U.A. Sports Festival – Main Arena
The stone floor of the stadium shimmered in the afternoon heat.
Over a hundred thousand eyes stared at the stage—not for the crowd favorite, but for the boy no one could explain.
Midnight's voice rang across the speakers, dripping with anticipation.
"Match One: Raito Genda versus... Yūgami-no-Mikado."
Raito burst into the arena with a wide grin, fists sparking with kinetic charge. The heat off his gauntlets distorted the air like rippling glass.
"Let's do this, baby!" he shouted. "Let's see if the mystery man can take a hit!"
He pounded his fists together. The crowd roared in approval.
Then silence.
A shadow stepped from the tunnel.
Boots on stone. Measured. Sharp. Quiet.
Yūgami-no-Mikado walked forward—hooded, cloaked, expression unreadable.
He reached the edge of the platform, stopped, and raised his hands. With the elegance of a ceremony, he unclasped the fastener at his throat and let the cloak fall behind him.
It slipped to the floor like silk—and the world saw him.
He wasn't massive. He wasn't armored.
He was precise.
His black uniform clung like a second skin, etched with quiet geometry—lines and edges that shifted slightly when you stared too long. His silver-streaked hair moved with unnatural calm. His eyes—icy cyan—held no fear, no anticipation.
Only observation.
Like a god watching an ant crawl toward a blade. He stepped into the ring.
Raito cracked his neck.
"You look fragile, man. I'm gonna make sure the med bots remember your face."
Mikado didn't speak.
But something shifted.
A low hum rippled through the stone.
Then—light.
A thin, elegant golden aura began to rise around Mikado's body. It hugged him like a sheath of air, not wild, not raging—but disciplined.
The golden shimmer coiled tightly around his limbs, subtle distortions warping space wherever he moved.
It wasn't a glow.
It was a signature.
Domain Amplification.
---
In the pro hero box, Eraserhead narrowed his eyes.
"He's using it," he muttered. "Just a layer. Controlled."
---
Midnight raised her hand.
"BEGIN!"
Raito charged, gauntlets bursting in twin flashes. His first punch roared in—a meteor strike aimed for Mikado's chest.
Mikado stepped into it.
He ducked low, turned his body to reduce surface, and drove his forearm upward into Raito's elbow. A crack echoed—not from bone, but from momentum being denied.
Raito stumbled—off-balance for a split second.
That was enough.
Mikado's left foot pivoted. His right fist lashed out, trailing a golden arc as space bent around the knuckles.
Palm strike to the ribs.
Elbow redirect to the shoulder.
Spin-kick aimed low—controlled pull, not overextended.
Every hit landed with the sound of authority, not power. Raito fell back, shouting, regaining his stance.
"Not bad! Not bad!"
He charged again—this time faster, wilder, throwing explosive jabs that distorted the floor with each movement.
But Mikado?
Moved like math.
He weaved through the strikes—not dodging, reframing them. His golden aura hummed softly with each shift, a distortion trailing every limb.
From a distance, it looked like he was always in the right place, every time.
---
Back in the stands, Todoroki sat forward.
"He's not reacting," he said.
"He's already predicted everything," Midoriya whispered.
---
Raito twisted mid-combo, launching a kinetic blast point-blank.
The crowd gasped as the explosion engulfed the center of the arena.
Dust spiraled.
The light dimmed.
Then it cleared—
And Mikado stepped through it.
Unburned.
Golden aura flickering. Faintly cracked. Still alive.
He raised one hand, adjusting the glow—refining it like tuning an instrument.
Then he moved.
A blur of precision followed:
– A strike to Raito's solar plexus
– A dislocation feint to the shoulder
– A twisting throw that sent the heavier boy crashing to the floor
Raito growled, rolling back to his feet. But his breath was ragged now. His body understood something before his mind did:
Every mistake he made was already punished before he finished making it.
And Mikado hadn't said a word.
Raito swung again—desperate now, roaring.
Mikado blocked the punch with a raised wrist, parried it left, and stepped inward.
His golden aura flared—just once.
A snap-kick to the knee.
Raito dropped.
The impact didn't echo. It resonated—a subtle, final tone.
Mikado lowered his foot.
Midnight blinked, stunned.
"Winner… Yūgami-no-Mikado."
---
The stadium was silent.
Even Raito lay on his back, staring at the sky, breathing in confusion.
"I didn't see it coming…" he murmured.
---
In the commentary booth, Hawks leaned in slowly.
"Y'know, I was waiting for him to explode. Some big flashy thing."
He exhaled.
"But I think this is worse. This is... planned."
---
In the crowd, a student whispered:
"He didn't even open his Domain…"
And backstage, Mikado stood alone again. The gold aura slowly receded, retreating into his skin like it had never existed.
He looked down at his open hand.
It trembled—slightly.
He smiled.
"Still unstable. Good."
He flexed his fingers, then let them fall to his sides.
"I'll learn more in the next one."