Chapter 2: The Path of Least Resistance
The morning of the Recommendation Exam did not begin with a heroic sunrise. It began with the clinical, rhythmic hiss of an automated espresso machine and the weight of a thousand expectations.
Sherlock woke up in a room that felt more like a museum than a bedroom—minimalist, cold, and echoing.
He moved through his morning ritual like a ghost. He pulled on a pair of high-end, charcoal-grey tech-wear trousers and a black oversized hoodie, the heavy fabric acting as a shield against the world. Finally, he reached for the card holster. It was a custom piece of engineering, crafted from reinforced leather and matte-black carbon fiber. As he slid his primary deck into the slot, the magnetic lock engaged with a sharp clack. It was the only sound that made him feel grounded.
The sleek, obsidian-black sedan glided silently toward the gates of UA High School. Inside, the air was pressurized, smelling of expensive leather and the cold scent of ozone.
the silence punctuated only by the soft tap of his father's fingers on a tablet. Arthur Sheets didn't look at his son; he looked at quarterly projections.
"The Sheets Industries stock surged three points yesterday on the rumor of your recommendation, Sherlock," Arthur said, his voice as dry as parchment. "The public sees you as the successor to your mother.
"Don't embarrass the name, Sherlock," Arthur said, his voice as flat as a sheet of glass. "I've spent a considerable amount of political capital to ensure you were on this list of fifty.. Aim for the top three."
Sherlock leaned his head against the cool window. "The 'legacy' is a lot of work, Dad. Wouldn't it be more efficient if I just failed and took over the accounting department?"
Arthur finally turned, his eyes narrowing. "Your mother didn't die for you to become a glorified calculator. You have her gift. Use it."
"I am using it," Sherlock muttered, tapping the deck of cards at his hip. "I'm using it to keep my heart rate down."
To Sherlock, UA High School looked like the mouth of a very large, very expensive trap.
While a staggering 2,483 students across Japan were currently losing their minds in the general entrance exams, Sherlock stood among the elite.
This year, only 50 students had been permitted to take the Recommendation Exam, fighting for only Three slots For Class 1A and Two Slot For Class 1B
He let out a long, loud yawn.trying to shake the weight of his father's voice from his head.
"You're going to catch flies if you keep that up," a familiar voice teased. It was Momo Yaoyorozu.
"I'm conserving oxygen, Momo," Sherlock muttered.
"Why is everyone vibrating? It's just a school."
Before she could respond, the atmosphere was shattered by a booming roar.
"I AM SO GLAD TO BE HERE! UA IS TRULY THE PINNACLE OF PASSION!! MY BLOOD IS BOILING WITH EXCITEMENT!!"
Sherlock winced as Inasa Yoarashi began aggressively introducing himself to every candidate. He was practically shouting, bowing so low his forehead cracked against the pavement.
"He's a migraine with legs," Sherlock corrected, pulling his hoodie lower. "How does someone have that much energy this early? It's statistically unnatural."
Inasa even tried to approach the stoic, dual-colored boy, Shoto Todoroki. "Hey! You're Endeavor's son! Let's both do our best!"
Todoroki didn't even blink. He looked through Inasa as if the boy were made of glass, his eyes cold and distant. Sherlock watched the exchange, noting the way Inasa's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Two different brands of intensity, Sherlock thought. Both of them are going to be a lot of work to deal with.
"You seem even more detached than usual today," Momo said, stepping closer to Sherlock. "Is it the pressure? Or are you just bored?"
Sherlock leaned against a nearby pillar. "Pressure implies I care about the outcome, Momo. I'm just thinking about the logistics. Fifty of us, Three spots. I'm just hoping to be one of the lucky ones who gets to go home and nap."
Momo frowned. "You have more talent in your pinky finger than half the people here, Sherlock. Don't you feel any responsibility to use it? To be the hero your mother was?"
Sherlock's hand subconsciously tightened over his card deck. "Responsibility is just a polite word for a burden. Mom was a hero, and look where it got her. I'd rather be a living 'Jack of all Trades' than a dead King."
The proctors began calling the students. Momo turned to Sherlock, her expression hardening into academic steel. "This is it. Don't you dare fail on purpose."
Sherlock adjusted his hoodie. "No promises. But... for what it's worth, I hope you get that number one spot."
Momo reached out and squeezed his arm briefly.
"Good luck, Sherlock."
"Good luck, Momo," he replied softly.
• The Written Exam
The exam hall was a tomb. For three hours, the only sound was the scratching of pens and the hum of the air conditioning. Sherlock's mind, the "Jack of All Trades" processor, moved through the questions with the speed of a high-end algorithm.
He reached Section 3: The Essay. The prompt was: "Define the Essence of a Hero."
Sherlock stared at the blinking cursor of his digital tablet. His mind drifted back to a rainy Tuesday four years ago—the smell of burnt cedar, the siren's wail, and the sight of his mother's hero costume, shredded and stained with a red that wouldn't wash out.
What is a hero? Most would write about "Justice" or "Peace." Sherlock began to type.
"A hero is a stabilizing variable in a high-entropy environment. Their primary function is risk mitigation and the preservation of infrastructure."
He deconstructed the very concept of heroism into physics and socio-economics. To him, a hero wasn't a symbol; they were a janitor with a higher salary and a shorter life expectancy. It was the most intelligent, technically perfect, and utterly soulless essay the proctors had ever graded.
[EXAM RESULTS: WRITTEN PORTION]
Momo Yaoyorozu: 98% (Her technical accuracy was flawless.)
Sherlock Sheets: 92% (points deducted for "Lacking Heroic Perspective" in the essay.)
Shoto Todoroki: 91% > * Inasa Yoarashi: 91% ---
The Practical: The 3km Obstacle Race
"START!"
The world exploded into ice and wind. Shoto Todoroki froze the entire starting line in a heartbeat, a jagged wave of blue-white ice surging forward with a roar like a collapsing mountain. Simultaneously, Inasa Yoarashi leaped into the air, his quirk generating massive, turbulent gusts that propelled him like a rocket.
Sherlock didn't panic. He drew a single sheet and folded it into a needle, pricking his finger to trigger a small amount of sweat—the catalyst for his kinetic manipulation.
"Glaze: Kinetic Friction," he whispered.
He dropped two reinforced paper sheets under his boots. On a molecular level, the paper began to vibrate, creating a microscopic cushion of air between the paper and the ice. He stepped on, and suddenly, he was skating.
He moved like a ghost, weaving through the frozen graveyard of students. He wasn't loud like Inasa or destructive like Shoto. He was silent.
Look at them, Sherlock thought, watching Shoto's ice shatter the obstacles and Inasa's wind scatter the robots. They're fighting the world. I'm just moving through it. They want the glory of the struggle. I just want the finish line.
He reached the Robo-Inferno section. A 0-point villain swung a massive metal fist. Sherlock didn't even slow down. He flicked a card with his left hand, the paper slicing through the robot's optical sensor like a laser. As the machine blinded and tilted, he skated right between its massive legs.
Then came The Pit. While Momo began creating a sophisticated zip-line, Sherlock took five cards and fanned them out. He stepped off the ledge, and instead of falling, he glided. He manipulated the air resistance against the cards' surfaces, turning his oversized hoodie into a makeshift wingsuit. He crossed the canyon in a smooth, silent arc, landing on the other side without a sound.
● The Lounge: The Weight of the Wait
After the race, the candidates were moved to a cooling-down lounge. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy silence of realized failure. Out of fifty elite students, forty-five Of them were about to have their lives rerouted.
Sherlock found a corner, leaning against a locker. Momo approached him, her face flushed with exertion.
"You did well, Sherlock," she said, her voice low. "I saw the way you handled the Pit. It was… elegant."
"It was the shortest path, Momo," Sherlock replied, his eyes closed. "I'm perfectly happy being fourth or fifth. Let me slip into Class 1-B. They don't get the press. They don't get the targets on their backs. I can just exist there."
"You don't just 'exist,' Sherlock," Momo said, stepping closer. "I saw your face during the race. For a second, when you were gliding, you didn't look bored. You looked… free."
Sherlock opened one eye. "I was free from the ground, Momo. That's all."
Across the room, he saw Todoroki standing alone, his back to everyone. Sherlock felt a strange pang of recognition. Todoroki was a masterpiece of expectations, just like him. But where Sherlock responded with apathy, Todoroki responded with ice.
The digital board flickered to life.
[FINAL RECOMMENDATION RANKINGS]
1.Inasa Yoarashi
2.Shoto Todoroki
3.Momo Yaoyorozu
4.Sherlock Sheets
I turned to look at Sherlock, I expected him to be relieved. I expected a sigh or a small smile of "mission accomplished." But when I looked at his face, something felt... off. He wasn't sad. He wasn't happy. He just looked hollow. His eyes were fixed on the number '4' next to his name, but he looked as though he were staring into a deep, dark well. It was a look of profound, clinical indifference that felt colder than Todoroki's ice. It was the look of a genius who had calculated exactly how to stay in the shadows, yet seemed haunted by the fact that he was still visible at all.
"Sherlock?" I whispered. He didn't blink. He just reached into his pocket and tapped his card deck, a rhythmic click-click-click that sounded like a ticking clock.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered. Inasa Yoarashi marched into the center of the hall, his face no longer bright, but twisted with a dark, burning intensity..
"I DECLINE MY ADMISSION!"
The room went into a state of total shock. Inasa pointed a trembling finger toward Shoto Todoroki. "I came here seeking the heart of a hero! But you… your eyes… they're the same as Endeavor's! They're cold and full of hatred! I won't go to a school that produces people with eyes like yours!"
He turned on his heel and marched out, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence. The digital board glitched, the names shifting upward as the algorithm recalibrated.
● Momo's POV:
The digital board glitched, the algorithm scrambling to fill the gap left by Inasa. The names began to shift upward.
[RECALCULATED RANKINGS - CLASS 1-A]
1. Shoto Todoroki
2. Momo Yaoyorozu
3. Sherlock Sheets
4. Juzo Honenuki
5. Setsuna Tokage
I turned to look at Sherlock, expecting the usual groan or a look of defeat. But for a split second, I saw it. The usual heavy shadow over his eyes lifted. His lips didn't stretch into a wide grin, but there was a subtle, almost microscopic softening of his features—a look of genuine, quiet relief. He looked... happy. It was as if he had been holding his breath for years and had finally found a pocket of air.
A small smile played on my lips. So, you do want to be here, after all, I thought. I felt a surge of warmth; maybe he wasn't as apathetic as he pretended to be.
I rushed over to him, beaming. "Sherlock! Congratulations! We did it! We're both in Class 1-A!"
Sherlock blinked, the subtle light in his eyes vanishing as he realized I was watching. He cleared his throat, regaining his mask of boredom. "Oh. Right. Congratulations to you too, Momo. Top two... that's impressive."
● Sherlock pov
But as the words left his mouth, the gravity of the situation seemed to settle into his bones. His shoulders slumped, and the happiness I thought I saw was replaced by a look of sheer, existential dread.
"No," Sherlock whispered, his soul practically leaving his body. "No, no, no... Inasa, you idiot... come back. Take your passion and your loud voice and get back in that number one spot!"
He turned to me, his voice sounding like it was coming from a different zip code.
"Momo," he groaned, his head hitting the metal of a nearby locker with a dull thud. "I think I just felt my soul retire. I didn't just pass; I got promoted to the front lines of a war I didn't want to fight. Class 1-A is the spotlight class. That's the class that gets the villains, the media, and the 'extra' lessons. I'm going to have to... I'll have to actually work."
Maybe I can fake an injury, he thought gloomily. Because from now on, it looks like my vacation is officially over.