Day one of training began at five in the morning.
Arthur stood in his family's backyard, breath misting in the pre-dawn cold, Royal Core flooding his system with warmth. The energy inside him had grown denser since the USJ, more responsive, like a muscle remembering how it was supposed to work.
He manifested an energy blade, held it steady, analyzed its structure. Golden light, humming with power, stable for thirty seconds before requiring concentration to maintain. Not good enough.
In real combat, I can't afford concentration lapses. The blade needs to be instinctive, as natural as breathing.
He dismissed it, manifested another, faster this time. Held it. Dismissed. Again. Faster.
By the time the sun crested the horizon, he'd manifested and dismissed the blade three hundred times.
His mother found him there, sweating despite the cold.
"You've been out here for hours," she said, bringing tea. "The Sports Festival isn't for two weeks."
"Which means I have two weeks to improve." Arthur accepted the tea gratefully, letting its warmth ground him. "Everyone will be training. I need to train harder."
She sighed. "If you push yourself too hard, dear, it becomes self-destruction instead of growth."
"I know my limits."
"Do you? Because you came home from the hospital three days ago with cracked ribs and a fractured arm, and you're out here before sunrise pushing yourself like you're unbreakable."
Arthur set down the tea, met her gaze. "I heal fast. Royal Core accelerates recovery."
"Your body heals. Your mind needs time too." She touched his shoulder gently. "What happened at the USJ, that was real combat. Real violence. You're fifteen, Arthur. It's okay to be affected by it."
"I'm fine, Mom."
She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. "Just promise me you'll be careful. That you won't break yourself trying to be perfect."
"I promise."
After she left, Arthur resumed training, but her words lingered. Was he pushing too hard? Was he so focused on being strong enough, being ready, that he'd forgotten how to process what he'd survived?
No time for that, he decided. The League of Villains won't wait for me to work through trauma. They'll come back stronger, more prepared. I need to be ready.
Royal Core pulsed in agreement, hungry for growth.
School training was different. Less intense, more structured, focused on preparing the entire class rather than individual improvement.
All Might taught combat applications, his booming voice echoing across the training grounds as he demonstrated proper punch technique, force distribution, reading opponent movements.
"The Sports Festival isn't just about raw power!" he announced, his smile bright despite the exhaustion Arthur could see beneath it. "It's about showmanship, technique, strategy! The pros watching aren't just looking for strong quirks, they're looking for potential heroes!"
"But being strong helps, right?" Kirishima asked hopefully.
"Of course! But strength without control is just destruction! A hero needs to know when to go all out and when to hold back!"
Arthur watched All Might move, analyzing. The Symbol of Peace was still operating on a time limit, still burning through whatever power sustained his form. But he hid it well, projecting confidence and capability.
He's teaching us even while weakened, Arthur realized. Showing us that heroism isn't about being invincible, it's about inspiring others regardless of your own limitations.
"Himura!" All Might called out. "You and Young Bakugo, let's see a sparring match!"
The class went silent. Bakugo, who'd been quietly seething since the USJ, snapped to attention, crimson eyes locked on Arthur.
"About time," the blonde muttered.
They faced each other in the training ring, and Arthur felt the weight of everyone's attention. This wasn't just a sparring match. This was Bakugo trying to prove himself after being sidelined at the USJ, trying to erase the shame of losing to Midoriya during battle training.
"Rules are simple!" All Might announced. "Combat until one surrenders or I call it! No lethal force, no permanent damage! Remember, this is training!"
"Begin!"
Bakugo exploded forward. His fighting style was pure offense, overwhelming opponents through constant pressure.
Arthur sidestepped the first strike, reading the attack pattern. Bakugo's explosions were powerful but required specific hand positioning, created predictable trajectories.
He telegraphs every move, Arthur noted. Competent fighters could read him easily.
"Stand still!" Bakugo roared, firing explosion after explosion.
Arthur manifested his energy blade, used it to deflect rather than block, redirecting the force instead of absorbing it. Each of Bakugo's attacks was committed, leaving him momentarily vulnerable.
But Arthur didn't exploit those openings. Not yet. This was training.
He fights like a berserker, Arthur analyzed. Pure aggression and confidence. But there's skill underneath. His explosions aren't random, they're calculated, creating angles of attack.
"You're just dodging!" Bakugo snarled. "Fight back, you bastard!"
"If you insist."
Arthur moved forward, inside Bakugo's explosive range, and his blade tapped the blonde's chest, gentle but firm.
"Dead," Arthur said quietly.
Bakugo's face went crimson. "We're not done!"
"I know. That was the first touch. We're going to ten."
They reset, and Bakugo charged again, more careful this time, trying to account for Arthur's speed. But it didn't matter. Arthur's Instinct read every move.
Second touch. Third. Fourth.
By the seventh touch, Bakugo was breathing hard, sweat soaking through his costume, frustration radiating from every movement.
"Stop holding back!" he screamed. "Fight me seriously!"
Arthur paused, studied his classmate. Bakugo wasn't weak. Far from it. His quirk was powerful, his determination absolute. But he fought with pure emotion, let anger guide him instead of strategy.
"I am fighting seriously," Arthur said. "You're just fighting stupidly."
The class gasped. Even All Might looked surprised.
Bakugo went absolutely still, explosion smoke curling from his palms. "What did you say?"
"You're talented. Strong. But you fight like every problem can be solved by blowing it up harder. That works against weaklings. Against skilled opponents, it's suicide."
"Then show me!" Bakugo's voice was raw. "Show me what 'skilled' looks like!"
Arthur considered, then nodded. "All Might, permission to go harder?"
"Granted! But carefully, Young Himura!"
Arthur shifted his stance, manifesting twin blades, lightning crackling along their edges.
Then he attacked using precise movements that Bakugo's explosive mobility couldn't counter. Arthur was always a half-step ahead, blade tips finding gaps in defense, forcing Bakugo to defend instead of attack.
Touch eight. Touch nine.
For the tenth, Arthur swept Bakugo's legs, caught him mid-fall, and pressed the blade to his throat.
"Ten. Match."
He released Bakugo immediately, dismissing his blades. The blonde lay on the ground, chest heaving, staring at the sky.
"That's the difference," Arthur said, not unkindly. "Between fighting with emotion and fighting with purpose. You have the power, Bakugo. You just need to learn when to use it."
"Young Himura makes an excellent point!" All Might's voice boomed. "Power is nothing without control! Katsuki, you have incredible potential, but you must learn to think tactically!"
Bakugo didn't respond, just lay there, processing.
Arthur extended a hand. After a long moment, Bakugo took it, let Arthur pull him up.
"Sports Festival," Bakugo said quietly. "When we face each other there, I'll be ready."
"Good. I expect nothing less."
As they walked back to the class, Arthur felt multiple gazes on him. Respect from some, wariness from others. He'd just dominated the class's most aggressive fighter without breaking a sweat.
Lunch found Arthur on the roof again, his usual spot. This time, Midoriya joined him.
"That match with Kacchan," Midoriya started, using Bakugo's childhood nickname, "you really dissected his fighting style."
"He makes it easy. Telegraphs every move, fights predictably."
"But you didn't humiliate him. You could have ended it in three touches instead of ten."
Arthur looked at him, surprised. "You noticed."
"I notice everything. It's kind of my thing." Midoriya pulled out his notebook, flipped through pages of hero analysis. "You extended the match, let him attack multiple times, showed him his weaknesses gradually instead of immediately overwhelming him."
"He needed to understand why he was losing, not just that he lost."
"That's... actually really thoughtful." Midoriya studied him. "Most people would have just crushed him and moved on."
"Most people don't understand that humiliation breeds resentment, not growth." Arthur manifested a small energy blade, let it hover over his palm. "Bakugo has potential. He's strong, determined, and willing to push himself. But his pride is both his greatest strength and his worst weakness."
"You sound like you're talking from experience."
I am. "I've seen talented people destroy themselves because they couldn't handle failure. Couldn't accept that being strong doesn't mean being unbeatable."
Midoriya was quiet for a moment. "Can I ask for some advice about my quirk?, i keep hurting myself."
"Have you tried using less power?" Arthur asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Your quirk seems to operate at full output or nothing. But power should scale. If I can create a small blade or a large one, you should be able to use a fraction of your strength instead of going all out."
Midoriya blinked. "I... never thought about that. I always assumed it was all or nothing."
"Try it. Start with one percent. See if your body can handle sustained low output better than explosive high output."
"One percent," Midoriya repeated, like the concept was revolutionary. "That's genius! I could train output control, build up tolerance gradually instead of just shattering my bones repeatedly!"
"Exactly. Power without control is just self-destruction."
"You know," Midoriya said slowly, "you give really good advice for someone our age. It's like you've trained dozens of people before."
Hundreds, Arthur thought. Knights, squires, soldiers. Teaching was part of being king.
"I just think about things logically," he deflected.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, then Midoriya spoke again.
"At the Sports Festival, we're going to face each other eventually, aren't we?"
"Probably. Do you have a strategy?"
"Not really. Your quirk is so versatile, and you're such a skilled fighter. I don't know how to counter that."
"Then don't counter it. Play to your strengths instead. You have raw power that exceeds mine. The question is whether you can deliver it before I disable you."
"That's both helpful and terrifying."
Arthur smiled slightly. "Good. Fear makes you cautious. Caution keeps you alive."
The afternoon was personal training, no class structure. Arthur found an empty training room, sealed the door, and let Royal Core flow completely unconstrained.
He'd been holding back, afraid of pushing too hard too fast. But the Sports Festival was coming, and incremental progress wasn't enough.
He focused inward, feeling its structure. The energy wasn't just power; it was a repository of everything he'd been. Every skill, every ability, every lesson learned across his lifespan.
Excalibur Proto was still deeply dormant, locked behind growth he hadn't achieved. Charisma was stirring but not ready. Magic Resistance was passive, always active, but not yet at full strength.
Arthur manifested a blade, poured energy into it, then tried to wrap it in wind. To conceal it, compress it, make it invisible to perception.
The wind stirred, responded to his will, but didn't coalesce. Not quite right, missing something.
What am I missing? he demanded of Royal Core. What do I need to understand?
The answer came in impressions, not words. Invisible Air wasn't just wind manipulation. It was bounded field creation, reality warping, conceptual concealment. It required understanding not just how wind moved, but how perception worked, how to edit what others could sense.
It's not about hiding, Arthur realized. It's about existing in the space between seen and unseen. About being present but unnoticed.
He tried again, this time focusing not on the wind itself but on the space around the blade. Creating a boundary, a field that light and sound couldn't penetrate normally.
The air shimmered.
Progress, but not enough. The field lasted three seconds before collapsing.
Arthur spent two hours working on it, pushing, testing, failing. Each attempt brought him marginally closer, but it wasn't ready for practical use.
Soon, he promised himself. By the Sports Festival, I'll have it.
Royal Core hummed agreement, already working on the problem in ways his conscious mind couldn't fully process.
That evening, the class group chat exploded with activity.
Yaoyorozu: "I've been analyzing everyone's quirks and potential matchups. Would anyone like to discuss strategy?"
Kaminari: "that sounds like homework. I'm allergic to homework."
Jirou: "you're allergic to effort in general"
Kaminari: "exactly! consistency is key!"
Kirishima: "I'm down for strategy talk! we should be helping each other prep!"
Bakugo: "helping each other is for WEAKLINGS. I don't need help."
Ashido: "says the guy who just got schooled by Himura"
Bakugo: "I WILL MURDER YOU"
Iida: "Bakugo! Threats of violence are inappropriate! Though I must say, Young Himura's performance today was most impressive!"
Todoroki: "Himura. We need to talk about the festival."
Himura: "What about it?"
Todoroki: "Private message."
Arthur switched to the direct message, curious.
Todoroki: "You're the strongest in our class. Everyone knows it now."
Himura: "And?"
Todoroki: "And I need to beat you. To prove I can do it with ice alone."
Himura: "We've talked about this. Limiting yourself, "
Todoroki: "I know what I'm doing. Just be ready. When we face each other, I won't hold back."
Himura: "Good. Neither will I."
Arthur set his phone down, thinking. Todoroki was driven by something deep, something that had scarred him. The same way Arthur had been driven by destiny, by the weight of Excalibur, by the need to prove he was worthy of the crown.
We're all carrying something, he realized. Todoroki carries his father's shadow. Bakugo carries pride and insecurity. Midoriya carries the weight of being quirkless turned powerful. And I carry five hundred years of failure.
The question is whether we let what we carry define us or teach us.
He went to bed early, needing rest, but his dreams were troubled. Memories of Camlann mixed with images of the USJ, of the Nomu's dead eyes, of Shigaraki's manic scratching.]
He woke at five again, back in the yard, training before the sun rose.