Chapter 34: Echo of the Desert
The roar of the crowd was the first thing to return, a slow, rising tide of sound that washed back into the stunned silence of the stadium. For a few, breathtaking moments after Midnight's hesitant declaration, the only sound had been the gentle, whispering shift of sand in the wind. Now, the full, chaotic weight of what had just happened crashed down upon the competitors.
The four qualifying teams stood on the field, islands in the vast, sandy expanse Gaara had created. The other forty-odd teams were now just a scattered, defeated mob. Midnight, having regained her composure, officially announced the results and a one-hour lunch break before the final afternoon events.
The walk off the field was a new kind of trial. The crowd in the stands was a sea of pointing fingers and buzzing phones, their eyes filled with a mixture of awe, excitement, and a not-insignificant amount of fear. As the four victorious teams walked past the groups of defeated students, they were met with a wall of resentful, jealous glares. The camaraderie of the first-year class had been shattered, replaced by the bitter sting of overwhelming defeat.
High above the city, in an office of pristine glass and meticulously organized denim fabric, Best Jeanist leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the replayed footage on his laptop screen. He watched the circular wave of sand erupt and recede in a matter of seconds.
"Sir…" his sidekick stammered, at a complete loss for words. "That… his level of power…"
"It is not the power that is most notable," Best Jeanist corrected, his voice a low, analytical hum. He paused the footage at the exact moment the wave had stopped, just at the edge of the arena. "This was not a chaotic outburst. This was a statement, delivered with the precision of a master tailor cutting a pattern. He defeated dozens without causing a single significant injury. This is not the work of a wild beast." He leaned closer, a flicker of profound, professional intrigue in his eyes. "This is the work of someone who understands absolute, terrifying control."
In his private viewing box, Toshinori Yagi was not thinking about control. He was thinking about the cost. He watched the replay, his heart a heavy, cold knot in his chest. He protected them, he thought, his gaze fixed on Gaara's small, still figure at the center of the devastation. His first instinct, when faced with an overwhelming threat to his team, was to shield them. But to unleash that much power… to reshape the world on such a scale… He is walking on a razor's edge between control and catastrophe. One moment of lost focus, one surge of that deep, buried rage, and he could have crushed them all.
The weight of the responsibility he had taken on felt heavier than ever before.
The cafeteria was a theatre of social dynamics. The instant Team Midoriya walked in, the room seemed to pivot around them. They were a spectacle. The ten-million-point boy, the zero-gravity girl, the prince of darkness… and the monster of sand. They found a table, and like before, a wide, empty moat of space formed around it instantly.
For the first time since the race began, the four of them were together, a fragile, temporary alliance forged in chaos, and the silence that fell between them was profound and awkward. The battlefield had united them in purpose. The lunch table only highlighted how alien they were to one another.
Uraraka, with her innate ability to cut through tension, was the first to speak. She looked at Gaara, her round, expressive eyes wide with a mixture of awe and a lingering, respectful fear.
"Gaara-kun…" she began, her voice a little hesitant. "I… I've never seen anything like that before. How… how did you do that?" Her question was simple, human, stripped of all strategy and analysis. It was pure wonder.
Tokoyami, ever the pragmatist, added his own query, his crimson eyes fixed on Gaara. "You ended the match before it could truly begin. It was… excessively effective." Dark Shadow coiled over his shoulder, peering at Gaara with a silent, curious intensity. "But you must have expended a great deal of energy, did you not?" He was not asking about the spectacle; he was assessing the cost, calculating the state of his asset.
Gaara, who had been methodically eating a bowl of rice, looked up. He considered their questions. He looked at Uraraka's open, honest curiosity, and then at Tokoyami's sharp, analytical gaze. He answered with the simple, unvarnished truth that was his nature.
"They were attacking," he said, his voice a quiet, sandy rasp. "My mission was to protect the rider. I did what was necessary." He then turned his placid gaze to Tokoyami and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Yes. It required some effort."
His admission was stark, devoid of any pride or complaint. He was a closed book, offering only the text that was explicitly requested.
Midoriya had been silent, watching the interaction. The team was over. The game was won. Now they were just… four students at a table. He looked at Gaara. The boy was so still, so self-contained. He exuded an aura that was completely different from the other powerhouses in his class.
He's so… quiet, Midoriya thought, his analytical mind kicking into gear. Todoroki-kun is cold, like a wall of ice. It's a coldness that pushes you away, that warns you not to get too close. But this is different. He watched as Gaara calmly took another bite of rice, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the entire cafeteria. This isn't a coldness that pushes. It's an emptiness. A void. It's a coldness that seems to pull all the warmth and noise out of the air around him.
The silence stretched, becoming awkward again.
Across the room, the other qualifying teams from Class 1-A were having their own, very different, post-mortems. Team Todoroki's table was a study in cold, efficient analysis. They spoke in low tones, dissecting their performance, Yaoyorozu already formulating strategies for a one-on-one tournament format. Todoroki himself was silent, his gaze occasionally drifting over to Midoriya, and more often now, to Gaara. He was re-evaluating everything.
Team Bakugo's table was the opposite. It was a vortex of pure, concentrated rage, with Bakugo at its center.
"We qualified! That's what matters, man!" Kirishima was saying, trying to be the voice of reason.
"Qualifying means nothing!" Bakugo snarled, slamming his fist on the table, making the trays jump. "I didn't beat anyone! That entire fight was stolen from me by a sand-slinging freak before I even got to land a single hit on Deku!" His rage was not just that of a loser; it was the rage of a predator who had been denied his hunt.
Back at the quiet table, the meal was finishing. The temporary alliance, its purpose fulfilled, was beginning to dissolve. They were just four students again. Four strangers.
But as they stood to leave, Uraraka gave Gaara a small, hesitant smile. Tokoyami gave him a short, respectful nod. And Midoriya, feeling a strange surge of courage, simply said, "You were amazing, Gaara-kun. Thank you."
Gaara merely stared back, his expression unreadable. He gave a single, small nod in return, and then turned and walked away, the first to leave the table, his sand gourd a silent, ever-present guardian on his back. He was still an island. But for the first time, perhaps, a few tentative messages had finally washed ashore.