Chapter 38: A Shield for Others
The roar of the crowd was a distant, irrelevant ocean. In the center of the ring, Gaara's world had shrunk to the size of a single, dark red droplet of his own blood, staining the pale sand on the floor. It was a sight he now recognized, a symbol of his own broken invincibility. But this time, it did not inspire terror. It inspired a cold, simmering rage.
He looked up at the boy across from him, the boy who was the cause of this. Midoriya Izuku stood, his body trembling with pain, his uniform singed, four of his fingers now grotesque, broken things. Yet his eyes, those wide, green, impossibly determined eyes, still burned with an unwavering fire.
A hero protects others, Midoriya's words from the hallway echoed in his mind. It's our duty.
Lies, a voice hissed from the deepest, darkest corner of Gaara's soul. He felt the familiar, hateful pressure building behind his eyes.
Shut up, he thought, his own internal voice a low snarl. You don't know. You don't know what this sand means to me.
His power was not a tool he had chosen. It was a part of him, born from the cradle, a silent, ever-present guardian. It had been his only companion in a world that had offered him nothing but fear and rejection.
A flood of memories, sharp and jagged as broken glass, tore through his mind. He was a small child on a playground, holding out a ball to other children who screamed and scrambled away, their parents pulling them back as if he were a plague. He was a boy in a quiet apartment, the word "monster" whispered by the villagers in the streets below a constant, hateful lullaby. He was an asset to be assessed, a weapon to be feared, a problem to be managed. Never a person. Never a child.
Through it all, the sand had been there. When the stones were thrown, it had formed a shield. When the assassins came in the dead of night, it had been his fangs and claws. When the loneliness became a physical, crushing weight, it had been the only thing that held him together.
The rage and pain finally boiled over, no longer containable. It ripped its way from his throat, a raw, agonized scream directed not just at Midoriya, but at the entire world.
"You know nothing!" he yelled, his voice cracking with a lifetime of suppressed anguish. "You speak of protecting others! But while everyone else ran! While everyone else called me a monster and left me to die in the silence! The sand… the sand was my only friend! My only shield against the cruelty of this life!"
His words, so full of raw, genuine pain, had a power that no Quirk could replicate. A sudden, profound silence fell over the stadium. The cheering died. Present Mic's commentary sputtered and went quiet. The students in the stands—Bakugo, Todoroki, Uraraka, all of them—stared, their own rivalries and ambitions forgotten. They were no longer seeing a villain or a competitor. They were seeing, for the very first time, the wounded, bleeding heart of the boy inside the monster.
The sand, responding to its master's agony, erupted. It was no longer controlled. It was a storm of pure, hateful rage, lashing out, trying to silence the boy who had dared to touch upon this sacred wound.
Midoriya, his face a mask of pained empathy, knew he could not back down. He still had two usable fingers on his right hand. As a whip of sand shot towards him, he raised his hand.
"SMASH!"
The ring finger on his right hand shattered. The shockwave dispersed the attack.
"Even if it was your only friend," Midoriya yelled back, his voice strained but clear over the now-whipping wind, "it only ever taught you how to protect yourself! A hero has to learn how to protect others, too!"
Another, larger wave of sand rose up, attempting to crush him. He used his last unbroken finger, his thumb.
"SMASH!"
The bone snapped with a sickening crack. The wave was blown apart. He now stood with eight broken fingers, both of his hands rendered into useless, throbbing claws of pure agony.
Gaara stared, his rage faltering in the face of such absolute, insane self-sacrifice. The sand swirled around him, waiting for a command that would not come.
"Why?" Gaara whispered, his voice hoarse. "Why would you break yourself?"
"Because that's what heroes do!" Midoriya cried, tears of both pain and passionate conviction streaming down his face. He looked at Gaara, not at a monster, but at another lost soul who needed saving. "My power… I've always thought it was for saving everyone. And that includes you, Gaara-kun!"
He took a shaky, determined step forward.
"Even if I get hurt!" he declared, his voice ringing with a profound, unshakable sincerity. "If you were ever in danger, I would protect you before I would even think of protecting myself! That is the kind of hero I aspire to be!"
The words struck Gaara with the force of a physical blow. He looked at Midoriya's mangled hands, the evidence of his impossible creed. He looked at the tears streaming down his face, the absolute conviction in his eyes. And he finally, truly, understood.
This boy's power was not for him. It was a tool to be used in service of a belief, a belief so powerful he would shatter his own body for it. This was not a logic he could counter. This was a matter of the heart.
The warmth he had felt from the crowd's cheers, that small, flickering flame, was now engulfed by a brilliant, painful, and blinding new light.
Gaara slowly, deliberately, raised his hand.
Midoriya tensed, expecting a final, decisive attack. But the sand that moved was different. It was not fast or aggressive. It was slow, gentle. It flowed across the ring and softly, carefully, wrapped around Midoriya's arms and legs, holding him in place, preventing him from taking another step.
"I am… convinced," Gaara said, his voice quiet, a profound and weary acceptance in his tone. "About the matter of helping others with my sand." He looked at Midoriya's broken hands, a flicker of something new—empathy, perhaps—in his teal eyes. "But… could you please stop hurting yourself against me like this?"
Midoriya stared, his mind struggling to process the sudden, total shift. Curse it, he thought, a wave of dizziness washing over him. I can't move. And the pain in my fingers… it's really searing now.
Gaara turned his head and looked up at the referee's platform. He simply stared at Midnight, his expression calm.
Midnight looked from the immobilized Midoriya to the now-still Gaara, her own eyes wide with a stunned understanding. After a moment of hesitation that felt like an eternity, she raised her hand.
"Midoriya… is unable to move," she announced, her voice filled with a strange, new respect. "The winner… is Gaara!"
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Present Mic's voice, softer now, less hyped, more emotional, filled the air. "In an unbelievable turn of events… a battle of wills, a battle of hearts… has come to an end."
And the crowd, understanding that they had witnessed something far more profound than a simple fight, began to cheer.
The sound was different this time. It was a cheer of deep, heartfelt respect. It washed over Gaara, but his attention was elsewhere. He walked slowly across the ring toward the captured Midoriya. With a flick of his wrist, the sand receded, releasing its hold.
Midoriya's body, finally succumbing to the agony and exhaustion, began to collapse.
But he did not hit the floor. Gaara moved in, catching him, supporting his weight. Midoriya's head slumped forward, his chin coming to rest on Gaara's smaller shoulder.
Through the searing haze of his pain, he heard a quiet, sandy whisper, meant only for him.
"Thank you."
Midoriya wanted to smile. He wanted to say, "You're welcome." He wanted to acknowledge this incredible, impossible moment of connection.
But the pain was too great, and the darkness was finally pulling him under.