Chapter 21: The Twenty-First Student
The inside of Class 1-A was a hive of nervous energy. The upcoming Sports Festival was on everyone's minds, a chance to finally show the world—and the Pro Heroes who might one day be their mentors—what they were made of. The traumatic memory of the USJ attack had been papered over with a layer of youthful ambition and competitive spirit.
The moment the massive classroom door slid open and Mr. Aizawa stepped inside, a hush fell over the room. His bandaged, mummy-like form was a stark and constant reminder of how close they had all come to disaster. The respect he commanded was absolute.
"Settle down," he said, his voice a tired rasp. He scanned the faces of his nineteen students. "Before we begin today's homeroom, we have… a unique situation. A new student will be joining us, effective immediately."
A wave of confused whispers rippled through the class.
"A new student?"
"Now? After the attack?"
"Must be someone who transferred…"
Aizawa ignored them. He turned back to the open doorway. "Come in."
The boy who stepped across the threshold was small and silent. He was dressed in their uniform, the grey blazer and dark trousers fitting his thin frame almost too perfectly. On his back, he carried a large, sand-colored gourd that seemed impossibly heavy for his size. His face was pale and utterly devoid of emotion, and his teal eyes, framed by dark, sleepless rings, swept over the class with a cold, detached emptiness.
For a moment, there was only confusion. And then, a wave of chilling recognition washed over the students who had been at the heart of the battle.
Izuku Midoriya's blood ran cold. The impossible, fleeting suspicion he'd had in the hallway was now a horrifying, undeniable reality. It was him. The boy from the alley. The one who had been with Shigaraki.
Shoto Todoroki's eyes narrowed, his entire body going subtly on guard. He recognized him instantly. It was the raging, horned creature from the Landslide Zone, the source of the sand tsunami that had nearly overwhelmed him.
And in the middle of the room, Katsuki Bakugo, who had been slouched in his chair with bored arrogance, slowly straightened up. His red eyes widened, first in disbelief, and then, in a fraction of a second, that disbelief ignited into pure, unadulterated rage.
"WHAT KIND OF SICK JOKE IS THIS?!" he bellowed, his voice exploding in the silent room. He shot to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him.
Before Aizawa could even react, Bakugo was moving. He vaulted over his desk, his palms already crackling with miniature, angry explosions. "WHAT IS A VILLAINOUS BASTARD LIKE YOU DOING HERE?!"
He lunged, his right hand pulled back for a powerful, close-range blast, sheer, murderous intent radiating from him. The other students cried out in shock and alarm.
Gaara did not flinch. He did not move. He simply watched the approaching explosion with his empty eyes. He didn't have to do anything.
With a sound like a thousand whispers, a thick, dense wall of sand erupted from the gourd on his back, forming a solid, concave shield in front of him. Bakugo's explosion impacted it with a deafening BOOM, a flash of brilliant orange light and smoke. The shield did not break; it did not even shudder. It absorbed the entire blast without a scratch.
Aizawa's eyes glowed a furious, hellish red beneath his bandages. "Bakugo!" he snarled.
At the same instant, two things happened. The sand shield in front of Gaara lost its cohesion and crumbled into a pile of inert grit at his feet. And the tell-tale crackle of explosions in Bakugo's palms sputtered and died. Aizawa had erased both their Quirks in a single, masterful glance, his capture weapon already half-uncoiling from his neck like a striking cobra.
"Enough," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous threat that promised dire consequences.
Bakugo stood panting, his rage now compounded by the frustration of being so easily neutralized. He glared at Gaara, who looked back with the same, unnerving placidity as before.
The silence was broken by a different voice, one of reason and composure. Momo Yaoyorozu stood up, her hand raised respectfully, though her face was pale with serious concern.
"Professor Aizawa," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firm. "With all due respect, I must object. This individual was an active participant in the attack that left you and Thirteen-sensei grievously injured. His presence in this classroom, a space meant for our safety and learning, is a severe detriment to the psychological well-being of every student here."
Tenya Iida shot to his feet, his arm chopping the air with rigid precision. "Yaoyorozu is correct! As class representative, I must protest! His inclusion is a serious breach of U.A.'s security protocols! How can we be expected to focus on our studies with a known villain in our midst?!"
The dam of silence had broken. The room erupted in a flurry of hushed, panicked arguments. The students were divided between fear, anger, and utter confusion.
Aizawa let them speak for a moment, then raised a single, bandaged hand. "This is not a debate," he said, his tone silencing the room instantly. "The decision was made by Principal Nezu and All Might. It is final." He scanned their faces, his gaze lingering on the most vocal objectors. "Get along with him or don't. I don't care. Time will be the judge. In the meantime, he is your classmate."
He gestured for Gaara to move to the side. "Now, go and sit in the empty seat so we can—" He paused, his eye scanning the room. There were no empty seats. Every desk was filled. He let out a long, tired sigh. "Of course. Stay here. Don't move."
He turned and walked out of the classroom, leaving the twenty students—nineteen heroes-in-training and one former villain—alone in a room thick with tension.
The moment the door slid shut, Bakugo was on Gaara again. He moved so fast the others barely had time to react, closing the distance and grabbing the front of Gaara's immaculate school blazer. He shoved him back against the blackboard, his face inches from Gaara's.
"Listen to me, you sand-freak," he hissed, his voice a low, menacing growl. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, or what the hell the teachers are thinking. But you're going to take off that uniform. You don't deserve to wear it."
In response to the direct, physical threat, the sand moved. It was not a wall this time. It flowed smoothly and silently from the mouth of the gourd, a thick, firm current that inserted itself between the two boys, gently but inexorably pushing Bakugo back, forcing him to release his grip. It was not an attack; it was a boundary.
Bakugo looked at the sand, then back at Gaara's impassive face. A slow, ugly, excited grin spread across his lips. "Oh? You wanna fight after all, huh? Without a teacher here to save you?"
For the first time since entering the room, Gaara spoke. His voice was quiet, flat, and completely devoid of emotion, a strange, sandy rasp that carried an unnerving calm.
"The sand protects me without my will," he stated, looking directly into Bakugo's furious eyes. "It is not as if I am using it intentionally now."
The simple, honest explanation was so bizarre, so alien, that it stunned the entire class into silence. Bakugo's grin faltered, replaced by a look of confused contempt. "What kind of cowardly excuse is that?!"
"Whoa, hey, Bakugo, man, let's just calm down," Kirishima said, finally stepping in. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, his other hand held up in a placating gesture towards Gaara. "Aizawa-sensei said to wait, let's just…"
The classroom door slid open again with a heavy thump. Aizawa stood there, effortlessly holding a desk and chair under one arm. He took in the scene—Bakugo and Gaara separated by a gentle river of sand, Kirishima playing peacemaker, the rest of the class watching with bated breath.
He said nothing. He simply glared, and under the weight of that silent, threatening gaze, the sand slowly retreated back into its gourd, and Bakugo let out a final, frustrated "Tch!" before stomping back to his seat.
Aizawa placed the new desk in an empty space at the very back of the room, the sound of its legs scraping on the floor unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
The conflict had not been resolved. It had only been paused. And Gaara, the twenty-first student, was now an island, utterly alone in a sea of nineteen hostile and fearful faces.