The days after the Sports Festival passed strangely.
U.A. officially declared a short break—time to rest, recover, and "process the experience," as the notice phrased it. For most of the students, that meant sleeping in, replaying their matches online, or basking in attention they'd never known before.
For Ren, it meant quiet.
He had moved back into his repurposed room on campus fully now. No reporters. No crowds. Just concrete walls, a narrow window, and the faint hum of U.A.'s security systems running day and night.
Perfect.
Ren sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes half-closed, energy circulating slowly through his body—not for power, not for output, but for awareness. He let it sink into muscle and bone, feeling the familiar reinforcement hum beneath his skin.
Strong.
Too strong.
That was the problem.
He exhaled.
I won… but not cleanly.
The finals replayed themselves in his mind—not the highlight reels the school released, but the moments between them. The split-second missteps. The close calls. The way Todoroki's movements had forced him to back away again and again.
Distance had saved him.
Control had saved him.
But whenever the fight collapsed inward—when space disappeared—Ren hadn't fought.
He had reacted.
That realization bothered him more than any injury.
In close quarters, Ren didn't know how to fight.
He relied on instinct, brute reinforcement, and sudden bursts of energy. Dodge. Counter. Overwhelm. It worked—until it didn't. Against Bakugo, he'd ended the fight instantly through terrain manipulation. Against Todoroki, he'd forced spacing with elemental pressure.
But what if he couldn't?
What if the opponent stayed glued to him?
Ren clenched his hand slowly.
Reinforcing my body isn't the same as knowing how to use it.
He had strength. Durability. Speed. But his movements weren't trained—they were improvised. He didn't have footwork. He didn't have grappling knowledge. He didn't know how to control another body in motion.
If someone like Aizawa got close—
Ren's thoughts cut off immediately.
He shook his head.
That was the answer, wasn't it?
Internships.
The festival had opened the gates. Pro heroes would be sending offers soon—combat specialists, flashy agencies, high-profile names. Any of them would love his power.
But power wasn't what he needed.
Ren lay back against the floor, staring at the ceiling.
A week.
That's all an internship really is at first.
You can't learn close-quarter combat in a week.
You can't rebuild instincts that deep that fast.
Even if he joined a big agency, they'd focus on missions, patrols, publicity. They wouldn't stop everything to teach a student how to fight from the ground up.
They couldn't afford to.
But U.A. could.
Ren sat up slowly.
Teachers didn't run agencies.
They ran students.
More importantly—they weren't going anywhere.
If he chose a U.A. teacher, he wouldn't be limited to one week. He could ask questions later. Train between classes. Request guidance again and again.
Close-quarter combat wasn't something you sampled.
It was something you built.
Aizawa.
The name surfaced unbidden.
Erasure aside, Aizawa fought with his body. Capture weapon. Throws. Positioning. Balance. Control.
He didn't overpower enemies.
He dismantled them.
Ren exhaled slowly.
That's what I lack.
Not power.
Not energy.
Structure.
Discipline.
Technique.
Ren stood and rolled his shoulders, feeling energy shift with the motion.
If he wanted real freedom—the kind he kept chasing—then relying on raw output alone wasn't enough. Someone would always exist who could slip inside his range.
And next time—
Next time, distance might not save him.
Ren looked toward the window, where U.A.'s grounds stretched out quiet and orderly under the afternoon sun.
The festival was over.
The applause had faded.
Now came the part that mattered.
"I need a teacher," he said quietly.
Not a hero.
Not a symbol.
A mentor.
And this time, Ren knew exactly where to look.