We stepped onto one of U.A.'s training grounds—a broad, open space with dirt tracks and field markings. The gym stood nearby, tall and modern, while trees lined the edges and distant hills framed the horizon. Everything was neat and orderly.
Some things, apparently, hadn't changed.
Uraraka raised her hand, brows drawn together in that naive little pinch of confusion. "Aren't we supposed to have an entrance ceremony? Or a guidance meeting or something?"
Aizawa clicked his tongue.
"If you're looking for orientation and speeches, there's still time to transfer to the business department."
His tone was sharp, not cruel, but bone-dry with disapproval. "You're here to train to become Pro Heroes. That doesn't leave time for coddling."
He held up a tablet, tapped it once, and read aloud.
"Fifty-meter dash. Grip strength. Standing long jump. Repeated side steps. Softball throw. Distance run. Seated toe-touch. Sit-ups."
The classics.
"You've done these tests since elementary school," Aizawa continued. "But always under artificial limits. You weren't allowed to use your Quirks. The Department of Education still clings to the fantasy that everyone's built the same, and limiting Quirk use keeps things 'fair.'"
He rolled his eyes in the slow, exhausted way of a man who'd stopped arguing with bureaucrats years ago.
"It's outdated. It's irrational. Power exists. Denying it just wastes time."
I mean… that's one take.
Sure, maybe it's about suppressing Quirk potential. Or maybe it's about not letting kids with fire breath and concrete fists accidentally maim each other in gym class. And, y'know, laws. But hey. You're the Pro Hero here, Eraserhead.
Aizawa glanced up from the tablet and scanned the group.
His gaze landed on me "Henshin. You placed first in the entrance exam, correct?"
I nodded once. "That's right."
"What was your best softball pitch back in high school?"
I shrugged slightly. "Don't remember the exact number, but I'm pretty sure it was a little over 100 meters."
"That's above average," he said, not sounding the least bit impressed. His tone didn't shift at all.
He plucked a ball from a nearby bucket and lobbed it underhand toward me. I caught it one-handed, without breaking eye contact. Felt the seams under my fingers, the faint give of the leather.
"Now try it with your Quirk." he said simply, "Do whatever you need to do. So long as you don't leave the circle."
I stepped forward, past the line of my classmates, toward the chalk ring drawn on the field.
Alright, I already knew how I was going to do this.
As I stepped into the circle, I crouched low, one hand pressing into the dirt. I let my Quirk do its work--absorbing the raw, unrefined dirt beneath me. It didn't need to be quality material. What I had in mind needed a lot of quantity, material for me to shape.
My right arm started to shift. Not into a weapon this time, but something far stranger. The upper arm thickened with reinforced density, the elbow arcing into a sweeping curve, and the forearm stretched farther and farther—almost unnaturally long. I kept the hand itself unchanged.
The perfect shape to build momentum... like a bullwhip, ready to snap at any moment.
It extended well past the edge of the pitcher's circle. Technically, my body stayed planted in bounds, but I turned to Aizawa with a glance and raised a brow anyway. Is this allowed?
He didn't comment on it, so I guess this still counts as being inside.
I took a breath, let the weight settle through my legs, then stepped toward my target direction. Twisting my torso, I drove my hips into the motion—energy surged up the length of my warped arm like a wave. It took a few seconds, but my arm was gradually rising straight up to the sky. At the final second my wrist reached the peak, and I released the ball.
The softball snapped loose with a rack that echoed across the entire training field like a gunshot.
The ball? Gone. Completely out of sight.
I flexed my fingers as my arm began reshaping itself, shrinking back into its normal shape. The joints ached a little—nothing serious, but the recoil was rougher than expected.
Dirt was a pretty shit material. Crumbly and brittle, not ideal for high-torque transformations.
Aizawa kept looking at his tablet, barely reacting.
"Every one of you needs to know your maximum capabilities," he said, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. "That's the most rational way to measure your viability as a future Pro."
He turned the tablet toward the group and held it up.
I'd prefer to be the first to know what it was, but judging by the sounds they were making I could assume I did well.
Kaminari made himself useful by calling it out for me "Yo, no way! 1179 meters, Are you kidding me?!"
Well would you look at that, I'm pretty sure I did better than both Midoriya and Bakugo. I vaguely remember them getting something in the 700s.
"I wanna go, that looks like fun."
"This is what I'm talking about, using our Quirks as much as we want."
"Amazing! Just what you'd expect from the hero course!"
Unlucky, you're upsetting the angry teacher.
"So this was fun, huh?" Aizawa muttered
The words were casual, but the edge was unmistakable. "Were you planning on spending the rest of your time with games and playtime?"
A sinister smirk curled on his lips as he delivered his ultimatum "You know what, that does sound pretty nice. Everyone loves games, even me. But, games are nothing without a reward, except I don't have one. So instead, the reward will be avoiding a punishment. Whoever finishes last in this test...is judged to have no potential and will be expelled on the spot."
Gasps. Confused muttering. A few students looked around like they'd misheard.
"That's not a threat," Aizawa added. "This is my class, and I can run it however I please. Heroes don't get second chances in the field, and I'm not going to waste my time on people with no potential."
It was a pretty basic psychology trick. I'm confident that even when he expels someone, he lets them back into the hero course after. Just to show that he's serious.
Still—credit where it's due. He delivered the moment well. Tension shot up across the board, and suddenly everyone looked just a little more serious.
Fear's a hell of a motivator.