Chapter 43: Heart and Power
The brief, comical interlude of Kaminari's defeat had served its purpose, washing away some of the heavy, uncomfortable tension that Monoma's match had left behind. The stadium was buzzing again, the audience eager for the next display of youthful power. They did not have to wait long.
"LET'S JUMP RIGHT INTO OUR NEXT MATCH, FOLKS!" Present Mic's voice boomed. "IT'S A BATTLE OF CONTRASTING STYLES! THE EMBODIMENT OF RIGID ORDER AND HIGH-SPEED ENGINES, FROM CLASS 1-A, TENYA IIDA! VERSUS, THE QUEEN OF ACID AND FLUID MOVEMENT, ALSO FROM 1-A, MINA ASHIDO!"
Iida marched into the ring with his usual, formal seriousness, performing a series of precise, robotic stretches. Mina, by contrast, practically danced into the arena, a bright, confident, and slightly mischievous smile on her face. It was a classic confrontation: the unmovable object versus the unstoppable, flowing force.
The starting buzzer sounded, and the dance began. Mina immediately secreted her acid from the soles of her shoes, creating a slick, frictionless surface upon which she could glide with breathtaking agility. Iida, relying on his linear speed, charged forward, but it was like trying to catch a fish with his bare hands. Mina pirouetted, slid, and spun around his straightforward attacks, her movements a fluid, unpredictable ballet. She forced him to constantly change direction, his powerful engines roaring with frustration as he struggled to land a single, decisive blow.
From the stands, Gaara watched, his expression still distant but his eyes now sharp and analytical. He was no longer just staring into the void of his own crisis; he was observing. He saw Mina's strategy—her use of the environment, her superior agility, her clever evasion. He saw Iida's frustration, the growing strain on his engines as he burned through his energy in a series of failed attacks.
Iida knew he was being outmaneuvered. I cannot win a protracted battle of agility, he thought, skidding to a halt. My only path to victory is to overwhelm her before my engines stall. I must risk it all on a single, decisive move.
"RECIPRO BURST!" he roared.
In a flash of blue flame and a deafening roar of his engines, he accelerated to a speed that was almost impossible to follow with the naked eye. The world became a blur. Before Mina could even react to his new, terrifying velocity, he was upon her. He did not strike her. He simply grabbed her by the shoulders, ran the length of the ring in a fraction of a second, and deposited her gently but firmly on the grass outside the boundary.
The entire maneuver was over in less than three seconds. He stood panting in the center of the ring, steam pouring from the exhausts on his legs. He had won, but at the cost of his mobility.
As Midnight declared him the winner, Gaara made a mental note. A victory born of overwhelming, high-cost, and precisely timed power. It was another piece of the puzzle, another facet of strength in this strange new world.
A palpable tension fell over the stadium as the next matchup was announced. It was the one many had been waiting for, a confrontation that felt both inevitable and deeply unfair.
"AND NOW, FOR OUR NEXT BOUT!" Present Mic yelled. "HE'S A WALKING, TALKING EXPLOSION WITH THE ATTITUDE TO MATCH, KATSUKI BAKUGO! VERSUS, THE CHEERFUL GIRL WITH A DANGEROUSLY GRAVITATIONAL TOUCH, OCHAKO URARAKA!"
A low murmur went through the crowd. "Oh, this is just cruel." "He should really go easy on her." "Don't bully the poor girl, kid!"
Bakugo heard it all as he stomped into the ring. He heard their pity, their condescending assumptions. And it filled him with a pure, white-hot fury. Their boos were not for his aggression; they were for their lack of faith in his opponent. They were underestimating her, and in doing so, they were insulting him. They were implying that a victory over her would be meaningless. He would not be a bully. He would be a future Number One Hero, and he would grant his opponent the ultimate sign of his respect: he would try to utterly and completely annihilate her with everything he had.
Uraraka walked into the ring, her face a mask of pale, nervous determination. She looked small and outmatched, but the look in her eyes was one of unbreakable resolve. She was not here to be a victim. She was here to win.
The battle began. And it was brutal.
Bakugo unleashed a relentless, overwhelming barrage of explosions. He did not give her a moment to breathe, a second to think. He drove her back with a storm of heat, light, and concussive force.
From the stands, Gaara watched. At first, he saw only what the rest of the crowd saw: a display of overwhelming, merciless power. A familiar story. The strong crushing the weak. It was the fundamental law of his old world.
But then, his analytical gaze, now sharpened by a new, uncertain curiosity, began to notice the details. He saw that Uraraka, despite the pain and the terror, was not just running blindly. She was enduring. She was thinking. With every blast that sent her tumbling, with every desperate dodge that brought her close to the ground, he saw her hand, for a fraction of a second, press against the shattered pieces of the concrete ring. She was not just surviving. She was preparing.
She has a plan, he thought, a flicker of something new—respect—igniting within him.
The fight raged on. Uraraka was bruised, battered, and on the verge of collapse. But she kept getting up. She kept charging forward into the explosive storm. And all the while, the sky above Bakugo was slowly, almost imperceptibly, filling with a constellation of floating, weightless debris.
Finally, with a determined cry, she clasped her hands together. "It's time!"
She released her Quirk.
Her secret weapon, a literal meteor shower of massive concrete chunks, rained down from the sky.
It was a brilliant, desperate, all-or-nothing gambit.
As the crowd gasped, Gaara leaned forward, his eyes wide. He saw her spirit. He saw her will. He saw her endure a hellish assault, all to create a single, fleeting chance at victory. It was the same. The same impossible, illogical fire he had seen in Midoriya's eyes.
And in that moment, as he watched her give her absolute all, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Monoma copied the sand, he thought, the revelation a silent, world-shaking explosion in his own mind. But could he copy this? This… spirit? This willingness to endure agony for one chance? No.
He looked at his own hands.
He copied the shell, but he cannot copy the soul… The sand is not my power. My life, my pain, my control, my will… I am the power. The sand is just its shape.
In the ring, Bakugo looked up at the descending rain of death, and he smiled. A true, genuine, appreciative smile. He raised a single hand to the sky. "Not bad," he said.
He unleashed one, single, cataclysmic explosion. A howitzer impact of such magnitude that it tore through the falling debris, blasting it all into harmless dust and pebbles, the shockwave washing over the entire stadium.
Uraraka, her trump card shattered, her body having reached its absolute limit, collapsed onto the ring floor, defeated.
The stadium was silent for a moment, and then it erupted into a wave of thunderous, respectful applause. Not for the victor, but for the vanquished warrior who had refused to yield.
As the medics carried Uraraka away, Gaara remained seated. The profound, shattering shock from Monoma's match was gone. The hollow confusion had vanished. In their place, a new, deep, and unshakeable calm had settled over him.
He had just witnessed a profound lesson. He understood now. No one could steal his power, because his power was not a thing to be stolen. It was him.
He looked towards the arena, his expression no longer empty or broken, but clear, calm, and focused. He was ready for whatever came next.
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