The world was still painted in the bruised purples and deep indigos of the pre-dawn hour when Sherlock Sheets opened his eyes.
The digital clock on Sherlock's nightstand flipped to 4:00 AM. In the stillness of the Sheets manor, there was no alarm, no jarring sound—only the silent, internal rhythm of a boy who lived by the second.
Sherlock sat up instantly, his eyes clear and devoid of sleep. The air in the room was cool, smelling faintly of the high-grade cellulose and chemical sealants he used for his cards. Today was the day the "Null Zone" became his reality.
He moved with mechanical efficiency, finishing his pack. He didn't pack like a student; he packed like an operative. his clothes ua training tracksuit his suitcase of his hero suit, several changes of moisture-wicking training gear, and a specialized medical kit. Then, he moved to his equipment.
On the desk lay the tactical gloves provided by his father—the joint venture between Sheets Industries and the Yaoyorozu Corporation. He slid them on, feeling the micro-storage units hum against his knuckles. These weren't just gloves; they were magazines, each loaded with 1,000 sheets of Molecular Glaze Paper. This was his high-tier ammunition—paper treated at the molecular level to be as light as silk but as rigid as tempered steel when his Quirk was applied.
Next, he strapped his leather holster to his thigh, loaded with 500 standard sheets and four decks of weighted cards. He paused, his hand hovering over a secondary crate of paper.
No, he thought, pulling his hand back. If I carry a mountain of paper, I will never climb the mountain of my own potential. The goal for this week isn't just survival—it's evolution. I must force my sweat pores to bridge the gap. I must become the source.
After a cold shower to snap his nervous system into high alert, he headed down to the dining hall. His father, Arthur, and his Uncle Thomas were already there. The atmosphere was somber, lacking the usual morning banter.
Downstairs, the grand dining hall was illuminated by a single chandelier. His father, Arthur, and his uncle, Thomas, were already there. A modest breakfast of high-protein eggs and smoked salmon sat on the table.
"You're carrying light," Thomas noted, his sharp eyes scanning Sherlock's gear.
"I'm carrying what I need to grow, Uncle," Sherlock replied, taking his seat.
The meal was brief. As Sherlock stood to leave, Arthur stepped forward, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "The school has gone to great lengths to hide you, Sherlock. But remember: shadows only work if you stay in them. Don't let your pride outrun your safety."
"I understand, Father."
"And kid," Thomas added, a rare grin breaking through his rugged beard. "If you run out of paper, remember the training. Your fists don't need cellulose to break a nose."
Sherlock nodded, offered a final respectful bow to the servants standing in the foyer, and stepped out into the pre-dawn mist. The black sedan was waiting to carry him to the threshold of the unknown.
The morning air was crisp, smelling of dew and exhaust fumes as two large buses pulled up to the UA loading zone. For Class 1-A, this was the beginning of a summer that promised growth; for Sherlock Sheets, it was a tactical transition into a "Null Zone" where his variables would be tested to the point of structural failure.
"All right, listen up," Aizawa rasped, standing before the gathered students. "The bus for Class 1-A is on the left. Class 1-B is on the right. We'll be traveling for several hours. Don't make a scene at the rest stop."
"YES, SENSEI!" Iida shouted, his arms chopping the air as he began directing students like a traffic controller.
As the students began boarding, the atmosphere was a mix of high-octane excitement and nervous chatter. However, the peace was shattered by a familiar, high-pitched cackle.
"Oh? If it isn't the 'illustrious' Class 1-A!" Neito Monoma appeared from behind the Class 1-B bus, his eyes wide with a manic, mocking glint. "I heard a rumor... a very delicious rumor. Did some of you actually fail your finals? How embarrassing! And here I thought you were the 'main characters' of this school! To think that 1-B had fewer failures—doesn't that mean we're the superior class now?"
"Shut it, Monoma!" Kirishima barked, while Kaminari and Ashido slumped in shame.
Before Monoma could launch into another tirade, a hand chopped him sharply on the back of the neck. Itsuka Kendo sighed, dragging the unconscious boy by his collar toward their bus. "Sorry about him. He doesn't know when to quit."
She looked over at Sherlock, who was standing near the luggage compartment. "Good morning, Sheets-kun. I heard you and Yaoyorozu had quite the match against Eraser Head. Best wishes for the camp. Let's both make it back in one piece."
Sherlock adjusted his glasses, offering a polite, clinical nod. "Good morning, Kendo-san. I look forward to seeing your progress in the forest."
Momo, who had been standing a few feet away, watched the exchange. She felt a strange, sharp pinch in her chest—not quite jealousy, but a heightened sense of awareness. She smoothed her skirt and walked over, her regal poise perfectly intact.
"Good morning, Kendo-san," Momo said, her voice melodic and clear. "It's good to see you again. I hope Class 1-B is ready for the intensity Aizawa-sensei has planned."
"We're ready," Kendo smiled. "See you at the camp!"
As the buses pulled out, the interior of the Class 1-A bus became a theater of teenage chaos. Mineta was already making questionable comments, Ashido was singing, and Iida was trying to enforce a "no talking" rule that everyone ignored.
Sherlock boarded the bus and found a seat near the back. A few moments later, Momo sat beside him. She looked refreshed, though her eyes betrayed the same underlying tension he felt.
"Did you manage to get everything you needed at the mall, Sherlock-kun?" she asked softly as the bus lurched forward.
"The inventory is optimized," Sherlock replied, glancing at her. "And you? Your tactical belt looks... modified."
"I've integrated a more efficient lipid-storage unit," she said, tapping a sleek pouch at her side. "I want to be able to produce larger structures without the usual metabolic lag."
The bus ride was long. Kaminari and Mineta were being rowdy, Jiro was listening to music, and Midoriya was scribbling in his notebook. But as the hours passed, Sherlock noticed the bus turning off the main highway onto an unmarked mountain road.
The mountain air was thin and crisp, a stark contrast to the humid, recycled air of the bus. As the students of Class 1-A filed out, stretching limbs that had grown stiff over the long journey, they found themselves standing on a precipice that overlooked a sea of dark, undulating green.
"Finally! A bathroom!" Mineta squealed, his eyes darting around for a sign of civilization.
But there was no restroom. Instead, there was a black car parked at the edge of the overlook, and standing before it were two figures that looked like they had stepped out of a high-budget theatrical production.
"Locked in our sights!" the woman in the red feline suit chirped, her paws held up in a playful stance.
"With sparkling, feline eyes!" the one in blue added, striking a pose.
"The Wild, Wild Pussycats!" they shouted in unison.
While most of the class stood in stunned silence, a familiar mumble began to emanate from the middle of the group. Midoriya's eyes were sparkling, his hands twitching as if he were holding an invisible notebook.
"The Wild, Wild Pussycats!" Midoriya whispered, his voice rising in pitch. "They're a four-person veteran hero team who specialized in mountain rescues! They established their agency twelve years ago and have a massive track record of—"
"Quiet, nerd!" Bakugo barked, though even he looked slightly annoyed by the theatricality.
Sherlock stood at the back, his red crimson eyes scanning the perimeter. He wasn't looking at the costumes; he was looking at the terrain. The road behind them was blocked by the bus, and the drop in front of them was nearly vertical.
"Father mentioned the Pussycats," Sherlock muttered to Momo, who stood beside him. "They own this entire mountainous region. If they are here, we aren't at a rest stop. We're at the starting line."
Mandalay, the hero in red, stepped forward. "This entire area is our domain. Your training camp is located at the base of that mountain over there." She pointed a gloved paw toward a distant, mist-shrouded peak that looked like it was in another zip code.
"Wait... that's miles away," Kaminari said, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"It's 9:30 AM," Mandalay smiled, a predatory glint in her eyes. "If you don't make it to the camp by noon, you don't get lunch!"
"Noon?! That's impossible!" Sato yelled.
"The 'Beast Forest' lies between us and our destination," Pixie-bob added, her hands glowing with blue energy as she slammed them into the dirt. "And those who don't make it... don't get to eat!"
"Back to the bus! Hurry!" Kaminari screamed, but Sherlock didn't move.
"It's a trap," Sherlock stated, his voice flat. "The bus driver has already moved the vehicle. The only vector left is down."
Before the class could retreat, the earth beneath them groaned. Pixie-bob's Quirk sent a massive wave of soil and rock surging forward, hurlings the entire class over the edge.
Sherlock hit the forest floor with a controlled roll. He stood up, shaking the dirt from his dark hair. His new tactical gloves were safely tucked away in his duffel bag on the bus—a calculation he now slightly regretted—but his standard leather holster was strapped firmly to his thigh.
"Everyone! Formation!" Iida's voice boomed through the trees.
The ground shook. From the dense foliage emerged a monstrosity made of packed earth and jagged roots. It was a "Beast" construct, towering three stories high.
"A villain?!" Mineta shrieked, his knees knocking together.
"No," Sherlock said, his fingers already blurring as he drew a series of white cards. "It's Pixie-bob's Quirk. Earth-flow constructs. They lack sentience but possess high structural durability."
As Midoriya and Bakugo launched themselves at the front of the creature, Sherlock flicked five Sheets into the air.
"Paper Art: Origami Scouts."
Mid-flight, they folded themselves with mechanical precision into the shape of sharp-winged hawks. They didn't attack; they soared high above the canopy, feeding a mental map of the terrain back to Sherlock's analytical mind.
"Midoriya, Todoroki, Iida, Bakugo—front line!" Sherlock commanded, his voice cutting through the panic. "The rest of you, prepare to cycle your Quirks! We have to move as a single unit or we'll be picked apart by the density of these constructs!"
"Don't tell me what to do, Paper Boy!" Bakugo roared, launching himself into the air with an explosion. "AP Shot!"
The blast shattered the head of the earth beast, but two more rose from the soil to take its place.
"They're regenerating!" Momo shouted, her hands already creating a pair of lead-weighted staves. "Sherlock-kun, we need a way to destabilize the core!"
"On it," Sherlock replied. He reached into his glove, pulling out a card that shimmered with a dark, metallic sheen. "Molecular Card: Vibration Type."
He threw the card with a snap of his wrist. It embedded itself deep in the chest of an earth beast. Sherlock snapped his fingers, and the card began to vibrate at a high frequency, shattering the molecular bonds of the packed soil. The monster disintegrated into a pile of harmless dirt.
"Keep moving!" Iida yelled. "We have to follow the path!"
For the next three hours, it was a gauntlet of pure exhaustion. Sherlock pushed his Quirk to its limits, his Origami Scouts guiding the class through the densest thickets while his Molecular Cards cleared paths through the endless wave of monsters.
He noticed a strange sensation in his arms. The constant, high-speed friction of the paper against his skin was making his sweat feel... different. It was thicker, more viscous.
The cellulose secretion, he thought, his heart hammering. It's accelerating. My body is responding to the environmental stress.
"We have to move!" Sherlock commanded. "My Scouts show a clearing two kilometers North-East. If we stay here, the regeneration rate of the soil will overwhelm our stamina!"
For the next three hours, it was a gauntlet of pure, unadulterated hell. Sherlock didn't have his new gloves, so he had to be surgical with his remaining cards. He moved like a ghost through the brush, his Scouts providing him with a "god-view" of the battlefield. He guided the class through the thickets, his voice the only calm variable in a sea of screaming students and roaring monsters.
By the time they saw the edge of the forest, Sherlock's breathing was ragged. His sweat was thick, sticking to his skin like a second layer of film. The cellulose secretion is peaking, he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. If I run out of cards now, I'll have to manifest the sweat-paper.
The class stumbled into the clearing of the training camp at 5:20 PM. They were a mess of torn costumes, mud, and exhaustion.
The Pussycats were waiting, looking as though they had just finished a light stroll. Beside them stood the small, brooding boy in the red hat—Kota.
"You finally made it!" Pixie-bob giggled. "Though it took you quite a bit longer than we expected. I guess you kittens aren't as fast as you look!"
"I... I'm going to die..." Kaminari groaned, face-planting into the dirt.
Midoriya, ever the hero, noticed the young boy. He limped forward, a friendly smile on his dirt-streaked face. "Hi there! I'm Izuku Midoriya from the UA Hero Course. It's nice to meet—"
THWACK.
Before Midoriya could finish, Kota stepped forward and delivered a swift, brutal kick directly into Midoriya's groin.
The entire class gasped in a collective, sympathetic wince. Midoriya collapsed like a folding chair, his face turning a shade of purple that matched Mineta's hair.
"Whoa! Midoriya!" Iida cried, rushing to his side. "Young man! That was an incredibly un-heroic move!"
Kota looked at the class with a gaze so full of loathing it made the air feel cold. "I don't intend to hang out with people who want to be 'Heroes,'" he spat. "It's pathetic."
He turned and walked away toward the mountains.
"A real brat, huh?" Bakugo smirked, though he looked like he almost respected the kid's audacity.
"He's a variable of resentment," Sherlock muttered, helping Midoriya stand up. "His hostility toward 'Heroism' is deep-rooted. It isn't a tantrum; it's an ideology."
The night air was filled with the rich, heavy scent of beef curry. After the brutal trek, the food felt like a miracle. The students sat around wooden tables, shoveling rice into their mouths with a desperation that would have horrified a finishing school.
"This is the best thing I've ever tasted!" Kirishima cried, tears of joy streaming down his face.
Sherlock sat at the end of the table, eating his portion with a quiet, clinical focus. He watched the teachers—Aizawa, Mandalay, and Pixie-bob—talking in hushed tones near the fire.
"Sherlock-kun," Momo said, sitting down beside him. She looked exhausted, her hair slightly messy. "You're staring at the forest again. The challenge is over for today."
"Is it?" Sherlock asked, setting his spoon down. "Aizawa-sensei didn't bring us here to hike. He brought us here to be broken. The Beast Forest was a diagnostic test. Tomorrow, the actual surgery begins."
Momo looked at the flickering campfire, then back at him. "You always think in such grim terms."
"Logic dictates that peace is the exception, not the rule," Sherlock replied. He looked down at his palms. The sweat had dried into a thin, white residue. He scraped a bit of it off. It felt like paper.
Tomorrow, he thought. I'll push the pores. No more bags. No more holsters. I will become the medium.
As the stars began to peek through the mountain mist, the laughter of the class felt fragile—a thin veil of normalcy over a summer that was about to turn blood-red.
the "First Day of Hell" is complete! The class is exhausted, Kota has made his stance clear, and Sherlock is ready to push his biology to the limit.