The screen behind Kratos faded to black, the flickering light no longer casting ghostly hues across the long meeting table. Silence lingered in the room like smoke after battle—thick, unsure, and just a touch wary.
Eyes rested on Kratos.
The ashen warrior stood unmoved, arms folded now, the Leviathan Axe snug on his back, Guardian Shield dormant on his gauntlet. Like a statue carved from storm and fire.
Beside him, Mimir rested near the table's edge, one enchanted eye shifting about, studying faces—trying, failing, to match the soft-eyed teachers to the grim battlefield they'd just witnessed.
It was Principal Nezu who finally broke the silence.
"Well," the small creature chirped, voice light but measured, "I think it's time we introduced ourselves properly. Welcome to U.A. High School."
He gave a polite bow atop his cushioned seat, paws folded neatly.
"My name is Nezu. I'm the principal here—and yes, I'm quite aware that I don't look it." His little nose twitched. "Quirk: High Spec. Enhanced intelligence. Some would say absurdly so."
Kratos gave a slow, acknowledging nod. He didn't speak.
But a voice from the table did.
"Ahem," Mimir piped up, his one enchanted eye glowing faintly as he bobbed forward, drawing all attention with that unmistakable lilt. "Beggin' yer pardon, good folk o' quirks and curiosities, but allow me a brief interlude. Seems only right someone properly introduces the big lug standin' there like he's about to judge yer souls."
A few confused glances shot around the room.
"This here's Kratos. Born to battle, tempered by loss, and—aye—he's learned to choose peace, though not without a fight. As for diplomacy... well, he mostly lets his scowl do the talkin'. Unless ye count staring someone into submission."
A muffled chuckle came from Present Mic, while Eraserhead raised an eyebrow.
"And me?" Mimir's eyes gleamed proudly now. "I'm Mimir. Once advisor to the Kings, now wisecrackin' head o' knowledge and unwanted commentary. Some even call me the smartest man alive."
He paused and turned his single gaze toward Nezu with a playful grin in his tone. "Though, I must admit, it's rare I meet someone else bold enough to claim absurd intelligence out loud. You and I might just get along famously... or destroy a library in the process."
Nezu chuckled, clearly amused. "A pleasure, Mimir. I do appreciate someone who values intellect—especially if they carry it with flair."
"Aye," Mimir replied, "though in our case, the flair's usually accompanied by flaming blades and poor decision-makin'."
"Mimir," Kratos grunted, a hint of annoyance in his voice at his ever-talkative companion.
Mimir bobbed again. "Right, right. I'll behave."
The tension had shifted now—still present, but wrapped in curiosity rather than vigilance. And that, as Mimir knew, was the first step toward diplomacy.
One by one, the teachers followed suit.
"Shouta Aizawa," said a tired voice beside Nezu. The man barely lifted his chin from his scarf. "Eraser Head. Quirk: Erasure."
"Present Mic here!" called a much louder voice from across the table, fingers pointing up in signature flair. "Quirk: Voice! Sorry in advance if I burst your eardrums."
The introductions continued—Vlad King with his stern posture, Ectoplasm with his ever-serious tone, Cementoss's quiet nod, Midnight's teasing smile, Snipe's slow drawl, and Thirteen's gentle wave.
They were many—some flamboyant, others subdued—but all warriors in their own right. Just... dressed in chalk dust and lesson plans rather than steel and ash.
Nezu leaned forward, paws steepled. "This institution, Mister Kratos, is one of the top academies for the training and education of young heroes—children with Quirks. Powers. Potential. We guide them. We shape them. We teach them to become better versions of themselves—for the safety of others, and for their own futures."
Mimir squinted, his eyee narrowing with curiosity, "Right, now ye've lost me. Pro hero? What's that then? Some sort of title? Sounds important, but I can't tell if it's a badge of honour... or a some sort of title."
He swiveled slightly toward Nezu, voice light but probing, "I've known many a hero in my day—most didn't go around callin' themselves one. So what makes a pro hero different? Is it somethin' ye train for, or... are folk just born with that title stitched to their britches?"
A few chuckles rippled through the room, albeit sparsely.
Nezu didn't laugh, but he did smile. "Yes, actually. 'Pro hero' is a designation—one must go through countless hardships, meet rigorous standards, and only then they can earn their rights to be one. It's a regulated role, much like a doctor or a soldier. But their goal is simple: to protect civilians, uphold peace, and prevent catastrophe. Beacons of hope. That's the ideal."
Mimir blinked. "So... yer tellin' me folk here make a livin' out o' bein' brave and bashin' bad sorts? Huh. Can't decide if that's madness or genius. Maybe both."
Kratos grunted quietly.
The tension softened even more. Albeit slightly.
Nezu's gaze returned to the warrior. "You may not come from our world, but you displayed both restraint and purpose in a chaotic situation. That earns trust here—at least, enough to talk. We'd like to understand more about you. And what exactly it is you're doing... here."
Though he couldn't move an inch, Mimir's Bifröst eyes managed to widen ever so slightly as he took in the curious little creature called Nezu.
"Aye. That…" he began slowly, eyeing the gathered faculty, "…that may take some explainin'."
He glanced back up at Kratos, then down again at the crowd—then specifically back to Nezu, curiosity creeping into his tone.
"Ye clocked that, did ye? We never said a word about comin' from another world… and yet ye sniffed it out like a bloodhound in a philosopher's robe. Hah! I'll admit, that's impressive. Very few folk catch on that quick."
He cleared his throat—a slightly theatrical gesture for a head with no lungs.
"Well then. The short of it is—we were near our forest, close to home, doin' nothin' more dangerous than enjoyin' the quiet for once. Then we saw it—a crack in the air. Jagged thing, like a mirror shattered from the inside out. We'd seen one like it before, aye, and thought it wise to give it a closer look this time."
Mimir's tone darkened just a hair, enough to hint at deeper matters.
"But before we could do much of anything, it flared open. Bright lights, strange pull... next thing we knew, we were lookin' down at this strange realm—from thousands o' meters in the bloody sky!"
He gave a slight shake, as if remembering the moment.
"And then we were fallin'. Fast. I'll give the old ghost credit—he landed like a bloody thunderbolt."
A hush fell over the room.
Teachers exchanged uncertain glances, trying to digest what they'd just heard. Eyebrows raised. Mouths parted. Until finally—
"…And you survived that… fall?" Midnight asked, hesitant, eyes darting between Kratos and Mimir.
The room hung in stunned silence, the sheer absurdity of the claim thick in the air. A few teachers exchanged glances—eyebrows arched, skepticism flickering. Interdimensional warriors crash-landing from the sky like meteors and walkin' away without so much as a limp? Aye, it sounded mad.
And yet… no one outright challenged it. Because if Nezu was entertainin' such a conclusion, then it meant he wasn't shootin' in the dark. That tiny genius had a reputation—not just for collectin' data, but for drawin' blood from stone when it came to intelligence gatherin'. If he'd put this on the table, then at least half the pieces were already locked in place. The rest, they trusted he'd find soon enough.
Mimir puffed up with a hint of pride.
"Well of course. He is a g—"
Kratos' head turned ever so slightly. Just enough for the flicker of his golden eye to snap toward Mimir. No words. Just a look.
A very heavy look.
Mimir coughed.
"—gh—g—guh—guhreatly strong! Aye. That's what I meant. Strong. Much stronger than he looks."
(AN: Mimir sweating hard lmao)
He gave a nervous chuckle and looked frantically to everyone's faces. "Hah. Near gave me whiplash from the fall, but him? Not a scratch."
Aizawa leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze as unreadable as ever behind that wild curtain of hair. His voice was low, deliberate—measured like a blade before the cut.
"…Does your world have Quirks as well?"
Kratos didn't answer. His arms remained folded, his eyes still fixed on some indeterminate point between three different people. But Mimir, ever the ambassador of awkward situations, perked up.
"Quirks?" he echoed, brow lifting. "Ohhh—you mean those strange wee powers you lot were talkin' about earlier, aye?"
He looked around. Heads nodded in unison. Even Aizawa gave a slow blink to confirm.
Mimir clicked his tongue. "Nah, can't say we've anything by that name. Folk don't wake up one day with eagle eyes or… hair that explodes or whatnot." He glanced at Present Mic, who offered a small thumbs-up from behind tinted glasses. "Instead, we've got… well, call it a kind o' force in the air. Somethin' you can feel—breathe in. It's ancient. Heavy. Invisible to most, but ever-present."
He tilted thoughtfully. "We harness it. Sometimes through language—runes, chants, songs older than the oldest tongue. Sometimes through relics, imbued with power by the gods themselves. It's structured, dangerous, and most definitely earned through study, not gifted at birth. We call it magic."