CHAPTER 17: The Tempering of the Blade
The infirmary was a cathedral of sterile silence, a stark contrast to the chaotic roar of the stadium that still vibrated through the reinforced concrete walls. The air here smelled of high-grade antiseptic, ozone, and the faint, cloying scent of burnt sugar—a byproduct of Recovery Girl's stamina-boosting Quirk.
Sherlock Sheets lay motionless on the elevated medical bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles. His arms were no longer his own; they were encased in thick, translucent cooling gel-pads that hummed with a low-frequency vibration to accelerate tissue repair.
Every breath felt like inhaling ground glass, a lingering effect of the vacuum he had created during the Pulp Singularity. Yet, as the dull throb of thermal burns and frostbite pulsed in time with his heartbeat, Sherlock didn't feel the familiar urge to calculate an exit. For the first time, the pain wasn't a "variable to be avoided"—it was data. It was proof of existence.
Recovery Girl hobbled over, huffing as she adjusted the IV drip. "You're a fool, Sherlock Sheets," she grumbled, her voice cracking like dry parchment. "Using a vacuum-induction technique at that range? You're lucky you didn't collapse your own lungs. It was an utterly irrational move for a boy who claims to be so logical."
"The probability of success required a total commitment of resources, Chiyo-san," Sherlock replied, his voice a raspy shadow of itself.
"The probability of you ending up in a casket was higher," she snapped, though she patted his leg gently before walking away.
A FATHER'S PENANCE
The door opened with a heavy, deliberate click. Sherlock didn't need to turn his head to know who it was. The cadence of the footsteps—measured, expensive, and authoritative—belonged to only one man.
Arthur Sheets stepped into the light of the infirmary. He didn't look like the titan of industry who graced the covers of Fortune magazine; his silk tie was loosened, and his face was etched with a weariness that went deeper than bone.
Arthur pulled a chair to the bedside, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum. He sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at his son—not at the "heir" or the "investment," but at the boy.
"No, Sherlock," Arthur began, his voice thick with a rare, raw emotion. "It is I who should apologize. I spent so much time building an empire to 'protect' our future that I left you alone in the present. I saw your mother's ghost every time you picked up a piece of paper, and instead of cherishing it, I tried to audit it out of you. I was a coward. I tried to turn you into a machine because machines don't break hearts."
Arthur reached into his coat and pulled out his phone, showing Sherlock a secure, encrypted message on the screen from an unknown sender.
The blade is forged in the fire, but it is tempered in the cold. You chose well today, Magician. The 'Pulp' has finally become steel.
Sherlock read the text, his emerald eyes widening. He recognized the cypher—it was an old family code used by his mother's side of the family. The "Magician" wasn't just a nickname; it was a call to arms. The weight of the message seemed to settle into his bones, anchoring his resolve.
Arthur placed a heavy, trembling hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Today, you didn't just fight. You engineered a breakthrough in that Todoroki boy. You were a hero, Sherlock. Mayuri would have been... she would have been so proud."
The door creaked open again. Shota Aizawa stood there, looking as tired as a man who had lived three lifetimes in a single afternoon. In his hand was a crumpled piece of paper: Sherlock's official resignation.
"Sheets," Aizawa said, his tone dry. "Do you want me to process this? Or are you done playing 'Technician'?"
Sherlock looked at his father, then at the shredded remnants of his cards on the side table. "Tear it up, Sensei," he said, his voice regaining its sharp, analytical edge. "I'm staying. I have the data now. I know what it takes to bridge the gap between logic and will."
Aizawa gave a microscopic smirk and shredded the paper into the trash bin. "Good. Don't make me regret the paperwork. Get to the stands; the final isstarting."
"No, Sherlock. It is I who should apologize," Arthur's voice was thick with a rare, raw emotion. "I spent so much time building an empire to 'protect' our future that I left you alone in the present. I let you drift into the shadows because I was too cowardly to face the reflection of your mother in your eyes. I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly."
He reached into his coat and pulled out his phone, showing Sherlock a secure, encrypted message on the screen from an unknown
sender.
The blade is forged in the fire, but it is tempered in the cold. You chose well today, Magician.
Sherlock read the text, his eyes widening. He didn't speak the contents aloud, but the weight of the message seemed to settle into his bones, anchoring his resolve.
He placed a heavy hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Today, you didn't just fight. You engineered a breakthrough in that Todoroki boy. You were a hero."
The door creaked open. Shota Aizawa stood there, holding Sherlock's official resignation.
"Sheets," Aizawa said. "Do you want me to process this?"
Sherlock looked at his father, then at his own scarred hands. The "Spark" in his eyes flared into a steady, emerald flame. "Tear it up, Sensei. I'm going to be the best hero this world has ever seen. I have the data now. I know what it takes."
Aizawa gave a microscopic smirk and shredded the paper. "Good. Don't make me regret the paperwork."
● II. THE GATHERING OF CLASS 1-A: THE NEW LIGHT
The walk back to the viewing stands was a gauntlet of a different kind. Sherlock limped, leaning slightly on his father, but as they reached the Class 1-A section, they were intercepted by a sea of familiar faces.
Izuku Midoriya was at the front, looking like a mummy with his extensive bandages, supported on either side by Iida and Uraraka.
"Sherlock-kun!" Izuku beamed, ignoring the obvious pain in his own shattered limbs. "That was incredible! The way you pressurized the glaze shards to create a localized vacuum... I've been writing notes on it! You didn't just fight Todoroki; you rewrote the physics of the arena!"
"You were a total beast!" Mina Ashido chirped, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She went to hug him but stopped, seeing his burns. "The whole stadium was chanting your name! We thought you were just the 'quiet guy,' but you're literally the 'Magic Man' now!"
Kirishima added, wiping a stray tear of "manliness" from his eye. "You didn't back down even when the fire started. To stand in that heat with paper... that's the gutsiest thing I've ever seen. You're a true hero, Sheets!"
Sherlock felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with Todoroki's flames. "The gap between Todoroki and me is still a lot in terms of raw output," Sherlock replied, his inner analyst refusing to die. "But the data is logged. Next time, the result will be different."
As the class moved toward the stands, Momo Yaoyorozu lingered behind. She stood next to Sherlock, the silence between them comfortable for the first time in years.
"You gave him back his heart, Sherlock," she said softly, her eyes reflecting the flickering stadium lights.
"I just pointed out the mechanical flaws in his internal logic," Sherlock replied, though he couldn't hide the small, genuine smile. "He was the one who chose to ignite the engine. I just... provided the spark."
"Even so," Momo smiled, her heart giving a subtle, traitorous flutter. "I'm glad you're staying. The class feels... complete now."
● III. THE FINAL MATCH:
THERMODYNAMICS OF RAGE
Present Mic's voice exploded through the speakers, his hype reaching a fever pitch that vibrated in the spectators' marrow.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! GIVE IT UP ONE MORE TIME! WE HAVE REACHED THE PEAK! THE PINNACLE! THE ABSOLUTE SUMMIT OF THE U.A. SPORTS FESTIVAL
! ON ONE SIDE—THE EXPLOSIVE GENIUS! KATSUKI BAKUGO!
AND ON THE OTHER—THE PRINCE WHO FOUND HIS FIRE! SHOTO TODOROKI!"
The final was not a fight; it was a catastrophic storm. Bakugo moved like a predatory spark, his explosions creating a constant, deafening thunder that rattled the glass of the VIP booths. Todoroki launched waves of ice, but his heart was a chaotic mess of Sherlock's logic and Midoriya's passion.
"STOP SCREWING AROUND!" Bakugo roared, blast-rushing through a wall of ice.
"THAT FIRE! YOU USED IT AGAINST THAT PAPER BOY! WHY WON'T YOU USE IT ON ME?! AM I NOT WORTH YOUR BEST?!"
Todoroki's left side ignited for a split second, a brilliant orange flare that turned the arena into a furnace. But then, Shoto saw Endeavor screaming from the stands—a reminder of the blood, the hate, and the cage. The flame flickered and died. He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"HOWITZER... IMPACT!"
Bakugo spun into a massive, rotating blast of fire and smoke. The shockwave blew out the remaining windows of the press box. When the dust settled, Todoroki lay outside the ring, unconscious. Bakugo stood over him, trembling with a primal, frustrated rage.
He hadn't won against Shoto's "true" power, and to him, that was a hollow victory. He screamed at the sky, a sound of pure, unbridled fury that chilled the crowd.
● IV. SHADOWS IN HOSU: THE JUDGMENT OF STAIN
While the stadium cheered for the "Hero of Explosions," miles away in Hosu City, the atmosphere was funereal. The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across a narrow alleyway.
Tensei Iida—the Pro Hero Ingenium—lay on the cold, damp pavement, his high-tech armor shattered like cheap plastic. He looked up at the man standing over him—a figure wrapped in tattered bandages, wielding a serrated, blood-stained blade.
"You aren't a hero," Stain rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "You are a celebrity. A parasite fed by the system. I will purge this society of the fakes until only the 'Real' remain."
Tensei tried to move, his engines sputtering and coughing black smoke. He thought of his younger brother, Tenya, probably standing on a podium at the Sports Festival. Tenya... I'm sorry. I can't be the pillar you need anymore.
Stain raised his sword, the light of the moon glinting off the steel. "Only the true heroes... only All Might... shall be allowed to live. The rest is just dross to be burned away."
● V. THE BRIDGE BETWEEN CLASSES: A MAGICIAN'S RESPECT
Before the award ceremony could begin, Midnight approached Sherlock and Momo. Her usual playful demeanor was gone, replaced by a professional gravity.
"Sheets, Yaoyorozu," she said. "Go to the Class 1-B waiting area. Tell them the faculty requests their presence on the field for the closing ceremony. They deserve to be recognized for their efforts today as well. They aren't just 'the other class' anymore."
When they reached the 1-B room, the atmosphere was thick with resentment. Itsuka Kendo stood at the front, her arms crossed, while Neito Monoma wore a familiar, mocking sneer.
"What's this?" Monoma laughed sharply, his voice cracking with bitterness. "Has Class 1-A come to gloat? Come to show off their bronze and silver and mock the 'background characters' of 1-B? Did you come to tell us how much better the air is up there on the podium?"
Sherlock stepped forward, his gaze steady and devoid of the usual cold calculation. "No, Monoma. We're here because the faculty wants everyone on the field. And personally... I'm here because I respect you."
The room went silent. Monoma's smirk faltered.
"I know the math of this school," Sherlock continued, his voice carrying the weight of his battle with Todoroki. "I know the sacrifices made by everyone who wears this uniform. You aren't 'background.' You are the competition that pushed us to find our conviction. Without 1-B, we would have become complacent. UA wouldn't be UA without you."
Kendo smiled, a sense of relief washing over her. She walked over and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder—gently, noticing his bandages. "Well said, Sheets. You're a lot less of a jerk than the rumors said. Let's go, everyone. Let's show them 1-B isn't going anywhere."
● VI. THE MEDAL CEREMONY: THE EMPTY SPOT
The stadium was bathed in the orange and purple glow of the sunset as the awards podium rose from the center of the field. All Might descended from the sky like a golden god, his laughter echoing through the rafters.
The podium was a sight of total absurdity. In first place, Bakugo was literally chained to a post, muzzled and thrashing in a straightjacket of fury.
In second, Todoroki stood with a distant, contemplative look, staring at his left hand. Third place was shared by Tenya Lida and Sherlock Sheets.
But the most striking thing was the silence. Tenya Iida's spot was empty.
Sherlock looked at the empty space on the podium, his mind instantly racing. Iida left the stadium 12 minutes ago. A cold knot formed in Sherlock's stomach. The "Data" was telling him that the festival wasn't ending; it was just the prologue.
All Might stood before Sherlock, placing the bronze medal around his neck. The weight of the metal felt immense.
"Young Sheets!" All Might shouted, his hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "You showed us that the mind is the greatest weapon! You fought not just to win, but to save a comrade's soul. You are a true Magician of the heart! Wear this with pride!"
"Thank you, All Might," Sherlock said, standing as tall as his injuries would allow.
"I AM HERE... TO GIVE THE MEDALS!" All Might shouted to the crowd. "Let us look upon these young men and women! They are the future! They are the ones who will carry the torch when we can no longer stand! PLUS ULTRA!"
As the fireworks erupted into the darkening sky, Sherlock looked at the medal in his hand. The "Lazy Heir" was dead. The "Technician" had evolved.
Sherlock looked at his father in the stands, then at Momo,
The Magician had arrived, but the world he was entering was far more dangerous than any tournament ring