CHEAK OUT MY NEW FANFIC Black Clover: Luminaris Rex!!!!
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"The U.A. Sports Festival is a massive event, televised across the entire country, and even internationally," Aizawa explained, his voice droning on with a rare hint of energy. "It's your greatest chance to get noticed by pro heroes. In the past, students have received internship offers, even sidekick proposals, based solely on their performance here. Don't take this lightly."
He clicked a button, and a diagram of the festival structure appeared on the screen. "The festival is divided into three main events. The first is a massive preliminary race to whittle down the competition. The top forty-two students will advance to the second event, a cavalry battle. From there, the final sixteen will proceed to a one-on-one tournament. Win that, and the world will know your name."
Under her desk, Rumi nudged Akaza's foot with her own. He glanced over, and she gave him a subtle, challenging grin. He smirked back, tapping her foot in return. Game on.
"That is all," Aizawa concluded. "The festival is in two weeks. Train accordingly. Class dismissed."
The moment the bell rang, the students began packing up, a buzz of excitement and nervous energy filling the room. But when Iida went to open the door, he stopped short. It was blocked. A dense crowd of students from the other hero course departments, General Studies, and Support courses stared them down, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and hostility.
"What's going on?" Uraraka asked nervously.
"They're scouting the competition," Bakugo grumbled, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "We're the class that survived a real villain attack. They want to see us for themselves."
A student with wild purple hair and tired eyes stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over them. "So this is the famous Class 1-A. You don't seem so special. I heard you're all pretty arrogant."
As other students began to murmur in agreement, another voice cut through the noise. "I came to say that if you get lazy and rest on your fancy titles of 'CLASS 1A', we'll sweep the rug right out from under you. Consider this a declaration of war."
Just as Akaza was about to step forward and calmly disperse the crowd, he felt a blur of motion beside him.
THWACK!
Rumi's leg shot out in a lightning-fast kick, the sole of her shoe connecting squarely with the purple-haired boy's face, sending him stumbling back into the crowd.
A collective gasp filled the hallway, followed by immediate outrage.
"What the hell was that for?!" someone yelled.
"She's just as arrogant as they say!"
"What a brutal bitch!"
Before Rumi could leap into the crowd and, as she would later put it, "lay down more bodies," Akaza sighed, stepping forward. He hooked an arm under her legs and another around her back, effortlessly lifting her into a bridal carry.
"My sincerest apologies," he said to the stunned crowd, his voice calm but firm. "My girlfriend can be a bit… enthusiastic. She's working on it." He started to walk away, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. The playful tone was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp edge. "But she has a point. Don't get cocky. We'll see you all on the field. Try to keep up."
With that, he carried a protesting Rumi down the hall, leaving a bewildered and thoroughly intimidated crowd in their wake.
That night, Akaza sat alone in Kenji's dojo, meditating. The fight at the USJ replayed in his mind. Raw power and adaptation had saved him, but it had been a clumsy, inefficient victory. He had been a hammer, and the Nomu had been an anvil. A better fighter would have used a chisel(A hand tool with a sharpened metal blade).
He thought of Kenji's movements during their spars. Fluid and controlled, turning Akaza's own force back against him. There was a discipline there, a mastery he lacked. His style was all aggression, all destruction. He needed a counterpoint. A defense that was also an offense. A style that could flow around overwhelming strength and dismantle it from the inside.
His mind drifted to an old, nearly forgotten memory from his first life, an anime he'd watched with Yuna. A silver-haired old man, a master of a martial art that moved like water but struck like shattered rock.
Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist.
The concept clicked into place with the force of a revelation. That was it. That was the path forward.
The next two weeks became a blur of relentless, focused training.
Kenji stood in the center of the dojo. "The principle is simple, the execution is not," he explained, his Battle Aura flaring softly. "You do not meet force with force. You guide it. You become a calm stream, letting the opponent's momentum carry them off balance. Then, when they are vulnerable, you become a raging river and shatter them."
Hearing this, Akaza cringed. The old man sounds like an old master from those Chinese novels.
Akaza spent days just practicing the footwork, the fluid, circular motions. At first, it felt alien. His body was conditioned to meet attacks head-on, to overpower and break through. Kenji would throw weighted balls at him, and instead of shattering them with shockwaves, Akaza had to learn to catch their momentum, spin with them, and redirect them into a target across the room. It was frustrating. He failed hundreds of times.
Meanwhile, he trained Rumi in the art of Soru.
"You're trying to use brute force," he told her as she panted, having just kicked the ground for the tenth time in a row. "It's not about how hard you kick. It's about speed. Ten rapid, explosive taps against the ground in a fraction of a second. It's not a jump; you're kicking off the air itself before your feet have even truly left the ground." He demonstrated, vanishing and reappearing behind her in a whisper of displaced air.
Her eyes lit up with understanding. She spent hours practicing, her powerful legs a blur, until she could cross the dojo in what looked like a single, instantaneous step.
Kenji oversaw it all, a demanding but brilliant instructor. He'd spar with them both, his movements a masterclass in efficiency, forcing Akaza to use the fledgling principles of his new style and pushing Rumi's newfound speed to its limits.
One evening, after a particularly grueling session, they lay on the dojo floor, exhausted and drenched in sweat. Rumi had a small cut on her cheek from a misjudged redirection.
"You're getting it," she said, her voice breathy. "That water-thingy style. It's scary."
Akaza chuckled softly. He sat up, gently tilting her face towards him. He dabbed at the scrape with the corner of his training gi. "You mastered Soru in less than a week. That's scary."
Their eyes met, and in the quiet of the dojo, with the moon casting long shadows through the door, the exhaustion and the ambition and the rivalry melted away, leaving only a soft, comfortable affection. She leaned into his touch, a small, tired smile on her face. In that moment, they weren't just training partners; they were simply Aki and his carrots, finding a moment of peace in the storm.
By the time the two weeks were up, they were different. Akaza's movements were no longer just brutally direct; they had a new grace, a fluid deadliness. Rumi's speed was terrifying, her kicks appearing from nowhere. They were ready.
The day of the Sports Festival arrived. The roar of the crowd in the massive stadium was a physical force, a wave of sound that washed over them as they walked through the tunnel.
In the Class 1-A waiting room, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. As students stretched and mentally prepared, a figure approached Akaza. It was Shoto Todoroki.
"Akaza," he said, his voice level. "I want to thank you for what you did at the USJ. Seeing you fight to protect us… It gave me the push I needed. I am going to win today, using only my mother's power. I will prove to my father that I don't need him."
Akaza looked at him, seeing the deep-seated pain behind the cold determination. He thought of Yuna, of the family he had lost and the one he had found.
"He's still your father, Todoroki," Akaza replied, his voice softer than anyone in the room expected. "Family can be harsh. They can make mistakes. But fighting them… it might not be the answer. Sometimes, you have to try to understand them. Cherish what you have, because it can be gone in an instant."
Rumi, sensing the weight behind his words, slipped her hand into his and squeezed it. He squeezed back, a silent acknowledgment.
Yaoyorozu and Kirishima, sitting nearby, exchanged a surprised look. They had expected a confident boast from Akaza, not a quiet, heartfelt piece of advice.
Shoto stared at him, Akaza's words creating a crack in his icy resolve. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and walked away, a storm of conflicting thoughts brewing within him.
"AND NOW, THE FRESHMEN WHOSE AMAZING PERFORMANCES ROCKETED THEM TO THE TOP! THE HERO COURSE'S CLASS 1-A!"
Present Mic's voice boomed as they walked onto the field. The roar of the crowd was deafening. They lined up before a small stage where the R-Rated Hero, Midnight, stood with a whip in hand.
"Ooh, she's hot," Kaminari whispered, getting an elbow in the ribs from Jiro.
After a rather suggestive speech, Midnight called out, "Now, for the student pledge! From Class 1-A, Akaza!"
He walked onto the stage, took the microphone, and looked out at the thousands of expectant faces.
"It doesn't matter what your quirk is, or which department you're from," he began, his voice clear and steady. "Today is about pushing past your limits. Try your best, and don't worry about the results. That's what being a hero is about."
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the students. In the stands, Kazuko and Miriko smiled, proud of his maturity.
Then, he smirked.
"And don't worry about the results," he finished, his voice dripping with confidence, "because I'm going to win anyway."
The stadium erupted. The other classes exploded into a chorus of boos and insults.
In the stands, Kenji threw his head back and roared with laughter. "THAT'S MY BOY!" Miriko and Kazuko both slapped their foreheads in shared embarrassment, while the orphanage kids started cheering louder than ever.
Akaza walked off the stage, unfazed, as Midnight announced the first event: a 4-kilometer obstacle race around the stadium.
Everyone gathered at the massive starting gate, the air crackling with tension. The lights on the starting board counted down.
Three… two… one…
The buzzer blared, and the race for the top began.
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