There was a moment's pause, the kind that comes when a word carries weight, even across worlds.
Midnight leaned in slightly, intrigued. Vlad scratched his chin. Thirteen muttered something about energy manipulation principles. Meanwhile, Nezu scribbled furiously on a notepad, eyes gleaming.
Mimir bobbed thoughtfully. "So aye—no quirks where we're from. Just magic. And it don't play nice with the unprepared."
Vlad King, arms crossed and brow furrowed, finally broke the silence. His voice was rough-edged but curious.
"Wait… did you say Gods? As in—actual divine beings?"
Mimir turned toward him, one brow raised, as if wondering whether Vlad had been paying attention at all.
"Aye," he said plainly. "Gods. Plural. Big buggers, most of 'em. Powerful, temperamental, immortal—or close enough to it. They're very much real where we come from. Are they not… present here?"
The room shifted. Glances bounced from one teacher to another like a pinball of disbelief. Present Mic blinked. Ectoplasm tilted his head. Midnight frowned faintly, tapping her chin.
Vlad scratched the back of his head, thoughtful now. "I mean… not in the way you're talkin' about. We've got mythology. Stories. But real gods?" He paused, gesturing vaguely. "I don't think so. If there was one…"
He trailed off.
All eyes slowly turned toward one man.
All Might, still in his scrawny form, gave a sheepish laugh and scratched the back of his neck. "Oh, come on now…"
Mimir, ever the opportunist, let out a chuckle. "Ha! So he's the mighty figure everyone looks to, eh? Yer realm's would-be deity."
He gave All Might a nod of respectful amusement with his eyes. "Well, ye've got the charisma, I'll give ye that. But gods, real ones… they're not always so kind."
His voice dimmed, just a hair.
"And sometimes… they ain't the worst threat walkin' the realms."
Kratos made no sound. But his jaw tightened ever so slightly.
From the far end of the table, Higari Maijima, a support course instructor—curious —raised his hand lightly.
"if I may ask—what do these gods actually look like? Are they… you know, like in our myths? Three heads? Six arms? Glowing eyes and floating hair?"
Mimir let out a rich, warm chuckle, the kind that suggested he'd heard that question a dozen times and still found it charming.
"Ohh, lad…yer imagination's paintin' wild pictures, that's for sure. But no, no—most of 'em don't look any different from you lot. They walk on two legs, got one head, two eyes. Some wear fine robes, others… well, more teeth than sense, depending on the god."
He glanced toward Kratos, who remained statue-still beside him.
"The point is," Mimir continued, eyes flicking back to the room, "divinity in our realm's not about shape. It's about power. Aye, and presence. They wield it like breathin'. Their voices can rattle mountains, their wrath split oceans. But on the outside? You might mistake 'em for any bloke walkin' down the street."
He leaned forward slightly, a playful glint in his eye. "And that, I daresay, is the danger of it. Folk expect gods to be obvious—massive, monstrous, glowin' like a festival lantern. But the true ones? They blend in, until they choose not to."
A pause settled over the room, thoughtful, heavy.
"Divine power," Mimir went on, "ain't in the number of arms ye've got. It's in what yer soul can channel. And the gods—well, they've got a lifetime's worth o' the stuff. Sometimes more."
He gave a theatrical shrug, as much as a floating head can. "So next time ye bump into someone who seems a bit too calm when the world's endin'… might be wise to mind yer manners."
All Might leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly—not outta suspicion, mind ye, but honest curiosity.
"That move you used… when you froze the villain solid," he said, gesturing toward the paused frame of Rauk still trapped in his icy tomb, "was that… some kind of magic too?"
Kratos, arms crossed, didn't shift much. His voice came low, steady as a war drum in the dark.
"Runes," he said. "Ancient ones. Carved into the axe. They channel the power."
A few teachers blinked, murmuring among themselves. Someone scribbled notes.
Mimir bobbed lightly in place, taking the cue with a grin. "Aye, what he means is—those markings along the edge o' the axe? Not just for decoration, oh no. Those are runes, old as time and twice as temperamental. Think of 'em like a script—only instead o' tellin' stories, they tell the world what to do."
He winked. "Freeze this, burn that, slow yer enemy's feet or blind 'em with starlight. If ye know the right symbols—and yer arm doesn't fall off from the backlash—ye can shape the battlefield itself."
Now even Aizawa was lookin' slightly impressed. Nezu, of course, looked absolutely delighted.
"In our realm," Mimir continued, "magic's not just some mystery force floatin' about—it's a living thing. And runes? They're the language we use to speak to it. Kratos here's learned a good many over the years… some even from me, if I'm tooting me own horn."
Kratos made a low grunt. Mimir ignored it with professional pride.
"So," Mimir finished with a theatrical little nod, "no Quirk. No mutation. Just good ol' fashioned ancient wisdom, etched in steel and fury."
A quiet tension settled over the U.A. staff room like the last snow before a storm. The kind where folk stare just a second too long, their minds racing miles ahead of their mouths. One question lingered in every teacher's thoughts—could they learn this runic magic? Should they even ask?
But none did.
Out of respect… and a touch of fear.
They all understood. Powers—quirks—were already a tangled web of politics, law, science, and morality. Tossin' an ancient magic system into the pot? That was the kind of thing that could topple institutions and spark panic before the kettle even boiled.
So, the question remained unspoken… but it lingered.
After a long pause, Nezu, ever the one to move the room along without force, leaned forward just slightly, eyes bright and inquisitive.
"Well then," Nezu said gently, tilting his head with a polite, curious smile, "if you don't mind me askin'—you seem… very strong, Kratos. What did you do, in your world? Before arriving here?"
Kratos didn't speak.
He met Nezu's gaze directly. Not hostile. Not cold. But still—unmoving, unreadable. There was a silence in him that rang louder than words. A silence born not of evasion… but of weight.
A weight too heavy for idle conversation.
Mimir, perched at his side, gave a long, slow breath, the kind a man gives before openin' a vault that ought to stay shut.
"Aye…" he began. "Kratos… was born in Sparta."
That one word—Sparta—hung in the air like a war drum.
The room shifted. Even the more casual heroes leaned forward. Midnight's brow furrowed. Aizawa's eyes narrowed. Present Mic stopped fidgeting for once. Nezu's ears twitched with curiosity, mind workin' in overdrive.
Spartan.
It wasn't a quirk. It wasn't a title.
It was a legacy.
Each one of them had read, at some point or another, the stories—of boys raised not with lullabies but with blades. Of children cast into wilds to survive alone. Of warriors who knew no fear, no comfort, no retreat. The kind who turned pain into strength, and death into glory.
And if what Mimir was sayin' was true…
Then Kratos wasn't just from another world.
He was from another breed of humanity entirely.
"He was a Spartan warrior," Mimir said, his voice takin' on a rhythm like a bard at the hearth, "forged in a crucible that'd make most heroes today weep. A soldier before he was a man. And a general before most ever tasted war."
He let that hang, like thunder rollin' in slow from the horizon.
"He led armies, aye. Against beasts, against tyrants, even against fate itself. His blade carved paths not just through flesh, but through legends. His enemies learned to fear the sight of his shadow."
A few of the teachers glanced at Kratos again. He stood motionless. Still silent. Still stone.
"But that wasn't the whole of him," Mimir pressed on, his tone now reverent, but edged with something more solemn. "There were times… when whole nations rose to crush Sparta. Legions, battalions, the works. Kratos'd meet 'em on the field—sometimes with only a handful of warriors at his back. And every time… they were the ones who broke."
His eye glinted with memory, with pride, and a touch of sorrow.
"He commanded not just with tactics, but presence. When he stood, men followed. When he fought, even gods paused to watch. And aye, some called him monster. But to those he protected? He was their shield. Their retribution."
No one interrupted. No one dared.
They were gripped. Held captive by the tale.
"And all of it," Mimir said, his voice now a whisper of old winds, "he did as a Spartan. A mortal. A man forged in blood, tragedy, and war."
There was a pause.
Then a thought crept into the room like frost.
Sparta was real. A known part of this Earth's ancient history. But if he was real too… if this Kratos came from another world where Spartans had become something far greater than mere myth… then—
"Is it…" Midnight murmured, just barely above breath, "a parallel Earth?"
Nezu didn't answer. Neither did Mimir. But the weight in the air was answer enough.
Kratos remained silent through it all.
But when Mimir opened his mouth once more, about to reveal something deeper—
"Enough," Kratos rumbled.
His voice was quiet, but absolute. Like the closing of a tomb.
He gave a small nod, half sheepish, half solemn. "Aye… enough."