Chapter 33: The Victor's Burden
The minefield was behind them. The thunderous, concussive roar of Midoriya's desperate gambit still echoed in the air, a testament to the wild, unpredictable nature of the race. The final, straight path leading into the stadium's tunnel was before them. The finish line was in sight. The race, which had been a chaotic scramble of hundreds, had been brutally distilled into a four-way clash of titans, a desperate, final sprint between four boys, each representing a different philosophy of power.
There was Todoroki, the Prince of Ice, his movements elegant and ruthlessly efficient, a trail of frost lingering in his wake.
There was Bakugo, the Raging Dynamite, a creature of pure, furious propulsion, his explosions leaving scorch marks on the track as he propelled himself forward with raw, untamed aggression.
There was Midoriya, the Unlikely Strategist, running on pure adrenaline and shattered nerves, his mind alight with the joy of his successful plan, his body screaming in protest.
And there was Rock Lee, the Green Comet, running on the fading fumes of his own life force, a deep, grinding ache in his bones a constant, grim reminder of the price he had paid at the first obstacle.
They ran neck-and-neck, a blur of motion, so close that the wind from Bakugo's explosions buffeted Lee's uniform, and the chill from Todoroki's ice raised goosebumps on his skin. This was the pinnacle of their generation, a frantic, beautiful, and violent race for the top.
Lee could feel his body reaching its limit. The First Gate gave him speed, but it could not grant him infinite stamina. The prodigies beside him were relentless. He saw Bakugo use a continuous stream of smaller blasts to gain a few inches. He saw Todoroki create a slick path of ice behind him, a subtle trap that Lee was forced to leap over. They were pulling ahead, ever so slightly, their Quirks giving them a final, crucial edge in this straightforward test of speed.
Is this it? a voice of doubt whispered in his mind. After everything? The robot, the chasm… will I fall short at the very last step? Will I be defeated here?
He saw, in his mind's eye, the look on Sora-sensei's face. The quiet pride of his parents. The challenging glare in Bakugo's eyes.
No.
His own will roared back, silencing the doubt. I did not come this far only to come this far. I made a promise. To my master. To my parents. And to myself!
He didn't have the raw energy for the Fourth Gate. The Fifth was an act of suicidal desperation he could not afford to repeat. But he had one more tool, one more gear to shift into. He grit his teeth, the pain in his body a distant, unimportant thing.
"SEIMON… KAI!"
He didn't shout it. He grunted it, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated effort.
The effect was instantaneous. The world gained a faint, reddish tint as his skin flushed a deep crimson. A visible wave of heat and erupts from him, and the sweat on his brow turned to steam. It was not the overwhelming, violent power of the higher gates, but a concentrated, desperate surge of pure life force, channeled directly into his legs.
To his rivals, it was as if he had hit an invisible ramp. One moment, he was running beside them. The next, he had surged forward, a crimson and green blur, as if they were standing still.
Bakugo's eyes widened, his usual sneer of contempt replaced by a look of pure, uncomprehending fury. Again?! Another level?! Where the hell is all this power coming from?!
Todoroki's calm, icy facade finally, visibly cracked. A look of genuine shock crossed his features as Lee simply left him in his dust. He had been so certain that his own natural gifts were the pinnacle, yet this boy, this anomaly, kept revealing new, impossible depths.
Midoriya, his own legs screaming for him to stop, watched in breathless awe. He recognized that state. It was the look of a body being willingly pushed past its breaking point, of a spirit burning its own vessel as fuel for the sake of victory. It was a feeling he knew all too well.
For Rock Lee, the world dissolved into a tunnel of pure sensation. The roar of the crowd became a single, high-pitched ringing in his ears. The frantic shouts of Present Mic faded into white noise. The only thing that existed was the finish line, a bright, beckoning promise at the end of the dark stadium tunnel. He burst out of the tunnel and into the blinding light of the main arena, the roar of a hundred thousand people crashing down on him like a physical wave.
He crossed the line.
The moment his feet passed that sacred, painted stripe, he released his will. The Third Gate slammed shut. The backlash, combined with the utter depletion of his stamina, was absolute. The world came rushing back—the sounds, the sights, the crushing exhaustion, the deep, profound ache in his body. His legs, which had just carried him like wings, turned to lead. He stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him a few more feet, before he finally fell to one knee, his head bowed, his right fist pressed into the dirt to keep himself from collapsing completely. His chest heaved, each breath a ragged, desperate gasp for air.
He had done it.
"HE'S DONE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE MY EYES! THE PRELIMINARIES ARE OVER, AND THE WINNER, IN THE BIGGEST, MOST ASTOUNDING UPSET IN THE HISTORY OF THE U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL… IS THE BOY WHO RUNS ON PURE, UNADULTERATED GUTS! FROM CLASS 1-A, ROOOOOOCK LEEEEEEE!"
The stadium erupted. The sound was a physical thing, a force of nature born from the shock and admiration of a hundred thousand souls who had just witnessed the impossible.
A few seconds later, the others began to cross the finish line, each bringing their own personal storm of emotion with them.
Bakugo crossed in second place, skidding to a halt with a furious blast from his palms. He didn't look at the cheering crowd. He didn't look at the giant scoreboard flashing Lee's name. He stared at Lee's kneeling, panting form, his entire body trembling with a rage so profound it was almost silent. His world, a simple hierarchy where he sat at the absolute top, had been shattered. He had lost. He had lost to someone he had deemed a worthless extra. It was a humiliation, a contradiction so fundamental that his mind couldn't even begin to process it.
Todoroki crossed in third, his stride unbroken, his expression as stoic as ever. But a thin, telling layer of frost was creeping up his right arm, a testament to how hard he had pushed himself. He looked at Lee, then looked down at his own left hand, the hand that held his fire, the hand he had refused to use. He had used half of his power, the half he deemed his own, and it had not been enough. He had lost to a boy who, by all appearances, had used no Quirk at all. The result was a cold, hard stone in his gut, a direct challenge to the very foundation of his vow.
Midoriya stumbled across the line in fourth, collapsing immediately onto his hands and knees, tears and sweat mixing on his face as he gasped for air. He was on the board. He had made it. But as he looked up at Lee's victorious, albeit exhausted, form, he felt a new, burning resolve. He had seen the peak. And he knew how much further he still had to climb.
A small, wheeled reporter-bot rolled onto the field, its camera lens focusing on the victor. Lee, hearing its approach, pushed himself to his feet. He was drained, his body a universe of pain, sweat dripped from his chin and plastered his black hair to his forehead. He stood tall, his chest heaving, and looked directly into the camera lens that was broadcasting his image to the entire world.
He didn't speak. There were no words that could capture the maelstrom of emotion inside him—the pain, the exhaustion, the pride, the relief. Instead, he thought of a quiet dojo at sunset. He thought of sharp, unwavering blue eyes that had seen potential in him when no one else had. He thought of the person who had forged him in a crucible of agony and belief, the one person whose approval mattered more than the roar of a hundred thousand strangers. He wondered if she was watching.
A small, genuine, and profoundly tired smile touched his lips. It was not a grin for the crowd or a triumphant smirk for the cameras. It was a serious smile, a warrior's smile, etched with pain and earned with sweat. It was a silent message, sent across the distance to the one person who had made this impossible moment a reality.
Are you watching, Sensei? I did it.