After the raucous, chaotic energy of the "Cavalry Battle" had finally settled, a quiet, almost suffocating atmosphere returned to the mass ive U.A. arena. The sun was high overhead, baking the concrete, while tens of thousands of spectators waited with bated breath for the announcement of the final stage. This was the tournament phase, the crucible of one-on-one combat that would strip away team dynamics and reveal who was truly the strongest among the next generation of heroes. But before the digital lottery could even begin to spin, something unexpected shattered the routine of excitement.
Mashirao Ojiro, the martial artist with the tail from Class 1-A, stepped forward into the center of the arena. He raised his hand slowly, his face twisted in a complex expression of pain, frustration, and a resolve that seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders.
"I... withdraw."
The two words dropped like stones into a calm pond. A sudden, heavy silence fell over the stands, broken only by the confused murmurs of the audience. Midnight, the R-Rated Hero acting as referee, blinked in genuine astonishment. "Withdraw? This is a rare chance to be scouted by top pros! Are you absolutely certain?"
Ojiro clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white, staring at the ground as if it held the answers to his turmoil. "My memory of the Cavalry Battle... is foggy to the point of non-existence. I was manipulated. I didn't fight of my own free will; I was a puppet dancing on someone else's strings. I cannot call myself a hero if I climb to the top without knowing how I got there. My pride... my dignity as a martial artist... does not allow me to stand here."
Beside him, Nirengeki Shoda from Class B stepped forward, his face flushed with similar shame, and announced his withdrawal for the exact same reason. The crowd began to buzz louder. Some called them noble; others, more cynical, called them fools for throwing away a golden ticket because of "petty pride."
However, far from the madding crowd, leaning against the cold concrete of the stadium entrance, Madara Uchiha watched the scene with a gaze that differed from the rest. He narrowed his obsidian eyes slightly. It wasn't a look of mockery or disdain, which was his usual demeanor. It was a rare, fleeting look of appreciation.
(Weakness is a sin in this world,) Madara thought, analyzing the trembling back of the boy with the tail. (But knowing one's limits and rejecting a hollow victory is the first step toward true strength. To refuse a crown that was not earned by blood and sweat... That boy possesses the spirit of a samurai, even if his body is currently weak. He has potential.)
Due to their withdrawal, the tournament bracket had to be adjusted immediately. The team of Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu and Ibara Shiozaki from Class B was advanced to fill the void. While the technical preparations for the lottery were underway, Madara felt the need to escape the noise. The constant cheering was grating on his senses. He withdrew to one of the stadium's dark back corridors, seeking the solace of silence and perhaps some water.
As he walked through the shadows, away from the blinding sunlight of the arena, the air grew cooler. His sharp ears picked up a low, intense voice coming from an empty side hallway. It wasn't casual chatter; it was the sound of a soul bleeding out its secrets.
"My father is Endeavor... the eternal Number Two Hero."
It was Todoroki Shoto's voice. Cold, hollow, and filled with a repressed hatred that made the air feel heavy. Madara stopped in the shadows, leaning his back against the wall, crossing his arms. He decided to listen. It wasn't eavesdropping for the sake of gossip; it was gathering intelligence on potential threats. In war, knowing your enemy's trauma is as valuable as knowing their weapon.
He peered around the corner to see Todoroki cornering a terrified Midoriya. The dual-haired boy looked like a ghost, his heterochromatic eyes glinting with buried rage as he unloaded his burden.
"He married my mother only for her power... a 'Quirk Marriage.' He wanted to create a child who could surpass All Might, to fulfill his own broken ambition. He treated us like tools, not humans... My mother couldn't bear to look at my left side because it reminded her of him. She poured boiling water on my face."
Midoriya gasped in horror, his hands trembling, but Todoroki continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that sounded like a curse. "Therefore, I swore I would never use his fire. I will become Number One using only my mother's ice. I will reject his power completely. I will win without him."
In the darkness, Madara closed his eyes, a small, sardonic smile playing on his lips.
(So that is the reason,) Madara analyzed coldly, dissecting the boy's psyche. (He isn't fighting opponents in the arena; he is fighting his father's ghost in his head. Restricting half your power because of a family grudge? What a childish, limiting mindset. A true warrior uses every weapon available to crush his enemy, regardless of its source or history. You do not discard a sword because you dislike the blacksmith. Todoroki Shoto... you are dead before the battle has even begun.)
Madara stepped out of the corridor, leaving the two boys behind in their misery. He turned a corner, intending to return to the waiting room, only to find the hallway blocked.
A flaming giant stood there, his arms crossed, his presence radiating an oppressive heat that dried the moisture in the air instantly.
Endeavor. The Number Two Hero.
The man was massive, a mountain of muscle and ambition. The flames of his beard and mustache roared with suffocating intensity, and his turquoise eyes stared at Madara sharply, as if he had been waiting for him specifically.
"You." Endeavor's voice was deep and rough, like the sound of shifting tectonic plates. "The boy who stole the show."
Madara stopped, hands casually in his pockets. He looked up to meet the Pro Hero's eyes without a shred of fear or intimidation. "Is there a problem?"
"Your fire..." Endeavor said, narrowing his eyes, trying to strip the boy's secrets bare with his gaze. "It is strange. It is not a normal emitter Quirk. Its heat signature is different, and the way you control it—condensing it, shaping it—is unnaturally precise. Who are you? Are you an illegitimate child of some fire user? Or perhaps..."
"I am just a passerby who sees what you do not," Madara interrupted coldly, attempting to walk past him as if he were a mere statue.
Endeavor moved, blocking the path with his massive, flaming shoulder. The temperature in the hallway spiked. "Shoto will defeat you. My duty is to make him the Number One Hero who surpasses All Might. You are merely a training obstacle for him to step over."
Madara stopped completely. The air around him seemed to darken, countering the hero's light. He turned slowly, his black eyes shining with a dangerous, ancient glint. His tone shifted, becoming sharper and more authoritative, reversing the dynamic—he was the master, and Endeavor was the foolish student.
"Your son will win only if he forgets he is your son, and remembers he is a warrior," Madara said, his words cutting the heated air like blades. "You are obsessed with creating a 'masterpiece,' striving for perfection, but you broke the vessel before the clay could dry. Your fire does not interest me, Endeavor... for it lacks a soul. It is merely rage burning without purpose. Do not stand in my way again."
Leaving the Number Two Hero stunned by his audacity, Madara walked away. The heat rising behind him from Endeavor's suppressed fury was palpable, but Madara treated it like a mild summer breeze. He returned to the stands to find the tournament had already begun and was burning with excitement. The roar of the crowd washed over him.
"What a match!" Present Mic shouted over the speakers, his voice cracking. "Midoriya Izuku wins his first match against Shinso Hitoshi through a display of sheer willpower! And in the second match, Todoroki Shoto crushes his opponent in seconds with a glacier! The intensity is off the charts!"
The updates appeared on the giant screen, and the crowd hushed in anticipation. Now came the turn of the most mysterious participant.
Match Eight: Madara Uchiha VS Neito Monoma.
In the waiting corner near the entrance tunnel, a wide, manic grin stretched across the face of Neito Monoma, the blonde student from Class B. He was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Hahahaha! Look! I hit the jackpot!" Monoma shouted, waving to his classmates with frantic energy. "I'm facing the first-place ranker! Everyone is terrified of him, but this is perfect! That means I'll be able to copy the strongest power in the tournament! Once I touch him, I won't just be a copycat... I'll become a king!"
Itsuka Kendo, the class representative of 1-B, looked at him with deep concern. "Monoma, be careful. That boy... Madara... there is something unnatural about him. Don't get overconfident."
"Don't worry!" Monoma laughed arrogantly, adjusting his costume. "A Quirk is a Quirk! Biology is biology! There is nothing I cannot copy!"
"The eighth and final match of the first round!" Present Mic shouted, hyping up the crowd. "On one side, the man who swept everyone and took the top spot with absolute coldness! The mysterious monster: Madara Uchiha! And on the other side, the mastermind of Class B, the cunning Phantom Thief: Neito Monoma!"
The two students entered the concrete arena. The contrast was stark. Madara stood in his usual spot, hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He didn't even take a fighting stance. Opposite him, Monoma bounced lightly on his feet, a mocking smile on his face, eyes fixed on Madara like a predator eyeing a juicy prey.
"You're very lucky, Uchiha," Monoma said, his voice dripping with condescension as he approached slowly. "Everyone is afraid of you, treating you like a demon. But to me? You're just a walking power bank. Your fire, your speed, that terrifying strength... it will all become mine in a second."
Madara didn't answer. He simply watched him silently, the Sharingan (3 Tomoe) spinning slowly in his sockets, analyzing the boy's muscle movements.
"START!"
Monoma dashed forward with sudden, explosive speed. He didn't attack with a punch or a kick. He extended an open hand, fingers splayed. His goal was simple: a single touch. Just one brush of skin against skin was all he needed to turn the tables.
Madara didn't move. He didn't dodge. He stood like a monolith, watching the hand approach. He let Monoma touch his exposed left forearm.
Pat!
The sound of skin contact echoed slightly.
"Gotcha!" Monoma shouted triumphantly, his eyes widening in ecstasy. He immediately leaped back, creating a ten-meter distance between them. "Thanks for the gift, Number One!"
Monoma stood tall, raising his right hand toward Madara. He took a deep breath, mimicking the exact stance Madara used when he released his fire techniques.
"Now, I'll defeat you with your own weapon! I'll show the world that Class B is superior! Taste your own Quirk!"
Monoma focused. He reached inside himself, trying to locate the "switch" for the power he had just copied. He expected to feel a surge of heat. He expected flames to erupt from his palm.
But... nothing happened. The air remained cold.
"What?" Monoma muttered, confusion clouding his face. He tried again, straining his muscles. "Ignite! Ignite, you damn fire!"
Suddenly, his expression shifted from arrogance to pure, unadulterated terror. It wasn't fire that came out. It was something else happening inside. Monoma felt a sudden, searing pain shoot through his arm, as if he had injected liquid lead into his veins.
The veins in his right arm—the limb he was trying to use—began to bulge grotesquely. They turned dark blue, then purple, throbbing violently against his skin. It felt like something incredibly dense, heavy, and ancient was trying to force its way through a neural network that was far too fragile to support it. The energy was rejecting its vessel.
"Ggggh... AAAAGH!"
A scream of agony tore from Monoma's throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his right arm which was trembling uncontrollably. He began to cough violently, saliva mixed with blood dripping from his mouth onto the concrete.
His body wasn't burning from fire; it was burning from pressure. His biological system was collapsing under the weight of an alien power.
Madara began to walk toward him. He moved slowly, deliberately. The sound of his footsteps—clack, clack, clack—was the only thing audible in the dead silence that had fallen over the stadium. The crowd watched in horror, not understanding why Monoma was destroying himself.
Madara stood over the writhing boy, his shadow casting a long darkness over Monoma's form.
"What... what is this?!" Monoma choked out with difficulty, tears streaming down his face from the sheer neural overload. "Why... can't I... use it?! I copied it! I copied it!"
Madara looked down at him, his eyes cold as the void between stars.
"You are confusing two very different things, child," Madara said in a quiet voice that was nonetheless captured by the microphones, broadcasting his lesson to the entire world. "You are used to copying 'Quirks.' Genetic mutations. Mere biological functions that evolved over a few generations."
Madara leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to the collapsed Monoma. "But my power is not a mutation. It is spiritual and physical energy honed through years of hell. It is a torrential flood of Chakra."
Madara placed a single finger on Monoma's sweating forehead. The touch felt like a branding iron.
"Your body does not possess the necessary vessels—the Chakra coils—to contain it. Your neural network is unqualified. You are trying to pour an entire ocean into a small, broken glass."
"Cha... kra?" Monoma whispered, his mind unable to comprehend the concept, before screaming again as another wave of pain washed over him.
"You are an empty vessel," Madara said, standing up straight and withdrawing his presence. "And attempting to steal what you have not earned through blood, sweat, and suffering... will always lead to your destruction."
Madara lifted his foot, and with a simple, almost dismissive motion, kicked the collapsed Monoma gently in the chest. The boy rolled helplessly out of the arena bounds, unconscious before he even stopped moving.
"Winner: Madara Uchiha!" Midnight announced, her voice shaking slightly as she signaled for the medical robots. She looked anxiously at Monoma, who was twitching from the aftershocks of the neural overload.
Silence reigned in the stadium. It wasn't a dazzling victory with massive explosions or flashy moves. It was a mysterious, psychological, and terrifying victory. He had defeated his opponent without lifting a finger in anger, simply because his opponent dared to try and imitate his existence.
In the teacher's booth, All Might leaned forward, his blue eyes narrowed. "He didn't use his ability... The other boy collapsed just by trying to hold it. What kind of power does this young man possess? It feels... heavy."
Madara walked back to the dark tunnel, his cape swaying behind him, leaving everyone bewildered and confirming a single, absolute truth: There are levels of power in this world that cannot be copied, and cannot be stolen. You must be born with them... or die trying to obtain them.