Arashi Tanaka walked through the corridors of U.A. Academy, his footsteps echoing off the polished walls adorned with posters of legendary heroes. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor, and the air carried the familiar scent of freshly cleaned surfaces mixed with distant shouts from the training grounds. Today was the deadline to submit his internship form, and Arashi felt tension gripping his shoulders like an invisible hand. He hadn't been certain of his choice until the very end—the list of 201 offers from agencies weighed heavily in his backpack, but he'd settled on one: Yoroi Musha, the Armored Hero. A veteran in the top ten.
Approaching the teachers' lounge, Arashi knocked—three firm raps to avoid seeming timid. From inside came Midnight's melodic voice: "Yes, yes, come in!"
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The lounge was spacious—about two hundred square meters—furnished with practical comfort. Long tables lined with computers and stacks of documents stood against the walls, interspersed with potted plants adding a touch of green to the sterile atmosphere. In one corner, sofas and a coffee table offered a spot for teachers to relax between classes. Midnight sat at one of the tables, her revealing costume drawing eyes as always, though she looked focused, reviewing papers.
"Good afternoon, sensei," Arashi greeted, bowing slightly.
Midnight looked up, her eyes glinting with playful curiosity. "Oh, Tanaka-kun! What brings you to our humble abode? Looking for someone specific?"
"Aizawa-sensei? Is he here?" Arashi asked, glancing around.
Midnight smiled and gestured toward the far end of the room. "Yep, he's at his desk back there. Go on, don't be shy."
"Thank you," Arashi replied, bowing again in gratitude.
He moved through the room, taking it in. The lounge hummed softly: the clatter of keyboards, a teacher murmuring on the phone in one corner. Arashi noticed an assistant watering plants—ficuses and ferns adding a cozy touch. Finally, in the far corner, he spotted Aizawa: hunched over his laptop, scarf draped around his neck as always, his hair disheveled, and his eyes even more tired than usual.
"Good afternoon, sensei," Arashi said, approaching. "I brought my internship form."
Aizawa, looking as if he'd just woken from a nap, turned his weary eyes toward him. "Tanaka. I get that I gave you until the weekend, but you didn't have to wait until the last day."
"Sorry, sensei," Arashi bowed. "I… wasn't sure about my choice."
"Fine, spare me the excuses," Aizawa sighed, extending a hand. Arashi quickly pulled the form from his backpack and handed it over. Aizawa grunted, scanning the paper. "Armored Hero, huh? Kyoto. Most students pick something closer to home."
"That's right," Arashi nodded.
Aizawa leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "You'll leave Monday morning from Tokyo Station. But it'll be easier for you to go straight from your local station. I won't make you detour. Just have your parents write a note confirming they'll get you to the station and email it to me. Tomorrow, not Sunday night."
"Yes, Aizawa-sensei," Arashi replied, feeling a wave of relief.
"And Tanaka, be careful," Aizawa added, his tone growing serious. "This is an internship, not a combat mission. Your job is to observe. Focus on building discipline and control."
Arashi nodded and left the lounge, exhaling in relief. It had gone better than expected. He'd dragged his feet on the decision, but it seemed he'd dodged trouble. Maybe it would've been easier without his grandpa's call, but in the end, his hesitation hadn't cost him. Now, he just needed to prepare for the trip.
Monday morning arrived with a light fog hanging over Tokyo's streets. Arashi stepped out of his father's car, slamming the door. "Thanks, Dad. I'll call when I get there."
His father nodded from the driver's seat. "Be careful, son. And don't forget to call your mom—she worries."
Arashi smiled, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and gripping the case with his hero costume. He headed toward the station entrance. People bustled around: workers rushing to jobs, students with bags, tourists clutching maps. He tried to quiet the voices in his head—today, the Nazgûl were particularly insistent.
"Why waste time on this weakling, Tangible One?" one hissed, its voice echoing in Arashi's mind like a cold wind in an empty cave. "We can teach you everything. Just give us the chance. Let this world witness our power…"
"Yeah, yeah," Arashi mentally scoffed, suppressing their voices. "Your power's really helpful for finding the right platform. Now shut up."
He passed through the turnstile, scanning his ticket, and descended to the platform. The train arrived on time—a sleek silver express bound for Kyoto. Arashi found his window seat, settled in, and pulled out his earphones. He recalled a conversation with Present Mic during a hero training class. They'd been studying signal methods and frequencies for emergency services and heroes. After the lesson, Arashi had approached him.
"Hey, our young Blade!" Present Mic had exclaimed, his voice brimming with energy as always. "Go ahead, hit me!"
"It's not exactly about the lesson," Arashi said. "I just thought you'd know the most about sound."
"Oh, yeah! Sound and I are practically one!" Mic laughed.
"There are days when the Nazgûl are really persistent," Arashi explained. "For different reasons: stress, fatigue, people's fears around me, stuff like that. No clear pattern, at least not one I've noticed. Could you help me with that?"
Mic rubbed his chin, then said unexpectedly, "Tanaka-kun, you into rap?"
Arashi had been surprised but decided to give it a try. Now, on the train, he plugged his earphones into his phone and dove into a world of beats and flow. He hadn't been big on music, especially rap, until recently, dismissing it as pointless. But the rhythm, rapid lyrics, and pulsing bass created a barrier, drowning out the Nazgûl's whispers. Their voices became a tolerable background hum, like distant wind.
Track after track, album after album—he spent the entire journey like this, staring out the window at passing landscapes: green fields, hills, occasional cities. The train sped south, and Arashi felt his tension ease.
Finally, a voice came through the speakers: "Next station: Kyoto. Please prepare to disembark."
Arashi checked his belongings, ensuring he had everything, especially his internship documents. He stood, gathered his things, and stepped onto the platform. Kyoto Station was vast but less crowded than Tokyo's, with a calmer atmosphere, scented with fresh air and distant temples. He passed through the turnstiles and headed to the parking lot outside.
Checking his phone, he confirmed the schedule—his bus was already at the stop. Arashi quickened his pace and boarded just seconds before it started moving. "Phew, made it," he thought. "Didn't want to wait another half hour to get to the Armored Hero's agency."
Just as he was about to dive back into his music to pass the time, he heard an odd sound: the bus windows rattled. Confused murmurs rose from the front. Then the driver's voice cut through: "Everyone, evacuate the bus immediately! There's a villain attack ahead. The road is blocked!"
The doors opened, and at that moment, a man crashed through the windshield, nearly knocking over an elderly couple but slowing his fall by grabbing the front-row seats. It was a hero—his costume torn and bloodied, shards of glass embedded in his back. He collapsed to one knee, breathing heavily.
Passengers scrambled out in panic—screams, pushing, dropped bags. Arashi started to follow but noticed the hero couldn't even stand. Dropping his belongings, he rushed to the hero's side and supported him under the arms. "Sir, you need to get out! You need medical help now!"
The hero mumbled something, likely concussed. Arashi carefully helped him out of the bus. Once on the sidewalk, he laid the hero down, placing his jacket under his head. "Sir, can you hear me?"
Arashi was about to call emergency services when a voice interrupted: "Ooh, look at that, this damn hero's still alive. And some kid's helping him. What a good guy."
"Hey, Kasim? Doesn't that uniform look familiar?" another voice said.
"Bro, that's the U.A. hero school uniform. Check out his patches."
"Yeah, you're right."
Two men stood before Arashi, both middle-aged. They wore leather jackets and jeans. The first was massive—over two meters tall—with red, muscular fists. The second had a sharp beak in place of a mouth.
"Hey, kid, get lost while you can," the giant with the fists said. "This hero crossed the wrong people."
Arashi didn't respond. His mind raced: These villains want the hero. I need to buy time until other heroes arrive. "What do you mean 'crossed the wrong people'? Can't this be resolved? Looks like he's already taken a beating from you, right?"
"Sorry, kid, our job's to finish him," the beaked one sneered. "Now scram, or I'll cripple you for life. Don't think U.A. trains cripples. Hahaha!" He laughed at his own joke.
"Hey, bro, stop chatting. We're short on time," the other said.
Damn, Arashi thought, quickly scanning the surroundings. The civilians had fled, though a few still sat in their cars, hoping to wait out the threat.
Arashi stood, positioning himself in front of the hero. "Sorry, you'll have to leave empty-handed."
"Oh, playing hero, huh?" The giant lunged forward.
Arashi swiftly summoned his blade, its ghostly form emitting a faint greenish glow. The villain slowed, assessing the new threat. "Not so simple, eh, kid? Think your butter knife's gonna help when I snap your spine?"
Arashi sighed heavily, holding the blade ready. The situation was dangerous. The second villain had vanished from sight—likely circling around the bus. Fine, no holding back, Arashi thought. He opened his mental barrier. The air for dozens of meters around grew cold, filled with a thick, primal terror that weakened knees.
Suddenly, the Witch-king materialized beside the giant, emerging from the shadows and swinging his blade down. The villain didn't even realize what hit him. His face turned deathly pale, devoid of emotion, and he collapsed onto the sidewalk.
"Hey, bro, what the hell?" the beaked villain shouted, leaping out from the bus.
The Witch-king was already on him, seizing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The villain froze in terror. The Witch-king's blade pierced through him—its ghostly tip visible protruding from his back. "Pathetic insect," the Nazgûl hissed, tossing the unconscious villain beside the first.
"Is this what you wanted, Tangible One?" the Witch-king asked.
"Yes," Arashi replied firmly. "Now I don't need you."
The Nazgûl dissolved into the air. The pressure on Arashi eased significantly. He'd chosen to summon only one Nazgûl to avoid overexertion. Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the unconscious, broken-willed villains, then returned to the hero. "Hey, mister, can you hear me?"
The hero suddenly grabbed his arm as Arashi crouched beside him. His face was badly beaten. "Thanks for helping," he rasped. He looked young, maybe in his early twenties. "You might just become a better hero than me." His grip weakened.
"Sir, stay conscious! Talk to me! Sir!" Arashi could hear sirens approaching. "The ambulance is almost here. Just hold on a little longer… Sir!"
"You're wasting your effort, Tangible One," a whisper echoed in his mind. "He's already gone…"