Chapter 7
₊˚⊹✷ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑.
⤷ warn me before you jump, you idiot.
TEAMS WERE PICKED mostly along class lines—friend groups clustering together, classmates choosing familiarity over risk. With so much at stake, no one wanted to gamble on strangers. Still, a few unexpected alliances emerged among the forty-two competitors.
To Oda’s surprise, Iida opted to team up with Todoroki. It wasn’t a bad choice—Todoroki’s quirk was incredibly versatile, and Iida’s speed would make them dangerous—but still unexpected. Momo and Kaminari completed Todoroki’s group, forming a well-rounded team.
Midoriya, on the other hand, assembled a more chaotic team: Ochaco for mobility, Tokoyami for defense and offense, and a support course girl lugging half a workshop’s worth of inventions on her back. Oda assumed most of it was Hatsume’s handiwork—jet boots, jet packs, grapplers.
When it came time to line up for the calvary battles, Oda found himself settling into formation.
Bakugo was the rider, head held high and scowl carved into his face. Kirishima took the front, bracing his legs wide and solid. Mina stood on the left, energetic as ever, stretching her arms. Oda stood on the right—quiet, unreadable, hands tightening subtly at his sides as he adjusted to the team’s balance.
“This is gonna be fun,” Mina chimed, bouncing on her heels as they approached their starting point.
Fun was not the word Oda would have chosen, but he kept that to himself.
“HEY, HEY, LOOK ALIVE!” Present Mic’s voice shattered the building tension. “AFTER FIFTEEN MINUTES TO PICK TEAMMATES AND TALK STRATEGY, TWELVE CALVARY TEAMS ARE PREPARING TO GO HEAD-TO-HEAD!”
The crowd roared again, shaking the stadium seats.
“I see some unexpected student combinations,” Aizawa’s monotone chimed through the speakers. He sounded like someone commenting on paint drying.
“COME ON, EVERYONE, GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR! IT’S TIME FOR AN ARENA-THUMPING U.A. BATTLE ROYALE!” Present Mic hollered. “LET ME HEAR YA SCREAM!”
The audience obliged—screaming, stomping, waving banners. The whole stadium vibrated with anticipation as the massive screen above flashed:
Are you ready?
Bakugo tied their headband around his forehead. 670 points in bright red.
He cracked his knuckles, eyes locked onto Midoriya like he’d been waiting for an excuse to tear into him.
“LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” Present Mic boomed. “ONE FINAL COUNTDOWN BEFORE THE GAME STARTS! THREE!”
“Get ‘im,” Bakugo muttered, voice low and dangerous.
“TWO! ONE!”
“Begin!” Midnight declared.
And every team lunged at once.
They didn’t just charge—they stampeded. A wave of bodies surged forward, all directed at one target.
Midoriya.
“It’s basically one big battle for ten million points!” Tetsutetsu shouted, as he leaned forward on his team like a battering ram.
“I’ll be taking that headband, Midoriya!” Hagakure yelled—her team charging in, Jiro’s earjacks whipping through the air beside Sato and Kouda.
Midoriya’s team didn’t even get ten feet before one of Class 1-B’s quirk yanked the entire group into the ground like quicksand. They disappeared waist-deep into the earth.
But then the support girl cackled, pressed a button on her belt—
—and Midoriya’s team launched into the air like a cluster of misguided fireworks.
The jet pack strapped to his back roared loudly as they ascended far out of reach.
“He flew? Damn support course,” Tetsutetsu barked. “After them!”
Jiro attempted to snag them midair with her earjacks, but Dark Shadow intercepted the attack with a screech, deflecting it easily.
They landed again—briefly—before another combination of jet boots and sheer panic sent them skyward. Mineta hurled one of his sticky balls, managing to break one of the jet boots and scatter the group’s momentum.
Seeing them suspended in the air, Bakugo didn’t hesitate.
He blasted off with an ear-shattering BOOM, soaring upward and leaving the rest of the team planted on the ground.
“Don’t think for a moment that you’re safe!” Bakugo shouted, explosions flaring as he rocketed upward. “I’ve got you!”
He fired off an explosion meant for Midoriya’s team—Dark Shadow blocked it again, the blast lighting the creature’s silhouette like a firecracker.
But then gravity remembered where Bakugo was.
He began to fall.
“WHOA! BAKUGO’S BEEN SEPARATED FROM HIS HORSES!” Present Mic announced, gleeful and horrified all at once.
Bakugo’s eyes widened a fraction before the ground rushed up to meet him—
—but a red glow wrapped around him midair, halting his fall in an instant.
Oda tugged him back with controlled force. Kirishima braced his legs and Mina held steady as Bakugo’s body hurtled back toward them like a yo-yo.
They caught him cleanly before he could even touch the dirt.
“Whoa, nice catch,” Kirishima said, impressed as he and Mina steadied Bakugo back onto Oda’s side.
“IS THAT EVEN ALLOWED?” Present Mic yelled.
“He never touched the ground.” Midnight grinned, giving a very theatrical thumbs-up. “So technically it’s okay.”
Oda didn’t say anything, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction.
Team Midoriya hit the ground again in an unsteady landing—Tokoyami bracing, Ochaco lightening the impact, Hatsume clinging to Midoriya’s back—and instantly half the arena charged them again.
“AS EXPECTED, EVERYONE’S AFTER THE FIRST-PLACE TEAM, GIVING THEM NO TIME TO CATCH THEIR BREATH. WHAT A SHOW THIS IS!” Present Mic hollered.
The crowd erupted—deafening cheers rolling through the stands like thunder. Cameras flashed rapidly, reporters leaning dangerously over the railings to catch every second of the chaos.
For a brief heartbeat, Oda wondered if his older brother was watching. He imagined him somewhere—hidden, busy, undercover—pausing whatever mission he was on to see whether Oda made good on his promise to survive this school.
He was probably correct.
Oda didn’t get time to linger on the thought because—
In one split-second blur, a team raced up behind them. A hand shot forward.
And their headband—670 points—was gone.
Ripped right off Bakugo’s forehead before he even registered the movement.
“Your class is too small-minded. Think bigger,” a low, smug voice purred.
“He got us!” Mina gasped, jaw dropping in disbelief.
“What did you say?! Come back here!” Bakugo roared, fury erupting out of him like an explosion waiting to detonate.
Monoma. Class 1-B’s resident gremlin.
The blond smirked, slowing his team to a victorious stop several yards ahead. Their blue-and-black formation stood like a wall between Bakugo’s team and Midoriya’s. Monoma swung the band lightly around his finger before tying it around his neck with exaggerated care.
“Midnight said the obstacle course was just the first game,” Monoma crooned, “and we figured they wouldn’t cut that many of us right off the bat. Would they?”
“Huh?” Mina blinked.
“Assuming they’d keep at least forty contestants for the next event,” Monoma continued, as if lecturing a class of small children, “all we had to do was make sure we stayed within that group as we ran. From our spots in the middle ranks, we could fully observe the quirks our rivals had and judge their capabilities. Only a fool would obsess over winning the preliminary rounds, wouldn’t you agree?”
Oda’s jaw tightened. He didn’t disagree with the logic—he hadn’t gone all-out because he knew first place painted a target—but the tone…
The tone made him want to drop Monoma straight through the floor.
“You planned this as a class?” Bakugo snarled.
“It wasn’t totally unanimous.” Monoma shrugged, smugness radiating off him. “But I’d say it’s playing out well. It’s better than chasing after a temporary frontrunner like a horse with a carrot in his face.”
He grinned wider—sharp, wicked, intentionally provocative.
“Oh, while I have your attention. You’re kinda famous, aren’t you? For being attacked by that sludge villain. You’ll have to tell me about it sometime. It must be strange to always find yourself in the role of the victim.”
Oda felt the air shift.
Bakugo’s entire body locked up, shaking with the effort of not detonating on the spot. His eyes widened—not with fear, but with a murderous, feral kind of rage that suggested if Monoma had said one more word, Present Mic would be commentating a homicide.
Oda didn’t even have to look at him to know Bakugo’s blood pressure was skyrocketing.
Monoma really didn’t know when to shut up.
“Kirishima.” Bakugo growled, each syllable infused with quiet, lethal fury. “We have a change of plans.”
Kirishima straightened immediately, “Yeah?”
“Before we take down Deku,” Bakugo said through gritted teeth, “we’re gonna KILL every last one of these B-list idiots!”
Oh god.
“NOW WHO WANTS TO TAKE A LOOK AT EACH TEAM’S POINTS SO FAR?” Present Mic boomed over the arena, practically vibrating with excitement. “IT’S BEEN SEVEN MINUTES, SO LET’S GET THOSE RANKINGS THROWN UP ON THE SCREEN!”
The giant display flickered to life.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave.
“HOLD ON HERE—THIS IS AN UNEXPECTED TURN! OTHER THAN MIDORIYA, CLASS 1-A’S NOT DOING SO HOT! EVEN BAKUGO IS LOSING!”
If Bakugo’s temper had been a simmering pot before, that declaration lit the stove on high.
A sharp BOOM went off inches from Oda’s cheek, the blast of heat brushing his hair back. Oda didn’t flinch—mostly because he’d learned not to—but he did narrow his eyes, side-eyeing Bakugo like he was evaluating whether shoving him into the dirt would calm him down.
Spoiler: it wouldn’t.
Meanwhile, off to their left, Todoroki’s team had effectively iced off a quarter of the battlefield. Walls of shimmering frost formed a blockade, the air turning frigid as he trapped Midoriya’s team in a contained four-on-four showdown. The tactic drew attention and forced dozens of teams away from the main clash.
Meaning Bakugo now focused exclusively on Monoma.
Wonderful.
“Monoma, don’t provoke him, man,” one of the Class 1-B teammates urged nervously as Bakugo’s explosions crackled louder. “That’s the kind of thing he would do.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Monoma said breezily, completely ignoring the advice. “It’s not very heroic of me. Besides, you know how these things work. Heroes are always being hounded by moronic villains desperate for some kind of revenge.”
He said it loud enough for Bakugo to hear. On purpose.
Kirishima inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Calm down, Bakugo.”
“You gotta keep a level head or we’re never getting our points back,” Oda added, voice flat but pointed. He kept his red aura low, simmering beneath the surface, prepared for whatever explosive stunt Bakugo pulled next.
“Shut up!” Bakugo snarled. He slammed his palms together, setting off a burst of sparks between his hands. “I’ve never been calmer. Can’t you tell? Now get after them, Kirishima!”
“…Please don’t make us regret this,” Kirishima muttered before charging forward with the rest of the team.
They rushed Monoma’s group at full speed.
“You think you’re tough?” Bakugo yelled, leaning forward on Oda’s side for extra reach. “Die!”
He thrust his palm out and blasted an explosion toward Monoma’s face.
The 1-B student dipped his head back with infuriating ease, letting the blast scorch the air inches above him.
Their formation skidded, pivoting sharply to double back—
But Monoma struck first.
He thrust out his own hand—and copied Bakugo’s explosion detonated point-blank in Bakugo’s face. The sound cracked through the arena like a firecracker.
“Huh. Wow. I see why you like this quirk,” Monoma said with a mockingly pleasant tone. He then swiped his hand casually across Kirishima’s hardened hair.
“My power.” Bakugo’s eye twitched violently.
“Whoa, weird, that guy’s got your quirk,” Kirishima said, astonished.
“Damnit!” Bakugo snarled. He counter-attacked immediately, unleashing a massive explosion right at Monoma.
Smoke erupted in a thick cloud, blasting outward in a hot rush of air. Students nearby shielded themselves from the shockwave.
But when the smoke cleared— Monoma stood completely unharmed. His skin shimmered with the stone-like sheen of Kirishima’s Hardening quirk.
“You both have impressive quirks,” Monoma chuckled, tapping a hardened knuckle against his temple. “But I think you’ll agree mine’s better.”
Oda’s jaw clenched. Monoma wasn’t just a smooth talker—his battle smarts were razor-sharp, and his ability to predict Bakugo’s moves was borderline scary.
“Huh. What? Mine too?” Kirishima gawked as Monoma’s arms glittered with the distinct rough texture of his quirk.
“Bastard,” Bakugo snapped. “His quirk. He can copy other powers.”
“Very good,” Monoma purred with smug delight. “So, even an idiot can figure it out.”
They surged forward—Kirishima bracing, Mina leaning into motion, Oda adjusting his balance to support Bakugo—but another team cut across their path.
Without warning, the front horse of a Class 1-B team flung a viscous, glue-like paste across the dirt. It splattered in a wide arc, hitting the ground with a sickening schlop and instantly spreading.
And then—
Kirishima’s foot was stuck. Completely cemented to the ground.
“Nice one. Thanks for the backup, Bondo,” Monoma called, smug as hell, flashing a grin over his shoulder.
Bondo from 1-B nodded sheepishly but proud. The sticky resin clung like industrial adhesive.
“Monoma,” one of his teammates said urgently, “if we keep those headbands, we’re good. As long as no one gets near us, we’ll make our class proud.”
They didn’t waste another second.
They took off.
“Stop ’em!” Bakugo roared, fury exploding off him in sparks.
“It’s too sticky! Crap!” Kirishima grunted, trying—and failing—to pull free. “I can’t move!”
“No prob,” Mina said, already moving into action. She extended her foot, the holes in the soles of her pink shoes gleaming. “I’ll melt through this gunk with my quirk!”
“Hurry up,” Oda warned, tightening his grip beneath Bakugo. He kept his quirk simmering, prepared to react if Monoma got any closer.
Because Monoma wasn’t just running away—He was passing close. Close enough to swipe.
As his team dashed by, Monoma reached out, hand swiping for Oda’s arm—too close, too deliberate.
Oda jerked back, but with Bakugo balanced on his side, he couldn’t get very far.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Bakugo snarled.
He threw out an arm and detonated a blast right between Oda and Monoma. The explosion cracked across the field, knocking Monoma off balance and sending dust spiraling.
Oda felt the shockwave through his teeth.
Bakugo must have realized what Oda already knew: If Monoma copied Oda’s quirk, the results would be catastrophic. Monoma gaining access to his ability was not an option.
Still, Monoma recovered with that same infuriating smirk and turned his head while retreating.
“Oh, no hard feelings, right?” he called out. “After all, you provoked us. What was it you said in your little speech before the games? Uh, right—oof.“
He mimed being punched in the gut before laughing.
Man, this guy was a piece of shit. Oda genuinely struggled to believe Monoma intended to be a hero. Then again… listening to Bakugo, you wouldn’t believe he wanted to be a hero either.
“ONLY ONE MINUTE LEFT!” Present Mic shouted, voice booming across the arena. “WITH TIME ALMOST UP, TEAM TODOROKI IS IN FIRST PLACE WITH FOUR HEADBANDS! DESPITE THEIR BEST EFFORTS, TEAM MIDORIYA HAS FALLEN TO THE BOTTOM! WILL THESE BE THE TOP FOUR TEAMS THAT MOVE ON TO THE NEXT ROUND?”
Finally— Mina’s acid ate through the glue with a hiss, freeing Kirishima’s foot. They lurched forward with renewed urgency.
Oda glanced up at the scoreboard.
1st — Todoroki (1-A)
2nd — Monoma (1-B)
3rd — Tetsutetsu (1-B)
4th — Kendo (1-B)
Three out of four top slots were held by Class 1-B.
Bakugo’s eye twitched.
Monoma’s voice carried over the roar of the arena, smug and buoyant as ever.
“Second place,” he bragged, practically glowing with self-satisfaction. “We’ve done pretty well for ourselves. Now we can let the clock run out.”
He said it so casually—like they hadn’t practically mugged half the field, like he wasn’t taunting a bomb with legs and anger issues.
“Losers! Get back here!” Bakugo bellowed, voice cracking across the arena like a grenade.
Monoma sighed dramatically. “Doesn’t he ever give up? Knowing when you’ve been bested is an important part of being a hero.” He tossed the words over his shoulder with syrupy condescension.
That was enough.
Bakugo blasted forward—again—rocketing off his team’s back so abruptly that Oda lost his grip for half a second.
“Hey, don’t just fly off on your own!” Kirishima yelled, digging his heels into the dirt as he bolted after him.
“Tsubaraba! Stop him!” Monoma barked.
The front man of their team exhaled sharply, and a solidified wall of air whooshed into existence right in Bakugo’s path. It shimmered faintly in the sunlight—nearly invisible—but it stopped Bakugo cold.
He slammed into the barrier, fists already firing explosions as he hammered at it.
Tsubaraba laughed, “You look pretty stupid fighting with air!”
They started to pivot away—already assuming Bakugo was stalled.
Big mistake.
With a sound like cracking ice, Bakugo punched straight through the invisible wall, shards of compressed air scattering like glass. His hand shot forward, ripping two of the three headbands off Monoma’s neck in one fluid yank.
“Crap, he snatched some of ’em!” one of Monoma’s teammates shouted.
Monoma’s smirk finally slipped.
Bakugo fell backward through the air—and before he could hit the ground, Oda’s quirk flared red. The gravitational pull yanked Bakugo toward their formation like he’d been magnetized, dropping him neatly back into Oda’s waiting grip.
“TEAM BAKUGO NABS TWO HEADBANDS AND MOVES INTO THIRD PLACE!” Present Mic cried. “THE FINAL MOMENTS OF THE GAME HAVE BEEN FULL OF SHAKE UPS! OH, TO BE YOUNG AGAIN!”
The crowd roared—thousands of voices, a wave of noise.
“You have to warn me before you jump, you idiot,” Oda snapped, readjusting his stance as Bakugo’s weight hit him. His shoulders tensed, muscles twitching from the sudden gravitational strain.
“Whatever, this means we’re advancing,” Kirishima said, his grin blinding even as sweat dripped down his jaw.
“We’re not done!” Bakugo thundered. He began slamming his fist down repeatedly on Kirishima’s head—his extremely hard head—to signal him. “We’re gonna be the indisputable champions of the game!”
“Oof—okay! Okay! Got it!” Kirishima said, powering forward with twice the speed.
Up in the announcer’s booth, Aizawa’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Class 1-B’s strategy was a reasonable one, but there’s one thing they forgot to consider. Class 1-B didn’t take into account Bakugo’s overwhelming tenacity.”
“Couldn’t brace myself earlier when I jumped!” Bakugo barked. “Get closer! We’ll get our points back from this idiot, then go for the big one.”
Kirishima’s whole face lit up.
Mina practically vibrated with energy.
And Oda—
Oda felt heat coil low in his chest, his pulse buzzing faintly with the familiar edge of his power. It wasn’t often a team’s determination synced up like this, but somehow, against every logical probability, they were all dialed in together.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t fired up too.
“Short-stack.” Bakugo’s signal snapped across the noise, sharp and impatient.
“I got ’em,” Oda said—and the red around his body flared brighter, seeping out of him like heat mirage turned violent. The air warped. The earth groaned. A spiderweb of cracks burst open several feet ahead of them, splitting the ground just enough to throw Monoma’s teammates off balance. They stumbled hard, skidding in the dirt as they scrambled to keep Monoma from toppling off their horse formation.
The perfect, tiny hesitation. Exactly what Oda needed to give Bakugo an opening.
Team Bakugo surged forward.
Tsuburaba desperately exhaled another hardened air wall, translucent and shimmering—but before it even fully formed, Oda’s gravity rippled outward. Without his hands leaving Bakugo’s support strap, the invisible force punched through the wall like it was paper. Dust spiraled. Wind snapped.
Bakugo lunged in.
One swipe—clean, vicious, and practiced—and the last headband snapped off Monoma’s neck.
“BAKUGO IS A MERCILESS FORCE!” Present Mic howled. “WHAT A POINT HOG! THAT WAS A SHIELD BREAK HEARD AROUND THE ARENA AND I CAN’T WAIT TO WATCH THE REPLAY!”
Somewhere in the stands, the crowd erupted into a sound that was half cheer, half horrified wheezing.
“Now! We’re going after Deku and Todoroki!” Bakugo barked, wordlessly trusting Oda, Mina, and Kirishima to pivot hard behind him.
Oda took that as the closest thing to a compliment he’d ever get from him.
“11 SECONDS LEFT!”
Bakugo didn’t waste a breath. Explosions detonated against his palms in rapid succession as he blasted apart Todoroki’s massive ice barricade, shattering the wall like sculpted glass. Shards glittered around them in a storm.
He broke through with a roar, launching himself skyward. Both Midoriya’s and Todoroki’s teams were locked in a tense standoff, a frozen moment before collision.
“Who’s got the points?!” Bakugo shouted midair.
Midoriya was the one charging—so Bakugo snapped his body sideways, blew an explosion to redirect himself, and hurled toward Todoroki with a snarl.
“Damnit, Icy-hot!”
But—
Before he could reach either team—
BZZZZZT—!!!
The buzzer blared so loud it rattled the metal beams overhead.
“TIME’S UP!” Present Mic declared, voice hitting an octave only dogs should hear.
The crowd detonated into cheers.
Bakugo fell out of the sky like a dropped brick.
Without thinking—without even adjusting his stance—Oda’s quirk flared again. A red gravitational field snatched Bakugo mid-fall, halting his momentum before gently lowering him toward the ground.
Oda released him with maybe two inches left to go.
Bakugo still faceplanted.
“Bakugo! Are you okay, man?” Kirishima asked, genuinely concerned as the ash-blond let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a kettle boiling over.
Bakugo’s response was to slam his fist into the ground over and over, shaking with rage at the idea of second place.
“NOW, LET’S TAKE A LOOK AT WHO OUR TOP FOUR TEAMS ARE!” Present Mic announced. “IN FIRST PLACE, TEAM TODOROKI! IN SECOND PLACE, TEAM BAKUGO!”
Mina groaned dramatically. “Ugh, we were so close to first place.”
“Yeah, but we’re moving on!” Kirishima grinned, ever the optimist.
Oda shoved his hands back into his pockets. “I don’t think our leader agrees with you,” he deadpanned. “Like, even a little bit.”
Bakugo roared in frustration.
Team Shinso placed third, Team Midoriya scraped into fourth, and with that—
The Cavalry Battle officially ended.