Chapter 25: The Day of the Test.
Three days passed. To Gaara, they were an eternity spent in a state of quiet, hyper-aware suspension. The cold war within Classroom 1-A had become the new, brutal norm. It was a war fought not with Quirks, but with the crushing, silent weight of unified rejection.
During lectures, a perfect, invisible bubble of empty space existed around his desk. If a teacher asked a question to his section of the room, the other students would pretend to be deeply engrossed in their notes, their gazes fixed downwards, creating a void of participation that the teacher would inevitably have to skip over.
During combat training, the pattern continued. When Aizawa instructed them to partner up, a frantic, unspoken scramble would occur, leaving Gaara as the solitary, inevitable remainder. "Gaara, you'll be on solo drills against the training bots," Aizawa would state in his flat, monotone voice, offering neither apology nor encouragement. Gaara would then proceed to silently, effortlessly, and terrifyingly dismantle the machines, his cold efficiency only serving to widen the gulf of fear and apprehension between him and his classmates.
Through it all, he remained a mask of placid emptiness. He endured the stares, the whispers, and the profound, suffocating isolation with a stillness that was deeply unnerving to those who witnessed it. But behind his unblinking teal eyes, he was not idle. He was observing. He was learning. He watched the explosive, arrogant power of Bakugo. He analyzed the cold, overwhelming precision of Todoroki. He noted the clever, unexpected strategies of Midoriya. He was a silent spectator, gathering data on the strange, vibrant, and hostile new ecosystem he had been dropped into.
Each evening, he would return to the silent, sunlit apartment. He would find the box of food, sometimes with a new, formal note from Best Jeanist inquiring about his need for scholastic supplies. And he would eat his meal alone, the baffling kindness of his unseen benefactors a stark, painful contrast to the cold, hard wall of rejection he faced every day.
Then, the day of the Sports Festival arrived.
The very air around U.A. High was different. It was electric, buzzing with the energy of a national event. The streets were thronged with people, their faces alight with excitement. News helicopters circled high overhead like metallic birds of prey. The school, usually a bastion of education, had transformed into the epicenter of the nation's heroic obsession.
The locker room for Class 1-A was a pressure cooker of nervous energy. It was a large, utilitarian space of cool tiles and metal lockers, but today it felt small and suffocatingly tense. Every student was dealing with their anxiety in their own way. Bakugo was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, his palms letting off small, impatient pops of nitroglycerin. Iida was performing a series of loud, vigorous stretches, shouting encouragements to his classmates. Midoriya was tucked into a corner, his face pale, muttering a frantic, endless stream of strategies to himself. Todoroki sat alone on a bench, perfectly still, a thin layer of frost creeping across the metal beneath his right hand, his focus so intense it was a palpable force.
And in the furthest corner from everyone else, an island in this sea of anxious motion, was Gaara. He was already changed into the standard U.A. gym uniform. He simply sat on the floor, his back against the cool metal of a locker, the sand gourd resting beside him. He watched them all, a silent, alien observer.
The door slid open, and the noise level dropped instantly. Shota Aizawa stood there, still mostly encased in his bandages, looking like a ghost returned to haunt them. His tired eyes scanned the room, and without acknowledging anyone else, he walked directly towards Gaara's corner. The entire class watched, their own preparations forgotten.
Aizawa stopped in front of him, looking down. In his hand, he held a neatly folded U.A. gym uniform. It was Gaara's.
"This is yours," Aizawa said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that held no warmth. "The rules require all participants to wear it."
Gaara took the uniform without a word. As he did, Aizawa leaned in closer, his voice dropping to an intense, private whisper that was meant for Gaara and Gaara alone.
"Listen to me, and listen carefully," he breathed, his single visible eye boring into Gaara's. "Out there today are a million eyes. Pro Heroes, media outlets, the entire country. They will all be watching you. The Commission has released a statement. They know who you are. They know what you did. To them, you are a villain playing dress-up."
He let the brutal words sink in, a poison meant to clarify, not to kill.
"This is not a festival for you," Aizawa continued, his voice as sharp and unforgiving as a razor's edge. "This is your one and only public trial. Every action you take, every Quirk you manifest, every opponent you face—it will all be scrutinized. Prove to them, and more importantly, prove to me, that you belong here." He straightened up slightly. "Or prove me right, and your time at this school will be over before the sun sets today."
Gaara looked up from the uniform in his hands to the intense, dark eye of his teacher. He felt the crushing weight of the ultimatum, the impossible challenge laid before him. He saw no path to victory, no way to win the approval of a world that had already judged him. But he also felt no fear. He had nothing to lose.
He gave a single, sharp nod of understanding.
Aizawa held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked out of the locker room without another word.
The scene shifted to the massive, concrete waiting room designated for Class 1-A. The air was cool and dim, a stark contrast to the brilliant sunlight they knew was waiting for them. The only light came from the far end of the room: the bright, rectangular maw of the tunnel that led into the heart of the stadium. The distant, constant roar of the crowd was a low, powerful thunder that vibrated through the floor, a sound of a hundred thousand people waiting to pass judgment.
The students were gathered, their nervous energy now at its absolute peak. Todoroki had just made his cold, shocking declaration of war to Midoriya. Bakugo was radiating an aura of pure, unrestrained killing intent, eager to prove to the world that he was the strongest. The very air crackled with their ambition and rivalry.
Gaara stood apart, near the wall, an observer to their alien rituals of challenge and pride. He had no ambition other than to survive the day. His test was not to win, but simply to be. To exist in this blinding light without being consumed by it, or by the darkness within himself.
The massive gate at the end of the room began to grind open with a low groan, flooding the tunnel with brilliant, heavenly light.
Tenya Iida, in his role as class representative, stepped forward, his posture rigid with purpose.
"Everyone, it is time!" he announced, his voice cutting through the tension. "Let us show them the strength of Class 1-A!"
A wave of determined, nervous energy surged forward as the students began to file into the tunnel, their silhouettes stark against the bright light.
Gaara watched them go. Then, he took a breath. The roar of the unseen crowd washed over him, the sound of the world that had cast him out. The world that was now waiting for him.
His test had begun. He took the first, silent step into the tunnel, walking towards the light, and towards his uncertain future.