The final bell rang like a church gong signaling the end of services, and Class 1-A exploded into motion. Izuku slouched in his desk, staring at the notebook in front of him without really seeing the words. His handwriting looked different today. Messier. Like his hand hadn't been fully under his control when he'd written down Midnight's lecture about the Hero Public Safety Commission's regulatory framework.
"Yo, Midoriya!"
Kirishima appeared at his desk, practically vibrating. "Dude, that fight was incredible! You and Bakugo just went at it like real pros! Made everyone else want to step up their game, you know?"
Kaminari leaned over from behind, grinning. "Yeah man, I'm pretty sure half the class is ready to go Plus Ultra just from watching you two destroy that building. All Might looked like he didn't know whether to be proud or horrified."
"Probably both," Sero added, joining the growing crowd. "I mean, property damage aside, that was some serious combat skill. You two must have the best quirks outside of the recommended students."
Izuku blinked up at them. Their faces swam in his vision for a second before coming into focus.
"Thanks," he said. The word came out flat. Wrong. Like he'd read it off a teleprompter without bothering to add inflection.
Kirishima's smile faltered slightly.
"You good, bro?"
"Yeah. Fine. Just tired."
More students filtered over. Mina bounced up, her pink face split by an enormous grin.
"That was so manly! Wait, can I say manly? Whatever, it was awesome! The way you just kept getting back up? I was screaming!"
Tsuyu appeared at the edge of the group, one finger pressed to her chin. "You showed remarkable resilience, Midoriya-chan. Though I do hope you'll be more careful in future exercises. Ribbit."
Izuku nodded mechanically. His mouth moved, producing sounds that were probably appropriate responses. He watched himself from somewhere far away, like he was operating a puppet that happened to look like him.
The congratulations continued washing over him. Words about strategy and guts and determination. About how he'd inspired everyone to push harder.
To not give up.
To go beyond.
It all sounded like static.
"Midoriya-kun?"
Ochaco's voice cut through the noise. She stood just outside the circle of classmates, concern written across her features.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm good," Izuku said automatically. "Really. Just need some air."
He stood, gathering his things with mechanical efficiency. The crowd parted for him. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. Someone else said something about meeting up later to compare notes on the exercises.
Izuku made it three steps toward the door before two very distinct presences materialized in his path.
Toru's uniform stood to his left, her sleeve already reaching for his arm. Jiro leaned against the doorframe to his right, her jacks curled behind her ears in that way they did when she was thinking too hard about something.
"Hey," Toru said. "You okay? You've been super quiet since you got back from Recovery Girl."
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because you look like a lost puppy," Jiro said. Her arms crossed over her chest.
Toru's sleeve tightened on his arm. "What's wrong? Did something happen during the fight? Is it Bakugo?"
"It's nothing." Izuku gently extracted his arm from Toru's grip. "I just need to clear my head. Go for a walk or something."
"We could come with you," Toru offered immediately. "We could get more crepes! Or just hang out! Or—"
"Raincheck," Izuku cut her off. "Sorry, Spotlight. Something came up. I'll text you later, okay?"
Toru's uniform drooped slightly. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, sure."
Jiro's eyes narrowed.
"You're not fine."
"Compass—"
"Don't 'Compass' me. Something's off." Her jacks twitched. "I hate that fake smile of yours."
Izuku became acutely aware that he was smiling. Had been smiling this whole time.
His PR face.
"I really do have somewhere to be," he said. It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. "I promise I'm okay. Just need to handle something."
Jiro looked like she wanted to argue. Her mouth opened. Closed. Her jacks coiled tighter.
"Fine," she said finally. "But if you're not back to normal by tomorrow, I'm hunting you down and making you tell me what's wrong."
"Noted."
He moved past them into the hallway. Behind him, he heard Toru whisper something to Jiro. Couldn't make out the words. Didn't try.
The walk to Musutafu Station blurred. He moved on autopilot, his body navigating the familiar route while his brain spun in circles.
You won.
But what did winning prove?
That he could barely survive a fight with Bakugo now, before the explosive blonde learned technique and control and strategy?
That his ceiling was already visible while everyone else's hadn't even come into view yet?
That ten years of training might only buy him a few years of relevance before Quirk evolution left him in the dust?
The mountain trail appeared without him consciously deciding to go there. His feet knew the path. Had walked it enough times that muscle memory took over.
Good. He didn't want to think anymore.
The dojo came into view as the sun started its slow descent toward the horizon. Same weathered wood. Same crooked sign that read "Hano Dojo" in kanji that might have been painted on a hundred years ago. Same collection of junk scattered across the yard that served as impromptu training equipment.
Home.
Not really, but close enough.
Izuku dropped his school bag by the entrance. Didn't bother changing. Just walked straight to the training yard where a dozen makiwara boards stood in neat rows.
Punching posts. Wrapped in rope and padding. Designed to take a beating.
Perfect.
His fist connected with the first board. The impact jarred up his arm. Felt good. Real.
He hit it again.
And again.
His knuckles split on the third strike. The rope scraped skin. Drew blood.
He didn't stop.
Left hook. Right cross. Palm strike. Elbow. Knee. Every technique Hano had beaten into him over the years.
But sloppy now. Wild. His form deteriorated with each hit.
He was supposed to be better than this. Smarter. More controlled.
He was supposed to prove that humans could compete with gods.
Instead he'd gotten baited into a testosterone-fueled brawl because Bakugo called him weak. Had dropped his weapons like an absolute dickhead and nearly gotten blown up because his pride couldn't handle being called Deku.
Ten years of training.
For what?
To barely survive one fight?
His vision blurred. Sweat. Or tears. Couldn't tell. Didn't matter.
The makiwara board creaked under another strike.
"Your stance is garbage."
Izuku's fist stopped mid-swing.
He turned.
Hano stood in the doorway of the dojo proper, still wearing that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt. A bottle dangled from one gnarled hand. Probably sake. Definitely sake.
The old man's eyes, sharp and dark despite his age, tracked over Izuku with the same clinical detachment he'd shown when Izuku was seven and had just vomited all over himself after running laps.
"Look at you," Hano continued, taking a leisurely sip from his bottle. "Flailing around like a drunk toddler. What happened to the boy who could punch straight?"
"Sensei—"
"Five laps. Now."
Izuku blinked. "What?"
"You deaf? I said five laps around the property. Move your ass before I make it ten."
"I just—"
"Did I stutter? Lap. Now." Hano jerked his thumb toward the trail that circled the mountain. "And when you get back, burpees. A hundred of them. You're throwing punches with too much emotion and not enough brain. Need to work that stupidity out of your system."
Izuku's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Run laps? After the day he'd had? After everything?
He wanted to argue. To explain. To make Hano understand that he didn't need exercise, he needed answers. Needed someone to tell him he hadn't wasted ten years chasing an impossible dream.
But the look on Hano's face stopped him cold.
That look said arguing would only make things worse. Would add another hundred burpees to the count.
Fine.
Izuku turned and ran.
The first lap hurt. His legs protested. His lungs burned. His split knuckles throbbed with each swing of his arms.
The second lap was worse. Anger seeped out of him with each footfall. Replaced by something hollow.
By the third lap, his mind had gone quiet. Just the sound of his breathing. The crunch of dirt under his shoes. The wind through the trees.
By the fifth, he'd stopped thinking entirely.
He stumbled back into the training yard, gasping. Sweat soaked through his uniform shirt. His legs shook.
Hano sat on the dojo steps, the bottle still in hand. He looked Izuku up and down, then nodded toward a clear patch of dirt.
"Burpees. Count them out loud. If you lose count, we start over."
Izuku dropped into position.
Down. Push-up. Jump. Clap.
"One."
Down. Push-up. Jump. Clap.
"Two."
His arms trembled by ten. By twenty, his shoulders screamed. By fifty, he'd stopped feeling his body entirely.
"Ninety-seven."
Down. Push-up. Jump. Clap.
"Ninety-eight."
Down. Push-up. Jump. Clap.
"Ninety-nine."
Down. Push-up. Jump. Clap.
"One hundred."
He collapsed onto his back in the dirt, chest heaving. Stars danced across his vision. Or maybe actual stars. The sun had set while he'd been destroying himself.
Footsteps crunched in the gravel.
Hano stood over him, blocking out the emerging moon.
"Better," the old man said. "Now you look like someone who can think again instead of a toddler throwing a tantrum."
Izuku stared up at him, too exhausted to muster a response.
Hano settled down beside him with a grunt, his joints popping. The sake bottle dangled between his knees.
"Wanna tell me what crawled up your ass and died? Or should I guess?"
"I'm fine."
"Uh huh. That why you came here and tried to murder my training equipment? Because you're fine?"
Izuku closed his eyes. "I won today. Against Bakugo. In a training exercise."
"Good for you. Want a medal?"
"I almost lost."
"Almost don't count for shit."
"He could have killed me. Had these gauntlets that stored his sweat. Enough for an explosion that could level a building. And I just... stood there. Let him point it at my face because I'd already dropped my weapons like an idiot."
Hano took another drink. "But he didn't."
"He didn't," Izuku agreed. "Because All Might stopped the fight. Not because I had some brilliant counter. Just luck."
"And?"
"And I realized I have a ceiling. Ten years of training and I barely survived a fight against someone who's barely started learning how to use his Quirk properly. What happens when he gets good? When he learns control and technique? When everyone else evolves their powers and I'm still just... human?"
Silence stretched between them. Hano drained the last of his sake and set the bottle aside with a dull thunk.
"You know what your problem is, boy?"
"Enlighten me."
"You're so busy staring at the finish line that you forgot to look at your feet. Wondering if you can beat Bakugo in five years when you already beat him today." Hano snorted. "Dumbest thing I've ever heard. And I once watched a man try to punch a tsunami."
"That's not—"
"Shut up. I'm talking." Hano's hand shot out and smacked the back of Izuku's head. "You think I taught you all this so you could compete with Quirk users on their terms? So you could match them punch for punch, explosion for explosion?"
"Isn't that the point?"
"The point," Hano said slowly, like explaining basic addition to a particularly stupid dog, "is that you fight smarter. Not harder. You don't beat Bakugo by becoming Bakugo. You beat him by being you. By thinking three steps ahead while he's busy screaming and blowing things up."
"I dropped my weapons because he—"
"Because you got your feelings hurt. Yeah. I gathered that much." Another smack. "Stupid. But fixable. You're fifteen, not fifty. You're allowed to be an emotional moron sometimes."
Izuku opened his eyes. Stared up at the stars starting to appear overhead.
"What if it's not enough? What if ten years of being smart isn't enough against someone with ten years of being powerful?"
"Then you get knocked down and you get back up. Same as you always have." Hano stood with a groan, his knees cracking like fireworks. "You know how many fights I lost before I figured out how to win? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Stopped counting after a while."
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to make you stop being a whiny little bitch and get back to work." Hano looked down at him, and for just a second, something soft crossed his weathered face. "You won today, boy. Against someone who's been told his whole life he's destined for greatness. You proved a Quirkless kid can compete. Can win. That's not nothing."
Izuku sat up slowly, his abused muscles protesting every movement.
"Still feels like losing."
"That's because you're tired and emotional and covered in dirt like a feral cat." Hano turned toward the dojo. "Get cleaned up. I made curry. It's probably terrible, but it's food."
"I should head home. My mom—"
"Already called her. Said you're staying for dinner and training. She said to tell you not to get blood on your uniform again." Hano paused at the door. "And boy? Next time someone tries to bait you into dropping your weapons? Tell them to go fuck themselves and shoot them with your taser. Pride's for idiots who can afford to lose."
The door slid shut behind him.
Izuku sat alone in the training yard, surrounded by battered makiwara boards and his own exhaustion. The hollow feeling in his chest had receded. Not gone. Just smaller. Manageable.
He'd won today.
Maybe Hano was right. Maybe that was enough for now.
Tomorrow he could worry about ceilings and limits and impossible dreams. Tonight he'd eat terrible curry and probably get thrown into a wall a few dozen times during whatever sadistic training Hano had planned.
Sounded perfect, honestly.