The moon hung like a silver coin over the Nagano mountains, its light struggling to pierce the thick, sulfurous mist rising from the hot springs. After the brutal, bone-grinding trek through the Beast Forest, the water didn't just feel like a luxury; it felt like a biological necessity.
Inside the men's side of the springs, the atmosphere was a mixture of absolute exhaustion and typical teenage rowdyism.
"I can feel my soul returning to my body," Kaminari groaned, sinking into the scalding water until only his eyes were visible. "I think I left my legs somewhere around the third earth-beast."
"Strength doesn't come from comfort, Kaminari! It comes from the fire of the struggle!" Iida shouted, though even his mechanical arms were trembling slightly as he scrubbed his shoulders.
Sherlock sat in the far corner, away from the splashing and the shouting. He was submerged up to his chest, his back against the smooth, heated stone. To anyone else, he looked relaxed, but beneath the water, his mind was running at full capacity. He was cataloging the day—the density of Pixie-bob's constructs, the energy expenditure of his classmates, and the unsettling silence of the surrounding woods.
"Hey, Magician! You look like you're trying to solve the secret of the universe even in the bath," Kirishima laughed, paddling over. "Relax a bit! We survived Day One!"
"Survival is a temporary state, Kirishima," Sherlock replied, his voice echoing slightly against the stone. "The data suggests that the Pussycats have only revealed 15% of the intended difficulty. Tomorrow, the remaining 85% will be applied."
"Man, you're a real buzzkill," Sero chuckled.
On the other side of the high wooden partition, the sounds of the girls—Momo, Jiro, Ashido, and the others—splashing and laughing drifted over. For Sherlock, it was a pleasant background frequency. For Mineta, it was a siren song that triggered a total system failure of his common sense.
"The wall..." Mineta whispered, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he stared at the top of the wooden fence. "The only thing standing between me and the ultimate truth! My destiny is calling from the other side!"
"Mineta, don't," Midoriya warned, his face flushing red. "That's against every rule in the.."
"I am a man of the frontier!" Mineta shrieked, launching himself at the wall. He began to scale it with the terrifying agility of a grape-headed spider. "I'm coming for the Promised—!"
Before he could reach the top, a small, pale hand appeared on the ledge. A young boy with a red hat and a look of absolute disgust peered down.
"Pathetic," the boy said.
With a single, dismissive shove, he sent Mineta tumbling backward. The perverted student fell through the air with a comedic scream, landing with a massive thwack against the stones. But the momentum of the push was too much for the small boy. He lost his footing, his eyes widening as he slipped toward the jagged rocks of the men's side.
"Kota!" Mandalay's voice screamed from somewhere nearby.
Before the boy could hit the ground, a blur of green electricity flickered through the steam. Midoriya had vaulted from the water, catching Kota mid-air with a grace that only One For All could provide. He landed in a crouch, shielding the boy with his own body.
"Are you okay?" Midoriya asked, his voice soft despite the adrenaline.
Kota didn't say thank you. He scrambled out of Midoriya's arms, his face twisted in a snarl. "Don't touch me! You heroes... you're all the same. Disgusting."
He turned and vanished into the darkness of the woods, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
THE WEIGHT OF THE PAST
An hour later, the steam had begun to thin as the temperature of the air dropped. Most of the class had headed back to the dorms to collapse into their sleeping bags, but two figures remained.
Sherlock stood by the edge of the springs, wrapped in a simple white towel, his gaze fixed on the mountain peaks. Midoriya sat nearby, his head down, still processing the look of pure hatred in the young boy's eyes.
"Mandalay told me," Midoriya said quietly, breaking the silence. "About Kota. His parents were the Water Hose heroes. They died two years ago protecting a village from a villain named Muscular. They died 'honorably,' but all Kota sees is two people who chose their jobs over him."
Sherlock didn't turn around, but his shoulders tensed. "The 'Greater Good' is a difficult concept for a child to grasp when the 'Lesser Evil' is growing up without a mother and father."
"He hates Quirks," Midoriya continued. "He hates this entire society because it glorifies the very thing that made him an orphan. How do you even talk to someone who views your dream as a nightmare?"
Sherlock finally turned, and Midoriya was startled by the look in his eyes. It wasn't the cold, clinical green he was used to. It was a depth of sorrow that felt ancient.
"You and I are different, Midoriya," Sherlock said, his voice low and resonant. "You were born into a world of 'can't,' and you fought until you 'could.' You view heroism as an aspiration. But to people like Kota... and people like me... heroism is an inheritance. And sometimes, that inheritance is written in blood."
Midoriya looked up, his breath catching. "Sherlock-kun... your mother."
"The Pulp Princess," Sherlock said, the name tasting like copper in his mouth. "She was the center of my world. My father provided the structure, but she provided the medium. She could turn the air into a storm of white pages, a shield for the innocent. And then, one afternoon, the shield broke. A high-level villain, a structural collapse... the details don't change the sum of the equation."
He stepped closer, the moonlight illuminating the faint scars on his arms from years of training. "When she died, I didn't see a hero. I saw a void where a parent should be. I hated my Quirk for years because it was a physical reminder of what I had lost. I looked at the 'Paper Magician' in the mirror and I saw the ghost of a woman who wasn't there to hold me. I wanted to burn every sheet of paper in the world."
"But you're here," Midoriya whispered. "You're training to be the best."
"Because I realized that my resentment was a wasted variable," Sherlock replied, his gaze sharpening. "Kota is where I was five years ago. He is a boy drowning in a sea of 'Why?' and 'How could you?' If I try to talk to him, he'll only see a mirror of his own pain. He'll see someone who accepted the 'legacy' and he'll hate me for it."
Sherlock looked toward the dark cliff where Kota's secret hideout was located. "But you... you have no legacy to defend, Midoriya. You are a self-made variable. You don't represent the system that failed his parents; you represent the heart that wants to fix it. He doesn't need my logic right now. He needs your warmth."
Midoriya stood up, his fists clenching at his sides. The weight of Sherlock's confession and Kota's grief settled on his shoulders, but it didn't crush him. It gave him a direction.
"I'll reach him," Midoriya said, his voice firm with a new resolve. "I have to. If we can't save one little boy's heart, how can we save the world?"
Sherlock watched him walk away toward the path. "Good luck, Midoriya. The math of a human heart is the only equation I've never been able to solve. I hope you're the answer he's looking for."
As Sherlock stood alone in the moonlight, he looked down at his palms. A single, thin sheet of white paper began to form from his sweat—a fragile, beautiful thing born of his own biology. He thought of his mother, the way she used to smile as she folded paper cranes for him.
"I'm still here, Mother," he whispered into the mountain wind. "And I'm going to make sure the paper doesn't break this time."
One, the emotional stakes are set. Sherlock and Kota share the same trauma, and Midoriya is the only bridge between them.
The second day began before the sun had even fully cleared the mountain peaks. The air was cool and thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, but the peace was shattered by the arrival of a second bus.
Class 1-B spilled out, led by their homeroom teacher, Vlad King. The rivalry between the two classes was instant and palpable. Monoma Neito was already mid-rant, his laughter echoing across the clearing as he mocked Class 1-A for their "unrefined" performance in the Beast Forest.
"Look at them! The so-called 'elite' Class A, looking like they crawled out of a gutter!" Monoma jeered, his eyes manic. "Don't think your Sports Festival fame will save you here! We're going to blow past—"
He was silenced by a swift chop to the neck from Itsuka Kendo, who dragged his unconscious body away with a sigh of apology.
"Ignore him," Kendo said, nodding to Momo and Sherlock. "We're here to work just as hard as you."
Vlad King stood beside Aizawa, both men looking like they were preparing for a siege. "The two classes will train together, but the focus remains the same: Quirk Expansion. If you aren't pushing your limits until they break, you're wasting our time."
Aizawa stepped forward, holding a familiar softball. "Bakugo. Step up."
The blonde boy walked to the center of the circle, his expression one of suppressed fury. He remembered the last time he stood here, at the start of the year.
"Your previous record for the softball throw was 705.2 meters," Aizawa said. "Let's see how much you've grown after the Sports Festival and your internship."
Bakugo took a breath, centered his gravity, and unleashed a massive, orange-white explosion that shook the ground. The ball spiraled into the sky, trailing smoke.
The device in Aizawa's hand beeped. He turned it around for the class to see. 709.6 meters.
"Only four meters?" Kaminari gasped. "But he's been fighting like a demon all year!"
"Your Quirks are like muscles," Aizawa rasped, his eyes glowing red for a split second. "If you only use them at the level you're comfortable with, they stop growing. You've all reached a plateau. This camp is designed to break that plateau through sheer, repetitive trauma."
Within the hour, the training grounds turned into a scene of organized chaos. The Pussycats moved among the students, forcing them into positions of extreme stress.
THE PAPER MAGICIAN'S GRIND: THE PULSE OF PRODUCTION
Sherlock stood in a clearing overseen by Tiger, the muscular powerhouse of the Pussycats. Around Sherlock's ankles and wrists were heavy lead-lined weights, adding an extra fifty pounds to his frame.
"Again! Move faster! If you can't dodge me while you're exhausted, you're a dead man!" Tiger roared, throwing a flurry of heavy, sweeping punches.
Sherlock dodged, his movements fluid but strained. His primary goal wasn't just physical stamina; it was productivity. He was trying to force his sweat glands to overproduce the cellulose-rich saline solution he had discovered. He wanted to generate paper directly from his skin, but the result was inconsistent. Small, soggy scraps of paper would form and then dissolve, or his pores would simply clog, causing sharp stings across his forearms.
The chemistry is correct, but the mechanical delivery is flawed, Sherlock thought, wiping sweat from his brow. I'm trying to force it out like a leak. I need a catalyst.
He looked over at Bakugo, who was nearby, plunging his hands into boiling water to expand his sweat glands before detonating localized blasts. Sherlock paused, watching the rhythm of Bakugo's explosions. It wasn't a constant stream; it was a build-up of pressure followed by a sharp, controlled release.
Sherlock walked over during a brief water break.
Bakugo stopped, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. "What do you want, Four-Eyes? Come to see what a real Quirk looks like?"
"Bakugo," Sherlock said, his voice raspy. "Your Quirk relies on nitroglycerin-like sweat. How do you prevent the glands from collapsing under the pressure of the expansion?"
Bakugo glared at him, his chest heaving. "What do I look like, a textbook? Figure it out yourself, You Magician !"
"I am asking for a mechanical comparison," Sherlock replied, unmoved by the hostility. "I am trying to secrete a fibrous solid. My pores are jamming because I'm pushing the fluid too slowly. How do you 'prime' the release?"
Bakugo scoffed, but he looked at Sherlock's red, irritated forearms. "You're trying to squeeze a balloon, idiot. You're just gonna pop the skin. You don't 'push' the sweat. You pulse the muscles around the glands. It's a snap-release. You build the pressure internally, and then you open the gate all at once. If you don't have the rhythm, you're just a leaky faucet."
Sherlock stood still, his mind instantly modeling the muscle groups Bakugo was describing. A snap-release. Pulsed internal pressure. I was treating my skin as a filter, but I should be treating it as a valve.
Sherlock returned to his station. He closed his eyes, ignoring Tiger's shouts. He focused on the micro-muscles of his forearms and palms. He felt the heat of the summer sun and the exertion of the weights. He felt the fluid building up in his glands.
Pulse.
He didn't try to sweat. He tightened the dermal muscles, creating a momentary vacuum of pressure, then snapped them open.
Fwip.
A perfectly formed, 3x5 index-sized sheet of white paper slid out from his palm. It was dry, crisp, and high-density.
Again.
Pulse. Snap. Release.
For four hours straight, Sherlock didn't stop. He ignored the burning in his muscles and the dehydration clawing at his throat. He fell into a trance of mechanical reproduction. He was no longer just a boy; he was a living press.
By the end of the session, Sherlock sat on the ground, his body trembling with fatigue. Around him lay a stack of white cards.
120 sheets.
He had quadrupled his previous limit of thirty. His stamina had reached a new plateau, and his understanding of his own biology had shifted from a "Quirk" to a "Function." He was exhausted, his skin raw, but his eyes were filled with a cold, triumphant light.
"One hundred and twenty," Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking. "The math has changed."
As the sun began to set, Aizawa walked by, looking at the pile of paper. He didn't say anything, but he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Sherlock had found the pulse. The Magician had found his ink.
One, the training has borne fruit! Sherlock has shattered his limits and found a new rhythm thanks to an unlikely tip from Bakugo.
THE CULINARY CRUCIBLE
The sun had finally dipped below the jagged mountain peaks, leaving the training camp in a bruised purple twilight. But for the students of Class 1-A, there was no rest. After ten hours of pushing their Quirks past the point of muscle failure and mental exhaustion, they stood before a makeshift outdoor kitchen, staring at crates of raw vegetables and bags of rice with glazed, hollow eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me..." Kaminari groaned, his arms hanging limp at his sides like overcooked noodles. "I can barely move my fingers, and now I have to peel potatoes? Is this even legal?"
"I'm too tired to even hold a knife!" Ashido wailed, her hands shaking as she peeled a potato.
A hero must be self-sufficient in any environment!" Iida shouted, though even his voice lacked its usual metallic bite. He was currently trying to stir a massive pot with arms that shook from his engine-burst training. "To sustain the body is to sustain the mission! Chop with passion, everyone!"
"I'm gonna sustain my foot in your—" Bakugo's voice cut through the air like a jagged blade.
The explosive blonde was already at a prep station, a kitchen knife in his hand moving so fast it was a blur of steel. He wasn't just cooking; he was attacking the ingredients.
"MOVE IT, DEKU! You're bruising the onions! If the cuts aren't uniform, the texture is trash!" Bakugo roared, his brow slick with sweat.
Beside him, surprisingly, was Sherlock.
While the rest of the class was fumbling with dull knives and complaining about the heat of the charcoal fires, Sherlock was operating with a terrifying, silent intensity. He had his sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms, and he was dicing carrots into perfect, 5-millimeter cubes with the precision of a high-speed laser.
"Your heat management is inefficient, Bakugo," Sherlock said, his voice a low, calm contrast to the blonde's screaming. "You've set the base fire too high. The aromatics will scorch before the starch in the potatoes can gelatinize. It's basic thermodynamics."
"I DON'T NEED A PHYSICS LESSON FROM A PAPER-BOY!" Bakugo yelled, slamming a head of garlic onto the cutting board with enough force to make the table jump. "I cook by instinct! My curry has more kick in one bite than your entire boring-ass life!"
"Instinct is a variable for the undisciplined," Sherlock countered, not even looking up as he swept his perfectly diced vegetables into a pot. "Consistency is the hallmark of a master. Your curry is an explosion; mine is a symphony of calculated flavor."
The rest of the class slowed down, watching the two of them in a mixture of awe and confusion. It was a bizarre sight: the two most intense, unapproachable boys in the class were locked in a high-stakes culinary duel, arguing over spice ratios and simmer times as if they were fighting for their lives.
"Are they... actually fighting over the curry?" Kirishima whispered, holding a half-peeled potato.
"It's weirdly intense," Sero added. "I didn't even know Sheets-kun liked cooking. Look at his face. He's actually... passionate?"
Momo stood a few feet away, washing a stack of plates. She paused, a soft, radiant smile spreading across her face as she watched Sherlock. Usually, he was so guarded, his emotions tucked away behind layers of logic and social distance. But here, under the heat of the cooking fires, he was opening up. It was a strange, competitive, and distinctly "Sherlock" way of showing personality, but he was there, fully present with his classmates.
He's having fun, Momo thought, her heart giving a small, warm thump. In his own eccentric way, he's truly enjoying himself.
"SHERLOCK! WATCH THE OIL!" Bakugo barked.
"The flashpoint is well within the safety margin, Bakugo. Focus on your own seasoning. You've added too much cumin; it's overbearing."
"SHUT UP AND EAT MY SPICES!"
The meal was, by all accounts, a masterpiece. The sheer competitive energy between Bakugo and Sherlock had resulted in a curry so rich and flavorful that even Aizawa took a second helping. As the students sat on logs and benches, shoveling the warm food into their mouths, a sense of weary peace settled over the camp.
Midoriya looked down at a clean plastic container he had filled with a portion of the curry. He looked toward the dark, forested path that led up to the mountain lookout where Kota spent his solitary hours
"Are you coming, Sherlock-kun?" Midoriya asked softly.
Sherlock was leaning against a wooden pillar, his eyes tracking the steam rising from his own bowl. He looked at the path, then back at his hands, which were still stained with the scent of spices and the residue of his own biological paper training.
"No," Sherlock said, his voice losing its competitive edge and returning to that somber, analytical tone. "I told you before, Midoriya. My presence would be a net negative for the boy."
"But you understand him," Midoriya argued. "You know what it feels like to lose a hero parent. You could tell him—"
"That it gets better? That the math eventually balances out?" Sherlock interrupted, his emerald eyes locking onto Midoriya's. "That would be a lie. The void left by a parent doesn't shrink, Midoriya; you just build a bigger life around it. But Kota isn't ready to build yet. He's still standing in the center of the crater."
Sherlock looked at Midoriya, his expression softening just a fraction. "Right now, Kota views 'Heroes' as people who trade their lives for a headline. If I go up there, I am just another 'Hero-in-training' reminding him of what he lost. But you... you don't have a legacy of tragedy. You have the sincerity of a boy who simply wants to help. You are the only one who can offer him a hand without the weight of the past pulling it back."
Midoriya nodded, a look of grim determination crossing his face. "I understand. I'll try my best."
"Don't try to solve him, Midoriya," Sherlock added as the green-haired boy began to walk away. "Just be there. Sometimes the only way to fix a broken equation is to introduce a constant that refuses to leave."
Sherlock watched Midoriya disappear into the shadows of the trees. He stayed by the fire for a long time, the laughter of his classmates fading into the background. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper crane—the last thing his mother had ever made for him.
He didn't need to go up the mountain. He knew the conversation that was happening in the dark. He knew the rejection Midoriya would face, and the stubborn kindness that would eventually wear
it down.
As the "Paper Magician" looked into the dying embers of the fire, he realized that while he was training his body to become a weapon of cellulose and iron, Midoriya was training to be something much more difficult: a light in the dark.
And in the forest of Nagano, with the League of Villains closing in, they were going to need both.
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Mha:- The Grand illusionist