Chapter 3: The Janitor, The Test, and The Jaw-Dropping Detour
The first day of class for 1-A was electric with gossip. The primary topic: the mysterious man who had crashed the entrance exam.
"I'm telling you, his Quirk must be some kind of impact nullification!" a boy with spiky red hair, Eijiro Kirishima, exclaimed. "So manly!"
"Or perhaps a localized reality-warping ability, allowing him to appear wherever he is needed," Momo Yaoyorozu theorized from her seat.
Izuku Midoriya, meanwhile, was lost in his own world, his pen scratching furiously across a new page in his notebook, headlined: "Tracksuit Man - Quirk Analysis???" Theories filled the page, each more outlandish than the last. He was so absorbed, he didn't even notice the tall, rule-loving Tenya Iida striding up to his desk to reprimand him for muttering.
The only one not participating was Bakugo, who sat simmering in his seat, tiny explosions popping in his palms like angry firecrackers. He had been told in no uncertain terms by Aizawa to "leave the new janitor alone." The humiliation was a physical burn.
Just then, the classroom door slid open and Aizawa shuffled in, still looking like he needed a month-long nap. "It took you eight seconds to quiet down. That won't do."
He instructed them to change into their gym uniforms and meet him on the field for a Quirk Apprehension Test. The threat of expulsion for last place hung heavy in the air, instantly killing the lighthearted mood.
As the students of Class 1-A filed out onto the training grounds, a strange sight greeted them. There, meticulously sweeping a path near the edge of the field, was the very man from the exam. He was no longer in his tracksuit, but a standard-issue U.A. staff jumpsuit, a simple pair of work gloves on his hands. He worked with a placid, focused expression, as if sweeping was the most important job in the world.
The class froze.
"No way…" Kirishima whispered. "That's him!"
"He's… a janitor?" Uraraka asked, her voice a mix of confusion and disbelief.
Midoriya's brain felt like it was melting. A janitor? Was that a cover? A form of underground heroism? Or was his incredible power just a side-effect of a Quirk that gave him… super-sweeping abilities? No, that was ridiculous. But was it more ridiculous than his real explanation?
Bakugo just glared, his teeth grinding so hard it was audible.
Aizawa ignored their collective shock. "The test is starting. Bakugo. You got the highest score on the entrance exam. What was your farthest softball throw in middle school?"
"67 meters," Bakugo grunted.
"Try it with your Quirk."
Bakugo stepped up to the circle, a vicious grin spreading across his face. This was his chance to show everyone, especially that damn janitor, what real power looked like. With a deafening roar of "DIIIIIE!", he unleashed a massive explosion, propelling the ball into the sky.
Aizawa showed the class the result: 705.2 meters. The class erupted in cheers.
The tests continued, each student showcasing their unique abilities. Uraraka scored an infinity on the ball throw by making it weightless. Iida aced the 50-meter dash. Midoriya watched, his anxiety growing with each event.
Then came the grip strength test. Rikido Sato, fueled by sugar, was trying to break the school record. He strained, his muscles bulging, and the machine's handle groaned under the pressure.
CRACK!
With a sharp snap, the metal handle broke under the strain, the heavy steel head flying off like a cannonball, heading directly for a nearby equipment shed… where Saitama was currently polishing a window, humming a tune from a commercial he'd seen on TV.
"Look out!" several students screamed.
Saitama turned, his placid expression unchanging. He saw the chunk of metal hurtling towards him. He didn't dodge. He didn't flinch. He simply lifted his hand.
He caught it.
He didn't stumble back. His arm didn't buckle. He caught the speeding projectile of solid steel with the same effort one might use to catch a tennis ball, his palm making a soft thwump sound.
He looked at the broken piece of equipment in his hand, then at Sato, who was frozen in horror. Saitama's expression was one of mild annoyance.
"Please be more careful," he said, his voice flat. "If this had hit the window, it would have left a smudge. Those are a real pain to clean."
He then casually tossed the heavy metal chunk back towards Aizawa, who caught it with his scarf, his visible eye wide with a mixture of terror and utter resignation.
The field was dead silent. Every student stared, their jaws agape. The power to throw a ball 700 meters was impressive. The power to make something weightless was incredible. But the power to casually stop a lethal projectile and then complain about potential smudges… that was something else entirely. It was terrifyingly, hilariously, and incomprehensibly mundane.
Midoriya stared at his notebook, then back at the janitor, who had already returned to his sweeping. He crossed out every single theory he had written. At the top of the now-blank page, he wrote a single, shaky sentence:
Who in the world is Saitama?