Chapter 5

₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎.
⤷ trick of the light. 

SCHOOL WAS CLOSED THE day after the USJ attack. The decision came early that morning, announced across every screen and phone. It was meant to give the students time to rest—to decompress from the chaos that had unfolded less than twenty-four hours before.

But not many of them actually rested.

Most of the kids in Class 1-A had barely slept, their minds still replaying the flashes of combat. The ones who weren’t terrified were restless, their adrenaline still running. Oda was among the latter. 

When they finally returned to school the next day, U.A. felt different. The buzz of chatter in the hallways was tense and uneven. Everyone was talking about the attack—about the press flooding the gates, about the police reports. Rumors spread like wildfire. Some said it was an inside job. Others whispered about Easer Head’s condition.

Even the teachers seemed on edge.

And yet, despite it all, Aizawa came to class.

The door slid open quietly, and the sound alone made everyone look up. The man who stepped through didn’t look like someone who should’ve been walking, let alone teaching. Bandages wrapped nearly his entire face, his dark hair sticking out in tired tufts from beneath them. Both of his arms were bound in thick casts and wrapped tightly against his chest.

“Morning, class,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

“Mr. Aizawa?” someone blurted, disbelief heavy in their tone.

“What are you doing here?” another added, voices rising with concern.

“Whoa, what a pro,” Kaminari muttered, half awe, half shock.

Iida’s hand shot up before anyone else could speak. “Mr. Aizawa, I’m glad you’re okay!” His voice was earnest, almost too loud for the quiet tension of the room. 

Aizawa limped his way to the podium.

“You call that okay?” Ochaco asked, her expression full of worry.

“My well-being is irrelevant,” Aizawa replied bluntly, his tone clipped and unwavering, as if pain meant nothing. He adjusted the edge of the podium with his elbow, his bandaged hands useless. “What’s more important is that your fight isn’t over yet.”

“Our fight?” Bakugo echoed, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Don’t tell me…” Midoriya began, voice wavering.

Mineta looked like he might burst into tears. “Not more bad guys!” he squeaked, clutching the edge of his desk.

Aizawa deadpanned through the bandages, unimpressed. “The U.A. Sports Festival is about to start.”

The entire class froze. Then, in the same breath—

“Yes!” Kirishima shouted, his enthusiasm cutting through the stunned silence.

“Ugh! Why would you scare us like that?” a few students yelled at once, voices overlapping.

“The Sports Festival?” another repeated, still dazed.

“Let’s go kick some ass!” Kirishima declared, pumping a fist in the air.

“Wait a second.” Kaminari shoved a hand into Kirishima’s face, pushing him back from his desk. 

“Is it really such a good idea to hold the Sports Festival so soon after the villains snuck inside?” Jiro asked, her tone skeptical as she twisted one of her earjacks idly around her finger.

“Yeah, they could attack while everyone’s in one place,” Ojiro added, his tail flicking once against the floor.

“Apparently the administration thinks this is a good way to show that the threat has been handled and that our school is safer than ever. Plus, they’re beefing up security compared to past years,” Mr. Aizawa explained evenly, though his voice carried the faint rasp of exhaustion. “This is a huge opportunity for all students at U.A. It’s not something we can just cancel.”

“Um, I’m sorry, but why not? It’s just a sports festival,” Mineta protested, still pale from his earlier panic.

“Our sports festival is one of the most watched events in the world,” Aizawa continued, his gaze sweeping the class. “In the past, everyone obsessed over the Olympic Games, but then quirks started appearing. Now the Olympics have been drastically reduced in scale and viewership. For anyone who cares about competitions, there’s only one tournament that matters. U.A. Sports Festival.”

“Top heroes everywhere will be watching,” Momo added, ever the model student. “This is where you get scouted.”

“Sure, unless you’re dead,” Mineta muttered, slumping in his seat.

“She’s right,” Kaminari said, nodding. “After graduating, a lot of people join pro agencies as a sidekick.”

“Yeah, but that’s as far as some people go,” Jiro countered, smirking. “They miss their chance to go indie and stay eternal sidekicks. Actually, that’s probably where you’re headed,” she teased, pointing her earjack toward Kaminari. “You’re kinda dumb.”

Kaminari groaned, slouching in his seat while the rest of the class chuckled.

“It’s true that joining a top hero agency can garner you greater experience and popularity. That’s why the festival matters,” Aizawa said, cutting back in. “If you wanna go pro someday, then this event may open a path for you. One chance a year, three chances in a lifetime. No aspiring hero can afford to miss this festival. That means you better not slack off on your training.”

“Yes, sir,” the class responded almost in unison, though the energy in their voices varied—some excited, some anxious, some simply resigned.

“Class is dismissed.”

𓏵

THEY GOT TWO WEEKS before the Sports Festival to train for the worldwide event. The announcement alone had sent the entire class into overdrive. Every student in Class 1-A threw themselves into their training, some with excitement, others with quiet desperation. For many, this was their first real chance to prove themselves—to show the world that they weren’t just kids with quirks, but heroes in the making.

Each student worked to improve what they could already do and to take up new skills as they went. The training grounds were alive every day—shouts echoing through the air, the sound of explosions, the rush of wind from quirk after quirk firing off. 

Oda, however, took a different approach. While the others sparred or tested new moves, he focused inward. Stamina. Control. Restraint. He knew his quirk wasn’t something he could flaunt like Bakugo’s or Todoroki’s. His power came with limits—painful, dangerous ones. Each time he pushed too hard, his body reminded him of just how fragile it still was beneath the enhancements and training.

So he spent hours alone, pushing himself past the point of exhaustion. He practiced bending gravity, fine-tuning his control so he could use it longer without tearing himself apart. His goal was simple: make his body stronger—organ by organ, muscle by muscle—until it could withstand his quirk’s toll. The process was grueling. More than once, he’d doubled over coughing, the copper taste of blood in his mouth. But he kept going.

And before anyone knew it, those two weeks were gone. The so-called Sports Festival was upon them.

All first-year students would be competing—not just against other classes, but against each other. The whole school watched. The whole world would be watching.

Oda didn’t think he’d be this nervous, but a horrifying thought had hit him—one he hadn’t considered before.

This event was going to be on live TV. It would be streamed everywhere—broadcast across Japan, replayed, clipped, and analyzed. Every camera, every commentator, every spectator would be watching their every move.

It wasn’t stage fright. Oda didn’t fear performing. He wasn’t afraid of losing, or even of fighting in front of thousands.

No, what he feared was being recognized.

From the moment he’d stepped foot into U.A., both he and Ango had known there was a risk—a big one. It was the media he feared. It was the public eye. 

Oda’s father had never been a public villain. He didn’t leave flashy calling cards or grand declarations. But he’d left a mark—on heroes, on villains, on history. The kind of reputation that didn’t die with the man himself. Heroes still whispered his name when they talked about the darkest days of the ’90s.

If Oda’s quirk didn’t give him away, his appearance could—if he wasn’t careful. His black hair dye had long since become part of his daily routine, hiding the unnatural shade beneath. The colored contacts masked his true eyes completely, and he’d learned to keep his expressions subdued, to avoid the sharpness that made him look too much like him. The markings on his arms were his own, at least—those weren’t inherited, just cursed reflections of his own power.

If the villains figured it out, fine—they’d deal with it when the time came. If Endeavor caught on, or even All Might, that would be a different story, but Oda suspected they already did know. 

But if the public found out?

That would be the end.

The media would eat it alive. His name would be plastered across every news feed, every talk show. “Villain’s Son Enrolled at U.A.” The outrage alone would be enough to get him expelled—if the government didn’t lock him away first. Labs, Tartarus, or worse. His time at U.A. would be over before it ever really began.

He tried to shake it off, but it lingered—an anxiety that sat heavy in his stomach.

For some reason, it was Todoroki who broke through the buzz of the waiting room, making what was basically a declaration of war against Midoriya. It was random, out of nowhere, and everyone turned to look.

Oda didn’t care. He had other things to worry about.

He stood, quietly slipping out of the room, ignoring the curious glances as he headed for the bathroom. The tiled walls were cold and echoing, the hum of the lights too loud. He went straight to the mirror, checking his reflection for the billionth time. His face stared back at him—familiar, but not the same. 

They were all wearing their U.A. gym uniforms for the Festival—plain, equalizing, stripped of individuality so no one could hide behind flash or fashion. It was fair, but Oda couldn’t help but feel exposed. The short sleeves showed more of his skin than he liked, the faint red markings along his arms visible under the light. 

He shivered, goosebumps rising across his arms. He’d be fine once they got going, once the adrenaline kicked in. He just needed to keep his focus.

He leaned closer to the mirror, making sure his eye contacts were seated properly, adjusting them with careful fingers. They were fine. Everything was fine. He straightened his collar, exhaled slowly—

And then froze.

The door creaked open behind him.

Kaminari’s reflection appeared in the mirror, his trademark grin half in place, his hair messier than usual.

Oda nearly jumped out of his skin. He jerked back from the sink, his hand dropping automatically to his side like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Hey, man. You good?” Kaminari asked easily, his tone casual and friendly, oblivious to Oda’s spike of panic.

Oda glanced sideways, his pulse still racing. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not, I feel like I’m gonna be sick,” Kaminari said with a half-laugh, knocking the side of his fist against his forehead. His energy was jittery, nervous excitement bleeding into every movement. “Bet you got this in the bag, though, right?”

Oda’s stomach flipped. “Why do you say that?”

Kaminari grinned wider, all teeth. “Please, I saw you in the Battle Trial—you wiped the floor with Todoroki.”

“That was a simulated trial. This is different,” Oda pointed out, his tone even but his eyes avoiding the mirror now. “And clearly Todoroki’s father has lit a fire under him, so I doubt it’ll be that easy this time around.”

“True.” Kaminari sighed, stepping aside to let Oda pass. “Well, hey, man, good luck.”

Oda blinked at him, a little thrown by the sincerity. Then he gave a short nod and opened the door. “You too.”

𓏵

“WELCOME BACK TO THE U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL, WHERE UP-AND-COMING HEROES LEAVE EVERYTHING ON THE FIELD AS THEY FIGHT FOR THE CHANCE AT FAME! THIS FIRST GROUP ARE NO STRANGERS TO THE SPOTLIGHT—YOU ALL KNOW THEM FOR WITHSTANDING A VILLAIN ATTACK! THE DAZZLING HERO COURSE STUDENTS OF CLASS 1-A!!!”

Present Mic’s voice boomed across the massive stadium, echoing through speakers so loud the concrete practically vibrated beneath their feet. 

The roar of the crowd hit like a physical wave. 

Tens of thousands of spectators packed the stands, their cheers blending into one deafening wall of noise. Colorful banners waved from every section, fans shouting the names of their favorite students and heroes.

The class of first-years stepped out from the tunnel in their standard U.A. gym uniforms, each one bearing the navy blue and white stripes of the school. 

The bright sunlight reflected off the polished field, nearly blinding after the dim interior of the waiting rooms. Some students raised their hands nervously, others tried to look confident.

Oda walked near the back of the group, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze scanning the towering stands. The sheer size of the crowd made his skin crawl. He could feel thousands of eyes on him—on all of them—and even though he knew they couldn’t possibly pick him out of the sea of faces, his nerves didn’t care.

Present Mic’s voice thundered again as he continued introducing the other first-year divisions.

“Next up—Hero Course, Class 1-B!”

A new wave of cheers erupted as the rival class marched out confidently. They were already glaring playfully—some not so playfully—at Class 1-A.

“General Studies Classes C, D, and E!”

The applause was more polite this time, though the students of the General Department still looked proud, some already whispering plans about proving they deserved to be in the hero course.

“Support Classes F, G, and H!”

Several Support students waved dramatically as they entered, carrying tool belts and modified equipment strapped across their uniforms.

“And finally, Business Classes I, J, and K!”

They walked out in perfect formation, polite smiles plastered on their faces, looking more like interns than combatants.

“Now the introductory speech!” Midnight’s voice cut through, sultry but commanding as she stood at the podium near the front of the field. Her hero costume shimmered under the sun, and the crowd responded instantly with cheers and whistles. “And for the student pledge, we have—Katsuki Bakugo!”

“Uhh… He’s the first-year rep?” Midoriya asked quietly, disbelief clear in his voice.

“I guess that hothead did finish first in the entrance test,” Sero muttered. Most of Class A exchanged uneasy looks, some grimacing, others outright worried.

“Great,” Kaminari sighed. “We’ve got Bakugo to thank for them not liking our class.”

Kirishima laughed awkwardly, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, this should go well.”

“Gonna be interesting,” Oda muttered from behind them, his tone flat as his eyes followed Bakugo walking toward the podium. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, the picture of disinterest, though Oda caught the faint twitch of a smirk on his face.

Bakugo’s footsteps echoed on the platform as he approached the microphone. The stadium fell into a long, tense silence. Even the crowd quieted, waiting to hear what the volatile blond would say. He stood there with his shoulders squared, expression unreadable, hands shoved into his pockets.

“I just wanna say…” he began, his voice steady, echoing faintly through the mic.

A beat of silence.

“I’m gonna win.”

There it is.

The stadium erupted instantly. The silence shattered into a chorus of boos, jeers, and outraged shouting. Every first-year from the other classes seemed to turn into a united front of fury, yelling across the field. Even Class 1-A groaned collectively, a few of them burying their faces in their hands.

Iida was the loudest among them, waving his arms as if that could somehow repair the damage. “Bakugo, that’s not how you inspire unity!”

Bakugo, of course, didn’t care. He simply turned and walked off stage with the same casual arrogance he’d walked on with, ignoring the storm he’d created. Oda didn’t know whether to be irritated or impressed by his complete lack of awareness—or maybe it was total confidence. Either way, it worked. Everyone was paying attention now.

“WELL, WITHOUT FURTHER ADIEU, IT’S TIME FOR US TO GET STARTED!” Midnight announced, reclaiming control of the stage. The crowd’s energy shifted instantly back to excitement. “This is where you begin feeling the pain! The first fateful game of the festival!”

A massive holographic screen behind her flickered to life, spinning like a lottery wheel before landing on its answer with a cheerful chime.

“Ta-da! An Obstacle Course!” Midnight declared, throwing her arm out dramatically as the words appeared in bold across the display.

Murmurs spread across the field as students leaned toward each other, whispering predictions about what that meant.

“All eleven classes will participate in this treacherous contest!” she continued, her grin sharp. “The track is four kilometers around the outside of the stadium. I don’t want to restrain anyone—at least not in this game. As long as you don’t leave the course, you’re free to do as your heart desires.”

The crowd erupted again, their cheers shaking the stands.

“Now then, take your places, contestants!”

The students began to move, forming loose lines near the starting gate. Dust rose from the track under their shoes as the air filled with tension. Oda adjusted the cuff of his gym jacket, his expression calm but his heartbeat anything but. 

The festival had officially begun.