When they regrouped outside, the warmth of the spring sun did little to ease the chill settling in everyone's chest.
The wide training field stretched out before them, open and exposed. No walls. No cover. Just green turf, white markings, and the faint echo of distant city noise beyond U.A.'s massive grounds.
At the front stood Aizawa.
His hands were buried deep in his pockets, posture loose, hair swaying slightly in the breeze. He looked like someone who'd wandered out here by accident—yet the air around him felt heavy, oppressive, like gravity itself had thickened.
"We will be testing your Quirks," he said plainly, "through a set of eight physical exercises."
He raised a small board, the list already written out in sharp, blocky letters.
■ Softball throw
■ Standing long jump
■ 50-meter dash
■ Endurance running
■ Grip strength
■ Side-to-side stepping
■ Upper body training
■ Seated toe touches
A few students swallowed.
"I'm sure you've all done these once or twice in your lives," Aizawa continued, eyes half-lidded. "Maybe even weekly in middle school. Back then, you did them without using your Quirks."
He lowered the board.
"Today, you'll use them. And we'll see how far you can go when you do."
His gaze slid lazily across the class—then stopped.
"Katsuki Bakugo," he said. "You start."
Bakugo grinned like he'd just been handed a stage.
He stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he took the softball from Aizawa. The chalk circle crunched beneath his boots as he planted his feet, cracking his neck from side to side.
Tiny sparks began to snap and hiss in his palm.
"DIE!!"
BOOM!
The explosion was deafening.
The ball launched skyward like a missile, ripping through the air in a blur before vanishing beyond the far edge of the field. A shockwave of heated wind slammed back into the class, forcing several students to stagger. Dust kicked up. Smoke lingered. The sharp scent of nitroglycerin burned their noses.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Whoa!" Kirishima shouted, eyes sparkling.
Mouths hung open. A few students shielded their eyes, still staring at the sky as if expecting the ball to come back down.
Everyone looked stunned.
Everyone except Izuku.
He stood there calmly, hands in his pockets, expression neutral.
Then again… he had watched all this before.
'Why'd he yell "die," though?' he thought absently. 'It's literally just a ball.'
Bakugo turned around, smug grin plastered across his face, eyes immediately locking onto Izuku as if daring him to react. When he got nothing, he scoffed and walked over to check his score.
Aizawa raised the tablet.
[709.2 meters]
"This," Aizawa said in the same emotionless tone, "is the first step to figuring out what kind of heroes you'll be one day."
"That's insane!" Kirishima laughed. "That's awesome!"
Aizawa's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Awesome?" he repeated flatly. "You're hoping to become heroes after three years here—and you think this will be fun and games?"
The mood snapped.
The chatter died instantly.
Aizawa's lips curled, just barely, into something that resembled a smile.
"Fine," he said. "Let's play a game, then."
His gaze swept over the students, sharp and unblinking. The air grew heavy—pressurized.
"The one with the lowest overall score across all eight events," he continued, "will be judged hopeless…"
A pause.
"…and expelled."
A cold wave of dread rolled through the group.
Uraraka's shoulders stiffened. Iida's jaw clenched hard enough to creak. A few students glanced at their hands, their feet, the ground—anywhere but Aizawa.
Izuku just sighed inwardly.
'Why does every teacher on their first day try to be edgy?' he thought. 'It started with Kakashi's bell test, then Urahara. Now everyone thinks psychological warfare is trendy.'
The silence stretched until Aizawa spoke again.
"You have five minutes," he said. "We'll start with the first test."
The class began to line up, nerves tight, muscles tense. Their first day at U.A. no longer felt like school. It felt like survival.
Iida went first, lined up alongside Tsuyu.
His posture was stiff as ever, back straight, arms set at perfect ninety-degree angles. The moment the signal sounded, his engines roared to life, calves bulging as he shot forward in a disciplined, mechanical sprint. Every step was precise, calculated—no wasted motion.
Beside him, Tsuyu bounded forward in powerful frog-like leaps, her legs compressing and releasing like springs. She didn't run so much as launch herself down the track, landing lightly before leaping again. Despite Iida's speed, she nearly matched him stride for stride.
They crossed the finish line together, earning polite applause and impressed murmurs from the class.
Next up were Uraraka and Ojiro.
Uraraka jogged for the first stretch—then lightly tapped her fingers together. Halfway through, her feet lifted off the ground, her body floating forward with a small gasp of surprise and delight. She drifted down just before the finish line, landing on her toes with a shy smile.
Ojiro, meanwhile, relied on raw athleticism. His tail slammed against the ground in rhythmic bursts, propelling him forward with sudden accelerations that made his form look almost acrobatic.
Then came Aoyama and Mina.
Aoyama struck a dramatic pose at the starting line, cape fluttering even though there was barely any wind. When the signal sounded, he fired his navel laser downward, using it to slide forward in a dazzling beam of light.
"Ah! Such elegance!" he called, clearly more invested in presentation than speed.
Mina, on the other hand, exploded forward with surprising ferocity. Her feet splashed acid across the track, melting it just enough to create slick patches she used for short, controlled bursts of acceleration. She leaned into her run, horns forward, eyes sharp.
Then—
Finally.
Izuku and Katsuki.
The atmosphere shifted.
They stood side by side at the starting line. Katsuki's smirk was sharp and feral, sparks crackling faintly between his palms as sweat began to bead across his skin. His body was coiled tight, like a loaded spring.
Izuku, in contrast, looked relaxed.
Hands loose. Shoulders easy. A small, calm smile resting on his face. They glanced at each other.
The machine beeped.
[GO!]
The instant the sound rang out, Izuku moved.
His foot slammed into the ground—and the turf collapsed beneath it, a small crater forming from the sheer force of his first step. The sound cracked like a gunshot.
In the same heartbeat, he vanished.
Not blurred.
Gone.
Katsuki's eyes widened a fraction as he launched forward—only to realize Izuku was already meters ahead. No explosions. No flash. Just raw speed so overwhelming it bent the air behind him.
A second later—
Izuku crossed the finish line.
The delayed shockwave from his sprint slammed into the track behind him, a powerful gust of wind ripping past the students and snapping their clothes and hair backward.
Then—another moment passed.
Katsuki crossed the line.
Izuku slowed to a stop, hands in his pockets, expression thoughtful.
'He's technically third,' he mused. 'Since the wind came in second.'
Katsuki skidded to a halt, chest heaving, eyes locked onto Izuku with pure fury. Izuku didn't even look back—he calmly walked over to check the screen.
The results flashed up.
Izuku: 1.10 seconds
Bakugo: 4.13 seconds
Katsuki's hands trembled.
'Fuck!! That broccoli-headed freak…!' he screamed internally, teeth grinding so hard they might crack. 'I'm gonna kill him. I swear!'
Izuku glanced at the numbers once more, nodded faintly.
'Nice,' he thought.
Then the tests continued.
TO BE CONTINUED