Chapter Text
“The wait is over!” Present Mic crows. “Moving on… There they are! A master swordsman, who forged his own blade! Man, I want one of those! It’s—”
“I’m not a swordsman.”
After a long, settling silence, the pro coughs. “Sorry?”
Haganezuka turns his head, glaring straight at the commentator’s box. “I’m not a swordsman,” he repeats, scowling. “I’m a swordsmith.”
“...Ah,” Present Mic says. “Are you su— ow, Eraser! Okay, yes! A master swordsmith! Hotaru Haganezuka of the Support Course! Versus… The best of the best— the strongest of the strong! Shouto Todoroki of the Hero Course!”
He pauses, like he’s waiting for another interjection. When it doesn’t come, he takes a breath. “Alright— Start!”
Haganezuka turns back towards Shouto, sword in hand. Shouto meets his gaze in turn, pressing his foot to the ground. “Sorry about this,” he says, with little inflection.
A frigid chill sweeps through the arena; when Shouto breathes, it’s shrouded in frost. He raises his head, and something shatters.
Haganezuka stands at the base of the glacier, ice cracking at his feet. He works his jaw, hand clenched around the hilt of his blade. A long, thin crack runs through the metal, edging towards the guard.
“I,” he says, “Am going to throttle you.”
“You.”
Shouto stills at the familiar voice. He steps back once, then presses himself to the wall after a moment’s pause.
“Hah?”
“You’re the boy who broke Shouto’s ice,” Endeavor says. “And with a mere blade…”
Shouto can hear Haganezuka bristle at that comment. “That blade was made perfectly, considering the shitty materials that I could get my hands on. Apparently, nichirin steel doesn’t even exist here. If it does, everyone is too dense to understand its value, and anything that’s slightly-less-useless than the normal shit is locked under an exuberant price tag. No wonder I haven’t seen a half-decent swordsman since I got here.”
“I—”
Haganezuka cuts off Endeavor with a sound of disgust. “Assholes like you— they don’t appreciate what I do. I can’t even trust anyone with a sword around here. Even Kamado outclasses all of these fucking frauds. What the hell happened to breathing styles, huh?”
“You’re—”
“I’ve seen clips of the Hero Killer, you know. One of the only guys who bothers to use live steel, and he’s about as proficient as a field-trained Mizunoe.” He snarls, not unlike an agitated dog. “The bastard doesn’t even bother to take care of his weapons. Have you seen how fucking disgusting those things are? They’re chipped, completely down the edge.” He waves his arms around wildly, indicated by the sound of rustling cloth. “Chipped!”
“A swordsmith, are you?” Endeavor asks, loud and sudden.
The other teen pauses his rant. “A dumbass, are you?”
Shouto takes a breath, then, and turns back around from where he came. As he walks down the hall, near-silently, he swallows back something dangerously close to a laugh.
“Beat his ass!”
Shouto’s gaze raises towards the stands. Haganezuka clings to the railing, and when Shouto squints, he swears he can see him frothing at the mouth. Several other students—presumably from the support course—attempt to drag him away with little success.
Hatsume, the girl who’d briefly given Bakugou the run-around during the first round, pumps her fist into the air with a grin. “Death before dishonor!”
“We’re so sorry about them,” someone says, straining to grapple with Haganezuka. Moments later, they yelp when he inadvertently elbows them in the face.
Shouto glances towards the opposite end of the field, where Bakugou is twitching—whether it’s with rage or excitement, he can’t tell. He could also just be diseased.
“Uh…” Present Mic lets out over the speakers. “...Start?”