The sliding doors of the U.A. staff room hissed open with a mechanical hum.
Kratos stepped inside, looming like a dark mountain in motion. His coat stirred faintly with each stride, the twin weapons across his back catching the fluorescents overhead. A few heads turned. Some nodded. Others paused their conversation mid-sentence. Even after three weeks, the presence of the new instructor still carried the weight of a war horn.
Mimir's eye flicked left and right from his perch at Kratos' belt, already noting the familiar faces—Aizawa, Present Mic, Cementoss, Midnight, and the pint-sized enigma himself: Principal Nezu, who stood atop a cushioned stool near the centre of the room.
Aizawa glanced up from his tablet, his ever-sleepy expression unchanged. "You're just in time. We're heading out. The written exam's wrapped."
"Now comes the part the kids really sweat," Present Mic chimed in, leaning over with his signature grin, arms crossed confidently over his yellow jacket. "The practical trials—quirk usage under combat simulation. You'll love this, big guy."
Mimir blinked. "Combat simulation?"
"Robots," Aizawa clarified. "Different types. Different point values. The more they disable, the better they score. But there's also a zero-point robot."
"Oh?" Mimir tilted in interest. "And what's the trick there, then? Giant? Indestructible? Shoots lasers out its arse?"
"It's massive," Aizawa replied, ignoring the jest. "Too big to beat. It's not meant to be fought. It's meant to see who runs… and who doesn't."
"Ah," Mimir murmured, intrigued. "Now that… is clever. Tests heart, not just strength."
Kratos said nothing. He simply crossed his arms and stared at the floor, absorbing the details.
Principal Nezu turned toward him, hands clasped behind his back. "Kratos," he said with his usual cheer, "I was thinking it might be best if you joined the others in the field—stationed along the observation zones, just in case something goes wrong."
Kratos looked up, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Oh, I know, I know!" Nezu chuckled. "The chance of mishaps is slim to none. But we take no chances with potential future heroes. A single accident can alter lives—permanently. And I do believe your presence will be… reassuring."
There was a pause, heavy with the usual unspoken weight that followed every word spoken to the Ghost of Sparta.
Kratos grunted, a low sound like distant thunder, and gave a curt nod.
"Well, glad that's settled," Mimir said with a wry hum. "Honestly, can't wait to see what these wee fledglings can pull off. Could be inspiring. Could be catastrophic. Either way, it'll be a spectacle."
Present Mic snapped his fingers, grinning. "Now that's the spirit!"
With the last of the briefings sorted and teachers beginning to move out, Kratos turned without another word and followed the flow toward the transport bay. His steps echoed down the tiled halls—another guardian of judgment heading out to watch over the next generation of warriors.
...........
The air in the U.A. High auditorium crackled, thick with a potent mix of adolescent anxiety and fierce ambition. Hundreds of hopefuls, Izuku Midoriya among them, sat packed in tiered seating, the lights dim save for the blinding white glare focused on the expansive stage. His palms were slick, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. This was it. The practical exam.
A beat of silence, pregnant with anticipation.
Then, BAM!
"ALLLLRIGHT LISTENERS! WELCOOOOME TO TODAY'S LIVE PERFORMANCE!"
The voice, amplified to a deafening, bass-heavy roar, belonged to the figure who had just exploded onto the stage under the spotlight. Present Mic, Voice Hero, clad in his signature leather, tinted glasses, and a gravity-defying blonde pompadour, struck a pose, a wide grin splitting his face.
"CAN I GET A 'YEAH'?!" he screamed, cupping a hand to his ear.
A smattering of nervous, confused, and a few genuinely enthusiastic "Yeahs" echoed back. Izuku winced, his ears already ringing. Beside him, Katsuki Bakugo just scoffed, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. This guy… he's always at eleven, Izuku thought, trying to absorb the sheer volume.
"TOUGH CROWD!" Present Mic chuckled, undeterred. "Alright, alright, let's get down to brass tacks! It's time to talk about the heart-pounding practical exam! ARE YOU READY?!"
Another, slightly louder, "YEAH!"
On the massive screen behind him, a stylized graphic of the U.A. entrance exam guidelines appeared.
From the darker side of the auditorium, cloaked just beyond the reach of the stage lights, Kratos stood like a statue, his arms crossed and face unreadable. His red tattoo gleamed faintly under the dim ambient glow, and beside him, Mimir hung from his belt on a wooden frame, elevated enough to get a clear view of the chaos below.
Kratos frowned. "He is too loud."
Mimir chuckled, eyes scanning the stage. "Aye, like a banshee with a megaphone. I think me left ear just went on strike."
Meanwhile, Present Mic carried on undeterred. "Like your application said, you lovely listeners will be conducting 10-minute mock urban battles in replica cityscapes!" Present Mic gestured dramatically. "You can bring whatever you want with you! Your costume, your support gear – make sure it's approved, of course!"
Izuku clutched the worn strap of his simple gym bag. His "costume" was his P.E. uniform. No fancy gear for him. Not yet.
"After this orientation," Present Mic continued, pointing a thumb over his shoulder, "you'll head to your specified battle center, okay? Check your exam ticket for your assigned location!"
Izuku glanced down at his ticket: Battle Center B. He wondered who else would be there. He hoped Kacchan was in a different one. The thought of facing those explosive fists before he even got a chance…
"OKAY?!" Present Mic bellowed, snapping Izuku back to attention. "Each battle center has three types of faux villains! You'll earn points for each one you defeat, based on their difficulty level!"
The screen changed, displaying sleek, menacing robot designs.
1-POINTER: A small, agile robot with multiple optic sensors.2-POINTER: A medium-sized, heavily armored bipedal robot.3-POINTER: A large, tank-like robot bristling with mock weaponry.
"Your goal, my little heroes-in-training, is to use your Quirks to immobilize these villains and rack up those sweet, sweet points!" Present Mic preened. "But naturally, attacking other examinees is a big no-no! That's not very heroic, is it?!"
A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd. Izuku was already calculating. Three types… I need to focus on what I can actually handle. One For All is still so unstable. If I break myself on the first one… His muttering, though quiet, began to pick up speed.
Suddenly, a crisp, authoritative voice cut through the auditorium.
"Excuse me, sir! May I ask a question?!"
All heads turned. Standing bolt upright, his hand raised ramrod straight, was a tall, bespectacled young man with dark blue hair and an intensely serious expression. Tenya Iida, from the Somei Private Academy. Izuku recognized him instantly from the entrance.
Present Mic leaned into his microphone, a playful glint in his eyes. "HIT ME, EXAMINEE 7111!"
Iida gestured stiffly towards the handout they'd all received. "On the printout, there are clearly four types of villains listed! If this is a misprint, then U.A., the most prestigious hero academy in Japan, should be ashamed of such a foolish mistake!"
He then pivoted, his gaze sharp and accusatory, somehow landing directly on Izuku. "And you, with the curly hair!"
Izuku flinched as if struck. "M-me?!"
"You've been muttering and fidgeting this entire time!" Iida declared, his voice ringing with indignation. "It's distracting! If you think this is some kind of joke, then you should leave this place immediately!"
Mimir blinked. "That lad's tighter than a Valkyrie's braid. Probably sleeps in regulation pajamas and salutes his own alarm clock."
Kratos grunted. A rare flicker of amusement danced in his eye—but only briefly.
Heat flooded Izuku's face. He shrank down in his seat, stammering apologies that were lost in the sudden attention. Bakugo let out a harsh laugh.
Kratos tilted his head slightly. "They are... unsettled."
"Aye," Mimir nodded sagely. "And yet, there's fire in both of 'em. That blonde one looks ready to blow up the moon just for looking at him wrong. And the green one? Hiding something. Not strength—something... deeper. I wonder."
Present Mic, however, just threw his head back and boomed, "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! Thanks for the great question, Examinee 7111! And the astute observation!"
As the crowd settled and Present Mic continued his thunderous explanations, Mimir tilted slightly, his gaze scanning the sea of students. Bright red hair. Bubblegum pink. Electric yellow. Moss green. Even navy blue.
"By Tyr's sweaty beard," he muttered. "The hair in this realm—what sorcery is this? I've seen rainbow bridges, but this is absurd."
He paused wistfully. "You know, if I had a body in this world, I'd try out a proper hairstyle. Maybe one o' those spiky blue jobs—like I've been struck by lightning while wading through a vat of hair gel. Aye… I could pull it off."
Kratos didn't so much as blink.
"I mean, look at us," Mimir continued, exasperated but playful. "Two bald fellas surrounded by walking dye buckets. Feels like divine mockery, that does."
Kratos turned his head just slightly, his tone dry as Niflheim's air.
"Do you want a hat?"
Mimir let out a laugh. "Aye, a fine suggestion! Maybe I'll fashion one from all that leftover pride ye carry around. Should keep my head warm for a century."
Kratos had a serious urge to roll his eyes but he barely controlled that urge and pretended to not hear what Mimir just said.
Meanwhile, on the stage, "That's all I've got for you!" Present Mic spread his arms wide. "I'll leave you with our school motto, a quote from the great Napoleon Bonaparte! 'A true hero is someone who overcomes life's misfortunes!'" He paused for dramatic effect.
"NOW GO BEYOND!" he roared, pointing towards the exits. "PLUS ULTRA!"
"And may all you aspiring heroes break a leg – metaphorically speaking, of course! Good luck!"
The lights in the auditorium blazed to life. The tension ratcheted up another notch as chairs scraped and a wave of excited, nervous chatter filled the air. Students began to rise, a tide of determined faces moving towards their assigned destinies.
In the shadows at the far edge of the stage, Kratos remained still. His eyes scanned the crowd like a wolf surveying a restless herd. His arms were folded. His expression unreadable.
Then, quietly—so low it could have been a gust of breath—he muttered:
"Plus... ultra."
"Hm?" came Mimir's voice from his hip, cocking an ethereal brow. "You say somethin', Brother?"
Kratos glanced down. "Their motto."
"Ah, 'Plus Ultra', aye." Mimir nodded thoughtfully. "Catchy, innit? What about it, Brother?"
"It makes no sense," Kratos said, flat and firm. "Words do not break chains. Or grant strength."
Mimir let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "Aye, spoken like a man who has broken his fair share o' chains."
Kratos said nothing.
"But if I may," Mimir continued, voice softer now, more contemplative. "From what I gather, it's not meant to make sense in the way a blade does. It's meant to push. To inspire. A reminder to these kids that when they're at their limit—when their bones ache and their spirit cracks—they don't stop. They rise. They go beyond what they thought possible."
He paused.
"'Plus Ultra'—it ain't about what is, Brother. It's about what could be. That spark. That fight in the gut. Belief can be a powerful thing. Even more dangerous than rage, if wielded right."
Kratos's jaw tightened ever so slightly. "Belief," he echoed, not with scorn, but suspicion. As though testing the taste of the word.
Mimir continued, more gently now, "Look, we've seen what faith in the wrong thing can do. But if this daft little phrase helps them push through hell and come out stronger? Then we've no right to mock it. Just be glad it ain't some chant to summon a death god, eh?"
A long pause. Then Kratos gave a small grunt. Not of agreement, but acceptance—begrudging, distant, and yet... not dismissive.
Mimir smiled but said nothing.