The silence that followed Kratos's stark recount of the agōgē and the fate of Alekos was absolute, heavier than any physical weight. It pressed down on Class 1-A, a tangible cloak woven from shame and a dawning understanding.
They were, as Principal Nezu had noted, the brightest and the strongest of their generation, admitted to Japan's most prestigious hero academy. They were smart enough to grasp the unspoken disappointment in Kratos's deep, gravelly voice.
His words, though devoid of overt emotion, carried a profound resonance, a trace of guilt, perhaps, or a sorrow for comrades long lost, so subtle it might have been an illusion, yet felt by every student. For him, the unyielding Spartan, to share such a raw piece of his past, meant their answers had fallen far short of his expectations.
Midoriya, his fists slowly clenching, bit down on his lip. Every word Kratos had spoken resonated within him, a chilling echo of a truth he was only beginning to grasp. His breath quickened, and his eyes, glistening with unshed tears, fixed on the towering, solitary figure of Kratos. The story had touched him deeply, stirring a profound realization that went beyond the immediate discomfort.
Around him, the reactions were mirrored. Kirishima's jaw was clenched tight, his fists balled. Kaminari Denki, Iida, and the other boys were no better, their faces etched with a mix of shock and introspection.
Even Bakugo, usually ready to explode at the slightest provocation, stood with his arms folded, eyes averted, but Midoriya could see the white-knuckled grip he had on his own forearms. Most of the girls, too, had their hands clenched, their eyes watery, some biting their lips to hold back a sob.
Was it an overreaction? Perhaps, to an outsider. But Kratos's story had been a brutal, unvarnished truth. He was a hero in his own right, a general who had fought for his people, for his homeland, to repel invaders and prevent destruction.
Yet, one single, human mistake, a moment of hesitation, a hidden weakness, had led to the death of his brothers in arms. To hear such childish, self-centered answers from students aspiring to be heroes, to protect lives, must have been a ridiculous, almost insulting, experience for a man who had lived and breathed such unforgiving realities.
At this moment, All Might, ever the beacon of reassurance, slowly walked up and gently placed a hand on Kratos's broad shoulder. Kratos turned his head slightly to look at him. All Might offered his iconic, unwavering smile, a silent nod of understanding. Kratos returned the gesture with a low, almost imperceptible "Mrghmm" grunt.
Then, Mimir, hanging from Kratos's belt, broke the heavy silence, his Scottish burr cutting through the tension like a sharp wind. "Well now, that was a depressin' tale for the first class. But how about we try to understand why the big lug here suddenly told ye this."
Kratos, without a word, unhooked Mimir from his belt and raised his hand, positioning the head so Mimir's glowing Bifrost eyes could sweep over the entire class.
"Aye, listen up, ye wee rascals," Mimir began, his voice still carrying the weight of the moment, but with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Ye were asked about yer greatest strength, eh? And what did I hear? Todoroki here, bless his half-and-half heart, talkin' about his Ice Quirk. Kirishima, all manly and red, boastin' about his Hardening."
"And Ohaco, sweet lass, with her floaty powers. It was all 'my Quirk, my Quirk, my Quirk!' Like yer Quirks are some kind o' personal trophy ye hang 'round yer neck and preen about!"
A few students flinched, their gazes dropping to the ground. Todoroki's stoic expression wavered slightly, a hint of realization in his eyes. Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin replacing his earlier resolve. Uraraka's cheeks flushed, and she clasped her hands together.
"Oh now, don't pout, I'm not sayin' pride in yer gift's a sin," Mimir continued, a playful lilt returning to his voice"But here's a wee question for those noggins o' yours, or do you want yer powers to be known by you? Think on that, eh?"
"Think on it! A hammer's just a lump of dead weight till a smith puts their soul into swingin' it. A sword's naught but cold steel till a warrior gives it reason. Quirks, powers, blessings, call 'em what ye like, but they're tools. Tools!"
"It's you who give 'em meaning. It's you who choose how they're used. So what'll folk say one day, eh? 'Look at that powerful Quirk!' or 'Look at that powerful hero, who wields that Quirk!' There's a world o' difference in that, my dears. A world!"
He paused, letting the words sink in, then added with a theatrical sigh, "Or, heaven forbid, they'll say, 'Ah, aye, I remember that lad with the loud explosions,' or 'the lass who floated wee rocks about.'" He gave a theatrical shudder. "Like bein' remembered for yer favorite pair of socks. Comfy, sure, but hardly legendary, eh?"
Mimir chuckled, soft but warm. "So ask yerselves... who's the hero here? You, or the flashy wee thing taggin' along?"
A few nervous titters broke the tension, and some students even managed a small, embarrassed smile. The frigid atmosphere slowly began to thaw, replaced by a thoughtful hum.
"Then came the question o' weakness," Mimir pressed on, his tone shifting back to earnest. "And what did I hear? 'Failing to uphold discipline,' 'when ye can't help,' 'for losers who don't win.' You saw weakness only as a result, didn't ye? A failure, a loss, a grand explosion at the end o' the battle. Bah! Ye've got it backwards, lads and lasses!"
Mimir's beard twitched like it had opinions of its own. "Nay, weakness ain't the bang that knocks ye down, lads, it's the wee, squirmy thing ye let take root before the fight even starts. It's that whisper in yer gut that says, 'Maybe I can't.' The shadow in yer chest that stiffens yer legs. The pride that shouts so loud it drowns out good sense."
He gave a dry chuckle. "Aye, it's not the blade at yer throat that beats ye, it's the rot ye never noticed, growin' quiet inside yer own ribs. And by the time the enemy's at the gates, well... too bloody late, innit?"
Mimir swivelled in his strap and gave Midoriya and Kirishima a nod with his eyes.
"Now then, Midoriya, lad. Kirishima. Ye were on the right path, I'll give ye that. Talkin' about fear, doubt... lookin' inward. That takes guts. But listen close now, the mistake ye made is thinkin' fear is what stops ye. That it's the wall. But fear, hesitation... they're not the wall. They're the roots. The start of the rot. The wee crack in the shield that lets the storm in."
He took a slight pause before continuing.
"Weakness ain't feelin' fear, it's lettin' it settle in. Letting it whisper lies to ye when no one's watchin'. If fear alone made ye weak, then every hero worth their salt'd be in the gutter sobbin' into their capes. Even this big brute here, " he gestured at Kratos with his eyes and grinned, "He nearly jumps out of his bracers when he sees a spider crawlin' up the wall. Don't ye, Brother?"
Kratos slowly turned his head and locked eyes with Mimir. Didn't say a word. Didn't have to. Just that slow, deadpan stare. The same kind of stare that would make any grown-ass man rethink his choices.
Mimir, to his credit, held the gaze… for about two seconds.
Now, if the wee head had a spine, it'd be doing cartwheels right about now. And let's be honest. Kratos' face doesn't need words.
Mimir cleared his throat with a nervous little ahem, then muttered under his breath, "J-just a wee jest, Brother... No need to go launchin' me across the bloody room like a discus, aye?"
Kratos looked at him for 2 more seconds before turning him back around to face the kids.
"Ahem! Aye, see? Even he's got his daft little gremlins. But he doesn't let it stop him, now does he? That's the trick. Weakness ain't the fear itself, it's when ye choose to let that fear shape yer action. When ye let it grow like ivy round yer spine 'til it twists the way ye stand."
His voice became softer, firmer.
"So mark this, lads and lasses. It's not about bein' fearless. It's about not lettin' fear make the choices for ye. That's where strength starts."
Then, Mimir's glowing Bifrost eyes, usually twinkling with mirth, fixed solely on Bakugo. The smile vanished from his lips. "And then there's you, lad with the perpetually constipated look. I almost forgot about ye, what with all yer quiet sulkin'. For both questions, yer answers were filled with a blind pride so thick ye could carve a statue out of it."
" 'I'm stronger, better,' 'Fear doesn't stop me.' Aye, ye've got strength, lad, no doubt. But what's the point o' such pride if it's the very thing blindin' ye from seein' further? It's like havin' the brightest torch in the world, but holdin' it so close to yer face ye cannae see the path ahead."
"Pride's a fine thing, a necessary thing for a warrior, but when it stops ye from learnin', from seein' yer own flaws, from acknowledgin' the strength in others... then it ain't pride, it's just plain foolishness."
Bakugo's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing, but he didn't shout. He looked away, his grip on his arms tightening further. The direct, unvarnished truth, delivered without malice, seemed to pierce through his usual defiance.
"And finally," Mimir announced, his gaze sweeping across the entire class once more, "the last question: 'Cornered. Bleeding. Alone. What do ye tell yerself?' And many o' ye spoke o' pushin' through, o' fightin' to the last breath, o' creatin' a distraction. Midoriya, ye spoke o' goin' 'beyond, even if it breaks me.' And Bakugo, ye'd 'blast that bastard to dust.' Todoroki, ye'd 'hold the line.' Yaoyorozu, ye'd 'create a distress beacon.' All noble intentions, aye. All brave words."
Mimir's voice dropped, becoming solemn, echoing Kratos's earlier gravity. "Butyou think breakin' yerself to save one makes ye a hero? Ye're a broken shield that can no longer protect the line! A hero ain't just a flash in the pan, a single glorious moment o' self-destruction."
"A hero is the one who endures. The one who holds the line, even when his bones scream and his spirit cracks. The one who knows when to fight, and when to retreat to fight another day. The one who understands that sacrifice is only meaningful if it protects the many, not just ends in a pointless, solitary blaze."
He looked at them, his glowing eyes conveying a wisdom far older than his disembodied form. "Yer strength, yer Quirks, yer courage, they are tools. But a tool without a craftsman's mind, without a purpose beyond its own shine, is just a piece o' metal. Learn to wield yourselves. Learn to know yer own rot, before it spreads. And learn to protect the line, not just charge blindly into the storm. That, my young heroes, is the true lesson Kratos means for ye to take from his tale."
The finality in Mimir's voice, despite its characteristic lilt, settled over the students like a heavy blanket of truth. His words, delivered with cutting honesty and ancient wisdom, resonated deeply. They understood. They were smart enough to grasp the profound disappointment in Kratos's earlier tale, and Mimir's subsequent dissection of their answers only cemented that understanding.
A wave of solemn nods rippled through the group. They stood straighter, their earlier shame replaced by a fierce, quiet resolve.
Midoriya, still clenching his fists, felt a profound shift within him. It's not just about saving people from villains, he thought, his mind racing. It's about being strong enough to endure, to make sure I can keep saving them. To not break. To not become a broken shield.
He looked at his still-swollen finger, a fresh understanding washing over him. Kratos hadn't just taught him to control his power; he had taught him to think beyond the immediate, to consider the long fight.
Kirishima, whose concept of "manliness" often centered on straightforward bravery, felt a jolt. Hold the line. Protect the man beside you.
His earlier answer, focused on being a shield, felt suddenly incomplete. Being a shield wasn't just about taking hits; it was about ensuring the line held, for everyone. His jaw was still set, but now it was with a deeper, more thoughtful resolve.
Todoroki, ever analytical, processed Mimir's words with a quiet intensity. My ice Quirk… it's a tool. My adaptability is a tool.
He had always relied on his power, on its sheer versatility. But Mimir's lesson hit different.
Power without purpose is hollow. He looked at his hands, then at the distant outline of the U.A. buildings. He had to be more than just powerful.
Uraraka, who had spoken of her desire to help and the pain of not being enough, felt a bittersweet sting of recognition.
Weakness isn't just about failing in a moment, she realized. It's about letting the fear stop you from growing, from becoming strong enough to truly help. She clenched her hands, a new determination hardening her soft features.
Even Bakugo, despite his outward defiance, stood unusually still. Mimir's words about blind pride and a torch that blinded him to the path ahead echoed in his mind. He scoffed, a low, dismissive sound, but the casual confidence that usually radiated from him was absent. He still refused to look at Midoriya, but the seed of Mimir's lesson, whether he liked it or not, had been planted.
The collective understanding hung in the air, a newfound sobriety among the aspiring heroes. They had come to U.A. expecting flashy moves and epic battles, but they had received a foundational, brutal truth about the true cost of heroism.
Mimir observed the silent contemplation that had fallen over the class. He saw the nods, the furrowed brows, the deep introspection. His words had landed, perhaps even deeper than he'd initially aimed. But he was Mimir, the smartest man alive, and he knew a lesson shouldn't end on such a sappy, somber note.
"Oh, now that ye've had yer fill o' Spartan grit and stared down yer own wee weaknesses, let ol' Mimir spin ye a yarn from my own neck o' the woods. I came upon this tale not so long ago, and by the Bifrost, it seems the perfect moment to share it."
"This is a tale about a god who thought himself the strongest, only to find himself in a right pickle! Listen close, lads and lasses, for this one'll tickle yer ribs and teach ye more than muscles ever can."
"Once upon a time, not centuries ago in the grand scheme, but still long before your time, our very own Thunderer, Thor, woke to find his precious hammer, Mjolnir, gone missing! Can ye imagine the ruckus? The big lug was beside himself. Without that hammer, he was as lost as a lamb in a wolf's den."
"Turns out, a giant king named Thrymr had swiped it. And what did he want in return for the world's greatest weapon? Why, the hand of the goddess Freya in marriage! Now, Freya, bless her heart, was about as likely to say aye to that as Kratos here is to join a knitting circle."
"So the gods, bless their 'wise' little heads, put their noggins together. And what did Odin, the Allfather o' wisdom, hatch? The most astonishing plan ye'll ever hear. Thor, the burliest, most manly god ye ever saw, was to dress up as Freya, bride and all, while our trickster, Loki, would be his bridesmaid! Aye, ye heard right. Thor, in a wedding gown. The pure audacity of it! Haha!"
"Picture it: Thor, stomping into the giants' hall, hips swaying, eyes glaring from beneath that veil. Loki, perched behind him, suppressing giggles, ready with excuses. Thrymr, blinded by his own desire, never suspected a thing."
"At the feast, Thor, still in that blasted bridal get-up, began to eat with that thunderous appetite of his. He devoured an entire ox, eight salmon, and three barrels of mead. Thrymr blinked at the spectacle and grumbled, 'I've never seen a bride eat so much!' To which quick-witted Loki piped up, "Oh, she's been so eager for the wedding, she hasn't eaten in a fortnight!"
"Finally, the moment arrived. Thrymr, eager to seal the deal, lifted Mjolnir to bless his 'bride.' The instant that hammer touched Thor's hand, the disguise vanished faster than a thunderbolt. And then, as ye might guess, our Thunderer did what he does best, he laid waste to Thrymr and his kin, sending them scattering to Helheim itself. All that humiliation, all that lace and laughter, for one glorious, thunderous massacre."
"Now, what's the lesson here? Even the mightiest can be humbled. Sometimes brute strength alone won't cut it. A bit o' cunning, a dash o' discomfort, and a willingness to swallow pride can accomplish what brawn never could. Quirks and hammers alike are mere tools, nothing more, until the hero lends them purpose."
"So remember, Class 1‑A: don't be the fool who trusts only in raw power. Be the one who knows when to don the gown, so to speak, and when to wield the hammer. True strength is not just what you have; it's what you're willing to do, no matter how ridiculous it seems, to protect those who need you."