U.A. Sports Festival – Main Arena, Day Two
The energy in the stadium had shifted. Yesterday was curiosity.
Today was tension.
The crowd didn't chant. They watched. Eager. Cautious. Like they knew they were about to see something that wouldn't repeat.
Midnight's voice boomed overhead.
"Match Two of the second round! Our next student has speed, style, and steam—please welcome, Class 1-B's very own, Yasuto Kenzaki!"
The arena rumbled as a blue blur zipped across the platform. Yasuto skidded to a stop, smirking, trails of kinetic flame licking at his boots.
His Quirk, Velocity Burn, turned movement into speed and heat—meaning the longer he ran, the more dangerous he became.
The crowd ate it up. He raised his arms, heat bursting off his shoulders.
"I'm not just fast," he shouted. "I'm friction made human!"
"...Annoying," murmured Bakugo from the stands.
Midoriya's attention didn't leave the other end of the arena.
Where the tunnel darkened.
Where the silence returned.
Midnight raised her hand again, this time quieter.
"And his opponent... the one whose footsteps warped the first round..."
"Yūgami-no-Mikado."
No flash. No theatrics.
He stepped into view.
Same black uniform. Same pale, sharpened presence. No cloak this time—just the form beneath the silence.
Mikado walked to the platform's center, eyes level, arms relaxed.
No fear. No nerves.
Just stillness sharpened to a blade.
Yasuto grinned. "So! You're the guy they're scared of. Gotta admit—you look more like a shrine statue than a fighter."
Mikado said nothing.
Yasuto rolled his eyes. "Tch. Fine. Don't blink then. I'll give the crowd the show they're actually here for."
He stepped back, jogging in place.
Steam hissed from his joints.
Boots scorched the stone.
L
In the hero booth, Hawks leaned forward.
"Think he'll open the Domain?"
Aizawa shook his head.
"No. He's still studying himself."
---
Midnight dropped her arm.
"BEGIN!"
Yasuto vanished.
BLAM—
The speed cracked like thunder. In less than a second, he reappeared on Mikado's left side, leg already spinning upward for a searing heel kick.
But Mikado was gone.
Not teleported. Not dodged.
Moved.
Half a step back, just enough to clear the arc.
And with that—
The golden aura flared.
It wasn't passive this time.
It came alive.
A visible sheath of precision light, coiling around his body, dancing like golden gravity—controlled, condensed, but hotter now. It shimmered with calculated instability.
A pulse radiated outward—his limbs syncing with the feedback loop of his own movement.
Mikado's foot slid across the stone.
A microsecond of adjustment.
Yasuto's second strike came in. A jab, loaded with momentum.
Mikado parried it with two fingers.
The contact sparked. Not energy—spatial resistance.
Then—retaliation.
A low sweep kick, golden light trailing behind his ankle like a blade cutting through oil.
Yasuto stumbled—but pivoted with speed, using momentum to launch into a vertical spin-kick, flames igniting along his hip.
Mikado stepped into the blow.
Forearm raised.
Impact.
Flames surged.
But the golden aura flared brighter—distorting the blow, redirecting it with a shimmer.
Mikado grabbed Yasuto's leg, twisted, and launched him into a spiral across the arena.
Yasuto skidded, bounced, and rolled back to his feet.
"Alright," he spat, grinning. "You wanna dance? Let's see if you can keep up when I stop pacing myself."
He took off. Circling.
Speed built. The heat began to shimmer. Sparks scattered in every step.
5 laps.
10 laps.
15.
The ground beneath his boots began to burn.
Yasuto blurred—now moving so fast he was nearly invisible.
The audience leaned forward.
Even Aizawa narrowed his eyes.
"Careful," he muttered. "He's baiting the charge."
Mikado stood still.
Aura calm.
Then—eyes sharpened.
He moved.
The moment Yasuto struck from behind, Mikado twisted on his heel and met him mid-sprint with a rising elbow—golden aura surging upward, a stream of light bursting on contact.
Direct hit.
Yasuto flipped midair, coughing, slammed into the ground—and rolled.
He was already back up, panting, but something was different now.
His speed had been calculated.
Not matched. Not outrun.
Countered.
"How—?" he growled.
Mikado slowly approached.
No rush. Aura rising like disciplined heat.
"You have one path," Mikado said quietly. "Straight. Acceleration. Kinetic dominance."
He raised one arm, fingers flexed, golden light rippling.
"You never asked if I could calculate future positions."
Yasuto's jaw clenched.
"You—"
Mikado vanished in a golden flicker—short-distance flash.
Not teleportation.
A controlled amplification burst.
He reappeared behind Yasuto—this time mid-air—kicking downward with a thunderous, aura-cloaked heel that slammed Yasuto flat into the floor.
CRACK—
Dust shot up.
The ground spiderwebbed beneath them.
Yasuto groaned—struggling to stand, flames flickering weakly from his shoulders.
Mikado landed beside him, crouched, watching.
"You fight like a storm," Mikado said. "But storms follow patterns."
He reached out—and placed two fingers gently on Yasuto's chest.
"No time left to think."
---
Midnight raised her hand.
"Winner: Yūgami-no-Mikado."
The crowd stayed silent.
Then erupted.
They didn't understand what they'd just seen.
But they felt it.
He didn't just win.
He rewrote the tempo of the entire match.
---
In the stands, Jirou whispered to Yaoyorozu:
"Did he just fight that whole match... without his Domain?"
Yaoyorozu didn't answer.
Her eyes were locked on Mikado.
Watching him walk away.
Watching his aura fade.
"Not quite," she said. "He's building toward something."
---
Backstage – Later
Mikado stood at the sink, running cold water over his fingers.
The golden aura had faded, but his muscles still twitched.
His shoulders ached.
His balance—off by half a percent.
But his mind?
Sharper than ever.
"I can push further next time."
He turned off the water.
Dried his hands.
And flexed his fingers.