The morning sun hung low over the National Dagobah Arena, casting long shadows across the massive structure that seemed to dwarf everything around it. The arena was a monument to heroic ambition—a gleaming colossus of steel and reinforced concrete that could have housed three sports stadiums within its walls. Its curved exterior reflected the early light like a beacon, visible for kilometers in every direction, a promise and a warning to all who approached: Here, futures are decided.

Izuku stood with his classmates in the designated gathering area outside the arena's main entrance, his new boots planted firmly on the pavement, his heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with physical exertion. Around him, the air thrummed with nervous energy—not just from Class 1-A, but from the hundreds of hero students from across Japan who had converged on this location, all seeking the same thing: the Provisional Hero License that would transform them from students playing at heroism into actual heroes with legal authority to use their quirks in public.

This is it, Izuku thought, his scarred fingers unconsciously flexing inside his gloves. This is where we prove we're ready. Where we show that everything we've learned, everything we've survived, has prepared us for this.

The grounds surrounding the arena were organized chaos—various hero schools had claimed their territories, students clustered in groups wearing costumes that ranged from practical to theatrical to downright bizarre. Izuku's analytical mind cataloged details automatically: a student with what appeared to be crystalline growths covering their arms, another whose costume incorporated what looked like sound amplification equipment, a third who seemed to be perpetually surrounded by a faint mist that smelled of petrichor and ozone.

So many quirks, he thought, his notebook already half-drawn from his utility belt before he consciously stopped himself. So many different approaches to heroism. We're going to be competing against all of them.

Beside him,  Mineta was practically vibrating with anxiety, his purple hair-spheres trembling like leaves in a windstorm. The short student's hands kept reaching up to adjust his costume, then dropping back down, then reaching up again in a nervous cycle that would have been comical if the source wasn't genuine distress.

"What if I fail?" Minoru's voice cracked slightly, pitched low enough that only those immediately around him could hear. His large eyes—normally gleaming with mischief or inappropriate enthusiasm—were clouded with fear. "What if everyone else passes and I'm the only one who doesn't get a license? What if—what if I freeze up during a critical moment and someone gets hurt because I wasn't good enough?"

He's terrified, Izuku realized, feeling a pang of sympathy despite their complicated relationship. Not of failing for his own sake, but of letting others down. That's... actually the mindset of someone who understands what heroism really means.

Izuku opened his mouth to offer encouragement—something about how Minoru's quirk was more versatile than he gave himself credit for, how his strategic thinking during training had improved significantly—but before he could speak, a familiar voice cut through the morning air with surgical precision.

"Mineta."

 Aizawa's tone was flat, exhausted, and somehow still commanding despite sounding like he'd rather be anywhere else. Their homeroom teacher stood a few meters away, his signature capture weapon hanging loose around his shoulders like sleeping serpents, his dark hair as unkempt as ever, his eyes bloodshot from what Izuku suspected was either lack of sleep or excessive paperwork or both. Despite his perpetually disheveled appearance, there was an authority to Aizawa's presence that made even the most confident students stand a little straighter.

Minoru jumped, spinning to face their teacher with the expression of a child caught sneaking cookies before dinner. "Y-yes, sensei?!"

"You're going to fail if you keep psyching yourself out before the exam even starts," Aizawa said bluntly, and Izuku saw several nearby classmates wince at the brutal honesty. Aizawa had never been one to sugarcoat reality—a trait that was sometimes harsh but always genuine.

Minoru's face fell, his shoulders sagging like a puppet with cut strings. "I... I know, sensei, but I just—"

"But," Aizawa continued, and his tone shifted in that almost imperceptible way that Izuku had learned to recognize over months of being his student, softening just enough to reveal the care beneath the gruff exterior, "you're not going to fail. Do you know why?"

Minoru blinked rapidly, clearly thrown by the sudden reversal. "B-because...?"

"Because I wouldn't have brought you here if I didn't think you were ready." Aizawa's dark eyes swept across all of Class 1-A, making contact with each student in turn—Izuku felt the weight of that gaze when it landed on him, felt the unspoken message: I see you. I know what you're capable of. Now prove it. "All of you. Every single one of you has the skills, the knowledge, and the determination to pass this exam."

He believes in us, Izuku thought, feeling warmth bloom in his chest despite the cool morning air. Even after everything—the USJ attack, the training camp, all the times we've been in danger or made mistakes—he still believes we're ready for this.

Around him, Izuku could see the impact of Aizawa's words rippling through his classmates. Ochaco stood a little taller, her usually cheerful expression taking on a more focused edge. Tenya's hand stopped its nervous adjustment of his glasses. Even Katsuki, standing apart from the group as always, seemed to acknowledge the statement with the barest nod of his head.

"Will it be easy?" Aizawa continued, his voice carrying across the small gathering. "No. Will some of you struggle more than others? Probably. But I don't train failures, and I don't waste my time on students who can't handle pressure. If you're standing here right now, it's because you've earned the right to be here."

The silence that followed was heavy with contemplation. Izuku felt something settle in his chest—not confidence exactly, but a kind of steady determination that was perhaps more valuable. He looked down at his new boots, at the modifications Mei had spent four days perfecting, and thought about the journey that had brought him here: from a quirkless child dreaming impossible dreams to a hero-in-training standing at the threshold of professional licensure.

I can do this, he thought, and for once, the voice of self-doubt that usually followed such statements remained silent. We can do this.

"If you manage to get your licenses today," Aizawa said, his tone taking on additional weight, "you will have become semi-pros. Not students pretending to be heroes. Not kids playing dress-up in costumes. Actual, recognized hero candidates with legal authority to use your quirks to help people and stop villains outside of supervised training environments."

He paused, letting that sink in. Izuku felt the full implications of those words settling over him like a heavy cloak—responsibility and opportunity woven together inextricably.

"That's not a responsibility to take lightly," Aizawa finished. "So don't."

For a moment, the weight of that responsibility seemed almost crushing. Then—

"YEAH!" Kirishima's enthusiastic shout shattered the contemplative silence like a rock through a window, and Izuku couldn't help but smile at the timing. The red-haired student pumped his fist in the air, his shark-tooth grin practically luminescent with excitement, his entire body language radiating the kind of pure, uncomplicated enthusiasm that made him such an effective morale booster. "We've got this! We've trained for this! We've survived villain attacks and passed the finals and pushed ourselves harder than we ever thought possible!"

That's Kirishima, Izuku thought fondly. Always ready to turn introspection into action.

Around Eijiro, other members of Class 1-A began to stir, responding to his infectious energy like plants turning toward sunlight. Izuku saw Denki grinning, saw Mina bouncing on her heels, saw even the more reserved students like Fumikage and Mezo straightening up with renewed focus.

"We're U.A. students!" Eijiro continued, his voice rising with each word. "We've faced down villains! We've trained with the best heroes in Japan! We've got each other's backs! So let's show everyone watching—let's show all these other schools—what that means!"

"Hell yeah!" Mina Ashido joined in, her pink skin practically glowing with excitement.

"Most illogical display of pre-exam emotion," Aizawa muttered, but Izuku could have sworn he saw the corner of their teacher's mouth twitch upward for just a fraction of a second.

"PLUS—" Eijiro began the chant that had become synonymous with U.A.'s hero course, the phrase that All Might had made famous and they had adopted as their own battle cry, his voice ringing across the gathering area with enough enthusiasm to wake the dead.

"—ULTRA!" several voices joined in, the words building in volume and intensity, a crescendo of determination and camaraderie that made Izuku's heart swell with pride and belonging.

But before the chant could fully bloom into its complete form, before the entire class could join in with the unified roar that usually accompanied their rallying cry, another voice—loud, enthusiastic, and completely unexpected—crashed into their moment like a meteorite through a greenhouse:

"PLUS ULLLLLTRAAAA!"

The shout came from a student who had seemingly materialized out of nowhere, his approach so swift and silent that even Izuku's trained awareness—honed through months of villain encounters and combat training—hadn't registered his presence until he was practically on top of them. The newcomer was striking in appearance: tall, easily over six feet, powerfully built with the kind of athletic development that spoke of years of dedicated physical training. His buzz cut was severe and military-precise, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—burned with an intensity that made Izuku instinctively take a half-step backward.

That level of enthusiasm, Izuku thought, his analytical mind already cataloging details, combined with that physical presence and the Shiketsu uniform... that has to be—

"I LOVE U.A.!" the student continued, his volume suggesting he'd either never learned the concept of indoor voices or had deliberately chosen to reject such limitations as beneath his passionate nature. "YOUR PASSION! YOUR SPIRIT! YOUR UNWAVERING COMMITMENT TO HEROISM DESPITE FACING ADVERSITY THAT WOULD BREAK LESSER INSTITUTIONS! IT'S ABSOLUTELY—"

He struck a dramatic pose that would have looked ridiculous on anyone less genuinely enthusiastic, one arm raised high while the other pressed against his chest in what Izuku recognized as a gesture of sincere respect.

"—SPECTACULAR!"

Inasa Yoarashi, Izuku's mind supplied with absolute certainty. Top of his class at Shiketsu High School, one of the most prestigious hero schools in western Japan. Recommended student who famously turned down U.A.'s offer to attend Shiketsu instead—there was speculation about why, but no official explanation was ever given. His quirk is Whirlwind, which allows him to freely control wind currents with incredible precision and power. He's supposed to be—

Class 1-A stood in stunned silence, a collective deer-in-headlights expression plastered across faces that had confronted actual villains without flinching. There was something uniquely disarming about pure, undiluted enthusiasm delivered at maximum volume by someone who clearly meant every word with absolute sincerity.

Izuku noticed reactions ranging across the spectrum: Ochaco had both hands over her mouth, clearly fighting the urge to either laugh or say something; Denki looked like his brain had short-circuited trying to process this hurricane of positive energy; Shoto's usually impassive face showed a hint of genuine bewilderment; Momo had frozen mid-adjustment of her costume, one hand still raised, her analytical mind clearly struggling to categorize this social interaction.

And Katsuki—oh, Katsuki's eye was twitching in that telltale way that meant he was approximately three seconds from either exploding something or exploding at someone, his hands already crackling with small warning pops of his quirk.

Please don't start a fight before the exam even begins, Izuku thought desperately in his childhood friend's direction, as if telepathy might suddenly manifest as a secondary quirk. We really don't need that kind of attention right now.

"Inasa," a new voice cut through the moment with the precision of a scalpel through butter, dripping with disapproval and what sounded like the long-suffering exasperation of someone who had dealt with this exact scenario too many times before. "You really shouldn't barge in on other schools like that. It's inappropriate and reflects poorly on Shiketsu's standards of conduct and professionalism."

The speaker was another Shiketsu student—shorter than Inasa by a significant margin but no less distinctive in appearance. His hair was styled in an unusual way that seemed to defy both gravity and good sense, with odd protrusions that Izuku's first instinct was to catalog as potentially quirk-related. But it was his expression that caught Izuku's attention: a particular brand of disdain that came from someone who believed they were fundamentally superior to those around them, who viewed the world through a lens of rigid hierarchy and found most of what they saw wanting.

Seiji Shishikura, Izuku identified, pulling information from the pre-exam research he'd conducted obsessively over the past week. Second-year at Shiketsu. His quirk is Meatball—he can temporarily transform people or objects into flesh-colored spheres by kneading them with his hands. Extremely powerful in close quarters combat, but requires direct physical contact to activate. He's known for being... what was the word the article used? Traditionalist? He's made several public statements about modern hero society becoming too casual, too focused on fame rather than duty, needing to return to "proper standards" of heroic conduct.

Seiji's eyes swept across Class 1-A with the assessing gaze of someone examining livestock at market, his expression suggesting he found them collectively lacking in some fundamental way that disappointed him personally.

"FORGIVE ME!" Inasa's response was, impossibly, even more dramatic than his entrance. Without a moment's hesitation, without any visible shame or self-consciousness, he dropped to his hands and knees and slammed his forehead into the concrete pavement with enough force that Izuku actually heard the impact echo across the gathering area—a sickening crack that made several people wince in sympathetic pain.

Oh my god, Izuku thought, his hero instincts immediately screaming warnings about potential head trauma. That's concrete! Reinforced concrete designed to handle heavy equipment and massive crowds! He could have given himself a concussion! He could have fractured his skull! Does he not understand basic cranial safety protocols?!

"I'M DEEPLY, PROFOUNDLY SORRY FOR MY RUDENESS!" Inasa's voice was slightly muffled by his proximity to the ground but had lost none of its volume. If anything, the acoustics of having his face pressed against pavement seemed to amplify the sound, bouncing it in unexpected directions. "IT WAS INCONSIDERATE AND PRESUMPTUOUS OF ME TO INTERRUPT YOUR PRE-EXAM PREPARATIONS AND INTRUDE UPON YOUR CLASS UNITY MOMENT! I WAS SIMPLY OVERWHELMED BY MY SINCERE ADMIRATION FOR U.A.'S HEROIC SPIRIT AND THE RESILIENCE YOU'VE DEMONSTRATED IN THE FACE OF UNPRECEDENTED CHALLENGES, AND I ACTED WITHOUT PROPER CONSIDERATION FOR SOCIAL BOUNDARIES! PLEASE FORGIVE MY TRANSGRESSION AGAINST BASIC ETIQUETTE!"

Several members of Class 1-A exchanged uncomfortable glances, united in their uncertainty about how to respond to this level of dramatic contrition. The apology was somehow more overwhelming than the initial intrusion, delivered with such earnest intensity that it felt almost invasive in its sincerity.

Izuku noticed various reactions: Ochaco had now fully covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking slightly—whether from suppressed laughter or second-hand embarrassment, he couldn't determine. Denki's mouth was hanging open, his brain clearly having given up on processing the situation entirely. Tsuyu had one finger pressed to her chin in her characteristic thinking pose, her large eyes blinking slowly as if she were trying to categorize this interaction within her understanding of human social behavior. Even Tenya—usually so quick to respond to matters of proper conduct—seemed at a complete loss, one hand raised in an aborted gesture toward his glasses.

This is so awkward, Izuku thought, feeling heat creeping up his neck despite not being directly involved in the interaction. Should someone say something? Should we accept the apology? Should we tell him to please get up before he hurts himself worse? What's the protocol for—

Then, cutting through the mounting awkwardness like a ray of sunshine dispersing storm clouds, came a sound that made several students jump in surprise: laughter.

Genuine, unrestrained, musical laughter that seemed to transform the entire atmosphere from uncomfortable to somehow lighter, more manageable.

Y/N  stood slightly apart from the main group, positioned near Aizawa with the casual confidence of someone who belonged exactly where they were despite technically having no official supervisory role in this exam. Her distinctive blindfold covered her eyes—Izuku had learned this was both functional (apparently her spatial awareness quirk worked better without visual input) and aesthetic (she just liked the mysterious look)—but her grin was visible and infectious, stretching across her face with genuine amusement rather than mockery.

Y/N-sensei, Izuku thought, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders at her presence. I forgot she was coming with us as additional support. After that training session where she demonstrated her Infinity technique, she's been helping with our tactical preparation.

"Oh, don't worry about it!" Y/N's voice carried easily across the space, pitched perfectly to reach Inasa without needing to shout—a trick of vocal control that Izuku filed away as something to potentially analyze later. "Enthusiasm isn't a crime, Yoarashi-kun! If it was, half the hero students in Japan would be in jail! Hell, most of the professional heroes would be arrested too!"

She moved forward with the fluid grace that characterized all her movements, approaching Inasa's prone form with the easy confidence of someone who had never met a social situation they couldn't navigate successfully. As she walked, Izuku noticed the way space seemed to bend slightly around her—nothing obvious enough for untrained eyes to catch, but his experience analyzing quirks let him see the subtle distortions that indicated her Infinity was passively active, creating that impossible barrier between her and the world that made her effectively untouchable.

She makes it look so effortless, Izuku thought with a mixture of admiration and analytical curiosity. Like breathing. Like it doesn't require any conscious thought at all to maintain a defensive barrier that stopped Kacchan's maximum output attack without her even blinking.

Y/N crouched down beside Inasa's prostrated form, and despite the blindfold, Izuku could somehow tell her expression had shifted from amused to genuinely concerned. She reached into one of her jacket pockets—her civilian clothes beneath a light jacket rather than any kind of official hero costume, because Y/N had explained that she found traditional hero costumes "unnecessarily restrictive and kind of silly"—and withdrew a pristine white cloth. Medical-grade, Izuku noted, the kind specifically designed for cleaning wounds without causing additional irritation.

She came prepared, he realized. She knew there would probably be students pushing themselves too hard, getting minor injuries from pre-exam nerves and overenthusiasm. That's... that's really thoughtful actually.

"Here," Y/N said, her tone gentler now, almost maternal despite her relative youth—she couldn't be much older than mid-twenties at most. "Let me help with that. You're bleeding a little, you know. That was quite the impressive headbutt to reinforced concrete. Dedication to apologies: ten out of ten. Concern for your own cranial safety: maybe a three out of ten."

Inasa lifted his head slightly, and sure enough, there was a visible abrasion on his forehead where he'd made contact with the pavement. It wasn't serious—barely more than a scrape, really—but a thin line of blood had begun trickling down toward his eyebrow, bright red against his skin.

Head wounds always bleed more than they should, Izuku's mind supplied automatically, pulling from first aid training. Lots of blood vessels close to the surface. It looks worse than it actually is, probably.

"S-sensei?" Inasa's voice, for the first time since his dramatic entrance, dropped to something approaching a normal human volume—still louder than strictly necessary, but at least within the range that wouldn't cause hearing damage. His eyes were wide with surprise, clearly not having expected this response. "You don't have to—I mean—this is my own fault for acting without thinking. I should bear the consequences of my—"

"Shush," Y/N interrupted gently, her blindfolded gaze somehow still conveying warmth and care as she carefully dabbed at the wound. Despite the complete absence of visible eyes, her movements were precise, expertly avoiding causing any additional discomfort while efficiently cleaning away the blood. "Taking care of overly enthusiastic students is basically in my job description. Besides—"

Her grin returned, playful and warm, transforming her entire demeanor from serious to approachable.

"—I appreciate people who wear their hearts on their sleeves. Or their passion on their foreheads, in your case. It's refreshing in a world where everyone's so concerned with maintaining proper appearances and not showing weakness."

She's defusing the entire situation, Izuku realized with growing admiration, his analytical mind cataloging the multiple layers of what Y/N was accomplishing with this simple gesture. Making Inasa feel less embarrassed about his dramatic apology. Showing Class 1-A that not all interactions with rival schools have to be confrontational or competitive. Establishing herself as a calming, supportive presence. And indirectly sending a message to that Shishikura student that we're not going to be intimidated by his disapproval.

The immediate tension that had been building—the awkwardness, the uncertainty about how to respond, the potential for the interaction to turn hostile if someone said the wrong thing—had evaporated like morning mist under Y/N's casual intervention. Several of Izuku's classmates visibly relaxed, their postures shifting from defensive uncertainty to something more open.

That's real skill, Izuku thought. Not quirk-based power, but genuine emotional intelligence and social awareness. That's the kind of thing they don't really teach in hero courses, but it's just as valuable as combat ability when it comes to actual hero work.

Seiji Shishikura, however, looked distinctly less impressed by the display. His expression had shifted from mild disapproval to something colder, more calculating. His eyes—a pale color that reminded Izuku uncomfortably of ice—swept across Class 1-A with renewed intensity, lingering on certain students in a way that made Izuku's hero instincts prickle with unease.

He's assessing us, Izuku realized, unconsciously cataloging which classmates Shishikura's gaze paused on longest. Kacchan, obviously—he's been in the news constantly. Shoto too, because of his connection to Endeavor. Me, probably because of the Sports Festival and... and All Might's retirement announcement. Tenya because of his brother's attack. Everyone who's been prominently featured in media coverage of U.A.'s various incidents.

Seiji's lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval before he spoke, his voice carrying a particular quality of condescension that made Izuku's fists clench reflexively:

"U.A.," Seiji said, and the way he pronounced the school's name made it sound almost like an insult, "the school that produces powerful heroes... and constant controversy. The institution that somehow manages to attract more villain attention in a single semester than most hero schools experience in a decade."

He paused, letting that observation hang in the air like an accusation.

"Tell me—" his gaze fixed on the group with unsettling intensity, particularly focusing on Katsuki, whose hands had begun crackling with warning pops of his Explosion quirk, "—do you think your fame will help you in this exam? Do you believe that having your faces plastered across news broadcasts because of villain attacks and kidnapping incidents makes you more qualified to be heroes? Or does it perhaps indicate a fundamental lack of judgment that should concern everyone about your readiness for professional licensure?"

He's trying to provoke us, Izuku's mind worked rapidly, analyzing the tactic. He wants us to react defensively, to justify ourselves, to get angry and say something that makes us look unprofessional or immature. It's a test—not of our quirks, but of our emotional control and professional composure. The kind of thing a "traditionalist" would consider important.

Izuku opened his mouth, not entirely sure what he was going to say but knowing that someone needed to respond before Katsuki decided that explosions were an appropriate form of counterargument—

"I think," Shota Aizawa's voice cut through the mounting tension like a scalpel through tissue, flat and utterly devoid of patience or diplomatic courtesy, "that you should focus on your own exam performance rather than concerning yourself with other schools' business, Shishikura. Unless Shiketsu's curriculum has started including 'pre-exam trash talk' as a credited course."

The effect was immediate and absolute. Seiji Shishikura's jaw tightened, his entire posture stiffening with the rigid offense of someone unaccustomed to being dismissed so bluntly by an authority figure. His pale eyes narrowed, but he said nothing—because what could he say? Aizawa's reputation as both the Erasure Hero and U.A.'s most notoriously strict teacher preceded him. Arguing would only make Seiji look worse, and he was clearly smart enough to recognize that.

Thank you, Aizawa-sensei, Izuku thought gratefully, feeling his shoulders un-tense slightly. I don't know what I was going to say, but it probably would have been too defensive or too explanatory or too—

Y/N finished cleaning Inasa's forehead with practiced efficiency and stood, offering him a hand up with the same casual kindness she'd shown throughout the interaction. Her blindfolded face was tilted at an angle that somehow conveyed warmth despite the absence of visible eyes.

"There you go!" she said cheerfully. "Good as new! Well, mostly new. You might have a small bruise for a few days, but honestly, it'll make you look tough and battle-hardened. Very heroic aesthetic. The cameras will love it."

Inasa accepted her help, his large hand engulfing hers as he rose to his full considerable height. Despite the minor injury and the awkwardness of the entire interaction, his grin had already returned to full brilliance, suggesting that embarrassment simply wasn't a permanent state for someone of his temperament.

"Thank you so much, sensei!" Inasa's voice had regained its enthusiastic volume, though thankfully he'd stopped short of returning to full shouting mode. "Your kindness and compassion reflect the true spirit of heroism that makes U.A. genuinely great! I'm deeply honored to be competing alongside such passionate, resilient individuals! May we all demonstrate our absolute best in the trials ahead!"

He bowed—deeply, formally, holding the position for exactly the appropriate duration that traditional Japanese etiquette demanded—before straightening and fixing Class 1-A with that intense, burning gaze that suggested he meant every word with his entire soul.

"I look forward to seeing your spectacular performances!" Inasa continued. "U.A.'s reputation for producing exceptional heroes is well-deserved, and I'm excited to witness firsthand the skills that have allowed you to overcome such unprecedented challenges! PLUS ULTRA!"

"Just maybe watch the dramatic head-slamming in the future," Y/N suggested with a wink that somehow conveyed humor despite being invisible behind her blindfold—something about the tilt of her head and the curve of her smile. "Concussions aren't very heroic, and Recovery Girl can only do so much for self-inflicted injuries motivated by excessive politeness."

"UNDERSTOOD!" Inasa's volume control, apparently, had only two settings: loud and louder. "I SHALL ENDEAVOR TO EXPRESS MY APOLOGIES THROUGH LESS PHYSICALLY DAMAGING METHODS IN FUTURE SOCIAL INTERACTIONS!"

"That's... that's great," Y/N said, her grin suggesting she was fighting back laughter. "Really great. A+ growth mindset. Now go get ready for your exam before your classmate has an aneurysm from disapproval."

Indeed, Seiji looked like he was approximately three seconds away from either saying something scathing or simply walking away in disgust. Inasa, blessedly, seemed to recognize this as his cue to depart. He offered one more bow—slightly less dramatic than the first but no less sincere—before turning to rejoin his Shiketsu classmates.

As the two students moved away—Inasa with continued enthusiasm, Seiji with the rigid posture of someone deeply unsatisfied with how the interaction had concluded—Izuku found himself analyzing every aspect of what had just transpired with the same intensity he applied to quirk studies.

That whole interaction was... a lot, he thought, his hand unconsciously reaching for his notebook before he stopped himself. Inasa seems genuinely nice, if extremely intense. His enthusiasm for U.A. appeared authentic, not mocking. But Shishikura...

Izuku's gaze lingered on the Shiketsu student's retreating back, noting the way he carried himself with that particular brand of righteous certainty that often preceded problems.

He's going to be trouble, Izuku predicted with the certainty of someone who'd dealt with enough self-righteous opponents to recognize the pattern. Not necessarily a villain or even a bad person, but someone whose rigid worldview makes them see U.A.—and probably us specifically—as representative of everything wrong with modern hero society. That kind of ideological opponent can be more challenging than someone who's just straightforwardly hostile.

"Well," Denki's voice broke through Izuku's analytical spiral, "that was weird, right? I'm not the only one who thought that was really weird?"

"Extremely weird," Ochaco confirmed, finally lowering her hands from her face. Her expression was caught somewhere between amusement and concern. "But also kind of... nice? Like, Yoarashi-san seemed genuinely friendly, even if his volume control is broken."

"His passion was admirable," Tenya said, adjusting his glasses in that characteristic gesture that meant he was organizing his thoughts. "Though I agree his methods of expressing enthusiasm were perhaps excessive. Still, sincerity should be appreciated even when delivery is unconventional."

"He slammed his face into concrete," Tsuyu pointed out pragmatically. "Ribbit. That's not unconventional, that's concerning. Someone should probably keep an eye on him during the exam to make sure he doesn't accidentally give himself brain damage out of politeness."

"The other one was a dick though," Katsuki's contribution was characteristically blunt, his crimson eyes still fixed in the direction Seiji had departed. "Talking shit about U.A. like we asked to be attacked by villains. Like it's our fault that we've had to deal with more crap in one year than most heroes see in their entire careers."

Kacchan's not wrong, Izuku thought, though he'd never say so out loud. Shishikura was being deliberately provocative, trying to undermine our confidence before the exam even started. That's... actually a concerning tactic. It suggests he sees psychological warfare as a legitimate strategy, which means he'll probably use similar approaches during the actual exam.

Before the discussion could continue, a loud buzzer echoed across the entire gathering area, the sound reverberating off the arena's exterior walls with enough volume to silence hundreds of conversations simultaneously. The sudden shift from ambient noise to relative quiet was almost jarring, like someone had pressed a cosmic mute button on the entire scene.

An enormous screen mounted on the arena's outer wall flickered to life, displaying the symbol of the Hero Public Safety Commission—a stylized shield with wings—alongside bold text that read:

PROVISIONAL HERO LICENSE EXAM
FIRST TEST BEGINNING IN 15 MINUTES
ALL PARTICIPANTS REPORT TO DESIGNATED ENTRY POINTS
GOOD LUCK, FUTURE HEROES

The nervous energy that had been simmering across the gathering area suddenly boiled over into something more focused, more urgent. Students began moving with purpose, checking equipment one last time, exchanging final words of encouragement or strategy with their teammates, their expressions shifting from anticipation to determination.

Izuku felt his heart rate kick up another notch, adrenaline beginning to flood his system in preparation for whatever challenges awaited them beyond those massive arena doors.

This is really happening, he thought, his scarred hands clenching and unclenching inside his gloves. No more preparation. No more training. Just... us and whatever they throw at us.

"Alright," Aizawa's voice cut through the rising noise, drawing Class 1-A's attention back to their teacher one final time before they entered the arena. His expression was as inscrutable as ever, but Izuku had learned to read the subtle signs—the slight softening around his eyes, the barely perceptible nod, the way his capture weapon settled more loosely around his shoulders. Pride, hidden beneath layers of professional distance and tactical pragmatism. "This is it. Last chance for any final questions or concerns before you go in."

Silence. Not because there were no questions, but because every question had already been asked, every concern already addressed during their weeks of preparation. Now, there was only action.

"Remember everything you've learned," Aizawa continued, his voice carrying across the small group. "Work together. Watch each other's backs. Trust your training and your instincts. And for the love of—" he paused, seeming to search for appropriate phrasing that wouldn't sound too much like he actually cared about their wellbeing, "—just try not to attract any more media attention than absolutely necessary. I'm tired of filling out incident reports."

"No promises!" Denki chirped, earning himself a flat stare from Aizawa that could have withered flowers at twenty paces.

Y/N stepped forward, her blindfolded face somehow seeming more earnest rather than less, her entire posture radiating confidence in them that felt almost tangible.

"You're all going to do great," she said, and her certainty seemed absolute,unshakeable, like she was stating a simple fact about the universe rather than offering encouragement. "I've seen what you can do. I've seen how you think, how you adapt, how you support each other when things get difficult. You've already proven yourselves against challenges that would break most students."

She paused, her grin taking on a quality that was part playful, part serious.

"Just remember: being a hero isn't about being the strongest or the flashiest or the most famous. It's about doing what needs to be done when it needs to be done, no matter how difficult or unglamorous or scary that might be. It's about standing up when standing up is hard. It's about protecting people even when protecting them costs you something. That's heroism. Everything else is just window dressing."

Just like All Might always said, Izuku thought, feeling that familiar warmth bloom in his chest. Heroism is about saving people, helping people, being there when you're needed. Power is just a tool. The heart—the determination to never give up—that's what makes a real hero.

"Plus Ultra," Eijiro said quietly, and this time when he spoke the words, nobody interrupted. The phrase hung in the air between them—not a boast or a battle cry, but a promise. A reminder of what they were working toward, what they believed in, why they had chosen this impossible, dangerous, beautiful path toward heroism.

"Plus Ultra," Izuku echoed, his voice joining with his classmates' as they repeated their school's motto. The words blended into a chorus of determination, of shared purpose, of friendship forged through trials that would have broken lesser bonds.

As they began moving toward their designated entry point—following the flow of students from various schools converging on the arena's multiple entrances—Izuku cast one last glance at the massive structure before them. The National Dagobah Arena loomed like a sleeping giant, its curved walls reflecting the climbing sun, its darkened windows like countless eyes watching their approach.

Somewhere in there, he thought, his analytical mind already running through possible exam scenarios based on his research, our futures are waiting. Success or failure. Progress or setback. Another step toward our dreams or a reminder that we still have further to grow.

His hand reached down unconsciously, touching the new boots that Mei had spent four days perfecting, feeling the slight give of the shock absorption system, remembering the sensation of his Manchester Smash demolishing that concrete chunk without destroying his leg in the process.

But no matter what happens in there, Izuku thought, looking around at his classmates—at Ochaco's determined expression, at Tenya's focused adjustment of his engines, at Shoto's quiet confidence, at Katsuki's barely contained aggressive energy, at all the friends and rivals who had become such an integral part of his journey, we'll face it together. As heroes. As classmates. As people who refuse to give up no matter what obstacles are placed in our path.

The National Dagobah Arena's entrance yawned before them, massive doors that could have accommodated a building, currently wide open to receive the flood of hopeful hero students. Beyond those doors, in the calculated chaos of whatever scenarios the Hero Public Safety Commission had prepared, their futures waited to be written.

Izuku Midoriya took a deep breath, centering himself with the breathing techniques Gran Torino had drilled into him, and stepped forward.

Here we go. Time to show them what U.A. students can do.

Time to go beyond.

Plus Ultra.

The gathering room was a study in controlled chaos and industrial pragmatism. Rectangular, vast, and utterly devoid of aesthetic consideration beyond pure functionality, it reminded Izuku of a warehouse more than any kind of testing facility. The ceiling stretched high overhead—at least fifteen meters, he estimated—supported by exposed steel beams that created geometric shadows across the assembled students below. The walls were bare concrete, soundproofed but deliberately plain, as if the Hero Public Safety Commission wanted to ensure that nothing about the environment would distract from the instructions they were about to receive.

One thousand five hundred and forty students, Izuku thought, his analytical mind automatically cataloging the sheer scale of what they were facing. That's... that's almost eight times the number of students in U.A.'s entire hero course. And we're all competing for only one hundred spots.

The air thrummed with nervous energy—hundreds of conversations creating a ambient buzz that rose and fell like ocean waves. Izuku stood with his classmates in a loose cluster, positioned roughly in the middle of the massive room. Around them, students from schools across Japan had formed their own territorial groupings: Shiketsu's distinctive uniforms clustered to their left, another school whose name Izuku didn't recognize to their right, dozens more scattered throughout the space in a complex social geography of alliances, rivalries, and neutral territories.

Less than seven percent pass rate, his mind calculated automatically. If exactly one hundred students advance out of 1,540 participants, that's a 6.49% success rate. That's... that's lower than some of the most competitive university entrance exams. This isn't just testing our abilities—it's filtering for the absolute best.

"This is insane," Denki muttered beside him, his yellow hair practically standing on end—though whether from his quirk's passive electrical discharge or pure nervous energy, Izuku couldn't determine. "How are we supposed to stand out in a crowd this big? We're like... like drops of water in an ocean."

"An ocean of very dangerous, highly trained, extremely motivated drops of water," Ochaco added, her usual cheerfulness strained around the edges. Her hands kept reaching toward each other, fingers touching in that unconscious gesture she made when anxiety threatened to overwhelm her bubbly exterior. "With quirks. Dangerous quirks. Did I mention the dangerous part?"

"Multiple times," Tsuyu confirmed with her characteristic bluntness. "Ribbit. Though you're not wrong. Look at that guy over there—" she gestured subtly toward a student whose skin appeared to be covered in metallic plates, "—or those twins who seem to be sharing some kind of telepathic communication. We're not just competing against numbers. We're competing against diversity of abilities we can't fully prepare for."

She's right, Izuku thought, his hand unconsciously reaching for his notebook before he stopped himself. This many students means this many different quirks, this many different combat styles, this many different strategic approaches. We can't predict what we'll face. We can only adapt.

Before the rising tide of nervous speculation could build further, the room's ambient lighting shifted dramatically. The overhead fluorescents dimmed while a spotlight—theatrical and obviously calculated for dramatic effect—illuminated a raised platform at the far end of the rectangular space. The sudden change in illumination had the desired effect: conversations cut off mid-sentence as over fifteen hundred students turned their attention toward the platform in a wave of rustling fabric and shuffling feet.

A man stepped into the spotlight, and Izuku's first thought was: He looks like he hasn't slept in a week.

The official was of average height and build, wearing a standard Hero Public Safety Commission uniform—dark suit, white shirt, tie hanging slightly loosened as if he'd already had a very long day despite the early hour. But it was his face that caught Izuku's attention: heavy bags under his eyes that suggested chronic sleep deprivation, a slight slouch to his posture that spoke of exhaustion reaching bone-deep levels, and an expression of such profound weariness that it seemed to radiate from him like a physical aura.

Yokumiru Mera, Izuku recognized him from the exam information packet they'd received weeks ago. Senior Examiner for the Hero Public Safety Commission. Known for his Deception quirk, though the exact mechanics are classified. He's overseen the Provisional License Exam for the past five years, with consistently high standards and...

"Good morning, examinees," Yokumiru Mera's voice was flat, monotone, carrying across the room through speakers Izuku couldn't locate. Despite the lack of enthusiasm, his words commanded attention through sheer authority. "I'm Yokumiru Mera from the Hero Public Safety Commission, and I will be your examiner today."

He paused, and Izuku could have sworn the man's shoulders sagged even further, as if the mere act of introducing himself had drained what little energy he'd possessed.

"Before we begin," Mera continued, his tone suggesting he was reading from a script he'd memorized through sheer repetition rather than any genuine engagement with the material, "I need to tell you something important: I am extremely tired."

The statement hung in the air for a moment, met with confused silence from the assembled students. Beside Izuku, Denki whispered, "Did... did he just tell us he's tired? Is that relevant to the exam?"

"Shh," Momo hushed him gently, her intelligent eyes fixed on the examiner with obvious curiosity about where this was going.

"The Hero Public Safety Commission is chronically understaffed," Mera explained, and now his tone carried a hint of something beyond exhaustion—perhaps frustration, perhaps resignation, perhaps simply the honest truth of someone who'd stopped caring about maintaining professional appearances. "We're operating at approximately sixty percent of our necessary personnel levels. This means that the remaining staff—including myself—are working double shifts, handling case loads that should be distributed across twice as many people, and generally operating on insufficient sleep, excessive caffeine, and the fading hope that someday, somehow, we might catch up on our backlog."

That's... surprisingly candid, Izuku thought, exchanging glances with several classmates who looked equally taken aback by this unexpected honesty. Usually officials maintain professional distance, don't admit to organizational problems. Why is he telling us this?

"I'm telling you this," Mera continued, as if reading Izuku's mind—oh god, what if that's part of his quirk?—"because it's directly relevant to what we expect from you as future heroes. The reality of modern heroism is that you will be overworked, understaffed, and constantly operating under conditions that are less than ideal. If you can't handle that truth now, you have no business becoming licensed heroes."

The blunt assessment sent a ripple through the assembled students—some straightening with determination, others shifting uncomfortably, a few exchanging worried glances that suggested they were reconsidering their career choices.

"Now then," Mera said, pulling out what appeared to be a tablet from inside his jacket. He tapped at the screen with the energy of someone performing a task they'd done thousands of times and would do thousands more. "Let me explain the first test."

The massive screens mounted on the walls around the rectangular room flickered to life, displaying diagrams and text that Izuku's eyes immediately locked onto, his analytical mind absorbing and processing information at maximum speed.

"This exam is designed as a free-for-all elimination format," Mera explained, his voice maintaining that same flat delivery that somehow made even dramatic announcements sound routine. "Heroes in modern society are expected to respond to crises with extreme speed. The public has become accustomed to near-instantaneous response times, thanks largely to the efficiency of our communication networks and the sheer number of active heroes. This test will evaluate your ability to act quickly, decisively, and effectively under competitive pressure."

Free-for-all, Izuku's mind cataloged. That means no predetermined teams, no structured brackets, everyone competing simultaneously. It's testing our ability to operate in chaotic environments where multiple variables are active at once.

The screens shifted, displaying what looked like red spheres—about the size of baseballs, Izuku estimated—and small target panels.

"Each student will be provided with six balls and three targets," Mera continued. "The targets must be attached to your body in a visible location—this is mandatory for the test to function. The balls have been specifically designed to adhere to these targets when they make contact. Your objective is simple: hit other students' targets with your balls. Once a student has had all three of their targets hit, they are eliminated from the exam."

Visible locations, Izuku thought rapidly. That means we can't hide them completely, can't protect them behind barriers or inside pockets. Strategic placement will be crucial—locations that balance accessibility for mobility with protection from attacks.

"However," Mera added, and his tone suggested this was an important caveat, "elimination only counts when all three targets have been hit. Whoever attaches the third and final ball to eliminate an opponent claims that defeat for scoring purposes. This means you could hit two of someone's targets but gain no credit if another student lands the finishing blow."

So we have to either completely eliminate opponents ourselves or risk wasting resources, Izuku analyzed. That encourages either overwhelming force against single targets or coordinated team strategies where multiple people work together and share the credit. It's testing both individual capability and cooperation.

The screens shifted again, displaying large numbers: 1,540 PARTICIPANTS → 100 ADVANCE

"Only the first one hundred students to successfully eliminate two opponents will advance to the next phase of the exam," Mera stated, and the weight of that information settled over the room like a heavy blanket. "This means that approximately fourteen hundred of you will fail today. I encourage you to consider that statistic carefully."

Two eliminations to advance, Izuku thought, his mind racing through tactical implications. With 1,540 students and 100 advancing, that means the successful candidates will account for 200 eliminations total. But wait—that leaves 1,340 students who need to be eliminated. If each advancing student only eliminates two opponents, that accounts for 200 eliminations, which leaves 1,140 students who...

His brain stuttered as the mathematics became more complex, accounting for students who might partially eliminate opponents without finishing them, teams who might cooperate on eliminations, the chaos of multiple simultaneous engagements...

This is going to be absolute chaos, he realized with certainty. There's no way to predict or control for all the variables. We're going to have to adapt on the fly, make split-second decisions, trust our instincts and training.

"You will have two hours to complete the elimination phase," Mera added. "Any student who has not achieved two eliminations by the time limit will automatically fail, regardless of their performance. Additionally, any student who violates the spirit of heroism—through excessive violence, targeting civilians in the scenario environments, or behavior unbecoming of a hero candidate—will be immediately disqualified and may face additional consequences including removal from your hero course."

Spirit of heroism, Izuku noted. That's vague, probably deliberately so. They're testing judgment as much as combat ability—knowing when to press an advantage, when to show restraint, how to balance competitive objectives with heroic principles.

"Are there any questions?" Mera asked, though his tone suggested he desperately hoped there wouldn't be.

Several hands shot up across the room. Mera pointed to a student near the front with obvious resignation.

"If we form teams, how is credit for eliminations distributed?" the student asked.

"Whoever lands the final ball receives full credit for that elimination," Mera replied. "How you choose to coordinate with others is your decision, but the scoring system does not split credit."

That's going to create tension in any team formations, Izuku thought. Everyone needs two eliminations, but only one person can claim credit for each defeat. We'll need to balance cooperation with individual objectives.

Another hand. "What about quirks that cause permanent damage? Are there restrictions?"

"Use your judgment," Mera said flatly. "Excessive violence will result in disqualification. The definition of 'excessive' is at the examiners' discretion. If you're not certain whether a technique crosses the line, it probably does."

More questions followed—about the time limit, about what happened to eliminated students, about whether the balls could be caught or deflected, about environmental hazards in the testing area. Mera answered each with the same exhausted efficiency, providing necessary information while clearly wishing the entire process could be expedited.

Finally, he held up one hand for silence.

"No more questions. Proceed to the equipment distribution stations—" he gestured vaguely toward several tables that had been set up along the walls, staffed by Commission workers, "—receive your balls and targets, attach the targets in visible locations, and prepare yourselves. The testing arena will be revealed shortly."

As students began moving toward the distribution stations in a controlled flood of bodies and nervous energy, Izuku found himself walking alongside his classmates, his mind already working through strategies and scenarios.

"Okay, so," Denki said, keeping his voice low as they joined one of the lines, "what's our plan? Do we work together? Split up? Try to—"

"We should establish a temporary alliance for the initial phase," Momo suggested, her tone taking on the analytical quality that emerged when she was thinking tactically. "With coordinated support, we're more likely to secure eliminations quickly. However, we'll need to address the credit distribution problem."

"Or we could just all go our own way and trust our individual skills," Katsuki interjected from behind them, his voice carrying its usual aggressive confidence. "I don't need help taking down two extras."

Kacchan would say that, Izuku thought with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. But actually, his approach isn't entirely wrong. In a free-for-all format, large groups attract more attention and become bigger targets. Smaller units or even solo operation might be strategically superior.

"Perhaps a compromise," Shoto suggested quietly. "We remain aware of each other's positions, provide support if someone is overwhelmed, but primarily operate independently to avoid the complications of credit distribution."

That's... actually really balanced, Izuku realized. Maintaining awareness without formal coordination. We get the benefits of having allies nearby without the disadvantages of competing for the same eliminations.

They reached the distribution station, where a tired-looking Commission worker handed each of them six red balls—slightly soft, like stress balls, but with an adhesive quality visible in the thin coating on their surface—and three target panels. The targets were white plastic, roughly ten centimeters square, with adhesive backing and bright red centers that would be clearly visible from a distance.

Strategic placement, Izuku thought, examining the targets. They said visible locations, which means upper body is probably best—chest, shoulders, upper arms. Lower body placement might be harder to defend but also harder for opponents to hit. Balance is key.

He attached one target to his right shoulder, one to his left side near his ribs, and the third to his upper chest, slightly off-center. The placement allowed for maximum mobility while keeping all three targets in locations where he could potentially block incoming balls with his arms if he saw them coming.

Which I probably won't, he acknowledged grimly. In the chaos of a free-for-all with hundreds of active combatants, tracking every incoming projectile will be impossible. This is going to come down to situational awareness, constant movement, and—

The room suddenly trembled. Not violently, but enough that conversation died and every student turned toward the source of the vibration. The far wall of the rectangular room—the entire far wall, Izuku realized with awe—was moving.

Slowly, accompanied by the deep mechanical rumble of massive hydraulics and the groan of metal under tremendous strain, the wall began to rise. Like a garage door on a impossibly grand scale, it lifted upward, revealing what lay beyond.

And beyond...

Oh, Izuku thought, his analytical mind momentarily stunned into simple observation. Oh wow.

The testing arena was vast beyond anything he'd imagined. It sprawled outward like a miniature world, easily the size of several city blocks, contained within the even larger structure of the National Dagobah Arena. But it wasn't the size that took Izuku's breath away—it was the diversity.

The terrain had been divided into distinct environmental zones, each one clearly designed to test different skill sets and favor different quirk types. Directly ahead, a dense urban environment rose like a city district made miniature—buildings of varying heights, narrow alleyways, open plazas, fire escapes and rooftops creating a three-dimensional combat space perfect for mobility-based quirks. To the left, a heavily forested area with thick vegetation and uneven terrain that would favor stealth and nature-aligned abilities. To the right, what appeared to be a rocky, mountainous region with steep inclines and exposed stone faces. Further back, Izuku could see what might be a water zone, and beyond that, structures that looked like they might simulate industrial facilities.

They built an entire world, he thought with a mixture of admiration and intimidation. Multiple environments to prevent any single quirk type from having absolute advantage. This is... this is incredible. And terrifying. And incredibly terrifying.

"Holy crap," Denki whispered, perfectly articulating what probably half the assembled students were thinking.

In the stands high above the arena—observation areas that Izuku hadn't even noticed during the briefing, positioned to give examiners and spectators a clear view of the proceedings—he could just barely make out figures taking their seats. Teachers from various schools, he presumed, along with Commission officials who would be monitoring and judging their performance.

On the platform, Yokumiru Mera let out a long, suffering sigh that somehow carried across the space despite the ambient noise of fifteen hundred students reacting to the arena reveal.

"The terrain reveal required approximately three hundred worker-hours of engineering preparation and cost the Commission a budget allocation that I will be explaining to oversight committees for the next six months," Mera said, his exhaustion somehow deepening further. "I'm telling you this because I want you to appreciate the resources that have been invested in your evaluation, and also because complaining about the workload makes me feel marginally better about my life choices."

Despite the tension, a few scattered laughs echoed through the assembly. Mera didn't acknowledge them.

"You have five minutes to enter the arena and establish your initial positions," he continued. "The elimination phase will begin with a signal buzzer. At that point, you are free to engage opponents and secure eliminations using whatever strategies you deem appropriate within the boundaries of heroic conduct. Your two-hour time limit will begin with the buzzer."

Five minutes, Izuku thought. Five minutes to choose a starting environment, position ourselves strategically, maybe scout nearby opponents...

"One final note," Mera added, and something in his tone made Izuku's attention sharpen. "Be aware that this arena is not entirely predictable. Unexpected elements may emerge during the examination. How you respond to such surprises is part of your evaluation."

Unexpected elements, Izuku's analytical mind latched onto the phrase. That's deliberately vague. What kind of unexpected elements? Additional obstacles? Environmental hazards? Mock villains like at the Sports Festival?

"Proceed," Mera commanded, and the floodgates opened.

The observation deck was considerably more comfortable than the testing arena below, though that comfort felt almost wrong given what the students were about to face.  Aizawa sat in one of the provided seats—designed more for functionality than luxury, but padded enough to prevent discomfort during the extended observation period—and watched through the reinforced glass as fifteen hundred hero students flooded into the arena like water finding new channels.

Too many variables, his exhausted mind cataloged automatically. Too many students, too many quirk interactions, too many ways this could go wrong. The Commission should have split this into multiple smaller cohorts, but I suppose that would defeat the purpose of testing rapid response under chaotic conditions.

Beside him, Emi Fukukado—the Smile Hero: Ms. Joke—stretched elaborately, her costume's bright colors seeming almost aggressively cheerful in the more subdued lighting of the observation deck. Her grin, as always, was firmly in place, though Shota had known her long enough to recognize when genuine amusement lurked beneath the professional facade.

"You know, Shota," Emi said conversationally, her tone carrying that particular playful quality that always preceded her saying something deliberately provocative, "your fly is down."

Shota didn't even glance down. "It's not."

"Made you think about it though," Emi replied triumphantly. "Got to keep you on your toes. Or, you know, keep your attention somewhere other than whatever pit of despair your brain usually inhabits."

"My brain inhabits practical reality," Shota countered flatly, his eyes never leaving the arena below, tracking his students as they spread out through different environmental zones. "A state of consciousness you might find useful occasionally."

"Practical reality is boring, Shota. You should try irrational optimism sometime. It's very refreshing."

Despite himself, Shota felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward for approximately half a second before he suppressed the expression. Don't encourage her. That's how this starts.

"Speaking of boring practical reality," Emi continued, apparently determined to maintain conversation despite his lack of encouragement, "isn't it unusual that you haven't expelled anyone from your class this year? Twenty students, all still enrolled. That's got to be a record for you. Usually by this point in the semester, you've cut at least a quarter of your class for insufficient potential or whatever melodramatic reason you give yourself to justify your trust issues."

She's not wrong, Shota acknowledged internally, though he'd never give her the satisfaction of admitting it aloud. Previous years, I would have identified the weakest links by now and removed them to prevent them from becoming liabilities in the field. But this class...

His eyes found Midoriya in the arena below—the green-haired student was moving toward the urban environment zone, staying with a loose cluster of classmates while maintaining enough distance to operate independently if necessary. Smart positioning. Tactical awareness without over-commitment to group dynamics.

This class has been forged by circumstances I never wanted them to face, Shota thought. USJ, Hosu, the training camp. They've already proven themselves under conditions that would have broken students twice their age. How do I justify expelling someone who's survived actual villain combat?

"They're adequate," Shota said aloud, his tone suggesting the topic was closed.

"'Adequate,'" Emi repeated with obvious amusement. "That's practically a love confession coming from you. Should I alert the media? 'Eraserhead admits students are adequate, citizens stunned by emotional vulnerability.'"

Before Shota could formulate a appropriately dismissive response, Emi's expression shifted slightly—still smiling, but with an edge of something more serious beneath the perpetual cheerfulness.

"Actually, speaking of your students," she said, her voice dropping slightly in volume, "there's something I probably should mention. Information that you maybe haven't shared with your class yet."

Shota's attention sharpened, his tired eyes fixing on Emi with increased focus. "What information?"

"About who else is here," Emi said cryptically. "About certain participants who might have... particular interest in U.A. students. Students who've made their opinions about your school very public recently."

Shiketsu, Shota realized immediately. She's talking about Shiketsu students, specifically ones who've criticized U.A. in media statements. That Shishikura kid who's been giving interviews about how modern heroes lack discipline and traditional values.

"My students can handle ideological opposition," Shota said flatly. "If anything, it'll be good for them to face opponents who aren't just physically threatening but intellectually opposed to their approach to heroism."

"I'm not worried about your students handling it," Emi replied. "I'm more concerned about whether certain Shiketsu students will handle it appropriately. There's a difference between competitive rivalry and targeted harassment."

Before Shota could respond to that concerning observation, a new voice cut into their conversation from his other side—a voice that somehow managed to be both cheerful and slightly threatening, like sunshine accompanied by distant thunder.

"Oh, don't worry so much, Emi-chan!" Y/N Gojo said brightly, having appeared in the seat next to Shota with the casual disregard for normal movement that characterized her spatial manipulation abilities. "Everything's going to be fine! Probably! Maybe! The odds are at least moderately in favor of minimal disaster!"

Shota resisted the urge to activate his quirk purely out of irritation. "Y/N. When did you get here?"

"I've been here the whole time, Shota," Y/N replied with obviously false innocence, her blindfolded face turned toward the arena below. "You just didn't notice because I'm very good at being unobtrusive and definitely not because I was getting snacks from the vending machines."

As if to prove her point, she pulled out what appeared to be three different varieties of chips and a can of some aggressively caffeinated beverage from... somewhere. Shota had long since given up trying to understand the logistics of Y/N's personal storage system.

"Right," he said flatly. "Unobtrusive. That's definitely the word everyone uses to describe you."

Y/N grinned, popping open her beverage with a loud hiss of carbonation. "I prefer 'mysteriously present.' Sounds more dramatic."

She stretched elaborately, her arms extending above her head in a motion that seemed perfectly calculated to look casual while actually working out genuine muscle tension. Shota noticed the movement, noticed the slight wince she suppressed, and felt his concern increase despite his better judgment.

She's been training too hard, he realized. Pushing herself with that technique of hers. The Infinity might protect her from external damage, but it doesn't prevent exhaustion or strain from overuse.

"Y/N," he said, his tone carrying warning. "You're not going to interfere with the exam."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, a reminder of the boundaries they'd discussed when she'd insisted on coming along as additional "moral support" for Class 1-A.

"Interfere?" Y/N's tone was innocent—too innocent, the kind of innocence that preceded exactly the behavior being prohibited. "Now, why would I do that? I want them to succeed as much as you do, Shota. Maybe even more, since I'm not emotionally constipated about expressing fondness for my students."

"Emotional constipation is called 'professionalism,'" Shota countered. "You should try it."

Y/N laughed, settling back in her seat and putting both hands behind her head in a relaxed posture that somehow still managed to look elegant despite being objectively lazy. "Professionalism is overrated. Caring about your students is what makes them grow. They need to know someone believes in them."

"They know," Shota said quietly, his eyes returning to the arena, tracking Bakugo's aggressive advance into the urban zone, Yaoyorozu's careful positioning on a rooftop to establish a strategic overview, Todoroki's measured movement toward the transitional area between urban and forest environments. "I don't need to verbalize it constantly for them to understand."

"Sure, sure," Y/N agreed easily. "That's why Midoriya still looks at you like a nervous puppy who's not sure if he's about to be praised or scolded. Very clear communication."

Before Shota could formulate a response to that uncomfortably accurate observation, his attention caught on something in the arena below—something that shouldn't be there, something that definitely wasn't part of the Commission's carefully controlled exam environment.

"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping into the flat, dangerous tone he used when catching villains or particularly stupid students doing particularly stupid things, "what is that?"

He pointed toward the urban zone, where his enhanced vision had caught movement that didn't match any of the students' positions or appearances. A flash of white, too large to be a student, moving with a predatory grace that set off every warning instinct his years of hero work had developed.

White scales. Blue eyes that reflected light with an almost luminescent quality. A form that hugged close to the ground, using the alley shadows for cover, moving with clear intelligence and purpose.

Moving specifically toward where Class 1-A students had gathered.

The creature was unlike anything Shota had seen in any official quirk documentation or villain report. It was reptilian, clearly, but with proportions that seemed deliberately designed for urban combat—compact enough to move through narrow spaces, but large enough to pose a serious threat. Its scales had an almost metallic quality, and the way it moved suggested both strength and frightening agility.

That's not a student. That's not a training dummy. That's not supposed to be in there.

"Then why is that one of your creations down there?" Shota said, his tone leaving no room for deflection. His quirk was already activating, his hair beginning to float as his eyes locked onto Y/N with the intensity of someone who had just discovered a massive security breach.

Y/N's posture had shifted—subtly, but Shota had worked with her enough to recognize the signs. The playful casualness had been replaced by something more serious, more focused. Her blindfolded face was turned toward the arena, and despite the absence of visible eyes, Shota could feel her attention locked onto the creature he'd indicated.

"I got no idea what you're talking about," Y/N said, her tone completely serious now, devoid of her usual playfulness. The shift was so complete that even Emi straightened in her seat, recognizing that something significant was happening.

Shota's glare intensified, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of potential danger to his students. "That white Indoraptor down there—the one currently stalking Class 1-A students in an exam environment where it absolutely should not exist—you're telling me that's not one of your creations? Not something you engineered with your quirk?"

Her quirk, his mind supplied. Reality manipulation on a localized scale. She can create constructs, temporary beings with programmed behaviors, as long as she maintains focus. She's shown us demonstrations—practice dummies that move and react like real opponents, environmental obstacles that appear and disappear. If she wanted to create a dangerous creature to "test" students...

"That isn't mine," Y/N said firmly, and the absolute certainty in her voice actually made Shota pause.

Because Y/N was many things—playful, irreverent, occasionally irresponsible about boundaries—but she wasn't a liar. Not about important things. Not about student safety.

"If it's not yours," Shota said slowly, his mind already racing through alternatives, each one worse than the last, "then whose is it? And why the hell is there an unknown entity in a controlled examination environment?"

Y/N's hands had lowered from behind her head, her posture now fully alert. Despite the blindfold, Shota could see her head tracking the creature's movement through the arena with the precision of her spatial awareness quirk.

"I don't know," she admitted quietly. "But Shota? Whatever that thing is, it's not behaving like a training construct. It's hunting."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implications that Shota didn't want to examine but couldn't ignore.

Hunting. An unknown entity. In an arena filled with fifteen hundred hero students. During an examination that's being broadcast to schools across Japan.

His hand was already reaching for his communication device, preparing to alert the Commission examiners, preparing to shut down the examination before whatever was about to happen could happen.

But then he paused, watching the creature move through the urban environment with predatory intelligence, watching as it specifically altered its course to follow Class 1-A students, and a terrible thought occurred to him.

What if this is the test? What if this is Mera's "unexpected element"—a curve ball thrown into the exam to see how students respond to genuine unknown threats rather than predictable training scenarios?

"Y/N," he said quietly, "can you determine if it's hostile? If it actually poses a danger to students?"

Her blindfolded face remained fixed on the arena, her usual grin completely absent. "My Infinity isn't detecting any immediate aggressive intent. It's... observing. Following. But not attacking. Yet."

Yet, Shota thought grimly. Everything's fine until it isn't.

"Keep monitoring it," he ordered. "And Y/N? If that thing makes one move toward harming my students—one move—you intervene. I don't care about exam protocols or Commission rules. Student safety comes first."

"Obviously," Y/N replied, and the single word carried absolute conviction. "Did you really think I'd let anything hurt them?"

Shota didn't answer, his attention returning to the arena below, to his students spreading out through different environmental zones, unaware of the white-scaled predator that was now, for reasons they didn't understand, sharing their examination space.

Please let this be a planned test element, he thought with the desperate hope of someone who'd dealt with too many unexpected crises. Please let there be a reasonable explanation.

But deep in his gut, honed by years of hero work and too many close calls, Shota Aizawa knew something was wrong.

The examination was about to become significantly more complicated.

And in the arena below, completely unaware of the creature tracking their movements, Class 1-A was about to face an unexpected element that would test more than just their combat abilities.

The buzzer hadn't even sounded yet.