Chapter 6: The House Always Wins
The surveillance monitors in the observation room flickered to life, casting a cold, blue glow over the faces of Class 1-A. The final match of the day - Match 5—was about to begin. The "Heroes," Sherlock Sheets and Eijiro Kirishima, stood at the south entrance of the hollowed-out concrete building. Somewhere on the fourth floor, the "Villains," Denki Kaminari and Rikido Sato, waited with the nuclear weapon.
● The Opening Gambit: Physics over Force
"Kirishima," Sherlock's voice was a low, rhythmic hum, barely audible over the static of their comms. He was leaning against the cold concrete of the entryway, his long black coat pooled around his boots. He didn't look like a hero charging into battle; he looked like a bored commuter waiting for a delayed train.
"Yeah, Sherlock! I'm ready! My skin is at maximum density! Just give the word and I'll smash through the front line!" Kirishima punched his rock-hard fists together, the sound echoing like a mountain slide.
"Negative," Sherlock replied, his crimson eyes tracking the flickering dust motes in the air. "Sato's Sugar Rush provides a 5x multiplier to his base physical strength, but the metabolic cost is extreme. He has a five-minute window before his blood sugar crashes and he becomes a liability. Kaminari is even more predictable; he's a human capacitor with zero grounding. If we charge, we are walking into a high-voltage, high-impact meat grinder."
Sherlock reached into his Mark-IV Holster. With a fluid, practiced motion, he drew twelve cards from his deck. He didn't flick them yet. Instead, he let them hover between his fingers.
"Molecular Glaze: Friction Zero."
With a lazy wave of his hand, he released the cards. They didn't fall. They caught the faint, artificial draft from the building's ventilation system and began to drift through the hallway at neck-height, spinning slowly. This was the Scattered Paper Cuts
"Kirishima, take the central staircase. Stomp. Shout. Make enough noise to convince them you're a one-man army. If they come for you, retreat. Lead them into this corridor. I'm taking the elevator shaft."
"A tactical retreat? That's... not very manly, but if it's the plan, I'm in!" Kirishima charged up the stairs, his footsteps booming through the structure.
As Sherlock pulled himself up the elevator cable, his mind was a whirlwind of variables. He wasn't thinking about "Justice" or "Peace." He was thinking about Atmospheric Humidity.
Relative humidity is at 42%, Sherlock mused, his grip tightening on the steel cable. The moisture content in the air will soften the 'Pulse Pulp' core of my cards by approximately 0.05% every minute. I have a maximum effectiveness window of twelve minutes before the aerodynamic lift of the 'Frictionless Glaze' begins to degrade.
He felt a familiar, nagging ache in his temples. This was the Sugar Crash—the price of his "Lazy" metabolism. His Quirk didn't just move paper; it required him to process the molecular alignment of the materials he touched. The more cards he "primed," the more glucose his brain burned.
I'm already at 60% capacity, he noted, his breathing becoming slightly labored. I need to end this in one move. Efficiency is the only path to survival.
● The Psychological Trap
On the fourth floor, Kaminari was vibrating with nervous energy. "Sato, you hear that? It sounds like a landslide coming up the stairs! It's Kirishima! He's coming right for us!"
"Let 'em come!" Sato roared, tearing open a packet of granulated sugar and dumping it into his mouth. His muscles surged, his gym uniform straining against his expanding chest. "I'll crush him before he even sees the bomb!"
Kirishima appeared at the top of the stairwell, hardening his face into a mask of stone. "Villains! Your reign of terror ends here!"
"Eat this!" Kaminari yelled, pointing his fingers. But before he could fire, Kirishima turned on his heel and bolted back down the stairs.
"Hey! Get back here, you coward!" Sato gave chase, his heavy footsteps shaking the floorboards. Kaminari followed, eager to finish the fight.
They rounded the corner into the main lobby, and both villains skidded to a halt. The hallway was filled with a shimmering, red-and-black cloud. Hundreds of thin, razor-sharp cards were floating in the air, drifting aimlessly like a beautiful, deadly curtain.
"What is this? Magic tricks?" Kaminari laughed, his hands sparking with yellow electricity. "I'll just blast through this paper trash!"
"Wait, Kaminari—!" Sato started, sensing something was wrong, but the spark-plug was already discharging.
"1.3 MILLION VOLTS!"
The electricity surged forward. In a normal fight, the paper would have disintegrated. But Sherlock's cards were Steel-Grade Reinforced. They acted as a lightning rod, the "Molecular Glaze" conducting the current safely into the concrete walls. The paper didn't even singe.
As the villains tried to push through the cloud, the "Frictionless" edges of the cards—drifting on the backdraft of Kaminari's own blast—began to slice.
They moved with the grace of falling leaves, but their edges were sharper than surgical scalpels.
"Ow! Dammit! They're everywhere!" Kaminari swatted at the air, but the more he moved, the more the cards sliced his sleeves and the skin of his forearms.
They weren't deep wounds, but they were hundreds of microscopic "Paper Cuts" that made every muscle contraction a stinging agony.
● The Collaboration
From the darkness of the elevator shaft above them, Sherlock descended. He didn't drop with the grace of a ninja; he slid down the cable and landed with a clumsy thud, his knees buckling slightly.
He was pale, a thin bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.
"Sato," Sherlock called out, his voice flat.
The sugar-powered giant turned, his fist cocked back for a punch that could level a wall. But Sherlock was already snapping his fingers.
"The Snapping Blast!"
A card that had been drifting unnoticed behind Sato's ear suddenly primed. The "Pulse" fibers expanded violently. POP!
It wasn't a lethal explosion—it was a localized shockwave.
It blew out Sato's eardrum and sent his equilibrium spiraling. The giant stumbled forward, his sugar-high finally beginning to tank.
"NOW, KIRISHIMA!" Sherlock shouted.
Kirishima lunged from behind a pillar, his arm hardened into a jagged spear. "RED COUNTER!" He slammed into Sato's midsection, the impact sending the villain flying into Kaminari.
Sherlock didn't waste a second. He drew a single card, holding it in his signature Dealer's Flick stance. With a snap of his wrist, the card blurred through the air, pinning Kaminari's sleeve to the wall with enough force to crack the concrete.
"HERO TEAM... WINS!" All Might's voice boomed through the speakers.
● The Observation Room: The Divide in Opinion
As the teams walked back to the observation room, the atmosphere was a mix of awe and skepticism.
"That was so cool!" Izuku Midoriya was already scribbling furiously in his notebook. "The way he used the building's ventilation to maintain the 'Scattered Paper Cuts' without using active telekinesis... he's minimizing his energy output by utilizing the environment! And the 'Snapping Blast' for disorientation... Sherlock-kun is a genius!"
Momo Yaoyorozu nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Indeed. He utilized the chemical properties of the 'Pulse Pulp' to ground Kaminari's electricity. It was a victory of intellect over raw power. He didn't win because he was stronger; he won because he made them play his game."
However, not everyone was impressed.
Bakugo Katsuki stood in the corner, his eyes narrowed into slits. "Tch. What a load of garbage," he spat. "The 'Dealer' is a hack. He won because those two idiots are brain-dead. If he tried that floating paper crap with me, I'd turn his 'shrapnel zone' into a bonfire in two seconds. Paper burns, you morons. And look at him—he can barely stand up. One punch and he's out for a week. He's weak. He's a gimmick."
Todoroki Shoto remained silent, but his thoughts were equally cold. He watched Sherlock stumble slightly as he entered the room. Bakugo is right about one thing, Shoto thought. The boy is a glass cannon. His cards have high piercing power, but they are brittle. In a battle of attrition or against a wide-scale elemental attack, he has no defense. He's not someone I need to worry about.
● The Teacher's Verdict
All Might stood before the class, his presence filling the room. He looked at Sherlock, who was leaning heavily against a monitor desk, his face devoid of color.
"Young Sato! Young Kaminari!" All Might began, his voice stern but encouraging. "You allowed your opponent to dictate the pace of the battle! You rushed into a confined space without checking for traps! A hero must always be the one controlling the environment!"
Then he turned to the winners. "Young Kirishima! Your coordination was exemplary! You played the role of the decoy perfectly, allowing your partner to set the stage! That is the heart of teamwork!"
Finally, he looked at Sherlock. He saw the way the boy hid his shaking hands in the deep pockets of his black coat.
"And Young Sheets," All Might said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone that only the front row could hear. "Your intelligence is remarkable. You analyzed the biological and elemental weaknesses of your opponents and exploited them with surgical precision. It was a beautiful display of tactical genius."
Sherlock gave a tired, half-hearted nod.
"However," All Might continued, "You are relying too much on your brain to save a body that isn't ready. Today, you won through deception and prep-time. But a villain will not always give you a hallway to trap. If you want to stand among the greats—if you want to be more than just a 'Recommendation Student'—you must train your physical vessel. You have the potential to be a Master of the Field, Sherlock. But potential is a debt you have to pay back with sweat. Don't let your 'Lazy' nature be the thing that causes a tragedy you could have prevented."
Sherlock looked up, the word 'Potential' ringing in his ears like a curse. "I'll... try to keep that in mind, sir. Though sweat sounds like a lot of laundry."
All Might chuckled, but his eyes remained serious. He saw the spark in the boy—the same spark he saw in Midoriya, though hidden under layers of apathy.
● The Aftermath in the Locker Room
As the boys changed back into their school uniforms, the energy was high. Kirishima was still buzzing.
"Man, Sherlock! We gotta hit the gym together! If you had just a bit more muscle, that 'Dealer's Flick' would probably go through a tank!"
Sherlock was currently struggling to pull his black-cherry soda can from his bag, his fingers still numb from the over-exertion.
"Kirishima... the mere thought of a gym makes me want to go into a coma. I'll stick to the cards. They don't require a membership."
"But All Might was right! You got the potential!"
Sherlock sighed, sliding back into his oversized hoodie, the red lining of his hero coat tucked away in its case. He felt the weight of the day pressing down on him. Rank 10. A victory. A lecture from the Number One Hero.
I just wanted a quiet year, he thought, catching his ref
lection in the locker mirror. His crimson eyes looked back, tired and ancient. But at UA, even the shadows have to work overtime.