CHAPTER 13: The Arithmetic of Ambition
The air in the UA stadium was thick enough to taste, a heavy mixture of ozone, sweat, and the electric hum of one hundred thousand expectant souls. The first event had been a massacre of expectations, leaving forty-two students standing in the dust of the finish line, their lungs burning and their minds reeling.
Sherlock stood at the edge of the field, his breath shallow, his crimson eyes scanning the massive digital scoreboard that loomed over the crowd like a monolith of judgment.
THE TOP STANDINGS:
Izuku Midoriya – 10,000,000 Points
Shoto Todoroki – 205 Points
Katsuki Bakugo – 200 Points
...
Sherlock Sheets – 140 Points
Sherlock stared at the number '140'. It was a minor success in his plan to be mediocre—he was high enough to pass, but low enough to avoid the blinding spotlight of the top three. Yet, the weight of it felt like a lead shroud. He had calculated his movement to land in the forgettable middle, but the sheer lethargy of the other competitors had pushed him into the "High Value" bracket.
I'm still too visible, Sherlock thought, his mind racing through the upcoming variables. Ten million points on Midoriya's head. The boy isn't a student anymore; he's a mathematical singularity. To be near him is to be caught in an event horizon of violence. I need to find the dead zones of the stadium.
● Strategic Analysis: The Formation of the Silence Group
The fifteen minutes allotted for team formation were a display of pure social Darwinism. The field was a swarm of frantic negotiations and desperate pleas. Sherlock stayed rooted to his spot, performing a "Risk-Benefit Analysis" on every peer, his eyes darting with clinical precision. He wasn't looking for friends; he was looking for components.
Midoriya's Perspective: Izuku stood in the center of the field, sweating profusely, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Everyone is looking at me like I'm prey, he thought, his eyes darting frantically. I need people who don't just see the ten million. I need people who can protect it from all sides. He looked at Sherlock, but the "Paper Boy" was already turning away. Sheets-kun's logic is too cold... he won't take the risk of being on my team. He calculates survivability, and right now, my survivability is near zero.
Todoroki's Perspective: Shoto stood apart, his gaze fixed on the ten million points with a cold, singular focus. I don't need the points to prove I'm the best, he mused, his left side feeling heavy and suppressed. I need them to silence my father. My team must be a fortress. He looked at the list of students. He didn't even consider Sherlock; he saw the boy as an enigma—someone who moved with precision but lacked the "fire" to hunt the top prize. To Todoroki, Sherlock was a tool that refused to be used.
The "Silence Group" Convenes:
"Sherlock-san," Momo said, approaching him with Tokoyami and Shoji. They moved with a shared aura of calm that stood in stark contrast to the screaming chaos around them. "We have analyzed the field. We have the defense, the senses, and the tools. But we need a pilot. We need your ability to see the gaps in the chaos."
Sherlock's mind immediately began a simulation. Shoji's multi-arm span creates a stable 360-degree platform with a low center of gravity. Tokoyami's Dark Shadow is a perfect kinetic interceptor for mid-range threats. Momo is a portable factory with zero lag time.
"This is the most efficient configuration for a 'Low-Profile Win,'" Sherlock said, his voice a low hum. "But understand the strategy: we do not hunt the Ten Million. We hunt the outliers. We will win by Subtraction. We will harvest the points of the teams who are too busy looking at Midoriya to notice their own backs. We are the 'Static' in their signal."
● The VIP Box: The Boardroom of Titans
High above, shielded by tempered glass, Arthur Sheets sat with his hands steepled, his eyes cold and clinical. He wasn't watching the spectacle; he was auditing a performance.
"He's choosing the 'Quiet' team," Mr. Yaoyorozu noted from the adjacent seat. "A defensive shell. It's a wise choice for a recommendation student who wants to minimize risk and preserve energy. My daughter seems to trust his direction implicitly."
"No," Arthur corrected, his voice a dry, authoritative rasp. "He isn't minimizing risk; he's optimizing his environment. He knows that in a chaotic system, the one who remains still is the one who sees the pattern. He is waiting for the 'Gods' to tire each other out. He's treating this like a market correction, not a fight. He is letting the others pay the 'energy tax' while he collects the dividends."
Endeavor, sitting in the front row, let out a huff of concentrated flame that fogged the glass. "A tactical retreat is still a retreat. My Shoto will take the top spot through sheer dominance. This Sheets boy... he has the mind of a clerk and the heart of a coward. He lacks the stomach for a real clash. In a world of villains, a 'clerk' is just someone who dies in a well-organized office."
All Might, leaning forward in the next booth, overheard. Perhaps, he thought. Or perhaps he's the only one here who realizes that a hero's greatest tool isn't his fist, but his ability to ensure the fight never has to happen.
● THE KINETIC OVERLOAD: THE CLASH OF THE FRONTLINE
"START!" The air didn't just vibrate; it shattered. At Midnight's command, the Central Plaza became a meat-grinder of ambition. The immediate physics of the field were chaotic: a dozen teams instantly converged on Midoriya Izuku like iron filings to a magnet. The sheer displacement of air from the initial surge created a localized wind gust that whipped Sherlock's hair across his face.
"Shoji, pivot left. Tangential arc," Sherlock commanded, his voice a low, steady frequency beneath the screaming. "Tokoyami, keep Dark Shadow in a defensive shell. Do not engage. We are the ghost in the machine."
While Midoriya's team used Hatsume Mei's jetpacks to achieve verticality and Bakugo began his explosive aerial bombardment, Sherlock's team moved with the eerie smoothness of a predatory deep-sea creature. They didn't head for the center. They moved to the Periphery of the Chaos, the "Dead Zones" where the momentum of the other teams would naturally carry them as they tried to flank the 10-million-point prize.
● THE TECHNICAL EXECUTION: WEAVING THE LOOM
"Momo, the Carbon-Fiber lines. Infuse them with the Polarized Glaze now. I need a tension strength of 500 Newtons," Sherlock whispered.
Momo's hands moved with blurred speed. From her skin, shimmering silver wires emerged, quickly threaded through the specialized "Anchor Cards" Sherlock held. Sherlock didn't throw these cards at enemies; he flicked them with a specific Angular Velocity. The cards embedded themselves into the soft dirt and the reinforced concrete of the stadium's inner ring walls, pulling the near-invisible wires taut.
The Loom was active. The wire was positioned exactly 145 centimeters above the ground—the average neck-height of a student mounted on a cavalry horse. Because of the hydrophobic, polarized glaze, the wires didn't reflect light. To the charging students, the path ahead looked clear.
● THE REACTION: CLASS 1-B AND THE HARVEST
Neito Monoma of Class 1-B laughed as his team swept toward the center. "Look at them! Class 1-A is so obsessed with their own drama they've forgotten to watch the—"
He didn't finish the sentence. As his team sprinted past the "Silence Group's" position, Monoma felt a sensation like a ghostly spiderweb brushing against his forehead. It was so faint he barely registered it. He didn't feel a jerk; he didn't feel a pull.
"Wait," Monoma blinked, reaching up to his head. "My headband... where is my—?"
He looked back. To his horror, he saw his headband—and the headbands of two other teams he had just robbed—dangling in mid-air, snagged on a shimmering, invisible line. Sherlock was already reeling the line in, his fingers moving like a harpist's, gathering the fabric with clinical efficiency.
"Calculated theft," Sherlock muttered, his crimson eyes never leaving the HUD-like map in his mind. "Efficiency: 98%. Energy expenditure: Negligible."
Itsuka Kendo, the leader of Class 1-B, skidded to a halt as she saw the trap. "Don't go that way! The Paper Boy has turned the outer ring into a spiderweb! He's not even fighting us, he's just... fishing!"
"It's pathetic!" Tetsutetsu roared, his skin turning to steel as he charged toward Sherlock's team. "Fight us like a man, Sheets! Stop hiding behind these strings!"
Tetsutetsu lunged, his fist glowing with metallic light. But Sherlock didn't even look at him.
"Tokoyami. Intercept at 15 degrees," Sherlock said.
Dark Shadow surged forward, not to strike, but to act as a Kinetic Buffer. The shadow creature expanded its mass, absorbing the impact of Tetsutetsu's punch like a non-Newtonian fluid. The recoil sent Tetsutetsu stumbling back, right into another one of Sherlock's invisible lines.
Snag. Another headband joined Sherlock's collection.
● THE AUDIENCE AND THE PROS: THE SILENT REVOLUTION
In the stands, the boisterous cheering began to transition into a confused, fascinated murmur. The Jumbotron switched from the explosive dogfight between Bakugo and Midoriya to a close-up of Sherlock's hands.
"Wait, what is he doing?" Mt. Lady asked, leaning forward in the VIP box, her eyes narrowing. "He hasn't moved from that ten-meter radius. He's just... sitting there."
"He's not sitting," Best Jeanist corrected, his voice filled with a rare spark of professional respect. "Look at the tension in those wires. He's using the stadium's own geometry to do the work for him. He's treating the cavalry battle like a loom. He's weaving a victory out of everyone else's momentum. It's... exquisite. No waste. No ego. Just pure, unadulterated thread-work."
Even Endeavor went quiet for a moment. He hated the lack of "fire," but he couldn't deny the results. Sherlock's lap was overflowing with headbands. He had more points than anyone on the field except for the Top Three, and he hadn't even broken a sweat.
● THE FINAL STANDOFF: THE ERROR MARGIN
As the clock ticked down to the final sixty seconds, the field became a "Zero-Sum Game." Todoroki's team had finally cornered Midoriya. The air was a chaotic mix of ice-storms and explosions.
"The thermal expansion of the air is causing the wire tension to drop by 4%," Sherlock analyzed, his eyes tracking the steam rising from Todoroki's left side. "Shoji, retract. We have reached the point of diminishing returns. We have 1,800 points. Statistically, we are safe."
"They're coming for us!" Momo warned, pointing toward a desperate team from Class 1-C that had realized Sherlock was the "bank" of the mid-tier points.
"They aren't coming for us," Sherlock corrected, his gaze fixed on the 10-million-point headband currently gripped in Todoroki's hand. "They are part of the noise. We are the silence."
As the buzzer sounded, Sherlock sat atop Shoji's back, a pile of captured headbands in his lap. He looked like a bored king amidst a pile of scrap. He didn't cheer. He didn't pump his fist. He simply began untying the wires from his cards, his mind already moving to the next problem: how to explain to his teammates that this victory was the last one they would ever share.
Around them, the other students were collapsing, gasping for air, their uniforms scorched and torn. Sherlock's uniform was pristine. Not a single thread out of place.
"The math was perfect," Sherlock whispered, his heart sinking as the cameras focused on his face. "And that's the problem. I'm too good at a job I'm trying to quit."
● THE AFTERMATH: THE HOLLOW VICTORY
The buzzer's echo was still ringing through the concrete pillars of the stadium when the "Silence Group" finally touched down on the grass. Shoji lowered his multiple arms, the massive frame of the "cavalry horse" dissolving back into a single, formidable student. Tokoyami exhaled a long, ragged breath, his Dark Shadow retreating into the safety of his cloak with a low, satisfied trill.
"We did it," Momo said, her voice light with a mixture of disbelief and pride. She turned to Sherlock, her eyes bright. "Sherlock-san, look at the hoard! We didn't just qualify; we effectively cleared out the middle-tier rankings. Your 'Loom' was... it was more than just a strategy. It was a masterpiece of efficiency."
Momo waited for the response—the sharp, analytical nod or the dry, technical correction that usually followed a successful operation. But Sherlock was silent.
He was staring at the pile of captured headbands in his lap as if they were evidence of a crime rather than trophies of a win. His face wasn't flushed with the "Plus Ultra" spirit that was currently causing Uraraka to sob with joy and Bakugo to scream at the sky. Instead, he looked ashen. His hands, usually as steady as a surgeon's, were methodically winding the carbon-fiber wire back onto its spool with a mechanical, repetitive motion that bordered on the obsessive.
Momo's smile faltered. She noticed the way his pupils were constricted, the way he refused to make eye contact with the roaring crowd. He didn't look like a winner; he looked like a man who had successfully calculated his own demise.
He's not happy, Momo realized, the thought striking her with a sudden, sharp coldness. We just secured our future in this school, and he looks like he's mourning.
She opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong—to ask if the pressure of the VIP box was finally getting to him—but the words died in her throat. There was a settled, profound silence radiating from him that felt like a "Do Not Disturb" sign on a morgue door. She decided, then, to respect the perimeter he had drawn around himself. She wouldn't question him. Not yet.
NEXT CHAPTER: The Lottery of Violence and the Martial Artist's Shadow The 1-on-1 brackets are drawn, and Sherlock finds himself face-to-face with his first true physical test. Will he calculate a way out, or will the "Loom" finally snap under the pressure?