[Third Person Pov]
Principal Issac cleared his throat as he stepped forward, his polished shoes echoing faintly against the varnished wooden floor of the gymnasium. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, posture straight and composed, carrying the unmistakable authority of someone accustomed to being listened to.
"Since we are already gathered here in the gymnasium," he began, his voice calm yet carrying easily across the wide space, "we will begin with the practical portion of the exam."
A subtle ripple of murmurs spread among the observing students, their curiosity intensifying. It wasn't every day that transfer applicants—or whatever these three were—were tested so openly.
Principal Issac continued without pause. "However, this situation is… somewhat unique. This will not be like the standard entrance examination, where you compete against one another and the highest scorer earns admission." He paused briefly, allowing his words to settle. "Instead, this assessment will focus on your individual capabilities. Each of you will be evaluated based on your own merits. If you meet our standards—if you satisfy all of our requirements—you will pass. Simple as that."
He gave them a small, expectant smile. "Is that acceptable?"
Tony shrugged casually, slipping his hands into his pockets as if the entire ordeal was little more than a mild inconvenience. "I mean, sure, that sounds reasonable and all," he said, tilting his head slightly. "But what's really the point?"
Several faculty members exchanged faintly confused glances.
Tony continued, his tone blunt and unfiltered. "If you've done your research—and I'm sure you have—you should already know exactly what we're capable of. Hell, you could've just used our Sports Festival recordings as our admission essays and called it a day."
Eric, standing beside him, winced internally and forced a weary smile. 'He really doesn't sugarcoat anything, does he?'
He could practically feel the tension his cousin's words created.
Principal Issac let out a soft, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "…I cannot deny that you've already built quite the reputation for yourselves," he admitted honestly. "Your performances have not gone unnoticed."
His expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm.
"However, even so, we cannot simply open our doors based on reputation alone. We must see it for ourselves. We must evaluate you directly." He gestured around them. "Think of this not as a challenge, but as a formality. A necessary requirement."
Tony rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "Fine. Whatever."
Momo shifted slightly beside him, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. She couldn't ignore the weight of dozens—no, hundreds—of gazes locked onto them.
"Do we really have to do this in front of everyone?" she asked, her voice quieter but edged with discomfort.
Indeed, the entire gym had become eerily attentive. Conversations had died down. Training had stopped. Students leaned subtly closer, pretending not to stare while doing exactly that.
One of the faculty members stepped forward in response. He wore a green tracksuit, the fabric slightly worn from years of use, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. His presence was relaxed, but there was an undeniable strength in the way he carried himself.
"Consider this part of the exam as well," he said evenly. He crossed his arms as his gaze swept over the three applicants.
"Heroes operate under constant observation. Every action you take—every success, every failure—is witnessed, judged, and remembered. The public watches you. Your peers watch you. Your enemies watch you."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The real question is: can you perform when it matters? When the pressure is real. When everyone is watching."
Tony glanced sideways at Eric, raising a brow in silent question.
Eric leaned closer and whispered under his breath, "Coach Lawrence. He teaches gym class."
Tony nodded faintly in understanding.
The three test takers exchanged brief looks before nodding. The logic was sound. This wasn't just about strength. It was about composure.
Tony turned his attention back to the gym, his sharp eyes analyzing everything—the equipment, the layout, the observers.
"So," he said, cracking his knuckles lightly, "what's the first challenge?"
Principal Issac's smile returned, more confident now. "We'll begin with something simple. A strength test. We need to establish a baseline—to understand exactly what you're capable of."
He gestured for them to follow, he group moved across the gym floor until they stopped in front of a large machine. It was bulky, reinforced with heavy steel plating, and at its center was a thick, padded striking cushion designed to absorb tremendous force.
Melissa blinked. "…A punching machine," she said flatly.
She wasn't sure whether to laugh or sigh.
Kane chuckled quietly from where he stood with Maria and the other faculty members, folding his arms across his chest.
"Simple, yes," he said. "But effective. There's no clearer way to measure raw striking power."
Tony tilted his head slightly, glancing at Eric. "What does your dad teach, anyway?"
"Quirk Application Theory," Eric replied plainly. "And History."
Tony nodded slowly.
Principal Issac stepped forward once more, his hands clasped together. "Well then," he said, his voice carrying a note of anticipation. "Are you ready to begin?"
Tony immediately gestured toward the girls with an exaggerated flourish, "Ladies first."
Melissa scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. "Oh, please. I know exactly what you're doing."
Tony blinked. "What?"
"You're trying to make us go first so you can analyze our scores and dramatically surpass them at the end."
Tony placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense, "I would never."
Momo stepped forward slightly, unimpressed.
"Go first, Tony."
He looked between the two of them, realizing he had lost. "…Fine," he muttered.
He stepped forward toward the machine, his posture relaxing as he approached it. His eyes examined its structure, mentally assessing its durability, its limits.
He then glanced back at Principal Issac. "How many points do I need to pass?"
Principal Issac chuckled warmly. "There is no fixed number. Simply perform to the best of your ability. We will determine whether your results meet our standards."
He paused suddenly, as if remembering something important. "Oh, and one more thing."
His eyes focused on Tony. "I am aware that your suits enhance your physical strength. Therefore, you will perform two attempts. One without your suit… and one with it." His smile widened slightly, "If that is acceptable to you."
The entire gym seemed to hold its breath.
Tony shrugged dismissively as he began rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. The crisp fabric slid up his forearms, revealing dense, defined muscle and thick veins that ran like cords beneath his skin. His expression remained indifferent, as though none of this mattered to him in the slightest.
"Whatever," he said casually.
Despite his nonchalance, his simple action did not go unnoticed. A noticeable number of students—particularly the girls and even some of the boys—stared openly at his exposed forearms. His build was not exaggerated like a bodybuilder's, but there was a compact density to his muscles that radiated restrained power. Even at rest, his hands looked capable of crushing steel.
Tony stepped forward and positioned himself in front of the punching machine. He spread his legs shoulder-width apart, settling into a stable power stance. His posture lowered slightly, his weight evenly distributed. The shift in his demeanor was subtle, but those paying attention could see it clearly—he had become focused.
The teachers observed carefully.
The students leaned forward in anticipation.
Then Tony moved.
His fist shot forward so fast that many of them never saw the motion itself. One moment his arm was pulled back, and the next it was already buried into the padded target.
BOOM!
The impact detonated like a cannon blast, the sound violently echoing across the entire gymnasium. The reinforced machine trembled from the sheer force, its steel frame groaning faintly. The explosive noise caused several students to flinch and recoil instinctively, their bodies reacting before their minds could process what had happened.
Eric staggered backward in fright, his glasses slipping down his nose as his heart pounded violently in his chest. He barely managed to steady himself, staring at Tony with wide, disbelieving eyes.
The machine's digital display flickered wildly as the numbers began climbing at an absurd rate.
1…
10…
100…
1,000…
10,000…
100,000…
The numbers rose so quickly that it resembled a lottery counter spinning toward a jackpot. The rapid escalation slowed gradually before finally coming to a stop.
A robotic voice announced the result. "Score: 126,457 pounds."
Silence filled the gym.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
They simply stared at the number, their minds struggling to accept it.
Eric instinctively began calculating the conversion in his head. His lips parted slightly as the realization settled in.
"…That's sixty-three tons," he muttered under his breath. "That's impossible…"
Sharp breaths echoed throughout the room as students and faculty alike struggled to process what they had just witnessed. Even the teachers, who had seen countless powerful individuals over their careers, wore expressions of clear unease.
Principal Issac frowned deeply.
Coach Lawrence's eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his cap.
Steam slowly rose from the punching pad, and the clear impression of Tony's knuckles was visible in the reinforced surface.
Tony himself simply lowered his arm and flexed his fingers casually, as though he had done nothing remarkable.
"Me next! Me next! Me next!" Melissa rushed forward excitedly, her competitive spirit fully ignited. She quickly reset the machine, the numbers returning to zero.
She took her stance, mimicking Tony's positioning. Her expression was fierce, filled with determination.
She kissed her fist dramatically. "Detroit Smashhhhh!!"
She threw her punch.
BANG!
The impact echoed just as violently, the machine shaking once more under the immense force. The numbers surged upward rapidly.
1,000…
10,000…
50,000…
100,000…
They slowed.
Stopped.
"Score: 112,787 pounds."
Fifty-six tons.
Melissa froze for a moment before her face twisted in frustration.
"Damn it!" she shouted, clenching her fists. "I thought I'd beat his score for sure!"
Tony immediately burst into loud laughter, "Kahahaha!!"
He placed his hands on his waist, his grin overflowing with smug satisfaction, "You're still too green to beat me in strength."
Melissa growled under her breath, clearly irritated. Meanwhile, the faculty's frowns deepened further.
Melissa turned to Momo and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her lightly, "Come on, Momo! It's up to you now! You've got to beat that punk's score! We cannot let him hold this over us!"
Momo calmly removed Melissa's hands and flicked her wrist, her lips curling into a confident smirk, "I'll give it my all."
She stepped forward, raising her fists into a proper boxing stance.
Coach Lawrence immediately noticed the difference, 'Her form is flawless.'
Her posture was balanced, her guard tight, her weight perfectly distributed. There were no unnecessary movements. Every aspect of her stance reflected discipline and experience.
His interest sharpened.
Momo stepped forward and launched a precise, lightning-fast jab.
CRACK!
The machine trembled violently as the numbers surged once more.
10,000…
50,000…
100,000…
They slowed.
Stopped.
"Score: 118,999 pounds."
Fifty-nine tons.
"WHAT?!" Melissa screeched in disbelief.
Momo snapped her fingers and smirked proudly, "Although I didn't beat Tony's score, at least I scored higher than Melissa."
Tony burst into another round of laughter, pointing at Melissa while clutching his stomach, "Kahahaha!! Momo scored higher than you! I know that hurt your pride!"
Melissa glared furiously. "That machine is fucking busted. I demand a redo," she scoffed.
"Melissa." Maria's stern voice immediately silenced her.
Melissa crossed her arms and huffed, clearly unhappy. "I'm sorry, but it's true," she muttered stubbornly.
"There's no shame in admitting defeat," Momo said, her smug smile barely concealed.
Principal Issac, however, wasn't paying attention to their argument.
His gaze was fixed on the machine.
Steam continued to rise from the battered pad. Three distinct fist imprints were visible, each one deeply embedded into the reinforced material. The steel frame creaked faintly, as if protesting the abuse it had endured.
His frown deepened.
Around him, the faculty shared the same silent conclusion.
'There was absolutely no chance those two are quirkless.'
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