Chapter 11
₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.
⤷ Midoriya vs. Todoroki.
DURING THE BREAK between rounds, the distant thunk-thunk-thunk of Kirishima and Tetsutetsu’s arm-wrestling echoed faintly through the arena corridors—an oddly fitting soundtrack for two humans built like industrial machinery. Oda glanced up only when the crowd burst into laughter and cheers. The screen showed Kirishima’s stone-hard biceps trembling violently as he forced Tetsutetsu’s metal hand down to the table.
Rock beat steel. Barely.
Oda let out a slow exhale through his nose.
The bracket updated with a soft digital blink:
Midoriya vs. Todoroki
Shiozaki vs. Edogawa
Ashido vs. Tokoyami
Kirishima vs. Bakugo
Oda’s eyes lingered on his own name. Fighting Shiozaki… the girl with vines for hair and an over-developed sense of righteousness. Tricky, but not impossible. Not like fighting Todoroki or Tokoyami. Still—not easy, either. Her reach was insane.
Before he could dwell too long on strategies, a shadow appeared over him.
Bakugo stomped his way back into the student section.
“Hey, Bakugo!” Sero called, twisting around in his seat with a grin that Oda instantly recognized as bait. “Playin’ the villain, huh? Musta been tough.”
“Even if it was just because of who you were put against, you did make a pretty convincing bad guy,” Asui added.
Bakugo’s nostrils flared. “Shut up, you idiots! Or else!”
“For real, dude,” Kaminari frowned, leaning forward slightly. “I don’t know how you were able to aim a powerful blast at a frail girl like that.”
Bakugo dropped into the row behind them, elbows on his knees, scowl firmly in place. “I definitely wouldn’t call that girl frail.”
That, oddly, made Oda sit up straighter.
The stadium lights dimmed, then blazed white again as Present Mic’s voice ripped over the speakers:
“I CAN FEEL THE ANTICIPATION IN THE STADIUM! AND THAT’S BECAUSE THE SECOND ROUND’S FIRST MATCH IS GONNA BE EPIC! IT’S THE GUY WHO WON HIS LAST FIGHT BY A LANDSLIDE AND LITERALLY LEFT HALF THE AUDIENCE FROZEN—THE HERO COURSE’S SHOTO TODOROKI! AND THIS KID ALMOST WALKED OUT OF HIS FIRST MATCH BUT MADE A STEADY COME BACK BY SHOWING US SOME IMPRESSIVE MOVES—IZUKU MIDORIYA!”
Todoroki stepped onto the field—calm, sharp, expression blank as fresh ice. Midoriya followed with both hands balled into shaking fists. Determined. Nervous. Fully aware he was walking into a deathmatch and still doing it anyway.
Up in the stands, Iida leaned toward Tokoyami. “Tokoyami, how do you think this matchup will go?”
Tokoyami didn’t blink. “It depends on whether or not Midoriya is able to get in close to him.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Uraraka sighed, arms clutched around her stomach. “How will Deku avoid the ice?”
Oda rested his chin on his fist.
Todoroki’s ice wasn’t just cold. It was instantaneous. Effortless. Midoriya, on the other hand… He breaks himself to keep moving. Oda had never quite decided whether he admired that or found it horrifying.
On the field, Present Mic’s voice reached its crescendo:
“BOTH OF THESE HEROES IN TRAINING HAVE BEEN FRONTRUNNERS IN THE SPORTS FESTIVAL! BUT WHICH ONE OF THESE RIVALS WILL ADVANCE TO THE NEXT ROUND? PREPARE FOR… MIDORIYA VERSUS TODOROKI! BEGIN!”
The gong sounded.
The crowd held its breath.
As soon as Present Mic shouted “BEGIN!” a jagged glacier of ice roared across the arena—Todoroki’s signature opening move, sharp and merciless, like winter snapping its jaws shut.
The moment the ice screamed toward him, Midoriya didn’t run.
He didn’t dodge.
He braced.
And with a single finger glowing with power, he flicked.
The resulting blast of wind was so violent it seemed to detonate the air itself. The shockwave shook the arena seats, rattling the metal beams overhead. The entire student section lurched back like they’d been shoved.
Todoroki barely had time to slam up a wall of ice to anchor himself, shoes skidding back several inches as the shock traveled through the ground.
“WOW! MIDORIYA MANAGED TO BREAK TODOROKI’S INSANE OPENING MOVE!” Present Mic hollered.
Ice came again—another tidal wave.
Midoriya flicked again.
The air cracked like a whip.
“HE COUNTERED AGAIN!”
And again.
And again.
Each impact blasted cold air into the stands. Frost bit at Oda’s skin as he shivered and yanked his zipper all the way up. The temperature was dropping fast—Todoroki didn’t hold back with the right side of his body.
Hurried footsteps clattered behind them. Kirishima burst into the row, panting from having sprinted back.
“Oh, no, crap! I’m missing it!” He leaned over the railing, eyes wide as the two clashed.
“Hey, nice job making it to the second round, Kirishima,” Kaminari offered, patting the seat beside him.
“Thanks, man,” Kirishima grinned, though his eyes were glued to the arena. “Looks like I take down Bakugo next.”
“I’ll kill you,” Bakugo muttered.
“Heh. Yeah, sure. In your dreams.” Kirishima waved him off with absolute confidence, then nodded toward the ring. “No, but seriously. It’s crazy how you and Todoroki both have moves that blast the whole stadium. Must be pretty nice.”
“Plus you don’t have to pause between attacks,” Sero added, leaning back to give Bakugo a pointed look.
“It’s not as easy as you think, ya morons,” Bakugo snapped, voice edged.
“Hm?” Kaminari blinked.
“If you overuse your muscles, you risk tearing them apart,” Bakugo explained, glaring at them like it was obvious. “If you sprint too much, you run out of breath.”
After a beat, Oda’s voice slipped in—quiet, thoughtful. “There’s a limit to how much power anyone can produce.”
Bakugo jerked a thumb toward him without looking away from the fight. “Quirks are physical abilities too. They can get worn out. You can’t just use them nonstop.”
“It makes sense when you put it that way,” Kirishima mused. “I wonder if that’s how Midoriya thinks he’s gonna beat Todoroki.”
Oda didn’t answer. His eyes narrowed, gaze fixed on Midoriya’s shaking fingers, already red and swollen from the force he’d pushed through them. He knew that look. Knew that strain. And something twisted sharp in his chest.
Because he knew what it was like to have a power that threatened to tear you apart from the inside. To use strength your body was never meant to handle. To push until bone, and muscle gave way.
Oda’s organs were always the first to scream. Always the first to fail.
He lived with the knowledge that one wrong move, one second too long, one drop too far past the limit…and he might never stand back up. Midoriya? He was willingly breaking fingers like they were matchsticks just to keep up.
Oda swallowed, throat tight.
He’s going to destroy himself if he keeps this up.
But nothing Todoroki threw at him was slowing him down.
Todoroki’s fourth ice barrage roared forward like a glacier trying to swallow the world whole. Midoriya, shaking, fingers already swollen and purple, raised his hand anyway and flicked—his fourth finger snapping with a sickening pop that Oda could almost feel from the stands.
The ice shattered.
Todoroki didn’t pause. Another mountain of ice erupted from the ground, and this time he sprinted up the rising slope, moving with the ease of someone completely at home in subzero temperatures. He launched himself from halfway up the tower, silhouette cutting across the sunlight as he dove at Midoriya.
Midoriya braced and flicked his left hand—another burst of wind, another shockwave, another finger screaming in protest—but Todoroki was already in the air, already adjusting mid-fall. He slammed his fist into the ground where Midoriya had been a split-second earlier.
Ice detonated outward.
A jagged spike shot up and clamped around Midoriya’s leg like a trap, freezing him in place.
In the stands, half the class gasped. Midoriya, unable to dodge, charged his entire arm. Oda felt his stomach twist because he recognized the reckless, desperate rhythm of someone willing to break themselves apart if that’s what it took to win.
Midoriya swung.
The air howled.
Todoroki was hurled backward, forced to carve ice into the ground over and over, using it like anchors to slow his flight, boots skidding across the arena floor. Massive pillars of ice sprouted behind him, exploding into frost as they absorbed the force of the blow. By the time the gale died, he stood at the very edge of the ring, breath visible in the cold air.
“With your hands like that, you can’t fight anymore, right?” Todoroki called out, voice calm but strained. “Why don’t we end this?”
He slammed his foot down and sent yet another ice barrage—towering, merciless—racing toward Midoriya.
“WHOA! TODOROKI CONTINUES HIS OVERWHELMING ATTACKS! COULD THIS BE HIS FINISHING MOVE?” Present Mic screamed over the frenzy.
“I am not done yet!” Midoriya yelled, and then—insanely, impossibly—used an already broken finger to break the ice apart.
The shockwave that followed wiped the breath from Oda’s lungs.
Todoroki staggered, thrown back several meters, and had to shoot ice behind himself again to prevent being knocked clean out of the ring. His boots cracked the surface from the force of it.
“With your broken finger?” Todoroki’s voice trembled—not with fear, but confusion. “Why are you going this far?”
Midoriya straightened, chest heaving, arm dangling uselessly at his side. But his eyes were sharp—glinting with a stubborn, blazing fire that had nothing to do with quirks.
“You’re trembling, Todoroki.”
From the stands, Oda saw it too: the faint, involuntary shudder running through Todoroki’s right arm. Frost was forming in his hair, along the edge of his jaw. Even from a distance, Oda could see the strain tightening Todoroki’s features.
“Usually you’d make up for the drop in temperature by using the heat from your left side,” Midoriya continued. “But you refuse to do that now.”
Oda exhaled a slow, tense breath. He’s not wrong. Todoroki’s temperature control is shot—he’s burning through his reserves.
“Listen. We’re all giving it our all… to try and win,” Midoriya said, voice cracking with emotion. “To make our dreams into a reality. To become number one! You think you can win with half your strength? Look at me, Todoroki. You haven’t managed to put a single scratch on me yet. So come at me with all you got!”
It was raw. Honest to the point of self-destruction.
And something in Todoroki snapped.
“Midoriya.” Todoroki’s voice dropped, a dangerous shift in tone. “What are you trying to do here? You want my fire? What, did my monster of a dad bribe you or something?” His teeth clenched. “Now I’m mad.”
He surged forward—
—but even from the stands, Oda caught it.
“His movements are slower,” Oda murmured, barely above a whisper.
Todoroki’s steps dragged by fractions of seconds. His breath fogged too quickly. His right side was nearing its physical limit; ice crept across his skin like a frostbite lace.
The moment Todoroki shifted his weight onto his right foot—just the slightest telegraph, the barest tightening of his stance—Midoriya launched forward.
His fist connected square with Todoroki’s gut.
Todoroki’s body folded around the impact, all the air in his lungs exploding out in a white puff before he was hurled backwards, skidding and tumbling across the arena floor. The crowd let out a collective gasp.
Midoriya staggered back, clutching his hand. Even from the stands Oda could see the tremor in his arm, the way his fingers curled inward involuntarily. The pain had to be blinding. Except Midoriya didn’t even hesitate—didn’t take so much as a single steadying breath—before he ran again.
Todoroki rose shakily and flung another wave of ice, but it was sluggish, a feeble imitation of the earlier barrages. Midoriya only had to sidestep to avoid it. The two of them were circling each other now, weaving in and out of range, one relentlessly attacking, the other desperately bracing.
Around Oda, teachers were standing, murmuring—concerned, indecisive, weighing the line between bravery and self-destruction.
How many more bones can Midoriya break? How much more ice can Todoroki withstand? When does the match stop being a match?
Midoriya’s hands were ruined—torn, shaking, fingers bent at wrong angles. And yet, somehow, he kept using them. When he physically couldn’t make a fist anymore, he did something even more reckless—unhinged, really—he used his own cheek as leverage, flicking his thumb forward to fire off One For All like a cannon blast. The recoil snapped Todoroki back with another violent shockwave.
Todoroki’s face twisted in disbelief. “Why are you putting yourself through this?”
And Midoriya—bloodied, trembling, sort of horrifying in how little he cared about his own body—shot back with a voice that shook the stadium. “I wanna live up to people’s expectations. I wanna be able to smile while doing something good for them! I wanna be a pro. Whatever it takes to be a hero.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he charged again.
Headfirst.
Literally.
Midoriya slammed his forehead into Todoroki’s stomach. Todoroki staggered, breath ripped from him again. And Midoriya roared—
“That’s why I’ll give it my all just like… you should be!”
Oda felt something twist inside his chest—tight and uncomfortable, like someone reached in and squeezed something fragile. He wasn’t someone who got swept up by inspirational speeches. But Midoriya’s voice—there was something in it. A desperation Oda recognized far too well. A refusal to be small, to be less, to be defined by anyone but yourself.
“There’s no way I can know what you’ve gone through or why you’re even here,” Midoriya continued, body shaking so hard Oda wondered how he was still standing. “Your life has been so much different from mine but right now… Stop screwing around! If you wanna reject your father, fine, but you don’t have the right to be number one if you aren’t going to use your full power!”
Something in the arena shifted. It wasn’t visible at first—but Oda could feel it in the air, like static before lightning.
Midoriya punched Todoroki again, another brutal blow to the gut.
“That’s why I’m going to win this. I’ll surpass you!”
Todoroki hit the ground hard. He braced an arm against the shattered concrete, trying to stand, but his legs were trembling uncontrollably.
“I refuse… to use my left side…” he gasped.
“It’s yours! Your quirk, not his!” Midoriya roared back.
And that—
That was the moment everything broke. Not the ice. Not the bones. Not the arena floor cracking under their feet. Something inside Todoroki cracked.
A violent burst of heat—real, blistering, devouring heat—erupted from the left side of his body. Flames tore upward, bright enough that the sun seemed dull in comparison. The temperature in the stadium spiked so fast half the front rows stumbled back from the blast.
In the stands, Kaminari yelped and scrambled away. Kirishima shielded his face. Even Oda leaned back, startled, though he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
The flames reflected in Midoriya’s eyes. Something warm and painful and impossibly proud unfurled in Oda’s chest.
Present Mic’s voice cracked. “IS THAT…?”
Uraraka flinched from the sudden wave of heat. “He’s using his fire!”
The ground around Todoroki blackened. His breath came out as steam now instead of frost. He straightened slowly, completely engulfed in fire on one side and ice on the other—like someone split down the center.
Cementoss shot up from his seat, panicked. “That’s it, Midnight!” He slammed his hands to the ground. A massive wall of concrete erupted between the two boys. “One of them could be killed!”
Midnight’s eyes went wide, sweat beading at her temple as she nodded. “His body won’t hold up.”
Todoroki didn’t hold back.
Not anymore.
The moment the cement wall shattered between them, a wave of jagged ice tore across the ground—so large it looked like the entire arena floor was rising. The shockwave alone rattled Oda’s teeth. Midoriya didn’t wait—he couldn’t. He launched off a fully charged leg, the sound of his tendons screaming nearly audible in the explosion of air.
He shot upward, a blur of green and reckless hope.
Todoroki’s flames roared higher, hotter—so bright the shadows in the arena fled from him. Heat shimmered through the air. The temperature swung wildly—from freezing to blistering—and Oda could actually feel the atmosphere destabilizing.
Midoriya swung down, ready to smash—
But Cementoss’s reinforced walls rose like a fortress between them.
Midoriya’s punch collided with cement; Todoroki’s ice and fire collided with Midoriya’s air pressure; and both forces smashed together with such violent pressure that the world seemed to rupture.
The stadium exploded.
A shockwave blasted outward, flattening Todoroki’s own flames for a second before they surged back. Debris went flying in every direction—shards of cement, hunks of frozen rubble, chunks of arena floor. Wind ripped through the stands hard enough that several people lost their footing.
Mineta shrieked as he nearly sailed into open air—Sero snagged him with tape in the last second.
“This is crazy!” Kaminari yelled, clutching the railing.
“That’s happening down there?” Yaoyorozu choked out, eyes wide. “I can’t even imagine the force—”
Oda wasn’t listening anymore. He was watching the smoke churn over the arena, thick and suffocating. The heat felt like it was clinging to his skull.
Present Mic sputtered so hard the sound cracked over the speakers. “WHAT HAPPENED JUST NOW!? WHAT THE HECK IS UP WITH YA STUDENTS?”
Aizawa’s voice cut through, flat and irritated.“The air around the ring had been thoroughly cooled down and then rapidly expanded when heated up.”
It made sense. Horrifying sense. Rapid cooling, rapid heating—pressure shift—explosive expansion.
“WAIT, THAT’S WHAT CAUSED THE EXPLOSION? HOW HOT DID THAT FIRE GET? JEEZ, I CAN’T SEE A THING!” Present Mic yelled. “IS THE MATCH STILL GOING ON OR WHAT!?”
Midnight was still on her knees after being thrown several feet by the blast, her hair frizzed out. She staggered upright, rubbing her head.
And finally, the dust began to settle.
Oda’s throat tightened.
Because when the haze thinned, the truth was unmistakable—Midoriya wasn’t in the ring. He’d been blown completely back—thrown across the field, slammed into the far wall so hard he left a crater in it. His body slid down the stone before dropping limply onto the floor.
“There.” Midnight whispered, then steadied her voice. “Midoriya is… out of bounds! Todoroki wins! He advances to the third round!”
The arena erupted. Cheering, screaming, thunderous applause so loud it vibrated the seats.
They had to spend several minutes repairing the field—cement walls leveled, ice cleared, scorch marks scrubbed away. Machines rolled in, smoothing out craters like this was routine.
Oda stretched his fingers, shook out the tension in his arms. His stomach was tight—not fear, not nerves, just a low simmering pressure that felt like a storm gathering in his ribs.
Shiozaki wasn’t nearly as dangerous as Todoroki. But he had to walk in right after that.
A shadow moved beside him. Kaminari slumped in his chair, staring at the arena like it had personally offended him.
“Man, I’d hate to be the fight following that one.” he said, half laugh, half groan. He threw both hands up, helpless. “Good luck, Edogawa!”
“Take down the last of class 1b for us!” Sero added, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Oda paused only a heartbeat before replying, “Uh-huh.”
Then he walked away, slipping out of the stands and into the tunnels, the roar of the crowd fading behind him. The second the shadows closed around him, the weight in his chest settled.
Because whether he liked it or not—
His turn was next.