By the time Izuku finally stopped training, the sun was high overhead. Three hours had passed in what felt like minutes. His entire body ached, his quirk felt wrung out, and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
But he felt alive.
More alive than he had since waking up in the hospital.
That's what real training feels like, the Voice said with satisfaction. Not safe. Not comfortable. Necessary.
Izuku collapsed against the rooftop's water tank, chest heaving. His hands were shaking—not from fear this time, but from pure exhaustion. He'd pushed harder than ever before, maintained more constructs simultaneously, fought with an intensity he'd been afraid to access.
And it had felt right.
"Is this what you wanted?" Izuku asked between breaths. "To turn me into... this?"
I didn't turn you into anything, the Voice said. I just showed you what you were too afraid to be. The drug didn't create this potential—it was always there. You just needed permission to use it.
"Permission to be violent."
Permission to survive. There's a difference. A pause. You saw what happened at the USJ. Aizawa-sensei fought with everything he had and still got broken. All Might, the Symbol of Peace himself, struggled against that creature. If you want to be a hero in a world with Nomus and villains like that, you can't afford to be soft.
Izuku knew the Voice was right. Hated that it was right.
Because standing there watching Aizawa get hurt, watching All Might fight for their lives—that had been the worst moment of his life. Worse than the drug attack, worse than anything.
At least when he'd been attacked, he'd been unconscious for most of it. At the USJ, he'd been awake and aware and completely, utterly helpless.
Never again, the Voice repeated softly, reading his thoughts. That's not a threat. It's a promise we make to ourselves.
Izuku's phone buzzed. He pulled it out with trembling hands.
Shinji: Heading home early. Want me to grab lunch on the way?
Izuku checked the time. 12:30 PM. His brother would be home in thirty minutes.
Izuku: That'd be great. Thanks.
He needed to shower. To look normal when Shinji got back. To hide the fact that he'd just spent three hours training like his life depended on it while reliving traumatic memories.
You're getting good at hiding things, the Voice observed. That's useful too.
"Is everything just 'useful' to you?" Izuku muttered, gathering his things and heading for the stairs.
Everything serves a purpose. That's survival thinking. You learned it in the slums—don't pretend you didn't. Every relationship, every skill, every advantage matters when you're fighting to escape poverty. The Voice paused. UA is the same. Just a different kind of survival.
Izuku didn't respond because he couldn't argue. The slums had taught him to evaluate everything in terms of survival and advantage. His siblings' fighting lessons, his mother's lectures about being smart, his father's advice about when to fight and when to walk away.
All of it had been preparation for a world that didn't care about fair play or good intentions.
UA was supposed to be different. But maybe it wasn't.
Maybe it was just another arena where strength determined survival.
Exactly, the Voice agreed. And we have strength now. More than most. We just need to use it properly.
Shinji arrived home twenty minutes later with convenience store bentos. They ate at the table together, Shinji chattering about work—some electrical installation that had gone wrong, a supervisor who was an idiot, plans for the weekend.
Normal things.
"You look exhausted," Shinji observed, studying Izuku's face. "Training?"
"Yeah. First real session since the restriction lifted. Pushed pretty hard."
"Good! That's what you should be doing. Sports Festival's coming up fast." Shinji grinned. "You're gonna dominate, little bro. I can feel it."
He believes in us, the Voice noted. That's nice. Family support matters.
"I hope so," Izuku said. "There's some really strong competition. Todoroki, Bakugou, probably others I haven't seen at full power yet."
"So? You knocked Bakugou out cold. Pretty sure you can handle whatever the Sports Festival throws at you." Shinji's confidence was absolute, uncomplicated. "Just do what you did in that match. Be aggressive. Don't hold back."
See? Even your brother understands.
"Everyone keeps telling me to hold back less," Izuku said quietly.
"Then listen to them." Shinji finished his bento and stood. "You're from the slums, Izu. We don't get second chances. When opportunity comes, you grab it with both hands and don't let go. The Sports Festival? That's your opportunity. So take it."
He headed to his room, leaving Izuku alone with his thoughts and his half-eaten lunch.
Your family understands survival, the Voice said. They've lived it. They know what it takes to claw your way up from nothing. Maybe you should listen to them instead of the teachers who've never had to fight for anything.
"Hound Dog grew up in poverty," Izuku pointed out. "He has a mutation quirk. You think that was easy?"
And yet he's telling you to be gentle. To minimize harm. To think about 'character' over victory. The Voice's tone was skeptical. That's easy advice to give when you've already made it. When you have a hero license and a stable job and respect. But you're not there yet. You're still fighting to prove you belong.
Izuku finished his lunch in silence, turning the Voice's words over in his mind.
Was it right? That gentle advice was a luxury he couldn't afford yet?
Or was it testing him, pushing him toward something darker than he needed to be?
I'm not pushing you anywhere, the Voice said, responding to his thoughts. I'm just showing you reality. The Sports Festival will be broadcast nationally. Pro heroes will be watching. Your entire future depends on how you perform. And you want to go in there worried about being 'too aggressive'?
"I want to go in there and prove I'm a hero," Izuku said. "Not a fighter. There's a difference."
Is there? Because from where I'm standing, heroes who can't fight don't last long. Ask Aizawa's broken arm about that.
The image flashed through Izuku's mind again—unbidden, but not forced this time. Just memory. The sound of bone breaking. The way Aizawa had screamed.
That's what happens to heroes who aren't strong enough, the Voice said softly. Remember that during the Sports Festival. When you're tempted to pull punches, to go easy, to be 'heroic' instead of effective. Remember what weakness cost
Sunday
Sunday dawned gray and drizzly—the kind of weather that made the slums look even more depressing than usual. Izuku's body ached from yesterday's training, every muscle protesting as he rolled out of the futon.
Rest day, the Voice suggested. You pushed hard yesterday. Body needs recovery time to adapt.
"Since when do you care about recovery?"
Since overtraining leads to injury, and injury means missing the Sports Festival. I care about winning. That means keeping you functional.
Practical, as always.
The day passed slowly. Homework, family dinner, watching hero news on TV. Endeavor had taken down a villain group in Hosu City. Hawks had saved a dozen people from a collapsing building. Normal hero work, impressive and effective.
"You think you'll do stuff like that?" Yumeko asked during dinner, gesturing at the TV. "The rescue operations and villain fighting?"
"That's the goal," Izuku said.
"It looks scary," she admitted. "Being responsible for people's lives like that. What if you mess up?"
What if you're not strong enough? the Voice added. What if someone dies because you hesitated?
"Then you learn from it and do better next time," Izuku said, though his chest felt tight.
"Very mature answer," Himari said approvingly. "But Yumeko's right—it is scary. Hero work means accepting that you can't save everyone. That sometimes, despite your best efforts, people will get hurt."
"How do you deal with that?" Izuku asked, genuinely curious.
"You focus on the ones you did save," Kaito said from his seat. "You remember why you started. And you keep going because the alternative—doing nothing—is worse than failing while trying."
Wise man, your father, the Voice observed. Though I notice he didn't say anything about holding back or minimizing force. Just about saving people.
The evening wound down normally. Izuku went to bed early, his body demanding rest after yesterday's intensity.
But sleep didn't come easily.
He lay in the darkness, listening to Shinji's soft snoring, thinking about the Sports Festival. Twenty days away. Less than three weeks to prepare for the moment that could define his entire hero career.
Can't sleep? the Voice asked.
"Too much thinking."
About?
"Everything. The festival, training, the counseling sessions, keeping you hidden, maintaining friendships while becoming someone they're scared of." Izuku sighed quietly. "It's a lot."
It is, the Voice agreed, surprising him with the acknowledgment. But you can handle it. We can handle it. That's what the training is for—not just physical preparation, but mental. Building the strength to carry all of this.
"And if I can't? If I slip up and someone finds out about you?"
Then we adapt. We've survived worse. The drug attack should have killed us. The USJ should have broken us. We're still here. Still fighting. A pause. That means something.
"Does it? Or are we just lucky?"
Luck runs out. Strength endures. And we're getting stronger every day.
Izuku wanted to believe that. Wanted to think that all of this—the lying, the isolation, the increasingly aggressive training—was building toward something worthwhile.
That he wasn't just becoming a different kind of broken.
You're not broken, the Voice said firmly. You're adapting. There's a difference.
"Adapting into what?"
Into whatever you need to be to survive. To succeed. To prove that a kid from the slums can stand at the top. The Voice's tone softened slightly. That's not breaking. That's growing. Even if it hurts.
Izuku closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow would bring another day of school, another counseling session, another step toward the Sports Festival.
Another day of being someone he wasn't sure he recognized anymore.
But at least he wouldn't be weak.
At least he wouldn't be helpless.
At least we'll be strong enough, the Voice agreed.
And in the end, isn't that what matters most?
Izuku didn't have an answer.
But as sleep finally claimed him, he could still feel it—that memory of the USJ, of being frozen and useless while heroes fought and bled around him.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would do whatever it took to never feel that way again.
Even if it meant losing pieces of himself in the process.
Even if the person who stood on top at the Sports Festival wasn't quite the same person who'd started at UA.
Sometimes, the Voice whispered as consciousness faded, the caterpillar has to destroy itself completely before it can become the butterfly.
We're just in the chrysalis stage.
Trust the process.
And in the darkness of the slums, in a cramped apartment where five siblings' dreams rested on one boy's shoulders, Izuku Midoriya slept.
Tomorrow, the journey would continue.
Nineteen days until everything changed.
Nineteen days until the world saw what sand could really do.
For better or worse.
Izuku arrived at UA at his usual time Monday morning—early enough to beat most of the crowd, late enough that the building was already open. The weekend's rest had done him good; his body felt recovered, his quirk responsive and ready.
Another week, the Voice observed. Closer to the festival. How are you feeling?
"Ready," Izuku thought back. "After Saturday's training, I feel like I'm finally getting somewhere."
Good. That intensity needs to become normal, not the exception. Every day from now until the festival—
The thought cut off as Izuku rounded the corner toward Class 1-A's door.
Someone was waiting there.
He was tall—taller than Izuku by several inches—with considerably more muscle mass, the kind that came from years of dedicated strength training. His hair was a striking vibrant grey with gold streaks running through it, styled up and back. His features were sharp, angular, carrying the Misiyasa family's genetic signature. But where Izuku's eyes held careful analysis, this boy's held something colder. Harder.
He wore a UA uniform with a different colored tie. Class 1-B.
Family, the Voice said immediately, reading something familiar in the stance. But you don't recognize him. How—
"Iwao," Izuku said, stopping a few feet away. The name came from old memories, family gatherings years ago that had ended badly. "Iwao Misiyasa."
His cousin. His father's brother's son.
The families hadn't spoken in years. Not since a fight over money, over pride, over which branch of the family was doing better in the slums' harsh hierarchy. Stupid stuff that adults held onto while kids became strangers.
"Midoriya," Iwao said, his voice flat. His eyes—sharp and calculating—studied Izuku with open assessment. "I didn't think you'd recognize me. Been a while."
"Six years," Izuku confirmed. He'd been nine the last time they'd met, at a funeral for a distant relative. Even then, there'd been tension between their fathers.
Be careful, the Voice warned. He's here for a reason. People don't wait outside classrooms for friendly reunions.
"I didn't know you made it to UA," Izuku said, keeping his tone neutral.
Something flickered across Iwao's face—irritation, quickly masked. "You're not the only one with a strong quirk, you know." His hands clenched slightly, and Izuku noticed the muscles in his forearms tense. "Just because your sand manipulation is flashier doesn't mean the rest of the family is weak."
Ah, the Voice observed. There it is. Jealousy. Competition. Family resentment.
"I never said—"
"I heard your class is participating in the Sports Festival," Iwao interrupted, his voice taking on an edge. "So is mine. Class 1-B. We're just as good as 1-A, despite what everyone thinks." He stepped closer, and there was something dangerous in his posture now—all that muscle mass shifting with practiced control. "So I wanted to make something clear before we face each other in front of the whole country."
Here comes the challenge, the Voice said with interest. Let's see what he's got.
"And what's that?" Izuku asked, not backing down despite the height difference and obvious physical advantage.
"That I'm not going to go easy on you just because we're family," Iwao said. "In fact, I'm going to enjoy proving that my quirk—my Rock Manipulation—is just as powerful as your sand. Maybe more." His eyes narrowed. "The Misiyasa side of the family has always been stronger than you Midoriyas. Time to prove it publicly."
Rock Manipulation, the Voice noted. Interesting. Similar to ours but focused on larger, solid material. Strength versus adaptability. And look at his build—he's clearly trained his body to complement his quirk. Power-focused approach. He's probably been comparing himself to you his whole life.
"I don't remember asking you to go easy," Izuku said calmly. "And I've never thought about which side of the family is 'stronger.' That's petty."
"Petty?" Iwao's voice rose slightly. "My father talks about your father like he's a failure. Your father probably does the same about mine. This whole—" he gestured vaguely, "—rivalry has been hanging over us since we were kids. And now we finally get to settle it. Not them. Us."
He's got a point, the Voice admitted. Family competition can be motivating. And if he's been training with this grudge his whole life, he might actually be dangerous.
"So what?" Izuku asked. "You came here to threaten me? To make sure I know we're enemies now?"
"I came here to make sure you understand that I'm not scared of you," Iwao said. "I heard about what you did to that Bakugou kid. Knocked him out cold in a sparring match. Very impressive. Very aggressive." He smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "But rock is harder than sand, cousin. And when we face each other at the Sports Festival—and we will face each other—you're going to learn that."
Bold words, the Voice said. Let's see if he can back them up.
The door behind Iwao opened. Iida stepped out, clearly having arrived early, and stopped when he saw the confrontation.
"Is there a problem here?" Iida asked, his hand already starting its characteristic chopping motion.
"No problem," Iwao said, not taking his eyes off Izuku. "Just catching up with family. Right, cousin?"
"Right," Izuku said flatly.
Iwao finally stepped back, heading toward the stairs that would take him to Class 1-B's floor. But he paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"See you at the festival, Izuku," he said, using Izuku's first name with deliberate familiarity. "Try not to disappoint me. I want to beat you at your best."
Then he was gone, leaving Izuku standing in the hallway with Iida watching with concern.
"Was that really your cousin?" Iida asked.
"Unfortunately," Izuku muttered.
Interesting development, the Voice said as they entered the classroom. Family rivalry, similar quirks, both trying to prove something. He's going to be a problem at the festival.
"You think he's actually strong?"
I think he's motivated. And motivated opponents are always dangerous, regardless of their power level. A pause. Plus, he's right about one thing—rock is harder than sand. In a straight power contest, his quirk might have advantages. And that build? He's trained his body specifically for power. We'll need to be smart about it.
"If we even face him. The festival brackets are random."
With our luck? We'll face him. The Voice sounded almost amused. The universe loves that kind of dramatic irony.
Izuku sat at his desk, pulling out his notebooks but not really seeing them. Another complication. Another person he'd need to fight, to beat, to prove himself against.
And this time it was family.
Does that bother you? the Voice asked.
"Should it?"
Most people have complicated feelings about fighting family members. But you barely know him. Haven't seen him in six years. He's not really family anymore—just another opponent with a grudge.
The Voice was right. Iwao wasn't family in any meaningful sense. He was just another person standing between Izuku and his goals.
Just another obstacle to overcome.
Exactly, the Voice approved. Keep that perspective. Family or not, at the Sports Festival, he's just competition. And we don't lose to competition.
Students began filtering into the classroom. Uraraka waved cheerfully. Kirishima called out a greeting. Even Bakugou just grunted acknowledgment instead of his usual hostility.
Normal. Everything trying to be normal.
Except Izuku could still feel Iwao's words echoing in his mind: Rock is harder than sand.
Maybe, the Voice said. But sand gets into everything. Grinds down even the hardest stone given enough time. Let him think he has the advantage. We know better.
Aizawa entered the classroom, looking even more exhausted than usual. "Everyone sit. We have announcements about the Sports Festival."
The class went quiet immediately, tension suddenly thick in the air.
Here we go, the Voice said. Festival planning begins.
"The Sports Festival is in nineteen days," Aizawa said, his tired eyes scanning the room. "That means nineteen days to prepare, to strategize, to decide what kind of hero you want to be." His gaze lingered on Izuku for a moment—just long enough to be noticeable. "Use that time wisely. Because what happens at the festival will follow you for the rest of your careers."
No pressure, the Voice commented dryly.
"We'll be increasing combat training frequency," Aizawa continued. "More sparring, more scenario work, more pushing your limits. Some of you—" another glance at Izuku, "—have been cleared for full participation. Others still have restrictions. Know your limits and respect them."
He pulled up information on the screen at the front of the classroom. The Sports Festival format—three events, increasingly difficult, progressively narrowing the field until only the strongest remained.
"This isn't about fun," Aizawa said flatly. "This isn't about school spirit or friendly competition. This is your future. Pro heroes will be watching. Scouts will be taking notes. How you perform determines your internship opportunities, which determines your early career trajectory, which determines everything that comes after."
The room was completely silent. Even Bakugou looked focused, his usual scowl replaced with intense concentration.
"You have nineteen days," Aizawa repeated. "Make them count."
As the lesson shifted to more technical details about the festival format and rules, Izuku's mind wandered back to Iwao. To the challenge. To the family rivalry he'd thought was left behind in childhood.
You could just avoid him, the Voice suggested. Hope the brackets keep you apart.
"No," Izuku thought back. "If we're going to face each other, better to do it head-on. Settle it definitively."
That's the spirit. Besides— the Voice's tone turned calculating, —beating family in front of a national audience sends a message. Shows that you're not carrying anyone. That your strength is your own, not shared, not divided among siblings or cousins or family expectations.
Just you. Just us. Standing alone at the top.
Izuku didn't respond, but he didn't disagree either.
Because the Voice was right.
If he was going to prove he belonged at UA, if he was going to show that a kid from the slums could stand with the best of them, he couldn't do it by hiding from challenges.
Nineteen days, the Voice said as Aizawa's lecture continued. Let's make sure when we face cousin Iwao, there's no question about who's stronger.
Let's show him exactly what sand can do to rock.
One grain at a time.
The morning passed in its usual rhythm. Present Mic's English class was as energetic as ever, the hero's enthusiasm undimmed despite the early hour. Izuku took notes mechanically, his mind still partially on Iwao's challenge.
Rock is harder than sand.
But sand is everywhere, the Voice reminded him. Focus on the present. Save the strategy for later.
Hero History with All Might was next. The Symbol of Peace—even in his deflated form teaching the class—commanded attention as he discussed the evolution of rescue techniques over the past century. Izuku found himself genuinely engaged, analyzing the tactical decisions of heroes from different eras.
Math was math. Ectoplasm's clones worked with students individually while the original supervised. Izuku worked through calculus problems, the precise logic a welcome break from the morning's emotional confrontation.
But as lunch approached, anticipation built. Because after lunch was Hero Combat Training.
Izuku grabbed his lunch—homemade bento his mom had prepared—and headed to the usual table where Uraraka was already waving him over. Iida and Tsuyu were there too, with Momo joining moments later.
"Midoriya!" Uraraka called cheerfully. "How were morning classes?"
"Fine," Izuku said, sitting down. "All Might's lecture on the Silver Age rescue protocols was interesting."
"Indeed!" Iida agreed, already gesturing with his chopsticks. "The tactical evolution from individual heroics to coordinated team responses represents a fascinating shift in—"
"So," Iida interrupted himself, his expression becoming more serious. "I must ask about this morning. That young man waiting for you—you said he was your cousin?"
The table went quiet. Even Tsuyu's usual blunt directness seemed to pause, waiting.
Izuku set down his chopsticks. "Yeah. Iwao Misiyasa. My father's brother's son."
"You two seemed..." Momo chose her words carefully, "...not particularly friendly."
"We're not," Izuku said flatly. Then, seeing their expressions, he sighed. "It's complicated family stuff."
"We don't mean to pry," Iida said, though his curiosity was obvious. "But given the apparent tension and the upcoming Sports Festival, perhaps it would be beneficial to discuss?"
The Voice was silent, observing. Letting Izuku make this choice.
"We used to be close," Izuku admitted, surprising himself. "When we were really young. Both families lived in the slums—different parts, but same situation. We'd see each other at family gatherings, and we were always competitive."
"Competitive how?" Tsuyu asked, her finger on her chin.
"Our quirks are similar," Izuku explained. "His Rock Manipulation, my Sand Manipulation. Both earth-based, both from combining our parents' weaker quirks. And our families were almost identical—we both have four older siblings. Same structure, same struggles, same dreams of getting out."
"That sounds like it would have brought you closer," Momo observed.
"It did. For a while." Izuku picked at his rice. "When I was seven and he was eight, we were like brothers. Always trying to one-up each other, but in a fun way. Who could make the cooler construct, who could hold their quirk longer, that kind of thing."
"What changed?" Uraraka asked gently.
"His dad saved someone," Izuku said. "Some super billionaire who was being attacked by a villain. His father—my uncle—wasn't even a hero, just had his rock quirk and got lucky. But the billionaire was grateful. Really grateful."
Understanding dawned on Iida's face. "Compensation."
"A lot of it," Izuku confirmed. "Enough to move them out of the slums entirely. Nice house, good neighborhood, private schools for a while before UA. Everything changed overnight."
"And your family stayed behind," Momo said quietly.
"Yeah." Izuku's voice was flat. "We were happy for them at first. But then the comments started. My uncle talking about 'making something of himself' while my dad was still doing construction. My dad getting defensive, saying at least he was raising his kids with 'real values.' It got ugly fast."
"The adults' resentment poisoned the relationship between you and your cousin," Iida observed, his expression troubled.
"Exactly," Izuku said. "Last time we saw each other was six years ago at a funeral. Our dads almost got into a fistfight. After that, both families just... stopped talking. And Iwao and I became strangers."
"That's really sad, ribbit," Tsuyu said. "You lost a friend because of adult pride."
"More like we lost each other because we started believing what our families said," Izuku corrected. "He probably thinks I'm jealous of his success. I probably think he's looking down on me for still being in the slums. Whether any of that's true doesn't matter—it's what we've convinced ourselves."
The Voice spoke for the first time: That's surprisingly self-aware of you.
"And now you'll potentially face each other at the Sports Festival," Momo said. "With the whole country watching."
"He seems to want that," Izuku said. "Wants to prove the Misiyasa side is stronger than the Midoriya side. Settle the family rivalry publicly."
"How do you feel about that?" Uraraka asked, concern in her eyes.
Izuku thought about it. "Honestly? He's right that it needs settling. This grudge has been hanging over both of us for years. If we're going to move forward, we need to face each other head-on." He met their eyes. "But at the Sports Festival, he's not my cousin. He's just another opponent. I can't afford to think of him as anything else."
"That's very pragmatic," Iida said, though he looked uncertain. "Though I wonder if perhaps there's an opportunity for reconciliation—"
"There's not," Izuku said, more sharply than intended. "We're not those kids anymore. Too much time has passed. Too much resentment built up."
The Voice approved: Good. Keep that boundary clear.
An awkward silence fell over the table. Uraraka tried to lighten the mood, talking about the upcoming combat training, but Izuku could feel the weight of what he'd shared.
He'd told them the truth. Mostly.
"NEXT UP!" All Might announced. "YOUNG TODOROKI! YOU"LL FACE KAMANARI AND JIRO!"
Todoroki walked to the combat zone with his characteristic stoic expression, not even acknowledging his opponents. His hands hung loose at his sides—specifically, his right hand. The left stayed in his pocket.
He's still refusing to use his fire side, the Voice noted. Pride? Or something else?
"BEGIN!"
Kaminari immediately sent out a wide-range electrical discharge, golden lightning arcing across the ground toward Todoroki. It was a smart opening move—hard to dodge, covered a wide area, would force most opponents onto the defensive.
Todoroki didn't even flinch.
Ice erupted from his right foot in a massive wave, racing across the ground faster than Kaminari's electricity. The temperature dropped dramatically as the ice flash-froze everything in its path—including the electrical current, which dissipated harmlessly into the frozen water molecules.
The wall of ice continued forward, forcing Kaminari to dive desperately to the side. But he wasn't the real threat.
"Now, Kyoka!" Kaminari shouted.
Jiro had used the opening to circle around, her earphone jacks already plugged into amplifiers built into her gauntlets. She slammed them against the ground, sending a focused soundwave directly at Todoroki's position.
Sound doesn't freeze, the Voice observed with interest. Smart coordination.
The vibrations shattered the ice near Todoroki, disrupting his footing and forcing him to move for the first time. But even in motion, his expression never changed. Cold. Calculating. Utterly in control.
He stomped with his right foot again, and another ice wave erupted—this one spreading in a circle around him. Not attacking, but creating terrain. Within seconds, the entire combat zone was covered in uneven ice formations, pillars and barriers rising at irregular intervals.
"What the—" Kaminari slipped immediately, his boots finding no purchase on the frozen ground.
Jiro fared slightly better, using her jacks to anchor herself, but she was now fighting just to maintain position. And Todoroki was already moving.
He slid across his own ice with practiced ease, one hand trailing along the surface to maintain constant contact. Every movement was efficient, economical. He created an ice ramp, using it to gain elevation advantage, then sent a barrage of icicles—blunted at All Might's earlier instruction—raining down on both opponents.
Kaminari tried to counter with another electrical blast, but his footing betrayed him. The discharge went wild, and Todoroki simply created another ice wall to block it.
Jiro managed to shatter several icicles with precisely aimed sound waves, but Todoroki had already anticipated. He was behind her, somehow having circled around during her defensive action. A casual gesture, and ice crept up from the ground, encasing her legs.
"Sorry," Todoroki said flatly, though his tone suggested he wasn't particularly sorry at all.
"Kaminari!" Jiro called, struggling against the ice.
But Kaminari was already falling, his feet swept out from under him by a low ice wave. Todoroki caught him mid-fall with a pillar of ice that rose to create a platform, depositing the electrical user safely but definitively out of the fight.
"TIME!" All Might called. "EXCEPTIONAL AREA CONTROL, YOUNG TODOROKI! YOU"VE TURNED THE TIDE OF THE ENTIRE BATTLEFIELED TO YOUR ADVANTAGE!"
Todoroki released Jiro from the ice and helped both opponents back to stable ground. His expression never changed. No satisfaction, no pride. Just cold efficiency.
"Thanks for the match," he said, because it was expected, then walked away.
That was terrifying, the Voice said with a note of respect. Complete battlefield control using only half his quirk. Imagine what he could do with both sides.
"Why doesn't he use his fire?" Izuku wondered.
Don't know. But at the Sports Festival, we need to be ready in case he does.
Izuku watched Todoroki rejoin the observation area, noting how the heterochromatic-eyed student immediately isolated himself from the others. There was something about his fighting style—not just efficient, but impersonal. Clinical. Like he was solving a math problem rather than fighting people.
It reminded Izuku uncomfortably of how he'd been approaching things lately.
"NEXT UP!" All Might's voice boomed across the training ground. "YOUNG MIDORIYA YOU"LL BE DEFENDING AGAINST OJIRO AND HAGURKE! REMEBER—CONTROLLED FORCE!"
Izuku walked to the center of the designated combat zone, his new costume drawing eyes from all around. The cape settled across his shoulders with familiar weight. He could feel the sand in his pouches responding to his quirk, eager to be used. The new costume felt light, unrestricted—designed for someone who didn't need armor because they could become untouchable.
He rolled his shoulders once, settling into a ready stance. Not the defensive posture from his old fighting style, but something more centered. Balanced. Ready to move in any direction.
Ojiro stood across from him, his thick tail swaying in a controlled rhythm. The martial artist's eyes were focused, analytical. He'd seen what Izuku did to Bakugou. He knew to be careful.
Hagakure was invisible, of course, but Izuku could hear her gloves shifting, her boots scuffing slightly on concrete. She was circling to his left, trying to find an angle.
They're coordinating, the Voice noted. Ojiro draws your attention while Hagakure attacks from your blind spot. Standard tactics against sensory-type quirks.
"BEGIN!"
Ojiro moved immediately, his tail whipping forward with the precision of a trained martial artist. The strike was aimed at Izuku's center mass—testing, probing for reaction time.
Izuku sidestepped left, minimal movement, and let the tail pass within inches of his ribs. At the same time, his quirk activated. Sand poured from the pouches on his belt, responding to his will with the ease of breathing. Dark streams of compressed sand swirled around him like living serpents.
Ojiro's tail came around for a second strike—this one a feint. Izuku saw it, but also felt Hagakure rushing in from behind through his sand-sense. Seventy meters was his range, and she was well within it now. Every footstep, every shift of weight, every movement created tiny vibrations that his sand registered.
"Found you," Izuku said quietly.
He scattered sand behind him in a wide arc—not attacking, just revealing. The grains settled on Hagakure's invisible form like a light coating of dust, creating a vague outline of her position. She was mid-lunge, arms extended for a grab.
Izuku transformed.
His entire body shifted to sand in less than a second. Hagakure's hands passed through empty space where his torso had been, her momentum carrying her forward into off-balance. Izuku reformed three feet to the right, already moving.
"Whoa!" Hagakure yelped, stumbling.
But Ojiro was already adapting, his tail sweeping low in a leg-sweep pattern that covered a wide area. Can't dodge what you can't see coming.
Except Izuku could see it. Feel it. Through his sand-sense, every movement registered like ripples on water.
He jumped, but not just up—he created a platform of compressed sand beneath his feet mid-air and used it to push off at an angle. The movement was impossible by normal physics, but with sand as both ground and tool, physics bent to his will.
Sand tendrils lashed out from his position, not sharp but rope-like, wrapping around Ojiro's tail mid-sweep. The martial artist tried to pull free, his strength considerable, but Izuku added more sand, more mass, more weight. The tail was caught, immobilized.
"Hagakure, now!" Ojiro called, already pivoting to use his captured tail as an anchor point for a spinning kick.
But Izuku was already three moves ahead.
Sand clone, the Voice said unnecessarily. Izuku had already started the technique.
Sand peeled away from Izuku's position, compressing and shaping into a perfect duplicate. The clone rushed forward to engage Ojiro's kick while the real Izuku turned his attention to Hagakure, who was circling for another approach.
He didn't attack her aggressively. Didn't need to. Instead, he created floating constructs—bands of compressed sand that moved with lazy precision. Not the sharp floating blades he'd used against Bakugou, but blunt restraining tools. One wrapped around her ankle, another caught her wrist, a third circled her waist.
"Got me!" Hagakure called out, impressed despite being caught. "That sand-sense thing is really unfair, you know!"
One down, the Voice noted. Now Ojiro.
The martial artist was more challenging. He'd realized the clone was a fake after his kick passed through it slightly wrong—the density was off by just a fraction. Now he was being defensive, using his tail to keep distance and clear away any sand that got too close.
Smart, Izuku thought. He's learning fast.
But learning wasn't enough against overwhelming advantage.
Izuku didn't rush. Didn't need to. He simply... expanded his presence. Sand began rising from the ground in waves, not attacking but controlling space. Every time Ojiro tried to advance, sand barriers appeared. Every time the tail struck out, sand tendrils redirected it. Every time he tried to create distance, sand platforms cut off retreat angles.
It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't excessive.
It was inevitable.
Like watching a tide come in. You could fight it, resist it, struggle against it. But eventually, the ocean always won. Not through force, but through patient, relentless pressure.
Ojiro's movements became more frustrated, more desperate. His tail strikes came faster but less precise. He was tiring, burning energy while Izuku had barely started.
Time to end it, the Voice suggested. Cleanly. Show control.
Izuku created another sand clone—but this one was different. It didn't just mimic his appearance; it mimicked movement patterns. He fed it information through his quirk, literally programming it with Ojiro's own fighting style that he'd been observing. The clone began moving like a martial artist, adopting stance and rhythm.
Ojiro's eyes widened fractionally, recognizing his own patterns being used against him. It was disorienting, like fighting a mirror that knew what you'd do before you did it.
When Ojiro struck at the clone, the real Izuku moved from the side—the only blind spot in the martial artist's awareness. A sand tendril swept Ojiro's legs with precisely calculated force. Not hard enough to injure, but enough to destabilize.
Ojiro fell, and Izuku caught him with a cloud of sand before he hit the ground, lowering him gently to the concrete.
"Match over!" All Might called.
"Match over!" All Might called. "Excellent work, young Midoriya! Controlled, strategic, and you showed great awareness!"
But as Izuku released his opponents and recalled his sand, he caught the looks from his classmates.
Respect. Wariness. A little bit of fear.
The new costume, the cold efficiency, the overwhelming control—it all painted a picture.
Someone who was making a serious transformation—evolving from the student who arrived at UA into something sharper, harder, more dangerous.
Perfect, the Voice purred. That's exactly the reputation we need.
Is it? Izuku wondered, watching Uraraka whisper something to Tsuyu while looking his way, both of them glancing at him with expressions he couldn't quite read.
Is it really?
The rest of the combat training continued, with each student rotating through different opponent combinations. Izuku watched carefully, analyzing quirks and strategies, filing away information for the Sports Festival.
Tokoyami and Dark Shadow's coordination. Momo's rapid creation speed. Iida's evolved recipro burst technique.
Everyone was improving. Everyone was preparing.
The Sports Festival was going to be brutal.
As the class returned to the locker rooms to change, Izuku caught Kirishima giving him a thumbs up.
"That was seriously cool, man! Super controlled but still powerful!"
"Thanks," Izuku said, feeling the sand pouches on his belt as he walked. The new costume had performed perfectly—exactly as designed.
The rest of the class filtered toward the locker rooms, everyone discussing their performances and strategies. The Sports Festival was all anyone could talk about.
Nineteen days and counting.
The remainder of the school day passed in a blur of standard coursework. Modern Hero Art History with Midnight, where they analyzed the cultural impact of hero merchandise and public image. Then Mathematics with Ectoplasm, working through complex equations that would help with trajectory calculations and spatial reasoning in hero work.
Izuku took notes mechanically, his mind still partially replaying the combat training. The way his sand had moved, responded, obeyed. The looks on his classmates' faces—respect mixed with wariness. The distance that seemed to grow a little wider each day.
You performed excellently today, the Voice observed during math class. Controlled, efficient, overwhelming. Exactly what we need for the Sports Festival.
Izuku didn't respond, focusing on the derivatives problem in front of him. But he could feel the Voice's satisfaction like a warm undercurrent in his thoughts.
When the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, students began packing up with the usual mixture of relief and exhaustion. Izuku was sliding his notebooks into his bag when Uraraka appeared at his desk, her expression determined.
"Midoriya! Got a second?"
He looked up, surprised. "Uh, yeah. What's up?"
"So," Uraraka glanced back at a small group gathering near the door—Iida, Tsuyu, Momo, Kirishima, and Mina, all watching expectantly. "We were thinking of hanging out after school. There's this nice park not too far from the station, and the weather's actually decent for once."
"We thought it would be good to decompress after such an intense training day," Momo added, walking over with the others. "The Sports Festival preparation is important, but so is maintaining social bonds and mental health."
"Yeah, dude!" Kirishima grinned, throwing an arm around Izuku's shoulders. "All work and no play makes heroes super unmanly! Come hang with us!"
"It would be a good opportunity for class bonding, ribbit," Tsuyu said, her finger on her chin. "And we haven't really talked much outside of school stuff lately."
Mina bounced excitedly. "Please say yes! We can grab snacks and just chill! No hero talk, no quirk analysis, just... being normal teenagers for a bit!"
Decline, the Voice said immediately, firmly. You need to train. Nineteen days isn't much time, and every hour counts. These social activities are distractions from your goals.
Izuku opened his mouth to make an excuse—he could already feel the words forming. "Sorry, I need to train" or "My family's expecting me" or "Maybe another time."
But then he looked at their faces. Uraraka's hopeful expression. Iida's concerned but encouraging nod. Tsuyu's blunt honesty that said she knew something was off and this was her way of reaching out. Momo's careful consideration as class representative. Kirishima's genuine enthusiasm. Mina's boundless energy trying to pull him back into the fold.
They were trying. Really trying to connect with him despite the distance he'd been creating.
Midoriya, no. The Voice's tone sharpened. You need to focus. The Sports Festival—
"Sure," Izuku said, cutting through the Voice's protest. "That sounds good. I'd like that."
What? The Voice sounded genuinely surprised. We need to discuss this. The training schedule—
Izuku mentally pushed the Voice back, not listening, focusing instead on his friends' reactions.
"Really?" Uraraka's face lit up with genuine joy. "Awesome! This is gonna be so fun!"
"Excellent!" Iida's hand chopping began immediately. "We should establish a meeting point and timeline! I suggest we reconvene at the main gate in fifteen minutes, allowing everyone adequate time to change and prepare!"
"Iida, we're just going to a park, not a formal event," Momo said with an amused smile, but she was nodding. "But fifteen minutes sounds reasonable."
This is a mistake, the Voice insisted. Every moment not spent preparing is a moment wasted. Your family is counting on you. The Sports Festival—
Izuku deliberately drowned it out, focusing on gathering his things and following his friends out of the classroom. The Voice continued talking, but Izuku pushed it to the background like white noise, refusing to engage.
For the first time in days, he was choosing something other than training. Choosing friendship over preparation. Choosing to be a fifteen-year-old kid instead of a weapon being sharpened for competition.
It felt... good. Rebellious, almost.
The park was small but pleasant, tucked between residential buildings about a ten-minute walk from the station. Trees provided shade from the afternoon sun, and a small pond reflected clouds drifting lazily across the sky. Benches were scattered around a central area where a few children played while their parents watched.
Normal. Peaceful. Far removed from hero training and combat simulations.
The group claimed a cluster of benches near the pond, Mina immediately producing snacks from her bag like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat.
"I came prepared!" she announced proudly, distributing packets of chips and candy. "Hero training makes me super hungry!"
"Ashido, your preparedness is admirable!" Iida accepted his share with characteristic enthusiasm. "Though we should be mindful of nutritional balance—"
"Iida, it's snacks, not a meal plan," Kirishima laughed, already tearing into a bag of spicy chips. "Sometimes you just gotta enjoy junk food, man!"
Izuku sat between Uraraka and Kirishima, accepting the snacks offered to him. The Voice was still muttering in the background, but he kept it suppressed, distant. Right now, he just wanted to be here. Present.
"So," Mina said, settling cross-legged on a bench with her characteristic energy, "no hero talk, remember? Let's just... be normal! Talk about normal stuff!"
"What constitutes 'normal stuff' in this context?" Tsuyu asked, genuinely curious. "We're hero students. Heroes are kind of our normal, ribbit."
"Family stuff!" Mina suggested. "Like, what's everyone's family situation? I feel like we know hero stuff about each other but not actual life stuff."
There was a moment of hesitation—family could be a sensitive topic, especially in a class as diverse as 1-A. But Uraraka jumped in first, her tone light.
"I've got parents who run a construction company! It's small, just them and a few workers, but they work really hard. That's actually why I wanted to become a hero—to make enough money to give them an easier life."
"That's a noble goal," Momo said warmly. "My family runs a large corporation, so I've grown up with considerable resources. Sometimes I worry that I don't understand the struggles others face." She glanced at Uraraka. "Your determination to help your family is admirable."
"I have a large family!" Iida announced proudly. "My older brother Tensei is the hero Ingenium! Following in his footsteps has been my dream since I was young! Our family has a proud hero tradition!"
"That's so cool!" Kirishima said. "My family's pretty normal—mom, dad, no siblings. They were supportive when I said I wanted to be a hero, even though it's dangerous. What about you, Midoriya?"
All eyes turned to Izuku. He felt the attention like a spotlight, suddenly aware of how different his situation was from most of theirs.
Say something vague, the Voice suggested, its influence creeping back in despite his efforts to suppress it. Don't reveal too much. Keep the distance.
But Izuku looked at their open, curious faces. They'd shared. They were trying to understand him.
"I'm the youngest of five," Izuku said, and was surprised by how easily the words came. "Four older siblings—two sisters and two brothers. Akari's the oldest at twenty-six, then Daichi at twenty-four, Yumeko at twenty-two, and Shinji at twenty."
"Whoa, big family!" Mina's eyes widened. "What's that like? Being the baby of the group?"
Izuku considered the question. "It's... complicated. Good, mostly, but complicated."
"Elaborate, ribbit," Tsuyu encouraged gently. "We're curious."
He picked at the snack wrapper in his hands, organizing his thoughts. "My siblings all have quirks like my parents—variations of dust and stone manipulation. But they're all... weak. Not useless, but not strong enough for hero work. Akari works in hero support equipment. Daichi does construction like our dad. Yumeko's an office secretary. Shinji's in trade school for electrical work."
"And then there's you," Uraraka said quietly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "With a powerful quirk."
"Yeah." Izuku nodded. "My quirk is the perfect combination of my parents' quirks—what they hoped for but didn't get with the others. So I'm... I guess I'm the family's hope. The one who might actually make it."
The weight of that statement hung in the air.
"That's a lot of pressure," Momo said softly. "Carrying not just your own dreams, but your entire family's expectations."
"It must be hard," Kirishima added, his usual enthusiasm tempered with genuine concern. "Like, I just have to worry about making my parents proud. You've got four siblings and parents all watching."
"They don't mean it badly," Izuku said quickly, defensively. "They're supportive. They sacrificed a lot to help me get into UA—new phone, new shoes, whatever I needed. They believe in me."
"But that belief comes with weight," Iida observed, his expression unusually serious. "The pressure to succeed not just for yourself, but for all of them."
Izuku didn't respond, but the silence was answer enough.
"What are they like?" Uraraka asked, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Your siblings? Do you get along?"
A small smile tugged at Izuku's lips—genuine, not the careful ones he'd been wearing lately. "Yeah. We're close. Akari basically raised me when I was little since Mom and Dad both worked constantly. She's protective, always worrying. Daichi's the strong silent type, but he taught me how to throw a punch when I was eight."
"Eight?" Mina's eyes widened. "That's young!"
"Slums kid," Izuku said simply, as if that explained everything. And to him, it did. "Yumeko's the worrywart—she can read people really well, always knows when something's wrong. And Shinji's the one who encouraged me to be more aggressive with my quirk training. He gets the competitive side of hero work."
"They all contributed to who you are," Momo observed thoughtfully. "Each teaching you different skills."
"I guess so." Izuku hadn't really thought about it that way. "Akari taught me to analyze and prepare. Daichi taught me to fight. Yumeko taught me to read situations. Shinji taught me to be confident in my strength."
"That's actually really cool," Kirishima said. "Like, you had four personal mentors growing up! That's super manly!"
"But also," Tsuyu added with her characteristic bluntness, "it sounds lonely. Being the one with expectations while your siblings don't have that same pressure."
Izuku blinked, surprised by her insight. "I... never thought about it like that."
"Do they ever resent you for it, ribbit? Having the strong quirk when theirs are weaker?"
"No," Izuku said immediately, then paused. "At least... I don't think so. They seem happy for me. Proud, even. But sometimes I wonder if they wish..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish.
"If they wish they'd been the one with the powerful quirk?" Momo finished gently.
"Yeah."
The group was quiet for a moment, digesting this. The children playing nearby shrieked with laughter, a stark contrast to the heavier conversation.
"For what it's worth," Uraraka said, bumping her shoulder against his, "I think they're probably just proud. You're their little brother making it to UA. That's amazing, regardless of quirks."
"And the fact that you're clearly aware of the pressure and trying to live up to it shows you care about them," Iida added. "That's admirable, Midoriya."
"Just don't forget to live for yourself too," Kirishima said, his tone surprisingly serious. "Like, making your family proud is awesome, but you gotta be happy with your own choices, you know?"
The Voice stirred, trying to insert commentary, but Izuku pushed it down again. Right now, he just wanted to hear his friends.
"Is that why you train so hard?" Mina asked curiously. "The family expectations?"
"Partly," Izuku admitted. "But also because I want to be strong enough to protect people. To make a difference. The Sports Festival is my chance to prove I belong at UA, that I can become a great hero."
"You already belong here," Uraraka said firmly. "You got in, didn't you? You earned that spot."
"Besides," Tsuyu added, "you scored higher than most of us on the entrance exam, ribbit. Eighty-two villain points plus rescue points. That's not luck. That's skill."
Izuku felt something warm in his chest—not the Voice's influence, but something else. Genuine appreciation for these people who were trying so hard to reach him despite the walls he'd been building.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "That... means a lot."
"Anytime, bro!" Kirishima grinned, his enthusiasm returning. "That's what friends are for!"
Friends.
The word settled over Izuku like a comfortable blanket. When had he started thinking of them as just classmates? Just competition? These were people who cared about him, who wanted to understand him, who were spending their afternoon in a park just to make sure he was okay.
The Voice tried to speak again—something about maintaining distance, about focus, about the Sports Festival—but Izuku barely heard it.
For the first time in days, he felt like himself. Like the kid who'd been excited about making friends at UA, about being part of something bigger than just his family's dreams.
Maybe training and preparation were important. Maybe the Sports Festival would determine his future. Maybe he needed to be strong and focused and ready.
But maybe—just maybe—he also needed this.
Needed to sit in a park with friends, eating junk food and talking about families and normal teenage things.
Needed to remember that he was more than just a quirk being sharpened for competition.
Needed to be Izuku, not just the Midoriya family's hope or Class 1-A's intimidating fighter.
Just... Izuku.
The conversation flowed on, moving to lighter topics. Mina's embarrassing middle school stories. Kirishima's tale of dying his hair red on a dare. Iida's passionate explanation of proper park etiquette. Tsuyu's dry observations about human social behaviors.
And Izuku laughed. Genuinely laughed, not the careful controlled expressions he'd been wearing.
It felt good.
It felt right.
The Voice grew quieter, sulking perhaps, but Izuku didn't care.
For now, in this moment, he chose this.
Chose them.
Chose to be fifteen and human and more than just strong.
The sun drifted lower in the sky, painting everything in warm gold. The park remained peaceful, a small bubble of normalcy in their intense hero training lives.
And for the first time in days, Izuku felt like maybe everything would be okay.
The group eventually dispersed as the sun began to set, everyone heading toward their respective train lines home. Uraraka had hugged him goodbye—a quick, impulsive gesture that surprised them both. Kirishima had clapped him on the shoulder. Iida had reminded everyone to rest properly and stay hydrated.
It had been good. Really good.
But as Izuku stood at the station platform watching his friends disappear into the evening crowd, the Voice finally broke its sulking silence.
You enjoyed that.
"Yeah," Izuku admitted quietly, his bag slung over his shoulder. "I did."
A pause. Then: I'm not saying it was bad. Just... dangerous. To let yourself get comfortable. To let your guard down.
"They're my friends."
I know. The Voice's tone was complex, layered with something Izuku couldn't quite identify. And that's exactly why it's dangerous. Because now you care. And caring makes you vulnerable.
Izuku didn't respond, watching the next train pull into the station. But instead of boarding the one that would take him home to the slums, he hesitated.
The attack happened almost a month ago, the Voice observed, reading his thoughts. You haven't been back to Gym Gamma since before the drugging. Been training on the rooftop instead.
"Yeah."
You could go home. See your family. Rest like your friends suggested.
"Or?"
Or we could see what we're really capable of now. In a proper training environment. With space and equipment designed for quirk development. The Voice's tone shifted, becoming more persuasive. You felt it today during combat training—how easy everything was. How natural. Don't you want to explore that? To really push our limits without holding back?
Izuku looked at the train that would take him home, then at the one that would take him back toward UA. Gym Gamma was open until 10 PM for students with special training permissions. Aizawa had granted him unlimited access after clearing him for full activities.
He'd spent weeks training on his apartment rooftop—adequate, but cramped. Limited. Gym Gamma was designed specifically for students with powerful, destructive quirks. Reinforced walls, adjustable terrain, proper equipment.
Almost a full month since he'd trained there properly.
The home-bound train doors opened. People shuffled on and off.
Make the choice yourself, the Voice said quietly. I'm not pushing. But you know you want to.
And that was the thing—he did want to. The park had been good, necessary even, but now there was an itch under his skin. An eagerness to move, to use his quirk, to test the limits of what he'd become.
The home train's doors closed. It pulled away from the platform.
Izuku walked to the other side and waited for the UA-bound train.
Smart choice, the Voice purred with satisfaction.
"It's not about you," Izuku said quietly. "I just... need to do this."
I know. That's what makes it perfect. You're choosing this yourself.
The facility was almost deserted when Izuku arrived. Most students had gone home after regular classes, preferring to rest before another intense day tomorrow. The vast space echoed with his footsteps as he entered, showing his student ID to the security system.
"Welcome, Midoriya Izuku," the automated voice announced. "Gym Gamma is currently at 5% capacity. Please remember to log your training activities and report any equipment damage. Training clearance: Unlimited. Quirk restrictions: None. Emergency stop accessible at all stations."
The gymnasium stretched before him like a massive industrial playground. The space could be reconfigured into different terrain types—urban environments, forest simulations, open plains, even water-based areas. Right now it was set to a default configuration: flat ground with various obstacles, reinforced pillars, and training equipment scattered throughout.
It felt huge after weeks of training on his cramped apartment rooftop.
Finally, the Voice breathed. Proper space. No neighbors to worry about, no need to hold back, no family watching from windows.
Izuku walked to one of the changing stations and pulled out his gym uniform—the standard UA training outfit he'd stuffed in his locker earlier. Simple, practical, and he wouldn't have to worry about damaging his new hero costume during experimental training. The dark blue tracksuit with white accents was comfortable, familiar.
He changed quickly, stuffing his school uniform into his bag and leaving it in one of the lockers.
How long are we training? the Voice asked.
Izuku checked the time on his phone. 6:47 PM. "Couple hours maybe. Need to catch the last train home by 9:30."
That gives us almost three hours. Good. Let's see what we can really do.
Izuku walked to the center of the gymnasium, his footsteps echoing in the vast space. He could feel his quirk responding already, eager to be used. Sand materialized around him from his quirk itself—he didn't need pouches when he could create it directly. Golden-brown grains began to drift around him like a living aurora, responding to his subconscious will.
He hadn't realized how much he'd been holding back during the day. In class, around his friends, even during combat training—there was always a governor, a control, an awareness of eyes watching and judging.
Here, alone, there was just him and his quirk.
Don't just practice what you already know, the Voice suggested. We've been doing the same techniques for years—blades, fists, golems, clones. Time to innovate. Push beyond the familiar. Get creative.
Izuku nodded, settling into a ready stance. He took a deep breath, feeling the sand respond to his heartbeat, his breathing, his intent.
And then he began.
"Creative how?" Izuku asked, rolling his shoulders to loosen up.
Think about it, the Voice said. Your quirk is sand manipulation. Complete control over individual grains. You've been using it like a weapon—blades, fists, barriers. But sand is more than that. It's millions of tiny particles that you command individually. What else could you do with that level of control?
Izuku stared at the sand swirling around him, really thinking about it for the first time in a while. He'd gotten comfortable with his standard techniques, falling into patterns that worked. But the drug had enhanced his quirk factor density by sixty percent, dramatically improved his neural processing. He could do more now. He should be exploring that.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Let me think..."
He held out his hand, gathering sand into his palm. Instead of compressing it into a blade or forming it into a construct, he just... held it. Felt it. Each individual grain responding to his will.
What if he moved them differently? Not as a cohesive mass, but as individual projectiles all moving in the same direction?
Izuku focused on a reinforced training dummy about thirty meters away. He pulled more sand from the ground, gathering it around his extended hand. Then, instead of launching it as a single mass, he accelerated each grain individually—thousands upon thousands of tiny particles all moving in precisely the same direction.
The result was something like a shotgun blast made of sand. The grains hit the dummy in a wide spread pattern, peppering its entire surface with dozens of small impacts instead of one concentrated strike.
Interesting, the Voice observed. But not particularly effective. Too diffuse. The individual grains don't have enough mass to do real damage.
"Yeah, but what if..." Izuku adjusted his approach. This time, instead of spreading the grains out, he focused them. Compressed them into a tighter and tighter stream while accelerating them faster and faster. Every grain moving in perfect alignment, creating a concentrated flow of high-velocity particles.
He released the technique toward another dummy.
The sand hit like a pressure washer made of stone. The concentrated stream carved a deep gouge across the dummy's chest, the reinforced material shredding under the sustained barrage of hyperaccelerated grains. It wasn't an explosion or a single impact—it was continuous cutting force, like an angle grinder that he could aim and control.
Now THAT'S interesting, the Voice said with genuine excitement. A sustained beam attack. How long can you maintain it?
Izuku kept the stream going, adjusting his aim to draw a line across multiple dummies. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. The constant acceleration of thousands of individual grains was taxing in a different way than his usual techniques—less about raw power and more about precision and sustained focus.
At twenty seconds, he felt the technique starting to strain his concentration. At twenty-five, he released it, the sand falling to the ground as normal particles once more.
"That's... that's something," Izuku muttered, staring at the destruction. Multiple training dummies had deep cuts carved through them, the material torn away by the sustained assault.
Devastating at medium range, the Voice analyzed. And unlike your blades or fists, it's continuous pressure. An opponent can't just dodge once—they'd have to keep dodging or block continuously. Plus, you can adjust the aim mid-attack.
"It's like a cutting beam," Izuku said, already thinking through applications. "I could use it to carve through obstacles, cut support structures, maybe even—"
The Voice interrupted: Try making it wider. Less focused. See what happens.
Izuku gathered more sand and tried again, this time spreading the stream out to about a meter wide instead of the tightly focused beam. The result was less penetration but more coverage—a wide swath of cutting force that could hit multiple targets or cover more area.
Then he tried the opposite—compressing the beam even tighter, down to just a few centimeters wide. The result was terrifying. The hyper-focused stream punched completely through a training dummy in less than three seconds, the concentrated force overwhelming the reinforced material entirely.
You're essentially creating a drill made of millions of tiny cutting edges, the Voice observed. All moving in the same direction at high speed. That's not just creative—that's brilliant.
Izuku felt a surge of satisfaction. This was new. This was innovation. This was taking his quirk beyond the comfortable patterns he'd fallen into and discovering new applications.
"What else?" he asked, already eager to experiment more.
You can control individual grains, the Voice mused. What if you made them move in different directions simultaneously?
"Like... a vortex?"
Try it.
Izuku gathered a large mass of sand in front of him and instead of moving it all the same direction, he set different layers spinning in opposite directions. The outer layer clockwise, the inner layer counterclockwise, all while the entire mass moved forward.
The sand formed into a swirling cylinder of particles, each grain following a complex spiral pattern. When it hit a training dummy, the result was catastrophic. The opposing rotations created a grinding effect, the dummy literally torn apart by the conflicting forces as the vortex passed through it.
"Holy shit," Izuku breathed, watching synthetic material and padding scatter across the gymnasium floor.
That's a drill on steroids, the Voice said with satisfaction. Multiple cutting edges moving in different directions simultaneously. Anything caught in that would be shredded.
Izuku spent the next thirty minutes exploring variations of the concept. Slow rotations versus fast. Tight spirals versus wide. Multiple smaller vortexes instead of one large one. Each variation had different properties, different applications.
A tightly wound high-speed vortex for piercing. A wide slow rotation for area denial. Multiple small ones for attacking several targets. The possibilities seemed endless.
You're thinking like a hero now, the Voice approved. Not just "how do I hit harder" but "what tools do I need for different situations?" That's growth.
"I've been too comfortable," Izuku admitted, creating another experimental construct—this time layering sand in thin sheets that oscillated rapidly, creating a buzzing effect. When he pressed it against a dummy, it cut like a chainsaw. "I learned my techniques years ago and just... kept using them. Never thought to push further."
The drug enhancement gave you the capacity to push further, the Voice said. Before, your quirk control was good but limited. Now? Now your neural processing can handle complexity you couldn't before. That's why these new techniques work—your brain can track and control the individual particles in ways it couldn't previously.
Izuku looked at his hands, at the sand swirling around them in increasingly complex patterns. Spiral formations, layered sheets, concentrated beams, grinding vortexes. Each one a tool for different situations.
"I need ranged options," he said, thinking out loud. "Most of my techniques are close to mid-range. But what if I'm against someone like Todoroki who controls the entire battlefield? I need something that works at distance."
The beam attack works at range, the Voice pointed out. Thirty meters so far, and you haven't tested the maximum distance.
"Let me try something," Izuku said, gathering sand and forming it into a sphere about the size of a basketball. Instead of solid compression, he made the outer layer spin rapidly while keeping the core stable. Then he launched it.
The spinning sphere flew across the gymnasium like a fastball, maintaining its rotation throughout the flight. When it hit a dummy at the far end—easily fifty meters away—it exploded outward, the rotating outer layer fragmenting into dozens of sharp projectiles that peppered everything in a three-meter radius.
Cluster munition, the Voice observed. One projectile becomes many. Good for hitting multiple targets or covering an area.
"And I can vary the explosion timing," Izuku said excitedly, forming another sphere. This time he kept the rotation speed lower, creating a delay. The sphere flew, hit a wall, bounced off, rolled a few meters, then exploded. "Delayed detonation."
Or proximity detonation, the Voice suggested. Set it to explode when it senses movement within range. Trap opponents who try to dodge.
Izuku's mind was racing now with possibilities. Years of comfortable technique use had made him predictable, reliant on the same approaches. But now, with enhanced control and processing power, he could innovate. Could create new tools for different situations.
The next hour became a blur of experimentation.
He created sand that clumped together on contact with targets, weighing them down. Sand that spread out into wide nets for capturing. Sand formed into dozens of small orbs that he could control independently, creating a swarm of projectiles that attacked from multiple angles simultaneously.
He tried making shapes beyond his usual constructs—flat discs that he could stand on and control like flying platforms. Curved shields that deflected attacks instead of just blocking them. Walls with textured surfaces that could catch and redirect projectiles.
Each new technique revealed more possibilities. Each success built on the previous one, creating a cascade of innovation.
This is what training should be, the Voice said with genuine approval. Not just repetition of known techniques, but exploration. Discovery. Growth.
Izuku formed sand into a long, thin tendril and tried making it move like a whip—but instead of just swinging it, he made waves travel along its length, each segment moving with precise timing to create a rippling effect. When he struck a dummy with it, the rippling motion transferred into the target, the vibrations propagating through the reinforced material and causing internal stress fractures.
"Vibrational attack," he muttered, watching cracks spread through the dummy's structure. "Hits the outside but damages the inside."
Devastating against armored opponents, the Voice noted. The armor might stop the impact, but the vibrations pass through.
"Could work on ice too," Izuku said, thinking of Todoroki. "Ice is brittle. Vibrations would shatter it from within."
Now you're thinking tactically. Analyzing opponents and developing counters. That's how you win the Sports Festival.
Izuku checked his phone. 8:34 PM. He'd been training for nearly two hours, and he'd barely scratched the surface of what his enhanced quirk could do. There was so much more to explore, so many more applications to discover.
One more, the Voice urged. End on something spectacular.
"Alright," Izuku said, gathering sand from all across the gymnasium floor. Not just a little—all of it. Every grain within his seventy-meter sensing radius responded to his call, flowing toward him like rivers converging into an ocean.
The mass of sand was enormous—hundreds of pounds of material swirling in a massive cloud around him. The air itself seemed to darken with the density of particles.
Now, the Voice said quietly, show them what sand can really do.
Izuku compressed the entire mass, packing it tighter and tighter while spinning it faster and faster. The outer layers rotated clockwise, the inner layers counterclockwise, creating opposing grinding forces. The very center became a concentrated beam of hyperaccelerated particles.
The result was something that looked almost like a miniature tornado—a massive spiraling column of sand with a focused cutting core, layers of grinding force around it, and an outer shell of high-velocity projectiles.
He aimed at the far wall—specifically at a section marked for high-intensity quirk testing, reinforced to withstand nearly anything students could throw at it.
And then he released everything at once.
The combined technique shot across the gymnasium like a natural disaster compressed into a weapon. The beam core hit first, punching into the reinforced wall. Then the grinding layers made contact, the opposing rotations chewing into the material. Finally, the outer projectiles peppered the surrounding area, creating additional stress points.
The wall held—barely. Deep gouges carved into its surface, cracks spreading outward from the impact point, but the reinforcement did its job.
The technique dissipated after about eight seconds, all that sand falling to the ground in a massive pile.
Izuku stood in the center of the gymnasium, breathing hard now. That had taken serious effort—coordinating that many particles in that many different motion patterns simultaneously had pushed his enhanced processing to its limits.
But it had worked.
That, the Voice said with something like awe, was incredible. Multiple techniques layered together into one devastating attack. That's the kind of ultimate move that makes heroes legendary.
"That's the kind of move that would hospitalize someone if I used it in the Sports Festival," Izuku countered, still staring at the damaged wall. "Way too much force."
True, the Voice conceded. But you could scale it down. Use the same principles with less mass, less speed, less intensity. The concept is sound—layered techniques working together for overwhelming effect.
Izuku looked at the destruction he'd caused—damaged dummies scattered across the floor, deep cuts in reinforced walls, cracks spreading through testing equipment. Two hours of experimentation had revealed more new techniques than he'd developed in the last year of training.
And this was just the beginning. Just one session of creative thinking instead of repetitive practice.
Check the time, the Voice reminded gently.
9:17 PM. If he left immediately, he'd just make the last train.
"Shit," Izuku muttered, quickly running toward the changing station.
As he changed back into his uniform, stuffing the hero costume into his bag, he caught his reflection in the locker room mirror.
His bronze-gold hair was messed up from transformation training. There was a slight flush to his cheeks from exertion. But his eyes... there was something in his eyes. Something intense. Hungry, almost.
That's ambition, the Voice said approvingly. That's what a winner looks like.
Izuku stared at his reflection a moment longer, then grabbed his bag and ran for the exit