Chapter 23: Recess, Revelations, and a Request for Condiments.
The lunch break before the final tournament was a much-needed recess, a moment for the remaining sixteen competitors to catch their breath, strategize, and wrestle with their own churning emotions. For most, it was a time to eat and mentally prepare. For Shoto Todoroki and Izuku Midoriya, it became the stage for a confrontation that would define the rest of the festival.
Midoriya found Todoroki in a quiet, sterile corridor beneath the stands, the distant noise of the festival a muted hum. He had wanted to ask him about his Quirk, to understand the power he was up against. He was not prepared for the story he received.
Todoroki's voice was a low, chilling monotone as he spoke. He told a story not of training, but of eugenics. A story of his father, the hero Endeavor, and his obsession with surpassing All Might. He spoke of a Quirk marriage, of being engineered as a tool, of a brutal and abusive childhood designed to forge him into the perfect hero. He spoke of his mother, of the boiling water, of the pained cry of a woman broken by her husband, and of the left side of his own face—a permanent, physical scar that mirrored the deeper wounds within.
"I will never use my father's Quirk," Todoroki said, his breath misting in the cool air, his gaze distant and filled with a cold fire. "I will show him that I can win, that I can reject his entire existence, using only my mother's power. I will win this tournament with my ice alone."
Midoriya listened, his own problems, his own anxieties about One For All, suddenly feeling small and insignificant. He was looking at a boy who was not fighting for victory, but for the salvation of his own soul. The weight of the revelation was crushing.
While this heart-wrenching drama unfolded, Saitama was having a much better time. He was back in the public food court, which was now less crowded. He had decided on a massive, steaming bowl of tonkotsu ramen from a stall that promised an "extra-rich, 48-hour pork broth." He sat at a small table, took a deep slurp of the noodles, and let out a sigh of pure contentment. The broth was, as promised, exceptionally rich.
But it was missing something. A crucial element. He needed ra-yu, Japanese chili oil, to give it the perfect, spicy kick.
He went back to the stall. "Excuse me," he asked the chef. "Do you have any chili oil?"
The chef shook his head apologetically. "Sorry, pal. We just ran out."
This began Saitama's new quest. He left his ramen to cool slightly and began to wander from stall to stall, a man on a singular, vital mission. "Do you have chili oil?" he asked the takoyaki vendor. "No." He asked the yakisoba cook. "Fresh out." He asked the crepe maker, who just looked at him with confusion.
His search led him near the VIP entrance, where a colossal figure stood, wreathed in a constant, intimidating aura of flames. It was Endeavor, the Number Two Hero, fuming at his son's public defiance. He was a pillar of fire and fury, a being so intense that other onlookers gave him a wide, fearful berth.
Saitama, completely oblivious to his identity or status, saw only a large, angry man who was literally on fire. His simple, janitorial brain made a connection. Fire. Heat. Spiciness.
He walked directly up to the fuming hero. "Excuse me, sir," he said, his voice its usual, flat monotone. The sheer normality of his approach was so unexpected that Endeavor's fiery glare faltered for a second. "You look like you know a lot about hot stuff. Any idea where I can find some chili oil around here?"
Endeavor stared down at the bald man in the staff vest. He had been expecting a sycophant asking for an autograph, or a rival hero looking for a confrontation. He had not, in any possible calculation, been expecting to be asked for condiments. The sheer, brain-breaking absurdity of the question short-circuited his rage.
"…What?" was all he could manage to growl.
"Chili oil," Saitama repeated patiently. "For my ramen."
"Get out of my way, you insignificant gnat!" Endeavor finally roared, his flames flaring.
Saitama just shrugged. "Okay. No need to be rude about it." He turned and walked away, his internal assessment of the Number Two Hero now solidified: "That guy has a bad attitude. And he was no help at all."
The brackets for the final, one-on-one tournament flashed across the stadium's Jumbotrons. Midoriya vs. Shinso. Todoroki vs. Sero. Uraraka vs. Bakugo. A wave of excitement surged through the crowd.
Saitama, at the far end of the concourse, finally found a small, overlooked gyoza stall. On the counter, he saw it: a large, glorious bottle of chili oil.
"Ah, perfect," he said, a look of genuine triumph on his face. He had won his own battle.