Chapter 23: The Mummy and The Festival
Two days had passed since the USJ incident, yet the air inside U.A. High still hummed with a strange, nervous static. The media camped outside the gates like vultures waiting for scraps, but inside, the atmosphere had shifted. The attack hadn't broken the students of Class 1-A; it had tempered them. They sat in their seats not as children waiting for a lesson, but as survivors waiting for a briefing.
"Do you think Aizawa-sensei will come today?" Tsuyu asked, her finger resting on her chin. "His injuries were catastrophic. Shattered orbital floor, comminuted fractures in both arms..."
"Ribbit... I hope he's okay."
The heavy metal door slid open with a hiss.
Silence fell instantly. It wasn't a respectful silence; it was a silence born of shock.
Walking—or rather, shuffling—into the room was a figure that belonged in an archaeological exhibit, not a classroom. Aizawa Shota was wrapped head-to-toe in stiff, white bandages. His arms were suspended in slings, his face was completely obscured by layers of linen, and he moved with the stiffness of a reanimated corpse. Only one tired, bloodshot eye peeked out from a gap in the bandages, glowing with a faint, stubborn light.
"Sensei!" the class shouted in unison, half-horrified. "You're a mummy! You're actually a mummy!"
"My well-being is irrelevant," Aizawa mumbled, his voice muffled by the bandages as he limped to the podium. He leaned against it for support. "The fight isn't over yet."
The temperature in the room dropped. The students tensed, their muscles locking up. More villains? Already?
Aizawa's single visible eye scanned the room.
" The U.A. Sports Festival is approaching."
For a second, nobody breathed. Then, the tension snapped.
"That's a super normal school event!" the class yelled, their voices cracking with a mix of relief and hysterical excitement.
Kirishima raised a hand, his face serious. "Wait, Sensei! Is it okay to hold a festival right after the villains infiltrated the facility? What if they attack again?"
"It is a demonstration of strength," Aizawa rasped. "Canceling it would signal fear. Holding it shows that U.A.'s crisis management system is solid as bedrock. Security will be five times higher than usual. Police heroes will be everywhere."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle.
"This is your chance. The Sports Festival is the Olympics of the superhuman society. The entire country—no, the entire world—will be watching. Pro Heroes will be scouting for sidekicks. If you want a future in this industry, you cannot afford to miss this. You have two weeks to prepare."
The room exploded with chatter. The fear of the villains evaporated, replaced by the burning heat of ambition.
The cafeteria was a chaotic sea of noise and smells. Students from the Hero, Support, and General Education courses mingled, the air thick with the scent of curry and fried pork.
Bartholomew Kuma sat at a table with his usual group: Midoriya, Iida, and Uraraka. His presence demanded space; even sitting down, he towered over the table. His tray was a architectural marvel—three mountains of white rice, two whole grilled fish, a pyramid of steamed vegetables, and a carton of milk that looked like a thimble in his massive hand.
He ate with precise, rhythmic efficiency, fueling the engine.
"I'm going to do it!" Uraraka suddenly pumped her fist, her face flushed with determination. "I'm going to go for the top!"
Midoriya blinked, holding his chopsticks mid-air. "Uraraka-san? You're usually so... chill. I didn't know you had that kind of fire. What's your motivation?"
Uraraka froze. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a shy, embarrassed flush. She began twiddling her fingers, looking down at her rice.
"Well... it's kind of uncool... especially compared to you guys..." she mumbled. "But... Money."
"Money?" Iida adjusted his glasses, surprised. "You want to become a hero for wealth? That is... unexpected."
Uraraka scratched her cheek, shrinking into herself. "My family owns a construction company, but there's no work. We're broke. My parents work so hard, but we barely scrape by. If I become a Pro Hero, I can earn money and let my parents live an easy life."
She looked up, expecting judgment. In a world of symbols of peace and unwavering justice, her reason felt small. Dirty, even.
"It's not noble like saving the world or anything..."
Clack.
Kuma set down his chopsticks. The sound was heavy enough to cut through the conversation at their table.
He turned his head slowly. The light reflected off his round glasses, hiding his eyes for a moment before he adjusted them to look directly at her.
"Uraraka-san," Kuma said. His deep, resonant voice carried a weight that made Iida straighten his posture.
"Y-Yes?" she squeaked.
"Poverty is a villain," Kuma stated.
The table went silent.
"It destroys families," Kuma continued, his tone devoid of judgment, speaking only absolute truth. "It crushes dreams, shortens lives, and suffocates hope just as effectively as any criminal in the streets. To fight against that... to desire a dignified life for your blood... is not 'uncool'."
He leaned forward slightly, his massive shadow casting over her.
"It is the most primal, noble form of heroism. To protect the nest. To ensure survival for those who raised you."
Uraraka's eyes widened. Tears pricked the corners, welling up before she could stop them. She wiped them furiously with her sleeve, sniffing loudly.
"Kuma-kun... thank you!"
Iida nodded vigorously, his hand chopping the air. "Indeed! I apologize for my surprise! Supporting one's family is the foundation of society! It is admirable!"
Kuma picked up his chopsticks and returned to his mountain of rice.
Ambition takes many forms, Kuma thought as he chewed. All Might fights for peace. Midoriya fights to embody an ideal. Uraraka fights for survival. And I...
He paused.
What do I fight for?
The afternoon sun cast long, orange shadows across Classroom 1-A. The school day had ended, but the tension had just begun.
As the students packed their bags, Todoroki Shoto stood up. He didn't walk to the door. He walked to Midoriya's desk.
The dual-haired prodigy looked cold, his presence sucking the warmth out of the sunset.
"Midoriya," Todoroki said flatly.
Midoriya stiffened, clutching his backpack. "Todoroki-kun?"
"Objectively speaking, I am stronger than you," Todoroki stated. It wasn't an insult; it was a calculation. "But... All Might has his eyes on you, doesn't he?"
Midoriya flinched. The secret weighed heavy in the room.
"I'm not trying to pry into that," Todoroki continued, his heterochromatic eyes narrowing. "But I will defeat you. I will prove that I am the best, without using his—my father's—fire power. I will reject him completely by winning with only ice."
The declaration hung in the air like a guillotine blade. Kirishima stood up, frowning. "Hey, Todoroki, what's with the sudden aggression? We're all friends here, don't start fights—"
Todoroki ignored him. He turned his head slowly, ignoring the rest of the class. His gaze locked onto the towering figure standing near the back door, holding a thick book.
"And you," Todoroki said to Kuma.
Kuma paused. He didn't turn around immediately. He closed his book with a soft thump and rotated his massive frame to face the challenger.
"You are an obstacle, Kuma," Todoroki said coldly. "Your defense is annoying. Your strength is irrational. In the USJ, you outshined everyone. You stood where others fell. But in the Festival... I will crush you too."
"HEY!" Bakugo kicked his desk over, explosions popping in his palms. "DON'T IGNORE ME, YOU HALF-AND-HALF BASTARD! I'LL KILL BOTH OF YOU!"
The room was a powder keg. Three distinct forces—the successor, the prodigy, and the explosion—were colliding. And standing above them all was the silent giant.
Kuma looked down at Todoroki. He saw the boy burning with a frozen rage, a hatred for his father that consumed his entire existence, blinding him to everything else.
Kuma didn't get angry. He didn't smile. He simply adjusted his glasses.
"You see me as a wall to be broken," Kuma said. His voice was calm, echoing like a bell in an empty temple, silencing Bakugo's screaming. "Very well, Todoroki Shoto."
He took a single, heavy step forward. His shadow engulfed the smaller boy, but Todoroki didn't flinch.
"But be warned," Kuma continued, his tone dropping an octave, becoming a low rumble of warning. "If you throw yourself against a mountain without conviction... it is not the mountain that will break."
He held Todoroki's gaze for a second longer, letting the words sink in. Then, he turned and walked out of the classroom. His heavy boots echoed in the hallway, leaving Todoroki staring at his back with narrowed, calculating eyes.
Nightfall draped the city in shadows.
In his small room, Bartholomew Kuma sat at his desk. The only light came from a small lamp that illuminated his hands.
He looked at his palms. The soft, pink pads. The hands that could repel pain, air, and fatigue.
The Sports Festival, he thought. The entire country will be watching. The Villains—Shigaraki—will be watching.
He squeezed his right hand into a fist. The pad glowed faintly in the dim light.
Up until now, he had been the shield. He had been the support, the wall, the protector. He had held back, careful not to hurt others with his overwhelming mass.
"Defense is not enough," Kuma whispered to the darkness.
He remembered the look in Shigaraki's eyes. He remembered the fragility of All Might.
"If I am to protect them from what is coming... I must become a force that even monsters fear. I must be more than a wall."
He opened his thick "Bible/Atlas" to a blank page. He picked up his pen.
The ink flowed onto the paper, dark and permanent. He wrote the title of his next chapter, a vow to himself for the coming weeks.
The Tyrant.
He closed the book. The training for the festival would begin tomorrow. And for the first time since arriving in this world, Bartholomew Kuma decided he would not hold back.
.
.