One week before the sports festival
The days between that first individual training session and now had blurred into a rhythm of controlled intensity. Wake at 5:30 AM. Rooftop training focusing on Erosion Beam range and precision. School. Individual sessions with Aizawa three times a week. Walking to the station with Mina, those fifteen minutes of normalcy that kept him grounded. Home. Family dinner where everyone pretended not to hover anxiously. Sleep. Repeat.
Eleven days of refinement. Eleven days of improvement. Eleven days of becoming sharper.
And now, with exactly seven days remaining until the Sports Festival, Izuku could feel the difference.
His Erosion Beam had evolved from a promising technique into a precision instrument. Maximum tested range now sat at seventy-five meters with minimal accuracy loss. He could maintain the beam for forty-five seconds before concentration strain set in—nearly double his initial capability. Width variation had become instinctive; he could shift from a pinpoint cutting stream to a meter-wide swath without conscious thought.
The Cyclone Sphere had progressed even more dramatically. Variable detonation timing was second nature now—contact detonation, three-second delay, five-second delay, or proximity triggered within his seventy-meter sand-sense radius. He'd discovered he could create multiple spheres simultaneously, though controlling more than three detonation patterns at once pushed his processing limits. The fragmentation radius had increased to four meters with optimization of the rotation speed.
But the transformation technique—that was where the real growth had happened.
Aizawa's intensive coaching over three sessions per week had refined the ability into something genuinely terrifying. Izuku could now transform specific body sections in less than a tenth of a second, reading opponents' intent through body language analysis and shifting before attacks fully committed. The integration of defense and offense into single fluid motions had become natural—he no longer thought "transform then counter" but simply "counter through transformation," his body executing the complete sequence as one action.
Partial transformations now cost minimal quirk energy. Full-body transformation mobility had reached the point where Izuku could cross a twenty-meter gap as sand faster than he could sprint. Chaining transformations—avoid, reposition, strike, avoid, reposition—had become a deadly dance that made him nearly impossible to pin down in close quarters.
More than the techniques themselves, Aizawa had taught him to think systematically. Every decision flowed from core strategy: control distance, dictate engagement range, never let opponents fight at their preferred spacing. Erosion Beam for range control. Cyclone Sphere for area denial and multi-target scenarios. Transformation for defensive superiority and forced repositioning.
A complete fighting style, not just a collection of techniques.
The training journals had helped cement the learning. Every Friday, Izuku submitted detailed analysis of his development, and every Monday, Aizawa returned them with terse comments that somehow managed to be both encouraging and demanding. "Good progress on beam focus ratio. Now optimize energy efficiency." "Transformation chains improved but you're telegraphing the reformation point. Fix it." "Strategic thinking is evolving. Keep pushing."
His classmates had noticed the changes, of course. During the group combat training sessions that still happened twice a week, Izuku's performance had become increasingly dominant. Not through overwhelming power—though he had that—but through systematic dismantling of opponents. He fought with a cold precision that made matches look almost easy, controlling space and tempo until victory became inevitable.
Some classmates found it impressive. Others found it unsettling.
The distance that had started after the Bakugou fight had widened in subtle ways. Conversations that paused when he approached. Careful word choices during group discussions. The sense that people were being polite rather than genuinely friendly—with a few exceptions.
Mina had kept her promise about walking together daily. Those fifteen-minute train rides had become a constant, a anchor of normalcy in increasingly intense preparation. She talked about everything except hero training—terrible TV shows, debates about food, stories about her parents, questions about his family that were curious rather than pitying. She never pushed when Izuku was quiet, never demanded more energy than he had to give, but always pulled him out of his head when he spiraled too deep into strategy.
Uraraka, Iida, and Tsuyu still ate lunch with him, though the conversations had shifted. Less casual, more focused on training and Sports Festival preparation. They were friendly but careful, like they weren't quite sure how to interact with whoever Izuku was becoming.
Kirishima remained enthusiastically supportive, calling training sessions "manly" and offering fist bumps after good performances. But even he seemed to treat Izuku with a certain wariness during actual combat exercises.
Momo, as class representative, checked in periodically with professional concern masked as friendly conversation. "How are you feeling about the festival? Any stress we should discuss? Remember the school has counseling resources available." Always appropriate, always caring, but with a layer of official responsibility that made the interactions feel less personal.
Todoroki had started watching Izuku more intently during training. Not hostile, just... analytical. Measuring. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Bakugou's enmity had become a constant background radiation. Glares across the classroom, aggressive training during any exercise that paired them together, muttered comments about "not getting comfortable with one lucky win." The rematch was coming at the Sports Festival, and both of them knew it.
The Voice had evolved too over these eleven days. It still provided tactical analysis, still pushed for optimization and efficiency. But the conversations had become more... collaborative. Less "you should do this" and more "we could try this." The admission that balance mattered seemed to have shifted something fundamental in their dynamic.
It still encouraged isolation when strategic. Still advocated for cold efficiency in combat. Still reminded Izuku that strength was what mattered, that survival required hardness.
But it also stayed quiet during the walks with Mina. Acknowledged when rest was more valuable than training. Accepted that being human and being dangerous weren't mutually exclusive.
An uneasy partnership between the parts of Izuku that wanted connection and the parts that understood only strength guaranteed survival.
The mandatory counseling sessions with Hound Dog had continued twice weekly. Izuku had gotten better at the careful dance of sharing enough to seem honest while hiding the Voice's existence. He talked about pressure, about family expectations, about the weight of being the one who made it. All true, just incomplete.
Hound Dog's nose still twitched sometimes, reading stress spikes that suggested Izuku wasn't sharing everything. But he couldn't prove anything, and Izuku was careful never to give him concrete evidence. The sessions had become a game of sorts—how much truth could Izuku reveal without exposing the secret that would end everything?
The counselor had started ending each session the same way: "Remember, Midoriya, if anything changes—if you develop any new symptoms or experiences that concern you—my door is always open. Day or night. No judgment, no consequences. Just help."
Izuku always thanked him and left, knowing he could never take that offer. Because the Voice wasn't a symptom to be treated. It was part of his quirk now, as fundamental as the sand itself.
And despite the isolation it encouraged, despite the way it pushed him toward coldness, Izuku wasn't sure he wanted it gone. Because it was right about one thing: he was stronger with it. Sharper. More capable of winning.
And winning was what mattered. For his family. For his future. For proving that a kid from the slums could stand with the elite and emerge victorious.
The classroom had a different energy this Monday morning. Not the usual post-weekend grogginess, but something electric. Anticipation mixed with anxiety, excitement laced with dread. The Sports Festival was in exactly one week, and everyone could feel the weight of that reality.
Aizawa entered right as the bell rang, his expression even more serious than usual—which was saying something. He stood at the front of the classroom, capture weapon hanging loose around his neck, and waited for complete silence.
"Seven days," he said simply. "One week until the Sports Festival and the biggest opportunity of your first year." His tired eyes scanned the room. "Some of you are ready. Some of you aren't. Some of you think you're ready but have critical weaknesses you're ignoring. And some of you are so focused on preparation that you're burning out before the actual event."
That last comment seemed aimed in Izuku's direction, though Aizawa's gaze didn't linger.
"This week, we're making final adjustments. No new technique development—it's too late for that. You work with what you have and optimize it. The individual training sessions continue, but the focus shifts to endurance, consistency, and mental preparation." Aizawa pulled up the Sports Festival bracket structure on the screen. "The format is three events, progressively narrowing the field. First event eliminates roughly half the participants. Second event eliminates another large portion. The final event is a tournament bracket with the remaining students."
The screen showed the structure: First Event → 42 students participate → approximately 20-25 advance. Second Event → approximately 8-16 advance to tournament. Tournament → elimination matches until a champion emerges.
"Your individual training sessions this week will include mental conditioning," Aizawa continued. "Pressure simulations, decision-making under stress, maintaining technique efficiency when exhausted. The Festival tests more than your quirk—it tests your composure under national scrutiny."
Kaminari raised his hand nervously. "How many pro heroes actually watch this thing?"
"All of them," Aizawa said bluntly. "Every major agency has scouts present. Every hero who might take interns is watching. Your performance doesn't just determine your academic standing—it determines your career trajectory for the next several years." He paused, letting that sink in. "No pressure."
The classroom was dead silent. Even Bakugou looked focused rather than aggressive.
"Questions?" Aizawa asked.
Momo raised her hand. "Will we have any rest days this week, or is training continuous through the Festival?"
"Two rest days. Wednesday and Saturday. Mandatory. If I catch anyone training on rest days, you're benched from the first event as a safety precaution. Your bodies need recovery time, and overtraining is counterproductive." Aizawa's expression made clear this wasn't negotiable. "Use those days to actually rest. Sleep, eat well, spend time with family. Mental recovery is as important as physical."
"What about strategies?" Iida asked, his hand raised properly. "Are we allowed to coordinate with classmates or is it expected to be individual performance?"
"The first event allows for any strategy you want. Coordination, alliances, solo performance—all valid. Second event typically has team elements. The tournament is individual matches." Aizawa crossed his arms. "My advice? Don't count on alliances holding when things get serious. Everyone's competing for the same limited spots."
Trust no one, the Voice observed. Exactly what we've been saying all along.
"That said," Aizawa continued, and something in his tone shifted slightly, "remember that heroes work together. The Festival tests individual capability, but the career that follows requires collaboration. Don't burn bridges just to advance one stage."
Interesting contradiction, the Voice noted. "Trust no one but don't make enemies." Basically: be strategic about relationships.
"Final thing," Aizawa said, and now his gaze did sweep across specific students—Izuku, Bakugou, Todoroki, and a few others. "Some of you have ace techniques. Secret weapons you've been holding back. The Sports Festival is where you use them. Don't save anything for later—give everything in the moment. But also remember that once you reveal a technique on national television, it's no longer secret. Every pro hero, every future opponent, will know your capabilities."
The double-edged sword of the Festival. Reveal your full power to advance and impress scouts, but lose the advantage of surprise for everything that follows.
Worth it, the Voice said immediately. The internship opportunities from strong performance outweigh the lost surprise factor. We reveal everything if it means winning.
"Training schedules are updated and posted," Aizawa said, returning to his teacher's desk. "Check them during break. First individual sessions start this afternoon. Until then, we have Hero Law to cover. Turn to page eighty-three."
The class shifted into academic mode, but the underlying tension remained. Seven days. One week to prepare for the biggest event of their first year.
As Present Mic's English class began after Hero Law, Izuku pulled out his phone under his desk and checked the updated training schedule.
Midoriya Izuku - Final Week Training Schedule
Monday: Individual session with Aizawa, 2:30-4:00 PM (Mental conditioning & pressure simulation)
Tuesday: Individual session with Aizawa, 2:30-4:00 PM (Endurance optimization & technique consistency)
Wednesday: MANDATORY REST DAY
Thursday: Individual session with Aizawa, 2:30-4:00 PM (Decision-making under exhaustion & recovery techniques)
Friday: Mock combat scenarios with random class pairings, 2:00-4:00 PM (Supervised by All Might & Aizawa)
Saturday: MANDATORY REST DAY
Sunday: Final individual session with Aizawa, 10:00 AM-12:00 PM (Mental preparation & strategy review)
Monday: Sports Festival begins, 9:00 AM
Seven more training sessions. Two mandatory rest days. Final preparations before everything changed.
Izuku felt his heart rate increase slightly—not from anxiety, but from anticipation. Eleven days of intensive refinement had brought him to this point. Everything he'd developed, everything he'd become, would be tested in front of the entire nation.
Two ranged techniques. One transformation ability. A complete fighting style built on distance control and defensive superiority.
And somewhere beneath it all, a Voice that had become as much partner as passenger, pushing him toward victory with cold pragmatism tempered by reluctant acknowledgment that being human still mattered.
Seven days.
Time to show everyone what a kid from the slums could do when given a chance.
Time to prove that Izuku Midoriya belonged at UA—not despite where he came from, but because of what he'd become.
The metamorphosis was nearly complete.
Soon, the world would see the butterfly emerge from the chrysalis.
And they would learn that butterflies, when necessary, could have very sharp edges
The cafeteria was buzzing with energy that Monday lunch period. Every table seemed to be having the same conversation—Sports Festival predictions, strategy discussions, nervous speculation about what the first event might be. Izuku grabbed his lunch tray—katsu curry today, his mother had packed extra rice this morning—and headed toward their usual table.
Mina waved him over enthusiastically, her pink skin practically glowing with excitement. "Midoriya! Over here! We saved you a spot!"
The table had grown over the past week and a half. What started as just him, Uraraka, Iida, and Tsuyu had gradually expanded to include Mina (who'd basically forced her way in with pure enthusiasm), Kirishima (who'd tagged along with Mina one day and stuck around), and Momo (who'd joined after a class representative discussion with Iida turned into a lunch invitation).
Seven people crammed around a table meant for six, but somehow it worked.
"Thanks," Izuku said, sliding into the seat between Mina and Kirishima. He set down his tray and immediately felt the table's nervous energy.
"Okay, so," Mina started before Izuku had even picked up his chopsticks, "seven days. ONE WEEK. I'm like, fifty percent excited and fifty percent terrified and I can't tell which feeling is winning."
"Terrified is winning," Tsuyu said bluntly, her finger on her chin. "You've been vibrating since homeroom, ribbit."
"I am NOT vibrating!"
"You literally are though," Kirishima said with a grin, gesturing to where Mina's leg was indeed bouncing rapidly under the table. "I can feel the table shaking, dude."
Mina looked down at her leg like it had betrayed her, then deliberately planted her foot flat on the floor. "Okay fine, maybe I'm a little nervous. But like, this is HUGE! The whole country is going to be watching! Pro heroes! Scouts! My parents are taking off work to come watch in person!" Her hands moved animatically as she talked. "What if I mess up? What if I freeze? What if my acid control fails because of nerves and I accidentally melt the arena?"
"You're not going to melt the arena," Tsuyu said reassuringly from across the table. "We've all been training so hard. We're ready for this, ribbit."
"Are we though?" Uraraka's voice cracked slightly on the question, her hands fidgeting with her chopsticks. "I mean, I feel ready, but also like... what if I'm not? What if everyone else has been training harder? What if my quirk isn't versatile enough for whatever the first event is?"
"Your quirk is incredibly versatile," Momo said with her characteristic grace, though Izuku noticed she was gripping her chopsticks a bit tighter than necessary. "Gravity manipulation has applications in nearly every scenario. You'll be fine."
"What about you, Yaomomo?" Mina asked, leaning forward. "You nervous?"
"Terrified," Momo admitted quietly, and somehow her honest vulnerability made everyone relax slightly. "My family has... expectations. My mother was a successful hero before she retired to run the company. My father keeps asking about my training progress, my strategy, my chances of placing highly." She set down her chopsticks carefully. "I'm trying to view it as positive pressure, but honestly? I'm scared I'll disappoint them. Disappoint myself. Disappoint our class."
"You won't," Iida said firmly, his hand already starting its characteristic chopping motion. "You are an exemplary student with exceptional quirk control and strategic thinking! Any disappointment would be illogical!"
"Iida's right," Kirishima added, pumping his fist. "You're super smart and creative! That Creation quirk is crazy versatile! You've got this!"
Momo smiled slightly, though the worry didn't entirely leave her eyes. "Thank you. Both of you."
"What about you, Iida?" Tsuyu asked. "You seem calm, ribbit."
"I am... managing my anxiety," Iida said carefully, his hand-chopping slowing. "My brother Tensei—Ingenium—has advised me to channel nervous energy into productive preparation rather than spiraling into worry. However, I would be dishonest if I claimed I wasn't feeling pressure. This is my opportunity to honor the Iida family legacy and prove myself worthy of eventually inheriting the Ingenium name."
"That's a lot," Kirishima said sympathetically. "Following in famous family footsteps sounds super manly but also super stressful."
"It is both," Iida acknowledged. "But I am determined to perform to the best of my abilities regardless of outcome. That is all anyone can reasonably expect."
"I'm mostly just excited," Kirishima said, his sharp-toothed grin wide and genuine. "Like yeah, I'm nervous, but this is what we've been training for! Getting to show off what we can do in front of everyone! Testing ourselves against classmates we've been watching improve all year! That's so manly!" He clenched his fist enthusiastically. "Plus, my parents are going to record everything and show it to like, all our relatives. My mom's already planning a watch party. It's embarrassing but also kinda awesome?"
"Your family sounds really supportive," Uraraka said wistfully. "My parents are coming too, but they had to close the business for the day to do it. I keep thinking about how much money they're losing just to watch me compete."
"They're coming because they're proud of you, ribbit," Tsuyu pointed out practically. "Not because they expect anything specific. That's different from pressure."
"I guess," Uraraka said, though she still looked uncertain. "I just really want to do well. For them, you know? They've sacrificed so much to support my hero dreams."
The table fell quiet for a moment, everyone processing their own versions of that same pressure. Expectations from family, from teachers, from themselves. The weight of opportunity and the fear of wasting it.
"What about you, Tsu?" Mina asked, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "You're always so calm. Are you nervous at all?"
"Of course I'm nervous, ribbit," Tsuyu said matter-of-factly. "But nervousness is just the body's preparation response. Increased heart rate, heightened awareness, energy mobilization. It's useful if you channel it correctly." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I'm excited too. The Sports Festival is a rare opportunity to test myself against peers with completely different quirks and fighting styles. That's valuable experience regardless of how well I place."
"That's such a healthy perspective," Momo said admiringly. "I should try to think about it that way."
"Easier said than done though," Mina admitted. "Like, I KNOW it's supposed to be a learning experience, but my brain keeps going 'what if you embarrass yourself on national television' on repeat."
"Mood," Uraraka agreed immediately. "That's exactly what my brain does."
"Same," Kirishima added. "Except mine adds 'what if your hardening breaks and you lose immediately' just for extra fun."
Everyone turned to look at Izuku, who'd been quietly eating his curry while the conversation flowed around him. He looked up to find six pairs of eyes watching him expectantly.
"What?" he asked, a piece of katsu halfway to his mouth.
"You've been super quiet," Mina observed, nudging him with her elbow. "Come on, spill. How are YOU feeling about the Festival? Nervous? Excited? Existentially terrified?"
Izuku set down his chopsticks carefully, considering the question. How was he feeling? It was complicated. Layers of emotion he wasn't sure how to articulate.
They're being vulnerable, the Voice noted. Sharing genuine fears and pressures. This is a trust-building moment. Participate authentically or risk further isolation.
"Honestly?" Izuku said slowly. "I'm... all of it. Excited, nervous, terrified. Determined. Maybe a little obsessed."
"A little?" Mina said with a knowing look. "Dude, you've been training like the Festival is life or death."
"It kind of is," Izuku said quietly. "For me, at least. My family—" He paused, trying to find the right words. "I'm the only one with a strong enough quirk to make it as a hero. They're all working regular jobs, struggling in the slums. I'm here because I got lucky with genetic combination. So the Sports Festival? It's not just about me doing well. It's about proving their support wasn't wasted. About opening doors that could help all of us eventually."
The table had gone very quiet. Even Mina had stopped bouncing.
"That's a lot of pressure," Uraraka said softly, and there was understanding in her voice. She got it—the weight of family expectations born from economic necessity, not just pride.
"It is," Izuku acknowledged. "But it's also motivating. I know exactly what I'm fighting for. That makes the nervousness easier to channel into preparation."
"Is that why you've been so..." Iida paused, clearly choosing his words carefully, "...intensely focused lately?"
"Probably," Izuku admitted. "I know I've been kind of closed off. The training, the pressure, trying to optimize everything—it's been consuming. Sorry if that's made things weird."
"You don't have to apologize," Kirishima said firmly. "Everyone deals with pressure differently, man. That's totally valid."
"Though maybe after the Festival, you could like, decompress a little?" Mina suggested with a gentle smile. "We could do another arcade day. Or karaoke! I bet you're secretly amazing at karaoke."
"I'm definitely not," Izuku said, but he felt himself smile slightly. "But that sounds good. After the Festival."
"It's a date! I mean, not a DATE date, just like a friend date. A group hang. You know what I mean." Mina's face had turned slightly pink, and she quickly shoved rice into her mouth to stop talking.
Tsuyu's expression suggested she found this amusing but chose not to comment.
"What's your goal?" Momo asked Izuku directly. "For the Festival, I mean. Top eight? Top three? Are you aiming to win the whole thing?"
The question hung in the air. Everyone else at the table had implicitly acknowledged they'd be happy just to make it to the tournament bracket. But Izuku...
Be honest, the Voice said. They asked directly. And your answer will tell them whether to see you as a peer or as competition.
"I'm aiming to win," Izuku said simply. "Not because I think I'm better than everyone else. But because that's what I need to do. For my family. For my future. I can't afford to aim for anything less."
No one seemed offended by the blunt answer. If anything, there was respect in their expressions. Acknowledgment that at least Izuku was being honest about his intentions.
"That's super manly," Kirishima said, nodding approvingly. "I respect the ambition. Makes me want to train even harder so if we face each other, it's a good match."
"I'm aiming for top eight," Momo said thoughtfully. "Anything beyond that would be exceeding my realistic expectations, but top eight would be a strong showing."
"I'd be happy making it to the tournament," Uraraka admitted. "Like, winning would be amazing, but just getting far enough that scouts notice me? That would be huge for internship opportunities."
"Same," Mina agreed. "Though honestly, at this point I'd settle for not embarrassing myself in the first event."
"You won't embarrass yourself," Tsuyu said with certainty. "None of us will. We've all improved significantly since the entrance exam. We're ready for this, ribbit."
"You really think so?" Uraraka asked hopefully.
"I know so. We're Class 1-A. We faced actual villains at the USJ and survived. A sports competition should be manageable by comparison."
"She's got a point," Kirishima said. "We literally fought for our lives already. This is just... organized fighting with rules and medical staff on standby. Way less terrifying when you think about it that way."
"That's actually really helpful perspective," Momo said, looking slightly less anxious. "Thank you, Tsuyu."
"You're welcome, ribbit."
The conversation shifted to lighter topics—speculation about what the first event might be (obstacle course? Race? Team battle?), discussion of previous Sports Festivals they'd watched, debate about whether the tournament brackets would be randomly assigned or seeded by first event performance.
Izuku participated in the conversation, offering observations and opinions, letting himself be pulled into the group dynamic. Mina kept the energy high, making jokes and encouraging everyone. Kirishima's enthusiasm was infectious. Iida's earnest hand-chopping added punctuation to important points. Momo's thoughtful contributions grounded the wilder speculation. Tsuyu's blunt observations cut through anxiety spirals. Uraraka's genuine warmth made everyone feel valued.
It was... nice. Being part of something. Not just an individual preparing for competition, but a member of a group supporting each other despite knowing they'd eventually face each other as opponents.
This is strategic, the Voice noted, but without its usual cynicism. Building positive relationships with potential allies for the team events. Maintaining social bonds that will serve you well regardless of Festival outcomes. But also—this is just friendship. And that has value too.
"Okay, real talk," Mina said as lunch period started winding down. "Show of hands—who's actually sleeping well this week?"
No hands went up.
"That's what I thought," Mina said with a laugh. "We're all disasters. But we're disasters together, so that's something."
"Disasters together," Kirishima repeated, raising his juice box like a toast. "I like that. Class 1-A solidarity!"
Everyone raised their drinks—juice boxes, water bottles, tea containers—in a impromptu toast to shared anxiety and mutual support.
"To the Sports Festival," Iida said formally, somehow making a juice box toast seem dignified. "May we all perform to the best of our abilities and emerge with valuable experience regardless of outcome!"
"And may we not completely embarrass ourselves on national television!" Mina added.
"To not embarrassing ourselves!" everyone chorused, clinking their drinks together.
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch period. Students began gathering their trays and heading back toward classrooms. The nervous energy from earlier had transformed into something more positive—still anxious, but tempered with camaraderie and mutual encouragement.
As Izuku stood up with his tray, Mina grabbed his arm briefly. "Hey. You're going to do amazing, okay? I know you're carrying a lot, but you've trained harder than anyone I know. When the Festival comes, your family's going to be so proud regardless of what happens."
"Thanks, Mina," Izuku said, and meant it. "You're going to do great too."
"If I don't melt anything accidentally, I'll count it as a win," she said with a grin. Then, more seriously: "And remember—after the Festival, we're doing that group hang. You, me, everyone at this table. Decompress time is mandatory."
"Deal," Izuku agreed.
As they headed back toward the classroom, Izuku felt something settle in his chest. The pressure was still there—the weight of family expectations, the need to prove himself, the drive to win. But it felt slightly less isolating now. Slightly less like he was carrying it alone.
Seven days until the Sports Festival.
A table full of friends who were also competitors, but friends nonetheless.
Two techniques and a transformation ability refined to their peak.
And somewhere beneath all the preparation and strategy, a reminder that he was allowed to be fifteen. Allowed to have friends who cared. Allowed to be human while also being dangerous.
The balance Aizawa had talked about. The balance Mina had been showing him during their walks. The balance the Voice had reluctantly acknowledged mattered.
The walk to Gym Gamma felt different this time. Izuku had made this journey dozens of times over the past two weeks, but today carried extra weight. Final week training. Mental conditioning and pressure simulation. The last push before everything became real.
Aizawa was already waiting when Izuku arrived, but the gym setup had changed dramatically. Instead of the usual open arena with training dummies, the space had been reconfigured into something that looked almost like an obstacle course. Platforms at varying heights, narrow pathways, environmental hazards marked with caution tape.
"You're early again," Aizawa observed. "Good. We have a lot to cover today."
"Yes, sir." Izuku set his bag down and noticed something else unusual—several large screens had been set up around the perimeter of the space, currently showing static.
"Mental conditioning," Aizawa said, following Izuku's gaze. "The Sports Festival isn't just about physical capability. It's about performing under pressure—real pressure. Thousands of people in the stands, millions watching on television, pro heroes analyzing your every move. That environment breaks people who aren't prepared for it."
Izuku felt his stomach tighten slightly. He'd been so focused on technique refinement that he hadn't really thought about the psychological aspect. Fighting in front of the entire nation.
Don't show weakness, the Voice cautioned. He's testing your mental state right now.
"I've been thinking about that," Izuku said carefully. "The crowd, the scrutiny. It's... a lot."
"It is," Aizawa agreed, and there was something approving in his tone—like honesty was the right answer. "And students who pretend they're not affected by it are usually the ones who freeze up when it matters. Acknowledging the pressure is the first step to managing it."
He walked toward the center of the reconfigured space, gesturing for Izuku to follow. "Today's session has three components. First, we're going to simulate combat scenarios under increasing environmental pressure. Second, we'll work on decision-making when exhausted and stressed. Third—" he paused meaningfully, "—we're going to talk about what happens when plans fail."
"When plans fail?"
"Not if. When." Aizawa's expression was serious. "No strategy survives first contact with an opponent intact. The Sports Festival will throw situations at you that you haven't prepared for. Your ability to adapt in real-time, under pressure, while exhausted—that's what separates winners from runners-up."
Makes sense, the Voice observed. We've been preparing specific techniques, but we need mental flexibility too. Can't just rely on practiced responses.
"We'll start simple," Aizawa said, moving to a control panel near the screens. "Basic combat scenario. You versus environmental obstacles plus combat dummies. But—" the screens flickered to life, showing what looked like stadium footage with massive crowds, "—you're doing it with simulated crowd noise and visual distraction."
The speakers around the gym suddenly erupted with the roar of thousands of voices. Cheering, shouting, a wall of sound that made it hard to think. The screens showed crowds waving, signs, faces pressed close—the overwhelming reality of public performance.
"Begin!" Aizawa called over the noise.
Izuku stumbled slightly at the sensory assault, his concentration fragmenting. The training dummies activated immediately, moving toward him with programmed attack patterns. Environmental obstacles shifted—platforms tilting, pathways narrowing.
Focus, the Voice snapped. Block out the noise. It's not real.
But it felt real. The crowd sound was overwhelming, the visual chaos on the screens pulling his attention. Izuku formed sand constructs instinctively, defending against the dummies, but his movements were slower than usual. Less precise. His concentration divided between the actual threats and the simulated environment.
A dummy landed a hit—a padded strike to his shoulder that would've counted as a point in a real match.
"Stop!" Aizawa's voice cut through the noise. The crowd sounds muted immediately. "What happened?"
"I got distracted," Izuku admitted, frustrated with himself. "The noise, the screens—I couldn't focus properly."
"Exactly. And that's with training dummies using predictable patterns. Imagine doing this against Todoroki or Bakugou while the real crowd is screaming." Aizawa walked closer. "The sensory environment at the Sports Festival is designed to be overwhelming. It's part of the test. Heroes need to perform under any conditions, including chaotic ones."
"How do I block it out?"
"You don't," Aizawa said bluntly. "Trying to block it out just means you're constantly fighting distraction. Instead, you acknowledge it exists and then narrow your focus to what matters. Tunnel vision, but controlled." He tapped his temple. "The crowd isn't a threat. The screens aren't a threat. They're just noise. Your opponent is the threat. The environmental obstacles are threats. Everything else is irrelevant data."
"So I just... ignore everything except immediate dangers?"
"Essentially. It takes practice, but you can train your brain to filter information hierarchically. Threat assessment in real-time." Aizawa gestured back to the course. "Again. Same scenario. But this time, before you start, take five seconds. Close your eyes. Identify what matters and what doesn't."
Izuku moved back to the starting position. The crowd noise started up again—loud, chaotic, overwhelming. He closed his eyes like Aizawa instructed.
What matters? Izuku thought, breathing slowly.
The dummies. Their attack patterns. Environmental obstacles that affect mobility. Your quirk responses.
What doesn't matter? The crowd. The screens. The noise. None of that can hurt you.
"Begin!"
This time Izuku kept his eyes open but his focus narrowed. The crowd noise became background—present but not important. His attention locked onto the moving dummies, the shifting platforms, the actual combat scenario.
Sand flowed around him from his pouches, the golden-bronze grains shifting in a protective orbit like a living barrier. The first dummy rushed in from the left—Izuku didn't even turn his head. He simply extended his hand, and the orbiting sand compressed instantly into a long needle-thin construct in front of him.
The needle shot forward at blinding speed, piercing clean through the dummy's center mass with what seemed like zero effort. The construct dissipated the moment it passed through, the sand returning to orbit around Izuku like nothing had happened.
Two more dummies attacked simultaneously from different angles. Izuku's sand split into multiple streams, forming three more needle constructs mid-air. They launched in perfect synchronization, each finding its target with surgical precision. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Three dummies down, sand already reforming around him.
A dummy dropped from above—an aerial attack meant to catch him off-guard. Izuku transformed his upper body to sand for a fraction of a second, the dummy's strike passing through empty space. He reformed instantly, already creating another needle that shot upward, taking out the aerial attacker before it could recover.
The environmental obstacles shifted—platforms tilting, trying to throw off his balance. Izuku didn't fight it. He let himself flow with the movement, sand forming beneath his feet to stabilize each step. Another dummy charged. Another needle formed and fired. The golden projectile moved so fast it was barely visible, just a streak of bronze-gold light followed by impact.
His movements were economical, efficient. No wasted motion. The sand orbiting him served as both defense and ammunition, constantly cycling. Form needle, fire, return to orbit, repeat. Like breathing.
The final two dummies tried to coordinate, attacking from opposite sides in a pincer movement. Izuku created two needles simultaneously, one from each hand. They launched in perfect mirror formation, crossing paths mid-air and striking their targets with devastating accuracy.
No hits landed.
The scenario ended with Izuku standing in the center of the reconfigured space, surrounded by deactivated training dummies, his sand slowly settling back into a gentle orbit around him. His breathing was slightly elevated but controlled. The crowd noise still roared in the background, the screens still showed chaos—but none of it had mattered.
Only the threats mattered. And he'd eliminated every single one.
"Better," Aizawa said as the scenario ended. "Much better. You still hesitated twice—once when the crowd noise spiked, once when the screen showed a close-up face. But overall, significant improvement."
"It's harder than I expected," Izuku admitted, breathing slightly harder from the exertion and mental strain.
"It is. And we're going to keep doing it until the crowd noise becomes as meaningless as background traffic." Aizawa adjusted something on the control panel. "Next level. Same scenario, but now the dummies are faster and the environmental obstacles are randomized. You won't be able to predict patterns."
What followed was ninety minutes of progressively more challenging scenarios. Each time, the crowd noise grew louder, the visual distractions more chaotic, the combat situations more complex. Aizawa pushed Izuku to the edge of his concentration ability, then pushed further.
Multiple opponents while crowd noise fluctuated wildly. Environmental hazards that appeared without warning. Scenarios where the "correct" solution wasn't obvious and Izuku had to make split-second tactical decisions under pressure.
By the time Aizawa called for a break, Izuku was exhausted—not physically, but mentally. His head ached from sustained concentration under stress. His quirk control was still solid, but the mental effort required to maintain it while filtering environmental chaos had been draining.
"Drink," Aizawa said, tossing him a water bottle. "You did well. Better than most students on their first pressure simulation."
"It doesn't feel like I did well," Izuku said, gulping water. "I'm exhausted and we've barely started."
"That's the point. The Sports Festival will exhaust you mentally before it exhausts you physically. Students who haven't trained for that hit a wall in the second or third event and collapse despite having plenty of physical stamina left." Aizawa sat on a nearby platform, looking at Izuku with that analytical gaze. "Your quirk control stayed consistent even under pressure. That's good. Your tactical decisions were mostly sound. But your stress response is draining you faster than it should."
"How do I fix that?"
"Exposure and conditioning. The more you experience high-pressure scenarios, the less stressful they become. Your body learns that the crowd noise isn't an actual threat and stops treating it like one." Aizawa paused. "We'll do this drill twice more this week. By Sunday, you should be able to maintain full performance in that environment without the mental fatigue you're feeling now."
Izuku nodded, still catching his breath. His head was pounding, but he understood the necessity. Better to experience this now, in training, than freeze up at the actual Sports Festival.
"Phase two," Aizawa said after the break ended. "Decision-making under physical and mental exhaustion. This is where most students make critical mistakes—they get tired, stop thinking clearly, and default to whatever's familiar even if it's wrong for the situation."
He gestured to the course, which had been reconfigured again during the break. "I'm going to run you through continuous combat scenarios until you're physically exhausted. Then I'm going to present you with tactical problems that have non-obvious solutions. Your job is to make good decisions despite being tired and stressed."
"That sounds awful," Izuku said honestly.
"It is," Aizawa agreed with what might have been the ghost of a smile. "But the third event of the Sports Festival—the tournament—can last hours. You might fight three or four matches with minimal rest between them. Being able to think tactically when you're running on empty is crucial."
The next forty-five minutes were brutal. Aizawa ran Izuku through scenario after scenario with barely any rest between them. Sand manipulation, transformation, combat responses, tactical positioning—everything at maximum intensity until Izuku's muscles burned and his quirk felt like it was dragging.
Then, when Izuku was bent over trying to catch his breath, sweat dripping onto the gym floor, Aizawa started the tactical problems.
"You're in the tournament bracket," Aizawa said clinically. "You've just finished a hard-fought match against Bakugou. You won, but you used a lot of stamina doing it. Your next opponent is Todoroki, and you have ten minutes to recover. Do you use that time to rest, or do you use it to prepare a specific counter-strategy for his ice?"
Izuku's exhausted brain tried to process the question. Rest or strategize? Both seemed important. What was the right answer?
Think, the Voice urged. This is a test of priorities under stress. What matters more—physical recovery or tactical preparation?
"I... rest for five minutes, then spend five minutes on strategy?" Izuku said uncertainly.
"Wrong," Aizawa said bluntly. "You rest for all ten minutes. You can't out-strategize Todoroki in ten minutes—he's been developing counters to everyone's quirks all year. But you can recover enough stamina to execute your existing game plan effectively. Trying to do both means you accomplish neither."
Izuku felt frustration spike. That had seemed like a reasonable answer.
"Next scenario," Aizawa continued relentlessly. "You're in the second event. It's revealed to be a team exercise. You have thirty seconds to form a team. Do you choose friends you work well with, or do you choose classmates with quirks that complement yours tactically?"
"Tactical complement," Izuku said, more confident this time. "The event is judged on performance, not friendship."
"Also wrong," Aizawa said, and Izuku wanted to throw something. "Teams you've trained with perform better under pressure than thrown-together 'optimal' combinations. Trust and communication matter more than theoretical synergy. Most students make your mistake and form teams based on quirk analysis, then lose because they can't coordinate effectively."
This is intentionally frustrating, the Voice realized. He's testing how you handle being wrong repeatedly while exhausted. Don't let emotion cloud judgment.
"Next scenario—"
The tactical problems kept coming. Some of Izuku's answers were right, others wrong, and Aizawa never explained the reasoning until after Izuku had committed to a response. It was maddening. Exhausting. By the end, Izuku felt like his brain was full of static.
"Stop," Aizawa finally said. "That's enough."
Izuku collapsed onto a nearby bench, his whole body aching, his mind foggy with fatigue.
"You got about forty percent of the tactical problems correct," Aizawa said, reviewing something on his phone. "That's actually quite good for a first session. Most students are around twenty-five percent when exhausted."
"Felt like I was failing everything," Izuku muttered.
"That's the mental fatigue talking. Your actual decision-making held up reasonably well." Aizawa sat down near him, his expression more relaxed now that the active training had ended. "The point isn't to get everything right. The point is to keep thinking, keep analyzing, keep making decisions instead of just freezing up or defaulting to instinct."
"It's harder than fighting," Izuku said honestly.
"It is. Combat is straightforward—identify threat, neutralize threat. Tactical decision-making under pressure requires you to project outcomes, weigh options, accept incomplete information, and commit to choices knowing you might be wrong." Aizawa leaned back against the wall. "But you can train for it. Each session, you'll get better at maintaining cognitive function while exhausted."
They sat in silence for a moment, Izuku's breathing gradually slowing to normal.
"Phase three," Aizawa said eventually. "And this is just discussion, no more physical training today. You've earned the break."
"What happens when plans fail," Izuku said, remembering the earlier mention.
"Exactly." Aizawa's expression became serious. "You've developed two primary techniques—Erosion Beam and Cyclone Sphere—plus transformation applications, suited with your impressive creativity when it comes to making constructs out of your sand. That's a solid foundation. But what happens if you face an opponent your techniques don't work well against?"
Izuku considered the question. "I adapt? Use transformation more?"
"Specifically how?" Aizawa pressed. "Let's take a concrete example. You're facing someone with a speed-based quirk who's faster than your beam tracking. Cyclone Spheres are too slow to catch them. What do you do?"
"Transform and reposition to more defensible terrain?"
"Terrain in the Sports Festival arena is limited and controlled. Try again."
Izuku's tired brain struggled with the problem. Someone faster than his ranged attacks, transformation not enough. What was the solution?
"I... use area denial?" Izuku tried. "Multiple Cyclone Spheres to limit their movement options, then Erosion Beam to control the narrowed space?"
Aizawa nodded slowly. "Better. That's tactical adaptation—using your existing tools in combination to create new solutions. That's what you need to develop this week. Not new techniques, but new applications of existing ones."
He pulled up his phone, showing Izuku what looked like match-up notes. "I want you to think through every classmate you might face. Write down how your techniques match up against their quirks. Identify your disadvantageous match-ups. Then develop specific strategies for each one."
"That's a lot of analysis," Izuku said, though his hero notebooks already had most of this information.
"It is. But the alternative is getting blindsided by an opponent you haven't considered and losing because you couldn't adapt fast enough." Aizawa stood up, clearly signaling the session was ending. "You have experience with analysis—I've seen your notebooks. Use that skill. Turn it into practical tactical preparation."
Izuku nodded, already mentally cataloging classmates and quirks. Bakugou—explosion user, aggressive close combat. Todoroki—ice control, overwhelming area control. Tokoyami—Dark Shadow, sentient quirk with light weakness. Iida—speed-based, linear attacks. Each one a different puzzle requiring different solutions.
"One last thing," Aizawa said as Izuku gathered his things. "You did well today. The mental conditioning is hard—harder than physical training for most people. But you pushed through without complaining or making excuses. That's good."
Coming from Aizawa, that was high praise.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet. Tuesday's session is going to be worse." Aizawa's expression might have been amused. "Endurance optimization means we're going to find your absolute limits and then push past them. Bring extra water."
"Wonderful," Izuku muttered, but there was no real complaint in his tone.
As he left Gym Gamma, the evening sun casting long shadows across UA's campus, Izuku felt the weight of the day settling on him. Mental conditioning, decision-making under exhaustion, tactical adaptation—layers of preparation beyond just technique refinement.
Seven days suddenly felt like very little time.
That was intense, the Voice observed as Izuku walked toward the station. But necessary. We needed to understand those pressure points before experiencing them at the actual Festival.
"Yeah," Izuku agreed quietly. "I just hope a week is enough to improve."
It will be. We've improved more in two weeks than most people do in months. We'll be ready.
The walk to the station felt longer than usual, Izuku's body tired and his mind still processing everything from the session. But as he approached the platform, he saw a familiar figure waiting—pink skin, enthusiastic energy, a smile that somehow made exhaustion feel less heavy.
"Midoriya!" Mina waved excitedly. "How was training? You look wiped out!"
"I am wiped out," Izuku admitted, returning her smile despite his fatigue. "Aizawa's mental conditioning is no joke."
"Ugh, I had Midnight doing flexibility torture disguised as 'stress response training.' I can barely move." She fell into step beside him as they headed toward the platform. "But hey, only six more days of this intensity, right? Then we actually get to do the thing we've been preparing for."
"Six more days," Izuku repeated, the timeline feeling both too short and impossibly long.
"Hey," Mina said, her tone shifting to something more serious. "You okay? Like, really okay? Because you look exhausted in a way that's not just physical."
Izuku considered deflecting, giving the automatic "I'm fine" response. But Mina had earned more honesty than that.
"I'm tired," he admitted quietly. "Physically, mentally, emotionally. The pressure, the training, trying to be ready for everything—it's a lot. But I'm managing."
"You're allowed to not be okay, you know," Mina said gently. "You're allowed to be overwhelmed. That doesn't make you weak or unprepared. It makes you human."
There was that word again. Human. The reminder that being strong and being vulnerable weren't mutually exclusive.
"Thanks," Izuku said, meaning it. "That helps."
The train arrived, and they boarded together, finding seats near the window. For the next fifteen minutes, Mina talked about nothing important—a funny video her dad showed her, a debate about the best instant ramen flavors, speculation about whether Aizawa ever actually slept or just existed in a perpetual state of exhausted vigilance.
Normal conversation. Easy laughter. The mental reset Izuku needed after ninety minutes of intense pressure simulation.
When Mina's stop came, she stood up and gave him a bright smile. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Definitely," Izuku said.
"Good. And remember—you're going to be amazing at the Festival. But even if things don't go perfectly, you're still amazing. Those things aren't connected."
Then she was gone, leaving Izuku with that thought as the train continued toward Shigaraki District.