Nezu gave a small nod, his paws resting atop the stack of folders on his desk.
"That's all I had to discuss, Mr. Kratos. You may leave if you wish."
Kratos rose without a word. He reached down, lifted Mimir from the table, and with practiced ease, fastened the leather straps to the side of his belt once more. Mimir's face, now facing outward from Kratos' hip, caught the soft light from the room's window as Kratos turned and strode toward the door.
The door creaked open with the same quiet groan it had made when he entered. Kratos stepped out, then paused just long enough to close it behind him, the click echoing faintly in the hall's polished silence.
They were alone again. The corridor stretched ahead—empty, sunlit, pristine.
"Well now," Mimir said with a quiet breath, "that was… downright civil, wouldn't ye say? Aye, it's rare to leave a room without someone tryin' to murder us, manipulate us, or offer us a poisoned goblet. A bit refreshing, really."
Kratos didn't reply. His boots struck the stone tiles in steady rhythm, each one a quiet, thunderous note against the quiet.
"Still," Mimir went on, tone lighter, "I'll admit—I like the wee mouse. Sharp mind on 'im, and no shadowy schemes up his sleeve... least not ones pointed our way. Makes a change, eh?"
A grunt. Low. Noncommittal. The closest Kratos came to agreement.
"Right, right. And what about the whelps then?" Mimir asked, eye shifting up toward his silent companion. "You've seen their potential. What's the plan for trainin' 'em? Somethin' new? Or just toss 'em at a tree till they stop bleatin'?"
Kratos kept walking. The corridor was long, sun splashing across marble and tile. His shadow dragged behind him like a cloak of stone. Then, finally—
"You'll see… soon enough."
The words rumbled low and deep—like distant thunder before a storm breaks. Not a boast. Not a warning.
A promise.
"…Aye," Mimir muttered, voice almost a whisper. "Fair enough."
And together, the God of War and the smartest head alive continued down the hall, their next stop? Well, wherever Kratos wanted.
The ache in Izuku Midoriya's bones was a dull, persistent thrum—a souvenir from Mr. Kratos' "Quirk Assessment Test." Every student in Class 1-A felt it. They had been pushed to their absolute limits on the very first day, a brutal welcome to the world of heroes. Yet, as Izuku slid into his seat, the pain was overshadowed by a bubbling, electric excitement.
He'd survived. He hadn't been expelled. He had managed to use One For All, thanks to the word of advice from Kratos-sensei, even if it had cost him a finger. He glanced around the classroom. Bakugo was already there, feet propped up on his desk, scowling at the world as if it owed him an apology.
He expected Bakugo to be in a much worse mood. He even expected him to be picking fight with anyone even glancing his way. But for some reason, he seemed to be taking everything well. Or maybe that's what he wanted to show outside.
Thanks to recovery girl, he had recovered mostly after yesterday's… 'teaching', if that's what one would call it. And even though he looked completely fine physically, he was still covered with bandages at various places. Yesterday he went all out in his most powerful state and ended up damaging his own body and not a single scratch to Kratos-sensei.
He felt like going to him and ask him how he was, before he stopped himself. He can't and he shouldn't. Why he can't, you ask? Yesterday was probably the first time someone 'disciplined' him properly. And it was not pretty at all. And knowing Bakugo, any concern for him would be felt as pity. And that would just make Bakugo angry and start cussing at him like, "Damn nerd, are you pitying me?! I don't need any sort of pity from an extra!"
And as for why he shouldn't? It's probably for the better. He needs to understand that he isn't the special one. He can't go around acting like he did in middle-school because there was no one to step up to him or even stop him. Inside his heart, he wanted his childhood friend to start acting like a highschooler rather than a brat.
Shaking his head, Midoriya went back to focusing on other people in the classroom. He saw that everyone else acted as usual. As if nothing had happened yesterday. Iida was chopping the air with his hands, lecturing someone about proper desk etiquette. Uraraka turned and gave him a bright, cheerful wave that made his stomach do a little flip. And suddenly he realized something.
This was real. He was really a student at U.A. High.
And the morning was surprisingly... normal.
First period was English, taught by the voice hero, Present Mic.
"ALRIGHT, LISTENERS! WHICH OF THESE FOUR SENTENCES CONTAINS THE GRAMMATICAL ERROR?!" he screamed from the front of the room, his energy far too potent for eight in the morning. The class, still half-asleep and sore, stared back with a collective blankness.
Izuku scribbled notes furiously. Even in a standard class, he couldn't help but analyze. Present Mic's control is incredible. He's speaking at a high volume but not activating his Quirk's destructive capabilities. Is it a conscious suppression? Or a different application of his sound waves? Perhaps...
He was so lost in his muttering that he didn't realize Iida was staring at him with concerned intensity until Uraraka gently poked his shoulder. "Midoriya, you're doing it again," she whispered with a giggle.
He flushed bright red. "Ah! Sorry!"
The day continued with Modern Literature and then Mathematics. It was a strange juxtaposition—learning about quadratic equations and classical poetry in the same building where they would later learn to punch villains through walls. The mundanity of it all served as a strange anchor, reminding them that even heroes had to do their homework.
Then came lunch.
The U.A. cafeteria was massive, a grand hall that could feed hundreds of students at once. The food was prepared by the Gourmet Hero, Lunch Rush, and it was, by all accounts, heavenly.
"This rice is so delicious!" Uraraka said, her cheeks full. "I could eat this forever!"
"Indeed!" Iida announced, holding his chopsticks with military precision. "Proper nutrition is fundamental for peak hero performance! It ensures our bodies and Quirks operate at maximum efficiency!"
Izuku, shoveling down a bowl of katsudon, could only nod in agreement. But his mind was already on their afternoon schedule. He pulled out his worn, slightly burnt notebook. "The schedule just says 'Hero Basic Training'..." he murmured. "I wonder who's teaching it. It could be any of the faculty. Mr. Aizawa or Mr. Kratos might be back to test us again, or maybe Ectoplasm, since his Quirk is so versatile for training scenarios, or..."
"Whoa, easy there, Midoriya," Uraraka laughed. "You're gonna short-circuit. Whoever it is, I'm just excited! This is what we came here for, right? We even get to wear our costumes!"
Her eyes sparkled with anticipation, and Izuku felt his own heart pound in his chest. Costumes. Hero training. This was it. The real start.