[ Where a dragon teaches a prince to burn, and shadows plot to make her fall ]

The corridor beyond the arena feels like a different realm entirely, where the roar of the crowd becomes a distant memory. Your scales still shimmer with residual heat from the battle, casting gentle patterns on the walls as you move. The air here is cooler, a welcome respite after the inferno of combat.

Izuku stands there like a painting caught in mid-stroke, his presence as gentle as morning dew. His arms begin to rise for a hug, but hesitation makes him falter, as if unsure he has the right to embrace something as ancient and powerful as you. Your voice cuts through his uncertainty like moonlight through clouds.

"Hey," you breathe, and the word carries centuries of tenderness. Your claws, deadly weapons moments ago in battle, now touch his cheek with the delicacy of butterfly wings. The contrast between your draconic features and this gentle gesture makes the moment more precious, like a rose blooming in winter.

Izuku's face floods with color, turning as red as sunset clouds. Whatever eloquent analysis of your battle he had prepared evaporates like morning mist, lost in the golden depths of your eyes. He stands there, caught between words and silence, between mortal and divine.

The moment fractures as Shoto emerges from the same doorway, his heterochromatic eyes narrowing at the scene before him. His shoulder connects with yours as he passes – not an accident but a claiming, a reminder, a promise. The touch lingers like frost on a window pane. You watch him go, a knowing smile playing across your scaled features, understanding the complex dance of human hearts.

Your attention returns to Izuku, claws gently lifting his chin. "Come, let's get some rest," you murmur, your voice a lullaby of smoke and starlight. Your hand finds his, warm scales against soft skin, and leads him toward the infirmary. Each step is measured, unhurried, a queen taking her time.

Recovery Girl's domain is clinical and bright, but your presence seems to transform it into something more mythical. Once she's satisfied that neither dragon nor mortal bears lasting damage, you both emerge, ready to witness the remaining battles from a more comfortable vantage point.

The knowledge that neither you nor Shoto will fight again today settles around you like a comfortable cloak. You can simply... be. A dragon at rest, watching mortals clash and grow, holding one boy's hand while feeling another's lingering touch on your scales. The tournament continues below, but up here, in this moment, time moves differently – more gently, more precious, like honey dripping from a spoon.

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From your elevated position in the stands, the battle below unfolds like a tragic play. Your tail curls thoughtfully around your seat as you watch the dance of shadow and explosions, feeling Izuku's hand tighten in yours with each brutal exchange.

Down in the arena, Light and Shadow wage their eternal war in miniature. Katsuki moves like a demon of fire, each explosion painting the sky in harsh strokes of orange and white. Fumikage retreats before him, Dark Shadow shrinking with each flash, like a creature of myth facing the dawn.

"He's not fighting like before," Momo observes from nearby, her voice carrying the weight of tactical analysis. Mina nods beside her, pink skin reflecting the battlefield's glow. "When he fought us, Dark Shadow was... different. Fiercer."

You catch Izuku's knowing glance, see Ochaco's worried expression. They understand, as you do, the cruel mathematics of this fight – how each burst of light chips away at Fumikage's darkness, like a tide eating at the shore.

Fumikage stands in the arena like a dark prince facing his usurper. His feathered head bows slightly under the assault, calculating, wondering. Dark Shadow writhes around him, growing smaller, weaker, with each of Katsuki's artillery-like advances. The darkness that once filled the arena now barely stretches beyond its master's shoulders.

Katsuki's grin is savage, beautiful in its ferocity. He moves like a force of nature – not with your ancient grace, but with the raw power of a summer storm. Dark Shadow reaches for him, claws of shadow seeking purchase, but Katsuki dances away like lightning, pivoting through the air with explosive grace.

Then comes the moment – the coup de grâce. Katsuki vaults over a weakened tendril of darkness, his hands already beginning to glow with deadly purpose. "Stun Grenade!" he roars, and for a moment, the arena becomes a newborn star.

The light is everywhere, merciless and complete. Dark Shadow keens, a sound like midnight being torn apart, shrinking to barely more than a shadow. Katsuki descends like an avenging angel, pinning Fumikage with the precision of a hunter who has finally cornered his prey.

"Did you... know?" Fumikage's question comes between heavy breaths, his usually composed voice rough with exhaustion. "About Dark Shadow's weakness?"

Katsuki's response is pure Bakugo – arrogant, direct, yet holding a kernel of brilliant strategy: "Figured it out by beating the shit out of it." A warrior's wisdom, crude but effective.

From your perch, you can't help but admire the savage poetry of it all. Your tail flicks thoughtfully as you watch Fumikage accept his defeat with the dignity of a fallen knight. This is how battles should be – not just tests of strength, but revelations of character. Katsuki stands victorious, backlit by his own explosions, while Fumikage kneels in the growing evening shadows, each having learned something about themselves in this clash of light and darkness.

But there's a shadow in your mind that won't disperse – news of Ingenium's fall, of a killer who judges heroes worthy or wanting. You feel it like a cold wind through your scales: change is coming, and not all of it will be as cleanly decided as tournament matches.

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The alleyway is painted in shades of dusk and danger, steam rising from vents to twist like specters in the dying light. From his vantage point, Dabi watches the aftermath of Stain's work with clinical detachment, blue flames flickering beneath his skin like captive stars.

The Hero Killer moves like poetry written in blood, his ideology as sharp as his blades. "Only All Might..." The words echo off grimy walls, a twisted prayer in this urban cathedral of violence. Ingenium's defeat serves as another verse in Stain's gospel of false heroes.

The staples in Dabi's flesh catch what little light reaches these shadows, creating a constellation of silver against charred skin. His head tilts, a predator's gesture of consideration. Stain is indeed a wild card – unpredictable, dangerous, but perhaps useful. Like fire in the hands of someone who knows how to be burned.

A giggle cuts through the heavy atmosphere like a knife through flesh – Toga emerging from the darkness as if born from it. Her pigtails bounce with childish energy that stands in stark contrast to the bloodlust in her eyes. "Hey Dabi," she chirps, her voice carrying all the innocent menace of a nursery rhyme sung in a graveyard. "Did you see the sports festival and how those students fought, especially that queen dragon?"

The name catches Dabi's attention like a hook, his blue eyes igniting with sudden interest. "Queen dragon," he repeats, tasting the words. "The one that the League of Villains is after?" The question hangs in the air like smoke.

Toga's nod is almost violent in its enthusiasm, her smile spreading wider until fangs gleam in the twilight. "Yeah!" Her excitement bubbles up like blood from a fresh wound. "If we join them, I'll spill her blood, and she'll be ours!"

She twirls closer to Dabi, her movements a demented dance. "Think about it, Dabi," she purrs, fangs catching the light like tiny crescents of malice. "We can finally have what we've always wanted."

The silence that follows is pregnant with possibility. In these shadows, where heroes fall and villains plot, thoughts of a dragon queen dancing through flames at a school festival seem almost surreal. Yet here they stand – the man marked by fire and the girl who loves blood – dreaming of how to cage something ancient and free.

The staples in Dabi's flesh seem to gleam a little brighter, as if responding to some internal inferno. In this moment, surrounded by the evidence of Stain's justice and Toga's madness, new plots begin to take shape – plots that will test whether even a dragon queen's scales can be pierced by the right combination of flame and fang.