Ochaco leaned close, her breath warm. "Iida and Ojiro next, Deku—they're fast and steady, right?" I nodded. "Iida's speed, Ojiro's tail—they'll outmaneuver Power Loader."
Bakugo snorted, sparks crackling. "Four-eyes better not lecture his way to a loss. Tail-boy's just a whip." Momo scribbled tactics, Todoroki's frost misting the railing.
Below, Tenya Iida stood ramrod straight, engines in his calves revving, glasses glinting with duty. Mashirao Ojiro flexed beside him, his blond tail swaying, martial arts stance poised.
"We'll uphold U.A.'s honor!" Iida chopped the air. Ojiro nodded, calm. "Let's keep it clean and quick."
Aizawa's voice rasped over comms, his scarf limp from exhaustion. "Iida Tenya and Ojiro Mashirao versus Maijima Higari—Power Loader. Objective: defeat or escape in 30 minutes. His mech and traps will bury you—dig deep."
The arena was a junkyard fortress—scrap metal piles, hydraulic presses, and conveyor belts, Power Loader's domain.
Higari Maijima, helmeted and burly, piloted a custom excavator mech, its claws and drills humming, his Quirk: Iron Claws amplifying dig-speed to sculpt the battlefield.
"Newbies!" he barked, voice metallic through the suit. "I'll bury ya in my workshop—show me your guts!" The buzzer roared, and steel screamed.
__________________
The Fight: Iida & Ojiro vs. Power Loader
Iida ignited first, Engine quirk blazing—calf jets propelling him in a 50 km/h sprint, weaving through scrap piles like a blue blur, kicking up dust to dodge a mech claw swipe.
"Citizens' safety demands precision!" His kick shattered a steel drum, shrapnel pinging off Power Loader's armor.
Ojiro followed, Tail quirk a whip of muscle—leaping 8 meters, tail coiling a girder to swing over a conveyor belt, landing with a spinning heel kick that dented a mech panel.
"Stay sharp, Iida!" The mech retaliated, Power Loader's Iron Claws carving earth—trenches opening like jaws, forcing Iida to vault, engines screaming.
A drill arm lanced at Ojiro; he parried with his tail, the appendage hardening to deflect, but the force hurled him into a crate, wood splintering.
Power Loader laughed, mech pivoting with hydraulic grace. "Speed's cute, but my shop's a maze!" He triggered traps—conveyor belts reversing, dumping scrap avalanches; hydraulic presses slamming down like guillotines.
Iida dodged a press, engines boosting to 60 km/h, sliding under to deliver a Recipro Burst—a 10-second overdrive kick, cracking the mech's leg joint.
Sparks flew, but Power Loader countered, claw scooping earth to hurl a boulder barrage. Ojiro vaulted, tail snaring a pipe to sling himself clear, then lashed the mech's arm, wrapping tight to jam a drill.
"Got it pinned!" But the mech's secondary claw severed the tail's grip, flinging Ojiro into a trench, his breath knocked out.
Five minutes in, they pressed. Iida's speed carved paths, engines revving to circle the mech, kicking up dust clouds to blind sensors—each pass a high-speed chop to weak joints, metal groaning.
Ojiro recovered, tail sweeping low to topple scrap piles, aiming to clog the mech's treads. Power Loader adapted, his quirk digging faster—arena floor sinking into a pit, walls rising to corral them, presses snapping like bear traps.
Iida boosted Ojiro out of a trench, but a claw grazed his arm, blood welling, engines sputtering from debris.
"Ojiro, we must synchronize!" Ojiro nodded, tail coiling a girder to vault atop the mech, fists hammering the helmet—dents forming, but Power Loader shook him off, a press slamming inches away.
Ten minutes, momentum fraying. The pit deepened—5 meters, walls slick with oil from leaking hydraulics, traps multiplying: spiked rollers, flamethrowers hissing.
Iida's Recipro Burst cooled down, speed dropping to 40 km/h, legs aching. Ojiro's tail bruised, strikes slowing, a flamethrower singeing his costume.
Power Loader's mech loomed, claws sculpting a steel cage around them, escape gate 80 meters off but walled by scrap. "You're buried, kids! Dig or die!"
A drill pinned Iida's leg—engines stalled, pain searing as he pried free. Ojiro pulled him clear, but a press crushed their path, dust choking the air.
Fifteen minutes, verge of defeat. The cage tightened—2-meter radius, spikes inching inward, Power Loader's mech towering, claws ready to crush. Iida's glasses cracked, engines coughing; Ojiro's tail limp, stamina fading.
"We... cannot fail U.A.," Iida gasped, chopping weakly. Ojiro panted, "There's a way—distract him." A desperate nod—clean fights were losing.
Time to play dirty, verbal daggers to crack Power Loader's focus, then cuff him. Inspired by Tsuyu's Bully Maguire taunt, they'd mock him into a mistake.
They feigned collapse—Iida slumping against a wall, engines silent, "We yield..."; Ojiro kneeling, tail drooping, "Too much..." Power Loader approached, mech's hatch opening, his helmeted face smirking.
"Smart choice, newbies. Heroism's knowing when—" Iida's voice cut through, sharp and uncharacteristic: "You rust-bucket reject!" Ojiro joined, tail twitching: "Junkyard wannabe—your mech's a scrapheap joke!"
Power Loader froze, eyes narrowing behind the visor. "What'd you say, brats?"
The mockery escalated, a torrent of bad words and dirty names to rattle his pro-hero composure.
Iida stood, glasses flashing: "Clueless cog—your traps are dollar-store trash!" Ojiro leaped, tail lashing air: "Tin-can loser, digging your own grave!"
Power Loader's face reddened, mech stuttering as he roared, "You little—show some respect!" He lunged, claws slashing wildly, focus splintering—traps misfiring, a press crushing empty scrap.
Iida dodged, engines sparking back, "Pathetic gearhead—can't even bury us!" Ojiro vaulted, tail coiling a beam: "Scrap-metal moron, your quirk's a shovel and you're the hole!"
The verbal barrage hit peak filth—Iida's voice booming, "Rusty-ass failure, your mech's a rolling dumpster!" Ojiro's taunts sharper, "Clank-clank bitch, go back to the junk pile!"
Power Loader's control cracked, his quirk faltering—walls trembling, claws swinging blind, traps jamming as rage clouded precision.
"I'll crush you punks!" he bellowed, mech charging, but the distraction worked: cage walls stalled, spikes froze.
Iida boosted with a weak Recipro—5 seconds of burst—circling to flank, while Ojiro's tail snared a loose cable, yanking to unbalance the mech.
The opening: Power Loader stumbled, hatch ajar, his guard down from fury. Ojiro leaped, tail wrapping the mech's arm to pin it, "Suck it, scrap-dick!"
Iida sprinted, cuffs from his belt—EMP-laced, U.A. issue—snapping one on Power Loader's wrist as he emerged,
"Foul-mouthed fossil, you're done!" Ojiro's tail yanked the other arm, Iida cuffing it shut—click, quirk nullified, mech powering down, traps collapsing into rubble.
Power Loader slumped, wiping sweat, a grudging chuckle escaping. "Dirty mouths, dirtier win. Pass." Timer at 24 minutes—victory by restraint.
The deck erupted—Kirishima's "Manly trash-talk!", Ochaco's giggle, Bakugo's cackle: "Four-eyes swearing? Priceless!" Iida and Ojiro climbed up, battered but proud, Iida adjusting cracked glasses.
"Apologies for the language—victory demanded it." Ojiro grinned, tail swishing. "Got the job done."
___________________
Fractured Resolve
Aizawa's glare promised lectures, but he dismissed us. " Two matches left—Jiro and Koda, & Toru and Shoji, Sleep." Denki and Aoyama joked, traitor masks tight. I watched, Saiyan senses sharp, Oceanus rumbling: The tide smells blood. My powers waited, silence my shield. We'd survive, clean or filthy.
_________________
Some time later
The late afternoon sun, dipped toward the horizon, casting elongated shadows across U.A. High's training grounds like fingers accusing the guilty.
Training Ground Beta lay dormant, its junkyard sprawl reset for tomorrow's final matches—Jiro and Koda versus Present Mic, Hagakure and Shoji against Snipe—but the air thrummed with unfinished business.
Cheers still echoed in my ears, but they rang hollow against the storm in my chest.
I slipped from the dorms as Class 1-A scattered for dinner, hero costume's tears mended with ki-thread, green aura internalized to cloak my approach.
Oceanus rumbled approval: The sea claims its betrayers. Drown them in the depths.
The maintenance tunnels beneath the grounds—echoing with the drip of my old floods—called like a siren. I'd tracked their patterns: late-night "study sessions," whispers in the dark.
Saiyan senses sharpened to godlike acuity, ki scanning for their signatures—Denki's electric hum, Aoyama's sparkling laser-flicker. There, in a disused sublevel, a chamber lined with rusted pipes and flickering emergency lights.
They huddled over a phone, Aoyama's navel gem glinting as he murmured, "Shigaraki demands the camp grid by midnight. Mirio's Float—how do we ground it?"
Denki sparked, "Blackwhip's the real pain—shadows everywhere. But with my zaps in the generators..." They didn't hear me—ki-veiled, a ghost in green.
I stepped out, Dimensional Blade materializing in my grip, violet hum slicing the silence. "Planning the camp's end?" Their heads snapped up, Aoyama's eyes widening behind his lashes, Denki's hair standing in static shock.
"M-Midoriya?!" Denki yelped, palms crackling with volts. Aoyama posed dramatically, laser charging. "Mon dieu—how much did you hear?" I flared my aura—green light bathing the chamber, not full power, but enough to shake pipes loose.
"Enough. LOV dogs. Mirio's One For All, the ambush—All For One's strings. It ends here." No mercy in my voice; the boy who'd analyzed quirks in notebooks was gone, replaced by the tide-bringer who'd drowned titans.
They lunged—traitors' desperation a feral spark. Denki first, Electrification roaring to life, a 1.3 million-volt Indiscriminate Shock blasting wide, blue-white arcs forking toward me like lightning veins.
Aoyama flanked, navel laser firing in a cantilevered beam—purple ray twisting mid-air, homing on my chest with surgical spite.
I moved—Saiyan speed at 100% mastery a blur, jet-outpacing afterimages as I dodged the shock, green ki internalizing to absorb the ozone sting.
Ocean activated, 60% mastery pulling moisture from the pipes—rust-flaked water surging into a 10-meter shield, pressurized ki absorbing Aoyama's laser, the beam fizzling in a steam hiss.
"You can't—" Denki snarled, charging a pinpoint Whey bolt, but I closed the gap, fist cocked with Ocean-infused ki—water tendrils coiling my arm like serpents.
First strike: palm to Denki's chest, a ki-charged slap amplified by the Kinetic Glove from Storage—shock-absorbing insoles grounding my stance.
The impact rippled, green aura flaring to disrupt his circuits, volts shorting back into his body. He convulsed, eyes rolling, "Wheyyy—!"—dumb mode hitting hard, body crumpling as arcs sputtered out.
Aoyama fired again, laser grazing my shoulder—pain lancing, costume singeing—but I spun, tail-end of a Saiyan sweep (Broly's echo in my blood) tripping him.
He staggered, gem sparkling for another shot, but Ocean's regional sense locked his blood's flow—subtle desiccation, pulling moisture to weaken his aim, the beam veering wild into a pipe, steam exploding.
He posed, dramatic cape flaring—"You'll never understand, Midoriya! The League offers freedom!"—but I didn't banter.
Saiyan flight kicked in, a low hover closing the 5-meter gap in a blink, fist blurring with 100% control—building-level force tempered to non-lethal, green ki wrapping the blow like a glove.
It connected with his jaw, a clean uppercut that snapped his head back, gem dimming as his body went ragdoll, crumpling beside Denki in a heap of sparkles and static.
They groaned, semi-conscious, quirks flickering weakly—Denki's fingers twitching with residual charge, Aoyama's navel humming faintly.
No kills; heroes didn't murder. But permanence? That was the dungeon's gift.
I summoned the Dimensional Blade, obsidian edge singing violet as I slashed—a precise arc tearing reality's veil.
The portal yawned, a swirling maw of ethereal fog, reeking of chill decay and distant wails: the Ghost Dungeon, a A-Tier void I'd envisioned from the Blade's multiversal whisper—a haunted limbo, time-dilated like the Zombie realm (1 hour inside = 1 minute outside), but spectral.
No flesh, no quirks—just endless shades, translucent horrors born of forgotten souls, immune to quirks, feasting on essence.
Their lasers and shocks? Useless mist against the incorporeal. Souls consumed, bodies left as husks, eternally adrift. "For U.A.," I muttered, ki flaring to hoist their limp forms—one arm each, Denki's static prickling my skin, Aoyama's cape dragging like a shroud.
They stirred as I neared the rift—Denki's eyes fluttering, "Deku... you..."—a weak zap singeing my glove.
Aoyama gasped, gem flickering, "No... the Boss will—" But Ocean's tendrils lashed from my free hand—five whip-thin streams of water ki, diamond-hard, coiling their limbs, constricting to silence struggles.
Denki bucked, volts arcing futilely against the primordial bind, "Can't... short... you!"—but the ki insulated, his quirk fizzling like rain on fire.
Aoyama twisted, laser grazing my cheek—hot line of pain—but I squeezed the tendrils, desiccation pulling their strength, bodies slackening.
With a final heave, I hurled them through—Denki first, tumbling into fog with a yelp, Aoyama following in a cape-flutter, their forms vanishing into the wail-echo.
The portal showed glimpses: a vast, mist-shrouded hall of crumbling spires, moonlight filtering through spectral chains.
Ghosts materialized—wispy horrors, eyeless faces howling, translucent claws raking air.
Denki hit the ground, rolling, sparks flying—but the shades phased through, quirks useless, one latching his arm, essence-draining wail pulling a scream—"No—get off!"
Aoyama fired wild, laser passing harmlessly, a ghost coiling his legs, soul-siphon glowing faint blue as he thrashed, "Merde— they're... inside!"
More swarmed—dozens, a tide of pallid mist—claws sinking ethereal, quirks ignored, souls unraveling thread by thread, bodies convulsing as the dungeon claimed its due.
Their cries echoed—"Deku—please!"—fading to gurgles, then silence, husks left twitching in the fog.
I sealed the rift, Blade's hum dying, chamber silent save for dripping pipes. Blood trickled from my cheek, shoulder aching, but a Senzu Bean (33 left) from Storage snapped it clean—health, ki, stamina full.
No regret; they'd doom us all. Oceanus rumbled: The sea purges the tainted. Tides turn eternal.
I slipped back to the dorms, classmates oblivious—Ochaco humming in the common room, Bakugo snarling at dinner. Aoyama and Denki? "Sick," they'd say tomorrow, excuses bought.
The camp's ambush? Foiled in shadows. My secrets deepened—traitors gone, soul-consumed in the ghost void. Matches waited, but U.A. breathed freer. For them, I'd drown worlds.