MHA Rewrite: Plus Ultra

The alarm goes off at 4:30. Izuku is already awake. He lets it buzz once, just to confirm the time, then shuts it off. He stares at the ceiling for half a second. Today. He exhales and sits up. The weighted bands are still around his wrists and ankles. He never stopped wearing them at home. Not even to sleep. He stretches first. Slow. Controlled. Testing joints. Shoulders roll. Neck tilts. No stiffness. Good. Push-ups. Squats. Core work. Explosive starts across his bedroom floor, stopping himself inches from the wall. He moves like he’s rehearsed it a hundred times. Because he has. By 5:15, he’s sweating lightly. He peels off the weighted bands and sets them neatly on his desk. Shower. Steam fills the bathroom. When he wipes the mirror— His hair is shorter. Still messy. Still green. But trimmed close at the sides. The fringe no longer hangs in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, examining it. Less boyish. More practical. He nods once to himself and turns off the light. The kitchen light clicks on. This part is normal. Rice cooker first. Then eggs. Miso on low heat. He moves quietly so the pans don’t clang. He knows which cabinet door sticks and avoids slamming it. He flips the tamagoyaki carefully, rolling it tight. By the time Inko’s bedroom door opens, breakfast is almost done. She blinks at him from the hallway. “You’re up early.” He shrugs slightly, plating the food. “Big day.” She notices his hair mid-step. Her hand lifts automatically. “You cut it.” Izuku smiles. “Big change.”  She walks closer, studying him. She smiles. “It looks nice.” He smiles sheepishly. “Thanks, Mom.”  She smiles softly at that. They sit together and begin eating. For a while, there’s only the sound of chopsticks and the quiet hum of the apartment. Inko glances at him over the rim of her bowl. “…Are you nervous?” Izuku pauses. Just for a second. His chopsticks hover over the rice. His eyes stay on his food. Then he resumes eating. “Nervous?” he repeats lightly. “No. Why would I be? It’s just the Support Course.” A small, sheepish chuckle follows. Like it’s obvious. Like there’s nothing at stake. Inko studies him for a moment longer than usual. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t fidget. He just eats. “Izuku… I know the Support Course isn’t what you wanted… And I’m—” “Mom.” He looks up at her before she can finish. Steady. With a small smile. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.” There’s no hesitation in it. No resentment. Just certainty. Inko’s breath catches. Her eyes shine before she can stop them. She smiles anyway — the kind that trembles at the edges. She reaches across the table and covers his hands with hers. “I’m so proud of you…” Her fingers tighten slightly. “You’re going to do amazing.” Izuku holds her gaze this time. He doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I will.” “Oh, Izuku! My little boy!” Inko suddenly leans forward and wraps her arms around him. “Izuku—!” She squeezes him tight enough that his chair scrapes slightly against the floor. “You’re all grown up…!” Her voice wobbles as tears spill freely. “Why can’t you stay a baby forever?!” Izuku freezes, face flushing instantly. “M-Mom—!” He tries to pry one arm loose without actually pushing her away. “Stop— you’re going to get your sleeves dirty! There’s still food—!” She sniffles dramatically into his shoulder anyway. “I don’t care about the sleeves!” “That’s not hygienic!” He’s half-mortified, half-laughing despite himself. Eventually she pulls back, wiping at her eyes with the edge of her sweater. Izuku straightens his shirt, cheeks still red. “…I’m not that grown up.” Inko smiles at him through the tears. “You are.” Ding-dong. Both of them pause. The apartment feels smaller again. Inko blinks. “Were you expecting someone?” Izuku frowns slightly. “No…” Izuku stands and walks toward the genkan. He slips on his house slippers and leans toward the door, peering through the eyehole. A massive blue eye fills his vision. “GAH—!” He recoils so fast he smacks the back of his head lightly against the wall. Inko jumps. “Izuku?! What happened?!” He presses a hand to his chest, heart thudding. “…It’s just Toshinori-san.” Inko exhales. “Oh! Yagi-san?” Izuku slides the door open. Toshinori Yagi stands there in all his gaunt, vaguely intimidating glory, bent slightly at the waist because he absolutely leaned too close to the door. He straightens. “Morning.” Izuku blinks. “Toshinori-san? What are you doing here?” Toshinori slips his hands into his pockets like this is perfectly normal. “What? I can’t escort my pupil on an important day?” Izuku blinks. “You’re going to escort me?”  Toshinori raises a brow. “Yeah? Obviously, kid. Why wouldn’t I?”  Izuku shakes his head. “No, just… didn’t think you’d be that type of mentor…”  “Oh. Wow. Offense fully taken.” Toshinori says dryly.  Inko steps forward with a warm smile. “Yagi-san, good morning! Thank you for coming all this way.” Toshinori instantly bows too deeply. “Of course, Midoriya-san. Your son is my star pupil, after all.”  Inko giggles, placing a hand on her heart. “Aww… Well, have you eaten yet, Yagi-san? Izuku made plenty more!”  “Ah, no, I shouldn’t intrude…-“  “Nonsense, please, come in!”  She steps aside before he can object. Toshinori hesitates for half a second, looking and Izuku. He then steps inside.  “Pardon the intrusion…”  The apartment feels smaller with three people at the table. Toshinori sits carefully, knees drawn in slightly because the table is lower than he expected. His back is too straight. His hands rest politely on his thighs. Inko sets down a bowl in front of him. “It’s nothing fancy,” she says apologetically. “It looks excellent,” Toshinori replies immediately—too formal, slightly too loud. Izuku smirks. “Yeah. I made it.” “Ah. Then I retract my statement.” Toshinori grins sharply at him. Izuku grumbles under his breath. Inko laughs softly, tension dissolving for a moment. They begin eating. Inko smiles warmly. “Izuku told me you’ve been helping him train.” Toshinori nods once. “Yes, ma’am.” “And he’s been working very hard?” “He has.” No humor this time. Just fact. Inko’s eyes soften. “He comes home exhausted most days. I was worried at first…” Izuku stiffens slightly. Toshinori pauses mid-motion with his chopsticks. “I apologize if I pushed him too far.” “No, he’s alright, Mom,” Izuku cuts in quickly. “If anything, he tells me not to push myself.” Inko turns to him sharply. “Well, you should listen to him, then! Honestly, it’s not like you’re training to become a pro athlete!” She pouts. Izuku chuckles sheepishly. Toshinori’s mouth twitches, but he keeps his eyes on his bowl. No comment. He clears his throat instead. “Your son possesses… considerable potential.” Inko beams instantly. “He always gives his best.” Toshinori glances at Izuku. Just for a second. “Yes,” he says quietly. “He does.” That silence afterward isn’t awkward. It’s weighted. Inko tilts her head. “What kind of training have you been doing?” Izuku and Toshinori answer at the same time. “Cardio—” “Strength—” They stop. Izuku gestures vaguely. “Basic conditioning. For the Support Course, physical stamina still matters.” Inko nods earnestly. “Of course! You never know when you’ll need to run equipment to someone.” Toshinori freezes for half a breath. “Precisely,” he says, a shade too stiff. Izuku nudges his shin under the table. Toshinori coughs into his fist. Inko smiles, oblivious. “You know,” she continues gently, “I’m very grateful. Izuku used to push himself alone.” Her fingers tighten around her bowl. “I’m glad he has someone watching over him now.” That one lands. Toshinori lowers his gaze. “…So am I.” … The apartment door slides open. Inko pulls Izuku into her arms before he can say anything. It’s tight. Immediate. She buries her face against his shoulder, fingers gripping the back of his jacket like he might disappear if she loosens her hold. Her body trembles. Tears soak into the fabric near his collar. Izuku freezes for half a second. Then he exhales and hugs her back. Firm. Steady. After a moment she pulls away, wiping at her cheeks quickly, embarrassed at herself. He gives her a small smile. He steps into his shoes at the genkan. The door opens. Toshinori bows slightly as he steps out first. Inko bows in return, still sniffling, still smiling. Izuku turns once more, lifting a hand in a small wave. Inko waves back from the doorway, trying to look composed and failing adorably. The door closes. The hallway is quiet. They descend the stairs and step out into the morning light. For a few seconds, they walk in silence. Then Toshinori exhales. “You know, kid… I think I’m in love with your mother.” Izuku’s face twists instantly. “Please don’t.” Toshinori grins, raising a brow at him. “What? She’s a real cutie. Warm, supportive, probably cooks well—” “She’s my mother…” “Exactly. Prime qualities.” Izuku stares at him in horror. Toshinori continues, deliberately provocative. “If she ever decided to slim down-“  Izuku quickens his pace immediately. “Nope. I can walk by myself. Goodbye.” Toshinori chuckles, hands sliding into his pockets as he easily matches pace. Izuku walks a step ahead, still mildly offended. They reach the corner of the street. Morning traffic hums past. A train rumbles faintly in the distance. Toshinori clears his throat. “I’ve got a gift for you.” Izuku stops mid-step. Turns. “Really?” Toshinori nods once. “Really.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. A watch. Simple. Analog. The metal casing worn smooth at the edges. The leather strap creased from years of use. The glass faintly scratched but polished carefully. He holds it out without ceremony. “Here you go.” Izuku takes it carefully. “Thank you…” He turns it over in his hands. “Is this brand new? It looks old.” “Hell no it’s not brand new,” Toshinori says immediately. “This is a hand-me-down, kid.” He points at the watch with a faint grin. “This watch kept me on time. Every time.” He taps the face lightly. “It’s why I’m never late to save people.” Izuku snorts. “Yeah. Sure. Cheapskate.” Toshinori huffs. “Unbelievable. I give you a legacy item and I get lip.” Izuku slips it onto his wrist. It’s a little loose. Toshinori steps closer without asking and adjusts the strap, tightening it one notch. “There.” Izuku glances down at it again, thumb brushing lightly over the worn edge. Toshinori watches him for a second longer than necessary. “You’ll have to take it off for the entrance exam, though.” “Right.” A beat. Toshinori pats his arm once. Firm. “C’mon. We’ll miss your big debut.” He turns and starts walking. Izuku follows, the watch catching the morning light for just a second before disappearing beneath his sleeve. … The train is crowded. Not with commuters. With tension. Izuku grips the overhead strap, Toshinori beside him in civilian anonymity. Across the carriage, it’s obvious. They’re all here for the same reason. A tall boy with glasses stands unnaturally straight, posture military-perfect, lips moving slightly as if rehearsing something under his breath. A girl with short brown hair bounces lightly on her heels, hands flexing with nervous energy. A pink-skinned girl laughs loudly at something on her phone, thumb flicking across the screen. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice, even as a few commuters glance her way. A boy with half-red, half-white hair stands still as a statue, gaze forward, detached. Near the door, a blond boy stands with his back straight and hands buried deep in his pockets. His expression isn’t explosive. Just tight. Focused. He watches the reflection in the window instead of the crowd. A student adjusts a wrist brace. One kid has knuckles taped. No uniforms. Just tells. Izuku’s eyes flicker from one to the next. He doesn’t mean to analyze. He just does. Stance. Build. Confidence level. Injury history. Potential combat style. Toshinori notices. “See anything interesting?” he murmurs. “…Yeah,” Izuku replies quietly. “A lot.” At the far end of the carriage— Spiky blond hair. Bakugo. Hands buried deep in his pockets. Jaw tight. Standing alone. He stares straight ahead. Izuku never turns that far. Bakugo’s eyes flick briefly across the carriage. Past green hair. He doesn’t register it. The train slows. Doors slide open. The crowd surges forward. Izuku steps off with them. Bakugo exits through a different door. Parallel. Unaware. U.A. High School. Steel. Glass. Concrete. Massive support structures like something engineered for a war zone disguised as education. The gates are open. Students funnel toward them in a steady stream. Izuku stops walking. Just for a second. The building hasn’t changed. It’s always looked this big. But today it feels closer. He remembers standing outside the outer perimeter years ago. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Watching from a distance. He remembers peering through the fence. Catching glimpses— A shockwave bursting upward in the distance. A pillar of ice snapping skyward. A practice robot collapsing in a controlled detonation. Students laughing like it was normal. He’d stand there longer than he meant to. Telling himself he was just observing. Just studying. Not wishing. Not imagining himself walking through those gates. Never that. The memory fades. He’s not outside the fence anymore. He’s in the crowd. The watch on his wrist feels heavier than it should. Toshinori stops beside him. “Big,” he says lightly. Izuku exhales. “…Yeah.” No awe in his voice. No trembling. Just assessment.The gates don’t feel impossible anymore. Just… next. Izuku clears his throat, eyes still on the towering school in front of them. “Any last-minute advice?” he asks lightly. “I could really use a moving All Might speech right about now...” Toshinori huffs a quiet laugh. He steps a little closer, voice lowering so it doesn’t carry. “You’ve got this.” A firm pat on the shoulder. “Just remember—use your Quirk wisely.” Izuku’s expression tightens slightly. “At best, you’ll be able to use it a couple of times.” A beat. “At worst… once.” The air feels thinner. “So make it count.” No theatrics. No grin. Just truth. Izuku nods slowly. “…Right.” His fingers brush the watch under his sleeve. Toshinori studies him for half a second longer than usual. Then— Smack. His palm connects solidly with Izuku’s back, sending him stumbling a step forward. “Agh—!” “C’mon, kid!” Toshinori booms, a flicker of the old bravado flashing through him. “It’s time to be a hero!” Izuku winces, rubbing the sore spot between his shoulders. Toshinori gives a small smile. “I’ll be watching.” Izuku raises a brow. Watching? Entrance exams aren’t public. No spectators. No broadcast.  Izuku adjusts his sleeve unconsciously, feeling the watch beneath the fabric. He exhales. Nods once. Then turns and walks toward the gates. The crowd swallows him quickly. Noise builds. Voices overlap. Footsteps echo across concrete. Behind him, Toshinori remains where he stands. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched. He watches until the green head of hair disappears into the flow of students. “…Go,” he murmurs under his breath. The gates swallow him whole. The courtyard is massive. Packed with noise and ambition. Laughter. Boasting. Nervous pacing disguised as confidence. A spark of flame flickers somewhere before a proctor barks for restraint. Izuku walks forward, shoulders slightly hunched—not from nerves. From scrutiny. So many of them. Future heroes. Or at least, that’s what they believe. Power radiates off some of them like perfume. Easy smiles. Loud voices. Casual Quirk flashes. But when it counts? When it’s ugly and suffocating and no one knows what to do? Nine out of ten would freeze. He’d put money on it. He hopes he’s wrong. “Oof!” “Kya!” Impact. Izuku stumbles. A girl tumbles backward and lands on the pavement with a soft thud. His thoughts vanish instantly. “S-sorry! Are you okay?!” He drops to a knee and offers his hand without hesitation. She blinks up at him—surprised—then smiles brightly. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it!” She takes his hand. He pulls her up a little too quickly. She steadies herself and laughs. “Wow, you sure are strong… Guess you’re applying for the hero course as well, huh?” Izuku does a double take. “Huh? Strong? Me?… Y-yeah, I am. I mean—applying for the hero course. Not strong. I mean— I don’t know about that part.” He flails slightly, then tries to recover. “Well, you must be strong as well! Since you’re going… there.” He gestures vaguely toward the towering main building like it personally intimidates him. She grins, unfazed. “Guess we’ll both find out.” Izuku blinks. Her tone isn’t cocky. It isn’t defensive. It’s excited. She’s still smiling at him.  Strong? No. He definitely is.  She felt… soft. Her hand was light. No callouses. No forearm resistance. Her center of gravity shifted too easily when he pulled her up. Not a power-type. He takes half a second to actually look at her. Short brown hair, cut just above the shoulders. Round face. Warm eyes. Pink sweater over a white blouse. Practical skirt. Flats instead of athletic shoes. She looks… nice. Not intimidating. Not flashy. Just… nice.  Why am I noticing this? Her posture isn’t timid. She stands straight. Balanced. Weight evenly distributed. Interesting.  If not strength… then what? Support-type? No visible tech. Emitter? No immediate physical markers. Transformation-type? Possible. Her fingers are small. Clean nails. No reinforced joints. No abnormal musculature. She doesn’t radiate tension like the others. She radiates… optimism. Which means either a) She’s delusional, or b) Her Quirk compensates in a way that doesn’t rely on physical force.  Izuku bets on the latter. Ochako tilts her head slightly. Her smile fades into something softer. “…Are you okay?” Izuku blinks. “Hm?” “You were… um… kind of mumbling. A lot.” He freezes. Oh. He was. His brain replays the last ten seconds. Grip strength. Weight distribution. Emitter-type probability— He straightens instantly. “No! I mean— yes. I’m fine. I just— think out loud sometimes.” “Think out loud?” she echoes, amused. “Just a little!” he insists quickly. “It’s a habit. I’m working on it.” He absolutely is not working on it. She studies him for a moment. Then smiles again. “That’s kinda cool.” Izuku pauses. “…It is?” “Yeah. Means you’re thinking hard.” He stares at her. That’s… not the reaction he expected. He clears his throat awkwardly. His face getting hotter. “Right. Yes. Thinking. Definitely.” She grins. “So what were you thinking about?” Dangerous question. His brain immediately starts spinning again. Play it cool. Play it cool. “S-so… What’s your hero name?” She blinks. “My hero name?” A small laugh escapes her. “You’re not going to ask for my real name first?” “Well…” Izuku chuckles sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. She smiles. “I don’t know! I haven’t come up with one yet. It’s pretty hard…” “Oh, yeah, for sure…” He nods like he understands the gravity of branding decisions at fourteen. She tilts her head again. “How about you? Have you come up with one?” Izuku pauses. The courtyard noise fades just slightly.  Hero name. Right. He asked first. And he absolutely does not have one. His brain flips through the list:  All Might Jr. Symbol of Analysis. Mightier. Full Might. He internally winces. Everything circles back to All Might! Okay. Think. Something neutral. Something safe. Something she won’t overanalyze. …Okay. How about that one? She won’t know the meaning. Probably. “…Deku.” It comes out steadier than he expects. She blinks. “Deku?” He shrugs lightly. “Yeah.” No elaboration. Ochako tilts her head, thinking. “Deku…” Her eyes light up. “Ah!” She slams her fist into her palm. “As in, Dekiru! ‘You can do it!’ That’s pretty cute!” Izuku blinks. “A-ah…? N-no, it means ‘someone who can’t do anything.’” She stares at him, crease in her furrowed brow. “What? Why would you name yourself that?”  He clears his throat, straightening slightly. “It’s ironic,” he says quickly. “Like a joke.” Ochako studies him for a second longer than necessary. Then she smiles again. “Hmm… I like my version better.” She beams, completely unbothered. “After all, you just helped me up.” He freezes. That wasn’t— He wasn’t trying to prove anything. It was automatic. She rocks slightly on her heels. “So if ‘Deku’ means ‘you can do it,’ then it’s perfect, right?” Izuku looks at her. She’s not mocking him. She’s not pitying him. She’s just… decided. His face heats up.  Someone clears his throat. “Excuse me.” Izuku and Ochako both turn. A tall boy stands before them, posture perfectly straight, hands at his sides like he’s reporting for duty. His glasses catch the morning light as he adjusts them with two fingers in a practiced motion. He looks between them. “What seems to be the problem?” Izuku blinks. Problem? He quickly scans the area behind them. A few students had curved their walking paths slightly to avoid where he and Ochako had stopped. Ah. They were in the way. “Oh—” Izuku straightens immediately. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to block anything.” Ochako gasps softly. “Ah! Sorry!” They both step aside at the same time. The boy nods once. “Thank you. In an environment where hundreds of applicants are present, efficiency of movement is critical.” His tone isn’t scolding. It’s instructional. Izuku studies him quietly. Blue hair neatly combed. Uniform posture. No wasted gestures. Voice steady. No visible Quirk markers. Controlled breathing. Rule-oriented. Disciplined. “Tenya Iida,” the boy continues, bowing sharply from the waist. “I intend to enter the Hero Course.” The bow is precise. Back straight. Angle measured. He rises just as cleanly as he descended. The phrasing sticks. ‘I intend.’ Declarative. Absolute. No visible Quirk markers. No gear. No posturing. His hands rest neatly at his sides, fingers aligned. Shoulders squared but not tense. Breathing even. He doesn’t look nervous. He looks… prepared. Prepared in a different way than the others shouting and flexing nearby. Structured. Trained in etiquette. Possibly from a family where introductions matter. Or somewhere that drilled discipline early. He didn’t insult them. He corrected them. There’s a difference. His speech pattern is formal, almost rehearsed. Social hierarchy matters to him. He probably believes in rules. In order. In heroes behaving a certain way. Izuku wonders— If chaos hit right now… would he adapt? Or would he stall trying to correct procedure? Quirk? Unsure. No visible markers. No obvious tells. Nothing flashy. He doesn’t advertise it. Which means either confidence… or restraint. Not enough data. Iida adjusts his glasses. “I apologize for being blunt… but do you have a speech impediment?” Izuku blinks. “Hm?” The question takes a second to land. “No, it’s nothing like that!” Ochako waves her hands quickly. “Deku just thinks a lot!” Izuku opens his mouth to correct the phrasing. Too late. “Deku…?” Iida repeats, thoughtful. “Ah. That must be your hero name.” He nods once. “I see. An unconventional choice.” Izuku stiffens slightly. Unconventional? “In any case,” Iida continues, folding his hands neatly behind his back, “please refrain from muttering to yourself while in company. It may create misunderstandings. Such habits are… unseemly.” Not cruel. Just precise. Izuku processes the statement instead of reacting. “…Understood,” Izuku replies after a beat. “I’ll be mindful.” Ochako looks between them like she’s watching a duel fought entirely with manners. Iida nods sharply. “Excellent.” “Now then,” Iida says, adjusting his glasses. “I believe we have wasted enough time. It would not do for future heroes to be unpunctual.” He gestures toward the building with a precise sweep of his arm. “Let us proceed.” “Ah… okay,” Izuku says, falling into step beside them. Ochako smiles at him. He hesitates, then returns it — smaller, but genuine. “So what’s your hero name, Iida-san?” Iida adjusts his glasses. “I do not believe you are privy to that information.” Izuku blinks. “Huh?” Iida stops walking. The halt is deliberate. “U.A.’s entrance examination is well known for its unpredictability,” he begins, voice steady. “Each year differs from the last. One cohort may face a written assessment weighted heavily toward strategy. Another may be evaluated through practical combat under variable conditions.” He looks between them. “We are not classmates. We are not allies.” A small pause. “We are competitors.” Ochako straightens slightly. “Therefore,” Iida continues, “I shall not divulge my hero name or Quirk. It would be unwise to offer potential rivals an advantage.” Silence hangs for half a beat. Izuku processes it. Not paranoia. Strategy. He nods once. “…Fair.” And it is. Strategically, it makes sense. But he doesn’t have to sound like a jerk about it. Ochako tilts her head. “You really think we’d use that against you?” Iida doesn’t flinch. “In a competitive environment, one must assume others will act in their own interest.” Izuku studies him quietly. Rule-bound. Cautious. Not wrong. Just… rigid. And for some reason, that irritates him more than it should. Iida resumes walking as if the matter has been cleanly resolved. Ochako hurries to keep up. Izuku falls into step beside them, adjusting the strap of his bag. Ochako pouts slightly, crossing her arms. “Geez, Iida-san… You sure are intense, huh?” Iida stiffens. “‘Intense’…?” The word clearly wasn’t one he expected. He adjusts his glasses with a small, precise motion, expression tightening just a fraction. The reaction isn’t defensive. It’s contemplative. As if he’s cataloguing the feedback for later analysis. “I strive to be thorough,” he replies evenly. “If that is perceived as intensity, then I shall accept the description.” “That’s not really a good thing, you know!” Ochako blurts. “You’re kinda intimidating.” Iida blinks. “…Intimidating.” A small pause. “Apologies,” he says, dipping his head slightly. “I did not intend to create discomfort.” Ochako immediately looks flustered. “Ah-! I-it’s okay!” She laughs nervously, giving his arm an awkward pat. “You’re just serious! We’ll work on it!”  Iida straightens. “…Understood.” He adjusts his glasses again. Slower this time. “Then I shall endeavor to be more… approachable.” Ochako beams. Izuku appreciates Iida can adjust. … They enter U.A.’s main building with the rest of the applicants. The noise level shifts immediately. Outside had been scattered voices and nervous energy. Inside is contained tension. Hundreds of students funnel down wide hallways under bright lights, shoes echoing against polished floors. Signs direct them toward the examination hall. Staff members in U.A. uniforms stand along the walls, observing quietly. Izuku keeps walking, posture neutral, eyes scanning without looking like he’s scanning. Security cameras. Faculty presence. Exit routes. The school feels… efficient. Not flashy. Functional. They enter the massive lecture hall. Rows upon rows of seats descend toward a wide stage fitted with screens and lighting rigs. The air hums with low chatter. Some students stretch in their seats. Others whisper strategy. A few confidently display minor flashes of their Quirks before being shushed by proctors. Ochako lets out a small breath. “Whoa…” Iida adjusts his glasses. “As expected of U.A. High School.” Izuku doesn’t comment. His eyes sweep the room. Then he sees him. Three rows down. Slightly to the left. Blond hair. Casual clothes. Arms folded. Posture relaxed but coiled. Bakugo. Izuku’s steps slow for half a second. Bakugo feels it. His eyes shift. They lock. There’s no immediate anger in Bakugo’s expression. Just confusion. A small, sharp frown forms between his brows. What is he doing here? Izuku looks away first. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. No scene. Not here. Bakugo’s gaze lingers for another second before he clicks his tongue softly and looks forward again, dismissing it outwardly. But he doesn’t fully relax. Izuku and the others take seats a few rows up. Izuku keeps his eyes forward. Hero Course applicants. Support Course was the story. Not today. The lights dim slightly. A thunderous voice detonates through the hall. “ARE YOU READY, EXAMINEES?!” A tall man bursts onto the stage in a blaze of volume and confidence, headphones around his neck, grin wide enough to split his face. Izuku recognizes him immediately. Present Mic. The Voice Hero. Radio personality. High-decibel Quirk amplification. Specializes in crowd control and auditory shockwaves. Strong battlefield disruption potential. Present Mic throws his arms wide. “WELCOME TO U.A.’S HERO COURSE ENTRANCE EXAM!” He holds the pose. Silence. Someone in the middle rows begins to clap. Stops. Someone coughs.  Present Mic doesn’t flinch. He pivots smoothly toward the massive screens behind him. City blocks appear. Robot silhouettes. Point values flash across the display. “In your assigned zones — provided on the printout at your desks — villain bots will roam free! Your mission? Take ’em down and rack up points! You’ll have ten minutes to do so, so no time to rest!” One-point. Two-point. Three-point. Clean. Offensive scoring. “After this presentation, you’ll head to your specified battle center, okay?” His mic crackles at the last word. He taps it once. “Okay?!” Izuku glances down at the number printed on his sheet. Battle Center B. Present Mic continues, voice booming again. “Three different types of villain bots are stationed in each battle center! You earn points based on their level of difficulty! Your goal, my dear and dashing examinees, is to use your Quirks to earn points by immobilizing the villain bots! Of course, attacking other examinees and any other non-heroic behavior are strictly prohibited!” Bakugo leans forward slightly in his seat, eyes sharp, lips curling faintly at the point values. Destroy. Advance. Dominate. Iida sits straight-backed, absorbing every instruction. Ochako grips her knees, eyes bright with nervous excitement. Izuku’s jaw tightens slightly. Offense-based evaluation. No rescue metric. …Narrow. Heroes built for mobility or support lose efficiency under this model. They’re severely disadvantaged. That’s narrow. U.A. claims to cultivate the best heroes. A grading model focused purely on destructive capability feels… incomplete. A hand rises. Iida. Present Mic points at him dramatically. “Yes, Glasses?!” Iida stands, posture perfectly straight, holding the printout distributed on their desks. “Excuse me,” he says clearly. “According to this document, there are four types of villain bots listed, not three. Is this a typographical error on U.A.’s part — the most prestigious hero academy in Japan — or an oversight in your explanation, sensei?” A ripple of murmurs spreads through the hall. Present Mic smirks. “Oho! Sharp eyes, Glasses!” He points dramatically at Iida. “No error! No oversight! That fourth entry is what we like to call the ‘Zero-Pointer!’” The screen flashes again. The massive robot dominates the display. “That big guy is worth zero points! Why? Because sometimes in life… things just exist to be avoided!” A few students laugh. Present Mic’s grin widens slightly. He spreads his arms wide. “It’s there to raise the stakes! Create pressure! Simulate real battlefield conditions! But listen up!” His voice sharpens. “You are under no obligation to engage it! If you’re smart, you’ll focus on what earns you points!” A murmur spreads again. High risk. No reward. Present Mic grins. “Heroes gotta make judgment calls, right?” He snaps his fingers. “Now that’s thinking like a future pro!” “Thank you, sensei. I apologize for the interruption,” Iida says, bowing before lowering himself back into his seat. Izuku doesn’t smile. His gaze remains fixed on the screen. Under no obligation. Focus on what earns you points. There’s… something I’m not seeing. A subtle shift at the edge of the stage catches his attention. Leaning against the back wall, wrapped loosely in a… sleeping bag…?, hair disheveled but eyes sharp— Izuku’s eyes widen in recognition. Eraser Head. Aizawa Shota. Underground hero. Quirk nullification via line of sight. Capture-weapon specialist. Low publicity. High efficiency. He isn’t reacting to the presentation. He’s watching the students. Not the loud ones. Not the confident ones. The ones thinking. His eyes shift. They land on Izuku. Just for a second. Izuku’s spine straightens instinctively. He looks back at the screen immediately, expression neutral. He can still feel the weight of that gaze for half a breath longer than he’d like. Present Mic continues. “That’s all from me! Finally, I’ll give you examinees a present — our school motto! The hero Napoleon Bonaparte once said this: ‘A true hero is someone who overcomes life’s misfortunes!’ Go beyond… PLUS ULTRA!” Plus Ultra… Izuku exhales slowly. Use your Quirk wisely. At best, a couple of times. At worst, once. If I choose the right moment, one burst could be enough. Or waste everything.