Chapter 28: The Eve of the Festival
The final day before the Sports Festival was not a day of rest. For Rock Lee, it was the day of his final test. The dojo was quiet as the late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, illuminating a billion dancing dust motes in the still air. The atmosphere was not one of grueling training, but of solemn judgment.
Lee stood in the center of the floor, his breathing deep and even. His body, though honed to a razor's edge, was finally free from the constant, agonizing exhaustion that had plagued him for two weeks. He had pushed through the pain, and on the other side, he had found a new level of strength.
Sora Aokawa stood opposite him, her arms crossed, her expression as unreadable as ever. "Show me," she commanded, her voice the only sound.
Lee bowed, then moved. He opened the first two Gates with a thought, a controlled surge of energy that sharpened his senses without causing his muscles to tremble. He flowed through a complex kata, each movement a perfect blend of grace and power, his form a blur of disciplined green. He was no longer just containing the energy; he was directing it with flawless precision.
"The Third," Sora ordered.
Lee's breathing hitched for a second as he complied. "Gate of Life: Open." His skin flushed its familiar vibrant red, and a light steam began to rise from his shoulders. But this time, there was no explosive pressure. He channeled the incredible power into the same kata, but his movements became even faster, each strike landing with a sharp whoosh that cut through the air. He was a controlled storm, a tempest in a teacup. He finished the sequence and stood perfectly still, the immense power held in check by his iron will.
Sora gave a single, sharp nod. "Good. The vessel is strong." Her gaze hardened. "Now, the final proof. The Fourth Gate. Show me your mastery."
This was the true test. Lee closed his eyes, his mind diving deep within himself. He found the searing, agonizing memory of the USJ, the feeling of his body tearing itself apart. He did not push it away. He faced it. He accepted the pain as a part of his power, a price he was now willing and able to pay.
"THE FOURTH GATE: GATE OF PAIN! OPEN!"
The brilliant blue aura erupted from him, but it was different from the wild, uncontrolled inferno at the USJ. This aura was a steady, humming corona of azure light, clinging to his form like a second skin. It was still violent, still radiated an immense pressure that made the very floorboards creak, but it was contained.
The pain was still there, a chorus of a thousand screaming nerves, but it was no longer a debilitating agony. It was a familiar fire, and he had learned to walk within it.
"Begin," Sora commanded.
Lee moved. He launched into a combat kata far more complex than the last. It was a dance of devastating power and perfect balance. He spun, kicked, and struck, each movement imbued with the terrifying force of the Fourth Gate. His leg would lash out, creating a miniature sonic boom, but his standing foot would remain perfectly planted. His fist would punch forward, the air crackling around it, but his posture would remain unbroken. For thirty seconds, he moved like a god of combat, a whirlwind of blue and green, his face a mask of pure, unwavering concentration. Sweat flew from his brow, turning to steam the instant it entered his raging aura. His muscles trembled under the colossal strain, but they did not fail him.
"Close it," Sora's voice cut through his focus.
With a final, sharp exhalation, Lee released his will. The blue aura receded smoothly, flowing back into him like a tide returning to the sea. The red flush of the Third Gate faded. He dropped to one knee, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling violently from the strain. But his head was up. His eyes were clear. He was conscious. He had won.
Sora walked over and stood before him. She looked down at her kneeling student, at the steam rising from his body, at the fierce, triumphant light in his eyes. A slow, proud smile, one of the rarest and most precious things in Lee's world, graced her lips.
"Good," she said softly. "Your body is ready."
Later, as twilight settled over the city, they sat together on the dojo's wooden porch, a cool breeze offering a welcome reprieve. They shared a comfortable silence, watching the first stars begin to prick the deep purple sky.
"You have learned to hold the tiger by the tail, Lee," Sora said, her voice quiet and reflective. "But you must remember that it is still a tiger. The power you now wield is dangerous, and your control over it is still new and fragile. Do not become arrogant."
"I will not, Sensei," Lee promised.
"Tomorrow, at the festival, the world will see you," she continued, her gaze fixed on the horizon. "They will not understand what they are seeing. They will try to categorize you, to label your power as a Quirk. Let them. Your purpose is not to win or lose a single fight. It is to make a statement. Show them your spirit. Show them your discipline. Show them what a human body, pushed to its absolute peak by an unbreakable will, is truly capable of." She turned to look at him, her blue eyes shining in the dim light. "Make them question everything they think they know about power."
The atmosphere in the Lee household that evening was one of quiet, nervous anticipation. The scent of his mother's cooking—tonight, a rich pork katsudon—filled their small home with a comforting warmth. His father sat at the table, pretending to read the evening paper, but Lee noticed he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. His eyes kept flicking up to watch his son.
"You seem… calm," his father finally said, folding the paper and setting it aside. It was a massive understatement. Lee radiated a powerful, centered stillness that seemed to fill the room.
"I have prepared as best I can, Father," Lee replied, his voice even.
His mother placed a heaping bowl of food in front of him. Her hands were busy, but her eyes, like her husband's, rarely left her son. The frantic fear that had consumed her after the USJ had been replaced by a deep, powerful current of pride, though the worry still remained, a permanent shadow in her heart.
"Eat," she said softly. "You will need all of your strength tomorrow."
They ate in a comfortable silence. When the meal was over, his father stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. His grip was firm. "Do your best, son," he said, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. "We will be watching. We will be cheering for you."
His mother came forward and handed him a large, perfectly wrapped bento box for the next day. It was her way of saying everything she couldn't put into words: I love you. I am proud of you. Please, be safe.
Lee took the box and bowed deeply to them both. "Thank you," he said, his own voice catching slightly. "I will not disappoint you."
Later that night, Lee stood in his room, unable to sleep. The moon cast a pale, silver light across the floor, illuminating the posters that had been his constant companions since childhood. His gaze fell upon the largest one, the one directly opposite his bed: All Might, in his signature pose, his smile impossibly bright, his fist raised in triumph. Below the image were the words that had become the foundation of Lee's entire existence.
"You can become a hero!"
He walked over and traced the letters with his finger. For years, he had clung to those words as a desperate prayer, a shield against the whispers and the pity. He had repeated them to himself during the darkest hours of his training, when his body was broken and his spirit was on the verge of collapse.
Now, for the first time, he did not see them as a hope. He saw them as a promise on the verge of being fulfilled.
He looked at his own hands. They were steady. The calluses were thick, a testament to a million punches. The faint scars were a map of his pain. But tonight, they felt different. They felt like they held the weight of his entire journey—the doctor's sterile office, the quiet desperation in his parents' eyes, the discovery of the forgotten dojo, the unwavering faith of his master, the terror of the USJ, the respect in Todoroki's gaze, the quiet kindness of Midoriya's jacket.
He was no longer just the Quirkless boy trying to prove the world wrong. He was the product of every setback, every ounce of sweat, every tear, and every person who had, in their own way, believed in him.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the silent hero on the wall, his voice a firm, unbreakable vow. "Tomorrow, I will not be an underdog. I will not be a surprise. Tomorrow, I will stand on that stage, and I will show them."
He clenched his fist, his dark eyes reflecting the moonlight, shining with the calm, steady light of a distant star, ready to finally, brilliantly, burn.