UA High School rose out of the city like a statement.
Concrete, steel, and glass—clean lines reinforced for purpose rather than appearance. Kurayami Akira stood among hundreds of applicants outside the massive gates, his bag resting against his shoulder, posture relaxed but alert.
Then he saw him.
Green hair. Slightly hunched posture. Nervous energy barely contained beneath determination.
A girl just ahead stumbled, almost falling. The boy reacted instantly, grabbing her arm, apologizing so quickly his words tripped over themselves. The girl laughed it off, thanked him with a bright smile, and hurried along.
Akira slowed.
Recognition didn't arrive as a rush of memories. It came quietly, like a fact settling into place.
Midoriya Izuku.
The name surfaced without effort.
The center of this year's storm.
Akira watched as the boy muttered to himself, then straightened and followed the others inside. The girl—Uraraka Ochaco—disappeared into the crowd, still smiling.
So the timeline was intact.
That didn't comfort him.
It sharpened his focus.
This wasn't a story to navigate. It was a world already moving forward, with or without him.
Akira adjusted his grip on his bag and walked on.
The entrance hall buzzed with energy.
Confidence collided with anxiety. Quirks flared in subtle, restrained ways—heat rippling in the air, vibrations in the floor, faint sparks snapping from fingertips. Power here was loud, eager to be noticed.
Akira remained quiet.
When the exam instructions echoed through the hall, he listened carefully. Targets. Points. Robots. Zero-Pointer: avoid it.
No warnings about dangerous abilities. No restrictions.
UA wasn't here to judge what someone was.
It judged what they could do.
The gates opened.
The exam began.
Akira moved forward only after the first wave surged ahead. He didn't rush. Speed wasted energy, and energy mattered.
A three-pointer rounded the corner, metal limbs clanking loudly.
Akira drew a shallow cut across his palm.
Blood surfaced instantly.
It lifted at his command, condensing into a compact blade—narrow, efficient, no wasted volume. He stepped in close, slicing cleanly through the robot's knee joint before it could react. Metal screamed as the machine collapsed.
One point.
He dissolved the blade immediately and moved on.
The rhythm came quickly.
Cut. Form. Strike. Dissolve.
Move.
He avoided prolonged engagements, never contesting the same target as another examinee. His strikes were precise—joints, sensors, power connections. End the fight before it escalated.
Efficiency over dominance.
High above the field, monitors flickered as feeds shifted automatically.
Aizawa Shouta watched in silence, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Sector C," Present Mic said. "Kid with the blood construct Quirk."
Aizawa was already tracking him.
On-screen, Akira dismantled another robot and disengaged instantly, blood dissolving back into himself without hesitation.
"He's not chasing points," Aizawa said.
"That a problem?" Mic asked.
"That's rare."
Aizawa leaned forward slightly.
"Emitter-type blood manipulation. No external source. No regeneration," he muttered. "He's managing blood loss in real time."
On another monitor, Vlad King paused mid-step and leaned closer.
"Freeze that," he said.
The image stopped on Akira forming a blade—edges clean, structure uniform.
"Excellent control," Vlad said. "No emotional fluctuation. No panic response."
Mic blinked. "Looks painful."
"It is," Vlad replied calmly. "That's why this matters."
The feed resumed.
Akira impaled a robot reflexively, then immediately dissolved the construct.
Vlad nodded once.
"He corrected himself."
Aizawa switched feeds as the ground shook.
The Zero-Pointer emerged.
"He's not engaging it," Aizawa noted.
Instead, Akira diverted toward falling debris.
"That's judgment," Aizawa said. "Not heroics."
On the field, chaos spread as examinees scattered.
Akira stopped—not frozen, but calculating.
Zero points. No reward.
But chaos created margins.
A scream cut through the noise.
Akira spotted the problem instantly—a girl pinned beneath broken concrete as the massive robot turned toward her.
He ran.
Not toward the Zero-Pointer.
Toward her.
Blood flowed more freely now, pain blooming sharp and immediate as he shaped reinforced supports, lifting debris just enough for her to crawl free. His breathing stayed steady, even as strain tugged at the edges of his focus.
She stared at him, eyes wide.
"Go," Akira said calmly.
She didn't hesitate.
The moment she was clear, Akira disengaged—dissolving every construct at once and retreating at an angle, refusing to waste blood on a machine that wouldn't earn him anything.
The horn sounded moments later.
Exam over.
The medical bay was quiet and efficient.
Recovery Girl moved briskly between students. When she reached Akira, she paused.
"Blood loss," she said, peering over her glasses. "But controlled."
"Yes, ma'am."
She examined his bandages. "You've trained this."
"Yes, ma'am."
No accusation. No concern disguised as judgment.
Just confirmation.
She nodded and moved on.
Outside, murmurs followed him—not whispers, not avoidance. Curiosity.
"That control was clean."
"He didn't overextend."
"Never seen blood used like that."
Akira walked through it all without reaction.
This was fine.
This was expected.
On the observation deck, the monitors went dark as the exam concluded.
Aizawa leaned back.
"Make a note," he said. "That kid isn't flashy."
Vlad King folded his arms.
"But he's disciplined," he added. "If he survives training, he'll be dangerous."
Mic grinned. "In a good way?"
Vlad's expression didn't change.
"In the right way."
As applicants were dismissed, Akira paused beneath UA's gates and looked back once.
Somewhere inside, Midoriya Izuku was probably replaying every mistake in his head. Others were celebrating. Others were worrying.
Akira felt neither.
He had entered under pressure.
He had acted without losing himself.
UA hadn't accepted him yet.
But whatever came next, Kurayami Akira knew one thing with certainty:
He wasn't here to be a symbol.
He was here to endure.