Rumi Usagiyama slouched in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. The stadium's energy swirled around her like an annoying gnat—all noise and movement with no substance. Her foot tapped against the concrete, a steady rhythm of impatience.
"Why are we even here? There's actual hero work to do."
Ryukyu, seated beside her, smiled graciously for another photo requested by an adoring fan. The dragon hero's patience seemed endless. "Because," she said once the fan departed, "these students fought off a coordinated villain attack. They might make excellent intern candidates."
Rumi's ears twitched in irritation. "They're still brats."
"Care to make it interesting?" Ryukyu lowered her voice. "If one of them impresses you, you will cover my night patrol shifts next week."
Rumi's nose twitched. She had no intention of being impressed by high school heroics. "And when I win?"
"If you win—" Ryukyu emphasized, "I will buy you that world-famous carrot cake from France."
Rumi's mouth watered instantly. That cake—layered with cream cheese frosting, spiced carrot sponge, candied walnuts. She'd seen it featured in Pro Hero Monthly's culinary section. Imported weekly to only one bakery in Japan. Line out the door every morning. Sold out by noon.
"Deal." She grinned. "Easy money."
The crowd roared as students filed into the stadium. Rumi slumped further in her seat, already calculating which day she'd claim her prize. That cake would be hers by sunset. Nothing these kids could do would impress her. She'd seen it all—fought villains twice her size, broken bones and kept fighting, survived situations that would have killed lesser heroes.
A hush fell over the crowd as a tall, green-haired student took the stage. Rumi sat up slightly. Something about his posture caught her attention—straight-backed, controlled, like a predator at rest.
"When I was four years old," he began, voice steady, "my doctor told me to give up on being a hero."
Rumi's ears perked forward without her permission. The boy—Izuku Midoriya according to the screen—continued his speech, each word measured yet passionate. His eyes swept the crowd, not nervously but with purpose, as if making a personal connection with each section of the stadium.
"He's good," Ryukyu murmured.
"He's practiced," Rumi countered, though something about Midoriya nagged at her. The way he moved, spoke—there was a physical confidence that seemed at odds with his message of overcoming doubt. This wasn't a boy who'd been told no; this was someone who'd never heard the word.
When he finished with a thunderous "PLUS ULTRA!" that the entire stadium echoed back, Rumi found herself leaning forward in her seat.
"Objectively attractive," she muttered.
Ryukyu raised an eyebrow.
"What? I have eyes." Rumi slouched back down. "Still doesn't mean he's impressive."
The first event—an obstacle course—began with a bang. Rumi watched through half-lidded eyes at first, expecting the usual display of flashy quirks and minimal strategy. But her attention sharpened when Midoriya broke from the pack.
His movements weren't just fast—they were calculated. No flashy quirk display. Just pure physical prowess and combat intelligence.
"What's his quirk?" she asked, not taking her eyes off the green-haired student as he navigated a field of robots.
"Unknown," Ryukyu replied, also watching intently. "Reports suggest strength enhancement of some kind."
But Rumi saw something different. The way he moved—fluid yet powerful—reminded her of her own fighting style. Quirk-enhanced, yes, but fundamentally rooted in physical mastery.
When Midoriya crossed the finish line first, leaving students with powerful quirks in his dust, Rumi caught herself nodding in approval.
"First event," Ryukyu said. "Thoughts?"
Rumi schooled her expression. "One lucky run doesn't make a hero."
The next event—something called a Fortress Challenge—proved even more revealing. Rumi leaned forward as teams formed their defensive structures. Most groups clustered around powerful quirk users, but Midoriya's strategy proved more nuanced.
"Smart," she said when his team positioned themselves. "High ground, multiple escape routes, clear lines of sight."
"Impressed?" Ryukyu asked.
"Observant," Rumi corrected.
What followed was nothing short of military precision. Midoriya directed his team flawlessly. His teammates—a blonde girl who created illusions, a support course student with gadgets, a bird-headed boy who controlled shadows, and a manga-faced kid who materialized words—moved like extensions of his will.
When three teams attempted a coordinated assault on Midoriya's fortress, Rumi found herself humming in anticipation. The odds seemed impossible—fifteen students against five, all targeting the million-point flag.
"They're done for," she said.
But Midoriya proved her wrong.
He moved like water—flowing between attackers, redirecting their momentum, creating openings for his teammates. The bird-headed student's shadow quirk provided cover while the manga-faced boy created physical barriers with sound effect words. The support girl deployed gadgets that confused and separated the attackers, while the blonde created illusions that led entire teams into traps.
At the center of it all stood Midoriya, calm amidst chaos, directing and fighting with equal skill.
When the dust settled, his team stood victorious.
A low, appreciative hum escaped Rumi's throat.
"Did you just purr?" Ryukyu asked, amused.
"Rabbits don't purr," Rumi snapped, but she couldn't deny the warmth spreading through her chest. The boy was good—better than good. He had the strategic mind of a veteran hero combined with the physical capabilities of a top-tier fighter.
"You're smiling," Ryukyu observed.
Rumi quickly rearranged her face. "Am not."
The tournament portion of the festival began after lunch. Rumi returned to her seat with a vegan takoyaki box, ears twitching though she'd never admit it. Midoriya's first match pitted him against a lizard-quirk girl who could separate her body parts.
The match lasted less than three minutes.
"Efficient," Rumi noted, popping a takoyaki ball into her mouth.
"That's high praise coming from you," Ryukyu said.
Rumi grunted. The boy was 85% there—skilled, strategic, powerful. But something was missing. A spark. The fire that separated good heroes from great ones. The thing Rumi recognized in herself.
His second match, against manga boy, proved equally one-sided. The manga-faced student created elaborate defenses and attacks, but Midoriya slipped through them all, his movements becoming increasingly fluid as the match progressed.
"He's adapting mid-fight," Rumi said, ears straight up now. "Learning his opponent's timing."
"Does the bunny see something she likes?" Ryukyu teased.
"Shut up," Rumi growled, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the green-haired fighter. There was something about his style—half familiar, half alien—that called to her. Like recognizing a fellow predator across a crowded room.
The semifinals brought Midoriya against Todoroki—Endeavor's daughter. Rumi's nose wrinkled at the thought of the flame hero. All power, no finesse. Plus, he smelled bad.
The match began with Todoroki unleashing a massive ice attack. Midoriya countered with pure physical prowess, shattering the ice and closing distance. What followed was a dance of power and technique—ice against martial skill, raw quirk energy against honed physical ability.
Then something shifted. Todoroki began using fire alongside ice, transforming from a one-dimensional fighter into something more complex. Rumi's heart rate increased as the battle escalated, both competitors pushing beyond what should have been possible for first-year students.
From the stands, Endeavor's booming voice carried: "YES, HITOMI! THAT'S IT! EMBRACE YOUR POWER! MY LEGACY!"
Rumi's ears flattened against her head. Typical Endeavor—making someone else's moment about himself.
But what happened next made her sit bolt upright.
"SHUT THE HELL UP, SECOND PLACE!" Midoriya shouted, his voice carrying across the arena. "THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU!"
Heat rushed through Rumi's body. There it was—the fire she'd been waiting for. Not just skill and power, but the courage to speak truth to power. To call out bullshit when he saw it, consequences be damned.
"Oh," she breathed.
Ryukyu glanced at her. "Oh?"
Rumi didn't respond. Her eyes remained locked on Midoriya as the final clash approached. Both competitors gathered their power—Todoroki combining fire and ice in a swirling vortex, Midoriya settling into a stance that radiated controlled power.
When they collided, the resulting explosion rocked the stadium. Dust and debris filled the air, obscuring the outcome. When it cleared, Midoriya stood at the edge of the ring, battered but upright. Todoroki lay half out of bounds.
"TODOROKI IS OUT OF BOUNDS!" Midnight announced. "MIDORIYA ADVANCES TO THE NEXT ROUND!"
Rumi stood, a manic grin spreading across her face. "I need him."
Ryukyu grabbed her arm before she could vault over the railing. "Down, bunny. You can talk to him after the festival."
"Did you see that?" Rumi's voice pitched higher than normal. "The technique, the power, the adaptability—and then telling Endeavor to shut up! He's perfect!"
"Perfect for what, exactly?" Ryukyu asked, still maintaining her grip.
Rumi opened her mouth to respond, but her attention caught on movement below. Midoriya had scooped up Todoroki—whose uniform appeared damaged—and vanished into the exit tunnel in a blur of speed that even Rumi's enhanced eyes barely tracked.
"Damn," she whispered, impressed despite herself. The boy moved nearly as fast as she did.
"I believe," Ryukyu said smugly, "you'll be covering my night patrols next week."
Rumi sank back into her seat, mind racing. The carrot cake was forfeit—a small price to pay. She'd found something far more valuable.
"Fine," she conceded. "You win. The kid's impressive. But I'm still talking to him after this is over."
"Of course you are," Ryukyu said. "Though you might want to wait until he's had medical treatment. That final clash looked serious."
Rumi nodded absently, already planning her approach. Most students would jump at the chance to intern with a top ten hero, but something told her Midoriya wouldn't be so easily swayed. He'd need convincing. A challenge.
Her kind of recruit.