Chapter 39: The Weight of a Crown
The final, deafening wail of the buzzer echoed across the stadium, a definitive, absolute sound that severed the threads of combat. For a single, frozen moment, the entire field was a tableau of suspended animation. Bakugo's fist, crackling with explosive intent, was inches from Todoroki's face. Shiozaki's thorny vines were a hair's breadth from ensnaring another team. Midoriya's team was braced for an impact that never came. All motion ceased.
Then, the giant screen above them, which had been a blur of shifting numbers, locked into place. The final rankings flashed for the world to see, stark and undeniable.
1st Place: TEAM LEE
2nd Place: TEAM TODOROKI
3rd Place: TEAM BAKUGO
4th Place: TEAM MIDORIYA
A collective, stadium-wide gasp of disbelief was followed by a roar so immense it shook the very foundations of the arena. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and admiration. The ten-million-point target, the boy who had been hunted by the entire field, had not only survived. He had won.
On the field, the realization dawned on Team Lee not as a sudden explosion, but as a slow, creeping wave of euphoric relief. Kaminari was the first to break. A loud, joyous "WHOOP!" erupted from his throat. "WE DID IT! WE ACTUALLY DID IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE WE DID IT!"
Itsuka Kendo, the ever-composed strategist, stared at the scoreboard, her eyes wide. The tension drained from her shoulders, and a sound she rarely made—a loud, genuine, and hearty laugh—burst forth. She turned to the others, her face alight with a fierce, triumphant pride. "We did it!"
They looked at their rider. Rock Lee was slumped forward, his body leaning heavily on their shoulders, the ten-million-point headband still securely tied around his forehead. He was panting heavily, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks of a battle fought on the very edge of his limits. He lifted his head, a thin trickle of sweat tracing a path down his temple, and a tired, brilliant smile spread across his face.
And then, his teammates, in a single, unspoken accord of joyous, rebellious celebration, did the only thing that felt right. They hoisted him into the air, lifting him onto their shoulders, raising their victorious king for the entire world to see.
From Lee's new vantage point, the world was a dizzying, beautiful blur. He saw the sea of a hundred thousand cheering faces, the bright blue sky, the feeling of the sun on his skin. It was a view he had only ever seen in his dreams. He looked down at the laughing faces of his teammates—the loyal friend, the strategic rival, the serene shield—and a feeling of warmth so profound it eclipsed all his pain spread through his chest. For the first time, the ten-million-point headband didn't feel like a burden. It felt like a crown he had earned, not alone, but with them.
Not everyone, however, shared in the celebration.
Katsuki Bakugo stood frozen amidst the debris of his own making, his hands smoking, his crimson eyes fixed on the sight of Lee being lifted into the air. He saw the celebration. He heard the roar of the crowd chanting a name that was not his. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat. It was not the loud, explosive rage his classmates were used to. This was something deeper, colder, and far more terrifying. It was the silent, seismic fury of a god who had just been unceremoniously kicked off his own mountain. He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He simply turned, his back rigid, and began to storm off the field, ignoring the concerned calls of Kirishima and the rest of his team. Every step he took was heavy with the promise of a terrible, violent reckoning.
Shoto Todoroki watched the scene with a cold, analytical gaze. He looked at his own hand, the one that had held the ten million points for a fleeting, glorious moment. He had lost it. He had lost it because Bakugo's reckless assault had forced him to focus on defense, and in that chaos, Lee's team had executed a perfect, last-second counter-attack. He had lost because he could not control the variables. He looked at his left hand, the one still covered in a thin layer of frost. Is this it? he thought, his internal voice a cold whisper. Is this the limit of my power? Is this the limit of the strength I am willing to use? The sight of Lee, who had won through sheer, incomprehensible effort and teamwork, was a direct, infuriating challenge to the very foundation of his lifelong rebellion.
Midoriya's team, meanwhile, was a bubble of pure, unadulterated relief. They had qualified. Fourth place. It was a victory born of desperation and brilliant strategy. Uraraka was crying tears of joy, and Tokoyami gave a rare, satisfied nod, Dark Shadow murmuring its approval from within him. But Midoriya, even as he celebrated with his friends, looked up at Lee's triumphant form. The feeling in his chest wasn't jealousy. It was a powerful, burning clarity. He showed the world what he was made of, he thought, clenching his own fist. He never wavered. In the next round… the final round… it's my turn to show them why I am here.
In the commentary booth high above the stadium, Present Mic had all but lost his voice.
"I CAN'T BREATHE! I CAN'T SPEAK! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT, ERASER HEAD?! HE WAS HUNTED, HE WAS BEATEN, HE LOST IT ALL, AND HE TOOK IT RIGHT BACK AT THE LAST SECOND! ROCK LEE CONTINUES TO SHINE, TAKING FIRST PLACE FOR THE SECOND TIME IN A ROW! THIS KID ISN'T A STUDENT, HE'S A SHONEN MANGA PROTAGONIST!"
Shota Aizawa leaned back in his chair, massaging his tired, bandaged eyes. A long, weary sigh escaped him. "He was the target of the entire field, yet his team only suffered one critical loss and immediately devised a strategy to recover. It wasn't just his power that won the day." He allowed a small, almost imperceptible smirk to touch his lips. "It was his refusal to accept defeat. That, unfortunately for his opponents, is a highly logical path to victory." He tapped a button on the console. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need coffee. We have a one-hour lunch break before the final event. I suggest you go gargle some water."
As the students began to file off the field, their minds buzzing with the results and the anticipation of what was to come, Lee was gently lowered to the ground by his teammates. He felt a dozen pats on the back, a hundred words of congratulations. But his gaze was fixed on the stage where Midnight was giving her final instructions for the break. He had one more thing he needed to do.
He excused himself from his friends and made his way through the crowd, walking with a tired but determined stride towards the R-Rated Hero.
"Excuse me, Midnight-sensei," he said, his voice respectful.
Midnight turned, her expression one of mild surprise. "Well, if it isn't our grand champion. Shouldn't you be celebrating with your team? The break has officially started."
"I apologize for the interruption," Lee said, bowing slightly. "But I have a special request regarding the final event." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so that only she could hear, and whispered something into her ear.
Midnight's playful expression slowly faded as she listened, replaced by one of intrigued curiosity. She put a gloved hand to her chin, her eyes scanning Lee's serious, determined face. She was silent for a long moment, considering his words.
"Hmm," she finally mused, her voice a low, thoughtful purr. "That is… an unusual request." She tapped her chin. "But the rules for the final tournament are primarily focused on combat itself." She gave a small shrug. "I suppose you can do that, as long as you are not bringing any external weapons or support items onto the stage." A sly, interested smile played on her lips. "However, I will have to inspect them myself before the final round begins to ensure they comply with regulations."
A wave of profound relief washed over Lee. He smiled, a genuine, grateful expression. "Thank you, Sensei. I understand completely."
He bowed once more and turned to leave, his heart feeling a little lighter, the final piece of his plan for the tournament now falling into place.
Far away from the roaring crowds and the electric atmosphere of the stadium, the Dojo of the Resolute Fist was an island of perfect, sun-drenched silence. The heavy wooden door slid open with a low groan, and Mr. Tanaka, the landlord, stepped inside. He was dressed not in his usual work clothes, but in a smart, casual suit, as if he were attending an important event.
He looked around the empty, immaculate hall, a curious expression on his face. The only sound was a faint, muffled roar coming from the back of the dojo. He followed the noise to the small office, the door of which was slightly ajar.
Inside, Sora Aokawa was hunched over a small, flickering television, her back to him. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the desk. On the screen was a replay of Lee, airborne and wreathed in green, snatching the ten-million-point headband from a furious Bakugo.
Mr. Tanaka leaned against the doorframe, a smirk on his face. "Isn't watching such a momentous event from behind a tiny screen," he said, his voice startling her, "a little bit boring?"
Sora didn't jump. She simply relaxed her grip on the desk and slowly turned in her chair, a tired but triumphant smile on her face. "Tanaka-san," she said, her voice calm. "Somehow, I expected you would show up today."
He chuckled, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He produced two tickets, their surfaces gleaming with the official U.A. logo. "The final round," he said, holding them up, "is always the most exciting part of the festival. It would be a terrible shame for us to miss seeing our investment's final performance in person, wouldn't it?"
A genuine, beautiful laugh, full of relief and pride, escaped Sora's lips. The tension that had held her rigid for hours finally melted away. She stood up, her movements now light and energetic.
"The lunch break is one hour," she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "The stadium is at least a thirty-minute drive from here, even without the festival traffic." She looked at him, her blue eyes blazing with a newfound, joyous excitement.
"We only have a quarter of an hour to get going."