The week spent at Grandpa's village passed like one long, exhaled breath. The air, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the silence broken only by birdsong and the creak of the old house, and Satoshi's steady, understanding gaze—it all became a kind of balm for a wounded soul. Grandpa didn't pry or offer empty words of encouragement. He was just there. His quiet presence, his calm certainty, spoke louder than any speech: "I accept you. All your terror, all your power. And you'll manage."
But all good things come to an end. The road back to the city felt like returning to a cage. With every kilometer, with every high-rise looming on the horizon, the familiar weight settled back onto Arashi's shoulders. The whispers behind the wall, subdued during his rest, grew intrusive again, more sensitive to his own unease.
"Back home. To our walls. To our fears. Get ready, tangible one."
Arashi clenched his teeth, staring at the dreary cityscape outside the car window. He didn't respond. He just gripped the old, bent nail in his pocket, feeling its sharp end dig into his palm. The pain was clear, real, his own. An anchor.
Home was the same gray, painfully familiar reality. The room he'd grown up in, which he'd tried and failed to make a sanctuary. The air, heavy with the smell of old furniture and fear. Waiting.
The days dragged on, blending into one torturous, monotonous blur. Arashi tried to study—reviewing formulas, running tactical scenarios in his head—but his thoughts tangled, and the words swam before his eyes. Every doorbell, every motorcycle roar outside the window made his heart race and freeze at the same time. His parents tried to hide their tension, but he saw it: Mom flinching at the sound of the mailman, Dad pausing mid-newspaper, his gaze glassy and distant.
They were scared. Not of him. For him. Scared of the system about to deliver its verdict. And their fear was worse than any other. It was sticky, suffocating, like smog.
Then, on the eighth day, it happened.
It was a cloudy, unremarkable afternoon. Arashi was aimlessly rearranging textbooks on his shelf, trying to kill time, when the sharp, piercing buzz of the intercom cut through the apartment.
The sound rang out like a gunshot in the quiet space. Mom, washing dishes in the kitchen, dropped a plate. It shattered with a deafening crash, scattering into a hundred shards. Dad, reading on the couch, snapped his head up, the newspaper falling to the floor. Everyone froze, rooted to the spot.
Arashi felt an icy chill run down his spine. They're here. The verdict.
"I'll get it," he said hoarsely, his voice sounding foreign.
He moved toward the door, toward the black plastic box with its grille. His legs were unsteady, blood pounded in his ears. He took a deep breath, trying to drown out the growing hum in his head—They were already awake, sensing his dread, his last shred of hope.
"Brace for collapse. Brace to return to oblivion, where you belong."
"Shut up!" he shouted mentally and pressed the button.
"Yes?" His voice cracked half a tone higher, betraying him with a quiver.
"Japan Post!" came a cheerful, indifferent voice. "Registered letter from U.A. Academy! Need the recipient's signature!"
The world swam before his eyes for a moment. U.A. They sent a letter. Official, registered. Why not an email? A phone call? This was either a very good sign… or a very, very bad one. There was no in-between. A thin envelope meant rejection. A thick one meant acceptance, stuffed with instructions. He'd read that somewhere.
"I… I'm coming down," he managed.
He didn't remember descending the stairs. Didn't remember the postman's face as he handed over a thin, almost weightless envelope of heavy paper. Didn't remember signing the form. He just stood in the entryway, staring at his address printed in formal font and the U.A. logo in the corner—that stylized "U" that now decided everything.
Thin. The envelope was thin.
A wave of icy despair crashed over him, tightening his throat. That was it. Over. A polite, formal note thanking him for his participation and expressing regret. Ten points… Who was he kidding, hoping for more? Saving people? The zero-pointer? Who cared? There were rules. Protocols. Numbers.
Hunched over, he trudged back to the apartment. His parents stood in the hallway, holding hands like lost children. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with fear. They'd seen the thin envelope too. Their expressions showed they were ready to take any blow, as long as it wasn't too painful for him.
"Arashi…" Mom began, but he walked past them silently, straight to his room, and closed the door.
He sat on his bed, the cursed envelope on his lap. It lay there like a sentence. He was afraid to open it. Afraid to see the official words of rejection that would put a final stop to all his dreams, all his efforts, all his struggles.
But he remembered Rumi Usagiyama's gaze—cold, appraising, but not judgmental. He remembered Grandpa's words: "Your power is an extension of yourself. Like a shadow from your body." He remembered the chilling fury of the Witch-King, which he'd managed to direct, to stop.
Gritting his teeth, almost with anger, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper and… a small metal disc with a button.
His heart sank. One sheet. And some piece of junk. Definitely a rejection. Technical trash. He swallowed the bitter lump in his throat and started reading, bracing for the blow.
"Dear Arashi Tanaka!"
The words blurred before his eyes. He forced himself to breathe and read slower, taking in every word, every comma.
"The U.A. Admissions Committee has reviewed the results of your entrance exams. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Hero Course…"
He froze. Just froze, unable to believe his eyes. He reread the sentence again. And again. His brain refused to process the meaning.
"…accepted into the Hero Course…"
The air rushed out of his lungs in a whoosh. His hands trembled.
"Your written exam score was 92%, one of the highest among all applicants."
A sharp, sweet surge of pride momentarily eclipsed everything. He knew he'd done well, but to hear it officially… He hadn't burned out his eyes over textbooks for nothing.
"As for the practical exam, you earned 9 points for defeating villain robots."
That brought him back to earth. Nine. Real and honest. He nodded mentally. That's about right.
"However, U.A.'s evaluation system is not limited to merely counting points for defeating artificial targets. Our goal is to train true heroes capable of acting in unforeseen circumstances and saving lives at any cost."
His eyes raced down the text, his heart pausing in anticipation.
"For your demonstrated selflessness, readiness to assist other examinees in an emergency, and successful neutralization of a zero-level threat, the admissions committee, chaired by Principal Nezu, has awarded you an additional 60 rescue points."
Sixty.
The number hit him so hard he swayed, sitting on his bed. Sixty. Not just "a few," not a "bonus." Sixty. They hadn't just acknowledged it—they valued it above any destruction. They saw it as the main thing.
"Based on your combined results, you have been enrolled in Class 1-A. Congratulations! Welcome to U.A.!"
He sat there, clutching the paper, unable to speak. This wasn't just enrollment. It was vindication. Vindication of his entire life, his struggles, his fears. It was recognition that his curse, his terror, his shadows—they could be more than destruction. They could be salvation.
A tear rolled down his cheek. Then another. He didn't sob, didn't whimper. He just sat, and the tears flowed silently, cleansing, washing away years of fear and self-loathing.
"As the next step, please press the button on the enclosed disc to confirm your acceptance and receive further instructions."
He looked at the metal disc. His trembling fingers reached for it. He pressed the button.
The disc sprang to life, glowing softly blue, and a holographic projector shot up toward the ceiling.
Arashi gasped and flinched. Above his bed, in the center of the room, a translucent but sharp image appeared. The image of a person… no, a being… known across the country.
Principal Nezu sat in his chair, his tiny paws folded in front of him. His small, beady eyes seemed to look straight through him, into his soul.
"Hello, Arashi Tanaka," came his calm, slightly squeaky voice. A recording. "Congratulations on your admission. You've demonstrated not only exceptional intellect but something far more valuable—a true heroic essence, shown in a critical moment."
He paused, and Arashi felt each word weigh a ton.
"At U.A., we value diversity and potential. We believe that any power, no matter how unique or complex, can be directed toward serving society. Your quirk, which our analysts classify as 'Manifestation: Archetypal Entities,' is of significant interest and undoubtedly requires a specialized approach to training."
Arashi's breath caught. They'd given it a name. Not "psychometric vampirism," not "antisocial threat." "Manifestation: Archetypal Entities." It sounded… respectful. Terrifying, but respectful.
"I will personally oversee your training," Nezu continued, a faint, almost predatory note of intellectual curiosity in his voice. "I anticipate a mutually interesting and productive year. Be prepared for intensive work. And, Tanaka-kun…" he tilted his head slightly, his whiskers twitching, "welcome to the crucible."
The hologram faded. The disc stopped glowing.
A deafening silence settled over the room, broken only by Arashi's shallow, uneven breathing. He knew. Nezu knew what he truly was. And he didn't just accept him—he was intrigued. He saw him not as a problem but as a… "mutually interesting" project. A challenge. It was both exhilarating and terrifying as hell.
The door to his room creaked open slightly. His parents' pale, frightened faces peered through the gap.
"Arashi?" Mom whispered, her voice trembling. "Is… is everything okay? That was… the principal… We heard his voice…"
He looked up at them. He couldn't hold back a smile. A wide, genuine smile, one he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever. A smile that came from the depths of his soul, washing away the last traces of tears.
"It's okay, Mom," he said, his voice firm, confident, adult. "It's great. I got in. Class 1-A."
A stunned second of silence followed. Then Mom let out a strange, choked sound—half sob, half laugh—and rushed to him, wrapping him in her arms. She was crying, but these were tears of relief, of joy, of years of tension finally finding release.
"My boy! My son!" she repeated, hugging him so tightly his bones creaked.
Dad approached more slowly. His strong, weathered face was serious, but his eyes glistened with tears. He didn't cry. He just placed his heavy, calloused hand on Arashi's shoulder and squeezed.
"Proud of you, son," he said hoarsely. "Proud."
That evening, their tiny apartment filled with unfamiliar, forgotten sounds—laughter, joyful exclamations, the clink of dishes. They called Grandpa, and he, usually so reserved, let out a raspy laugh over the phone: "Told you, pup! Get ready, you're in for a real trial now!" They ate cake bought for the occasion, and for the first time in years, Arashi felt not like an outcast, not like a monster, but simply… a son. A student. A person with a future.
Later, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling again. But now, he didn't see cracks—he saw stars. He thought about U.A. About Class 1-A. About what awaited him.
That happy, radiant evening, he was too full of light. Too full of hope.
The day he'd been waiting for—and dreading—arrived. The morning was clear and cool, as if nature itself had decided to give him a chance at a fresh start. He stood before the mirror in his room, adjusting the tie of his U.A. uniform. The dark blue fabric felt unfamiliar but fit perfectly, concealing the last traces of teenage scrawniness and highlighting the muscles he'd built through months of training. He looked at his reflection—pale, still marked by sleeplessness, but with a new, resolute glint in his eyes. He still couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe the envelope, the disc, Nezu's words—it wasn't a dream.
His parents saw him to the apartment door. Their embraces were tight, full of hope and unspoken fear. They knew where he was going. Knew what awaited him. But now, alongside the old anxiety in their eyes, there was pride.
The journey to U.A. passed in a haze of nervous tension. He stepped off the train at his stop and froze, rooted to the spot.
The gates. They were even more grandiose, more awe-inspiring than during the exam. A massive arch of polished stone and metal, crowned with that familiar logo, towered over him like a gateway to another world. A world where he, Arashi Tanaka, the outcast from the slums, had no business being. But he stood here. His name on the list of the accepted.
He nervously adjusted his tie, took a deep, trembling breath, steeling himself to cross the threshold. His heart pounded in his throat, his insides twisting with the weight of what was happening.
"Hey! Tanaka-kun!"
The voice that called out to him was light, feminine, and vaguely familiar. Arashi flinched and turned.
Hurrying toward him, limping slightly on her good leg and leaning on a crutch, was the same girl with light wavy hair. Kaori Suzuki. She wasn't in a hero uniform but a modest gray outfit—the general education uniform.
"I was hoping to run into you!" she said, slightly out of breath. The cast on her leg looked fresh and white. "I wanted to thank you again. For the exam. If it weren't for you… I got into general ed! That's pretty great, right? I'll study support, logistics!" Her smile was a bit sad but genuine. "And you… you're in the Hero Course, aren't you? I knew it! That's so awesome!"
Arashi stood speechless. Someone. Someone he'd saved not only remembered him but was happy for him. Talked to him not out of fear or obligation but because they wanted to. For someone who'd spent years hearing nothing but mockery, whispers, or icy silence from peers, this was overwhelming, almost frightening.
"I… uh…" His voice cracked into a falsetto. He swallowed, feeling his face burn. "T-thanks. And… congratulations."
He looked down, hating his awkwardness. Kaori didn't seem fazed in the slightest.
"You're so humble! Like a real hero!" she laughed. "Good luck out there! Hope we'll see each other again!"
She waved her crutch at him and hobbled toward another wing of the massive building. Arashi watched her go, feeling an unfamiliar warmth in his chest. At least one person in this place was glad to see him.
Finding Class 1-A wasn't hard—signs and the flow of equally nervous and excited first-years guided him. The classroom door was exactly as he'd imagined—huge, solid, made of dark polished wood, with a heavy metal plaque reading "1-A." A true gateway to a new life.
He took another deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands, and pushed the door open. Beside him, another boy was also staring at the door. As Arashi opened it, he heard…
"Get your feet off the desk right now! Don't you know that's against the rules?" A boy in glasses, clearly intent on establishing order, was scolding someone.
"What's it to you, four-eyes?!" came the fiery retort from a boy who looked like he could cause trouble with ease.
But they noticed the newcomers. Before Arashi could say a word, the boy in glasses approached them.
"My name is Tenya Iida. I'm from Somei Private Academy! A pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand firmly toward Arashi.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Arashi Tanaka," Arashi replied, slightly thrown by Iida's energy but deciding it was best to build good relationships with classmates, at least until they learned about his quirk.
Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the doorway. Tall, slouched. A low, indifferent, yet surprisingly loud voice cut through the buzz of conversation:
"If you're here to make friends, save your energy and get out. Heroes don't need tea party buddies."
"It took you eight seconds to quiet down. That's too long."
"My name is Shota Aizawa," he grumbled. "Your homeroom teacher. Ceremonies are a waste of time. We're starting with a test. Go put on your gym uniforms. Then everyone, to the field."
The U.A. sports field was a massive expanse.
"Each of you will undergo a quirk apprehension test," Aizawa announced. "I know it's a bit sudden, but if you want to be heroes, we don't have time for things like opening ceremonies or other nonsense. I'll be testing your abilities through standard physical exercises. The only difference is you're allowed to use your quirks. Show me what you're capable of."
"Bakugo. You had the highest score on the practical exam, right? How far could you throw a ball in middle school?"
Arashi's gaze shifted to the explosive boy. With his quirk, he sent the ball soaring hundreds of meters.
A red-haired guy commented on Bakugo's "manliness." A murmur grew among the classmates, some whispering to their neighbors about what they could do.
Aizawa had clearly had enough. "Quiet. If you keep up this unserious attitude, you'll never become heroes," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the noise. Silence fell instantly. "And yes, the one who ranks last in this test will be expelled."
A wave of disbelief and fear rippled through the class. Arashi felt it keenly. The hum in his head grew, They stirring, sensing potential prey.
Then the show began. One by one, his classmates displayed incredible abilities. A girl with earphone jacks emitted sonic waves. A boy with a tail used it like an extra limb. Iida, the strict boy in glasses, roared past on the 50-meter dash. It seemed everyone was born to shine.
But the most spectacular was the boy with two-toned hair—Todoroki. He didn't even swing his arm. He simply touched the ball, and it instantly frosted over. Then he raised his hand, and a wall of ice shot up from beneath his foot, towering like a skyscraper. The ball, frozen to its peak, was launched to an incredible height. "534 meters," Aizawa commented. Ice. It carried the same chilling cold as the Witch-King, but controlled, absolute.
Arashi watched, a growing despair creeping over him. For everyone else, this was a chance to shine. For him, it was another ordeal. His attempts were pathetic. In the sprint—near the back. Grip strength—average. His throw—middling.
He felt Aizawa's heavy, appraising gaze. The teacher saw his fear, his uncertainty, his complete inability to fit in.
And then came the ball throw. Arashi stood in the circle, his legs trembling. He swung and threw. The ball landed pitifully, silently, bouncing just 50 meters away.
Aizawa looked at him. Then his gaze swept over the whispering class.
"Enough," he said quietly, but with a force that silenced everyone. The whispers stopped, crushed by his sudden, oppressive aura. Everyone froze. "You're not here on a field trip. You're here to prove your right to call yourselves heroes."
"Arashi Tanaka, your quirk allows you to summon entities. Why haven't you used it once during this test?" His gaze also fell on a boy named Izuku Midoriya, who, Arashi noticed, hadn't used his quirk either.
"Teacher… I'm not sure I can fully control my quirk," Arashi replied hesitantly.
Aizawa paused, his red eyes slowly scanning Arashi, then the hushed students, each feeling the weight of his stare.
"If you want to be a hero, Arashi, you must accept yourself and your quirk. Otherwise, your fear could harm innocent people. Do you understand?"
Arashi froze. His heart pounded at Aizawa's words, blood thumping in his temples.
"…Y-yes, teacher," he managed, meeting Aizawa's gaze.
"Then try again," Aizawa said, stepping back to give him space. "This time, don't just throw. Use your quirk. Not to intimidate. For the throw. Focus. Create a blade. A dagger. Anything. And direct it at the ball."
The field fell utterly silent. Everyone watched him. Bakugo with a scornful smirk, Todoroki with cold curiosity, Iida with tense focus, Midoriya with understanding and his own anxiety.
Arashi closed his eyes. He pushed aside the fear. Pushed aside the stares. He focused. He didn't break the wall. He sought the "window" he'd trained for months. He didn't imagine terror or all-consuming emptiness. He imagined a blade. Thin, sharp, deathly cold. A blade of pure darkness. A tool.
Pain began splitting his head, the familiar, awful weight. But he didn't stop. He felt the air around his hand thicken, freeze. A quiet, sinister hissing sound arose.
He opened his eyes.
Before his palm, hovering in the air, was a short, curved blade of pure black ice. It was perfectly smooth, trailing a frosty mist that made the asphalt beneath it frost over. It lasted only a moment—but it was a moment of complete, conscious control.
Arashi mentally pushed it.
With a soft, crystalline chime, the icy blade grazed the ball, barely touching it, then shattered into a myriad of glittering fragments.
But it was enough.
The ball, caught by that tiny impulse, shot forward with unnatural speed. It didn't soar kilometers like Bakugo's or Todoroki's. It flew maybe a hundred, a hundred twenty meters—a modest result by his class's standards.
But it flew not because of muscle strength. It flew because of Arashi's power. A power he directed. Controlled.
A deafening silence settled over the field, broken only by Arashi's heavy breathing. Blood trickled from his nose, the world swam from exhaustion, but he stayed on his feet.
Aizawa watched him with his impassive gaze. Then his eyes flicked to the rangefinders.
"One hundred fifteen meters," he announced neutrally. After a pause, he added, "Result counted."
No one laughed. No one smirked. They looked at him—the pale, trembling boy with a bloody nose. They didn't see a monster. They saw someone who'd just made an incredible effort over himself.
"Next, Izuku Midoriya…"