In a world governed by law, even power needs permission.
For those who wield Quirks without hero licenses, there are... alternatives. One of them: Venue Quirk Permits. Legal loopholes that let Quirks be used freely in designated areas—like U.A. High, where students train openly. Or places like this one.
The underground Quirk Arena.
Officially sanctioned? No. Tolerated? Very much so. What began as a place for training and spectacle evolved into something bloodier, louder—an unofficial colosseum, where fists and powers clashed under neon lights and roaring crowds. The government turned a blind eye, and the world turned a thrill-seeking gaze.
Tonight, the arena was electric. Thousands packed the stadium, swept up in the chaos and heat. On the stage, beneath towering lights, the host raised a mic and fed the frenzy.
"Six wins! Six brutal knockouts! Mad Bull is on fire! And now he's eyeing his seventh victory—do you want it?!"
The crowd surged with noise.
"SEVENTH GAME! SEVENTH GAME!"
The chant built like thunder. Mad Bull—a hulking man with a bull's head, thick horns curling from his skull—grinned through his snarl and raised his fists.
"I'll take it," he roared. "Bring on Number Seven!"
Before the next roar could crest, a man in black sprinted across the stage, whispering something urgent into the host's ear.
A beat. Then the host exhaled and turned back to the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I know you're fired up—but hold on. I've just been told something... very special."
"You all know our arena's legends. Fighters so dangerous, so skilled, they blur the line between pro hero and monster. And tonight—tonight—one of them has returned."
Gasps rippled through the audience.
"A name whispered with awe and fear alike. A man of silence, of precision. Undefeated. Untouched."
"Tonight... Mad Bull's seventh opponent will be... Number Seven!"
The explosion of cheers rattled the arena's walls.
In the lounge above the stage, Arata Kurosawa—wrapped in his usual black robe—sat waiting.
He sighed, annoyed. "They're really dragging this out…"
With a nod, he rose. Around him, black-suited guards fell into step as he made his way to the ring.
When he stepped into view, the crowd howled.
"It's him—it's Number Seven!"
"He's never shown his face—not once!"
"I'd rather Mad Bull face Number One than him. You don't mess with mystery."
Arata didn't react. He didn't need to.
The arena had always been an escape. A place far from family expectations and hero schools. Here, his silence was power. His anonymity, legend.
He stepped onto the stage. The scent of sweat and blood clung to the air. The lights were hot. The voices blurred together until all he heard was a single word:
"Begin."
He moved.
Mad Bull didn't hesitate—he charged like a freight train, horns down, muscles tensed.
"Even legends fall!" he bellowed.
The impact rattled the floor.
Arata flew back, boots skidding against the concrete. His ribs screamed, his fingers burned. Power-wise, Mad Bull was at least Grade B. Arata was still stuck at Grade E.
But raw power wasn't everything.
From the sidelines, a young security guard whispered, "He got knocked back. That's Number Seven?"
An older guard beside him snorted. "Strength was never his thing. Just shut up and watch."
On the stage, Arata steadied his breath. Beneath the robe, his hands clenched and relaxed. He wasn't rattled.
He was excited.
Mad Bull grinned, charging again.
"Come on, legend! Let's see if you can bleed!"
Arata smiled quietly, and vanished into motion.