The auditorium was a monument to intimidation. Cathedral-high ceilings vanished into shadow above us, while row after row of seats descended toward a stage that could have hosted an opera. The architectural message was clear: You are small. We are vast. Remember your place.
I loved it already.
While the other applicants shuffled into their seats like sheep being herded, I took my time choosing my position. Third row, slightly off-center. Close enough to catch every detail, far enough back to see the whole board. The nervous energy radiating from a thousand teenagers was almost tangible—sweaty palms, bouncing legs, whispered prayers to whatever gods watched over Quirk users.
Perfect hunting conditions.
My gaze swept the crowd, cataloging potential threats and easy marks. The poker player in me couldn't resist running the numbers on my competition.
Two rows ahead sat a blonde kid with spiky hair, arms crossed, scowling at nothing in particular. His posture screamed aggression barely held in check. Classic overcompensation. Probably strong but lacks finesse. The type who'd go all-in on a pair of tens.
To his left, a girl with pink hair and skin was practically vibrating in her seat, grinning like she'd already won. High-energy type. Either genuinely confident or completely delusional. Could go either way.
A redhead near the front was chatting enthusiastically with anyone who'd listen, his teeth practically glowing in the dim light. Natural showman. Probably harmless, but watch the ones who make friends easily—they're either saints or sociopaths.
Then there was the green-haired kid from the beach, hunched over a notebook like it contained the secrets of the universe. Even from here, I could see his hands shaking as he scribbled frantically. Dead money. Whatever his Quirk is, he's too wound up to use it effectively.
But the one who caught my attention was the tall, dark-haired boy sitting ramrod straight in the front row. Everything about him screamed military kid—from his perfectly combed hair to the way his hands rested exactly parallel on his knees.
Now that's interesting. Either he's naturally that uptight, or he's putting on one hell of a show. Either way, he's playing a different game than the rest of these amateurs.
The lights dimmed, and conversation died to a whisper. A spotlight carved through the darkness, illuminating the center of the stage. For a moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched, building tension like a coiled spring.
Then the explosion came.
"GOOOOOOOD MORNING, FUTURE HEROES!"
The voice was a concussive blast that rattled my teeth and probably registered on seismic equipment three prefectures over. A figure materialized in the spotlight—tall, lean, with blonde hair styled into a gravity-defying cockatoo crest. His leather jacket caught the light, and the sunglasses perched on his nose reflected the stunned faces of a thousand teenagers.
Present Mic. The Voice Hero himself.
"I SAID GOOD MORNING!" Present Mic's grin was audible in his voice. "COME ON, FUTURE HEROES, LET ME HEAR THAT ENERGY!"
Everyone remained silent.
"TOUGH CROWD!" Present Mic spun in place, his jacket flaring dramatically. "WELCOME TO THE PRACTICAL EXAMINATION BRIEFING! I'M YOUR HOST, THE VOICE HERO: PRESENT MIC!"
A bank of lights behind him blazed to life, revealing a screen that stretched nearly from wall to wall. On it, the U.A. logo hung like the seal of a king. Present Mic gestured toward it like a game show host revealing the grand prize.
"NOW THEN, EXAMINEES, LET'S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS! THE PRACTICAL EXAM WILL BE A MOCK BATTLE IN ONE OF OUR SPECIALLY DESIGNED URBAN ENVIRONMENTS!"
The screen changed, showing what looked like a miniature city. Buildings, streets, even fake storefronts—all rendered in impressive detail. I leaned forward slightly, studying the layout. Urban combat simulation. Tight quarters, multiple levels, plenty of cover. They're testing more than just raw power here.
"YOUR OBJECTIVE IS SIMPLE!" Present Mic continued, his voice somehow managing to get even louder. "DESTROY AS MANY VILLAIN BOTS AS POSSIBLE IN THE TWENTY-MINUTE TIME LIMIT!"
Three robot designs appeared on the screen, each more menacing than the last. The smallest looked like a mechanical spider. The medium one resembled a gorilla crossed with a tank. The largest was a humanoid giant that could probably punch through a building.
"THE VILLAIN BOTS COME IN THREE VARIETIES!" Present Mic pointed at each design in turn. "ONE-POINTERS, TWO-POINTERS, AND THREE-POINTERS! THE MORE POINTS YOU EARN, THE HIGHER YOUR SCORE!"
Around me, students were frantically taking notes, as if the point values were some complex formula instead of basic arithmetic. I leaned back in my seat, hands behind my head. One, two, three. Simple progression. Almost insultingly simple. There's got to be more to it than that.
My eyes narrowed as I studied the robot designs again. The progression made sense from a combat perspective—small and fast, medium and balanced, large and powerful. But from a game design perspective? It was too clean. Too obvious.
This is the surface game. The one they want us to see. But what's underneath?
"ANY QUESTIONS BEFORE WE—"
A hand shot up in the front row. The uptight kid I'd been watching was on his feet, his arm thrust toward the ceiling in a perfectly vertical line. When he spoke, his voice carried clearly through the auditorium—crisp, precise, and loaded with barely contained indignation.
"EXCUSE ME, SIR!"
Present Mic's grin widened. "YES, EXAMINEE NUMBER 7111?"
"ON THE HANDOUT, THERE ARE FOUR TYPES OF VILLAIN BOTS LISTED, BUT YOU ONLY EXPLAINED THREE! IF THIS IS AN ERROR ON U.A.'S PART, IT'S HIGHLY UNPROFESSIONAL! WE ARE HERE TO BE TESTED FAIRLY!"
Oh, you beautiful, predictable bastard. I had to bite back a laugh. The kid was so focused on following the rules that he'd missed the entire point. Classic hall monitor syndrome.
But he wasn't done. The dark-haired boy turned sharply. His finger shot out like an accusation, pointing directly at the green-haired kid.
"AND YOU, EXAMINEE! YOU'VE BEEN MUTTERING THIS ENTIRE TIME! IF YOU'RE NOT TAKING THIS SERIOUSLY, THEN LEAVE! YOU'RE DISTRACTING THE REST OF US!"
The green-haired boy went rigid. Even from several rows back, I could see him shrinking into his seat, his face cycling through about six different shades of red. A few students around him turned to stare, and the kid looked like he wanted to disappear entirely.
Ouch. Public humiliation. Classic intimidation tactic, even if it wasn't intentional. \Glasses thinks he's establishing dominance, but he's really just showing everyone how inflexible he is. Meanwhile, Broccoli's confidence just took a critical hit. Poor bastard probably won't recover before the exam starts.
Present Mic raised his hands, his grin never wavering. "EXCELLENT QUESTION, EXAMINEE 7111! THAT FOURTH ROBOT IS WORTH ZERO POINTS!"
The screen behind him changed again, revealing a fourth robot design that made the three-pointer look like a toy. This thing was massive—easily four stories tall, with armor plating that could probably shrug off a missile strike. Its red eyes glowed like miniature suns, and every line of its design screamed one word: Destroyer.
"THE ZERO-POINTER IS WHAT WE CALL AN 'OBSTACLE!' IT'S THERE TO GET IN YOUR WAY, SO JUST AVOID IT! THERE'S NO POINT IN FIGHTING SOMETHING THAT WON'T BOOST YOUR SCORE!"
There it is. The tell I'd been waiting for. In any high-stakes game, when the house tells you to ignore something, that's the only thing you should be watching.
The lights dimmed on the zero-pointer's image, and Present Mic spread his arms wide. "THAT'S ALL FROM ME! GOOD LUCK, FUTURE HEROES! LETS GO PLUUUUUUSSSSS ULTRAAAAAAAAA!"
As the auditorium lights came up and students began filing out, I remained seated for a moment longer. My mind was already working through the implications, calculating angles and possibilities. The zero-pointer wasn't just an obstacle—it was the real test. The hidden variable that would separate the point-chasers from the actual heroes.
Most of these kids will spend ten minutes hunting one and two-pointers like they're collecting coins in a video game. They'll treat it like a math problem—maximize points, minimize risk.
I stood and stretched, working out the kinks from sitting still too long. Around me, conversations buzzed as students compared strategies and shared nervous energy.
But heroes aren't accountants. Heroes run toward danger, not away from it. And when that zero-pointer shows up—and it will show up—most of these kids will do exactly what Present Mic told them to do. They'll run.
I moved with the exiting crowd, the low buzz of their nervous chatter a meaningless background hum. In the changing rooms, I shed the calculated cool of my street clothes for something more practical: black sweatpants and a white compression shirt. Function over form, for now. The performance could wait.
The house always has an edge. Always. The trick is figuring out what it is before you place your bet.But sometimes, if you're very good and very lucky, you can turn that edge against them.
The crowd was thinning as students found their assigned groups. I checked my card—Battle Center B. Urban environment, twenty minutes, unknown number of competitors. The parameters of the game were set.
Let the other kids play for points,I'll be playing for keeps.