The temperature in the central plaza dropped as a predatory chill rolled in with the artificial fog. It wasn't the cold of ice, but the clinical, bone-deep shiver that comes when a top-tier threat enters the field of vision. Standing at the threshold of the ruined cityscape was Gang Orca, the No. 10 Hero, currently playing the role of a merciless villain. Behind him, a phalanx of guards in sleek, grey tactical gear marched in perfect lockstep, their specialized blasters humming with kinetic energy.
"A hero's duty doesn't end when the victim is found," Gang Orca's voice rumbled, a deep, sub-bass growl that made the very air vibrate. "It begins when the world tries to take them back."
Sherlock Sheets stood at the front of the makeshift medical ward he had constructed. Behind him, Momo was frantically finishing a high-tension splint for a victim's leg, while Jiro and Shoji moved to flank the perimeter.
Sherlock's breathing was shallow, a rhythmic hitch in his chest serving as a reminder that his lipid reserves were at less than 15%. His tan duster was caked in grime, and his fingers, though steady, were pale beneath his matte-black gloves.
"Momo, ignore the perimeter. Focus on the triage," Sherlock commanded, his voice a sharp, cold tether in the rising panic. "If we move the wounded now, their simulated injuries will 'worsen,' and we lose points. We hold the line here."
"But Sherlock, that's Gang Orca!" Kaminari yelled, his hands sparking nervously. "His sonic waves... they'll shatter your paper like glass!"
"Sound is a wave, Kaminari," Sherlock said, his emerald eyes locking onto the approaching giant. "And waves can be dampened by the right architecture."
Gang Orca didn't wait for a parley. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding like a bellows.
"Sonic Wave!"
The air distorted, a visible ripple of high-frequency sound tearing through the smoke. It moved with the force of an invisible battering ram, aimed directly at the heart of the medical ward.
"Paper Art: Fortress Fold - Acoustic Buffer!"
Sherlock slammed his hands together. Thousands of sheets of paper erupted, but they didn't form a flat wall. Instead, they folded into a massive, multi-layered "Sponge" structure. Each layer was separated by a micro-pocket of air, and the surfaces were perforated with millions of tiny, triangular holes designed to trap and dissipate vibration.
The paper dome groaned, the edges vibrating so fast they became a blur. To the onlookers, it looked like the paper was melting, but Sherlock was manually adjusting the molecular tension of each sheet in real-time, matching the frequency of the attack to cancel it out.
"It's holding!" Midoriya shouted, mesmerized by the physics of the defense.
"For now," Sherlock gritted out, a thin trail of blood escaping his nose. The mental strain of processing the acoustic math was like trying to solve a thousand equations a second while a hammer hit his skull. "But he's just testing the foundations."
"Guards! Flank the perimeter! Eliminate the rescuers!" Gang Orca roared.
The tactical team split, moving through the thick smoke to pick off the UA students who were still carrying victims back to the plaza. Visibility was dropping to near-zero as the "villains" deployed specialized smoke canisters to mask their movements.
"I can't see them!" Iida's voice came over the radio, distorted by static. "I'm in Sector 7-C with two victims, but the landmarks are gone! I don't know which way is the plaza!"
Sherlock bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood grounding him. He couldn't leave the ward, and he couldn't use his scouting insects in this wind.
"Iida, stay mobile. I'm sending the guidance," Sherlock said.
He reached into his side pouch, pulling out a stack of standard, untreated white paper. He didn't have the energy for complex molecular glazing. He needed simplicity.
He began to fold. His hands moved in a blur of white, a rhythmic snap-snap-snap as he produced dozens of Normal Paper Planes. They were aerodynamic masterpieces—long, sleek, and weighted perfectly for a long-distance glide.
"Paper Art: Wayfinder Fleet!"
He launched them into the air. They didn't just drift; he used the rising heat from the surrounding fires to give them lift. He infused a tiny amount of his lipid-tension into their tips, making them glow with a faint, white light.
The planes glided through the pitch-black smoke, their white wings acting as glowing markers. One by one, the rescuers caught sight of the "stars" in the smog.
"I see it!" Iida's voice returned, clear and relieved. "Follow the planes! They're leading us straight to the Magician!"
The paper planes acted as a visual lighthouse, weaving through the ruins to create a safe corridor for the students to navigate the disaster zone.
Gang Orca narrowed his eyes. He saw the logic of Sherlock's play. By stabilizing the center and guiding the periphery, the "Paper Magician" was effectively neutralizing the chaos the villains were trying to create.
"You're resourceful, boy," Gang Orca said, stepping closer. The ground cracked under his weight. "But a hero must be able to withstand the storm when the roof collapses."
He unleashed a second, more powerful sonic blast, followed immediately by a physical charge. He struck the Acoustic Buffer with a fist that carried the force of a tidal wave.
The dome shattered.
Sherlock was thrown backward, sliding across the asphalt until he hit the base of a medical cot. His breathing was a ragged, whistling sound. The Sanguine Mark II coat was torn at the shoulder, and his gloves were smoking from the friction of the collapse.
"Sherlock!" Momo cried, dropping her supplies to run to him.
"Stay... at your post... Yaoyorozu," Sherlock gasped, pushing himself up. His legs were shaking, the muscles screaming in protest. "The wounded... they are the only variable that matters. If you move... the formation breaks."
He looked at Gang Orca. The giant was looming over him, a mountain of shadow and sound.
"You're at your limit," the hero-villain noted. "Your heart is laboring. Your reserves are gone. Why stand?"
Sherlock looked back at the medical ward. He saw the girl with the paper lily, now safely tucked into a cot. He saw his classmates, guided by his paper planes, returning with more survivors.
"Because," Sherlock said, his voice quiet but as sharp as a razor, "the math of this world is cruel. It takes and it breaks without reason. I decided... I would be the one constant that refuses to be subtracted."
He raised his hands again, the paper around him swirling in a slow, defiant orbit. He wasn't building a wall this time. He was building a stand.
"The Magician," Sherlock whispered, his emerald eyes burning with a cold, desperate fire, "isn't finished with his final act."
One, Sherlock is standing between a Top 10 Hero and the wounded, with nothing left but his will and a few scraps of paper.