The following week, Musutafu felt quieter than it should have.The big drill had left behind a city full of reflections, bruises, and conversations nobody wanted to finish.
Traffic lights blinked with an almost human hesitation.Cafés played softer music.Even the news anchors spoke as if they were afraid to interrupt something invisible.
It was, Renya decided, what progress sounds like—confused, tired, alive.
U.A. returned to routine, or something shaped like it.Aizawa stood before the class and said, "We'll try something new today. Not combat. Not rescue. Observation."
Groans.Bakugo folded his arms. "We did that last week."
"No," Aizawa said. "Last week you watched chaos. This week you watch yourselves."
He turned to Renya. "You're running this one."
The class turned, surprised but not shocked. Renya blinked once. "Am I being punished?"
"Consider it community service," Aizawa said. "Lesson title's yours. I'll grade you by how confused they are at the end."
"Perfect metric," Renya murmured.
He led them outside to the rooftop garden—an old, uneven patch of greenery that had been part of the building before reconstruction. The air smelled of soil and electronics.
"Sit," he said. "Anywhere."
They spread out. The city stretched below them—glass, rail lines, cranes, conversations.
Renya remained standing."This isn't about tactics," he said. "It's about alignment."
Mina tilted her head. "Like yoga?"
"Like being a person before being a hero," Renya said. "You all know how to move fast. I want to see if you can stop without vanishing."
Bakugo snorted. "We're not monks."
"Good," Renya said. "Monks have the same problem—mistaking silence for peace."
That earned a few uneasy laughs.
He pointed to a bench at the far end of the garden. "Assignment's simple. Sit there for ten minutes and do nothing. No talking. No planning. Just exist. Then you tell me what tried to interrupt you."
Kaminari raised a hand. "What if I fall asleep?"
"Then you learn about exhaustion," Renya said. "Also, congratulations."
Aizawa, watching from the doorway, covered his smile with a scarf.
The students rotated through the bench, one by one.
Yaoyorozu lasted exactly nine minutes before pulling out a notebook to record how long she'd lasted.Mina lasted three before waving at clouds she swore looked like pro heroes.Kirishima made it five before deciding stillness was unmanly and trying again.
When it was Bakugo's turn, he sat down, arms crossed, jaw set. The air around him seemed to hum with suppressed combustion. He lasted all ten minutes, eyes forward, not blinking much.
When he returned, Renya asked, "What tried to interrupt you?"
Bakugo scowled. "Everything. Noise. Wind. My own head. You."
"And?"
"I didn't move."
"Then you're improving," Renya said.
Bakugo hesitated, as if that sounded too close to approval, then muttered, "Whatever."
Uraraka was next. She sat with both hands flat on the bench, breathing slow. Her reflection in the metal rail wavered but didn't break. When she came back, her eyes were wet but calm.
"What interrupted you?"
"Memory," she said. "I saw my parents' shop. Heard them laughing. It felt far away, but not gone."
Renya nodded. "Keep that. That distance is space to act."
She smiled through it. "You talk like we're homework."
"Life is a group project," he said.
She groaned. "That's worse."
The laughter broke the tension.
When the last student finished, Renya sat down himself. The class expected a lecture, but he only closed his eyes.
The city hummed below. The Veil stirred faintly, no longer restless—more like an echo choosing rhythm.
He thought of every noise, every wind, every impulse to move. He let them pass. Then he stood.
"Lesson's over," he said. "You can move again."
Kaminari stretched. "So… what was the point?"
Renya smiled. "You tell me."
Aizawa's voice floated over. "The point is he doesn't have to tell you. That's progress."
After class, Renya found himself in the teachers' lounge for the first time. The room smelled like old paper and caffeine dependency.
Present: Aizawa, Midnight, Present Mic, and Nezu, who looked far too entertained for someone without caffeine.
"Impressive," Nezu said. "You taught stillness to a generation raised on notifications."
"Half of them cheated," Renya said.
"Half is success," Aizawa said.
Midnight leaned on her chair. "You know, you might make a decent instructor."
"Dangerous compliment," Renya said.
She smirked. "Consider it foreshadowing."
Nezu folded his paws together. "We've been discussing something unofficial—an elective for advanced ethics and situational reasoning. You'd co-teach it with Aizawa."
Renya blinked. "You're serious."
"Always," Nezu said. "The board believes the Commission's model lacks humanity. They need counterbalance."
"And you want a walking contradiction to teach that?"
"That's why you're perfect," Nezu said. "Contradictions are honest."
Renya hesitated. He wasn't a teacher. He was a survivor. But then again, survivors have the best notes.
"Fine," he said. "But I pick the curriculum."
"Obviously," Nezu said. "Otherwise it would make sense."
Word spread faster than any announcement could have managed.By week's end, a new listing appeared on the digital bulletin:
ELECTIVE 4B – Applied Judgment: Philosophy for HeroesInstructors: Shota Aizawa & Renya KurotsukiDescription: This course explores the moral mechanics of decision-making under pressure.Warning: Not graded on correctness. Graded on awareness.
Enrollment filled in under an hour.
Aizawa dropped the datapad on Renya's desk. "Congratulations. You're trending again."
Renya groaned. "Can we start by teaching them not to hero-worship teachers?"
"Too late," Aizawa said. "We can teach them how to question us instead."
"That I can do."
The first class met in a converted seminar room—no desks, just cushions and a circle of tired students who had chosen curiosity over comfort.
Renya began simply."Tell me a choice you regret."
The silence that followed was heavy, fragile, real.
Finally, a hand went up—Sato, hesitant. "During the last drill, I froze. I thought someone else would act faster. They did. But I can't stop thinking—what if they hadn't?"
Renya nodded. "Good. That's the question. Sit with it."
He turned to the rest. "Who else?"
Another hand. "I yelled at a civilian once for not listening during an evacuation. She was deaf. I didn't notice."
Renya exhaled softly. "Then you learned to listen before speaking. You'll make that mistake less next time."
He let the discussion unfold, only intervening to ask more questions, never answers.
Aizawa watched from the side, saying little, grading silently.
By the end, the students were leaning forward, not to impress, but to understand.
Renya closed with one line:"Being a hero doesn't mean knowing what's right. It means being willing to face when you're wrong—and still go back out there tomorrow."
The room was quiet. Not the scared kind. The learning kind.
Afterward, Aizawa found him outside. "You know," he said, "you're better at this than I expected."
Renya raised an eyebrow. "Because I don't like speeches?"
"Because you don't believe them," Aizawa said. "You teach from uncertainty. That's rare."
"Maybe," Renya said. "Or maybe I'm still learning what I believe."
"That's what keeps you useful."
At night, Renya returned to his apartment. Airi had fallen asleep on the couch, textbooks open. The TV murmured the day's news—interviews with heroes, debates about policy, another scandal recycled into content.
He switched it off. The silence felt like honesty.
He looked at her, blanket half-slipped, and carefully fixed it.She stirred but didn't wake.
He sat at the window, city lights crawling across glass, and thought about how far they'd come—from a world where power meant survival to one where survival meant teaching others what not to become.
The Veil lingered like a memory that had learned humility.He whispered to it, "This place… it's teaching me."
Good, it murmured. Then you'll stop being its exception.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I already have."
The next morning, Nezu stopped him in the corridor. "We're expanding your elective next term. Commission wants to observe."
Renya sighed. "Of course they do."
Nezu winked. "Don't worry. They'll learn something uncomfortable."
"Isn't that the point of education?"
"It's the only point," Nezu said, padding away.
Renya watched him go, amused and exasperated in equal measure.
Then he headed to class, passing students who nodded or smiled without needing his attention.He felt the rhythm of footsteps, laughter, mistakes waiting to be made—and for once, the world didn't feel like a test.
It felt like a beginning.
A place he could finally call his.