Class 1-A buzzed like a beehive despite the early morning. Only two days had passed since the attack on the USJ, and tension still lingered in the air, mingling with the usual school chatter. Students sat at their desks, whispering about the villains, Aizawa's and Thirteen's heroism, and how close they'd all come to real danger. Arashi Tanaka, as always, took his seat in the corner by the window, where sunlight streamed onto his desk but couldn't dispel the cold he felt inside. His gaze was distant, his thoughts fixated on one thing: he was tired of being weak. The fight with All Might, then the rumors about the Nomu—it all made it clear: his quirk, his Nazgûl, was too heavy a burden. He couldn't keep letting them drain him to the brink. He had to get stronger. But how?
The classroom door creaked open, and the hum of voices fell silent. Aizawa Shota, their homeroom teacher, appeared in the doorway. His face was almost entirely wrapped in bandages, with only one eye glinting darkly from beneath the white strips. His hands, chest, and neck were bandaged like a mummy's, but he stood upright with his usual weary confidence. The class froze, stunned by his appearance. After the USJ, no one expected to see him so soon.
"Sit down," Aizawa muttered, though no one had stood. His voice was hoarse but firm. He limped to the teacher's desk, leaning on a crutch no one had seen him use before. "We don't have much time, so listen carefully."
He paused, scanning the class with his one visible eye. Arashi felt that gaze linger on him for a moment and instinctively shrank.
"In two weeks, the U.A. Sports Festival will take place," Aizawa continued. "This isn't just a school event. It's your first chance to show yourself to all of Japan. Pro heroes, agencies, sponsors—they'll all be watching. This is your shot to land internships with the best. But time is short. If you want to be heroes, your journey starts here. You'll have three such chances during your three years at U.A. Don't waste this one."
The class erupted into excited murmurs. Iida raised his hand but spoke without waiting for permission: "Sensei! After the attack on the USJ, isn't it dangerous to hold such a public event? The villains might—"
"Security has been reinforced," Aizawa cut him off. "Police, top heroes, and our defense systems will be on high alert. U.A. doesn't back down from threats. Neither should you. That's your first lesson: heroes don't hide."
Midoriya, seated up front, was furiously scribbling in his notebook, muttering under his breath: "Festival… scouting… tactics…" Uraraka, beside him, beamed, her eyes alight with enthusiasm: "This is so cool! We'll show what we're made of!"
Bakugo, arms crossed, scoffed, but his eyes burned with a hunger for victory. "I'll crush everyone. These pathetic extras don't stand a chance."
Arashi stayed silent, his thoughts elsewhere. The Sports Festival. A chance to prove he was more than just a carrier of a terrifying quirk. But how? His Nazgûl weren't a flashy display of power like Bakugo's or an elegant manipulation like Momo's. They were destruction, cold, fear. How could he turn that into heroism? How could he avoid losing control, becoming the thing even his classmates feared?
Aizawa cleared his throat, recapturing the class's attention. "Prepare. Train. And don't think it'll be easy. Class dismissed."
He turned and limped out. The students immediately buzzed, discussing the Festival, sharing plans and dreams. Arashi packed his bag and headed for the door, but his mind was on something else: he didn't want to be on the edge again, like in the fight with All Might. He had to find a way to control the Nazgûl, not be their puppet.
Lunch in the U.A. cafeteria was, as always, a feast for the senses, thanks to Lunch Rush. The aroma of freshly made ramen and grilled fish filled the air, and the hero chef's voice boomed: "Eat heartily, young heroes! Strength starts with a good meal!"
Arashi sat with Momo, Jiro, and Ashido, who were animatedly discussing the Festival. Their trays were piled with food, but the conversation was hotter than the soup.
"I've already got ideas for my quirk!" Mina exclaimed, waving her spoon. "Acid tracks for speed! Maybe even some traps!"
"That's cool, but you need to be careful," Momo noted, delicately cutting a piece of fish. "The Festival is broadcast nationwide. If you overdo it, you could damage the arena or… scare the audience."
Jiro smirked, toying with her earphone jack. "Scare? You're talking about our class? After Tanaka and his…" She faltered, glancing at Arashi. "…you know."
Arashi stared at his plate. He knew his fight with All Might had become the talk of the class. The Nazgûl, the cold, their eerie presence—it was etched in his classmates' memories. He mumbled, "I didn't mean to… scare anyone. I was just trying to complete the task."
Momo smiled softly. "You did well, Tanaka-kun. It was… impressive. But maybe work on control? So you don't exhaust yourself."
"Yeah," Arashi nodded, though inside, his thoughts churned. Control. The word had haunted him his whole life. He was tired of teetering on the edge, every fight with the Nazgûl leaving him drained.
The conversation continued, but Arashi barely listened. His gaze drifted across the cafeteria, where others discussed the Festival. Bakugo, sitting alone, muttered to himself, clearly plotting how to "destroy" everyone. Midoriya and Uraraka debated tactics animatedly. Even Todoroki, usually silent, looked pensive, as if calculating his moves.
I have to get stronger, Arashi thought. Not just summon them. Control them. Direct them. But how? They're not my servants. They're… part of me. And they want freedom.
After lunch, classes resumed: hero law theory and rescue tactics. But Arashi's mind was elsewhere. He mechanically took notes, but one question consumed him: how to tame the Nazgûl? How to make their power serve him, not the other way around? The fight with All Might showed he could summon them, but the cost was too high.
When the final class ended, the students began packing up. Arashi slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he could leave, the classroom door burst open, and a crowd of students from other courses—general studies, business, technical—flooded the entrance. Their eyes brimmed with curiosity, envy, and something else… fear?
"What do you want?" Bakugo barked, standing tall, his voice dripping with disdain. "Here to spy, huh? Think you can just waltz in because we took down villains at the USJ?"
A student with purple hair and a tired gaze stepped forward. "We're not spying. We just… wanted to see the ones who survived the League of Villains. You're, like, celebrities now."
"Celebrities?" Bakugo laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're extras. Nobodies. I don't care what you think. All that matters is I'll crush you all at the Festival!"
He shoved through the crowd, not looking back. Arashi, standing by the wall, felt something new stir within him. Not anger, not fear, but… resolve. He stepped forward, his usually quiet voice ringing out unexpectedly firm.
"He's right about one thing. It doesn't matter what others think. We're here to become heroes. Not to listen to anyone trample our dreams into the dirt. We'll act the way we know is right. No matter what."
Silence hung for a moment. The other students stared, some surprised, others wary. Arashi felt his classmates' eyes on him too. Momo gave a slight smile, Jiro raised an eyebrow, and Midoriya, it seemed, scribbled something in his notebook again.
Without waiting for a response, Arashi turned and walked out, pushing through the crowd. His heart pounded, but not from fear. For the first time, he felt his words carried weight. He wasn't Bakugo, loud or flashy. But he was here. And he wasn't backing down.
Walking across the U.A. campus, Arashi sank back into his thoughts. How to get stronger? How to tame the Nazgûl? Their power was immense but uncontrollable. Every time he summoned them, he balanced on a knife's edge, risking losing himself. The fights with All Might and the Nomu showed he could channel them, but at what cost?
His thoughts were interrupted by a voice booming over the campus loudspeaker: "ARASHI TANAKA, REPORT TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE ON THE THIRD FLOOR. IMMEDIATELY."
Arashi froze. The principal? Nezu? His heart raced. He'd already given statements to the police and Detective Tsukauchi after the USJ attack. What now? Had they forgotten something? Or… was this about his quirk?
He quickened his pace toward the administrative building. The campus was unusually quiet—classes had ended, and most students had left. Climbing to the third floor, Arashi paused before the heavy door of Nezu's office. His hand hesitated before knocking. What awaited him? A reprimand? Expulsion?
He knocked softly. A calm, squeaky voice called from inside: "Come in."
Arashi pushed the door open and stepped inside. Nezu's office was as he remembered: pristine, lined with bookshelves, screens, and a massive oak desk. The principal sat in his chair, his small figure with gleaming eyes sipping tea from a porcelain cup. His gaze was, as always, piercing but not judgmental.
"Tanaka-kun," Nezu nodded to the chair across from him. "Sit. How are you feeling?"
Arashi sank into the chair, trying to hide his nerves. "Fine, sir. Just… tired from training."
Nezu chuckled, his whiskers twitching. "Tiredness is a normal state for a U.A. student. And how's your quirk? Any… issues? After the USJ and your fight with All Might?"
Arashi swallowed. He could lie, but decided to tell the truth. "There are issues," he admitted. "I… lose strength when I summon them. The Nazgûl. And every time… it's a struggle. They want more. I'm afraid one day I won't be able to hold them back. I need to find new ways to control their power. I've already learned to use a small part of it, but I'm out of ideas… what else can I do?"
Nezu nodded, as if expecting this. He leaned down and pulled several old, worn books from under his desk. Their covers were dusty, their leather bindings cracked with age. He placed them carefully on the desk before Arashi.
"These are for you," he said. "Read them in your spare time. They might help you understand… your 'friends' better."
Arashi eyed the books skeptically, then looked at Nezu. "What are these books?"
The principal smiled, a hint of mischief in his expression. "You'll find out for yourself, Tanaka-kun. Sometimes answers come not from teachers but from your own search. And one more thing…" His voice grew serious. "I apologize for the USJ attack. We didn't expect the villains to go so far. But you handled yourself admirably. Keep it up."
Arashi nodded, still stunned. He took the books, feeling their weight, and stood. "Thank you, sir."
"Go," Nezu waved a paw. "And prepare for the Festival. It will be your first real test on the path to becoming a hero."
At home, dinner passed in familiar silence: his mother asked about school with worry, his father nodded, but their eyes betrayed fear. After the USJ and news of the Festival, they'd grown even more cautious, as if expecting his quirk to explode any moment. Arashi didn't blame them—he was scared too. But Nezu's books… were they a key? He hadn't given them for nothing, had he?
In his room, after his parents went to bed, Arashi sat at his desk, staring at the books. He picked up the top one, brushed off the dust, and opened the first page. On the yellowed paper was a title and author: The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.
He began reading, and with each line, the cold in his chest grew. But it wasn't fear. It was hope. Hope for answers.
Outside, night had fallen, and the city twinkled with lights, but his attention was fixed on the book before him. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, written long before quirks existed.
He opened the first page, and Tolkien's words flowed before his eyes: "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence…" Arashi read carefully, immersing himself in the world of hobbits, the Shire, and simple joys.
As he read, Tolkien's world unfolded: Bilbo, Gandalf, Frodo. Arashi felt a strange kinship with the hobbits—small, unremarkable beings in a vast world, carrying a burden far greater than themselves. When Frodo received the One Ring, Arashi froze. The Ring. A symbol of power, corruption, an unseen force that subjugates.
Then they appeared. The Black Riders. The Nazgûl. Their introduction blew Arashi's mind. He didn't even realize he'd kept reading.
He read their first appearance in the Shire: dark figures on black horses, searching for "Baggins." Their presence brought cold, fear, paralysis of will. Frodo felt drawn to them, the Ring whispering. Arashi paused, rubbing his temples. It was too familiar. In his mind, a whisper echoed: "We search… We feel…" The Witch-king, leader of the Nazgûl, had the loudest voice in Arashi's consciousness. The cold he felt when activating his quirk—it was their cold. Icy, ancient, like a tomb.
He continued reading, diving into analysis. Tolkien described the Nazgûl as nine human kings, seduced by Sauron. Sauron, the Dark Lord, forged Rings of Power and distributed them: to elves, dwarves, men. Nine rings for men—and those who wore them gained immortality and strength but gradually lost their essence. They became wraiths, invisible in the normal world, visible only in the shadow realm where the One Ring revealed truth. Their bodies faded, leaving only will, enslaved to Sauron.
Arashi paused, jotting in his notebook: "Nazgûl—former humans. Rings gave power but made them slaves. My quirk—like a ring? It manifests them, but I'm not a slave…"
He thought about his quirk. Since childhood, after the store incident when villains attacked and he first felt them—nine pairs of eyes in the dark. In the book, the Nazgûl were a fearsome force but not invincible. They were more a symbol of human corruption. Arashi flipped pages, seeking details. They sensed the Ring from afar, their presence sowed despair. In The Fellowship of the Ring, they hunted Frodo, their blades leaving wounds that didn't heal, piercing the soul. The Witch-king, their leader, was especially powerful.
Arashi compared it to his quirk. When he summoned the Witch-king, cold spread, enemies lost their will, becoming apathetic shells. "My quirk also suppresses will, and my Nazgûl are physically stronger than those in the book."
He read on, delving into The Two Towers and The Return of the King. The Nazgûl rode winged beasts, spreading terror from the skies. Their power grew with Sauron's return but weakened without him. When the Ring was destroyed, they perished in Orodruin's flames.
Arashi leaned back, massaging his temples. The analysis raised questions. His Nazgûl—nine, like in the book. The Witch-king, the leader, cold and calculating, capable of withstanding All Might's blows. In the book, they weren't particularly strong, except perhaps the Witch-king.
"Could my quirk be a distorted projection of Tolkien's Nazgûl?" Arashi wondered. He recalled his first "breakthrough" at the store: villains attacked, fear overwhelmed him, and a Nazgûl emerged, crushing their will. Since then, he'd built a "wall"—a mental barrier. But every time he weakened, they whispered. Like the Ring whispered to Frodo.
Arashi stood, pacing his room. The books were helping: understanding the source could bring control. "If the Nazgûl in the book are weak without Sauron, maybe my quirk is weak without my will? I'm their 'Sauron.' I have to rule them."
He decided to experiment. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he closed his eyes. Steady breathing. "I'll summon one. Controlled."
The whispers grew louder: "Yes… Release us…"
Arashi focused on the Witch-king. "Only you. For a moment."
Cold spread through the room, the temperature plummeting. A shadow coalesced before him—a dark, cloaked figure with glowing eyes. Arashi felt the pressure but held firm: "Stand still. Don't move."
The shadow froze. Arashi analyzed: "In the book, you're a fallen king. Your power is fear. But fear can be overcome with will, like Éowyn did."
He recalled the scene: Éowyn, disguised as a man, striking down the Witch-king with Merry's help. "Maybe my weakness is fear of myself?" Arashi thought. He released the shadow, and it dissipated, leaving frost on the carpet. Exhaustion hit, but less than usual. Progress.
He returned to the book, reading about their strengths: Nazgûl were immune to normal weapons but vulnerable to ancient blades, fire, and water (like at Bruinen, where Aragorn and the elves washed them away). Arashi noted: "My quirk is weak to fire—like the store incident. Raw power, like All Might's or even the Nomu's, is dangerous too."
For Arashi, this meant his quirk wasn't random. It reflected his fear—of being a monster, of losing himself. "To control it, I have to accept it," he thought. "But not surrender."
The night stretched on as Arashi read, analyzed, and experimented. By morning, he understood: the Nazgûl were his distorted mirror. The stronger his resolve, the less he doubted himself, the easier it was to control them. The key to his quirk was his will.