CHAPTER 11: The Weight of the Crown
The morning after the USJ incident, the air in Class 1-A was thick with a strange mixture of adrenaline and somber realization. The classroom wasn't the boisterous arena it usually was; instead, it felt like a hospital waiting room where the survivors were still checking for scars.
"Did you guys see the news last night?" Kirishima asked, leaning over his desk. "They're calling us the 'Class that survived the Villains.' We're famous, but man... my heart is still racing."
"I'm just glad Aizawa-sensei is going to be okay," Uraraka sighed, her usual bubbly energy replaced by a weary relief.
Sherlock sat in his usual spot at the back, staring out the window. His crimson eyes were shadowed, his posture looking more like a total collapse of the soul. He didn't feel like a celebrity. He felt like a technician who had watched a machine explode and was now being told he had to go back inside and fix it. The memory of Shigaraki's red eyes and the Nomu's screeching muscle fibers played on a loop in his mind.
A Wholesome Silence
"Sherlock-san?"
He didn't need to look up to know it was Momo. She sat in the desk next to him, her movements graceful despite the slight stiffness in her shoulder. She looked tired, yet there was a persistent, bright resilience in her eyes that Sherlock simply couldn't fathom.
"You've been staring at that tree for ten minutes," she said softly. "I brought some high-grade glucose chocolates. My family's chef makes them specifically for Quirk-related fatigue. After seeing you use that Static Bind yesterday... I thought you might need them."
Sherlock finally turned his head. He looked at the elegantly wrapped box. "The sugar is fine, Momo. My levels stabilized. It's not my blood that's tired. It's the idea of doing it all again. The 'Static Bind' was just a friction lock on a machine that shouldn't exist."
Momo smiled, a warm, genuine expression that managed to feel both mature and youthful. "You saved us yesterday. When that villain tried to close the portal... you didn't hesitate. You acted like a hero, even if you keep trying to calculate your way out of the title."
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Actually, I wanted to thank you for the 'Molecular Glaze' tip. I've been researching the chemical composition of hydrophobic polymers all night. I think I can replicate a similar coating for my creations now. I was so excited I could barely sleep!"
Sherlock felt a small spark of warmth. "If you do, make sure the lipid chains are long enough. Otherwise, oil will still eat through it."
They spent the next few minutes in a quiet, technical back-and-forth. Momo was cheerful, her hands moving as she described her ideas, her eyes lighting up with the intellectual curiosity of a young girl who loved to create. But as the conversation trailed off, her smile faded. She looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw it: a profound, settled silence.
"Sherlock-san..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "You look like you're seeing something the rest of us aren't. Why do you look like you've reached the end of the book?"
"I'm just checking the exit signs, Momo," he said, turning back to the window. "Yesterday wasn't a lesson for me. It was a warning. I've run the numbers. The life expectancy of a front-line hero, the probability of another 'Nomu' level event... I'm realizing that I'm trying to solve an equation where the only result is zero. We're sixteen, Momo. We should be worried about exams, not if we'll be buried by next Tuesday."
Momo looked at him, her heart aching. She wanted to ask him if he was planning to leave—the question was right there. But as she looked at the weary set of his shoulders, she realized she already knew the answer. Yet, she couldn't comprehend how someone so capable could simply walk away. She was caught in a paradox of understanding his pain but being unable to accept his conclusion.
The Lunch of the "Silence Group"
Sherlock sat at his usual table, the "Silence Group" sanctuary. Usually, it was just him, Tokoyami, and Shoji. Today, however, Momo had joined them.
Sherlock picked at his rice. He watched Tokoyami, whose Dark Shadow was retreating into his cloak, sensing the somber mood.
"The air is heavy today," Tokoyami murmured.
"It is the weight of survival," Shoji added.
Sherlock didn't speak. He watched Todoroki at a nearby table, eating his cold soba with mechanical precision. They were the "Elite"—the recommendation students—but after the USJ, that title felt like a target.
The Tournament Announcement
After lunch, the classroom door slid open. Shota Aizawa shuffled in, wrapped head-to-toe in bandages.
"Sensei! You're back too soon!" the class cried.
"My welfare doesn't matter," Aizawa's muffled voice came from the gauze. "The fight isn't over. The UA Sports Festival is drawing near."
The reaction was immediate but conflicted. Kaminari and Mineta looked terrified.
"Wait, shouldn't we cancel it?!" Kaminari shouted. "Villains just infiltrated the school! Is it really safe to have a huge event where we're all in one place?"
"Exactly," Jiro agreed, leaning back. "It feels like we're just inviting them back for round two."
"It's exactly because of the attack that we must hold it," Aizawa countered. "To show that our crisis management system is solid. This isn't just a school event. The Sports Festival is Japan's biggest event.
Top heroes will be watching you. This is where you get scouted. This is where your career begins."
Bakugo let out a sharp, jagged grin. "Scouted? I don't care about that. I'm just going to show everyone I'm the top dog. USJ was just a warm-up."
Midoriya tightened his fists, his eyes burning with a mix of fear and resolve. I have to prove I can use this power. I have to show All Might I'm worthy.
Todoroki remained silent, but the air around him turned frigid. To him, the tournament wasn't a festival; it was a declaration of war against his father's bloodline.
Meanwhile, Ashido and Hagakure were vibrating with excitement.
"A festival! We're gonna be on TV!" Hagakure squealed. The duality of the class—half-paralyzed by fear and half-energized by ambition—was a sharp contrast to Sherlock's total apathy.
The Resignation
At the end of the school day, Sherlock stood in the faculty lounge. Aizawa was alone.
"I'm here to quit, Sensei," Sherlock said, placing his student ID on the wood.
Aizawa didn't look up immediately. "You saw the gap yesterday, didn't you? Between what you are and what that thing was."
"I saw that logic is irrelevant in this line of work," Sherlock replied. "I don't belong here. I want a life that makes sense. I'm done."
Aizawa looked up then, his one visible eye unreadable. "You can't quit. Not yet. School regulations state that during a national-security-tier event like the Festival, student status is locked. You can leave, but only after the closing ceremony."
Sherlock exhaled, a long, frustrated sound. "Fine. One more performance for the crowd. Then I'm gone."
As Sherlock walked out, Present Mic stepped out. "Hey, Shota... there's no such rule. You know the listeners can walk out any time they want."
Aizawa sighed. "I know. But if I let him walk away now, he'll spend the rest of his life running from the shadow of that Nomu. He's a 'Technician'—he thinks he's just a piece of equipment. He doesn't see that his brain saved those kids' lives. The tournament will push him until he has no choice but to find his own ambition. This year's festival is going to be more than just a scout meet... I want to see if he can calculate his way out of being a hero when the whole world is cheering his name.
The Final Variable: A House Divided
The walk from the station to the Sheets estate felt like a march toward a sentencing. Sherlock didn't look at the manicured gardens or the high-tech security drones patrolling the perimeter—drones he himself had calibrated only months prior. To him, they were no longer marvels of engineering; they were reminders of a world that demanded a shield.
He found his father, Arthur Sheets, in the study. The room was a museum of progress, filled with blueprints of support gear and holographic displays of the company's latest patents. Arthur was hunched over his desk, the blue light of the monitors hollowing out his features. Sherlock didn't wait for his father to hear it from the school news; he walked straight to the center of the room, his shadow cutting across the holograms.
"I'm quitting, Father. After the tournament, I'm leaving UA."
The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized. Arthur froze, his pen hovering over a digital tablet. Slowly, he stood up. The movement was weary, the silence in the room becoming suffocating as the hum of the cooling fans seemed to grow to a roar in Sherlock's ears.
"You're quitting?" Arthur's voice was a low vibration, dangerous and hurt. "After the years of prep? After the social maneuvering, the recommendation exams, the sheer capital we poured into your training? You're throwing away a seat at the pinnacle of society because of one bad day?"
"It wasn't a 'bad day,' Dad! It was a systemic failure of reality!" Sherlock's voice cracked through the air like a whip—the first time he had raised it in years. "The reports don't describe it. You didn't see it. I calculated the kinetic energy of that... that thing. The Nomu didn't follow the laws of biology. It was a god of destruction designed to kill a god of peace. And I? I am a technician with a deck of cards and a high-frequency glaze."
Sherlock stepped forward, his crimson eyes burning with a cold, desperate fire. "You want a hero for the company brand? Hire one. I refuse to be a marketing asset that ends up as a smear on the pavement. Mom didn't want me to be a soldier, Dad! She didn't want a martyr!"
Arthur's face contorted. "Don't you dare speak for her. Miyuri believed in the duty of the gifted!"
"Mom wanted me to live!" Sherlock roared back, his chest heaving. "She wanted me to have a life where the variables made sense. Sheets Industries builds the armor, but I'm not a test dummy for the next villain to break just to see if the plating holds! I am your son, not a prototype!"
Arthur looked at Sherlock, his eyes filled with a pained, desperate love that he only knew how to express through pressure. He looked at the boy—so much like her, yet so hollowed out by the logic of fear.
"I care about this business because it was her life's work," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "But more than that, I care that you're the only part of her I have left. Do you remember her last words to me about you? She saw you sitting on the floor of the lab, taking apart a reactor when you were five. She said, 'Arthur, our son sees the world in pieces... he sees the fractures before the whole. Promise me you'll help him find the strength to put them back together.'"
Sherlock felt the breath leave his lungs. The image of his mother—her soft smile, the smell of ozone and expensive perfume—hit him like a physical blow.
"I'm trying to make you strong enough so you don't break!" Arthur's voice finally cracked, the mask of the CEO slipping to reveal a terrified father. "The world is already in pieces, Sherlock! If you leave now, you're not choosing a 'logical life.' You're just proving you're afraid of the world she wanted you to lead. Being a hero... it's not just about the fight. It's about being the one who doesn't run when the math says the odds are zero."
Sherlock looked away, his jaw tight. "The math doesn't lie, Dad. I'm leaving."
Arthur let out a long, ragged breath. He looked at a photo of Miyuri on the mantel, the silver frame catching the light. I wish you were here, he thought bitterly. He has your eyes, but he's forgotten your courage.
"Fine," Arthur said suddenly, the steel returning to his tone. "You want to quit? I won't stop you. But you will not leave as a coward in the middle of the term. You will finish the Sports Festival."
Sherlock turned back, suspicious. "I told Aizawa the same thing. I'll be there, but—"
"No," Arthur interrupted. "You will go the distance. Sheets Industries' stock is tied to your public perception. If you drop out in the first round, the investors will see it as a failure of our lineage. I am making a deal with you, Sherlock. You reach the third game—the final tournament stage, the one-on-one battles. That is where the scouts and the board members look for the 'fire.' You reach that stage, you represent the name with dignity, and after that... if you still want to hand in your ID, I will sign the papers myself. I will even help you transfer to a university abroad."
Sherlock processed the numbers. The first stage was usually an obstacle course—low risk. The second was a team event—manageable. The third was the duel.
"I'll reach the third game," Sherlock said, his voice regaining its analytical flatness. "But don't expect a show. I will do the bare minimum required to qualify for each round. I will use the most efficient, low-risk paths. I'm not there to be a hero. I'm there to fulfill a contract."
"Agreed," Arthur said, turning his back to return to his monitors. "Now go. Get some rest. You look like a ghost."
Sherlock walked out of the study, his footsteps echoing in the dark hall. He felt a strange sense of relief, yet the weight in his chest hadn't lightened. He was tired. He was terrified. But he had a deadline now. An exit strategy.
Back in the study, Arthur Sheets watched the door close. He sank into his chair and looked at the photo of his wife again.
Bare minimum? he thought, a grim, hopeful smile touching his lips. You've never done anything at 'minimum' in your life, Sherlock. You just haven't found a reason to burn yet. He remembered Miyuri's hand on his, her eyes bright even at the end. 'Arthur, he will try to calculate his way out of his own heart. But when the world is watching, and the pressure is on... he won't be able to help himself. He will put the pieces back together.'
"I hope you were right, Miyuri," Arthur whispered into the empty room. "Because if he doesn't find that fire during the tournament, he's going to spend the rest of his life cold."