Battle Center B was a concrete jungle designed by someone with a serious urban planning degree and a healthy respect for property damage. The mock city was impressive—three-story buildings lined streets wide enough for tank battalions, complete with fake storefronts, traffic lights, and even a few decorative fire hydrants. Every surface looked sturdy enough to withstand whatever chaos a few hundred superpowered teenagers could unleash.
Classic intimidation architecture. Make the arena look so real that the kids forget it's just an elaborate video game level.
I stood apart from the cluster of nervous applicants, hands buried in my pockets, rolling a steel ball bearing across my knuckles. The metal was cool against my skin, a familiar weight that grounded me while chaos swirled around me. Other students were stretching, comparing Quirks, or staring at the massive gates like they were the entrance to the underworld.
Suddenly, small gloved hands cupped my jawline from behind, fingers stretching upward in what was clearly an attempt to cover my eyes. They fell short by a good six inches, leaving the would-be surprise attacker grasping at air around my cheekbones.
I didn't startle. Years of back-alley deals and casino cons had trained that reflex out of me long ago. Instead, I simply paused, cocked my head slightly, and looked down.
All I could see were a pair of light-blue gloves decorated with pale pink lines and, much further down, light brownish-gray lace-up shoes. Nothing in between. Just empty space shaped like a person.
"Aww, man!" The voice that emerged from the void was bright, bubbly, and loaded with mock frustration. "I was totally going for the classic 'Guess Who?' move, but you're like, ridiculously tall! This is so not fair!"
My lips twitched upward.
"Hey, Hagakure," I said, my voice settling into its familiar lazy drawl. "How was the wri—" I stopped mid-sentence, my brain catching up to what my eyes were seeing. Or rather, what they weren't seeing. "—where are your clothes?"
"Eeep!" The gloves flew up to where her cheeks would be, and I could practically hear her blushing. "Ah! A girl's gotta have her secrets, you know! It gives me a tactical advantage in combat situations!" Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though she sounded pleased rather than embarrassed. "But wow, sharp eyes! I like a guy who pays attention to the important details."
"I always watch the hands," I replied. "They tell you everything you need to know about a person's intentions."
"Ooh, mysterious! I love—"
"AND... GO!"
Present Mic's voice exploded across the arena like a sonic boom, shattering our conversation and sending every student except me into a moment of stunned paralysis. They'd been expecting a countdown, a moment to prepare, some warning before the chaos began.
Rookie mistake. The house never waits for you to be ready.
While everyone else was still processing the sudden start, I hit the entrance at a dead sprint, putting three full seconds between myself and the nearest competitor.
First rule of any game: position is everything. Second rule: never let the other players catch up.
I didn't run blindly into the mock city like some kind of berserker. That was amateur hour, the kind of mistake that got you eliminated before you even started scoring. Instead, I vaulted onto the fire escape of the nearest building, my enhanced agility from months of training carrying me up the metal stairs three at a time.
From my elevated position, I could see the entire arena spread out below me. Robots were already emerging from hidden panels in the buildings, their red eyes scanning for targets. Most were the spider-like one-pointers, skittering across the streets. A few two-pointers lumbered between them, their gorilla-tank frames bristling with weaponry. And somewhere in the distance, I could hear the heavy footsteps of the three-pointers beginning their patrol routes.
Perfect. Time for the opening act.
I reached inside my pocket and withdrew a deck of playing cards. My Quirk hummed to life as I selected five cards, violet energy crackling along their edges as I charged them. The power felt different now than it had two months ago—more controlled, more precise. I could feel exactly how much energy each card could hold, could sense the sweet spot where maximum power met optimal stability.
I fanned the cards out between my fingers and took aim.
One... two... three... four... five.
A flick of my wrist sent them sailing in five different directions, each card following a carefully calculated trajectory. They weren't flying straight at their targets—that would be boring.
The first card struck a lamppost, ricocheted off at a perfect angle, and slammed into a one-pointer that had been trying to flank a group of students. The robot's head disappeared in a burst of violet light and twisted metal.
The second card bounced off a fire hydrant, curved around a corner, and found a two-pointer that thought it was safely hidden behind a building. The explosion sent mechanical parts raining down like confetti.
The third and fourth cards performed an intricate dance of ricochets, using the urban environment as a billiard table. Wall to mailbox to street sign to robot. Each impact redirected their paths until they found their marks in a synchronized double-strike that painted the street in purple fire.
The fifth card took the scenic route—three ricochets off carefully chosen surfaces before it punched through the chest of a one-pointer that had been bearing down on a panicking student with a mutation Quirk that gave him octopus tentacles instead of arms.
Five explosions. Eight points. Ten seconds.
And I haven't even broken a sweat.
I dropped down from the fire escape, landing in a crouch that absorbed the impact without making a sound. Around me, the arena was erupting into chaos as students finally started engaging the robots, but I tuned out the noise. I had work to do.
As I moved deeper into the mock city, I spotted two other examinees who caught my attention. They were holding their own against a group of robots, but the sheer numbers were starting to overwhelm them.
The first was a girl with purple hair cut in an asymmetrical bob, earphone jacks dangling from her earlobes like organic headphones. She winced as she unleashed the sonic blast, a tell that it cost her something. The sound buckled the robots' armor but didn't pierce it.
Loud, but no punch-through, I noted. She can rattle them, but she can't put them down for good. Not alone.
The second was a boy with a thick, muscular tail that he wielded like a club. Every pivot was clean, every strike aimed at a joint or sensor. Textbook stuff. But his breath was already starting to come in ragged bursts. He was fighting hard, but he was fighting stupid—trying to win a war of attrition against machines that don't get tired.
They were both competent, but they were fighting separate battles when they could be working together.
I decided to make them an offer they couldn't refuse.
A single charged coin left my hand, spinning through the air in a perfect arc. It kissed the corner of a building, redirected off a mailbox, and slammed into the lead two-pointer's head just as it was lining up a shot at the girl. The explosion created a chain reaction, the shockwave destabilizing the other two robots long enough for her sonic blast to finish them off.
I dropped down beside them, landing between the girl and the boy with the tail. Up close, I could see the girl had violet eyes that matched her hair, sharp and intelligent but currently wide with surprise. The boy had kind brown eyes and a honest face, the kind that probably never told a lie in his life.
Perfect. One tactician, one front-liner. All I need is to convince them that working together serves their interests.
"Not bad," I said, addressing both of them while keeping my voice casual. "But you're wasting energy fighting separately when you could be covering each other's weaknesses."
The girl's eyes narrowed slightly, her jacks coiling defensively. "And you are?"
"Someone who just saved you thirty seconds of robot fighting," I replied, my smirk returning. "How about a deal?" I pointed to the boy with the tail. "Tail, you take point. Keep them busy, draw their attention. Your martial arts training gives you the best defensive capabilities here."
He straightened slightly at the recognition, his tail swishing behind him. "How did you—?"
"Your form." I turned to the girl. "Earlobes, you're the radar. That sound Quirk of yours isn't just for attacking, is it? You can probably hear things the rest of us can't, map out where the big groups are clustering."
Her defensive posture relaxed a fraction. "Maybe."
"I'll be the artillery." I held up another coin, letting a hint of violet energy dance across its surface. "We rack up points faster, nobody gets tired from unnecessary fights, and we all walk out of here looking like the kind of heroes U.A. wants on their roster."
The offer was pure business, stripped of any heroic rhetoric or emotional appeals. Just cold logic and mutual benefit—the kind of deal that made sense regardless of personal feelings.
The boy looked uncertain. "But isn't this supposed to test our individual abilities?"
"Kid," I said, "the practical exam isn't about showing off your Quirk. It's about proving you can think like a hero. And heroes work in teams."
The girl was already nodding. "He's right. The top heroes all have agencies, sidekicks, support networks. This isn't a solo sport. Unless you're All Might. Or Mirko, Or—"
"Exactly." I let the coin dance across my knuckles, the charged energy making it glow like a tiny star. "So, in or out?"
They exchanged a look, some kind of silent communication passing between them. Then the boy extended his hand.
"Mashirao Ojiro," he said, his grip firm.
"Kyoka Jiro," the girl added, though she didn't offer to shake hands. Her jacks were already extending, testing the air around us. "And you're right about the hearing thing. There's a cluster of three-pointers moving in from the east, about two blocks away."
"Perfect." I pocketed the coin and pulled out another deck of cards. "Yukio Murano. Let's go hunting."