Chapter 1: The Heaviest Feather
The air inside the Grand Auditorium of U.A. High was not merely hot; it was a solid wall of humidity, recycled breath, and the electric tension of three thousand people. To a normal student, it was just a graduation ceremony. To Reinhard van Astrea, it was a cacophony of sensory data that his mind had to actively filter out to keep from drowning.
He sat in the front row, dead center. His posture was a study in absolute geometry; his spine formed a perfect ninety-degree angle with the floor, his hands resting on his knees with a relaxed precision that unnerved those sitting nearby. He didn't fidget. He didn't sweat.
His Instinct of Awareness—a passive mutation he had possessed since birth—fed him a constant stream of information. He heard the rapid, nervous tapping of a shoe against the floorboards five rows back. He heard the low-frequency hum of the massive ventilation fans in the ceiling, struggling against the summer heat. He heard the heartbeat of the student next to him—a boy with a rock-hardening Quirk—fluttering like a trapped bird against his ribs.
"We are here to celebrate the culmination of three years of blood, sweat, and growth," Principal Nezu's voice squeaked through the PA system. The small, chimera-like creature stood on a stack of boxes behind the podium, his beady black eyes scanning the crowd with a terrifying intelligence. "But remember, growth does not stop at the gate. The world outside is not a classroom. It does not grade on a curve."
Reinhard didn't move. He stared ahead, his blue eyes clear as a winter sky, yet reflecting nothing of his internal state. He wasn't thinking about the future. He was thinking about the concept of "graduation." For others, this was a release. A celebration of freedom. For him, it was merely a transfer of custody. He was moving from the cage of the school to the cage of the International Hero Law.
"Valedictorian of the Graduating Class," Nezu announced. The pause that followed hung in the air like a guillotine blade. "Reinhard van Astrea. Hero Name: The Sword Master."
The applause didn't start immediately. There was a split-second of hesitation—a collective intake of breath from the audience. It was the instinctive reaction of prey animals recognizing a predator, even a benevolent one. Then, the clapping began. It was thunderous, a physical wall of sound that shook the banners hanging from the rafters.
Reinhard rose.
The movement was fluid, devoid of the microscopic jitters that plague normal human motion. His uniform, the standard grey U.A. blazer with gold buttons, seemed to fit him differently than it fit the others. On them, it was clothing. On him, it looked like ceremonial armor. As he walked toward the stairs leading to the stage, the students in the aisle seats subconsciously leaned away, pressing their backs into their chairs to give him space he didn't need.
He ascended the stairs. Step. Step. Step. Each footfall was perfectly silent, his Instinct of Traversing automatically adjusting his weight distribution to nullify the sound of impact against the hollow wood of the stage.
He reached the podium. Principal Nezu looked up at him. For a brief moment, the microphone was off.
"The world is fragile, Astrea-kun," Nezu whispered, his whiskers twitching. "Do try not to break it when you step outside."
"I will walk softly, Principal," Reinhard replied, his voice a soft baritone that seemed to bypass the ears and resonate directly in the listener's chest.
He accepted the diploma. It was a cylinder of high-quality paper, tied with a red ribbon. It weighed less than a hundred grams. Yet, as Reinhard held it, he felt the crushing weight of what it represented. It was his license to wield a blade. It was his license to decide who was saved and who was subdued. It was a legal document that declared him a weapon of the state.
He turned to the microphone. The feedback whine that usually plagued these events died instantly, as if the electronics themselves were cowed by his presence. He looked out at the sea of faces. He saw the parents, weeping with pride. He saw the Hero Agency scouts in the back, typing furiously on their tablets, calculating his market value. He saw the "Big Three"—Mirio Togata, Tamaki Amajiki, and Nejire Hado—sitting in the second-year section. Mirio was grinning, a genuine, blinding smile of support.
Reinhard felt a pang of envy so sharp it almost registered as physical pain. Mirio had struggled. He had failed, learned, and clawed his way to power. Reinhard had simply... arrived. He had been born on the summit that everyone else was trying to climb.
"They call this a commencement," Reinhard began. He didn't need to shout. His voice carried to the furthest corners of the hall, clear and bell-like. "A beginning. But for those born with power, there is no beginning. There is only the ongoing duty."
The silence in the hall was absolute. Even the ventilation fans seemed to quiet down.
"I stand here not because I am better," Reinhard continued, his gaze sweeping over the crowd but settling on no one. "But because I am indebted. The world has given me much. Too much, perhaps. And in exchange, it asks for my life. I give it willingly. I will be the shield for those who have no cover. I will be the sword for those who cannot fight. I do not ask for glory. I only ask that when I am finished... the world is a little safer than when I found it."
He bowed. A perfect forty-five-degree angle. He held it for exactly three seconds.
As the applause erupted again, louder this time, desperate and adoring, Reinhard felt a profound sense of isolation. He was surrounded by thousands of people, yet he was the only person in the room. He walked off the stage, the diploma in his hand feeling like a sentence, not a prize.