Chapter 56: The Original vs. The Copy
The intermission was over. The stadium, now clean and pristine, was thrumming with an energy that was sharper and more focused than before. The semi-finals were about to begin.
In a quiet corridor, Neito Monoma was surrounded by his classmates, the last remaining bastion of Class 1-B's pride.
"You're facing the original user of that Quirk," Itsuka Kendo said, her expression serious but her voice steady. "Don't get nervous. Just fight smart."
"You're the last one standing for us, Monoma!" another student added, his voice filled with a hopeful pride. "We're proud of you no matter what happens!"
Monoma laughed, a bright, confident sound. "Don't worry about a thing," he said, a theatrical and utterly self-assured smile on his face. He held up his hand, examining his palm as if it held a great secret. "I will seize victory for the dignity of our class." He clenched his fist. "Sometimes, the copy can even surpass the original."
In a parallel corridor, on the other side of the stadium, Gaara walked alone. His footsteps made no sound. His face was a mask of placid, absolute focus, his piercing teal eyes fixed on the bright light of the arena entrance ahead. There was no trace of the shock, the confusion, or the horror that had plagued him before. He was calm. He was ready.
In the stands, the students of Class 1-A were a mess of nerves.
"Man, this is weird," Kirishima said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Seeing Gaara's Quirk used against him… it just feels wrong."
"But there's a difference," Midoriya countered, his analytical gaze intense. "Monoma-kun is copying the Quirk as a tool. Gaara-kun has lived with it his entire life. It's a part of him. That connection… that has to make a difference."
"I just hope they don't decide to flood the entire stadium with sand while we're still in it!" Mineta squeaked, earning a few light, tension-breaking laughs.
"ALRIGHT, LISTENERS! THE MOMENT WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!" Present Mic's voice exploded from the speakers. "THE FIRST SEMI-FINAL MATCH IS ABOUT TO BEGIN! ON ONE SIDE, THE CUNNING COPYCAT OF CLASS 1-B, NEITO MONOMA! AND ON THE OTHER, THE SILENT, UNMOVABLE MASTER OF THE SAND, GAARA!"
The two combatants stepped into the ring. On the giant screen, their portraits flashed. Midnight raised her whip. In his office, Best Jeanist leaned closer to his laptop. "Alright," he murmured. "Let's see what you do against your own reflection."
Miles away, in the heart of the city, Endeavor, who had long since left the stadium, paused on a crowded street. On a massive public screen, the festival broadcast was playing. He caught a glimpse of the two boys in the ring and his turquoise eyes narrowed for a brief, cold moment before he turned and walked on.
"Take your positions," Midnight commanded. "Begin!"
The first move was a spectacle of breathtaking, symmetrical power. In perfect unison, both Gaara and Monoma placed their hands flat on the concrete floor.
CRACK-GROOOOAN!
Two colossal, identical tsunamis of golden-brown sand erupted from the ground. They roared towards each other, unstoppable forces on a collision course. They met in the center of the ring with a deafening, grinding roar that shook the entire stadium. The impact created a massive, explosive plume of sand that rained down, completely blanketing the arena in an instant, transforming the green field into a chaotic, miniature desert. The air was thick with the dry, earthy smell of dust and stone.
"INCREDIBLE!" Mic screamed. "TWO IDENTICAL SAND TSUNAMIS! THE ENTIRE RING IS COVERED! THE ORIGINAL AND THE COPY ARE PERFECTLY MATCHED FROM THE START!"
A moment later, a head of messy blond hair popped out of the sand. Monoma grinned, spitting out a few grains of grit. "The exact same pushing power…" he mused.
Then, on the other side of the ring, the sand swirled. It did not part. It rose, lifting Gaara into the air until he was standing serenely on a solid, elevated pillar, looking down at his opponent.
Monoma's smile faltered. He gritted his teeth, pulling himself out of the dune he was half-buried in. The sand is lifting him? he thought, a flash of bitter jealousy in his eyes. Just how much does this sand love him?
"Let's see about that!" Monoma yelled, climbing atop his own wave of sand. He adopted a showy, aggressive style, launching a series of flamboyant attacks. "Sand Spear!" A volley of hardened lances shot towards Gaara. "Sand Wave!" Another crashing tsunami surged forward. "What do you think?!" he screamed, his voice filled with a manic glee. "Am I doing a good work? Perhaps I should be the real sand user!"
He threw volley after volley of sand bullets from all directions, trying to overwhelm his opponent with sheer volume.
But none of it landed.
Before any projectile could reach Gaara, a shield of sand, fast as thought, would rise from the ground or from the air to intercept it. It wasn't Gaara moving. It wasn't his conscious will. It was the sand itself.
Monoma's eyes widened in shock as he saw it. A sand bullet shot towards Gaara's blind spot, and a whip of sand from the pillar Gaara was standing on lashed out on its own, batting it away. He doesn't need to form a shield, Monoma realized with a dawning horror. For him, all the sand in the arena is his shield.
Gaara's style was the complete opposite. It was quiet, minimalist, and lethally precise. He made no grand gestures. He simply raised a single finger. A thin, almost invisible, high-pressure jet of sand—a sand beam—shot across the ring. Monoma hastily created a thick sand wall, but the beam's focused power pierced it like paper and struck him in the chest, sending him flying towards the edge of the arena. He reacted just in time, creating a cushion of sand behind him to break his fall, stopping inches from a ring-out.
The crowd roared. The students of Class 1-A let out a cheer of relief. "What an incredible difference in skill!" Mic yelled. "The sand is truly an extension of Gaara's own body!"
Gaara attacked again. He fired off dozens of small, hyper-fast "sand bullets" from all directions. Monoma, panicking, surrounded himself in a defensive sphere of sand, the bullets impacting its surface with a constant, percussive pitter-patter, slowly but surely eroding his defense.
Trapped inside his sphere, Monoma knew he was losing. He was being outclassed, outmaneuvered, and out-skilled at every turn. I can't win a battle of skill, he thought, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He's lived with this power. It's in his blood. My only chance is to overwhelm him with raw power!
As his sphere was about to crumble, he placed his hand on the sandy ground beneath him, preparing to channel all the sand he could command into one final, massive, all-or-nothing tsunami.
From across the ring, Gaara's calm eyes narrowed. He felt it. He felt the intruder trying to command his sand.
Inside the sphere, Monoma's eyes widened in terror. The sand beneath his hand felt… wrong. It was resisting him. Then, with a life of its own, it surged up his arm, wrapping around his body like thick, constricting chains.
The sphere around him collapsed. The sand bullets vanished. The stadium fell silent. All that remained was Monoma, on his knees, completely bound in ropes of sand, helpless.
"In the end… the sand rejected you," Gaara said, his voice calm and confident. "This is the end point." He slowly raised a hand towards the trapped Monoma. "Surrender, and do not force me to crush your joints."
Monoma struggled, his face contorted with effort and humiliation. The sand around him visibly strained, but with a slight clenching of Gaara's fist, it tightened, and Monoma gasped in pain. He would never admit defeat to Class 1-A. He would resist until the end.
Midnight looked at his helpless state, and let out a sigh. "Monoma is immobilized! The winner is Gaara!"
The moment the words were spoken, Gaara closed his eyes, and the sand binding Monoma instantly fell away, collapsing into a harmless pile on the ground.
The crowd exploded. The commentators roared. The students of Class 1-A were on their feet, cheering with relief and pride.
This time, Gaara looked towards them. And this time, he smiled. It was not a wide, triumphant grin. It was a small, quiet, and calm smile. A smile of self-acceptance. A smile that said, I am in control.
That quiet, confident smile was broadcast on every screen in Japan. On a busy city street, Endeavor saw it on a massive public monitor. His serious, turquoise eyes watched it for a long, unreadable moment. Then, he broke his gaze, turned, and walked away.
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