The silence that followed the announcement of Loki's victory was not the respectful hush of awe. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of confusion—and then, it broke.
"BOOOOOOO!"
The sound was a physical blow. As Loki Hargreaves stepped off the concrete precipice of the arena and into the shadowed maw of the player's tunnel, the collective disapproval of forty thousand people crashed against his back. It wasn't the sharp, energetic booing reserved for a villain; it was the low, rhythmic thrum of a crowd that felt cheated. It was the sound of an audience that had been promised a symphony and given a card trick.
"Fraud!"
The shout came from a man leaning over the railing of the first tier, his face purple with indignation. "Go back to the circus, kid! Let the real heroes fight!"
Loki didn't break his stride. He kept his chin tilted at that precise, aristocratic angle, his silver-headed cane clicking against the floor in a steady, maddeningly calm rhythm. Internally, however, his mind was a storm of static. The "Weight" he had imposed on Kirishima had left a vacuum in his chest, a hollow ache that made every breath feel like a chore.
"Rigged!" a man in the front row screamed, shaking his fist. "The kid didn't even hit him! Since when do cards beat rocks?!"
"It's a parlor trick!" another yelled. "Give us a real fight!"
Loki stood in the center of the ring, his hand still resting on his cane. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up at the thousands of angry faces. He simply adjusted his monocle, the glass catching the harsh glare of the stadium lights. To the crowd, he looked arrogant—a fraud who had cheated a "true" hero out of a win.
In the Pro-Hero booths, the reaction was more surgical.
"The kid's a fake!" a man in a pro-hero jersey spat, tossing a crumpled soda cup toward the tunnel. "Kirishima was robbed! You can't just touch someone and make them fall over! It's a quirk for cowards!"
A few rows down, a group of off-duty Pro-Heroes sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the replay screens.
"Cowardly?" one hero, a veteran with a tracking quirk, murmured. "Look at his eyes in the high-def replay. The dilation is extreme. He's not just 'touching' him; he's experiencing a massive feedback loop. He's lucky he didn't have a stroke on live television."
"The public hates what they can't understand," his partner replied, scribbling in a scout's notebook. "But the villains? They're going to be terrified of that kid. He's the only one in the Top 16 who can win a fight without breaking a sweat—at least, that's the 'Lie' he's telling."
"Look at them," Death Arms muttered, crossing his massive arms. "The crowd hates it because they can't see the mechanics. But look at Kirishima's pulse rate on the monitors. It's through the roof. That wasn't a fake collapse; that was a systemic shutdown."
"It's high-level suggestion," Mt. Lady added, leaning forward with a rare look of genuine curiosity. "He didn't break Kirishima's body; he hijacked his perception of gravity. It's... efficient. Dirty, but efficient."
High above the arena, in the reinforced glass booths reserved for the elite, the atmosphere was just as fractured. The professional heroes, men and women who had spent decades in the trenches of the quirk-war, looked at the monitors with narrowed eyes.
"I don't like it," Death Arms grumbled, his massive fingers tapping against the armrest. "Heroics is about inspiration. It's about showing the public a wall they can lean on. That kid... he didn't show strength. He showed a shortcut. If the public starts thinking heroes just 'trick' their way to victory, the foundation of trust crumbles."
"I disagree," a sharp, feminine voice interrupted. It was Ryukyu, the Dragoon Hero, her gaze fixed on the playback of Kirishima's collapse. "Look at the efficiency. He neutralized a high-durability target with zero collateral damage and minimal physical contact. In a hostage situation, I'd take Hargreaves over a brawler who might bring the building down."
"It's not about efficiency, Ryukyu," another hero chimed in. "It's about the vibe. Look at the kids. They don't want to be 'efficient.' They want to be All Might."
Down in the Class 1-A waiting area, the atmosphere was a fractured mirror.
Loki entered the student preparation area, and the temperature seemed to drop five degrees. The boos from the stadium were still audible, a muffled hum through the thick concrete walls.
"That was so unmanly!" Kaminari groaned, throwing his hands up. "Kirishima was giving it his all, and Hargreaves just... booped him? How is that a win?"
"It's not 'unmanly', Kaminari-kun," Iida corrected, though his brow was furrowed in thought. "It was a tactical application of psychological pressure. However... I admit, it felt... unsatisfying to watch."
"I can't believe it," Kaminari said, "Kirishima worked so hard. He was literally 'Unbreakable.' And Loki just... poked him? It feels like he cheated, even if he didn't."
"He didn't cheat," Iida Tenya snapped, though he looked deeply unsettled. "By the rules of the tournament, any quirk application is legal within the bounds. But... It was a deeply unconventional victory. To win by manipulating a classmate's perception of reality... it feels predatory."
"It's because you're all soft," Bakugo's voice cut through the chatter like a knife. He was slumped in his seat, his feet up on the railing, eyes fixed on the empty ring. "The rock-head lost because he's an idiot who thinks his skin is enough. If you can't see the difference between a punch and a bluff, you deserve to hit the dirt."
"You're being unusually observant, Bakugo," Jiro muttered.
"Shut up, Ear-jacks! I'm saying the fancy-pants is a snake. You don't get mad at a snake for biting; you get mad at the idiot who forgot snakes have fangs."
Momo Yaoyorozu watched the exchange in silence. She saw the way the class was pulling away from Loki, a subtle but unmistakable shift in the social geography. He was becoming an outsider again—not because he was weak, but because his strength was "wrong."
Loki reached the central hallway where the tournament brackets were displayed on a floor-to-ceiling holographic monitor. He stopped, his reflection ghosting over the glowing names.
"The script is tightening," Loki whispered, his fingers tracing the rim of his cracked monocle.
The screen flickered, shifting the winners of the first round into the Quarter-Finals. The crowd's roar reached him even here as the matchups were announced to the stadium:
Match 1:Iida Tenya vs. Ashido Mina
Match 2: Tokoyami Fumikage vs. Bakugo Katsuki
Match 3:Loki Hargreaves vs. Shiozaki Ibara
Match 4:Midoriya Izuku vs. Todoroki Shoto
Loki's breath hitched. Shiozaki. He leaned his head against the cold concrete wall, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat. Of all the opponents in the Top 8, she was the one he feared most. Not because of her vines—though they were formidable—but because of her Soul.
Shiozaki Ibara was a devotee. She didn't just have a quirk; she had a faith. She believed in a divine "Truth" that governed the universe.
A worshiper, Loki thought, his fingers twitching. How do you lie to someone who believes the Truth is written in heaven? How do you trick eyes that claim to see the light of God?
To Shiozaki, an illusion wouldn't just be a quirk; it would be a sin. A deception to be purged.
Loki retreated to a private prep room, locking the door behind him. He collapsed into a chair, his mask finally slipping. He was trembling. The "Weight" he had imposed on Kirishima had left his mana veins feeling like they were filled with acid.
"Practically speaking," he whispered to the empty room, "I am a liar entering a cathedral. My 'Veneer' relies on the target's own doubts and expectations. But Shiozaki doesn't doubt. She follows a script that I didn't write."
He pulled a card from his sleeve—the High Priestess. He looked at the calm, stoic face on the card.
He thought about Shiozaki Ibara. He had watched her performance in the first round against Kaminari Denki.
It hadn't been a fight. It had been a ritual.
Kaminari, with all his electric potential, had been neutralized in a matter of seconds. Shiozaki hadn't moved from her spot. She had simply knelt, prayed, and let her vine-hair do the work. Her vines were multi-faceted—they acted as shields, as spears, and as ground-wires for electricity.
But it was her performance that bothered Loki.
"She doesn't doubt," Loki analyzed, his eyes narrowing. "When Kaminari charged his lightning, she didn't flinch. Most people flinch at the sound of thunder. It's a biological imperative. But she... she believes she is protected by a higher power. Her 'Script' isn't written by her; she thinks it's written by God."
In his mind, he saw the upcoming match. Shiozaki would use her vines to create a wide-area capture. She wouldn't charge like Kirishima. She wouldn't let him get close. She would stay back, her vines acting as a thousand sensors that didn't rely on sight or sound, but on the "Truth" of touch.
If I try to 'Snap' her perception, Loki realized, her vines will still find me. They don't have brains to trick. They are extensions of her will.
He stood up and walked to the mirror, splashing cold water on his face. The boos of the crowd were still muffled in the distance, a dull roar of disapproval.
"They want a show," Loki said to his reflection, his eyes narrowing. "They want to see the 'Fraud' get what he deserves. They want the Saint to cast out the Demon."
He straightened his cravat, his fingers steadying as the old, cold arrogance began to sew his mask back together.
"Very well. If the audience wants a crusade... I'll give them a miracle they'll never forget. I won't lie to her eyes. I'll lie to her 'God'."