The alleyway was frozen in a moment of impossible physics. The sound of Sherlock's blood hitting the pavement was the only noise in the heavy silence. Midoriya, Iida, and Todoroki stared at Sherlock with wide, horrified eyes. They had seen the blade bury itself in his chest. They had seen the hilt flush against his sternum. By every law of biology, Sherlock Sheets should have been a corpse.
Instead, he stood. He was a pale, blood-stained specter with a mocking smile.
"Everyone... looks so surprised," Sherlock whispered, his voice raspy but clear. "Did you think a Magician would leave his most vital variable unprotected?"
Stain backed away, his boots skidding on the damp stone. For the first time, the Hero Killer's face didn't show conviction; it showed a flicker of genuine, primal fear. "I felt the steel pierce the muscle. I saw the spray from the aorta. And I... I tasted your blood."
Stain wiped his mouth, his red eyes bulging. "I consumed your blood! My Quirk is absolute! You should be a statue, pinned to the earth by your own veins! Why are you still moving?!"
Sherlock's chuckle was dry, like the rustling of old parchment. He raised his right hand—the one that had taken the "data" of the heart strike. The skin was shredded, leaking a mixture of red blood and a translucent, white fluid.
"You're right, Stain. Your Quirk is based on the intake of human blood. But you made a fatal error in your analysis of my physiology," Sherlock said. He flicked his wrist, and four Hardened Cards materialized between his fingers. "My 'blood' isn't just biological fluid. It's an ink-cellulose hybrid. My Quirk doesn't just produce paper; it is my biology. My blood type isn't O or AB... it's Synthetic."
"Because my blood is infused with the same cellulose I use to create my paper, your paralysis effect is neutralized the moment it enters your system. You didn't lick a hero's blood, Stain. You licked the ink of a contract you can't fulfill."
Before Stain could react, Sherlock snapped his arm forward. The four cards flew with the velocity of sniper rounds. Stain, still reeling from the shock, raised his arms to guard, but the cards didn't just hit—they pierced. They sliced through his leather gauntlets and bit deep into his shoulders.
"Gah!" Stain collapsed to one knee, the cards vibrating in his flesh with a high-frequency hum.
I. THE ORANGE TWILIGHT OF DEATH
The atmosphere in the alleyway had shifted from a desperate skirmish to a scene of cosmic finality. The sun was sinking low behind the jagged Hosu skyline, bleeding a fierce, incandescent orange across the clouds. This light, heavy and thick as honey, spilled into the narrow passage, catching the swirling dust and the smoke of the distant Nomu attacks.
Standing in the epicenter of this gilded carnage was Sherlock Sheets. He no longer resembled a student; he had become a haunting, celestial anomaly. His dark, raven-black hair was matted with sweat and grime, yet it caught the orange rays, shimmering like obsidian. His skin had reached a state of translucent pallor, looking more like polished marble than living flesh as he purged every drop of internal moisture to fuel his manifestation.
But it was his eyes that held the true horror. The emerald green of his natural state had been entirely consumed by a deep, crimson red. This wasn't just a reflection of the sunset; it was the result of the absolute pressure within his cranium as he performed trillions of simultaneous calculations. In that orange twilight, Sherlock looked like an Angel of Death, a silent sentinel of the void who had come to collect a soul.
"Stain," Sherlock began, his voice sounding like the rustle of a thousand dry leaves. "You claim that only All Might is worthy of taking your life. But you've forgotten that the universe doesn't care about worthiness. It only cares about the result of the equation."
Every pore on Sherlock's body began to vent a thick, white mist. This was the precursor to his ultimate gamble. The air around him hummed with a low, deadly vibration that made the teeth of the paralyzed heroes ache. The paper wasn't just appearing; it was being woven out of his very vitality. He was becoming a localized singularity, a point where human biology ended and the "Paper Void" began.
Midoriya, lying paralyzed on the cold ground, looked up at Sherlock through blurred vision. "He's... he's shimmering. Todoroki-kun, look at his eyes. He's not even looking at us anymore. He's looking through the world."
Sherlock raised his right arm—the one shattered by the redirected heart-strike. Blood and white cellulose dripped from his knuckles, glowing in the orange light. He looked at Stain with a gaze of such terrifying clarity that the Hero Killer actually took a step back. Sherlock was the architect of his own destruction, a man who had decided that to save his friends, he would delete his own existence.
II. THE VOID EXPLOSION
The "Tease of the Void" was no longer a theory. Sherlock reached the critical mass of his energy output. He drew a final, jagged breath, feeling the air in his lungs turn into paper fibers.
"Thousand Paper Blast of Death" Sherlock whispered.
He snapped his fingers.
The world vanished into a blinding white roar. This was the Thousand Paper Blast of Death. It wasn't a fire-based explosion that pushed things away; it was a structural collapse of reality within the alleyway. Every microscopic fiber that Sherlock had saturated the air with detonated simultaneously.
The sound was a high-frequency scream that shattered the windows of the surrounding buildings. Thousands of high-density, black-edged sheets swirled in a violent, localized cyclone. Stain was caught in the center. The Hero Killer, who had survived the blades of dozens of pros, found himself in a vacuum where the very air was a weapon. The paper shards didn't just cut him; they atomized the momentum of his movements.
Stain roared, a guttural sound of defiance, but it was drowned out by the sheer mechanical force of the blast. The pressure was so immense that it cracked the brick walls of the alley, creating a crater in the pavement. Midoriya and the others were spared only because Sherlock had used his last ounce of conscious will to create a "Dead Zone" of safety around them, a protective dome of paper that absorbed the shockwaves.
As the explosion reached its peak, Sherlock felt the last of his energy vanish. The "Black Hole" of his calculation collapsed. The thousands of sheets turned back into harmless, gray ash, fluttering down like a macabre snowfall in the orange light.
When the dust finally settled, the alley was unrecognizable. Stain lay at the far end, his body a map of thousands of shallow, bleeding cuts. His blades were pulverized, and his tattered red scarf was nothing but threads. He was alive, but the "Killer" had been surgically removed from him by the sheer force of the Magician's math.
Sherlock remained standing for a heartbeat longer. He looked at his hands, which were now trembling violently, the skin peeling back to reveal the white cellulose beneath. His crimson eyes flickered, the green returning for a split second before fading into a hollow, empty gray.
"Equation... solved," he wheezed.
He fell forward. He didn't even put his hands out to break the fall. He hit the damp stone with a heavy, lifeless thud, the orange twilight fading into the cold, uncaring dark of the night. Sherlock Sheets had emptied his soul into the alley, leaving nothing behind but a silence that tasted of paper and blood.
III. THE AFTERMATH: HEROES AND MONSTERS
The silence that followed the Thousand Paper Blast was more deafening than the explosion itself. The white mist of pulverized cellulose hung in the alleyway like a funeral shroud, slowly settling over the cracked pavement and the unconscious body of the Hero Killer. The orange glow of the sunset had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the city in a bruised, violet twilight.
When the first responders and Pro Heroes—led by Gran Torino, Manual, and Thomas Itadori—finally burst into the alleyway, they stopped dead. The scene was a grotesque tableau of modern warfare. The walls of the alley were stripped of their surface brick, sanded down by the sheer velocity of Sherlock's paper storm.
"What... what is this?" Manual whispered, his eyes wide as he looked at the fine white powder coating everything like snow.
Thomas Itadori stepped past him, his face a mask of cold, professional stoicism that hid a surging panic. He had seen "Cleaners" erase crime scenes before, but he had never seen a child—let alone his own nephew—deconstruct an entire environment.
In the center of the devastation, Stain was pinned against a dented dumpster. He was a ruin of a man. His tattered red scarf was shredded, and his body was covered in thousands of microscopic, cauterized lacerations. Even in his unconscious state, his face was frozen in an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. He hadn't been defeated by a hero's fist or a blast of fire; he had been dismantled by a logic so cold it had vacuumed the air from his lungs.
"Check the kids! Now!" Gran Torino barked, his veteran instincts overriding the shock.
They found Midoriya, Iida, and Todoroki huddled behind a reinforced wall of black-edged paper—Sherlock's final instinctual act of protection. They were bruised and trembling, but alive. However, the one who had stood at the eye of the storm was in much worse condition.
Sherlock Sheets lay face-down in the white dust several meters away. His body was unnervingly still. When the paramedics and Thomas rolled him over, they found a boy who looked like a ghost. His skin was cold and dry to the touch, and the "blood" leaking from his shredded right arm was a thick, pale pink—a sign of the severe cellulose-depletion in his system.
"He's in hypovolemic shock!" a paramedic shouted. "Get the IV lines ready! This isn't normal blood loss—his entire biological baseline is collapsing!"
Thomas gripped Sherlock's shoulder, his fingers trembling slightly. "You idiot," he hissed under his breath. "I told you not to reach for the Void."
As they loaded Sherlock and the others into the ambulances, a final, chilling event occurred. A winged Nomu, one of the last remaining monsters from the street-side battle, swooped down from the darkening sky. It snatched Midoriya, its talons sinking into his shoulders as it prepared to fly back to the shadows.
Suddenly, a shadow moved from the transport vehicle. Stain, despite his broken ribs and the thousands of cuts from the Blast, had forced himself awake. With a guttural roar that paralyzed every hero on the scene—including Manual and Thomas—with pure Killing Intent, he lunged. Using a hidden, jagged shard of one of Sherlock's own hardened cards, he drove the weapon into the Nomu's exposed brain.
"Both the fakes... and the monsters... must be purged," Stain rasped, his eyes bloodshot and terrifying. He stood over the fallen Nomu, his presence so overwhelming that even Gran Torino stood frozen. "Only the green boy... and the Magician... are worthy of a world of truth."
He stood there, a terrifying silhouette of conviction, before his eyes finally rolled back. He remained standing even as he lost consciousness for the second time—a monster of a man, defeated by a boy who had looked into the void and didn't blink.
IV. THE PRICE OF THE TRICK
The recovery ward of Hosu General Hospital was bathed in the clinical, sterile light of the early morning. The rhythmic beeping of heart monitors provided a steady, anxious pulse to the room. Izuku Midoriya and Shoto Todoroki sat in their beds, their gazes fixed on the heavy blue curtain at the far end of the ward.
Behind that curtain lay Sherlock.
The "Price of the Trick" was visible in the sheer number of machines hooked up to his body. Sherlock wasn't just receiving blood; he was hooked to a specialized centrifuge that was pumping a thick, white, nutrient-rich slurry into his veins—the only way to replenish the "ink-cellulose" his body had purged during the Thousand Paper Blast.
"The doctors said he's stable, but his Quirk factor is in a state of 'hibernation,'" Todoroki said, his voice quiet. "He pushed his cells so hard they literally stopped dividing to save energy. If he hadn't landed that hit when he did, his brain would have simply shut down."
Tenya Iida sat on a stool between them, his hands wrapped in heavy gauze. He was staring at his feet, the weight of the night's events pressing down on him like a lead suit. Manual stood by the door, his face solemn, feeling the weight of the failure to protect his intern.
"He nearly died because of me," Iida whispered, his voice cracking. "I went there for revenge. I ignored the duties of a hero. And Sherlock... he used a move that might have cost him his future just to fix the variable I broke."
The curtain was pulled back, and Thomas Itadori stepped out. He looked exhausted, his usual sharp suit wrinkled and stained. He looked at the three boys, his gaze lingering on Iida for a moment before turning to Midoriya.
"He's awake," Thomas said shortly. "But don't expect him to be 'heroic' about it. He's in a lot of pain."
They walked over to Sherlock's bed. The "Angel of Death" from the alleyway was gone. In his place was a pale, exhausted teenager with dark circles under his emerald eyes. His right arm was encased in a specialized medical cast, and a thin oxygen tube ran to his nose.
Sherlock looked at them, a slow, tired smile touching his lips. "You all... look terrible," he wheezed.
"You're the one in a coma-inducing IV drip, Sheets-kun!" Midoriya cried, half-laughing and half-sobbing.
"It was a calculated risk," Sherlock replied, his voice a dry rasp. "The Hero Killer was an outlier. He didn't fit the standard hero-villain social model. To remove him, I had to introduce a Zero-Sum variable. The math... was solid."
"It wasn't just math, Sherlock," Shoto interrupted, his heterochromatic eyes searching Sherlock's face. "You stayed standing with a sword through your chest. You protected us even when you were fading. That's not an equation. That's... something else."
Sherlock went quiet, looking at his bandaged hands. "My mother always said that a Magician's best trick is making the audience believe the impossible. I didn't want to be a hero last night. I just wanted to make sure the curtain didn't fall on any of you."
The door opened again, and the Hosu Police Chief, a man with a dog-like appearance, entered alongside Gran Torino. The atmosphere shifted.
Midoriya, Iida, and Todoroki immediately scrambled to sit upright in their beds, but Sherlock simply tilted his head toward the door, his emerald eyes dull but attentive. Thomas Itadori stood by the window, his arms crossed, watching the Chief with a guarded expression.
"So, you're the UA students who brought down the Hero Killer, woof," Tsuragamae began, his voice deep and gravelly.
Iida lowered his head. "Chief, I..."
"Regarding the Hero Killer we arrested," the Chief interrupted, his tone becoming stern. "He suffered serious burns, broken bones, and thousands of deep lacerations. He's currently in critical condition under heavy guard, woof. For students to use their Quirks without instruction or supervision to cause such life-threatening injuries... that is a grave violation of the rules. Even if the opponent is the Hero Killer, that doesn't excuse the law, woof."
Todoroki's eyes flashed with anger. He stood up, the frost beginning to crawl up his right arm. "Wait a minute. If Iida hadn't acted, Native would be dead. If Midoriya and Sheets hadn't come, they'd all be dead! You're saying we should have just followed the law and let people die?!"
"So it's okay to break the law as long as it goes well, woof?" the Chief countered calmly.
"Isn't it a hero's job to save people?!" Todoroki shouted, stepping toward the Chief.
"Todoroki, stop," Sherlock's raspy voice cut through the tension. He didn't move from his pillow, but his gaze was sharp. "The Chief isn't arguing morality. He's stating a systemic variable. The law is a fixed algorithm. It doesn't have a 'mercy' clause."
Tsuragamae looked at Sherlock, nodding slightly. "The Magician is correct, woof. As a police officer, I cannot look the other way while students engage in unauthorized combat. If we made this public, you four would be heralded as heroes, but you would also face severe legal discipline and likely expulsion from UA. You would never be able to become Pro Heroes, woof."
The room went cold. Midoriya looked down at his bandaged hands, his breath hitching.
"However," the Chief continued, his tone softening just a fraction. "That's only if we make it public. This is where the 'Cleaner' comes in, woof." He glanced at Thomas Itadori.
Thomas stepped forward. "The official report will state that the Hero Killer was apprehended by Endeavor while he was patrolling the district. The wounds he sustained—the burns and the lacerations—will be attributed to Endeavor's fire and debris from the Nomu battle. Your involvement will be erased from the record."
"But that's..." Iida started.
"It means you won't get the credit," Gran Torino grunted, stepping forward. "But it also means you get to keep your licenses. You'll be 'shadow heroes' for this one. It's the price you pay for acting on your own."
The Chief turned toward the door, but paused to look back at the four boys. "As a person, I want to thank you. You did what the system couldn't do. You saved lives at the cost of your own safety, woof. Especially you, Sherlock Sheets. To sacrifice your very life-force to end a threat... that is the soul of a hero, even if the law cannot recognize it."
He bowed deeply to them. "Thank you for your service, woof."
As the Chief and Gran Torino left, silence returned to the ward.
"The credit goes to Endeavor," Todoroki muttered, though the anger had faded into a tired irony. "My old man is going to hate that."
"I don't care about the credit," Iida said, his voice thick with emotion as he looked at Sherlock. "I'm just glad... I'm just glad we're all still here to talk about it."
Sherlock closed his eyes, the fatigue finally winning. "A good magician never reveals his secrets. Let Endeavor have the spotlight.
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I am thinking to write another mha fanfic choose which one i should start first
1. MHA:- The Devil footprint ( quirk based on shinra from fire force )
2. MHA:- The Creeping Hunger ( quirk based on Creeping Hunger artifact from lotm mc can have 5 quirk but have to killed that person to have it )
3. MHA:- The illustionist ( quirk based on loki illusion magic mc will be like an magician and tickster)
4. MHA:- Mr Fool ( quirk based on lotm fool pathway our mc will will be isekai and have fool pathway )