Chapter 65: An Echo that Resonates in the World
One week.
In the life of a city, a nation, it is a fleeting, insignificant breath of time. But in the week that followed the U.A. Sports Festival, the world of heroes felt as if it had been fundamentally and irrevocably altered. The aftershocks of the final battle did not fade; they grew, spreading from the epicenter of the stadium outwards, becoming an echo that resonated in every corner of Japan.
The story was no longer just about the winners and losers. It was about the anomaly. It was about the ghost. It was about Rock Lee.
The chapter began not in a quiet room, but on a thousand different screens at once. On the giant, glittering displays of Shibuya Crossing, on the flickering televisions in quiet suburban homes, on the glowing smartphones in the hands of high school students. News broadcasts, which had for days been saturated with analysis, now ran retrospective segments. They showed the iconic images, now burned into the public consciousness: Lee, a crimson blur, dismantling the son of Endeavor; Lee, a flash of green lightning, meeting Midoriya's storm of power head-on; and the final, tragic image of him, unconscious on a stretcher, his victory absolute but his body broken.
In a bustling city street, a news reporter held a microphone out to the passing crowd. "The question on everyone's mind," she said, her voice bright and professional, "is it true? Can a person without a Quirk really do that?"
The responses were a perfect microcosm of a world grappling with a shattered belief system.
"Of course, it's true!" a young man with a fiery, passionate expression exclaimed, pointing at a replay of Lee on a nearby screen. "You saw his eyes, didn't you? That's pure willpower! He's a hero for everyone who was ever told they weren't good enough!"
An older woman, her face a mask of logical skepticism, shook her head. "Impossible. It must have been a misdiagnosis when he was a child. Perhaps he has a simple physical enhancement Quirk that was never properly registered. A normal human body simply cannot withstand that kind of strain. It defies science."
A businessman in a sharp suit simply smirked. "Whether he has a Quirk or not is irrelevant. What matters are the results. He's generated more buzz than the top ten Pro Heroes combined. His marketability, his value as a future brand, is astronomical."
Inspiration. Disbelief. Opportunity. The world was divided, and Rock Lee was the fault line.
The pressure had converged on a single point: the gates of U.A. High School. In a packed and stiflingly hot press conference room, Principal Nezu sat calmly at a long table, a serene, knowing smile on his face. Beside him, Shota Aizawa, still wrapped in bandages and looking profoundly tired of the world, sat with his arms crossed.
The room was a shark tank of flashing cameras and shouted questions.
"Principal Nezu!" a reporter from a major news network called out, her voice sharp. "What is the current medical status of the student Rock Lee? And why has there been a complete media blackout regarding his condition for a full week?"
Nezu took a sip of his tea before answering, his movements calm and deliberate. "Student Lee is recovering splendidly under the finest medical care in the country," he said, his cheerful voice cutting through the noise. "As for the 'blackout,' U.A. has a strict policy of protecting the privacy and security of its students, especially when they are in a vulnerable state. He is resting comfortably in a secure location within the academy."
"Do you officially confirm his on-air statement that he is Quirkless?" another journalist yelled. "Does this signify a change in the admission standards for the Hero Course?"
It was Aizawa who answered this time, his voice a low, gravelly thing that commanded attention. "Every student who enters my class does so by proving their potential during the entrance exam. Student Lee's abilities, whether you choose to label them a 'Quirk' or not, met our exacting standards." He leaned forward slightly, his tired eyes scanning the room. "We will not be discussing the private, personal files of our students in a public forum." His tone was flat, final, and left no room for argument.
U.A. was building a wall of silence around its most famous, and most mysterious, student. And it was only making the world's curiosity burn hotter.
Sora Aokawa and Mr. Tanaka arrived at the Dojo of the Resolute Fist, but they were forced to park a block away. As they walked towards the familiar wooden gates, they stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes wide with disbelief.
The dojo, which for years had been a quiet, solitary place of echoing silence, was now the busiest establishment on the entire street. A long, orderly queue of people—eager children in athletic clothes, hopeful teenagers with uncertain eyes, and even a few curious adults—snaked its way from the front door down the sidewalk.
A wide, uncontrollable grin spread across Mr. Tanaka's face. "Well now, Aokawa-sensei," he said, his voice a triumphant boom. "It appears our little promotional effort was a success beyond our wildest, most optimistic projections."
Sora stared at the crowd, at the dozens of faces filled with a new, unfamiliar light. Her sharp blue eyes, which were usually so focused and severe, softened. "This…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "This is all because of him."
A mother at the front of the line noticed them and approached hesitantly. "Excuse me," she said, bowing slightly. "Are you the masters of this dojo?" She gestured to a small, shy boy hiding behind her legs. "My son… his Quirk isn't very strong. He was starting to give up. But after he saw that boy in the festival… for the first time, he has hope. Please," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "can you teach him how to be strong, too?"
Sora looked at the boy, and in his wide, hopeful eyes, she saw a faint echo of another boy, years ago, who had nothing but that same, desperate look.
The final scene of the day was not in a crowded street or a bustling dojo. It was in a quiet, sterile, sun-drenched room in the U.A. infirmary. Rock Lee sat up in a hospital bed, not lying down. He wore a simple, white hospital pajama set. He looked a little thinner, a little paler, but his dark eyes were shining with their usual, indomitable vitality.
Sitting on chairs beside his bed were his parents. They were simple, kind-looking people, his mother with a warm, gentle face, his father with quiet, proud eyes. They looked at their son with a love so profound it seemed to fill the entire room.
"I'm telling you, I feel completely fine!" Lee said, his voice booming with a cheerful energy that was far too loud for the quiet room. "Recovery Girl is a true master! I feel like I could run ten kilometers right now!" He tried to punctuate his statement by pumping his fist, but winced as a dull ache shot through his shoulder.
His mother chuckled, reaching out to pat his hand, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears of pride. "You gave us quite a scare, my son," she said softly. "But we have never been prouder."
Recovery Girl bustled into the room, overhearing his boast. "There will be no running ten kilometers for you, young man," she said with a scolding but fond tone. "But," she added, looking at a chart in her hand, "the news is good. Your muscle fiber bundles have regained a significant portion of their integrity, and the micro-tears are healing much faster than I anticipated." She looked at him, a look of pure, medical wonder in her eyes. "This body of yours… it truly is something special."
After all the noise, all the conflict, all the world-shaking debate, the story came to rest here. In a quiet room, with a boy who was simply a beloved son, healing slowly, surrounded by his family, and calmly, quietly, preparing for the next, uncertain chapter of his extraordinary life.
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