him.

"WHAT'S THIS? A CHANGE IN STRATEGY FROM KIRISHIMA!" Present Mic's voice echoed through the stadium.

In the commentator's booth, Aizawa leaned forward slightly, a rare hint of interest in his usually tired eyes. "He's finally using his head instead of just his quirk. About time."

Tetsutetsu struggled to his feet, only for Kirishima to exploit another opening, redirecting a wild punch and using the steel student's forward momentum to send him tumbling toward the boundary line.

With a final surge of effort, Kirishima pressed his advantage, feinting a direct attack before sidestepping and using Tetsutetsu's counter-momentum to propel him out of bounds.

"TETSUTETSU IS OUT OF BOUNDS! KIRISHIMA ADVANCES TO THE NEXT ROUND!" Midnight announced, cracking her whip dramatically.

The crowd erupted in cheers as Kirishima, breathing heavily but grinning widely, extended a hand to help Tetsutetsu to his feet.

"That was a really manly fight, dude," Kirishima said, his quirk deactivating to reveal his exhausted but exhilarated expression. "You're seriously tough!"

Tetsutetsu clasped his hand firmly. "Next time, I won't lose. But... what was that at the end? You completely changed your fighting style."

Kirishima's grin widened. "Just something I picked up watching others. A real man knows when to change tactics."

As the medical robots came to assist the exhausted Tetsutetsu off the field, Kirishima made his way back to the stands where his classmates waited.

"Great job, Kirishima!" Mina Ashido exclaimed, bouncing excitedly in her seat as he approached. "That was amazing how you turned it around at the end!"

Shoto nodded in acknowledgment. "Good work."

"Thanks guys," Kirishima replied, still catching his breath as he took his seat. "For a while there, I thought we were just going to knock each other out."

"Where did you learn those moves at the end?" Mina asked curiously. "That was totally different from your usual fighting style."

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck. "Actually, I was thinking about Bakugo and how he handled those villains during the USJ incident. He didn't blast through them—he used their own strength against them." He glanced at Todoroki. "You saw it too, right?"

Shoto nodded slightly. "He's more tactical than he lets on."

Before they could discuss further, Present Mic's voice cut through the stadium once more. "AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IT'S TIME FOR OUR FINAL MATCH OF THE FIRST BRACKET!"

The crowd's energy surged again as the announcer continued, "IT'S GRAVITY VERSUS EXPLOSIONS—URARAKA VERSUS BAKUGO!"

Down below, Ochaco stepped onto the concrete stage, her expression set in determined resolve. Across from her, Katsuki Bakugo approached with his typical confident swagger, hands casually tucked into his pockets but eyes intensely focused.

As the two faced each other, waiting for Midnight's signal to begin, the crowd fell into an anticipatory hush.

The arena fell silent as Katsuki Bakugo and Ochaco Uraraka took their positions, facing each other across the concrete stage. The tension in the air was palpable, a stark contrast to the raucous cheering that had accompanied previous matches. Even the most boisterous spectators seemed to hold their breath, sensing something different about this confrontation.

Bakugo stared at his opponent, recognition flickering in his eyes. Round Face. Uraraka. From the hero training exercise. She was paired with Deku. His memory flashed back to the building they'd fought in—how he'd been so focused on Deku that he'd barely registered her presence until she was gone. 

Something stirred inside him, a dark amusement that bubbled up from somewhere deep and ancient. A sinister little giggle threatened to escape his throat, and he clenched his jaw to suppress it. It wasn't the first time he'd felt this disconnect and it wouldn’t be the last. "You should give up now," Bakugo called out, his voice carrying across the silent arena. "I'm not holding back just because you're a girl."

Ochaco's determined expression didn't waver. She stood with her feet planted firmly, hands positioned to activate her quirk at the first opportunity. "I don't expect you to. And I'll be the one to beat you."

The giggle he'd been fighting finally broke free—a sound that seemed out of place coming from Bakugo, whose usual expressions ranged from annoyed to enraged. It was unsettling in its quiet intensity, like water just before it boils.

Confusion crossed Ochaco's face. "What's so funny?"

"It's funny that you think you can beat me," Bakugo replied, a smile spreading across his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. "This is how far you go."

In the stands, Izuku and Tenya watched with mounting concern.

"What advice did you end up giving her?" Tenya asked, adjusting his glasses nervously.

Izuku shook his head, his fingers absently tracing patterns on his notebook. "She wouldn't take my help. But if she had, I would've told her to strike first—use her quirk to touch Kacchan and float him out of bounds." He bit his lip anxiously. "The problem is, getting close enough to touch him is nearly impossible. Kacchan's been doing martial arts since he could walk. His combat instincts are incredible."

Down on the stage, Midnight raised her whip. "Begin!"

Ochaco wasted no time, launching herself toward Bakugo with unexpected speed. Her fingers outstretched, aiming for any part of him she could reach. Her face was a mask of concentration—she knew she had only one shot at surprising him.

Bakugo didn't even blink. He shifted his weight subtly, pivoting on one foot in a movement that seemed deceptively simple yet impossibly fluid. As Ochaco's hand passed through the space where he had been standing, he grabbed her extended arm and used her own momentum to flip her over his shoulder.

The technique was flawless—not the standard throws taught at UA, but something more refined, more elegant in its brutality. His body flowed like water, redirecting her force with minimal effort.

Ochaco hit the ground hard but rolled quickly back to her feet, wincing but undeterred. A small cloud of dust rose around her as she regained her stance.

"NOT QUITE THE START URARAKA WAS HOPING FOR!" Present Mic announced. "BAKUGO SEEMS TO HAVE MORE THAN JUST EXPLOSIONS IN HIS ARSENAL!"

In the commentator's booth, Aizawa's eyes narrowed slightly. "His form is unusual. That wasn't standard judo or karate. It's an older style, more fluid, but adapted to modern combat applications."

Ochaco rushed in again, this time feinting to the right before diving left. Her movements were sharper now, more calculated. She'd clearly been watching Bakugo's previous matches during the sport’s festival, studying his tendencies.

Bakugo read the movement easily, creating distance with a controlled explosion from his palm that sent him skating backward across the concrete. The blast was precisely calibrated—enough force to move him but not enough to damage the arena or create excessive smoke. Before Ochaco could regroup, he was already countering, closing the gap with explosive acceleration.

His fist stopped just short of full impact against her solar plexus, but the controlled strike still drove the air from her lungs and sent her stumbling back. He followed with a sweeping kick that caught her ankle, toppling her to the ground once more.

"He's not even using his quirk to attack," Kirishima muttered from the stands, leaning forward intently. "It's like he's proving a point."

Ochaco pushed herself up again, gasping but still determined. She circled Bakugo cautiously, looking for an opening. When she found none, she created one—dropping suddenly to slide beneath his guard, fingers reaching for his ankle.

Bakugo leapt over her with casual grace, twisting in mid-air to land facing her. As she scrambled to her feet, he struck again—a palm heel to her shoulder that knocked her off-balance, followed by a hip throw that sent her sprawling once more.

Again and again, Ochaco tried to close the distance. Again and again, Bakugo either created space with his explosions or used precise martial arts techniques to throw her off balance, strike at vulnerable points, or otherwise neutralize her attacks.

Some movements were recognizable—textbook takedowns and throws from modern combat sports. Others were strange and antiquated, flowing forms that seemed to belong to another era entirely. His body moved with an efficiency that spoke of muscle memory far beyond his years of training.

The pattern continued for several minutes. What became increasingly clear to those watching closely was that Bakugo had numerous opportunities to end the match—moments where he could have blasted Ochaco out of bounds or rendered her unable to continue—but he never took them.

In the commentary booth, Aizawa's expression grew increasingly perplexed. "He's holding back. He could have won three times already."

"MAYBE HE'S TRYING TO PUT ON A SHOW?" Present Mic suggested.

"No," Aizawa replied, his voice carrying clearly through the stadium speakers. "This isn't showboating. He's testing her limits."

The crowd began to grow restless. Murmurs of discontent rippled through the stadium.

"He's just toying with her!"

"What a bully!"

"End it already!"

The murmurs grew into outright booing as Bakugo flipped Ochaco over his shoulder once more, sending her crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. Blood trickled from a scrape on her cheek, and her breathing was labored, yet she forced herself to her feet again.

Each time she fell, she rose with increasing difficulty. Her pink uniform was smeared with dirt and sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. Yet there was no surrender in her eyes—only a growing resolve.

In the VIP section, Touya watched the match with a contemplative expression. Beside him, Rei and Keigo observed the audience's reaction with matching frowns.

"They don't understand what they're seeing," Rei commented quietly.

Touya nodded, his eyes never leaving the stage. "He's being cruel to be kind. Each time she gets up, he's giving her another chance to prove herself."

The booing reached a crescendo as Bakugo sidestepped another of Ochaco's desperate lunges, retaliating with a palm strike that sent her staggering backwards. The edge of the arena was just meters behind her now—one good blast would end the match.

Finally, something snapped in Bakugo. He whirled toward the stands, his face contorted with fury.

"SHUT UP!" he roared, his voice echoing throughout the stadium. "ALL OF YOU, JUST SHUT UP!"

The stadium fell into shocked silence as Bakugo continued, his voice carrying clearly in the sudden hush.

"You think I'm being cruel? You think I'm bullying her?" His eyes blazed with righteous indignation, his stance widening as though preparing to fight the entire audience. "I'm acknowledging her strength! She's come at me with everything she has, again and again. She's earned my respect as an opponent, and I'm doing everything I can to keep her at bay because I know she's dangerous!"

His words resonated throughout the stadium, silencing even the most vocal critics. The raw honesty in his voice was impossible to dismiss.

"Each time she falls, she gets back up. Each time I knock her down, she rises stronger. That's what it means to be a hero—to face overwhelming odds and refuse to break!" The passion in his voice transformed his usually harsh features, revealing something most had never seen in Bakugou—genuine respect.

He turned back to Ochaco, his expression fierce but no longer mocking. "I haven't finished this fight because I know you have something up your sleeve, don't you? You've been planning something this whole time."

Then, in a voice that rang with unexpected passion, he called out to her: "So show me! Show me your dreams! Show me your ambitions! Show me your fighting spirit!" His voice rose to a crescendo that resonated throughout the arena. "What are you willing to sacrifice to stand at the top? What are you fighting for? What does it mean to be a hero to you?"

Each question landed like a hammer strike, echoing not just around the stadium but within the hearts of everyone listening. These weren't just challenges to Ochaco—they were questions each aspiring hero needed to answer for themselves.

"Are you here just to win? Or are you here to become something greater? A true hero doesn't just defeat villains—they inspire others, they stand as a beacon when darkness falls!" Bakugo's voice cracked with emotion, a vulnerability none had witnessed before. "So show me your purpose, Uraraka! Show me why you deserve to stand in this ring!"

His words reverberated through the stadium, leaving a stunned silence in their wake before the crowd erupted—not in boos this time, but in thunderous applause and cheers. The atmosphere had transformed entirely. What had seemed like a one-sided beatdown was revealed as something far more profound—a crucible in which both combatants were being tested and forged.

Even students from other classes looked at Bakugo with new eyes, seeing beyond the abrasive exterior to something deeper and more complex than they'd imagined.

In the stands, Hiro sat frozen, Bakugo's words striking something profound within him. All his life, he'd defined himself through others—protecting his sister Yumi after they lost their parents and being trafficked, being adopted by Keigo and then Touya, becoming part of their family. But what did he want for himself? What were his dreams, his ambitions?

Bakugo's challenge echoed in his mind: What are you willing to sacrifice to stand at the top?

Hiro looked down at his hands, slowly clenching them into fists. He'd never thought of himself as the main character in his own story—always the supporting role, the protector, the good son. What if there was more? What if he had dreams he'd never dared to acknowledge, ambitions he'd buried beneath layers of responsibility and gratitude?

Why am I here? The question burned through him, uncomfortable yet necessary. What kind of hero do I want to be?

He glanced sideways at Yumi, seeing his sister's rapt attention on the match below. Had he used her as an excuse to avoid confronting his own purpose? The realization was like ice water in his veins. His protection had become a shield—not just for her, but for himself. A shield against the terror of defining his own path.

"I don't know what I want," he whispered, the words barely audible even to himself. Yet somehow, admitting this felt like the first honest thing he'd done in years. "I don't know who I am without them."

Nearby, Denki felt an unexpected resonance with Bakugo's words. He'd become a hero largely out of defiance—to prove wrong everyone who'd looked at his quirk and seen only its limitations, its dangers. But now, something deeper stirred within him, ancient and familiar yet just beyond his grasp. A fire ignited in his chest, and with it came another purpose. The determination in Bakugo's voice awakened something dormant in him—a warrior's spirit, a code of honor he couldn't quite remember but felt with visceral certainty.

What am I willing to sacrifice? What does being a hero mean to me? The questions rattled through him like thunder, bringing with them fractured images: a sword gleaming in moonlight, the weight of responsibility, a promise broken, a master betrayed.

His hand moved unconsciously to his chest, where phantom pain blossomed from a wound he'd never received. "I was running away," he murmured, the revelation stunning him. "All this time, I thought I was proving them wrong, but I was just running from something else."

The electrical currents that usually danced chaotically beneath his skin seemed to calm. For the first time since his quirk had manifested, Denki felt truly connected to it—not as a burden or a challenge to overcome, but as an extension of himself, a power with purpose.

"It's not about proving them wrong anymore," he realized, his voice stronger now. "It's about proving myself right. About becoming someone worthy of this power."

The fragment of memory solidified further—a mentor's stern face, a teaching abandoned, a path forsaken. The details remained fuzzy, but the sense of having squandered something precious was overwhelming. "I won't waste this chance again," he vowed, though he couldn't articulate exactly what chance he meant.

Down on the arena floor, Ochaco's expression shifted from exhaustion to gratitude. "Thank you, Bakugo," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "Thank you for keeping your focus on me this whole time."

A slow smile spread across her face as she raised her hand in a release gesture. "Release!"

Bakugo's eyes widened slightly as he glanced upward. Above the stadium, a massive amount of debris hung suspended in the air—chunks of concrete, pieces of the arena floor that had been torn up during their battle.

In the stands, Neito Monoma from Class 1-B leaned forward, a grudgingly impressed expression on his face. "Clever," he commented to no one in particular. "She kept low to the ground during their entire fight, making it look like she was just trying to get close to him. But all the while, she was touching debris from the explosions that tore up the ring, sending it floating upward bit by bit."

Beside him, Itsuka Kendo nodded. "And she kept attacking relentlessly, keeping his attention fixed on her so he wouldn't notice what was happening above."

"A Meteor Storm," Neito said, unable to completely hide his admiration. "Not bad for someone from Class 1-A."

The rubble began to rain down, a deadly hail of concrete and stone aimed directly at Bakugo. Simultaneously, Ochaco charged forward, pushing through her exhaustion for one final attempt to capitalize on what she hoped would be a moment of distraction or vulnerability.

But Bakugo didn't look concerned. In fact, as he gazed upward at the impending avalanche, a smile crossed his face—not the mocking smirk from earlier, but something almost respectful.

"I respect your fighting spirit, Uraraka," he said, his voice carrying despite the rumble of falling debris. "Your dream burns bright enough to keep you standing when any rational person would have surrendered. As an opponent, you've earned that much."

His stance shifted subtly—feet planted firmly, knees slightly bent, hands poised in a position that seemed both modern and ancient. "But—" his hands began to glow with concentrated heat, "—this is how far you go. Not because you're weak, but because I've walked a longer path."

With a roar that seemed to contain all his pent-up power, Bakugo unleashed a massive explosion upward and outward. The blast was so powerful that the shockwave reverberated throughout the stadium, the heat from it washing over the audience in the front rows. The light was blinding, forcing many to shield their eyes.

When vision returned, the scene had transformed. The debris was instantly vaporized or repelled, scattering harmlessly to the edges of the arena. But the force of the explosion didn't stop there—it caught Ochaco in its periphery, sending her flying backward. She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her body skidding to a stop mere inches from the boundary line.

For a moment, the stadium was eerily silent except for the patter of small pebbles raining down around the edges of the arena.

Ochaco tried to push herself up, her arms trembling with the effort. Her face was streaked with dirt and sweat, her uniform singed and torn. She managed to get to her knees before her strength gave out.

But she didn't stay down. With visible effort, she began to crawl toward Bakugo, her expression set in determined desperation.

In her mind, she saw her father's tired face after a long day of work. She heard his laughter when she told him she wanted to be a hero to help their family's construction company. She felt the warmth of his hug when he encouraged her to follow her dreams.

I promised , she thought, her vision blurring as she struggled to remain conscious. I promised I'd help them. I can't stop here. My dream... it's not just for me. It's for them too.

Bakugo watched her approach, his expression unreadable. He didn't move to attack or defend, simply stood his ground as she inched closer. His respect for her resolve was evident in his stillness—he would allow her this final attempt to reach him.

"My dream..." Ochaco whispered, her voice barely audible, "is to make enough money so my parents never have to work again. So they can live the life they deserve." Her fingers clawed at the concrete, pulling her forward inch by painful inch. "That's what being a hero means to me. Giving them the happiness they sacrificed for me."

Before she could reach him, Ochaco's strength finally failed her. She collapsed face-down on the concrete, her outstretched hand just meters from Bakugo's feet.

Midnight rushed to check on her. After confirming she was unconscious, she raised her whip. "Uraraka is unable to continue! Bakugo advances to the second round!"

The crowd's reaction was mixed—respect for Ochaco's determination mingling with lingering awe at the display they had witnessed. But there was none of the hostility from earlier. Instead, a reverence had settled over the stadium, an acknowledgment that they had witnessed something profound.

To everyone's surprise, Bakugo walked over to where Ochaco lay. With unexpected gentleness, he lifted her unconscious form and began carrying her toward the exit.

"What are you doing?" Midnight asked, startled.

"Taking her to Recovery Girl," Bakugo replied gruffly. "She fought well. She deserves proper care."

As he carried Ochaco through the tunnel leading away from the arena, he spoke quietly, his words meant only for her though she couldn't hear them. "Your dream is worthy, Uraraka. Hold onto it. Next time, I won't hold back at all."

He encountered Izuku waiting anxiously near the entrance to the medical area.

Bakugo's expression immediately soured. "What are you doing here, Deku?"

Izuku's eyes widened at the sight of Bakugo carrying the unconscious Ochaco. "I-I was worried about Uraraka. Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine," Bakugo snapped. "This was your plan, wasn't it? That meteor shower attack. It had your overthinking written all over it."

Izuku straightened, a rare flash of defiance crossing his face. "No, it wasn't. That was all Uraraka. I offered to help her come up with a strategy, but she refused. She wanted to face you with her own strength, her own plan." His voice grew stronger. "If the fight was harder than you expected, it's because of her, not me."

Bakugo blinked, genuine surprise momentarily replacing his perpetual scowl. For a brief moment, something like respect flickered in his eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered, the word sounding foreign on his lips. "Guess I underestimated her." Without waiting for a response, he continued past a bewildered Izuku toward Recovery Girl's office.

As Bakugo disappeared down the corridor, Izuku stood frozen in place, trying to process what had just happened. Bakugo had apologized to him. Actually apologized.

He shook his head in disbelief before turning to follow, wondering if this competition was changing all of them in ways they couldn't yet understand.

Recovery Girl examined Ochaco quickly, her healing quirk working its restorative magic. "Just some scrapes and bruises, dear. Nothing serious," she informed Bakugo, who hovered awkwardly by the door. "She'll be fine after a short rest."

Bakugo nodded curtly, already pulling a small notebook from his pocket. He scribbled something quickly, tore out the page, and folded it before placing it on the table next to Ochaco's bed.

"Make sure she gets that when she wakes up," he instructed, then turned and stalked from the room before Recovery Girl could respond.

When Bakugo returned to the stands, a palpable shift in energy greeted him. Students who had previously kept their distance were now watching him with new interest, even respect. He moved toward his empty seat, scowling as usual to maintain his facade of indifference.

Before he could reach his destination, Denki Kaminari leapt to his feet, practically bouncing with excitement as he intercepted Bakugo.

"Dude!" Denki exclaimed, grabbing Bakugo's shoulders. "That was incredible! Your speech gave me literal chills!"

Bakugo immediately shrugged off Denki's hands. "Don't touch me, Pikachu." he growled, but the usual venom in his voice was diluted.

"No, seriously," Denki persisted, electric energy practically crackling in his eyes. "What you said down there—about dreams and sacrifice and what it means to be a hero—it was like you were speaking directly to me."

For a brief moment, something flickered across Denki's face—a shadow of recognition, as though he'd heard those words before, in another time, from another mouth. The sensation was unsettling yet familiar, like a long-forgotten melody suddenly remembered.

Kirishima joined them, nodding enthusiastically. "Kaminari's right, man. That was seriously manly. I don't think I've ever heard you talk like that before."

"Whatever you said down there," Mina added, leaning forward from her seat, "it lit a fire in all of us. I'm starting to question what I want out of being a hero."

Bakugo looked uncomfortable with the attention, but there was a flicker of something like satisfaction in his eyes. He hadn't planned that speech—the words had risen from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere ancient and certain.

"I just said what needed to be said," he muttered, pushing past them to reach his seat.

"It was more than that," Jiro commented quietly. "You made everyone here think about why they want to be heroes in the first place. Not just how to win, but why we're fighting at all."

Around them, conversations buzzed with renewed purpose. Students who had been focused solely on the tournament now debated deeper questions: What did heroism mean to them? What were they willing to sacrifice? What dreams drove them forward?

Bakugo settled into his seat, arms crossed defensively across his chest. But his eyes scanned the crowd, noting the changed atmosphere with quiet satisfaction. Something had shifted—not just in how others saw him, but in how they saw themselves.

In the row behind him, Hiro Takami sat with his adoptive family, still processing the revelations Bakugo's words had triggered. When Touya placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, Hiro started.

"You've been quiet," Touya observed. "Bakugo's speech got to you too, huh?"

Hiro nodded slowly. "It made me realize I don't know what I want. All my life, I've just been reacting—protecting Yumi, being grateful to you and Dad, trying to fit into this growing family." He looked down at his hands. "But what do I want for myself? What kind of hero am I trying to become? I don't have answers to those questions."

Keigo leaned forward, his wings rustling softly. "That's okay, kiddo. Most pros don't have those answers figured out when they start. Finding your own path—that's part of the journey."

"But shouldn't I know by now?" Hiro asked, frustration evident in his voice. "Everyone else seems so certain."

Touya and Keigo exchanged a knowing glance. "Trust me," Touya said softly, "no one is as certain as they seem. We're all figuring it out as we go."

Yumi reached over and squeezed her brother's hand. "You'll find your answers, Hiro. And whatever you decide, I'll support you."

Hiro smiled gratefully, though the questions still churned within him. For the first time in his life, he felt the stirrings of ambition that was purely his own—not driven by duty or gratitude, but by a need to discover who he could become.

In preparation for his upcoming match against Shoto, Izuku headed to the waiting rooms to gather his thoughts. The conversation with Bakugo had left him unsettled, and he needed to focus.

To his surprise, when he pushed open the door to waiting room three, he found Ochaco sitting there, staring thoughtfully at a piece of paper in her hands. She was no longer in Recovery Girl's office as he'd expected, and aside from a few small bandages, she seemed completely recovered.

"Uraraka!" he exclaimed. "Should you be up already? I thought you'd still be with Recovery Girl."

Ochaco looked up, surprise quickly replaced by her usual bright smile. "Deku! I'm fine, really. She healed me completely except for a few scrapes and scratches." She gestured to the small bandage on her cheek. "Said I should save the full healing for someone who really needs it."

Izuku hesitated, studying her face. Despite her smile, there was a shadow in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "Are you okay? I mean, not physically, but... you know."

"You mean because I lost?" Ochaco's smile faltered slightly. "I should have done better. My strategy was solid, but my execution was too slow. I relied too much on surprise and not enough on skill."

Her self-criticism surprised Izuku. "What are you talking about? You were amazing! The way you set up that meteor shower while keeping his attention—"

"It wasn't enough," Ochaco interrupted, her voice uncharacteristically firm. "I need to be stronger. Faster. Better." She looked down at her hands. "I can't just rely on my quirk. I need to improve my hand-to-hand combat, my endurance, my strategy..."

Izuku stared at her, taken aback by the intensity in her voice. This wasn't the defeat talking—this was something deeper, a resolve that had been forged in the crucible of her battle with Bakugo.

"Uraraka..."

She seemed to catch herself, her smile returning full force. "But that's for later! You're up against Todoroki next, right? You should be focusing on your match, not worrying about me."

Izuku wanted to press further, but recognized her clear attempt to change the subject. "Right. Um, I should probably get ready."

"Good luck, Deku!" Ochaco said brightly. "Show them what you can do!"

He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. "Thanks, Uraraka. And for what it's worth, I think you were incredible out there."

After Izuku left, Ochaco's smile faded. She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly as the weight of her defeat settled back onto her shoulders. The piece of paper in her hands crinkled slightly as her grip tightened.

Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a familiar name: Dad.

Ochaco stared at it for a moment before answering. "Hi, Dad."

"Ochaco!" her father's warm voice filled the line. "We just watched your match! You were amazing, sweetheart!"

"Thanks, Dad," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "But I lost."

"Lost? Are you kidding me? That meteor shower attack was genius! Your mother and I were on the edge of our seats!"

Despite herself, a small smile tugged at Ochaco's lips. "It didn't work, though."

"That doesn't matter. What matters is that you never gave up. That boy may have won the match, but you showed everyone what you're made of."

Something inside Ochaco cracked. The facade of cheerfulness she'd maintained in front of Izuku crumbled, and her true feelings surfaced. "But I wanted to win," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I wanted to move forward in the tournament, get noticed by agencies, start earning money sooner..." Her voice broke. "I wanted to help you and Mom sooner rather than later."

"Oh, sweetie," her father's voice softened. "Is that what this is about? Your mother and I are doing just fine. We don't want you worrying about us. We want you focused on becoming the hero you've always dreamed of being."

"But the company—"

"The company will still be here when you graduate. This is your time to learn, to grow, to become the best hero you can be." There was a smile in his voice as he continued, "And from what I saw today, you're already on your way. The care you show for others, the determination to keep fighting even when it seems impossible—those are the marks of a true hero, Ochaco."

Tears welled in Ochaco's eyes, spilling down her cheeks. "I just want to make you proud," she whispered.

"Proud?" Her father's laugh was warm, filled with love. "Ochaco, we couldn't be more proud if we tried. You've already become the kind of hero who inspires others—who gives everything she has for what she believes in. What more could any parent ask for?"

The dam broke. Ochaco's tears flowed freely now, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders as years of pressure and expectation—most of it self-imposed—released in a cathartic wave. "Thank you, Dad," she managed between breaths. "I love you."

"We love you too, sweetheart. More than you could ever know."

After saying goodbye to her parents, Ochaco wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt lighter somehow, as if the weight of her self-imposed expectations had been lifted, if only a little.

She looked down at the folded paper in her hand—the one she'd found on the table when she woke up in Recovery Girl's office. At first, she'd thought it might be from Izuku, filled with his characteristic detailed analysis.

But the handwriting was different—sharper, more aggressive. And at the bottom, a signature that had shocked her: Bakugo.

She unfolded it again, reading through his meticulous breakdown of her performance:

STRENGTHS:

- Good strategy with the meteor shower. Creative use of quirk.

- Determination. You don't quit even when you should.

- Decent speed and reflexes.

 

WEAKNESSES:

- Too reliant on quirk. Need hand-to-hand combat training.

- Telegraphing moves. I saw your attacks coming before you made them.

- Need to work on endurance and recovery after throws.

- Footwork is sloppy. Fix that first.

 

SUGGESTED TRAINING:

- Basic martial arts (aikido or judo would complement your style)

- Quirk extension exercises (how many objects can you float at once?)

- Cardio and strength training (you tired too quickly)

 

For next time.

- Bakugo

Beneath his signature, he'd added a postscript that had brought fresh tears to her eyes when she first read it:

P.S. Your dream is worth fighting for. Make sure you're strong enough to achieve it.

She folded the paper carefully and tucked it into her pocket. Unlike the tears she'd shed for her father, these had been tears of determination, of resolve.

Bakugo had acknowledged her—not just as an opponent, but as a fighter with potential. He'd seen her dream, her will, her determination, and deemed them worthy of respect.

For the first time since her defeat, a genuine smile spread across Ochaco's face. This wasn't the end. It was just the beginning. Next time, she'd be stronger. Next time, she'd push him even further.

Next time, she'd show everyone just how far her dreams could take her.

Notes:

P.S I didn't edit the chapter.

Bye Pookies

Chapter 23: Rise to the occasion

Summary:

Time to do a deep dive on Izuku.

Notes:

I going to be honest with you guys. This chapter is going to be short. Why? I'm trying to get back into the hang of things. This entire summer has been so ups and downs for me and just recently I didn't feel dead on my feet. So I hope you enjoy the small chapter pookies.

As Izuku walked through the corridor, his mind churning with thoughts about his upcoming match against Shoto, he wasn't paying attention to where he was going. He rounded a corner and collided directly with someone coming from the opposite direction.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, steadying himself and reaching out to help the woman he'd bumped into.

She was elegant despite the collision, with white hair and kind but tired eyes. There was something familiar about her features—the sharp jawline, the way she carried herself with quiet dignity.

"It's quite alright," she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed practiced, as if she'd learned to project comfort even when she felt none herself. "You're Midoriya Izuku, aren't you?"

Izuku blinked in surprise. "Yes, ma'am. Have we met?"

"Not formally. I'm Rei Todoroki, Shoto's mother." She studied his face carefully, and Izuku could see where Shoto had inherited his striking features. The resemblance was remarkable, though her expression held a gentleness that Shoto rarely displayed.

"Oh!" Izuku's eyes widened. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Todoroki. I should probably—"

"Your power," she interrupted gently, "it's similar to All Might's, isn't it?"

The question hit Izuku like a physical blow. His heart rate spiked, and he felt heat creep up his neck. "W-what? No, I mean, people say that sometimes, but it's not—I'm not—"

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Rei said, noting his obvious distress. "It's just an observation. The way you move, the nature of your strength enhancement..." She tilted her head slightly. "Though I suppose many strength-type quirks might appear similar to an untrained eye."

Izuku forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Right, exactly. Just a coincidence, really. I should get going—my match is coming up and I need to prepare—"

"Midoriya," Rei's voice stopped him as he started to turn away. There was something in her tone that demanded attention, a quiet authority that reminded him painfully of his own mother. "When you fight my son, I hope you'll do so honestly."

"Honestly?" Izuku repeated, confusion evident in his voice.

Rei's expression grew distant, as if she were seeing something far beyond the corridor they stood in. "Shoto has been carrying burdens that aren't his to bear. He's been defining himself by his hatred rather than his potential." Her eyes refocused on Izuku with startling intensity. "Don't hold back because you pity him. Don't go easy because you think you understand his pain. Fight him with everything you have—it's the only way he'll learn to fight for himself."

Before Izuku could respond, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the corridor with her words echoing in his mind.

Fight honestly.

What did that mean? Izuku began walking toward the waiting area, his steps slower now, more hesitant. Was she implying that he wasn't being honest in his fights? That he was holding back somehow?

The thought sent a chill down his spine. Was his head not in the game? He'd been so focused on not revealing the true nature of One For All, so careful about how much power he used, so concerned with maintaining the secret that All Might had entrusted to him. But was that caution making him fight dishonestly?

"Fight him with everything you have," she'd said. But he couldn't use everything he had—not without destroying his body, not without revealing secrets that could endanger All Might, not without...

Izuku stopped walking, a cold realization settling in his stomach. When was the last time he'd fought without holding back? When was the last time he'd used his quirk—All Might's quirk—without calculating the political ramifications, without worrying about living up to impossible expectations, without second-guessing every decision?

He leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him. The legacy of One For All, All Might's declining health, the responsibility of carrying the Symbol of Peace's power, the constant fear that he wasn't worthy of any of it.

Do I deserve this quirk? The question had haunted him since the day All Might first offered him power, but it felt more acute now, more pressing. Do I deserve All Might's quirk when I can't even use it properly? When I'm so afraid of it that I hold back even when people are counting on me?

He thought about his previous matches in the tournament. Had he been fighting for himself, or had he been fighting as he thought All Might would want him to? Had his strategies been his own, or pale imitations of what he thought the Symbol of Peace would do?

The worst part was that he couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Izuku closed his eyes, pressing his palms against them as if he could physically push away the doubts that threatened to overwhelm him. All Might had chosen him, had seen something in him worth nurturing. But standing here now, feeling the weight of that choice, Izuku wondered if All Might had made a mistake.

I'm not him, Izuku thought desperately. I'm not All Might. I'll never be All Might. I'm just... me.

But who was he, really? Without the borrowed power, without the legacy he was supposed to inherit, without the shadow of the world's greatest hero looming over every decision he made—who was Izuku Midoriya?

The question terrified him because he didn't have an answer.

A few minutes passed before Izuku managed to pull himself together. He couldn't afford to fall apart now, not with his match against Shoto approaching. He pushed off from the wall and continued toward the waiting room, but Rei Todoroki's words continued to echo in his mind.

Fight honestly.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he'd been so busy trying to be worthy of One For All that he'd forgotten how to be himself. Maybe the honest fight she was asking for wasn't about holding back or going all out—maybe it was about fighting as Izuku Midoriya, not as the successor to All Might.

But even as he tried to convince himself of this new perspective, the doubt remained, a persistent whisper in the back of his mind: What if Izuku Midoriya isn't enough?

Meanwhile, back in the stadium corridors, Rei Todoroki walked with measured steps, her expression thoughtful yet troubled. Something about that green-haired boy had gotten under her skin—perhaps it was that incessant mumbling she'd caught glimpses of, or the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was something unsettling about him that she couldn't quite place.

As memories of a different life flickered at the edges of her consciousness—memories of rainbow eyes and eternal frost—Rei found herself analyzing the boy with an almost predatory interest. The way he'd stumbled over his words, the obvious guilt written across his face when she'd mentioned his similarity to All Might... it was all so deliciously transparent.

"There you are," came a deep, familiar voice behind her.

Rei turned to see her husband approaching, his usual stern expression softened with concern. Despite his intimidating reputation, Enji had always been gentle with her—a protective teddy bear wrapped in flames.

"Where have you been?" he asked, falling into step beside her. "I was looking for you in the VIP section."

"Scanning the competition," Rei replied with an innocent smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Enji raised an eyebrow. "You could have scanned the competition from the VIP section just as easily."

Rei's response was a soft giggle that sent a chill down Enji's spine. He'd heard that particular laugh before, and it never boded well. Something was brewing in his wife's mind, and experience had taught him that when Rei got that look in her eyes, chaos wasn't far behind.

"What are you planning?" he asked warily.

"Nothing at all, dear," she said, her tone carrying an edge of playfulness that made Enji's protective instincts flare. "I'm simply... observing."

When Ochaco returned to her seat with the rest of Class 1-A, the evidence of her earlier tears was still visible in the red marks around her eyes from where she'd wiped them away.

Tenya noticed immediately, his sharp eyes taking in her slightly disheveled appearance. "Uraraka, are you alright? I must confess, if I were in your position after that match, I would be quite frustrated."

Ochaco managed a genuine smile, though her eyes still held traces of disappointment. "It's fine, really. I have something to work toward now. That match showed me exactly how much stronger I need to become."

Fumikage nodded approvingly from his seat nearby. "A wise perspective. Do not wallow in remorse—instead, use Midoriya's upcoming match as a source of encouragement. Observe how he faces his own challenges."

The stadium around them began to thrum with renewed energy as the announcement for the second round's first match echoed through the arena. The anticipation was palpable as spectators prepared to witness what many considered the most anticipated bout of the entire tournament.

"The crowd's really getting worked up," Ochaco observed, her earlier melancholy beginning to lift as she was swept up in the excitement.

"And with good reason," Tenya replied, adjusting his glasses. "Both Midoriya and Todoroki have proven themselves to be exceptional fighters. This match will likely determine who advances to face the winner of Bakugo versus Kirishima."

Fumikage leaned forward slightly. "The question remains—how could Midoriya possibly win this match? Todoroki's ice quirk provides both offensive and defensive capabilities, while Midoriya's power comes at the cost of injuring himself."

Far from the cheering crowds, in a dimly lit room filled with multiple screens showing the tournament, Tomura Shigaraki sat with his fingers tapping restlessly against his neck. The images of the two young heroes filled the monitors before him.

"You should pay close attention to this match," came a voice from the shadows. "These two boys may become formidable obstacles to you one day."

Tomura's response was dismissive, his voice carrying its usual petulant tone. "I'm not worried about a couple of kids playing hero."

The sharp crack of a hand striking the back of his head echoed through the room.

"Pay attention," Yoru commanded, his towering frame casting an imposing shadow as he stood behind Shigaraki's chair. 

"These are the future heroes," Yoru continued, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "They can become threats if we're not careful. Underestimating them would be foolish."

Shigaraki rubbed the back of his head, glaring up at the taller man. "Fine, fine. I'll watch your precious little heroes."

"Good," Yoru replied, settling back into his observation position. His eyes never left the screens, analyzing every detail of the two boys who would soon face each other in battle.

Back at the stadium, in the hero section, Thirteen leaned over to All Might with a thoughtful expression.

"You know, both Todoroki and Midoriya were there at the U.S.J. when the villains attacked. They both tried to help save you."

All Might nodded, his skeletal form hidden beneath his hero costume as he watched the preparations for the match. "They have more in common with each other than they realize. Each of them carries an intense aura—the weight of expectations, the burden of potential. This match will test more than just their quirks."

Down in the arena, Izuku Midoriya and Shoto Todoroki stood facing each other across the battlefield. The roar of the crowd faded to a distant hum as both boys focused entirely on their opponent.

Izuku's mind raced with strategies and doubts, Rei Todoroki's words still echoing in his thoughts: Fight honestly. What did that mean? How could he fight honestly when so much of his truth had to remain hidden?

Across from him, Shoto stood with characteristic stoicism, ice crystals already beginning to form around his right side. His heterochromatic eyes were focused and determined, though something in his expression suggested this fight meant more to him than just advancing in the tournament.

Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium: "Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for what promises to be an epic showdown! In the blue corner, the ice prince himself, Shoto Todoroki! And in the red corner, the analytical powerhouse, Izuku Midoriya!"

The two boys took their battle stances, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. Around them, the stadium fell into an expectant hush—the calm before the storm that would determine not just who advanced to the next round, but perhaps who they would become as heroes.

"BEGIN!" Midnight's voice cracked like a whip across the arena.

Chapter 24: It's complicated

Summary:

I don't know how to describe this but this chapter is all about denki.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation as the crowd awaited the next match, but in a quiet corner of the waiting area, three students from Class 1-A found themselves in an unexpectedly serious conversation.

Momo Yaoyorozu still looked troubled, her usually composed demeanor showing cracks of concern. She'd been thinking about that conversation during the cavalry battle—the one where Shoto had so coldly declared his dislike for Izuku, and where Denki had agreed with such unexpected vehemence.

"Kaminari," she said carefully, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "About what you said during the cavalry battle... when you agreed with Todoroki about Midoriya..."

Denki's shoulders tensed immediately. He'd hoped they'd forgotten about that moment, or at least chosen to ignore it. "What about it?"

Tenya adjusted his glasses, his expression serious. "We couldn't simply forget such a conversation. Your words seemed to carry a weight that suggested deeper feelings than mere casual dislike."

"Were you... were you trying to be lighthearted?" Momo asked gently. "To make Todoroki feel better about his own admission?"

Denki was quiet for a long moment, his usual cheerful demeanor nowhere to be seen. The old Denki might have deflected with jokes or gotten defensive, but Bakugo's speech during his fight with Ochaco had stuck with him. Be honest with yourself, the blonde had said. Stop pretending to be something you're not.

"No," Denki said finally, his voice quieter than usual. "I wasn't trying to be funny. I meant what I said."

The admission hung in the air between them. Denki wasn't someone who often talked about his deeper thoughts or feelings—that level of trust was something he'd only ever extended to Shinso, and even then, it had taken time. But something about this moment, about the way Momo and Tenya were looking at him with genuine concern rather than judgment, made him want to be honest.

"I don't hate Midoriya," he continued, running a hand through his blonde hair. "I want to make that clear. But I... I hate what he represents."

"What he represents?" Tenya echoed, confusion evident in his voice.

Denki nodded, his expression growing more serious than either of his classmates had ever seen. "Just like how I used to dislike you, Yaoyorozu, because of what you represented about hero society."

Momo's eyes widened slightly. They'd worked through those issues already, but hearing him reference it so directly still caught her off guard.

"With Midoriya, it's different, but it's the same principle," Denki explained. "He represents the sacrificial side of hero society that nobody wants to talk about. The part where heroes are expected to throw themselves into danger without any regard for their own wellbeing or the people who care about them."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "You've seen him fight, right? The way he breaks his own bones, the way he pushes himself until he's barely conscious? Everyone acts like that's normal, like that's what heroes are supposed to do. But it's not normal. It's not healthy."

Tenya and Momo exchanged glances, both recognizing the truth in his words even if they'd never thought about it in quite those terms.

"Heroes have lives outside of their work," Denki continued, his voice growing more passionate. "They have families, friends, people who love them and worry about them. When someone like Midoriya throws himself into battle with complete disregard for his own safety, he's not just risking his own life—he's risking the emotional wellbeing of everyone who cares about him."

"But surely," Tenya interjected carefully, "there are times when such sacrifices are necessary? When the greater good requires—"

"Of course there are," Denki cut him off. "I know there's a time and place to put everything on the line. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the mentality that says heroes should always be willing to destroy themselves for others, that self-preservation is somehow selfish or un-heroic."

He looked directly at both of them. "And it starts with All Might."

The statement was so bold, so contrary to everything they'd been taught to believe, that both Momo and Tenya were momentarily speechless.

"All Might," Denki continued, "is held up as the perfect hero, the Symbol of Peace. But look at what that actually means. He fought alone for years, carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. He never married, never had a family, never allowed himself to have a life outside of being a hero. He’s literally working himself to death.

Momo frowned. "But his sacrifices saved countless lives—"

"Did they?" Denki challenged. "Or did they just create a society that became dependent on one person? A society that never learned to address the root causes of why people become villains in the first place?"

The question hung heavy in the air. Denki could see the conflict in their faces—the struggle between their ingrained respect for All Might and the uncomfortable truth of his words.

"All Might's approach was to punch villains until they stopped being villains," Denki said more quietly. "But that doesn't solve the problems that created those villains. The poverty, the discrimination, the societal issues that push people toward crime—none of that gets addressed when your solution is just to be stronger than everyone else."

"And now," he continued, "that mentality is being passed down to the next generation. Midoriya idolizes All Might so much that he's copying not just his fighting style, but his self-destructive tendencies. He's learning that being a hero means being willing to sacrifice everything, including yourself, for others."

Tenya pushed his glasses up his nose, his expression troubled. "You're suggesting that Midoriya's dedication is... unhealthy?"

"I'm saying that the way he approaches heroism is unsustainable," Denki replied. "And honestly? It freaks me out. The way he mutters constantly, analyzing everyone and everything around him like we're all potential threats or puzzles to be solved. The way he seems to have no concept of self-preservation. The way he looks at hero work like it's some kind of holy calling that requires him to sacrifice his own wellbeing."

He shook his head. "I can't be comfortable around someone who thinks like that. Because what happens when he decides that the 'greater good' requires him to throw his life away? What happens to the people who care about him?"

The silence that followed was heavy with contemplation. Both Momo and Tenya looked shaken by the conversation, but also thoughtful, as if they were seeing familiar things from a completely new perspective.

"I... I hadn't considered it from that angle," Momo admitted quietly. "The way you describe it, it does sound rather..."

"Disturbing?" Denki supplied. "Yeah, it is. And the worst part is that everyone acts like it's noble. Like the fact that he's willing to destroy himself for others makes him a better hero."

"But surely there must be a middle ground," Tenya said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. "A way to be dedicated to heroism without the self-destructive tendencies you're describing?"

Denki nodded. "That's what I'm hoping for. That's what I'm trying to be. A hero who can save people without sacrificing everything else that makes life worth living."

He looked at both of them apologetically. "I'm sorry if any of this comes off as rude or insensitive. I know Midoriya means well, and I know he's helped people. But as long as he approaches heroism the way he does, I can't be comfortable around him. The muttering, the analyzing, the complete disregard for his own wellbeing—it all just reinforces this idea that heroes are supposed to be these selfless martyrs instead of people who happen to have powers and want to help."

Momo reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for being honest with us. I can see why these issues would be troubling for you."

"Indeed," Tenya agreed, though his expression remained thoughtful. "Your perspective is... challenging, but not without merit. Perhaps we could speak with Midoriya about the muttering, at least. That seems like something that could be addressed through conversation."

Denki managed a small smile. "That would be nice. As for the rest..." He shrugged. "That's something he'll have to figure out for himself. I just hope he does it before he gets himself killed trying to save everyone else."

The conversation had reached its natural conclusion, and both Momo and Tenya seemed to sense that Denki had shared as much as he was comfortable sharing. They exchanged meaningful looks before Tenya cleared his throat.

"Well," he said, straightening his posture, "we should probably return to the stands. The match between Todoroki and Midoriya will be starting soon."

"Yes," Momo agreed, though she gave Denki another concerned look. "Will you be joining us?"

"In a minute," Denki replied. "I need a moment to collect myself."

They nodded understandingly and headed back toward the stands, leaving Denki alone with his thoughts. 

Denki stood there in the empty corridor, watching their retreating figures until they disappeared around the corner. The moment they were gone, his carefully maintained smile began to fade, replaced by something far more unsettling.

His sweet, boyish expression twisted into something cold and calculating. The change was subtle at first—a hardening around his eyes, a tightening of his jaw—but then it became something more dramatic. His honey-gold eyes dulled to a cold, lifeless teal, and navy blue flame-like markings began to appear across his skin, spreading like ink through water.

What the hell is happening to me?

Everything he'd told Tenya and Momo had been true. Every word about hero society, about All Might's flaws, about Izuku's self-destructive tendencies—it had all been genuine. But it wasn't the whole truth. It wasn't even close.

The real reason he couldn't stand Izuku Midoriya went so much deeper than societal critique or philosophical differences. It was personal. Viscerally, inexplicably personal.

That damned muttering, Denki thought, his hands clenching into fists. It wasn't just annoying—it was triggering in a way that made his skin crawl. The way Izuku would ramble on and on, analyzing everything, breaking down fighting techniques and strategies with that nervous, rapid-fire delivery. The way he'd stumble over his words when he got excited, the way he'd second-guess himself constantly, the way he'd—

"Zenitsu, you coward! Always whining and crying! You're pathetic!"

The thought hit him like a physical blow, accompanied by a flash of someone he didn't recognize—blonde hair, tears streaming down a face that wasn't his but somehow felt familiar. The image was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving Denki gasping and disoriented.

Who the hell is Zenitsu?

But even as he asked the question, more similarities began to surface in his mind. The way Izuku would panic in stressful situations, the way he'd doubt his own abilities despite his obvious talent, the way he'd cry when he was overwhelmed. The way he'd throw himself into danger to protect others, even when he was clearly terrified.

It was like looking at a mirror that reflected someone else's face—familiar yet foreign, recognizable yet wrong.

I want to see him break, Denki realized with a jolt of horror at his own thoughts. I want to watch him scream and beg for mercy. I want to see him run away from a single situation, to prove that he's just as pathetic as—

As what? As who? The thought trailed off into nothing, but the feeling remained—a burning desire to see Izuku Midoriya reduced to a cowering, crying mess.

This isn't me, Denki told himself desperately. This isn't who I am.

But was it? He'd been feeling off since the sports festival began, experiencing moments of inexplicable rage and flashes of memories that couldn't possibly be his. The markings on his skin pulsed with a cold energy that felt both alien and achingly familiar.

I need to understand, he thought, his breathing becoming more labored. I need to know what's happening to me.

The flashes were becoming more frequent—glimpses of training sessions he'd never attended, faces he'd never seen, a voice that sounded like his own but carried a different accent, a different cadence. Someone who looked like him but moved with a confidence and cruelty that Denki had never possessed.

"You were always the weakest, Zenitsu. Always crying, always running away. At least now I can show you what real power looks like."

The voice in his head was his own, but the words felt foreign, like reading a script he'd never memorized. The hatred in them was so pure, so consuming, that it made his stomach turn.

What did I do? The question formed unbidden in his mind, though he didn't know why he was asking it. What did we do to each other?

But there was no answer, only more flashes—lightning crackling through the air, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sound of pleading that had gone unheeded. Images of someone who looked so much like Izuku that it made his chest tight with a mixture of longing and revulsion.

I have goals, Denki reminded himself, trying to cling to his sense of self. I have plans for my future. I can't let this—whatever this is—distract me from what I want to achieve.

But even as he thought it, he knew it was too late. The knowledge was there, lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness, threatening to break through and change everything he thought he knew about himself.

The fear was growing now, cold and relentless. The fear of not understanding what was happening to him, of losing control of his own mind, of becoming someone he didn't recognize. The fear that maybe, just maybe, this darkness had always been a part of him, waiting for the right moment to surface.

I'll figure it out after finals, he told himself, though the promise felt hollow. I'll deal with this then.

The markings on his skin began to fade, his eyes slowly returning to their normal honey-gold color. His expression softened back into its usual friendly mask, though something cold remained in the depths of his gaze.

But as he started walking toward the stands to rejoin his classmates, one thought echoed in his mind with crystalline clarity:

I want to watch Izuku Midoriya suffer.

And the worst part was, he had no idea why.

Notes:

Izuku, I apologize. You've have become a demon magnet and you keep getting hurt in the process.

so Thoughts?

Notes:

I just realized that Hiro is supposed to be ten but I changed his age so I'm going to keep the changed age

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Chambers of Reflection