The observation room at U.A. High was quiet in the way only professionals could make it—no wasted movement, no needless noise, just the soft glow of monitors and the occasional click of a remote.
Nezu sat at the center console with a mug that looked comically large in his small paws. His ears twitched as footage replayed across a wall of screens: concrete streets, collapsing debris, students sprinting and shouting, robots falling like felled trees.
Around him stood teachers and staff—some relaxed, some sharp-eyed, all assessing.
"Every year," Nezu said pleasantly, "the same question returns. Who looks strong… and who has the instincts to become a hero?"
Aizawa's eyes were half-lidded, but the focus behind them was unmistakable. "Instincts matter more."
Present Mic leaned over a monitor, grinning. "And style matters a little!"
Aizawa didn't even look at him. "No."
Nezu chuckled and tapped a button. "Let's begin with the obvious."
Bakugo Katsuki
Bakugo's footage was loud even without sound.
He moved like a contained blast—fast, aggressive, never giving the robots room to breathe. Explosions flared at close range with control that didn't match his age. He didn't hesitate. He didn't retreat. He hunted points like they were prey.
"His combat sense is absurdly developed," Midnight remarked, arms crossed. "He isn't just throwing power around. He's choosing angles."
"He's all offense," Aizawa said flatly. "No restraint. No consideration for collateral."
Present Mic snorted. "It's an entrance exam full of fake cities and robots, Eraser. Collateral is the point."
Aizawa's stare flicked toward him. Present Mic leaned back, still smiling, but quieter.
Nezu watched Bakugo blow through a cluster of one-pointers and two-pointers, chaining movement with bursts of propulsion like he'd practiced it in his sleep.
"He's talented," Nezu agreed. "And dangerous."
A score card appeared beside Bakugo's name.
His total villain points sat high—exactly the sort of number that made other applicants look small.
Aizawa's expression didn't change. "Talent isn't the issue. Temper is."
Nezu nodded, eyes bright. "Temper can be trained."
Midoriya Izuku
When Midoriya's footage began, the room's energy shifted.
The early part of his run was painful in a way that had nothing to do with injury. He hesitated. Stumbled. Lost time. Ran with desperation instead of certainty. He looked like someone who'd entered a battlefield without knowing whether he belonged there.
Then the zero-pointer appeared.
A huge shadow sliding between buildings. A metal titan looming over panicked examinees.
The camera caught Uraraka Ochako stumbling, pinned by debris and fear—caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Midoriya turned.
He had nothing.
No points. No time. No advantage.
And he ran in anyway.
Aizawa's eyes narrowed slightly, the closest thing he had to visible interest.
The footage showed Midoriya launching himself forward and punching.
The impact was not elegant. It was not controlled. It was raw force detonating through his body. The robot's structure buckled, its balance collapsing, its massive frame falling away from the trapped girl.
Midoriya's body snapped back like it had been punished for daring to do that at all—arm wrecked, legs broken, his own momentum throwing him into the ground.
But Uraraka was alive.
The monitor room stayed silent for a beat.
Then Nezu switched to another angle: judges' cameras, staff notes, a slow-motion replay of the moment the robot toppled away from the debris.
"Zero villain points," Present Mic said, voice quieter now, "and yet…"
Nezu's smile turned soft. "And yet he performed the most heroic act in the entire exam."
Aizawa's gaze remained on Midoriya's face—shock, pain, and stubborn determination all tangled together.
Nezu tapped again, and Midoriya's evaluation card appeared.
Midnight nodded. "He threw away his chance to score and chose a person instead."
"And the girl?" Present Mic asked, already knowing.
Nezu brought up a brief clip—Uraraka, flustered and earnest, asking if points could be shared because Midoriya had saved her. Present Mic in the clip looked like he'd been hit by a train of sincerity.
Nezu folded his paws. "Her rescue points were awarded appropriately as well."
Aizawa finally spoke, voice low. "Midoriya's power is unstable."
"Yes," Nezu agreed. "But his instinct is exactly what U.A. exists to cultivate."
Tenji Kurokawa
When Tenji's footage began, it didn't look loud.
It looked wrong—not in a suspicious way, but in the way a reality-bending quirk made people question their eyes.
Tenji moved through the battlefield with an economy that made other examinees look frantic. He didn't chase robots blindly. He positioned, redirected, and ended fights before they fully began.
A three-pointer swung—its arm simply curved away, striking empty air. A two-pointer fired—its projectile bent in a smooth arc and slammed into its own ally. Tenji stepped upward onto nothing, as if the air had decided to become solid under his feet.
"Spatial manipulation," Vlad King said, watching carefully. "But not teleportation. He's reshaping trajectories."
Aizawa's eyes narrowed. "That 'Minor Spatial Displacement' label on his file is… underselling it."
Nezu let Tenji's fight loop once more. Tenji's movements were consistent: distort, step, compress, release. His offensive strikes didn't explode. They fractured. Like the air had cracked and decided the robot should crack too.
Then a different clip played—Tenji pausing when he saw two applicants cornered by a cluster of two-pointers. He didn't rush in like a brawler.
He bent space.
The robots' charge paths curved inward. They collided with each other in a tangled heap of metal. Tenji stepped forward and ended the pile with a single clean strike that split their cores.
"Rescue-minded," Midnight said, eyebrow raised. "But not sentimental."
Aizawa's mouth flattened. "Efficient."
Nezu finally brought up Tenji's card.
The room actually went quiet this time—not because the number was impossible, but because it was undeniable.
"Ninety points total," Nezu announced.
A breakdown appeared beneath it.
"Seventy-two villain points," Nezu continued, "and eighteen rescue points."
Present Mic whistled. "That puts him at—"
"First place," Nezu finished calmly, as if he were discussing the weather.
Aizawa stared at Tenji's file photo on the side screen: neat uniform, calm eyes, posture that didn't scream for attention.
"A student like that," Aizawa murmured, "either becomes the anchor of a class… or the problem no one notices until it's too late."
Nezu's smile returned, sharp and delighted. "Which is why U.A. is so interesting, Aizawa."
One Week Later
The results left U.A. in crisp envelopes stamped with the school seal—clean, formal, ordinary.
For Izuku Midoriya, that envelope sat in his hands like it weighed a hundred kilograms.
He stared at it in his room, heart hammering. A full week had passed since the exam. A full week since he'd broken himself in front of everyone. A full week of silence.
His fingers trembled as he tore it open.
The paper inside looked normal for half a second—
Then light burst upward.
A hologram shimmered into existence, filling the room with a larger-than-life presence.
All Might.
Izuku's breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
"All right, young Midoriya!" the projection boomed with that impossible grin. The voice was recorded, but it still felt like it shook the walls. "Let's go over your results!"
Izuku stood frozen, eyes wide, as the hologram gestured dramatically, exactly as U.A. intended—no quiet email, no simple score report. A full, theatrical announcement delivered straight into the heart.
All Might's projection explained what Izuku had feared and what he had missed: villain points, rescue points, the judges watching for heroism beyond destruction. It was not enough to hit robots. It was enough to save someone when it mattered.
Then the hologram smiled even wider, as if that were possible.
"You passed!"
Izuku's knees nearly gave out.
And before the joy could even fully land, the hologram added—almost casually, almost like a punchline to the universe—
"All Might will be joining U.A. as a teacher."
Izuku made a sound that wasn't language, just emotion breaking through his throat.
Across the city, Tenji Kurokawa opened his own envelope in a quiet apartment.
Light rose.
A U.A. hologram greeted him with the same polished theatricality—results delivered with ceremony, because U.A. understood that dreams deserved drama.
Tenji watched his score appear, clean and unmistakable.
90.
First place.
Seventy-two earned through combat. Eighteen earned through saving. A balance that wasn't accidental.
Tenji didn't cheer.
He simply exhaled.
A calm confirmation settling into place.
He stepped to his window and looked toward where U.A. sat in the distance—an institution built to shape quirks, unaware that one of its top applicants had built himself on something older, deeper, and far more personal than the system could name.
He watched the sky.
Then, quietly, he smiled.
Back at U.A., Nezu shut off the monitors and took a final sip from his mug.
"We have our class," he said.
Aizawa turned to leave, scarf trailing behind him like a shadow.
Nezu's eyes lingered a moment longer on three names.
Bakugo Katsuki — fire and ego.
Midoriya Izuku — heroic instinct and dangerous power.
Kurokawa Tenji — calm space-bender with a score that didn't happen by accident.
The principal's smile was small, pleased, and impossibly knowing.
"Let the school year begin."