The days after USJ settled into a strange kind of normal.
Classes resumed. The hallways were louder than usual—whispers trailing behind us wherever we went. Curious stares. Side glances. Students from other classes trying to piece together which of us had been at the center of the chaos, which of us had stood against real villains.
I didn't mind it.
If anything, I felt… light.
The Sports Festival was two weeks away.
Just thinking about it sent a pleasant tension through my body. Two weeks to refine. Two weeks to polish control. Two weeks to prepare for the first time I'd stand in front of the entire country—not as an anonymous student, but as Ren.
That morning classes went by like any other high school day.
Math. Literature. History.
Normal subjects. Normal routines.
And yet everything felt different.
I sat straighter. Listened sharper. My energy circulation never stopped, even during lectures—slow, controlled loops reinforcing my muscles, bones, and nerves. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to stay ready.
I had something important today.
When the final bell rang, the classroom didn't empty like usual.
There were people outside the door.
Upperclassmen. Support students. Even a few from General Studies pretending they were "just passing by." Their eyes flicked toward us, toward me, and away again.
I understood immediately.
USJ.
Before anyone could speak, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Move."
Shinsou Hitoshi stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded and unimpressed.
The crowd parted instinctively.
"So you're the ones who fought villains," he said flatly. "Must be nice. Some of us don't get flashy chances like that."
The same scene as anime happened where bakugo offended every class and i dont want to write that part
"Hmph. We'll see at the Sports Festival."
And just like that, he walked away.
The hallway noise resumed.
I didn't think much of it.
My mind was already elsewhere.
The principal's office smelled faintly of tea and polished wood.
Nezu sat behind his desk, paws folded neatly, eyes bright with curiosity. Beside him stood Pro Hero Hound Dog—arms crossed, posture rigid, ears twitching slightly as he watched me.
"Ren," Nezu said cheerfully. "Thank you for coming."
I bowed politely.
Hound Dog grunted. "You ready?"
"Yes."
Nezu's smile softened. "Before that—allow me to say this officially. Your actions during the USJ incident were commendable."
I shook my head immediately.
"I panicked," I said. "If I had stayed calm, I could have ended the fight earlier. I should have—"
"Killed the Nomu?" Nezu finished gently.
The room went quiet.
I didn't answer.
Hound Dog's expression hardened slightly, but Nezu only tilted his head.
"Ren," the principal said, "victory isn't measured by efficiency alone. You protected others. You adapted. You survived. That is enough."
I exhaled slowly.
"…Understood."
Nezu nodded. "Now then. Hound Dog will be escorting you."
The hero turned toward the door. "Four hours. That's all you're allowed."
I followed him out.
The prison was… heavy.
Not in smell. Not in sound.
In feeling.
The moment we stepped inside, it was like the air itself pressed down on me. Layers upon layers of restrained emotion—rage, despair, resentment, regret. Each cell was a sealed echo chamber of human darkness.
My breath caught.
Hound Dog glanced back. "You feeling it?"
"Yes."
"Good. Stay behind me."
We walked deeper.
Every step fed me.
Not greedily. Not explosively.
It was like standing beneath a waterfall after a lifetime of drought.
I closed my eyes for a moment and focused—passive absorption only. Letting the energy brush against my senses, filtering it, storing it without overflow.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
By the end of the fourth hour, my legs trembled—not from weakness, but from density. My internal reservoir felt heavier than it ever had.
Four hours.
That was all it took.
More energy than I had accumulated in fourteen years.
Hound Dog noticed immediately.
"…That look," he muttered. "You filled up, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then we're done."
We left without incident.
The next two weeks were brutal.
I trained every morning before class, every evening after. No slashes. No lethal techniques.
Only control.
Elemental shaping. Precision bursts. Reinforcement modulation.
I practiced striking with weakened output—enough force to incapacitate, not harm. Learning restraint was harder than learning power.
Much harder.
Every failed attempt reminded me of the Nomu.
Of how close I'd come to losing control.
I refused to let that happen again.
By the time the Sports Festival drew near, my attacks were cleaner. My energy circulation smoother. My reactions faster without being reckless.
I stood on the rooftop one evening, Kyoto wind brushing against my face, watching the lights of U.A. flicker on one by one.
This world wasn't an anime anymore.
It wasn't a script.
It was real.
And for the first time, I wasn't preparing to survive it.
I was preparing to stand in it.
Two weeks.
That was all I needed.