Chapter 41: Shattered Reflections
In the wake of Monoma's shocking victory, a new and complex silence fell over the U.A. stadium. The initial roar of disbelief had faded into a buzzing, uncertain murmur. The crowd had just witnessed something impossible, and they were struggling to process it. On the field, Neito Monoma basked in their confused attention, a triumphant, mocking smirk plastered across his face as Kirishima was helped to his feet by the medics, his expression a mask of stunned, humiliated disbelief.
But in the stands, in the Class 1-A seating section, Gaara saw and heard none of it.
For him, the world had gone quiet. The roar of the crowd, the voice of the announcer, the angry muttering of his classmates—it was all a distant, meaningless static. His universe had collapsed into a single, looping, silent image in his mind: a wave of reddish-brown sand, his sand, erupting from the ground at the command of another.
He sat frozen in his seat, his teal eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the empty ring where the ghost of his stolen power still lingered.
It was a feeling of profound, spiritual violation.
His Quirk, his sand, had never been a simple tool. It had been his companion in the crushing loneliness of his childhood. It had been his shield against a world of thrown stones and hateful glares. It had been his fangs when assassins came for him in the dead of night. It was an extension of his own soul, a silent, ever-present guardian that had defined his entire, painful existence.
To see it replicated, to see it used as a cheap, theatrical trick by a boy with a mocking smile, was to have the most intimate, fundamental part of his being stolen and desecrated in front of the entire world. A cold, hollow feeling, worse than any physical pain he had ever felt, spread through his chest.
"What's the matter, Class 1-A?"
Monoma's voice, dripping with theatrical arrogance, sliced through Gaara's internal prison. The victor of Class 1-B was walking past their seating section on his way back to the waiting rooms, and he had stopped to deliver one final, gloating blow.
"Did you really think you were the only ones with trump cards?" he said, his eyes dancing with malicious glee as they swept over the angry faces of Bakugo, Iida, and the others. His gaze finally settled on Gaara's still, silent form. "It seems your little monster isn't quite so unique after all."
He chuckled, a light, airy sound that was filled with poison, and then walked away, leaving a trail of simmering fury in his wake.
"That smug…" Kirishima gritted out from his seat, his fists clenched so tight his hardened knuckles were white. He was angry about his loss, but he was furious at the way Monoma had used his friend—his rival, his strange classmate—to do it.
Yaoyorozu's expression was one of pure, indignant offense. "To copy another's Quirk and use it in such a dishonorable, mocking fashion…"
Bakugo said nothing. He was simply staring at Monoma's retreating back, his teeth grinding, a low, dangerous growl rumbling in his chest. A desire to utterly obliterate him was written in every tense line of his body. They were angry for Gaara, a strange, protective, class-wide instinct they didn't yet understand themselves.
Uraraka, however, was not looking at Monoma. She was looking at Gaara. She saw past the anger of her classmates and saw the object of their newfound, reluctant defense. And what she saw terrified her. It was not anger on Gaara's face. It was not the cold focus he'd had in his own match. It was… nothing. A profound, terrifying emptiness. A stillness that was so absolute it seemed as if the boy inside had simply vanished, leaving only a hollow, breathing shell behind.
Todoroki, too, watched him with his analytical gaze. He saw the subtle, almost imperceptible tremor in Gaara's hands. He recognized the look of someone whose entire foundation, their understanding of themselves and their place in the world, had been shattered. Monoma's move had not been just a strategic victory; it had been a perfect psychological strike.
In the announcer's booth, Aizawa watched the scene on his monitor. "A problem," he muttered to himself.
Toshinori, watching on a private screen in his viewing box, felt a deep pang of worry. This is a critical moment, he thought. Monoma didn't just copy his Quirk. He attacked the very core of his identity. How he responds to this… will determine everything.
The tension in the stands was finally broken by Present Mic's voice, trying to inject some energy back into the stunned stadium.
"WOW! Well, that was an unbelievable turn of events, folks! A true testament to the unpredictable nature of Quirks here at U.A.! Let's see if our next match can keep up that incredible intensity!"
The giant screen flashed, the tournament bracket adjusting.
"OUR NEXT ONE-ON-ONE BATTLE WILL FEATURE ANOTHER POWERHOUSE FROM CLASS 1-A! GET READY FOR THE DARK CHAMPION OF REVELRY, FUMIKAGE TOKOYAMI!"
A new, hopeful cheer went up from the Class 1-A section. They needed a win to restore their morale.
"VERSUS, A MAN WHOSE DEFENSE IS SAID TO BE IMPENETRABLE! FROM CLASS 1-B, A MEMBER OF THE VERY SAME TEAM AS MONOMA, KOSEI TSUBURABA!"
In the stands, Tokoyami, who had been observing the proceedings with his usual stoic silence, stood up. He gave a curt nod to his worried classmates. Dark Shadow peeked over his shoulder, its yellow eyes gleaming with anticipation for a fight. He turned to leave, his expression a mask of grim determination.
Kirishima, still nursing his bruised pride, looked up at him. "Tokoyami… show them what Class 1-A is really made of," he said, his voice low but firm.
Tokoyami simply nodded again and began his silent walk towards the arena entrance.
The focus of the stadium, the energy of the crowd, and the attention of the students all shifted, moving on to the next fight, the next spectacle.
But Gaara did not move. He did not seem to hear the announcement. He did not seem to notice as the world moved on without him. He remained silent in his seat, trapped in the echo of his stolen power, a solitary figure lost in the reflection of his own shattered, and suddenly, horrifyingly unoriginal soul.
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