At the same time Mewtwo and Nejire rushed to their target, Mirio and Tamaki moved toward theirs — though not quite as fast.
Mirio, after all, couldn't fly, and Tamaki wasn't exactly used to carrying people around. That job usually fell to Mewtwo, who could lift Mirio effortlessly with his telekinesis.
Still, Mirio's speed on the ground was nothing short of remarkable. He darted between buildings like a streak of gold, his movements fluid and precise. Mewtwo had suspected for a long time that there was more to Mirio's abilities than just his Quirk. It wasn't another Quirk exactly, but something innate — an adaptation, a natural synergy between his body and his power. His reflexes, his balance, his raw physical speed… they went far beyond what any normal enhancement training could explain.
Now it was undeniable. Mirio moved like a living bullet, his speed rivaling a car at full throttle.
In only a few minutes, they reached their destination. The building stood cracked and tilted, one of the countless ruins of the simulated city.
"Tamaki!" Mirio shouted, already crouched to spring forward. "Launch me to the upper floor!"
Tamaki didn't even hesitate. He took a deep breath, muttering softly as his body changed. Thick, muscular tentacles erupted from his arms, merging the strength of a bear with the flexibility of an octopus — one of his new combinations, made possible thanks to U.A.'s "nutritional experiments."
The tentacles coiled around Mirio's torso.
"Ready?"
"Always!"
And with one powerful motion, Tamaki hurled him upward like a cannon shot.
Mirio soared through the air, twisting mid-flight, his grin wide. As soon as he was about to collide with the upper wall, he phased through it silently, activating his Quirk with perfect timing.
He emerged through the ceiling, ghost-like, and deactivated his power just as he landed. The impact cracked the ceiling like a spiderweb, debris falling around him.
That was the moment the upper-year students noticed him.
"Who—!?" one of them shouted.
Before anyone could react further, Mirio dropped down from the hole, landing right in the center of the room — surrounded by four opponents.
The sight of the intruder shocked them for only a heartbeat. Then training took over.
"Enemy!"
The room erupted.
One student lashed out with a whip of pure energy, slicing through desks and walls. Another slammed his hands together, releasing a concussive shockwave that rattled the building. A third extended tendrils of darkness, wrapping around furniture and lunging at Mirio like serpents. The last one's body swelled in size, his muscles doubling as he charged headfirst into the fray.
The combined attacks tore the room apart in seconds. Dust exploded into the air, obscuring everything.
And when the haze settled…
Mirio stood in the center, perfectly fine.
No scratches. No torn fabric. Not even a single speck of dust on his uniform.
He simply smiled.
The destruction around him contrasted sharply with his calm posture. Floors cracked, walls crumbled, and still he stood untouched — the embodiment of quiet confidence.
It was almost comical how closely the scene mirrored what had just happened with Mewtwo. Two completely different heroes, same chaotic results. Each had entered like a storm, unscathed in the aftermath.
And just like Mewtwo, Mirio didn't have to fight alone for long.
The next instant, Tamaki smashed through the window, glass raining behind him. His tentacles whipped out instantly, coiling around two of the upper-years before they even had time to shout.
"Sorry!" Tamaki yelled as his momentum carried him forward. In the same motion, he dragged both enemies straight out of the room and through the opposite window, disappearing into the open air.
That left Mirio with two opponents — the same setup as Mewtwo.
Two heroes, two battles.
Each facing a pair of upper-year students.
As soon as Tamaki crashed through the window with two opponents in tow, Mirio didn't waste a second. He took advantage of the chaos—and vanished.
One blink, and he was gone.
The two upper-year students froze, dumbfounded.
"Where… where did he go?" one of them stammered, scanning the dust-filled room. Just seconds ago, the blond hero had been standing right in front of them—smiling, calm—and now there was nothing. No footsteps, no sound.
Then came the crack.
From below.
Before either could react, Mirio exploded upward from the floor beneath them, his fist connecting with brutal precision under the jaw of the nearest student.
The impact was devastating.
The upper-year's body rocketed upward, smashing through the ceiling with a crash that sent debris flying. He didn't stop until his body got stuck halfway through the next floor's wall, limbs spread awkwardly—like a character straight out of an old cartoon.
A beat of silence.
Then the other student shouted, panicked, and activated his Quirk. Both his hands ignited with energy, and two glowing whips burst to life, lashing forward with lethal precision.
The whips cut through the air at blinding speed, slicing cracks into the floor where they hit—
—but Mirio didn't dodge.
He didn't even flinch.
He simply walked forward.
The energy whips tore straight through his body like mist, leaving not a single mark. To the upper-year student, it looked impossible. Unreal. His attacks weren't missing—they were passing through.
Mirio's calm grin didn't fade.
He kept walking.
The older student stumbled backward, one step at a time, his mind racing. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. What was this? Some kind of illusion? A projection? A trick of the light?
No. He'd felt it—his energy connected. The impact was real.
Then how?
Before he could think of another explanation, Mirio dashed forward, cutting the distance between them in a heartbeat. Panic overtook instinct. The student swung wildly, his whips slicing through empty air as Mirio phased through each strike like water slipping through his fingers.
And then—Mirio was right there.
Face to face.
"POWEEER!" he shouted, his fist glowing as it slammed into the student's gut.
The sound echoed like a cannon blast. The force lifted the upper-year off his feet and sent him crashing back, blood spraying from his mouth as his body hit the wall hard and went limp.
Silence filled the room once more.
Mirio straightened his posture, shaking his fist once, more out of habit than necessity. His grin softened into something calm, almost humble.
"Sorry, senpai."
He walked toward the unconscious student, pulling a pair of handcuffs from where Tamaki had dropped them earlier—his friend couldn't really hold gear while fighting in hybrid form—and secured both opponents.
"Under arrest," he said with a cheerful tone, dusting off his hands. "Kinda fun, though."
With the room cleared, Mirio turned toward the window. He could hear the muffled sounds of battle outside—Tamaki's, judging by the rhythmic crashes and the wet slap of tentacles meeting resistance.
He moved to the edge of the broken floor and looked down. From this height, he could barely see shapes in the smoke and rubble below.
"Hang on, buddy," he muttered.
Without hesitation, he took a step forward—and dropped straight through the floor.
His body passed through concrete, steel, and wiring as if they weren't there, descending level by level, ghostlike.
Finally, when he reached the ground floor, he deactivated his Quirk.
Gravity reclaimed him instantly.
He landed with a heavy thud, cracking the pavement beneath his feet—but steady as ever.
Now, standing at street level, he finally saw Tamaki's battle clearly.
And what he saw made him smile.
"Looks like I'm just in time for the show."
Tamaki fought like a force of nature.
The timid, hesitant boy from his early days was gone—what stood in his place now was something entirely different. His movements were sharp, instinctive, and relentless. He wielded his tentacles like whips, coated in layers of crab shell and the dense armor of other sea creatures. They moved so fast they blurred, slicing through the air in a storm of motion that barely gave his opponents a second to breathe.
The two fourth-years before him were being pushed back step by step, their defenses unraveling under the barrage.
The student with the shadow tendrils tried to shield both himself and his partner, lashing out desperately, but Tamaki's strikes never stopped. Each tentacle hit with enough force to shatter pavement.
The other upper-year—the one who could create shockwaves—couldn't even bring his hands together to activate his Quirk. Every time he tried, a tentacle came crashing down, forcing him to dodge again and again until sweat poured from his forehead.
Tamaki's attacks only grew more feral.
More tentacles erupted from his back, twisting and striking from every direction. He looked less like a student and more like a creature born for battle—a living storm.
And then, without warning, he changed tactics.
His legs shifted, transforming into those of a rabbit—muscular, compact, built for explosive power.
He stopped attacking for half a second—just enough to crouch. Then, with a sound like a gunshot, Tamaki launched himself forward, using his tentacles to whip himself faster midair.
Before the shockwave student could even blink, Tamaki's kick connected squarely with his stomach.
The impact was brutal.
The upper-year's body folded around Tamaki's leg before being sent flying backward, smashing into a car and crumpling to the ground, completely unconscious.
One down.
The remaining student froze for half a heartbeat, horror flashing across his face before fury took over. His tendrils of shadow writhed violently, lashing out in all directions.
"This—this isn't possible!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "We're fourth-years! We shouldn't be losing!"
But his words only fueled his panic.
In the distance, he heard another crash—and saw, to his disbelief, two more of his classmates falling from a building. That could only mean one thing: their side was collapsing. Even the others—their strongest—had been defeated.
He turned back just in time to see Tamaki retract his tentacles.
The boy was no longer attacking. His expression had changed—calm, steady, focused.
The tentacles shortened, retreating until only four thick ones remained, coiling behind him like living muscles. His arms shifted again, fur spreading across his skin as sharp bear claws extended from his fingers. Plates of crab shell formed over his arms, chest, and shoulders—layer after layer until he was encased in a heavy white-and-red carapace.
Even his face changed, the shell curving around his cheeks like a battle mask. His legs remained those of a rabbit, ready to spring.
When he moved again, his voice was low but firm.
"Chimera Mode: Nanuk."
The words echoed through the ruined street.
The upper-year's shadow tendrils surged forward in response, forming a dark forest around Tamaki, stabbing from every angle—
—but none of them landed.
Every strike bounced off harmlessly, sparks flying where shadow met shell. Tamaki barely flinched.
And then, in a flash of movement, he disappeared.
Not phased out like Mirio—just gone. The ground beneath him cracked open from the sheer power of his legs as he launched himself forward, closing the distance in a blink.
The upper-year barely had time to widen his eyes.
Tamaki reappeared beside him, his claws glowing faintly with a mix of energy and muscle tension.
One strike.
The blow connected square in the chest.
The sound of impact echoed across the street like thunder. The shadow-user was lifted clean off his feet and hurled across the road, crashing into a wall hard enough to leave a crater before sliding down, unconscious.
The dust settled.
For a long second, the only sound was Tamaki's breathing—steady, controlled.
He slowly straightened, letting the tentacles retract, the fur fade, the shell dissolve back into skin.
When Mirio landed nearby, cracking the pavement under his feet, he couldn't help but grin.
"Wow, Suneater," Mirio said, hands on his hips. "You didn't leave me anyone to fight."
Tamaki turned, still catching his breath, but the faintest, most modest smile tugged at his lips.
"I… I guess I got carried away."
Mirio laughed. "You finally did."
And just like that, the two stood side by side amidst the wreckage of their battles—both victorious, both standing tall.
Second-years… defeating fourth-years.
In any other school, that would've been unthinkable.
But this was U.A.