The cheers still hadn't faded.They rolled and tumbled through the stadium in waves—raw, electric, and disbelieving. Even as the match timer reset and the fog spell's last traces dissipated into sunlight, the crowd's noise stayed heavy in the air.
Harry let it wash over him like static.
The moment Present Mic's voice crackled out the winners' announcement, Harry slipped away.
He waved briefly to Midoriya and Ochako, then ducked behind the staging gate and down the quieter corridor toward the prep rooms. His robe still smelled faintly of ozone and dirt, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Every muscle ached from the hour-long fight—not from casting, but from sprinting, dodging, bracing under impacts. His hands trembled faintly from sheer exhaustion.
He dropped into the first empty bench he found in the support prep area.The room was quiet except for the dull hum of vents and the rhythmic clicking of distant machines from the engineers above.
With practiced precision, he unfastened his satchel and began laying cards across the bench—edges charred, a few half-crumpled from activation stress. Each was drained, the runes faint and ashy.
Harry exhaled. "Half my deck gone."
He reached for his spare materials—a small pouch of pre-treated paper, ink infused with trace mana, and his engraving stylus. One by one, he began redrawing runes, tracing channels, layering the spell models. It was almost meditative, like piecing himself back together.
A tired voice drifted from behind him."Still working? You just fought a war."
Harry didn't look up. "Wars are easier when you have ammo."
Power Loader—the support instructor—leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You really are a one-man R&D team. If you ever get tired of being a hero, the support course would kill to have you."
Harry smiled faintly without stopping. "I think I'm already halfway there."
Across the campus, the rest area buzzed with half-heard chatter and suppressed adrenaline. Teams compared injuries, traded half-sarcastic congratulations, and argued over who cheated more.
At the far end of the room, Midoriya sat with his head bowed, towel draped over his neck, every limb aching.He'd barely had time to breathe before a shadow fell across him.
Bakugo.
Still dust-smeared, eyes blazing, hands twitching faint sparks.
"You think you're hot stuff now, huh?" His voice was sharp but low, the kind of anger that burns clean rather than explodes. "Hiding behind Potter's tricks, getting cheered like you're a real hero."
Midoriya froze, throat tight. "Kacchan—"
Bakugo slammed his palm into the wall beside him, the muffled pop of an explosion echoing through the space. "Don't 'Kacchan' me! You got lucky! You'd be toast without him!"
"That's not—" Midoriya stood, fists trembling. "It wasn't luck! Harry's support kept us alive, yeah—but we fought as a team! That's what being a hero means!"
Bakugo's lip curled. "A team? Then I'll blow through your whole damn team next round."
The silence between them stretched until it cracked.
Then Bakugo turned sharply, stomping away.Midoriya didn't chase him. He just stood there, hands shaking—not from fear, but from something close to resolve.
He whispered, "Then I'll just have to get stronger too."
The tension barely had time to settle before another shadow appeared beside him—cooler this time.Todoroki, calm and deliberate, arms folded, half his face still frosted from the fight.
"You're Midoriya Izuku," he said simply.
Midoriya blinked, wary. "Uh—yeah?"
"I watched you fight. The coordination, the decision-making—it's impressive." Todoroki's tone was polite but distant. "But I don't think it's all you."
"Huh?"
"That magic boy—Potter. His support system elevates you. Still… when you fought in the last seconds, you didn't rely on him. You fought raw. And you didn't break."
Todoroki's eyes narrowed, voice dropping just slightly. "My father's watching. He wants to see what you'll do next. I want to see it too."
He turned away, leaving Midoriya blinking.It took a moment before Midoriya realized—that was a challenge.
Back in the prep room, Harry wiped the last bit of ink from his hands.Fresh cards gleamed faintly in the dim light, humming with quiet readiness. His satchel was full again—restocked, balanced, orderly.
He flexed his fingers, sore but steady.A faint smile crept across his face.
"Alright," he murmured. "Round two survived. Let's see what the last round looks like."
He slid the final card into its sleeve, cinched the satchel closed, and leaned back.Outside, the distant sound of students laughing and arguing filtered in—life, energy, noise. For now, it was enough.
Out in the main arena, the scoreboard flickered to life again.New brackets began to form for the final event—the one-on-one tournament.
Somewhere on the screen, two names lit up side by side:
Midoriya Izuku vs. Shinso Hitoshi.
Harry caught sight of it from the corridor, a tired but genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Looks like it's your turn, partner."
He turned and disappeared down the hall, already thinking about the next upgrade.