CHAPTER 20: The Forge of Innovation
The silence of the mountain night was absolute, a heavy shroud that seemed to press against the paper-thin walls of the dojo. Inside, the only sound was the rhythmic crackle of the hearth, where embers of cedar and pine pulsed like a dying heart. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the tatami, his body draped in a simple, heavy-knit yukata. His skin was pale, mapped with the faint, stinging red lines of cellular exhaustion. Every muscle in his body felt as though it had been threaded with lead, a lingering tax from his first successful attempt at bio-generation.
Across from him sat Thomas Itadori. The uncle didn't look like a hero, nor did he look like a mentor. He looked like a man who had spent his life standing in the rain, waiting for a storm that never ended. He held a bottle of sake in one hand, but he hadn't poured a drop. His eyes, sharp and predatory even in the dim light, were fixed on the small, ragged scrap of paper Sherlock had sweated out earlier that day.
"You're obsessed with the 'math' of paper, Sherlock," Thomas said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that broke the stillness. "You treat it like a static material you buy from a catalog. You think because it comes in a box, its properties are fixed. But in the hands of a master, paper isn't just wood pulp and glue. It's a medium for intent. Your mother didn't lose because paper is weak; she lost because she ran out of time to make it strong enough."
Sherlock looked up, his emerald eyes reflecting the orange flicker of the hearth. "Physics dictates the breaking point of cellulose, Uncle. I've run the simulations. Under high-thermal output or high-frequency vibration, the molecular bonds fail. It's not a lack of 'intent'; it's a matter of structural reality."
"Reality is a set of rules for people who can't change the variables," Thomas countered, his lip curling into a faint, challenging smirk. He picked up a standard training card from the floor and flicked it between his fingers. As he did, the air around the card began to hum. To Sherlock's analytical sight, he could see the friction coefficients of the card's surface shifting wildly under Thomas's touch. "As you train, as your focus sharpens, you can compress those fibers. You can make paper denser than steel and sharper than a diamond. You can tell the molecules to hold, and they will hold."
Thomas leaned forward, the firelight catching the jagged scar on his jaw. "But there is one variable you will never solve with focus alone. One chemical enemy that doesn't care about your 'intent.' Oil."
Sherlock blinked, his mind immediately cataloging the chemical interaction. "Oil... because it's a high-viscosity hydrocarbon. It saturates the porous fibers instantly."
"Exactly," Thomas said. "It's the silent killer of our lineage. Fire, water, electricity—those are just energies. You can learn to ground them. You can learn to deflect them. But oil? It doesn't just damage the paper; it transforms it. it breaks the molecular bond of your glaze on contact. If a villain catches you with oil, your 'Magician' act ends in a puddle of mush. Remember that, Sherlock. Train to make your paper a fortress against the elements, but for oil... you must learn to not be there."
I. THE GENIUS AT WORK: CODING THE IMMUNITY
The air in the dojo was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of Sherlock's sweat. He stood in the center of the training floor, his breathing rhythmic and shallow, his eyes closed as he entered a state of deep "Virtual Calculation." To any observer, he was simply a boy standing still, but within the theater of his mind, Sherlock was rewriting the biological code of his own Quirk.
Focus on the synthesis, Sherlock commanded himself. Don't just emit. Engineer.
The problem with his previous paper was its porosity. Standard cellulose fibers are loosely woven, leaving "gaps" that allow thermal energy to vibrate the molecules (fire) or permit ions to flow freely through the moisture (electricity). To achieve Elemental Immunity, Sherlock realized he had to treat the generation process like a 3D printing operation at the molecular level.
● The Fire and Electricity Solution: Internal Grouting
As the sweat began to bead on his skin, Sherlock triggered the Molecular Glaze—his father's genetic contribution—not as a surface coating, but as an internal bonding agent. He visualized the cellulose fibers emerging from his pores and immediately "grouting" the gaps with the high-density glaze.
Thermal Resistance: By eliminating the air pockets between fibers, Sherlock created a solid, non-combustible shield. The heat from a flame would no longer find oxygen within the paper to feed a fire; instead, the thermal energy would be forced to travel along the surface of the glaze, which Sherlock calculated to have a dissipation rate high enough to withstand Todoroki's mid-range blasts.
Electrical Grounding: By infusing the glaze internally, Sherlock turned the paper into a perfect insulator. The glaze acted as a dielectric barrier, preventing the flow of electrons.
"It's not just paper anymore," Sherlock whispered, his brow furrowing with the effort. "It's a biological ceramic."
● The Water Solution: The Lotus Effect
Water was a simpler variable, but no less dangerous. In the past, humidity would soften the "glue" of his cards, turning them into mush. Sherlock adjusted the surface tension of the bio-paper as it solidified, creating a microscopic, jagged texture known in botany as the Lotus Effect.
If the surface is hydrophobic at a nanoscopic level, he reasoned, the water molecules cannot gain a foothold. They will bead and roll off before they can saturate the core.
● The Oil Problem: The Unsolvable Variable
However, as Sherlock ran the final simulation, he hit the wall his uncle had warned him about. Oil. Unlike water, oil is a non-polar solvent. It doesn't care about surface tension or hydrophobic textures. Because the "Molecular Glaze" itself was a polymer derivative, it was chemically vulnerable to being dissolved by high-viscosity hydrocarbons. In his mind's eye, Sherlock saw the beautiful, engineered lattice of his paper simply... melting.
The math is absolute, Sherlock thought, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his cheek. Oil bypasses the internal grout. It lubricates the fibers until the structural integrity hits zero. I cannot 'code' my way out of a chemical dissolution.
"Uncle," Sherlock said, opening his eyes, which were now bloodshot from the mental strain. "The immunity is holding for three out of four variables. I've cross-linked the glaze into the cellular walls of the fibers. It will ground a lightning bolt and laugh at a furnace. But the oil... the oil is a hard reset. If I'm hit with a petroleum-based attack, my medium will return to liquid pulp in seconds."
Thomas, watching from the shadows, nodded slowly. "seconds is a lifetime if you're fast, and a death sentence if you're stationary. You've built a fortress, Sherlock. But every fortress has a drain. Don't let the villains find yours."
Sherlock looked at the black-edged, glossy card he had just generated. It felt like cold steel, yet it was light as a feather. He had solved the fire that killed his mother, but the oil remained—a lingering reminder that even a "Magician" has to watch his step.
Thomas's warning acted like a catalyst in Sherlock's brain. While most would have felt discouraged, Sherlock's mind began to render complex chemical equations. He wasn't just listening; he was "coding."
If oil is the absolute variable, Sherlock thought, then I must make every other variable irrelevant. If I can't solve for the liquid, I will solve for the fire that took her.
"Uncle," Sherlock said, his voice dropping into that cold, detached tone that signaled his analytical shift. "If I can't solve oil, then I will make the rest of the world's physics bend. You said I can compress the fibers. If I trigger the Molecular Glaze internally—at the moment the sweat leaves my pores—I can create a non-conductive, thermal-resistant lattice. I won't just be 'reinforcing' paper. I'll be creating a new material entirely."
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "You're talking about Elemental Immunity. Most veterans spend twenty years trying to reach that level of quirk control. You think you can calculate your way there in a week?"
"I don't need twenty years," Sherlock replied, his emerald eyes glowing. "I just need the right amount of pressure."
"Careful what you wish for, kid," Thomas grunted, finally taking a sip of the sake. "Because the pressure I'm about to apply doesn't just build heroes. It breaks them."
● II. THE SHADOWS OF THE COMMISSION: THE CLEANER'S TALE
The fire began to dwindle, the orange glow fading into a deep, bloody red. Thomas set the bottle down and looked at the ceiling, his expression shifting from a mentor's challenge to a survivor's grief.
"Your father told you I was a ghost," Thomas began. "A man who vanished because he couldn't handle the 'Sheets' family drama. He lied to protect you. I didn't vanish. I was a Cleaner for the Hero Public Safety Commission."
Sherlock went still. He knew of the HPSC, of course—they were the governing body of all heroics. But the term "Cleaner" carried a weight that didn't fit into the colorful world of UA.
"I was their shadow," Thomas continued. "My Quirk, Friction Mastery, was the perfect tool for political hygiene. When a Top 10 hero lost their temper and leveled a city block they were supposed to save, I was the one sent in to 'rearrange' the evidence. I'd make the structural failures look like the villain's fault. I'd make the bodies disappear into the friction-heat. I was a puppet, Sherlock. I thought I was protecting the 'Symbol of Peace' by hiding the dirt. I thought I was keeping the lie alive for the sake of the people."
Thomas gripped his knees so hard his knuckles turned white. "But your mother... Mayuri... she was different. She wasn't just the 'Pulp Princess' to the public; she was the conscience of our family. She found the ledgers I was trying to hide. She realized the Commission wasn't just 'policing' heroes; they were 'curating' a narrative. They were protecting the 'Brand' of heroics, even if it meanstepping on the people they were supposed to save."
"Is that why she died?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"She tried to go to the press," Thomas rasped. "She had names. Dates. Evidence of 'Correction' programs that were nothing more than state-sanctioned hits. The Commission couldn't arrest her; she was too popular. So they leaked her patrol route to a group of elemental villains they had 'on ice' for such occasions. They knew her limits. They knew the rain would dampen her paper, and the fire would do the rest."
Thomas looked at Sherlock, his eyes raw with a decade-old guilt. "They sent me to 'intercept' her, but they gave me the wrong coordinates on purpose. I was a mile away, fighting a phantom distraction, while my sister was being hunted. By the time I arrived... the fire had already won. The rain was washing her ashes into the gutter."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Sherlock felt a cold, sharp clarity wash over him. The world wasn't a hero-vs-villain comic book. It was a complex, corrupt machine, and he was a cog that had suddenly realized its own purpose.
"I quit that night," Thomas said. "I took a copy of the evidence and vanished. I told your father that if he kept you away from the spotlight—if he kept the Sheets legacy in the corporate world—the Commission might forget about you. But then you went to the Sports Festival. You showed them a brain like Arthur's and a power like Mayuri's. You've become a 'High-Value Asset,' Sherlock. And if the Commission can't buy you, they'll try to 'Clean' you."
III. THE BIRTH OF THE MAGICIAN'S ART: DAMAGE TRANSFER
The revelation didn't break Sherlock. It did the opposite. It removed the last shred of "laziness" from his soul. He stood up, his gaze fixing on his uncle with a terrifying, emerald intensity.
"Then I have to be more than just a asset," Sherlock said. "I have to be an Independent Variable. I have to be the one who audits the auditors."
"Then show me," Thomas challenged, standing up and dropping into a combat stance. "No more talk. If you want to survive the you have to survive me first!"
The dojo had transformed into a theater of calculated violence. Thomas moved with a terrifying, frictionless speed, his silhouette flickering across the tatami mats like a glitch in a video feed. To push Sherlock to the brink, Thomas had introduced "The Hail of Thorns"—several sharpened steel spikes he manipulated through micro-vibrations of friction, sending them whistling through the air at supersonic speeds.
The spar that followed was unlike anything Sherlock had experienced at UA. At school, there were rules. There were teachers to stop the fight if it got too dangerous. Here, there was only the mountain and the friction.
Thomas moved like a blur, his feet sliding across the tatami with zero resistance. He was behind Sherlock in a heartbeat, a friction-charged palm strike slamming into Sherlock's back. Sherlock went flying, crashing into the wooden pillars of the dojo.
"PRACTICE THE GENERATION!" Thomas roared. "SWEAT! BIND! DON'T REACH FOR YOUR BOXES!"
Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering. He focused on the moisture on his skin, forcing the biological fibers to knit together. He generated a shield of bio-paper, but Thomas's next strike—a friction-heated punch—shredded it instantly.
The fire... I have to solve the fire, Sherlock thought.
He closed his eyes for a micro-second, visualizing the internal glaze. He channeled his stamina into his sweat glands, not just making paper, but "coding" the immunity. As Thomas launched a friction-ignited kick toward Sherlock's ribs, Sherlock manifested a thick, glossy sheet of black-edged paper.
THUD.
The kick connected, but the paper didn't burn. It didn't even char. The friction-heat was grounded, dissipated through the molecular lattice Sherlock had engineered on the fly.
"That's it!" Thomas grinned, his eyes wide. "That's the Elemental Immunity! You're actually doing it!"
But the cost was immense. Sherlock's head felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. The mental fatigue of maintaining a molecular-level glaze while in combat was pushing him toward a blackout.
Sherlock's bio-paper shields were blooming into existence, the Elemental Immunity holding firm against the heat of the friction. But he was exhausted. His reaction time slipped by a fraction of a millisecond—a fatal error in a world of variables.
A steel spike, propelled by a sudden burst of high-velocity friction, bypassed Sherlock's guard. It tore through his yukata and bit deep into his chest, stopping just two centimeters from his heart. Sherlock collapsed, gasping, as the metallic tang of blood filled his throat.
"Stay down!" Thomas barked, his face pale with sudden regret. "That was too close. Hold the wound, Sherlock! I'm getting the medical kit."
Thomas vanished toward the back of the house to find the first-aid box. Sherlock lay on the floor, the world blurring. The pain was an absolute constant, a signal screaming through his nervous system that his life-support system had been breached.
Analyze... Sherlock's mind raced, even as his vision darkened. The pain is just data. A bio-electrical signal traveling from the nociceptors in my chest to the thalamus. If paper is an extension of my DNA... if my blood-ink is a bridge... why must the signal stay here?
He remembered a principle from his father's engineering files: Redundancy. In high-level architecture, if one node is failing, the load is shifted to a secondary, less critical node to prevent system collapse.
I am the architect, Sherlock realized, his hand trembling as it gripped a high-density bio-paper charm he had generated earlier. If I can bind my consciousness to the cellulose-DNA in this card, I can treat the card as a secondary node. I can redirect the 'data' of the trauma.
Sherlock closed his eyes, his emerald glow flaring with a desperate, white-hot intensity. He visualized his nervous system not as a fixed cage of bone and flesh, but as a circuit board. He forced the "current" of the agony away from his heart, down his shoulder, and into the paper held in his right hand.
"Damage Transfer," he whispered.
A sickening crack echoed through the empty dojo. The paper charm in Sherlock's right hand didn't just burn; it twisted into a blackened, gnarled mass. Simultaneously, a jagged, bloody laceration split open across Sherlock's right knuckles, and his fingers bruised a deep, mottled purple.
The agonizing pressure in his chest vanished instantly. He was still bleeding—the physical tear in the flesh remained—but the pain, the shock, and the lethal "data" of the strike had been relocated.
Thomas rushed back into the room, first-aid kit in hand, only to stop dead in his tracks. He saw Sherlock standing up, wiping blood from a shallow, painless wound on his chest, while his right hand hung limp and shattered at his side.
"What did you do?" Thomas breathed, his eyes wide with horror. "Your chest... I saw the spike hit. It should have sent you into cardiac shock. Why is your hand mangled instead?"
Sherlock looked down at his bruised fingers, a cold, analytical smile touching his lips. "I solved the variable, Uncle. I didn't heal the wound; I performed a Substitution. My chest is the primary system; my hand is the peripheral. I used the bio-paper as a bridge to move the 'trauma' to a less critical area."
Thomas stepped back, his voice a whisper. "You're shifting the laws of biology. How?"
"It has three absolute rules," Sherlock explained, his voice steady despite the mental fog. "First: Proximity. The paper must be infused with my blood-cellulose to act as a receiver. Second: Conservation. I cannot erase the damage; I can only move it. If the paper can't hold the 'data,' the body parts closest to the paper take the overflow. And third..." Sherlock swayed, his eyes clouding over. "Mental Tax. Redirecting reality is a high-order calculation. If I do this more than once in a short window, my brain will short-circuit from the feedback."
Thomas looked at the boy—this "Magician" who had just cheated death. "You didn't just learn a move, Sherlock. You've learned how to lie to the universe itself."