One year later. Spring again.
Katzo stood in a rented dojo on the edge of Mustafu, sweat dripping down his face — well, not dripping. His Quirk kept him clean, but he could still feel the exertion. His muscles ached in a satisfying way.
Across the mat, Izuku Midoriya and Katsuki Bakugo faced each other.
Ten months until the U.A. entrance exam. They'd been training together for weeks — Katzo's idea. "If we're all going to U.A.," he'd said, "we need to not embarrass ourselves."
Bakugo had called him an idiot. Then showed up.
Izuku had cried. Then shown up early.
Now, three fifteen-year-olds circled each other in a makeshift sparring rotation.
---
Round one: Izuku vs. Katsuki.
Bakugo lunged first — explosive sweat crackling in his palms, but controlled. No full blasts. Just enough to propel his punches.
Izuku ducked. Swayed. Countered with a palm strike to Bakugo's chest.
Bakugo stumbled back, eyes wide. "How did you—"
Izuku didn't answer. He flowed like water, reading Bakugo's movements before they happened. His body, once frail, had filled out over the past year. Lean muscle. Quick reflexes.
He swept Bakugo's leg. Bakugo hit the mat.
"Point," Katzo called from the side. "Deku wins."
"THAT WAS A FLUKE," Bakugo roared, jumping up.
"Was it?" Izuku smiled, gentle but confident. "We can go again."
Bakugo's eye twitched. "Shut up."
---
Round two: Katzo vs. Izuku.
Katzo was good. Not great, but good. His past life's knowledge of martial arts movies didn't translate perfectly into actual skill, but he'd practiced. A lot.
Izuku was better.
They circled. Katzo threw a feint, then a kick. Izuku blocked both and countered with a hip throw that sent Katzo spinning onto the mat.
"Point," Bakugo said, smirking for once. "Deku wins again."
Katzo groaned from the floor. "You're annoying, you know that?"
Izuku offered a hand. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just teach me that throw."
---
Round three: Bakugo vs. Katzo.
Finally, a match Bakugo could win.
He came in hot — literally. Small explosions popped from his palms as he advanced, forcing Katzo back. Katzo dodged, weaved, landed one good punch to Bakugo's ribs.
But Bakugo grabbed his arm, twisted, and slammed him down.
"POINT!" Bakugo shouted. "FINALLY!"
Katzo coughed. "Congrats. You beat the second-best. Want a medal?"
"I WANT YOU TO SHUT UP."
---
The stupid reason they fought on weekly.
After sparring, they sat on the dojo floor, drinking water. Izuku was explaining a technique he'd seen in a hero video. Bakugo interrupted.
"You talk too much, nerd."
"You don't talk enough, Kacchan."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
Katzo, lying on his back, said, "He said you don't talk enough. Which is ironic, because you're literally always yelling."
Bakugo lunged at him. Katzo rolled away. Izuku tried to separate them and got elbowed in the face.
Then it devolved into a three-way wrestling match over absolutely nothing.
By the end, they were all on the floor, breathing hard, laughing despite themselves.
"You're both idiots," Izuku said, holding his nose.
"Takes one to know one," Katzo replied.
Bakugo just grunted.
---
Walking to school.
They cleaned up, changed into their middle school uniforms, and headed out. The sun was up. Birds sang. Cherry blossoms fell.
All three of them had changed over the past year. Not just skill — physically. Slight muscles showed under their sleeves. Broader shoulders. Stronger jaws. Katzo's Quirk kept his skin clear, but even he had definition now.
Izuku, once twig-thin, had actual biceps.
Bakugo, always lean, had packed on functional strength.
They walked in silence for a block.
Then Bakugo said, "I'm still going to be number one."
"Okay," Izuku said.
"I mean it."
"I know."
Katzo snorted. "Can we focus on passing the entrance exam first? Then you can fight about who's number one."
"SHUT UP, KATZO."
"Love you too, Kacchan."
They turned the corner toward school. Toru's uniform — empty blouse, skirt, floating gloves — was waiting by the gate.
"Hey!" she called, voice coming from inside the collar. "You're late again!"
"Sparring," Katzo said.
"Did you win?"
"Define win."
Toru laughed, her empty uniform shaking. "I'll take that as a no."
They walked through the gates together — four friends, three visible bodies, one set of empty clothes.
Ten months until U.A.