A/N: Thank you, "CHEONMA," For joining my Patreon and showing support
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Although Aizawa Shouta had explained plenty about the Sports Festival beforehand, the truth was, the U.A. Sports Festival wouldn't be held until two weeks later.
And with those two weeks given for "preparation," most classes were temporarily suspended. It was essentially a rare break for students to focus on their skills, training, and individual growth.
Everyone in Class 1-A threw themselves into preparation—sparring, working out, refining their Quirks.
Everyone… except Uchiha Madara.
While his classmates sweated over obstacle courses or trained under supervision, Madara remained calm. He didn't join the group sessions, nor did he show any special interest in refining his abilities. He kept to himself, doing… nothing in particular.
At least, that's what it looked like on the surface.
Meanwhile, at the U.A. principal's office, a different kind of tension was brewing.
For three days straight, Aizawa Shouta and a few police officers combed through every available record on Uchiha Madara.
Background? Normal.
School performance? Decent.
Behavioral record? Clean.
Nothing about him raised a red flag.
Except for one thing.
"This… is the only thing out of place," Aizawa said quietly, handing a USB flash drive to Principal Nezu.
Nezu, perched on his chair, accepted the device and plugged it into his laptop.
A video flickered onto the screen.
It showed Madara casually setting down a bag of groceries and walking into a dark alley behind the shopping district.
"This was recorded the first week after the school term started," Aizawa explained.
"Hm." Midnight leaned back in her seat, folding her arms. "So what? Looks pretty ordinary. You can't suspect him just for walking into a back alley."
Aizawa didn't answer right away. Instead, he opened a secondary software, activated a time filter, and adjusted the footage.
The screen replayed the scene. This time, another figure appeared in the alley a few minutes later.
A man, tall, broad-shouldered, with dark bronze skin. Muscular frame, distinctive combat gloves.
Death Red Fist.
A renowned Pro Hero known for brutal hand-to-hand combat and underground dealings with the darker side of society.
The room fell silent.
"The Red Fist of Death?" Midnight sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. "He was seen going to the same alley… right after Madara?"
Aizawa nodded. "Correct."
Midnight leaned forward, staring at the looping footage. "Wait… are you suggesting that Madara has connections with him?"
"Now, now," Snipe—the cowboy-themed Pro Hero—chimed in, arms crossed. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Why would any underground group send a kid into U.A. under our noses?"
Before anyone could answer, a deep voice broke the silence.
"I'll go talk to him."
Everyone turned.
All Might stood up, his usual smiling demeanor replaced with something grim.
"What? You serious?" Midnight blinked. "You think confronting him directly is smart?"
"That," Aizawa interrupted, raising a hand, "might not be necessary. I've already spoken with him."
A stunned silence followed.
"…And you're only telling us this now because…?" Midnight asked flatly.
"I asked him why he came to U.A.," Aizawa replied, ignoring the sarcasm. "He said… he's here because of a promise he made with someone."
"Who?"
Aizawa shook his head. "He didn't say."
The room fell into thoughtful silence.
2:30 PM.
Outside the luxurious mansion of the Yaoyorozu family.
Madara had just arrived when his eyes caught an unfamiliar vehicle—a sleek black sedan, armored, with government plates.
Suspicious.
His eyes flared scarlet out of instinct.
"Careful there. You're not supposed to use Quirks outside of school, kid."
A booming voice rang out from behind him.
Madara turned, eyes shifting back to black as he faced the towering figure of All Might.
"Oh? And what brings you to my house, Symbol of Peace?" Madara asked coolly.
All Might chuckled lightly, hands on his hips. "Nothing much. Just… visiting."
Madara gave him a dubious look but said nothing more. With a casual shrug, he turned to unlock the villa door.
"Well, come in then."
Inside the grand living room, All Might couldn't hide his shock.
He'd expected a decent house. But this… this was a palace.
High ceilings, intricate chandeliers, handcrafted wooden furniture, an entire wall made of glass overlooking a private garden…
This kid is richer than I imagined.
Trying to mask his surprise, All Might accepted a cup of freshly brewed coffee as Madara set it down gently on the mahogany table.
"You… uh… seem to have a good relationship with your neighbor," All Might said casually, glancing toward the window.
Madara raised an eyebrow. "You mean Momo?"
All Might blinked. "Momo…?"
"Yaoyorozu Momo," Madara said calmly. "She lives next door. You should know this if you read our admission records, right?"
All Might choked slightly on his coffee. "You two are neighbors?"
"Obviously." Madara sat down opposite him. "And as stated in my admission file… I'm an orphan. My guardians manage the estate."
All Might nodded slowly, his smile strained.
This kid… he's sharper than I thought.
"I don't suppose you came all the way here just for a friendly visit," Madara said suddenly, locking eyes with All Might. His Sharingan glowed faintly. "What did Aizawa tell you?"
All Might sighed. "Rumors… concerns about your Quirk. About you."
"And here I thought you'd be more straightforward."
"…I'm not here to accuse you of anything," All Might said, leaning forward slightly. "But you know the rule—no Quirk use outside school grounds without permission."
Madara smirked faintly, his eyes reverting to normal. "I didn't attack anyone, did I?" He leaned back, arms spread lazily on the sofa. "Is that all?"
All Might studied him carefully. The boy's expression was casual, almost indifferent. But beneath that surface… There was something deeper.
A hidden intent.
And it made All Might uneasy.
"…That's all, for now."
As the two sat in a silence laced with unspoken thoughts, a single fact became glaringly obvious to both:
Neither trusted the other.
And yet… both knew their confrontation would be inevitable.
The stage was set.
The festival approached.
And shadows moved beneath U.A.'s bright surface.
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