Welcome to U.A. High School."
Principal Nezu's chipper voice carried effortlessly across the vast auditorium, cutting through the hum of nervous excitement. Hundreds of first-years sat packed shoulder to shoulder.
The air smelled faintly of new fabric and polish, the seats creaking softly as students shifted.
Izuku, seated near the middle beside Uraraka-san, was surrounded by unfamiliar faces.
Future classmates. Future heroes.
Onstage, Nezu-san adjusted the microphone, black eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.
Applause rippled through the crowd. Polite and expectant.
The principal allowed it to fade before continuing.
"You are here because you possess potential. Raw. Unrefined. Also entirely uncertain."
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
"Students," he continued, pausing, whiskers twitching, "why do you think U.A.—alongside Shiketsu—is considered Japan's foremost heroic institution, when hero academies exist across the nation?"
Izuku smiled faintly.
Nezu-san had asked him the same, during their only "talk," in the hectic days following the entrance exams.
He'd come in for a medical checkup—fatigue, headaches, and dizziness. The physical cost of shattering the mental block. Ember had surged from 5% to 8%, and his hard-won precision had slipped along with it.
As was always the case, a discussion with Nezu-san followed the checkup.
**
"Midoriya-kun," Nezu-san said lightly, "humor me. Why is U.A. considered Japan's premier heroic institution?"
Izuku blinked, then answered carefully. "It's not just the Hero Course. It's the structure—four departments working together. Like pillars holding up a building."
Nezu smiled. "Go on."
"Even the H-shaped campus reflects it," Izuku said, confidence rising. "Four wings. Four pillars. One system."
Nezu set his teacup down. "Very good."
**
Nezu's voice pulled Izuku back to the ceremony.
"U.A. High School functions as a professional ecosystem," his tone shifting into something warmer, almost conversational.
"Students forge lifelong career partnerships here. The Hero Course provides the brand, securing personal technicians from Support for gear development and managers from Business to handle PR and logistics."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"The Support Course gains elite clients to showcase inventions, and sponsors from Business to fund R . The Business Course signs future stars early, while collaborating with General Education graduates who, as future officials, provide the administrative manpower and legal infrastructure to keep the industry running."
Nezu's smile widened.
"You are all pillars of U.A. Remember that."
Applause erupted. Some enthusiastic, some polite, a few overly loud.
Izuku clapped along, glancing at Uraraka-san. She was nodding, eyes bright.
Then his phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, reading the message.
Congratulations on your correct answer, Midoriya-kun.
Attached: Class Schedule.
Izuku opened the attachment.
His eyes locked instantly onto the highlighted section—red text, unmistakable.
Elective: Heroic Analysis Strategy
Instructor: Principal Nezu
His breath caught.
Yes. He'd answered correctly.
The answer had come to him throughout the week, slowly. The one he'd agonized over and second-guessed again and again had only solidified two days ago.
He'd been nervous drafting that email.
U.A.'s channels were secure—especially after David-san's upgrades—but still.
He was slightly… slightly afraid of the answer he'd reached. He also didn't want to accidentally veer into speciesism.
A hand tapped his shoulder.
He turned.
A boy with multiple arms—six, if Izuku counted correctly—stood there, eyes visible above a cloth mask.
Izuku blinked. "Y-yes?"
The boy bowed slightly. "I wanted to thank you. At the station. You… you helped me. And others."
Izuku's mind flashed back. The Trigger, the chaos, the—
Oh.
The boy from the Trigger incident. One of of the people he'd shielded.
"I—I didn't—" Izuku stammered. "I mean, I'm glad you're okay, but—"
"Shoji Mezo," the boy said, extending a hand. "Class 1-A. I hope we can work together."
A voice called out.
"Class 1-A."
It was low, flat, and tired.
Izuku turned, along with two dozen others.
A man stood a few paces away—disheveled, unshaven. His dark eyes were half-lidded, bored, and sharp all at once.
But it was the gear that gave him away.
The yellow goggles resting against his collarbone. A capture weapon coiled around his neck like a sleeping snake.
Erasure Hero: Eraser Head.
"Follow me."
***
"The last place will be expelled."
Aizawa didn't bother suppressing the grin tugging at his mouth. It was a good intimidation factor, after all.
He let the threat settle over the P.E. grounds, heavy and suffocating, despite the obnoxious brightness of the midday sun.
Three seconds passed.
The reaction was a predictable waste of energy.
The shocked silence fractured into the usual volatile mix of outrage and desperate appeals to fairness.
There were always a few, however, who remained still. Either genuinely confident or already assessing.
Normally, this was where Aizawa would explain the fundamental unfairness of heroics, that villains and natural disasters didn't care about rules, excuses, or even effort.
This year, he didn't bother.
He only stared.
In truth, none of them were going anywhere. Not today.
A one-day expulsion usually served as a necessary brush with death. The sudden, choking realization that everything you'd worked for could vanish in an instant. It was brutal but effective.
But the rat had been uncharacteristically firm about it.
The reformed entrance exam, Nezu had insisted, was already comprehensive. It had included enough pressure without Aizawa needing to introduce it personally.
"Not to mention the paperwork," Nezu had added mildly. "Parent complaints. Counseling, Aizawa-kun."
Aizawa clicked his tongue. He was fairly certain those latter issues were the main reason.
His gaze swept over the cluster of twenty-four first-years in blue gym uniforms, still stiff with newness.
Four more than usual—an expanded roster, courtesy of the revised entrance exam, which has brought 24% incrise in candidates.
He didn't need to glance at the tablet in his hand to pick them out.
While Aizawa didn't believe in relying on personal histories, he did review entrance exam footage and application data. To understand what raw material he was working with.
His eyes settled on the split-haired kid standing near the back.
Shoto Todoroki.
Son of Enji Todoroki—Endeavor, the No. 2 hero.
It didn't matter.
That was precisely why Aizawa avoided digging too deeply into backgrounds. A privileged upbringing or a dark past meant nothing here. On this campus, only results and behavior counted.
Aizawa pulled out a softball, tossing it once.
"Shoto Todoroki," he called. "Without penalties, your score is the highest. Step forward and throw the ball."
The boy moved immediately, without hesitation, expression unreadable.
He stepped into the circle, took the ball, and threw it into the air.
Ice erupted.
Shrrrink!
A pillar crystallized beneath his feet, surging upward. The ball struck the pillar and launched skyward, carried by the expanding ice.
Aizawa glanced at the tablet, then turned it around to show them.
645.3 meters.
Silence, then gasps, muttering, a few nervous laughs.
Aizawa studied Todoroki. The boy's expression remained unchanged.
No fire, even though it would have created far better propulsion. Just ice.
He filed that away.
"Yaoyorozu Momo."
The tall girl with the high ponytail stepped forward, posture immaculate.
She was part of the cancelled recommendation track.
Politics within and outside the hero system aside, the recommendation system existed for a simple reason. Some Quirks granted overwhelming firepower and versatility from the outset, and pitting those students against the general applicant pool would have been unfair to everyone involved.
On that point, Aizawa couldn't entirely disagree.
The recommendation exam also took place after the standard entrance test, filling most slots and leaving four designated positions per batch for the recommendation course.
This year, however, there had been five.
Half of the top ten rankings.
Yaoyorozu placed her hands at her waist. Her uniform parted as a cannon formed seamlessly from her exposed abdomen, materializing with the ease that only years of private instruction could produce, then landing on the circle line with weight.
Thud.
Then—
Boom.
The ball soared.
"1.09 kilometers," the asistent bot announced.
The gasp was even louder this time.
She gave a precise bow and returned to the line.
Impressive.
"Next. Bakugo Katsuki."
Aizawa watched the blond stop glaring at the green-haired boy and stomp forward, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched.
There it was. The barely contained aggression he'd expected from reviewing the entrance exam footage.
Highest villain points. Highest penalty.
And zero in all other categories.
A problem child, if he'd ever seen one.
The boy snatched the ball, winding up with sparks already crackling across his palm.
"Everybody cover your ears," a voice warned.
"DIE!"
BOOM!
The shockwave swept up a dust cloud, rustling their hair.
Beep. Beep.
Aizawa looked at the distance, as the bot announced.
"709.8 meters."
The blond's face twisted as he stalked back, kicking the cannon made by Yaoyorozu, sparks snapping from his fists. likely angered at being out-explosioned.
Sigh.
Problem children always ended up in his class.
Not by accident.
Vlad King took the cooperative ones. The team players. The steady builders.
Aizawa got the rest. The volatile, the stubborn, the ones who needed Erasure nearby when things inevitably went sideways.
Class distribution followed a pattern, each homeroom teacher chose five from the top ten, five from the bottom ten. The rest were allocated by Quirk compatibility, behavioral balance, or—when necessary—chance.
The ball throws continued, unfolding with the usual chaos of a herd of teenagers.
Shouting. Overexertion. Poor impulse control.
Then came the first student whose Quirk offered no direct assistance to the throw.
Saiko Intelli.
Now that was interesting.
Because stripped of raw power, the test's real purpose wasn't the distance the balls reached. But the intent.
Even if a student couldn't directly apply their Quirk, preparation still mattered.
And any student serious about this path should have already been asking themselves how effectively to use what they had.
If they hadn't practiced, fine. Some Quirks didn't allow that. But ideas? theories?
Those were indicative of effort.
And effort was what Aizawa was actually measuring.
The white-haired girl stepped forward, eyes flicking briefly to the assistant bots, then she shook her head.
Good choice. Even with her Quirk, that would take too long.
Boom.
The cannon created by the Yaoyorozu heiress fired.
"1.13 kilometers," the assistant bot announced.
A beat of stunned silence followed.
"Is that allowed?" someone finally asked.
Aizawa didn't bother responding aloud.
Just a nod.
"Next," he called, motioning to the purple-haired boy.
Hitoshi Shinso stepped forward.
Aizawa remembered the boy. Hitoshi's acceptance video had featured him, after all. Since the boy had cited Eraser Head as his favorite hero, he had been tasked with delivering the results.
That had earned him a second look.
Shinso glanced at the cannon, still smoking, but there was no gunpowder left.
He sighed, resigned.
His face tightened with concentration as he threw.
The ball landed.
"68 meters."
Fear spiked through the boy's posture.
Fear of expulsion.
It was the lowest score so far, after all.
And following that score came the highest result in Quirk apprehension, past and future.
After all, infinity wasn't something you topped.
The brown-haired girl smiled faintly as murmurs rippled through the watching students.
An absurd Quirk. Nullifying gravity with the touch of five fingers, then restoring it when all ten made contact.
And yet—
Aizawa's gaze drifted to the green-haired boy off to the side, quietly talking with Tenya Iida. Footage he'd reviewed earlier resurfaced in his mind.
At the end of the exam, neither Uraraka nor Midoriya had been floating due to her Zero Gravity.
The force had originated from the boy.
Then there was the oscillation in his output, specifically during the Gigantes incident.
"Midoriya Izuku," Aizawa called.
The boy stepped forward, visibly nervous, exchanging a brief smile with Uraraka as they passed.
Along with those glaring inconsistencies was another thread Aizawa couldn't ignore his intuition, connecting the boy to the Symbol of Peace.
A symbol who had, without explanation, informed staff that his already limited activity time had dropped from three hours to less than two hours.
The thought still irritated him.
Green sparks danced across Midoriya's body. No multicolored flame this time.
That confirmed it.
He wasn't using his full power.
Not the power that had punched a hole straight through the Gigantes' head.
He's not taking this seriously, Aizawa thought, eyes flaring red.
Intervention was necessary.
But the green sparks didn't vanish.
Instead, a sharp pain lanced through Aizawa's head.
What—?
An image forced itself into his mind—
A stone throne wreathed in emerald fire.
And then, hovering behind the boy, a phantom pair of massive, crackling emerald eyes opened.
"Hh—!"
Aizawa sucked in a breath, vision swimming.
For the first time since he'd activated Erasure, something had looked back at him.
Then suddenly, Erasure snapped fully into place at last.
The green sparks coating Midoriya's body flickered… then died.
The boy staggered slightly, surprise flashing across his face.
"—Huh?" Midoriya blinked, looking down at his hands. Then up. "Sensei—did you just erase my Quirk?"
Aizawa's eyes narrowed.
He noticed immediately.
Most first-years panicked. Or froze. Or assumed failure.
This one recognized Erasure on instinct.
Suspicion coiled tight in Aizawa's chest.
'Did All Might tell him?
'About me? About how Erasure works?'
The implication alone was infuriating.
He let the silence stretch before answering.
"You weren't going to use your full power," Aizawa said flatly. "Which means you weren't taking the test seriously."
Midoriya stiffened. "I—"
"And don't interrupt." Aizawa's glare cut the words off cleanly. "You have zero control over your Quirk. Your output is inconsistent."
A ripple of unease moved through the class.
"A hero who can't regulate their own power is a liability. To civilians. To teammates."
Aizawa stepped closer.
"And to themselves."
***
"Deku."
Izuku could hear Kacchan's angry growl—likely reacting to the ember sparks that had been dancing across Izuku's body only moments ago, before being cleanly erased by their homeroom teacher's Quirk.
Eraser Head.
The man who had calmly announced that the student in last place would be expelled.
"Will he be okay?" Uraraka-san's worried whisper drifted toward him, meant for Iida-san. But Izuku heard it clearly.
"Well," Iida replied, pushing his glasses up with a sharp gesture, "his Quirk is undeniably powerful."
"But… it only manifested recently."
A pause.
"Recently, I see."
Shōji-san—whom Izuku hadn't yet had the chance to properly talk with—murmured thoughtfully from a few paces away.
"A most dire predicament."
"No shit, Fumi."
The voices belonged to Tokoyami-san and Dark Shadow-san, whom Izuku had been seated beside during the written exam.
"A Quirk that disables other Quirks, perhaps? Fascinating."
Izuku couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips as he found himself agreeing with the quiet observation of the black-haired girl with the powerful Creation Quirk—Yaoyorozu, if he remembered correctly.
Nearby, the girl with earphone jacks muttered under her breath, repeating Aizawa-sensei's words:
"'Zero control. Inconsistent output.' What did he mean by that…?"
It seemed she did have enhanced hearing, as he'd predicted.
What would be her reaction if she knew he could hear her too?
"Steady, kid," Banjo rumbled inside his head. "Your thoughts are spiraling again."
"Focus," En added calmly. "You know what to do."
"Breathe, Izuku," Nana murmured, warmth threading gently through her tone.
He inhaled deeply.
Aurora Cowl was out. If activated again, it would most likely be erased instantly.
Which left—
Nebula.
He centered himself, drawing inward to that weightless pit in his solar plexus.
Woong—
A faint hum vibrated through his core as the circular field formed a two-meter disc of rotational force, traced by faint green-pink sparks at its edges.
The pressure lifted him a meter off the ground, air trembling around the invisible ring.
He toss the ball.
The rotational field caught it mid-flight, drawing it into the spin—accelerating it, tightening its arc into a focused spiral.
Faster.
The hum sharpened into a high whine.
Then he released it.
The ball shot forward like a comet.
Izuku landed a moment later, legs unsteady, breath coming fast.
"443 meter." The assistent bit announced.
He glanced at Eraser Head.
The man's expression hadn't changed. Still flat. Still unreadable.
But his eyes followed Izuku all the way back to the line.
That… has to mean something.
Right?
The tests passed without any new chaos or serious confrontation.
Well—nothing new, anyway.
"You damn nerd!"
Kacchan had nearly exploded him after losing their fifty-meter dash, palms already crackling before Eraser Head's glare shut it down instantly.
Some things never changed.
And honestly? That outburst was practically routine by now.
Though he was surprised that a teacher had stepped in. That was a first.
As for the test itself—
Izuku had won the dash. By combining Nebula's lift with Ember's propulsion, he'd gained just enough of an edge to beat Iida-san's 3.3 seconds with a time of 2.9.
In the seated toe-touch and sit-ups, he also did well. Courtesy of his enhance physic.
The standing long jump, however, drew attention.
Izuku activated Nebula and sailed clean over the sandpit, landing softly on the far side. A wave of murmurs rippled through his classmates.
"That's totally unfair!" the blond boy with the black lightning-streak fringe laughed, sounding more excited than upset.
At the grip-strength test, even with his Ember output pushed to a full eight percent, Izuku fell short of Shōji-san's overwhelming result of 540 kilograms to his 513.
"That's incredible," Izuku said honestly, admiring the raw force Shōji-san could generate with all six arms working in concert.
Shōji blinked, then gave a small, awkward nod behind his mask. "I'm just… built for it."
Then—
"Octopuses are hot."
Izuku glanced sideways.
The short, purple-balls for hair boy was whispering to no one in particular, eyes flicking between Shōji's limbs and the testing device with an unsettling way.
Izuku edged a half-step away.
Later, the same boy dominated the side-step test, his spherical Quirk giving him a distinct bouncing advantage.
Izuku relied on Nebula to glide laterally, skating across the ground with minimal friction. He placed third—just behind the purple-haired boy and Kacchan, who was once again cursing his failure to claim first.
By the endurance run, even Izuku's enhanced stamina couldn't hold off the burnout.
Lap after lap, his legs turned to lead. His breathing grew ragged, lungs burning with every inhale. The Ember flickered, guttering like a candle in the wind.
He could have used Nebula, but he didn't need to. Eraser Head's signal cut through the field before the thought fully formed.
Izuku slowed, then stopped, trudging back to the line beside Yaoyorozu-san. She didn't look the least bit exhausted, riding calmly atop a streamlined scooter of her own creation. The two of them had been the last to finish.
"Nice work," she said easily.
Izuku nodded, too winded to reply.
"Damn it! Damn it!"
Izuku could hear Kacchan cursing angrily under his breath.
He himself had dropped to second-to-last in the endurance run, only before of Iida-san.
And, as always, Kacchan wasn't happy about it.
"Time to present your results," Eraser Head called, his voice cutting through the fatigue like a blade.
The students gathered, shoulders slumped, sweat-soaked and spent.
Izuku took a slow breath, looking around at his classmates. Every one of them had fought hard to stand here.
One of them, statistically speaking, was going home.
"Quit worrying, kid. First in the dash, first in endurance, top five in everything else—you're likely number one." Banjo-san tried assured him.
I'm not worried about myself, Izuku thought.
This… this isn't right.
Aizawa's voice cut in again.
"Your final score is the aggregate of your individual results."
He paused.
"Reading them aloud would take too long. Pay attention."
The holographic display materialized before them, projected from Eraser Head's tablet, which he held with deceptive casualness.
Twenty-four names.
Twenty-four rankings.
Silence fell. Then—
Gasps. Groans. A few relieved exhales.
And a very familiar snarl.
1. Midoriya Izuku
2. Yaoyorozu Momo
3. Todoroki Shoto
4. Bakugo Katsuki
5. Iida Tenya
6. Tokoyami Fumikage
7. Shoji Mezo
8. Ojiro Mashirao
9. Kirishima Eijiro
10. Ashido Mina
11. Uraraka Ochako
12. Koda Koji
13. Sato Rikido
14. Asui Tsuyu
15. Aoyama Yuga
16. Sero Hanta
17. Kaminari Denki
18. Jiro Kyoka
19. Hagakure Toru
20. Mineta Minoru
21. Saiko Intelli
22. Camie Utsushimi
23. Kashiko Sekigai
24. Shinso Hitoshi
Izuku stared at the top of the list.
His name.
First.
Relief should've come.
Instead, his gaze drifted downward.
To the very bottom.
24. Shinso Hitoshi
The purple-haired boy stared at his name, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. His breathing hitched—once—before evening out into something deliberately controlled.
Izuku's stomach twisted.
Eraser Head's voice rang out, flat and final.
"And with that, the student in last place—"
Izuku braced himself. He wouldn't freeze like he had at the start of the test—when the vestiges had dissuaded him from acting.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
"—will not be expelled."
"Wha—"
"As expected. A ruse," En muttered.
"Called it," Banjo barked. "Psych pressure 101. Push 'em till they crack."
'R–ruse? Wh—why didn't you tell me?' Izuku thought wildly.
"We didn't want to interfere with the man's teaching methods," Nana said, sounding not the least bit apologetic. "Sorry."
Shock rippled through the students like a physical wave.
"The expulsion threat exists to ensure maximum effort," Aizawa continued, a thin grin tugging at his lips.
"Isn't it obvious?" Yaoyorozu asked bluntly, then hesitated. "I suppose I should've said something. Sorry."
Aizawa didn't acknowledge her.
"That doesn't mean it wouldn't have been enforced," he added casually. "Ask the upperclassmen I expelled."
The smile sharpened.
The shock this time was whiplash.
Yaoyorozu's eyes widened.
"They were readmitted the following day," Aizawa went on.
More stunned silence.
"But due to the new entrance exam reforms," he said flatly, "the principal didn't allow it this year."
The tension spiked again. Sharper than before.
Is he serious? Izuku thought.
"Yes," En replied. "He's administering controlled psychological whiplash."
"Hah," Banjo laughed. "Man's enjoying himself."
Aizawa's red eyes swept the class.
"That doesn't mean I can't transfer you to the General Course."
No immediate follow-up.
No explanation.
Just silence.
The tension stretched, coiled, ready to snap.
Then—
"U.A. doesn't waste potential," Aizawa said at last. "But potential without effort is meaningless."
His gaze lingered, sharp and assessing.
"If you'd treated this as a joke, you'd have learned that the hard way."
The holographic projection vanished.
"You're dismissed."
***
"Midoriya Izuku was the boy in the vortex."
Nezu did not look up as Aizawa-kun spoke. He was still filling his cup.
Drip.
The final drop from the tea dispenser fell uselessly, barely enough to bring the liquid to halfway. He had already gone through three cups during the first day's report meeting.
Only then did he raise his head, turning his gaze to Aizawa-kun, seated beside him at the U-shaped conference table.
The man had remained behind after Sekijiro-kun excused himself, their final agenda item—the joint heroics class, revised in response to All Might's diminishing availability—already concluded.
Nezu glanced back down at the tablet in his paws.
The Quirk Apprehension Test footage replayed in silence.
…Yes. There it was again.
The Erasure effect lagged, only for an instant, but enough.
A fractional delay, where green sparks persisted before guttering out.
He looked up.
Aizawa-kun's expression was carefully neutral, but the tension was there. Jaw tight, shoulders rigid beneath the capture weapon. He had revealed moments ago that he'd experienced the same resistance during the Trigger incident.
Erasure was the first—and still the only—long-range Quirk-negation ability, effective against all Emitter and Transformation types.
It's ineffective against Mutant-types . And against rare Hybrid .
A fact for which he was quietly grateful.
Hybridization runs deeper than all others in his case, after all.
He lifted his cup.
Sip.
"Yes," Nezu said calmly. "Izuku Midoriya is the boy All Might extracted from the vortex that day."
Aizawa's jaw tightened. "And you didn't think to mention this before I took him as a student?"
"You are his homeroom teacher now," Nezu replied evenly. "So now you may know."
"That's not an answer."
"It is, however, accurate." Nezu folded his paws atop the tablet.
"Confidentiality was necessary. But as Midoriya-kun's supervising instructor, you are now entitled to the relevant details."
Silence stretched.
Aizawa exhaled through his nose. "His Quirk resisted Erasure," he said flatly.
"Twice. That isn't normal."
"No," he agreed. "It is not."
"Then what is it?"
Nezu tilted his head. "A Quirk."
Aizawa's glare sharpened. "Don't."
"Don't what, Aizawa-kun?"
"Don't deflect." The capture weapon shifted softly, a dry rustle like leaves. "You know more than you're saying."
"I always do," he said pleasantly. "That is rather the point of being principal."
The temperature in the room dropped just a fraction.
Aizawa leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. "If his Quirk is dangerous, if it's unstable, I need to know. For his safety. And everyone else's."
"An notable concern," Nezu replied lightly. "But every Quirk is dangerous. You know that, Aizawa-kun." He paused, eyes unblinking. "Just like the others in your class, who require your Erasure kept close at hand."
The silence was answer enough.
Sip.
He took another drink of tea.
He tapped the tablet, restarting the clip and reviewing the footage once more.
Yes. Unlike Mutant or Hybrid types, One For All was not immune.
It was resistant.
"Cognitive pushback. Eyes that looked at me through Erasure. A throne. Green fire."
That was how Aizawa-kun had described the phenomenon.
One For All, Nezu mused, was proving to be a most intriguing anomaly.
And that anomaly was one of the reasons he believed Midoriya-kun might be able to answer his question.
After all, Nezu was himself an anomaly.
And Midoriya -kun did answered it.
Nezu slid the tablet across the table toward Aizawa-kun.
"You premeditatedly singled Midoriya-kun out," Nezu observed quietly. "During the ball throw. You erased his Quirk and criticized his control, publicly."
"He was holding back," Aizawa-kun replied with sigh, voice tight. "That's dangerous ."
"Mm." Nezu steepled his paws. "A fair concern. Though I wonder, did you review his file before reaching that conclusion?"
Aizawa-kun didn't blink. "No."
"Of course not. You never do."
"I don't care about their pasts," Aizawa-kun said. "Or their connections. What matters is what they do here."
"A philosophy I admire," Nezu nodded once. "Up to a point."
"Because if you had even glanced," Nezu continued calmly, "you would already know that Midoriya Izuku was officially registered as Quirkless one week ago."
Waiting until the last moment to register was wise. Nezu muse. The Commission's attention was... difficult to manage.
The air in the room went still.
Aizawa froze.
"…What?"
"An accumulative type," Nezu said, unhurried. "The vortex was a Trigger-induced awakening. Violent. Uncontrolled. Traumatic."
Aizawa's hands curled into fists atop the table.
Nezu observed the subtle shift in his posture with quiet amusement.
Aizawa opened his mouth, then closed it.
Nezu leaned back, the motion slow, deliberate.
"You sensed All Might's attention on him," he said. "Didn't you?"
Aizawa's jaw worked. "…Yes."
"And you assumed favoritism. Nepotism. The usual sins of the Symbol's excessive sentimentality."
Nezu's tone remained light.
His gaze did not.
"So you pushed," he continued evenly.
"To see whether the boy would crack under pressure or prove himself worthy of that attention."
Aizawa said nothing.
Nezu sighed softly, leaning forward slightly
"I know your ideals, Aizawa-kun. You believe in the pragmatic hero. The one who saves lives through preparation, strategy, and restraint. You abhor the spectacle. The recklessness. The symbolism that All Might represents."
He paused.
"And I understand why."
Aizawa's gaze snapped back to him.
"But," Nezu continued, voice gentle now, "that ideal, however ridiculous it may seem to you, brought Japan out of the Dark Age. It gave a broken society something to believe in when Quirks were tearing civilization apart."
He folded his paws.
"I have been principal of this institution for many years. I have seen countless students walk these halls, each carrying their own philosophy of what it means to be a hero."
His voice softened further.
"Some believe in symbols. Some believe in shadows. Some believe in sacrifice, or justice, or hope, or pragmatism."
He met Aizawa's eyes.
"Our job, yours and mine, is not to force them onto a single path. It is to teach them the tools they need to walk their own path."
Aizawa's expression flickered, just for a moment.
Nezu's tone turned quieter still.
"I know Oboro Shirakumo's death shaped your ideals. I know it taught you that recklessness kills. That heroism without caution is suicide."
He leaned forward.
"And you are not wrong."
A pause.
"But the students must find their own balance, Aizawa-kun. Not inherit yours."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not hostile.
Finally, Aizawa exhaled.
"…I wasn't going to expel him."
"I know."
Nezu had known, of course—Aizawa would 'threaten' expulsion regardless of the ban.
"I just wanted to see if he'd fold."
"I know that too."
Aizawa stood, capture weapon settling around his shoulders like a familiar weight.
"He didn't fold," Nezu added. "He adapted. Switched to a secondary application of his Quirk when Erasure nullified the first."
Aizawa paused at the door.
"…He's going to be a problem child."
Nezu's whiskers twitched. "All the best ones are."
The door closed.
Nezu sat alone in the quiet office, the hum of the building's ventilation the only sound.
Had he been overly protective?
Perhaps.
He glanced down at the tablet; with a few swipes and a passcode, he opened the email from .ua —Izuku Midoriya.
And perhaps this was the reason.
Someone had answered the question he sought, after all.
He read it again.
—
What am I?
I was perplexed by the fiftieth time my answer came out wrong. Maybe it was philosophical—about myself. Maybe the answer was a very complex and unknown species.
—
Yes. That was usually where this line of inquiry led, Nezu mused.
—
But my first clue was your insistence that I could answer it. That there was an answer you expected. One no one else had given before.
One For All. It has to be it. The factor that differentiate me.
Then everything fell into place.
My seating for the written exam wasn't random, was it?
—
Sip.
Nezu took a slow sip of the now-lukewarm tea.
No. It wasn't, he thought.
It had been entirely deliberate on Nezu's part.
He continued reading.
—
Before I try to give a technical answer, I want to say this first.
For me, you are a friend.
—
Nezu felt his mouth curve upward despite himself. just as it did every time he read that line.
—
What am I — What are you?
You are Nezu— a chimera.
You are Mr. Principal, a hero.
—
Sip.
Nezu finished the last of his tea and set the cup gently on the table.
His gaze lingered on the final line, smile softening as he read it once more.
—
And you Are High Spec.
A Quirk.