The air across Japan crackled with an almost palpable tension, thick with the scent of ozone and simmering ambition. It was the day. The day the digital portals hummed and postal workers bore tidings that would, in an instant, cleave destinies. For countless aspiring youths, their futures – dazzling careers as Pro Heroes or the quiet continuation of ordinary lives – hinged on a single notification, a solitary email, a crisp, impersonal letter.
As the results for the U.A. High School Entrance Exam cascaded forth, a tidal wave of raw emotion surged through homes nationwide. Agonized cries of dreams shattered echoed in some households, the bitter tang of disappointment a heavy weight on young shoulders. Elsewhere, walls vibrated with shouts of unadulterated joy, tears of ecstatic relief carving paths down jubilant faces as acceptance letters were clutched like sacred relics. The entire spectrum of hope and despair painted itself across the country in vibrant, heart-wrenching strokes.
The whirlwind of acceptances and rejections, of tearful goodbyes to what might have been and excited planning for what was to come, settled into a blur of anticipation. And then, almost before they could fully process the monumental shift in their young lives, the calendar page turned. The scent of new uniforms and freshly printed textbooks filled the air. The thrum of nervous excitement was a universal language.
Soon, under a bright spring sky, it was upon them: the first day at their hero academy. The gates of U.A. High loomed, promising trials, triumphs, and the first concrete steps on a path paved with peril and glory.
The air was clear that morning—crisp, still, charged with the hum of new beginnings. A soft breeze rolled through U.A. High's sprawling campus, tugging gently at the banners bearing the school's iconic symbol.
Class 1-A had only just begun to settle in. Some students were chatting, others still adjusting to the reality of where they were.
The massive wooden door of Class 1-A loomed before Izuku Midoriya, a monument to his wildest dreams and most terrifying anxieties.
This is it, he thought, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. U.A. High. The Hero Course. He could hear voices from within, a cacophony of youthful energy.
Taking a deep breath, the kind All Might had taught him to center himself, he slid the door open.
The scene that greeted him was… lively. A tall, stern-looking boy with glasses was gesticulating wildly at another student – Kacchan! – who had his feet propped up on a desk, a sneer plastered across his face.
"Take your feet off that desk!" the glasses-boy commanded, his voice sharp. "Don't you think that's disrespectful to the U.A. upperclassmen and the people who made the desks?!"
Bakugo Katsuki, or Kacchan as Izuku knew him, finally deigned to look over, a sneer already forming. "Hah?" he grunted, his voice dripping with disdain. "No, I don't. What junior high you from, you damn extra?"
Izuku winced. Kacchan hadn't changed a bit. He tried to slip in unnoticed, but the bespectacled boy turned, spotting him.
"I am from Somei Private Academy. My name is Iida Tenya!" he announced, marching towards Izuku with a ramrod straight posture. "And you must be the one who saw through the true nature of the entrance exam, Midoriya Izuku!"
Izuku flushed. "Uh, h-hi, Iida-kun. I'm Midoriya. Nice to meet you."
Before he could elaborate, a bright, cheerful voice cut in. "Oh, it's you! The plain-looking boy!"
Izuku spun around to see the kind, round-faced girl from the entrance exam, the one whose fall he'd inadvertently broken with his poorly controlled One For All. Her brown hair bounced as she smiled. "Uraraka Ochaco! I'm so glad you got in! That punch was amazing!"
"Th-thank you, Uraraka-san!" Izuku stammered, his face burning. "You were amazing too, with your Quirk! It's just, well, after the exam, I..."
"If you're just here to make friends, then you can pack up and leave."
The voice was low, tired, and utterly devoid of enthusiasm. It seemed to come from somewhere near the floor, behind Izuku and Uraraka, who were still standing near the doorway. They both froze and turned, peering down.
There, lying on the corridor floor just outside the Class 1-A door, was a man cocooned in a yellow sleeping bag, looking for all the world like a giant, exhausted caterpillar. Only his shaggy black hair and weary eyes were visible as he sipped from a juice pouch.
He slowly, agonizingly, unzipped himself enough to stand, the sleeping bag still clinging to him like a second skin. He shuffled into the classroom, his gaze sweeping over the now silent students.
"It took you all eight seconds to quiet down once I was inside. Time is a precious resource. You're not being rational enough." He finally shed the sleeping bag, revealing a plain black outfit. "I'm your homeroom teacher, Aizawa Shota. Pleasure to meet you."
Homeroom teacher?! The collective thought seemed to hang in the air, thick with disbelief.
Aizawa didn't waste a moment. "Right, let's get to it. Put these on and head out to the P.E. grounds." He gestured to a stack of U.A. gym uniforms.
"And don't waste time," said Aizawa. "You've got five minutes."
The class scrambled, confusion and excitement bubbling in equal measure.
"Quirk assessment test?! Already?!"
"Don't we get an orientation?"
"Did he say five minutes?!"
Soon, students began arriving at the training grounds, now clad in their standard-issue U.A. gym uniforms—navy blue with white stripes. The morning sun bathed the area in gold as they gathered, chatting nervously and stealing glances at their new classmates.
But as they approached the wide-open field—they noticed something different.
Someone was already waiting.
Standing beside Aizawa was a man none of them expected to meet this quickly.
Kratos.
The man from the press conference.
The walking legend who had reduced a Zero Pointer to scrap and stood guard over the students like a living monolith.
He stood silent at the center of the field—arms crossed, expression unmoved, the wind tugging ever so slightly at the red tattoo snaking down his shoulder.
Every student stared.
Even Bakugo.
But no one was more wide-eyed than Izuku Midoriya.
His pupils were full of starlight.
"Th-that's… that's him! That's Kratos! The Kratos from the video!" he whispered—but it was the kind of whisper that came with too much breath and too little volume control.
"He didn't even use a Quirk, and he still took down the Zero Pointer! I mean—he didn't have to! Both its arms were gone, and the explosions! And the spear! And—did you see how fast he moved even after going through two buildings?! What kind of stamina does that require? What kind of training?!"
Midoriya was vibrating now, half-muttering, half-hyperventilating.
"And why does he use those old-style weapons?! Is it symbolic? Are they support gear or an extension of his Quirk?! Maybe the spear has a kinetic core and the chains have tech integration but no, no, the drone footage showed no energy readings so maybe—"
"SHUT UP, NERD!" Bakugo barked, veins nearly bursting out his neck.
Midoriya squeaked, snapped his notebook shut, and took a cautionary half-step away.
Meanwhile, Kirishima was grinning like a kid on Hero Christmas.
"Brooooo, look at him! The beard! The armor! The blades! He's like a gladiator… no, a badass warrior!!"
"Did you see how he landed in that video?" Sero added. "He didn't even flinch! It was just 1 roll and then Boom! He was back on his feet!"
Ojiro, usually the quiet one, just muttered, "I don't think he even blinked that entire time."
Even Todoroki, cool and composed as ever, watched with eyes narrowed—not out of judgment, but respect.
"He's… strong."
Jirou, standing just a bit to the side, crossed her arms but kept sneaking glances his way.
"Very strong."
The awe was unanimous.
Every pair of eyes—nervous, curious, admiring, suspicious—were locked on the silent mountain of muscle standing beside their tired-looking homeroom teacher.
Kaminari hesitated a bit but then he firmed his resolve.
He just raised both hands high into the air, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, stars shining bright in his eyes. Kratos' gaze slowly shifted toward him—his brows arching slightly.
Recognition flickered in his eyes.
He remembered him.
The boy with lightning in his veins. The one who stood before the Zero Pointer.
Kratos stared at the raised hand for a moment longer.
Then, simply said—
"Speak."
Kaminari jolted like a static charge ran down his spine.
"Uh—y-yes! I just—wanted to thank you! For, uh, saving me back in Battle Arena C!" he blurted out. "If you hadn't shown up when you did, I probably would've been… well… squished."
A brief ripple passed through the group.
Then, one by one, other students who had been there began raising their hands too.
Mineta, wide-eyed but sincere.
Sero, the tape-armed boy, nodding in agreement.
Jirou, quieter, but steady as she said, "Yeah. Same here."
Kratos looked at them all.
Silent.
And then—he nodded.
Just once. Firm and simple.
But somehow… that was more than enough.
Kaminari glanced around, suddenly nervous.
He scratched the back of his head and said, "Also… uh, I wanna apologize. If I got in anyone's way or caused problems back there, I didn't mean to. I just wanted to help…"
A few others who had been there shook their heads immediately.
"It's fine."
"You did what you could."
"No one's blaming you."
But then—
Kratos spoke.
His voice cut through the morning air like an axe through frost.
"Wanting to save others is not the problem here."
Kaminari blinked. The rest of the class turned, silent.
"But charging into death without the strength to carry the burden... is foolish."
His eyes locked onto Kaminari's.
"You have heart. That is good. But heart alone does not shield the weak. Strength must follow purpose. Or purpose will lead you to ruin."
Silence. The words echoed.
They weren't cruel. They weren't even scolding.
But they were true.
And like all truths from Kratos—they cut deep and stayed sharp.
Kaminari looked down for a moment.
Then… nodded.
"Y-yeah… I'll get stronger."
Kratos said nothing. But that silent gaze of his? It approved.