Shoto enjoyed Kirishima and Tetsutetsu's match. Sat perfectly still, Shoto kept his ankle over his knee and his hands in his lap. He was the perfect picture of polite posture; something rather amusing, given the relative spectacle below.

Kirishima roared as he slammed a granite-hard fist into Tetsutetsu's face, only stopping as a silver knee embedded in his stomach, right where he'd been stabbed. 1A's President stumbled back, struggling to breathe as 1B's stumbled sideways, struggling to stand upright.

It was an impressive trade, but not unique. It was the fourth time they'd done this. Like clockwork, both boys snapped back to attention, righted their feet, and charged the other. Kirishima ate another gut-punch, while Tetsuetsu took a punishing elbow in his jaw. Neither had much skill, Shoto decided, but each had the makings of a good fighter. Boxing, Shoto knew, was just as much spirit as it was skill.

Their spirits certainly made up for their sloppy blows. Their quirks were both defensive, yet neither fought like it—instead, they fought like animals, reckless and wild. Instead of turning into their natural skillset, both boys seemed to love one thing equally: hitting each other. They didn't dodge, maneuver, or manipulate their opponent. Instead, they devoured every blow, and then tried throwing something harder back.

Tetsutetsu, it seemed, had a fixation on gut punches, whilst Kirishima aimed for the head. Both were good for similar reasons, though Shoto wasn't sure Tetsutetsu or Kirishima even knew why.

A jagged white crack marred Kirishima's stone-like abdomen. So far as Shoto knew, that was where a stone impaled him during the USJ. He had no way of knowing if it was crippling, neutral, or helpful to his ability, but he did know that Tetsutetsu saw it as a target. Perhaps he knew, perhaps he didn't, but Shoto suspected it was as good a target as any, if a little insensitive.

Likewise, Kirishima aimed for Tetsutetsu's weakness: his face. Having already been knocked out of his chrome once, Shoto knew that another temple-blow would finish him out. It was a little more lethal, but less cruel.

Despite each targeting the other's weakness, however, neither gave in. Despite neither being boxers, their feet only left the other's inner pocket when seriously heavy blows landed—and then they'd simply recover and return to business.

At first, Present Mic had been ecstatic with the match.

"Look at these lads! Who's sturdier, who's tougher, who'll come out on top? This is awesome!"

But after five minutes of pure masculine absurdism, his announcements grew less… passionate.

"Woah, folks, Kirishima certainly landed a good blow… but check out that knee!"

They just kept fighting. Certainly, they were slowing, growing sloppier, more desperate, but they never stopped. Their only breaks were in unison, and each subsequent separation grew longer than the last.

Tetsutetsu slowly lost his luster, his shining armor turning matte. Kirishima chipped, and some parts of his visible skin smoothed over, turning soft. Still, they kept fighting—yet neither took these advantages. Tetsutetsu was weaker on his left side, and Kirishima his right, yet they continued hitting one another in their designated spots.

Their spectacle… It was absorbing. Shoto's father gave him one order: find a mountain to climb, and climb it with all his heart. Seeing Kirishima and Tetsutetsu only solidified his own resolve—these were two evenly matched opponents, duking it out with everything. It was nothing less than respectable, even being the mess it was.

Shoto wasn't a lording master of hand-to-hand combat, but had he been down there, it would've ended long ago. Tetsutetsu was best when his feet were squared wide. One heel-hook, and he'd put the silver boy on his back. It wasn't his theory—Izuku'd proven that several times already.

Unable to help himself, Shoto shifted his eyes off the match. Izuku was hunched over, elbow on knee, as he stroked his chin. His eyes darted around the stage, taking in the fight with superhuman focus. Iida and Yaoyorozu were sitting on his either side, holding a steady conversation as if he wasn't there. He didn't mind a bit, it seemed.

On Izuku's far side also sat Yoarashi. His eyes remained on the fight, but he wasn't watching it. That was just where his eyes seemed to point. There wasn't anything going on upstairs.

Shoto turned back for the match, trying to put both boys out of his mind.

Izuku—dedicated, proud Izuku, was curled against the match like a frostbitten Siberian man around dying embers. Something was different about him, since he'd let loose. Something more focused. Earlier, it would've been enticing, but now Shoto tried to put it behind him.

He'd already decided to put Izuku out of his mind. Shoto'd been looking forward to their fight, but Izuku was in a rough spot. After their spar in the Second Event, Shoto knew he should just drop it. Perhaps Izuku would've been his ideal rival on a good day, but today was not such an occasion. If Shoto wanted to truly test himself today, he'd have to settle for…

A glance over Izuku's shoulder; a shiver down his spine.

The Yoarashi.

Calling the boy a mountain wouldn't be an exaggeration. He was huge, just barely shorter than Iida and nearly as wide, all while being a long-ranger. Whirlwind's blood was thick in his veins, and it was clear his potential was even more vast… But something was missing. He was strong, battle-intelligent, and polite, if overbearing, but that was all, for now. Between Yoarashi and Izuku, Shoto'd put his money on Izuku, even in his current rut. Something invisible elevated Izuku above him, something Shoto couldn't name—only notice.

He was a mountain, yes, but no Everest. Yoarashi wasn't something to aspire to be more like.

Shoto planted both feet on the floor and grit his teeth, enduring the cringe that flooded him. Imagining himself being more like Yoarashi physically hurt. The guy was good-hearted, Shoto reminded himself—just… difficult to be around. Like a puppy with no potty training.

He would have to do, though. Strength didn't have to be special, if it was in abundance.

A crack rang through the arena, pulling Shoto's eyes back to the fight. Tetsutetsu's fist was out-stretched, the whole arc of his body dedicated to the blow. Below him, the cracked and crumpled form of Kirishima.

"W-woah! Did I miss something? Did 1B just knock down 1A's President?"

A flash of purple appeared from the sidelines, revealing Midnight's silky mane as she strut up the Stage's steps. Tetsutetsu caught himself before he threw another blow, and staggered back. Shoto watched Tetsutetsu regain his breath and shake out his trembling knees. His armor was shining again, but not from the metallic texture—it was from sweat.

Midnight stood over Kirishima, not quite touching him, but not letting Tetsutetsu get close again. From this distance, Shoto couldn't make out the details—but the overhead screen could.

Kirishima's bottom lip was a sick yellow slobber of vomit. Only his hands were hardened, and his abdominals were terribly crunched, probably cramping.

"Do you surrender, 1A?" Midnight asked, her voice firm, yet understanding. The camera lingered on the coin-sized white scar neighboring Kirishima's belly button.

Shoto assumed he was done. He'd taken some serious abuse in a sensitive place, and there was no dishonor in giving up a fight this arduous—but he was wrong.

Through the cramp, Kirishima's chest slowly crusted over with his stone-like armor. Wiping his lip, he stood on unstable feet. His hands unhardened from fingertip to palm and back again, creating a small wave. The armor adoring his stomach was still cracked and missing in some places, but it was back.

Removing herself from the fight, Midnight waved a hand.

"Resume!"

They resumed.

Tetsutetsu hit him first, this time lowering both fists into Kirishima's gut at the expense of defending his jaw. Kirishima clocked him at the same time, and they fell from one another, gasping for breath. The red-head fell to a kneel as Tetsutetsu's knees quivered, threatening to give out.

The cracks in Kirishima's stomach spread, turning his chest brittle up to his shoulders. He should've conceded right there, in Shoto's opinion—but he did not.

Despite kneeling first, Kirishima was also first to correct himself. Tetsutetsu cursed as Kirishima slid his front between Tetsutetsu's squared, shaking legs. Seeing Kirishima grab Tetsutetsu's collar, Shoto smiled—it was rudimentary, but he was finally playing on Tetsutetsu's weakness. Shoving his hips into Tetsutetsu's, Kirishima made to flip the sluggish, trembling silver boy—

Only for Tetsutetsu to hook Kirishima's bottom rib, shattering his armor like a jackhammer on concrete.

Shoto winced as Kirishima folded around the punch, imagining the pain. He should've given up when Midnight gave him the chan—

Kirishima did not fall, despite the first buried in his stomach. Neither did he continue the judo throw. Instead, he twisted his hips outward, planted his back leg behind him, and then brought his rock-solid fist straight under Tetsutetsu's chin.

Tetsutetsu landed on his back, and a moment later, his armor receded under his skin. He didn't get back up.

The entire stadium was quiet for a split second. Some might've been disappointed by the lacking spectacle. Some might've been bored by the twenty minutes of nearly-quirkless hand-to-hand. Some were just shocked, like Shoto—but not for long. Not for long at all.

In one fell swoop, half the spectators jumped to their feet, nearly shaking the whole stadium—only for the other half to join them a heartbeat later. The bleachers groaned under the excitement, but held strong. Stomping and hollering and thrown drinks turned the U.A. Stadium into a savage place. The feverish energy even affected the combatant's quarter, where Shoto found himself standing, smiling wide and confused.

Had he really cared so much in the outcome? He didn't know Kirishima well, but he knew him better than Tetsutetsu. It came as a surprise that the boy also happened to be 1B's president. As 1A began cheering Kirishima's name, however, he decided… It was rather fun. He'd never been much for sports. It wasn't much of a family tradition to sit around and watch the big game. Of course he'd seen Sports Festivals before… but he'd never found himself…

Rooting for someone.

A gurney appeared on the stage moments later, but it was unnecessary. When Tetsutetsu stirred, it was Kirishima to help him up. After a moment of hesitation, their hands clapped, and the winner helped ease the loser off the stage himself. He didn't even stay for Midnight's congratulations.

"Kirishima moves on!" Midnight said, watching Kirishima and Tetsutetsu's shoulders disappear into the Stadium's underbelly, flanked by fussy nurses. The excitement redoubled, and 1A's chanting shifted into indisputable cheering, and none were louder than izuku, hoarse as he was.

It pulled him out of the moment, seeing him so impassioned. There was something in his voice, cheese-grated as it was. Something different, that he couldn't place his finger on. Familiar.

It took time for the cheers to fade, the last only dying once the next match began. The loser's bracket wasn't nearly as interesting as Kirishima's, but Shoto imagined an ecstatic mother watching their child get a miracle opportunity, and the warm imagery placated Shoto's boredom. He wondered why they chose to do a loser's bracket this year, when they'd never done so previously.

As the loser's bracket match turned dull, Shoto turned to imagining the following fight. If his memory was correct, it was Monoma, using Shoto's powers, versus…

Oh yes, Shoto thought, not bothering to turn his head. He didn't need to see Bakugo with his eyes to imagine him in all his rugged, vivid detail. The blonde was shorter than Shoto, and even sat below Monoma by an inch or two; but he was hardened and shredded. Monoma was a twig by comparison. With his smoothed out blonde hair, skinny frame, and shit-eating grin, he looked like a preppy version of Bakugo who'd never once seen a dumbell.

When the loser's bracket ended and the two blondes stepped into the ring, it was rather obvious who'd win—even if it wasn't so obvious to the contestants.

Or, rather, contestant.

Monoma strut onto the stage as the previous winner left, giving him a high five on the way out. He puffed out his rather flimsy chest and raised his arms, waving on the excited cheers of the crowd.

"—And for the first time today, we're going to get a special treat! 1A and 1B's best, pitted against each other was epic and full of testosterone, made more palatable by the following Gen-Ed battle to cleanse our palettes… but now we get our first real test of greatness! U.A.'s highest peak! 1Z versus 1Z, hero versus hero! Give it up for Neito Monoma! Versus! Katsuki… Bakugo!" Present Mic said, only containing his excitement by the slimmest margins. "This'll be our first taste of a truly epic battle folks!"

Cheers flooded the Stage as Monoma practically galloped onto the stage, twirling and spinning and drinking in all there was to drink. Shoto's hair bracelet flashed bright red as Monoma's sleeve flapped in the wind. Monoma even had the gall to blow kisses to the crowd.

Yes, Shoto reminded himself, he was talented, and his quirk was amazing. He was good. It took effort to remind himself of the fact, with his performative superiority complex, but it wasn't impossible. Though he seemed flippant on the surface, his eyes rarely left his opponent, who did nothing of Monoma's sort.

On the other hand, while Monoma was a serious opponent, Bakugo was far harder to gauge. Though they shared a class, Bakugo kept to himself. Likewise, throughout the competition, the only truth he'd revealed in his skills was in the second round, where he brawled like an animal. Shoto rubbed his jaw, remembering their encounter.

Monoma was tough, yes… but Bakugo…

Bakugo was on the stage. There'd been no fanfare in his approach, no embracing the crowd; he hadn't even turned his head to face the spectators. His skull remained straight on his shoulders, locked onto his opponent. Each step was slow, methodical, and entirely for one purpose.

Midnight stepped between them, before they met in the middle. Bakugo's march stopped just short. Evidence of Monoma's prancing remained in how he spun, only half-listening to Midnight recite the rules.

"Are you two ready to engage?" Midnight asked, half to the two and half to the crowd. The crowd was second to answer, being beat out by Monoma's instant affirmation. Bakugo nodded, removing his hands from his pockets.

"Mind helping me give these guys a show, Bakugo?"

Bakugo said nothing, choosing to flex his fingers instead. Midnight, seeing no hesitation between them, raised her hand, waited two heartbeats, and chopped the air.

"Then begin!"

Present Mic gasped into the microphone as Monoma laughed and launched an instant fireball, twice the size he was tall. Bakugo countered with equal force, launched himself over the lingering flames, cross-faked his momentum mid-air, and landed behind an off-balance Monoma.

"Huh?" He said, turning to see both of Bakugo's palms eight inches off his face.

The space between them roared, and with one ear-splitting crack, Bakugo sent a smoking Monoma careening off the Stage.

Not a word was said. Even Present Mic was silent for a moment, as Bakugo turned, nodded at Midnight, and walked off the stage.

"The victor is Katsuki Bakugo! I-it seems even within 1Z, there are still heights to achieve! My regards for our first instant defeat!"

Monoma managed to—with the help of a medic's spare elbow—limp away on both feet.

Tilting his head, Shoto caught wind of the last dregs of Yaoyorozu's conversation with Iida.

"He's quite strong… It's making me nervous for my own match, to be honest. She's just so… much, you understand?" Yaoyorozu said, huffing. Iida nodded.

"Yes I understand, but the point is to do your best, whether you win or lose. Just be sure to do your absolute best, and you'll have nothing to fear! Don't shy away from a challenge, embrace it, even if you're not as strong."

Shoto's cheeks reddened as he realized he was eavesdropping. Closing his ears to them, he instead focused on the next match. It was buzzing with nervous energy, after Bakugo's showing—but, ultimately, neither opponent had much to fear. Neither were as remarkable as Ground Zero.

When the inbetweener-match closed out, Shoto was late to realize who came next. He hadn't noticed Yaoyorozu grow quiet, nor the silent disappearance of a certain volatile ginger boy.

When Tenya Iida and Yoru Sashimi stepped onto the stage, facing off against one another, it was like two wires crossed.

Honenuki versus one random General Education kid was one thing. A fully-fledged Z member against one fallen from grace, however? This was cinema, Shoto realized.

And, if Shoto was aware enough to realize that, then everyone else had as well. Buzzing spectators hushed, Present Mic kept his announcements spartan, and 1Z drew in shallow breaths.

"Tenya Iida, 1Z's Ingenium, versus Yoru Sashimi… a rival. Their class placements should make the outcome obvious, but… I have my doubts," Present Mic said, leaving off for Midnight.

She raised one slender arm, and 1Z kept that shallow breath tight in their lungs. With one deadly chop, Midnight executed her responsibility with flawless beauty.

"Begin."

1Z leaned forward as Iida's bottom half exploded, just as Sashimi's upper half did the same. Iida might've shaken off a concussion from Izuku earlier, but Sashimi was exhausted, having competed far longer and more passionately. In the first round, Shoto knew Iida was the opponent to hound Izuku the most. It made a sort of karmic sense for him to face Izuku's partner, who abandoned him to his hounding.

With their partnership severed, however, Shoto wasn't sure who Izuku was rooting for. Glancing his way, all Shoto could say was that Izuku seemed conflicted. His posture was little different, still bent over, still razor-focused, but that edge no longer appeared as pressure, like when he watched Kirishima. Replacing it was an intensity, or tension, or perhaps some profound emotion beyond Shoto's understanding.

Shoto chewed his tongue, imagining the feelings running through Izuku's chest. His heat engines remained tamed, but he still shivered.

He remembered freezing Izuku in a bubble and leaving him there. The expression pinching his face burned into Shoto's memory—for a brief moment, he'd looked absolutely nothing like the rival and friend he'd known.

If he stood up right now and took Iida's former seat, would Izuku respond well? He'd saw him briefly chat with Bakugo of all people, so he probably wouldn't—

Screaming spectator's tore his attention off his friend and pointed it at the stage. He had to blink several times to catch up.

Iida was a blur of colors, mixing white and crimson where his uniform wasn't a purple smear. Shoto thought he knew Iida's speed, but now, outside of training and without the landscape difficulties, Shoto realized he hadn't. He moved like an ice skater, more gliding than running, yet each step was clearly controlled and calculated.

He dashed in and out of Sashimi's range, faster than most could react, tagging him with non-kicks. Though his arms weren't engine powered, the momentum was fearsome. Each blow was like swinging a sack of bricks, and Sashimi clearly felt each one.

A shoulder blow sent him sliding ten paces back, his cry cutting short when Iida reappeared behind him, knocking the air from his lungs. Long before Sashimi even considered a counter, Iida was gone, gliding around the stage's perimeter. Circling Sashimi like a shark, Shoto thought it must've been over. Though Yoru occasionally used his quirk, the firecrackers he used felt rather useless. Iida avoided them all; he didn't even need to dodge. By the time they fired, Iida simply wasn't where Yoru aimed.

Speed was a sublime weapon, when it outstripped the opponent's by so many magnitudes. Yoru'd need half a minute to sprint the Stage's borders. Iida could lap him twice in half the time.

As Iida came back in, however, and Yoru ate another blow, something felt off. Yoru blocked Iida's next palm-strike, then a follow-up chop, and even ducked under an attempted grapple entirely. Iida threw another attack in, backed off, and then another; but the more he threw, the less he landed—and, all the while, Yoru never bothered with a true counter. Sure, he threw out his firecrackers, what he called "Unos," but it was clear something was off.

Shoto stole another glance at Izuku, hoping for some insight, but the boy was even more slouched than before. He was folding in on himself, turning into a pointed arrow meant to fire. That tension seemed a smidge more taut—not quite ready to fly, maybe, but not far.

It should've been a decided match. Iida's substantial speed was a towering advantage over Sashimi's lackluster offense. As Yoru failed to deliver any more power behind his attacks, however, Shoto's faith in Iida's overwhelming advantage faded. Long-honed instincts told him something wasn't right. An overwhelming fight like this should've ended by now, if something wasn't afoot. One-sided duels didn't linger, didn't last. Shoto found himself leaning forward, barely on the edge of his seat, when he saw it.

Sashimi's eyes, everytime he evaded or blocked Iida's blows, glowed a little brighter. At first, they were barely luminescent, especially under the bright overhead sun, but the effect snowballed. Soon, they grew like fed flames, turning yellowish orange—but they didn't stay that way. The colors grew deeper and more violent, shifting from yellow to orange before settling on a vivid red. Even when he blinked, his thin eyelids barely hid his beaming peepers. His vision seared the air, dragging bright lines through the world where his eyes darted and chin twisted.

While Iida's speed left smoking scuffs where he ran, Sashimi's eyes burned holes in whatever he gazed up.

And today, he was perfectly tracking the nearly-untrackable Iida. It suddenly occurred to Shoto that Sashimi, while outclassed in speed, wasn't actually incapable of countering. Those firecrackers were just bait, and Iida, in his haste, fell for them hook line and sinker.

It seemed, as Sashimi's glow spread from his eyes and began crackling down his arms, that his opponent realized it too.

Iida's movements fundamentally shifted. Sharp pivots gave way to wide, sweeping arcs as Iida drew upon more and more necessary momentum. He gave up his hands entirely, focusing instead on channeling all his power through his legs.

Shoto's ears rang as air screamed with Iida's kicks. Each tore through space like a banshee, forcing Sashimi on the backfoot. Sashimi dodged again and again, each movement growing sharper. He forwent blocking entirely as Iida's kicks reached steel-crumpling levels.

One blow could cripple him, yet he did not cower. Whatever the red electricity racing his limbs was, it made his reactions almost inhuman. Iida almost fought like a swordsman, his kicks like long, sweeping sword strikes. Without a blade of his own, Sashimi should've suffered a lethal cut by now; but he simply had not. Ducks, weaves, and backsteps kept Sashimi safe at the cost of valuable pace—but all the while, the halo of light framing him grew.

Someone beside him stepped forward—Izuku. He leaned over the spectator's railing, chin hovering over the grass. His eyes were freakishly glued to the fight; each pupil fully dilated and shiny. Shoto could've watched the whole fight in the reflection of Izuku's eyes.

The railing groaned as Izuku's fist tightened around it. No one said anything. To a lesser extent, everyone else's attention was also on the fight, hungry for a conclusion.

One drone worked overtime to track Iida, centering him for every frame as the fight played live on the huge screens above. It flew with him, jerking in every direction to match his ferocious pace. By contrast, the drone tasked with specifically tracking Sashimi was nearly stationary. Though he'd failed to take any space for himself, he hadn't let Iida corner him. Instead, Sashimi was the eye in Iida's storm, sitting in the Stage's center.

Iida said something, but it was lost under his engine's roar. The orangish-purple exhaust flickered blue as Iida's kick nearly took off Sashimi's head, but instead only burned the tips of his hair. It was close enough to make some uneasy. Murmurs broke throughout the class as Sashimi fought through the assault without flinching—how far were the two willing to take this? Iida was already operating on near-lethal levels of force, and Sashimi was only staying afloat by the slimmest of margins.

"Should we… shouldn't Midnight stop the fight?" Yaoyorozu asked, sliding into the seat next to him. She glanced over her shoulder, keeping her voice hushed. "Do you think this is too much? Iida is overwhelmingly experienced; overtuned, really. If he overestimates Sashimi by even a little…"

Shoto swallowed, acutely aware of her proximity. He wasn't sure why she'd decided he was the person to share her concerns, but he supposed he wasn't complaining. Matching her covertness, he gave a shallow nod.

"Something big is going to happen, I'm sure… whatever it is, it'll be dangerous for one or the other. But—"

"Shush," Izuku said, cutting him short. Shoto turned to him, surprised, but found the boy wasn't even looking at them. Sashimi's fight was still his pearl; his bottom lip was lowered in a stupid way, like a drooling dog. When he spoke, his mouth barely moved. "Pay attention."

Furrowing his brow, Shoto stood, hoisting Yaoyorozu up with him, and joined Izuku over the railing. The girl sandwiched him between herself and Izuku, and together they tried to imagine what Izuku was seeing. It was a fight, yes, and a very sporting one; but there was something… else. Izuku was wound so tight that Shoto was scared to touch him, afraid that he'd fly true.

"—And Sashimi fends off another assault! He's quick on his feet for a Gen-Ed, but how long can he hold up? Iida's making so many moves it's hard for even me, a seasoned pro, to follow!"

Shoto briefly recalled that Present Mic had, in fact, followed, reacted to, and defeated Iida in a somewhat unremarkable match once before. It was announcer fluff, then, Shoto realized—which meant something was different. Present Mic's commentary before now was uncharacteristically quiet—so why the change?

The stage was remarkably less pristine than it was before Iida arrived. It looked scarred and battered, his raw speed flash-melting some sections, scorching others black, and even leaving foot-shaped crescent gouges where he'd turned too hard. His storm did it all—yet Sashimi was still standing, untouched.

Then, something strange happened. Though Iida was still dashing, striking, and employing a blitz of guerilla warfare tactics, Sashimi just…

Stopped.

His deep guard lowered, his knees straightened, his neck stopped twisting, no longer tracking Iidaj's movements. He let Iida dash into his blindspots, yet did nothing to fix it.

A red lighting arc leapt across his body, running from head to two in a blink. It was thicker than the others, angrier than the little flashes leading up ot it. Despite the devious spark, Iida was simply too well trained. He couldn't ignore when an opponent's back was to him.

Beside Shoto, Izuku shifted. It was the first he'd moved in several minutes, and it was as startling as a mountain standing up to stretch its legs.

"...There it is…"

Yoru Sashimi was saying something. Between the roaring engines below and the cheering all around, Shoto couldn't catch the first part, but for a split second, as Iida's kick almost hit home, Sashimi's volume eclipsed Iida's engine's, the spectator's, and the pounding drums in Shoto's temples.

"—because I… Am... Stronger than you!" Sashimi said, before ducking under Iida's kick, slamming his palms into the ground, and screaming "Siete!"

The entire stage went red-white, and a second later, a wall of hot air slammed into the crowd. Yaoyorozu might've screamed—Shoto couldn't say, as he stumbled back, blind, clutching his now ringing ears. All he knew was that his heel caught on something, but if he fell, he hadn't registered the pain yet. The world shook.

His vision returned first; it took another ten seconds for his ears to catch up. Blinking rapidly, he feared for a brief moment that he'd gone blind. The world was substantially darker, at least several degrees, so that he couldn't see his nose between his eyes. Only strange, greenish, wave-like patterns remained, but only right before him and his seats.

Feeling around, he realized he hadn't fallen terribly at all—instead, he was back in his seat, upright and unharmed. Yaoyorozu leaned against him, knuckles rubbing her eyes. The high-pitched ringing in his ears slowly dulled, and with the rest of his senses came a sudden realization: the stadium stank. A thick, hot cloud of phosphorus, sulfur, and mud invaded his nostrils, choking him. Looking around, he tried to identify it's source, but it was still so hard to see—

The darkness shifted, rumbling the entire stadium with it. Like a startled fish, the waving patterns froze and then vanished. Light began to wash the very top of the stadium as the darkness began reverberating faster and faster, and then before Shoto realized it, the world was back to normal.

Like an elevator, Cementoss's giant, foul-smelling concrete wall lowered back into the earth, revealing the devastated arena. Half the stage was a gaping hole in the ground, bordering burning or burned black-brown grasses. Whatever Sashimi did, it'd punctured a hole straight through the ground and into the gigantic bunker where the All Might statue resided. It was just a giant, black pit.

"Oh my god… Wait! Where are they? Did they fall in?" Yaoyorozu asked, shooting to her feet. Stumbling forward, Shoto watched her reach for the railing to peer over its edge. As soon as she peered over the edge, however, she froze. "Midoriya?"

Now forced into alertness, Shoto quickly joined her at the ledge. The second he peered over the edge, his jaw likewise dropped. Down in the stadium's half-burned grasses, Izuku was nursing a slumped Iida. Without delay, Shoto pulled Yaoyorozu close and hopped over the side, conjuring a slide for them both. Old training had his hands preparing the necessary field-surgery temperatures—freezing for splintered bones, blazing for cauterizations. Yaoyorozu mirrored him, lighting up like a christmas tree as she instinctually generated bandages, base medicines, and a tourniquet—but once they actually got beside Iida, their urgency slowed.

Iida was red like a tomato, his skin irritated like a bad rash—but not quite burned. Even as Shoto smothered a glowing ember with his heel, Iida coughed, and turned his head to greet his peers. Izuku continued propping neck up. His eyes had lost most of their absolute devotion, but the focus—the tension—remained. Shifting how he held Iida, Izuku began prodding at Iida's ribs, quickly mirrored by Yaoyorozu on his other side. They worked in perfect tandem until Iida waved them off and released a pained chuckle.

"Stop… that tickles…"

Shoto felt his hands stabilize temperatures as true U.A. paramedics overtook their operation. They loaded Iida onto a gurney, despite his feeble protests. After they strapped him in, Shoto stepped aside to let them pass—but Izuku grabbed a paramedic's shoulder, holding them up.

"His right hip flexor is strained, his sternum is fractured, his bottom-right false rib is broken, he has a low-level concussion, and his right eardrum is perforated," Izuku said, making sure the paramedic heard him. Shoto didn't recognize the man, but his sharp, older features narrowed in hesitant acknowledgement. The unspoken question of "How do you know?" was not answered, but before Izuku let them leave, he perked up and tacked on one last symptom. "Oh, and while it looks bad, the only immediate burn to care for is around his collar. It's almost second degree."

The older man blinked, surprised, before remembering himself. With a firm nod to his perplexed partners, they lifted Iida and carted him away. It only occurred to Shoto moments later that Sashimi was still MIA.

"How'd you do that?" Yaoyorozu asked, staring at Izuku with a sort of slack-jawed stupefaction. "...You weren't even checking his right side?"

Her question fell on deaf ears, however, as Izuku reached into his pocket, handed her a small granola bar, turned, and stalked away. Shoto felt torn between following and staying, but the choice was made for him. Concrete suddenly erupted from the cavernous hole, lifting up a kneeling Yoru Sashimi on a liquid-stone geyser. Cementoss had a firm grip on his elbow, making sure he didn't fall off the tedious structure until the cement tower twisted in air and spilled them out onto solid ground.

In the time it took for Sashimi to correct his posture and face the crowd on both feet, Cementoss's work was complete. Raising both hands and spreading both feet apart, the gray man commanded the massive tower of liquid cement to flatten out, widening it until it filled out the giant hole that Sashimi made. Ten thousand tons of concrete followed his commands to a T. It rooted into the soil like a tree, melding with the remaining stone until—ignoring the now-browning, dead grass—the stage became whole once more. There wasn't even a fission where the old stage remained and the new appeared.

Cementoss was… simply incredible. He wasn't done, either—even when the stage looked finished, Shoto, with both feet planted on the dead grass, could feel freakish amounts of weight moving and restructuring itself far below. In half a minute, the world stopped morphing below him, and Shoto remembered where he was—and where he wasn't supposed to be. Turning back to Yaoyorozu, Shoto lifted her and himself back into the stands just in time to see Cementoss shadow Sashimi as he stumbled up the steps. He seemed unharmed, if seemingly confused, as Midnight came forward and poked his chest with a lethal pointer finger.

She tore into him for all of ten seconds until suddenly seizing his hand and raising it like a champion.

"Yoru Sashimi. Destructiveness and carelessness besides, no one, thankfully, is hurt! He will move on!"

The crowd didn't have time to celebrate or scorn him; the world was still recovering from the sensory overload. Even Yaoyorozu, who'd been so quick to jump to Iida's aid, seemed to shrivel once they were both back in their seats. The granola bar crinkled in her grip.

"What… just happened?"

Shoto couldn't say. The displays of power alone were enough to have him leaning back in his seat, improper and unprofessional—both from Cementoss and the Gen-Ed Sashimi alone. Having a Z member being knocked out in the first round was like a pinch, a wake-up call. He'd almost forgotten about the effort some people were putting into this tournament. As he gazed out upon the new Stage, however, he realized that his desires were underwhelming.

He didn't seek out his Everest; he chose one when prompted. Did that mean his resolve to fight was weak in the first place?

Glancing at the granola bar, Shoto nudged Yaoyorozu's shoulder with his own.

"I'm not… sure… but I think you should eat that. While no one wants a repeat of whatever that was," Shoto said, nodding towards the new Stage, "you're going to need all the strength you've got. You're up next."

Yaoyorozu blinked, wide-eyed, before slowly looking over her shoulder. Across the combatant's section, Setsuna sat alone, fingers interlocked and eyes narrowed. Her gaze was nearly as fiery as Sashimi's, and it was directed at the object in Yaoyorozu's hand. The girl beside Shoto gulped, ducked her head, and peeled open the wrapper.

"Yes indeed… I will thank Midoriya for this later."

Shoto nodded and patted her shoulder, silently wishing her the luck they both know she was going to need.

[x]

AN: I really need to get to my stopping point but it's so easy to lose myself in the detailed fights. rip xoxo

review!~