{AN: I GRADUATE TODAY!!! WOOOOO!}
The sky was too blue. Too open. Too clean. Too free.
Takuma squinted against the light as he stepped into the simulated combat zone—Zone C. The world outside the holding wing felt almost artificial, like stepping into a memory that wasn't his. The sun hit differently here. The air wasn't heavy with smoke or blood. The silence wasn't the kind that preceded violence. It was filled with nerves and anticipation.
It unsettled him.
He rolled his shoulders. The training suit clung tightly to his form, customized with reinforced lining to support his Quirk limiter—a discreet but ever-present collar wired into the back of his suit and wrists. It didn't hurt, didn't restrict movement, but its purpose was clear.
If he lost control, it would remind him not to.
He stood alone near the zone's edge, separated from the clusters of examinees awaiting the signal. No introductions. No chatter. U.A. staff made sure he wasn't placed near any of the more well-known candidates. A precaution, maybe. Or just convenience.
Takuma didn't mind.
The other students buzzed with anxious energy, stretching, muttering, running over strategies. He watched them with quiet intensity.
One boy, loud and cocky, had bright blond hair with a jagged streak of black slicing through it like a bolt of lightning. Sparks danced around his fingers as he flexed his hands. Quirk type: emitter. Electrical discharge. Overconfidence could be a liability if the output isn't contained.
Nearby, a tall, elegant girl with raven-black hair pulled into a high ponytail studied a laminated guide of mechanical schematics. Likely a creation-type or mechanical based quirk. Focused. Academic. Relies on foreknowledge—vulnerable to unpredictability.
A broad-shouldered redhead cracked his knuckles, his skin glinting like granite as his fists tightened. Hardening Quirk. Brawler. Durable, but straightforward.
They had no idea who he was. That was fine.
Let them keep their peace.
The buzzer blared.
Simulated villains burst from the steel gates like a flood of nightmares made real—robots with bladed limbs and red eyes, some on wheels, some leaping through the air like rabid animals.
Takuma's mind snapped into focus. Assess. Adapt. Control.
He crouched low and pressed one hand to the concrete beneath his feet. The vibrations of combat echoed through the ground, and the texture of the world bled up through his skin—rough pavement, reinforced piping, fragmented steel beneath the surface.
The limiter kicked in—gentle, but noticeable. It dulled the immediate surge of his Quirk, slowed the transfer, forced restraint.
Good. He didn't want to lose himself here.
With a breath, he guided a rusted steel beam up from the side of a demolished wall, twisting it into a hooked crescent. He lashed out with it, catching one of the robots mid-charge and dragging it across the arena in a shower of sparks.
Around him, the others fought hard.
The lightning-haired boy surged forward, unleashing a wild burst of electricity that fried a cluster of robots—but left him blinking dizzily, briefly disoriented. Limited stamina post-discharge. Needs time to recharge or recover. Risky in prolonged encounters. Possible mental backlash?
The tall girl materialized a shield from her own skin—thin but functional—before creating a long staff to vault over a charging bot. Efficient, but not seamless. Strategic thinker. Execution lags behind concept.
The red-haired brawler threw himself into a cluster of enemies, fists shattering machine limbs as he bulldozed through. Blunt force. Reliable under pressure. Predictable movement pattern.
Takuma moved differently. He didn't rush in. He guided metal like an extension of his breath, summoned concrete shards with minimal motion, used the environment as a weapon instead of brute strength. Watching. Analyzing. Adapting. His face remained unreadable as he fought—calculated and cold.
Metal was harder to weld than concrete, as it was purer, but that only mattered when shaping it. Concrete would crack and shatter under his control, but metal resisted, bent, and tore before breaking.
It felt good either way, he'd just have to practice more.
Might also want to see how many things I can control...I've only used smoke, concrete, metal, and a bit of fire. Of course fire only listens when I'm emotional, but I can change that with time.
But in the midst of combat, something inside him stirred. A flicker of something strange.
This… felt good.
Not the violence. The purpose. The clarity.
For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn't drowning in memory. He was here, now, and the pain couldn't touch him in this state of sharp, focused instinct.
He could see a path forward. But still, he stayed distant.
When a student nearby—a boy with a long scarf wrapped around his arm like a whip—stumbled backward from an enemy bot, Takuma took it down with a flying steel shard before the boy even registered the danger.
He turned, eyes wide, ready to say something.
Takuma was already gone.
Then the ground trembled. Louder. Heavier. Everyone froze. Down the far end of the arena, a section of the wall collapsed under a monstrous impact. Dust and smoke spilled into the sky as a titanic shape rolled forward—impossibly tall, mechanical limbs pounding the earth like war drums.
The Zero Pointer.
It towered over the buildings, its single red eye scanning, calculating. Just the weight of it made Takuma's teeth rattle in his skull. Some students ran. Some stood paralyzed.
A few shouted warnings, trying to retreat.
One boy—he couldn't have been more than fifteen—had been pinned beneath a fallen steel beam when the initial tremor struck. His arm twisted beneath it, leg caught. No one noticed.
No one stopped.
Takuma saw him. And didn't register when he moved. But he moved.
He walked—quickly at first, then with urgency—across the field, his fingers brushing the broken ground as he passed.
The Zero Pointer loomed in the distance, closing in. The student's eyes widened in helpless terror. The other examinees had already fled toward the safe zones. Takuma didn't stop.
He stepped between the student and the machine, raised his arms, and reached out—not with muscle, not with force—but with intent.
The air around him crackled with strain as his Quirk clawed its way into the material of the Zero Pointer: high-density alloy, reinforced carbon-weave frame, layered plating. Not natural metal. Not entirely compatible.
It fought him.
The limiter burned cold against the back of his neck, a warning he ignored. His feet dug into the concrete below, causing the fragments to wrap and curl around his ankles in a reaction to his exertion.
His vision blurred as he forced his control deeper, sweat dripping into his eyes. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall. His hands trembled violently as he began to bend the robot's massive joint inward, collapsing the support in its lower leg.
The machine groaned. Metal shrieked.
It took everything. His nose bled. His spine arched. The pain was searing—like trying to hold a collapsing building from inside his own chest.
He screamed without sound. And crushed it.
The Zero Pointer collapsed onto its side in a ruin of shattered alloy and billowing smoke—meters from where the pinned student lay.
Silence.
Takuma staggered forward, breathing ragged, vision dimming at the edges. He looked at the boy—safe, untouched. He didn't speak.
Just stood there as the dust settled.
And for a moment, under that too-blue sky, he wondered: Why did I do that?
He had no answer. But he didn't regret it. His legs gave out.
The limiter surged faintly as his Quirk recoiled, snapping back like a slingshot. Blood trickled from his nose, then his ears. His hands felt like they were still being pulled apart from the inside, nerves crackling, tendons seizing.
He dropped to his knees. And then everything tilted sideways. His last sensation before the darkness took him was the strange warmth of sunlight on his face—soft, almost comforting.
Like a world trying to welcome him back.