The ground beneath the Takoba National Stadium didn't just shake; it groaned under the weight of a thousand simulated tragedies.
As the massive concrete partitions retracted, the "Urban Ruin" sector was revealed in all its haunting, artificial glory. Smoke—thick, grey, and smelling of burnt rubber—choked the alleyways between collapsed skyscrapers.
Sherlock Sheets stood at the edge of the rubble, his green eyes scanning the horizon. The first phase had been a trial of elimination; this was a trial of preservation.
"Iida, Shoji, Kaminari—move to the north quadrant. The wind is carrying the scent of dust from that collapsed parking garage.
There are likely victims trapped in the lower levels," Sherlock commanded, his voice raspy but carrying a new, authoritative weight. "Momo, we need a triage center. Somewhere with a clear line of sight and structural stability."
Momo Yaoyorozu nodded, her expression grim. "The central plaza. It's open ground. We can see threats approaching from 360 degrees."
"Then let's build a sanctuary," Sherlock said.
As the class began to fan out, Sherlock didn't move toward the rubble. He knelt on the cracked asphalt, his fingers tracing the serrated edges of his paper pouches. His lipid reserves were low, the fight against forty students having drained his biological battery to its red-line limit. But the math of the rescue didn't care about his fatigue.
"Paper Art: Sentinel Swarm."
He didn't manifest large sheets. Instead, he released hundreds of tiny, fingernail-sized squares. With a series of rapid-fire neural commands through his gloves, the squares began to fold themselves. They didn't become cranes or planes.
They became Organic Insects.
Small paper spiders with eight delicate legs and paper beetles with iridescent, folded wings began to scuttle and fly away from Sherlock in a white wave. They were his eyes and ears. They crawled into the narrowest fissures of the fallen buildings—gaps where even Shoji's dupli-arms couldn't reach.
"I have a thermal signature in Sector 4-B," Sherlock whispered, his eyes glazed as he processed the sensory feedback from his paper swarm. "A child. Trapped under a support beam. Uraraka, head to the 4-B coordinates! Use your zero-gravity to lift the weight, but do it slowly—the structural integrity is failing!"
"On it!" Uraraka shouted, sprinting toward the smoke.
Sherlock moved toward a collapsed storefront where a young girl—a H.U.P. actor—was huddled. She was playing her part perfectly, her face smeared with "blood" and her eyes wide with simulated terror. She was hyperventilating, her small hands shaking as she stared at the "corpse" of a mannequin representing her parent.
"Stay back!" she shrieked as Sherlock approached. "The villains... they're still here! Don't touch me!"
Sherlock stopped five feet away. He knew that any sudden movement would lead to a point deduction for "poor psychological care." He looked at the girl. He didn't see an actor; he saw a variable that couldn't be solved with a wall or a blade.
He slowly lowered himself to one knee, keeping his hands visible. His duster was torn, and he looked more like a survivor than a savior, but he softened his gaze.
"The villains are gone," Sherlock said, his voice dropping into a low, rhythmic hum. "The architecture of the threat has been dismantled. You are the only constant left in this room, and I am here to ensure you remain unbroken."
The girl sobbed, her eyes darting to his scarred, gloved hands.
Sherlock reached into the air. He didn't pull out a weapon. He manifested a single, long strip of white paper. With a flick of his wrist that looked like a sleight-of-hand trick, he began to fold. His fingers moved with a grace that transcended the physical pain in his chest.
Fold. Tuck. Reverse.
In less than three seconds, a perfect White Lily bloomed in his hand. It was delicate, the petals translucent and impossibly soft.
"In the world of the Magician," Sherlock whispered, holding the flower out to her, "nothing stays broken forever. Paper can become a sword, but it can also become a sign that the winter is over."
The girl reached out, her trembling fingers touching the paper petals. As she took the flower, her breathing began to level out. The "terror" in her eyes faded, replaced by a genuine look of wonder.
"Thank you... Hero," she whispered.
Sherlock felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth in his chest—a sensation that had nothing to do with his Quirk or his heart condition. He stood up, signaling for the medical bots to move in.
"Sherlock! I've brought three more! One has a suspected spinal injury!" Iida's engines roared as he skidded into the central plaza, carrying two elderly actors on his back while Shoji carried a third.
Momo was already there, her arms glowing as she produced bandages, splints, and antiseptic. But they lacked the infrastructure to keep the victims off the cold, vibrating ground.
"I have the supplies, but we need beds!" Momo cried.
"Leave the foundation to me," Sherlock said.
He slammed his hands against the asphalt. He didn't build a Fortress Fold for defense. He built a Fortress Fold: Medical Ward.
Large sheets of high-density paper erupted from the ground, folding themselves into sturdy, elevated cots. He used the "Honeycomb" structural logic to ensure they could hold the weight of a grown man without sagging. He then manifested a series of overhead canopies—white paper awnings that blocked the falling ash and artificial rain, creating a clean, sterile environment in the middle of a war zone.
"Shoji, place them on the third and fourth rows," Sherlock directed, his brow drenched in sweat. "Momo, I've reinforced the legs of the cots with carbon-compressed folds. They won't buckle."
As the plaza transformed into a buzzing hive of rescue activity, Sherlock stood in the center, his paper insects returning to him to report more locations. He was the conductor of an orchestra of mercy. He used his paper to create Splints that perfectly molded to the actors' limbs, and Stretchers that were light enough for a single person to carry but strong enough to withstand the rough terrain.
He looked at his class. They were working in perfect synchronization. For the first time, the "Paper Magician" wasn't just calculating for victory. He was calculating for life.
But then, the air changed.
A heavy, oppressive pressure began to radiate from the northern gate. It was a sound that Sherlock recognized—not the sound of falling rubble, but the sound of a predator entering the arena.
A massive, booming voice echoed through the stadium, chilling the blood of every student in the plaza.
"SO... YOU THINK YOU CAN SAVE THEM WHILE THE WORLD IS STILL BURNING?"
Sherlock turned, his emerald eyes narrowing as he saw the towering silhouette of Gang Orca emerging from the smoke, flanked by dozens of elite "villain" guards.
The rescue was over. The fight for the survivors had begun.
"Momo, get the victims to the back of the ward!" Sherlock shouted, his hands already blurring as he prepared a defensive perimeter.
"The math just got complicated."
the sanctuary has been built, but the "Villain" has arrived! Sherlock must now protect the wounded while his own body is screaming for rest.
Chapter 62: The Sound of the Abyss? Gang Orca unleashes his sonic waves, and Sherlock must use his paper to create an "Acoustic Shield" while launching paper planes to guide the remaining rescuers back to safety!