The sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the U.A. campus in warm oranges and pinks, as if an artist had softened the academy's stark lines with watercolor hues. Long shadows from the rigid buildings stretched across neatly trimmed paths. The campus, usually buzzing with students and teachers, was cloaked in an evening stillness, broken only by distant shouts from training grounds and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Arashi Tanaka walked toward the training hall, his backpack swaying lightly on his shoulder, a worn notebook tucked under his arm, scribbled with notes. His steps were steady, but anxiety pulsed in his chest, his heart counting down to an inevitable trial. The day's lessons had been draining: hero law lectures where Tenya Iida, seated in the front row, fired off endless questions, raising his hand so fast it seemed his quirk wasn't just engines but relentless curiosity; rescue tactics analysis where Izuku Midoriya muttered notes, his pencil scratching as he recorded every detail; and physical training where Katsuki Bakugo, as always, tried to outshine everyone, blasting training dummies with such ferocity that the smoke from his explosions clung to everyone's clothes nearby.
But for Arashi, it was all background noise, unable to drown out his own thoughts. His mind was consumed by one thing—the U.A. Sports Festival, approaching with terrifying speed like a shadow looming on the horizon, and his quirk, both his greatest strength and heaviest burden.
The previous night, in his room under the dim glow of a desk lamp, Arashi had delved into The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien—the book Principal Nezu gave him after the USJ incident, when his quirk had fully manifested. The pages, smelling of old paper, were not just a story but a mirror reflecting his power. The Nazgûl, fallen kings whose darkness and terror echoed the shadows in his mind, were both inspiration and fear. Their images—black cloaks billowing in the wind, eyes glowing green beneath hoods, and their steeds, swift as night itself—felt like parts of him, not just literary figures. One detail gripped him most: the black horses ridden by the Black Riders in the Shire. These weren't ordinary animals; they were extensions of the Nazgûl's aura, amplifying their terror and speed. If Arashi could summon such a steed, it would give him the mobility he sorely lacked, especially when calling the Nazgûl. His quirk was still too heavy, too uncontrollable, to use in battle without risking himself. But a horse—a new element—could be his trump card for the Festival. Today, he'd test this theory, despite the fear gripping his heart like a cold hand.
The training hall greeted him with its familiar hum, both chaotic and orderly. The vast space, enclosed by reinforced glass and steel walls capable of withstanding explosions and powerful quirks, was filled with students honing their abilities. On the main arena, Eijiro Kirishima, his skin hard as granite, deflected drone strikes, his booming laugh overpowering the machines' mechanical whir: "Come on, hit me harder! I won't break!" His red hair, spiked like flames, flashed as he moved, eyes gleaming with excitement. Nearby, Mina Ashido glided on acid tracks created by her quirk, her pink hair flickering like a signal flare, her infectious laugh echoing, coaxing smiles even from weary students. In a far corner, Fumikage Tokoyami controlled his Dark Shadow, writhing as it absorbed light like a black hole, its movements both graceful and eerie.
Students from general studies and technical courses were also present: one boy with telekinesis levitated dumbbells, floating like planets in space; another, with a speed-enhancing quirk, raced along a treadmill, leaving a whirlwind that scattered papers on nearby desks. The air was thick with energy, sweat, and a faint ozone smell from electrical quirks sparking in the corner, where Denki Kaminari trained, his hair faintly glowing with static.
Arashi skirted the central platforms, feeling eyes on him. After his "display" with the Nazgûl during the All Might training, when the shadows nearly consumed him, some classmates looked at him with unease. He quickened his pace, heading to the farthest platform in the hall's corner. Smaller than the others, it was surrounded by additional transparent glass and metal barriers designed for high-risk quirks. Perfect for his experiments. If something went wrong, the barriers would hold. Arashi activated the wall's control panel, selecting "private" mode. The glass darkened slightly, creating a translucent veil that shielded him from curious eyes while still letting in enough light to see the silhouettes of other students.
He dropped his backpack to the floor, the sound muffled by the hall's din. Taking a water bottle, he sipped, the cold liquid soothing his dry throat. Then he opened his notebook, its pages filled with his handwriting—notes from The Lord of the Rings. The first part, The Fellowship of the Ring, described the Black Riders galloping through the Shire on massive black horses. These weren't ordinary animals—they were part of the Nazgûl's aura, amplifiers of their terror and speed. Tolkien wrote: "Their horses were black as night, with eyes glowing red, their breath chilling the blood in your veins." Arashi paused, rereading his notes. The Nazgûl embodied primal fear, the kind that freezes people in the dark. If they were the core of his power, their horses could be an extension, granting mobility. In the Sports Festival, where obstacle races and maneuvers were key, such a steed could be his edge, setting him apart from first-years like Bakugo with his explosive power or Todoroki with his icy control.
Arashi sat cross-legged on the floor, the rubberized surface slightly springy but cold as concrete, seeping through his training uniform. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing: deep inhale through the nose, slow exhale through the mouth. His heart beat steadily, but the shadows stirred within. The Nazgûl's whispers lingered at the edge of his mind: "You call… We come…" Their voices were cold as a winter night's wind, yet enticing, promising power at a steep price. Arashi clenched his jaw, building his mental wall—a visualization of will he'd practiced since childhood, after his quirk's first breakthrough in a store at age seven. Back then, shadows had erupted from him, shrouding the shop in darkness, making customers scream in terror. His mother, eyes full of fear, had called his quirk a "curse." Since then, he'd learned to restrain it, constructing mental barriers to keep the shadows from taking control. "Not you," he said mentally, his inner voice firm despite his trembling body. "Just the horse. Your steed."
He dove inward, picturing the book's image: a Black Rider galloping across the Shire's fields, its horse trampling the earth silently, leaving frosty trails. Arashi saw it clearly: a massive steed, its skin shimmering like liquid obsidian, eyes burning red like hot coals, mane flowing like smoke in the wind. Cold spread through his body, from fingertips to chest, as if his veins filled with icy water. The platform's temperature dropped, the barriers crackling as frost coated them, as if winter had invaded the hall. The Nazgûl's whispers grew louder: "Yes… We'll give you power… But we'll come with it…" The Witch-king's voice, cold and commanding, echoed like a tomb. Arashi sharpened his focus, visualizing his mental wall taller, stronger, a fortress of steel and light. "Just the horse. You stay behind it," he ordered mentally, his will a blade cutting through the darkness.
Minutes dragged, each second an eternity. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold enveloping the platform. Energy drained like water from a cracked vessel—not as fast as summoning the Nazgûl themselves, but noticeably. His head ached, temples squeezed as if by invisible vices, but Arashi held on. He envisioned details: the horse's muscles rippling like liquid obsidian, eyes glowing red, mane like swirling smoke, hooves sharp as blades. "You're part of them but obey me," he thought, his mind teetering between exhaustion and triumph.
The air thickened, heavy as before a storm. Arashi opened his eyes and gasped, his breath a puff of vapor. Before him materialized a creature. First, a shadow on the floor, like a pool of ink, then contours rising like smoke from a crack in the earth. It was enormous, taller than any horse he'd seen, its skin like liquid shadow flowing over muscles. Its eyes burned red like hot coals, steam rising from its nostrils. Its mane and tail swayed like living shadows, defying physics, their movements fluid yet terrifying, as if they didn't belong to this world. Its hooves, sharp as blades, left faint cracks in the floor, coated with frost, as if the horse trod on a frozen lake.
Arashi stood, legs trembling from exhaustion and excitement. The horse didn't move, only turned its head, its red eyes tracking him without blinking. Arashi felt a connection—not just a creation but part of his quirk, fueled by his will. The whispers quieted, but the pressure remained, a reminder that the Nazgûl were still there, behind the mental wall, waiting for weakness. "You're mine," he thought. "Morgoth." The name came from The Silmarillion—primal evil, Sauron's master, embodiment of darkness. A fitting name for a creature born of shadow but bound to his will.
He stepped closer, extending a hand. His palm touched the muzzle—cold seared, but not painfully, like refreshing frost that sharpens the senses. Morgoth lowered its head, acknowledging him, and Arashi felt a surge—not his own power, but the horse's. It was energy flowing through him like an electric current, bolstering his resolve.
He pictured a step forward. Morgoth moved, its hooves striking the floor silently but with force, vibrations rippling through Arashi's legs, resonating in his bones. The horse circled the platform, its movements smooth and swift, like a ghost gliding over the ground. Arashi felt energy drain faster but kept his eyes on Morgoth. "Control," he reminded himself, reinforcing the mental wall.
He guided Morgoth toward a barrier, visualizing a jump. The horse leaped, mane billowing like black smoke, clearing a two-meter obstacle and landing soundlessly. The floor trembled, cracks spreading, coated in frost as if winter left its mark. Arashi gasped—the power was incredible. Morgoth didn't just offer speed; its presence radiated chilling terror, like the Nazgûl, capable of paralyzing foes.
But the pressure grew. The whispers returned, cold and insistent: "Release us… We'll make it stronger…" Arashi clenched his jaw, pain shooting through it, his mental wall trembling like an old house under a storm's assault. "Just him," he ordered mentally, releasing the image. Morgoth dissolved, leaving frost and cracks on the floor. Arashi sank to his knees, breathing heavily but smiling. "I did it. First step," he thought, heart pounding with exhilaration and fatigue.
The next hours were spent repeating the summon, refining the process. The second attempt was easier: cold spread faster, the horse materialized more fully, its contours sharper, movements surer. Arashi tested it: sprints across the platform, sharp turns, jumps over barriers. Each time, energy drained, but control improved. By the third summon, he dared to mount Morgoth. The sensation was strange—like riding a shadow, light yet solid, as if woven from air and steel. Arashi guided it with thoughts, like reins, and Morgoth carried him across the platform, speed dizzying, wind whistling in his ears, yet no sound of hooves. The floor frosted over, barriers creaked but held. Arashi felt alive, for the first time feeling his quirk wasn't a curse but a power he could harness.
By evening, he was exhausted, hands trembling, but satisfied. He pulled out his notebook and wrote, his handwriting shaky from fatigue: "Morgoth—success. Mobility, fear, strength. Less draining than Nazgûl but still exhausting. Need more practice." He left the hall, the campus quiet, streetlights casting soft golden glows on the paths. The sky sparkled with stars, and despite his exhaustion, Arashi felt a spark of hope. "I'll become a hero," he thought, heading to the dorms. "Not a shadow."
The next evening, Arashi returned to the hall, his steps slightly more confident, though anxiety still pulsed in his chest. The U.A. campus basked in the evening sun, streetlights casting long shadows, the air cool with the scent of autumn leaves. He clutched his notebook, its pages curling from frequent use. The first success with Morgoth gave him hope: he'd summoned part of his quirk without letting the Nazgûl seize control. But the Sports Festival was just a week and a half away, leaving no time for complacency. He needed more—not just mobility but a weapon. In Tolkien's book, the Black Riders wielded blades. If he could reliably summon a blade, as he did during the villain skirmish, and ride Morgoth, he'd be more than a Festival participant—he'd be a true threat. But it was risky. A blade was closer to the Nazgûl's essence than a horse, potentially amplifying their pressure on his mind. Arashi had to push deeper into his quirk, despite the fear gripping his heart.
The hall greeted him with its familiar chaos of sound and light. Students trained with the same fervor. He activated "private" mode, and the glass walls darkened, shielding him from the hall. Dropping his backpack, he opened his notes. In The Fellowship of the Ring, the Black Riders carried swords that were more than metal. Tolkien described them as blades infused with dark magic, capable of not just cutting flesh but crushing will, instilling despair. The Witch-king's Morgul blade, which wounded Frodo, left a scar that never healed, slowly turning its victim into a wraith. Arashi pondered: If he could summon Morgoth, a horse woven from shadows, a blade was the next logical step. But it was dangerous. The horse was an extension, but the Nazgûl's weapons were their essence, their will to destroy. Summoning such a blade could intensify the Nazgûl's pressure on his mind.
Arashi sat cross-legged on the floor, the rubberized surface cold and springy. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing: inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. His heart beat steadily, but the shadows stirred. The Nazgûl's whispers hovered at the edge: "You call… We come…" Arashi built his mental wall, picturing it as an unbreakable fortress of light and steel. "Not you," he said mentally. "The blade. And the horse. Only them."
He recalled Tolkien's lines: "His sword gleamed with black light, its strike like the cold of death." The Witch-king's blade, Morgul or not, was more than a weapon—it embodied fear, amplifying a Nazgûl's presence. Arashi pictured it: long, thin, its blade absorbing light, the hilt cold as ice, etched with patterns evoking ancient ruin. He added Morgoth: a black horse, muscles rippling like obsidian, eyes burning red, mane like swirling smoke. "Both. Together," he thought, his mind taut as a bowstring.
Cold spread through his body, from fingers to chest, like an icy torrent. The platform's temperature plummeted, barriers crackling with frost. The whispers grew louder: "Yes… We'll give you power… But we'll come…" The Witch-king's voice, louder than the rest, demanded obedience. Arashi clenched his jaw, reinforcing his mental wall. "Just the blade and horse. You stay behind."
Minutes stretched, each second a struggle. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. Energy drained like sand from his hands—faster than with Morgoth alone. His head spun, temples squeezed, but Arashi held on. He sharpened the blade's image: a meter-long edge, black with a faint crimson glow, a hilt wrapped in shadow like leather. Then Morgoth: massive, hooves sharp as blades, breath freezing the air.
The air grew heavy. Arashi opened his eyes and gasped, his breath a puff of vapor. Morgoth materialized before him, as from the previous training, eyes glowing red, mane swaying like smoke. But in his right hand was a blade—long, thin, light-absorbing, with a faint crimson shimmer. It was cold but light, as if woven from air. Arashi felt stronger pressure in his head than the day before. The Nazgûl clawed at him: "We're here… Let us out…" He gripped the blade's hilt, reinforcing the wall.
He stood, legs trembling from exhaustion. Morgoth turned its head, eyes watching, not with threat but expectation. Arashi stepped to the horse, feeling the blade's cold spread up his arm. Approaching Morgoth, he placed a hand on its flank—cold seared, but didn't repel. Arashi inhaled deeply, gripping the blade, and mounted. The sensation was odd—like riding a cloud, light yet solid. Morgoth stood still, awaiting command.
"Move," Arashi ordered mentally. The horse stepped forward, hooves striking silently but powerfully, vibrations rippling through the platform. Arashi gripped the blade, its presence amplifying the surrounding cold. He guided Morgoth in a circle—smooth, swift, like a shadow over water. Arashi felt the speed, wind whistling in his ears, no sound of hooves. The blade hummed faintly, intensifying the pressure in his head.
He tested the blade. Guiding Morgoth toward a training dummy in the corner—a steel pole wrapped in rubber—he thought, "Strike." Swinging, the blade hit the dummy, which shuddered, coated in frost. Deep gashes marked the rubber, the air growing heavier, as if space itself contracted in fear. Arashi's energy drained faster, his head spinning. "Too much," he thought, releasing the blade. It dissolved like smoke, but Morgoth remained.
He dismounted, leaning on the horse to avoid collapsing. Morgoth stood still, eyes glowing. Arashi scribbled in his notebook: "Blade—success. Amplifies fear, cuts like real. Drains faster than Morgoth. Needs practice."
The next hours were spent repeating the summon. First, the blade alone, without the horse. Each time, it materialized sharper, its weight more familiar. Strikes on the dummy left deeper marks, cold spreading farther. Then Morgoth alone, to solidify mobility. Arashi ran him across the platform, guiding sprints and jumps. Finally, he tried both together. He managed three laps, swinging the blade, striking two dummies, leaving them frosted and cracked.
The Nazgûl's whispers grew louder: "We can do more… Let us out…" Arashi held the wall, feeling it tremble. He recalled the book: the Nazgûl were stronger together, but their power corrupted. "I'm not your slave," he thought. "I won't give in."
By the end of training, he was on the edge. The final summon—Morgoth and blade—lasted a minute. Arashi galloped across the platform, slashing dummies, until he collapsed to his knees, gasping. The horse and blade dissolved, leaving frost and cracks. Recovering, he made a final note: "Morgoth and blade—powerful but draining. Need to train endurance."
He left the hall, night enveloping the campus. Despite exhaustion, he felt progress. He was already planning his training to shine at the Sports Festival.