What If Deku Was a Mandalorian

 

The wind howling across the rooftop of the Musutafu commercial building carried with it the bitter chill of reality.

 

Izuku Midoriya stood frozen, his scuffed red sneakers rooted to the concrete. His lungs felt like they had been filled with lead, every breath a monumental, agonizing effort. The notebook clutched in his trembling hands—Hero Analysis for the Future, No. 13—felt heavier than a cinderblock. Its edges were still singed and damp from where Katsuki Bakugo had blown it up and tossed it into a koi pond just hours earlier. But that cruelty was nothing compared to the devastation currently ripping through Izuku’s chest.

 

Before him stood Toshinori Yagi. The Symbol of Peace. All Might.

 

Only, he didn’t look like the god-like figure plastered across thousands of billboards and action figures. He was skeletal, gaunt, coughing up blood, his oversized clothes hanging off a frame that had been whittled down by injury and time. The revelation of All Might’s true form had been shocking, yes, but it was the words that had just left the hero’s sunken mouth that were currently destroying Izuku’s universe.

 

"Pro heroes are always having to risk their lives. Some villains just can't be beaten without powers. So no, I honestly don't think you can become a hero without a Quirk."

 

The silence that followed was deafening. The distant hum of traffic below, the blare of a siren, the cawing of a crow—all of it faded into a muffled, underwater drone.

 

"If you want to help people, there are other ways. You could become a police officer. They get a lot of crap because the heroes capture most of the villains, but it's a fine profession. It's not bad to dream, boy. But you have to consider what's realistic."

 

All Might turned his back. The heavy metal door leading to the stairwell creaked open, groaned on its hinges, and slammed shut with a finality that echoed in Izuku’s very soul.

 

He was gone.

 

Izuku didn't move for a long time. The golden hour of twilight painted the city of Musutafu in hues of burning orange and deep purple, casting long, mocking shadows across the rooftop. For fourteen years, Izuku had clung to a singular, desperate hope. Ever since the doctor had coldly pointed to the extra joint in his pinky toe and declared him an evolutionary dead-end, Izuku had lived on the fumes of a fantasy. He had endured the bullying, the spider-lily flowers placed on his desk, the burns from Bakugo’s explosions, the pitying looks from his mother, and the quiet, pervasive isolation of being a genetic anomaly in a world of superhumans.

 

He had endured it all because he believed that if he just tried hard enough, if he just smiled wide enough, he could be like All Might.

 

Now, the source of that dream had personally extinguished the flame.

 

Izuku’s knees finally buckled. He dropped to the rough concrete, the impact sending a dull ache up his shins. He didn't wail. He didn't scream. The grief was too profound for noise. It was a hollow, consuming void that ate away at his insides until there was nothing left but an empty shell of a boy in a middle school uniform. Tears fell, silent and heavy, splattering against the cover of his charred notebook.

 

Realistic.

 

The word bounced around his skull. Bakugo had told him to take a swan dive off the roof and pray for a Quirk in his next life. All Might had told him to be realistic. The world had universally agreed: Izuku Midoriya was worthless.

 

Slowly, mechanically, Izuku pushed himself off the ground. He shoved the ruined notebook into his yellow backpack, the motion stiff and robotic. He walked toward the stairwell, pushing open the heavy door. The descent down the gloomy, flickering staircase felt like walking into his own grave. With every step, the fantasy of 'Deku, the hero who saves everyone with a smile' died a little more.

 

When he finally emerged onto the street level, the city felt alien. He walked aimlessly, his feet carrying him without direction. Around him, the world bustled with the casual miracles of Quirks. A woman levitated a heavy bag of groceries; a teenager with neon-blue skin jogged past, leaving a trail of harmless sparks; a man with elongated, stretchy arms reached up to clean a second-story window. Magic. Everyday, biological magic that Izuku would never possess.

 

He didn't want to go home. He couldn't face his mother's sad, understanding eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of walking into his bedroom, a shrine to the man who had just broken his heart.

 

An hour passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the city in the artificial glow of neon signs and streetlights. Izuku found himself wandering away from the commercial district, toward the edge of the city, drawn by the salty, stagnant smell of the ocean.

 

He stopped when his red sneakers hit sand.

 

Before him lay Dagobah Municipal Beach. Or, at least, it used to be a beach. Now, it was a towering monument to society's apathy. Mountains of rusted refrigerators, crushed cars, shattered televisions, and rotting tires formed a labyrinth of jagged metal and discarded rot. The ocean waves crashed weakly against a barricade of garbage. It was a place where people threw away the things they no longer wanted, the things that were broken beyond repair.

 

Fitting, Izuku thought numbly. I belong here.

 

He walked into the maze of trash, the shadows of the junk heaps swallowing him whole. The smell of rust and decaying seaweed was pungent. He navigated narrow pathways between precarious towers of scrap, seeking a place where he could just sit and disappear.

 

He spotted a rusted-out shell of a pickup truck perched atop a mound of debris. Climbing it would give him a view of the ocean, a small slice of nature unmarred by superhuman society. He grabbed the edge of a crushed washing machine, hauling himself upward. His muscles burned, a stark reminder of his frailty. He stepped onto a stack of old tires, reaching for the bumper of the truck.

 

As his hand closed around the rusted metal, a sharp, metallic SNAP echoed through the quiet beach.

 

The pile shifted.

 

Izuku’s eyes widened as the ground beneath his feet gave way. The tires slid. The washing machine groaned, tumbling backward. The structural integrity of the trash mountain collapsed like a house of cards.

 

"Wha—!" Izuku yelped, but his voice was swallowed by the deafening roar of an avalanche of metal.

 

He was falling. But he wasn't just falling down the side of the trash heap; he was falling into it. The sand beneath the mountain of scrap had eroded over the years, giving way to a deep, dark sinkhole hidden entirely by the canopy of garbage.

 

Izuku plummeted into the pitch-black abyss. Rusted pipes and jagged pieces of metal whipped past him, tearing at his uniform, slicing shallow cuts into his cheeks and arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, crossing his arms over his head in a desperate bid to protect his skull. The air grew instantly frigid, smelling intensely of ancient dust and ozone.

 

He hit a steep, sandy incline, tumbling violently. He rolled head over heels, the breath knocked from his lungs as he slammed into rocks and debris, sliding deeper and deeper beneath the earth. Down, down, into the stygian dark.

 

Finally, with a sickening thud, he slammed into a flat, unforgiving surface.

 

Pain exploded across his ribs and shoulder. He gasped, curling into a tight ball, his lungs screaming for oxygen. For several long minutes, he lay there in the absolute darkness, wheezing, waiting for the agony to subside. His uniform was torn, his skin bruised and bleeding, his head throbbing with a ferocious rhythm.

 

"Help..." he croaked, his voice a pathetic, raspy whisper. It echoed strangely.

 

Silence answered him.

 

Slowly, blinking through tears of pain, Izuku forced his eyes open. It was completely dark, save for a faint, unnatural blue luminescence glowing in the distance. He groaned, pressing his hands against the ground to push himself up. The ground wasn't sand. It wasn't rock.

 

It was smooth, cold metal.

 

Izuku dragged himself to his feet, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his cracked smartphone. He turned on the flashlight app, sweeping the narrow beam across his surroundings.

 

He was in a massive subterranean cavern. The ceiling, far above, was a tangled web of roots, rocks, and the underbelly of the trash piles that had collapsed to form his entry chute. But that wasn't what made Izuku's breath hitch in his throat.

 

The flashlight beam illuminated a massive, towering structure of dull, gray metal. It was not a piece of trash. It was not a discarded machine from the city above.

 

It was a ship.

 

It was utterly alien in design. Two massive, angular wings swept backward from a central, heavily armored fuselage. The hull was scored with terrifying black blast marks, deep gouges that looked like they had been made by energy weapons of unimaginable heat. The metal was pitted and scarred, coated in decades of subterranean dust, but it still radiated an aura of lethal, predatory grace. It looked like a massive, predatory bird of prey resting in the dark.

 

Izuku took a trembling step forward, his fear momentarily eclipsed by an overwhelming wave of curiosity. He was a boy obsessed with heroes and support gear; he knew every aircraft, every drone, every piece of advanced technology developed by I-Island. This didn't belong to I-Island. This didn't look like it belonged to Earth.

 

He swept his flashlight over the hull, tracing the strange, angular symbols painted near the boarding ramp in faded, peeling red paint.

 

Vode An. The letters meant nothing to him, a jagged, sharp language that looked aggressive just in its typography.

 

"What... what is this?" Izuku whispered to the empty cavern.

 

"It is a Kom'rk-class fighter," a voice rumbled from the darkness.

 

Izuku shrieked, dropping his phone. It clattered against the metal floor, the flashlight beam spinning wildly before settling on a pair of heavy, armored boots.

 

Izuku scrambled backward, his back hitting a pile of fallen rocks. His heart hammered frantically against his ribs as a figure stepped out from the deep shadows beneath the ship's wings.

 

The man was clad head-to-toe in armor. Not the flashy, brightly colored spandex of a Pro Hero, but heavy, brutal plating that spoke of war. The armor was a mosaic of faded colors—dull greens, chipped grays, and heavily scratched silver. A ragged, sand-colored cape draped over one shoulder. A strange, dual-pronged jetpack rested on his back. Strapped to his thighs, waist, and chest was an arsenal of weaponry: heavy blaster pistols with peculiar grips, cylinders that looked like explosives, and a wicked-looking, serrated blade sheathed at his hip.

 

But it was the helmet that held Izuku paralyzing. It was unpainted, gleaming silver metal, featuring a stark, T-shaped visor of pitch black that offered no glimpse of the eyes behind it. The design was emotionless, intimidating, and deeply ancient.

 

The figure stepped forward, the heavy clank of his boots echoing in the cavern. A low mechanical whirring sound emanated from the helmet. The visor tilted down, focusing on Izuku.

 

Izuku braced for death. He was trespassing. This was a villain’s hideout, some terrible underground syndicate, and he was about to be killed.

 

"Heart rate is one hundred and sixty beats per minute," the figure said. The voice was distorted by a vocoder, making it sound deep, metallic, and devoid of inflection. "Cortisol levels spiking. Multiple superficial lacerations and minor contusions. No structural bone damage."

 

The helmet tilted slightly to the side. "Biometric scan complete. Genetic profile..." The figure paused. "Baseline human. No meta-ability factors detected. You lack the extra joint modification prevalent in this planet's dominant species. You are... Quirkless."

 

Izuku flinched as if he had been struck. Even down here, in the dark, in the presence of a terrifying armored villain, that word found him. Quirkless. The ultimate brand of uselessness.

 

"I-I'm sorry!" Izuku stammered, raising his hands defensively. "I didn't mean to fall down here! I was just up on the beach and the trash gave way and—please don't hurt me! I won't tell anyone you're down here, I promise!"

 

The armored figure stared at him in silence. The utter lack of facial expression made it impossible to read his intentions. Finally, the man reached up and unclipped a heavy blaster pistol from his thigh holster.

 

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, crying out, "Please!"

 

A heavy sigh crackled through the helmet's speakers.

 

Clack. The man holstered the weapon again.

 

"If I wanted you dead, ad'ika, you would have been dead before you hit the floor," the man said. He took another step forward, entering the dim glow of Izuku's dropped phone. "Stand up. A warrior does not grovel in the dirt."

 

"I'm n-not a warrior," Izuku whimpered, his voice cracking. "I'm nobody. I'm just Deku."

 

"Deku." The man tested the word on his tongue. "A strange name. What does it mean?"

 

"It... it means 'useless'," Izuku confessed, the shame burning his cheeks. "It means someone who can't do anything."

 

The helmet remained fixed on him. "A name given by enemies, then. Why do you wear it?"

 

"Because it's true," Izuku said, the dam finally breaking. The trauma of the day—the Sludge Villain, All Might's rejection, the fall—came rushing out in a torrent of despair. "I don't have a Quirk. In my world, if you don't have a power, you're nothing. You can't be a hero. You can't fight. You're just... glass. And everyone else is made of steel."

 

The armored man slowly crossed his arms over his chest plate. He let Izuku cry, standing as an unmovable pillar of iron in the dim cavern. When Izuku's sobs finally reduced to jagged hiccups, the man spoke.

 

"The people of this planet," he rumbled, his vocoder stripping the words of warmth, but injecting them with an undeniable gravity. "They worship these 'Quirks'. They view genetics as destiny. A man is born with fire in his blood, and they call him a god. A man is born with nothing, and they cast him into the trash heaps."

 

The man swept a gauntleted hand toward the ceiling, where the roots of the garbage mountain hung.

 

"I have watched your 'heroes' on the holonet feeds I slice into," the man continued. "They parade around in bright colors, screaming their own names, fighting for endorsements and applause. They rely entirely on the accident of their birth. Take away their magic tricks, and what are they? Soft. Undisciplined. Weak."

 

Izuku wiped his nose with the back of his torn sleeve, staring up at the T-visor, entirely captivated despite his terror. "Wh-who are you?"

 

"My name is Kad," the man said. "I am a Mandalorian."

 

"Manda... lorean?" Izuku tested the alien syllables. "Is that... your hero name?"

 

A harsh, metallic bark of laughter echoed from the helmet. "I am no hero, boy. I am a soldier. A hunter. A survivor of a creed older than this planet's recorded history. My ship was damaged in a firefight in orbit fifty of your solar cycles ago. I crash-landed here, buried beneath the surface, waiting for a rescue that will never come."

 

Fifty years. Izuku's analytical mind, trained by years of obsessive notebook-keeping, sparked to life despite his misery. This man had been down here for fifty years? He was an alien? The ship... the armor... it wasn't a Quirk. It was technology from the stars.

 

Suddenly, a violent tremor shook the cavern.

 

Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling. The heavy metal of the Kom'rk-class fighter groaned. Above them, a dull, rhythmic thudding could be felt through the earth, followed by the unmistakable, muffled roar of a massive explosion.

 

Izuku scrambled to his feet. "An earthquake?"

 

Kad looked upward, his helmet tilting. "No. Seismic activity is localized. Heavy thermal blooming. Chemical explosives. A battle is occurring in the commercial sector, approximately two klicks from here."

 

Izuku's blood ran cold. The commercial sector. That was near Tatooin Station.

 

"I have to get out of here," Izuku panicked, looking around for an exit. "My mom... she might be out shopping..."

 

"There is a ventilation shaft that leads to an alleyway on the surface," Kad said, pointing a gauntlet toward a dark corner of the cavern. "It is steep, but you are small. You can climb it."

 

"Thank you!" Izuku grabbed his dropped phone, bowing hastily. "Thank you, Kad-san!"

 

Izuku sprinted toward the shaft, scrambling up the rusted rungs bolted to the stone wall. He didn't look back to see the Mandalorian watching him, the T-visor tracking his every desperate movement.

 

 

 

Izuku burst from the manhole cover in a dark alleyway, gasping for fresh air. The sky above was choked with thick, black smoke. The smell of burning rubber and scorched concrete was overpowering.

 

He ran toward the main street, pushing past crowds of terrified onlookers. The heat grew oppressive, radiating from a raging inferno down the block. When Izuku finally broke through the front line of the crowd, his heart stopped.

 

Tatooin Shopping District was a warzone. Fires raged out of control, consuming storefronts. Pro Heroes—Death Arms, Kamui Woods, Mt. Lady, and Backdraft—were on the scene, but they were doing nothing. They were standing at the perimeter, holding back the crowd, looking helpless.

 

In the center of the firestorm was a swirling, monstrous mass of sentient, foul-smelling sludge.

 

It was the Sludge Villain from under the bridge. The one All Might had captured. The one Izuku had accidentally caused All Might to drop when he grabbed onto the hero's leg.

 

It's my fault, Izuku realized, terror seizing his throat. It got away because of me.

 

The villain was roaring, chaotic and destructive. But that wasn't what paralyzed the heroes. The villain had a hostage. Trapped within the suffocating mass of sludge, desperately clawing for air, was a boy with spiky ash-blonde hair.

 

Katsuki Bakugo.

 

"His Quirk is too strong!" Death Arms shouted over the roar of the flames, shielding his face. "I can't get close!"

 

"My wood will just burn!" Kamui Woods yelled.

 

"I need at least a two-lane street to activate my sizing!" Mt. Lady gritted her teeth. "We have to wait for someone with a suitable Quirk!"

 

Wait? Izuku's mind spun. They're waiting?

 

He looked at Bakugo. The boy who had bullied him, burned him, told him to kill himself. Bakugo’s crimson eyes met Izuku’s across the fiery divide. They weren't angry. They were wide, frantic, and filled with a desperate, pleading terror. Bakugo was suffocating. He was dying.

 

And the heroes were waiting.

 

High above the chaotic street, perched on the gargoyle of a pristine glass skyscraper, a figure cloaked in the smoke watched.

 

Kad knelt on the ledge, his jetpack humming a low idle. His T-visor was locked onto the scene below. Inside his helmet, a heads-up display fed him tactical data. Thermal imaging showed the heat of the fires; acoustic sensors isolated the panicked chatter of the heroes below.

 

“We have to wait for someone with a suitable Quirk!”

 

Kad sneered behind his visor. Pathetic. These were the champions of this world? Warriors who stood by and watched a child die because the engagement parameters were not perfectly suited to their natural advantages? A true Mandalorian fought with what they had. If the blaster failed, you used the blade. If the blade broke, you used your fists. If your arms were severed, you used your teeth.

 

To wait for an advantage while an innocent perished was the ultimate cowardice. It proved everything Kad despised about this superhuman society. They were soft. Spoiled by their genetic lottery.

 

He reached down, gripping the hilt of the vibro-blade at his hip, preparing to ignite his jetpack and intervene. He would not let a Foundling-aged child be consumed by a mud-slug while fools in spandex watched.

 

But before Kad could initiate his thrusters, a movement caught his eye. A small, ragged figure broke through the police barricade.

 

Kad zoomed his optical sensors. It was the boy. Deku. The Quirkless weakling.

 

On the ground, Izuku didn't know what he was doing.

 

Later, he would try to analyze it. He would try to figure out what logical process compelled him to move. But there was no logic. There was only the sight of Bakugo's desperate eyes, and before Izuku's brain could scream at him to stop, his legs were already pumping.

 

"Hey! Kid! Get back here!" Death Arms bellowed, reaching out a hand to grab him.

 

Izuku dodged under the hero's arm, sprinting directly into the inferno. The heat singed his eyelashes. The smoke burned his throat. He had no plan. He had no power. He had nothing but a yellow backpack and a heart that refused to let someone die.

 

"Kacchan!" Izuku screamed, his voice cracking with exertion.

 

The Sludge Villain's massive, fluid eyes snapped toward him. "You again! I'll kill you!"

 

A massive tendril of sludge whipped toward Izuku. Operating on pure instinct and adrenaline, Izuku swung his backpack with all his meager strength. The heavy zipper collided with the villain's viscous eye.

 

"GAAAAAH!" The villain recoiled, the sludge loosening its grip on Bakugo's mouth for a fraction of a second.

 

Bakugo gasped a desperate breath, coughing violently. "Deku?! What the hell are you doing?!"

 

"I don't know!" Izuku cried, tears streaming down his face as his hands frantically clawed at the corrosive sludge, trying to dig Bakugo out. The sludge burned his skin, but he didn't stop. He dug his nails into the muck, pulling, tearing, fighting a losing battle against a liquid enemy. "My legs just moved on their own!"

 

Izuku looked up, locking eyes with his childhood tormentor. Through the tears, through the terror, Izuku forced a pathetic, trembling smile.

 

"You looked like you needed saving, Kacchan!"

 

The Sludge Villain recovered, a massive, club-like tendril rearing back. "DIE, YOU QUIRKLESS BRAT!"

 

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut. This is it, he thought. I'm sorry, Mom.

 

Up on the rooftop, Kad’s breath hitched. He had lived a long, violent life. He had seen Mandalorian supercommandos charge into heavy blaster fire. He had seen Jedi knights cut down armies. He had seen bravery in a thousand different forms across a hundred different star systems.

 

But watching this frail, Quirkless boy—a child who had been told by the world that he was worthless, who had been stripped of his dreams just hours ago—charge an impossible enemy with nothing but a canvas bag and raw, unadulterated willpower...

 

That was not the bravery of a hero. That was the absolute, unyielding spirit of a Mandalorian.

 

“Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori’wadaas’la,” Kad whispered in Mando'a, an ancient oath stirring in his chest. Nobody's blood is pure; you as a father, are the most valuable.

 

Kad ignited his jetpack.

 

Before the Sludge Villain's blow could connect, before Kad could cross the distance, a massive shadow eclipsed the alleyway.

 

"I REALLY AM PATHETIC!"

 

Toshinori Yagi, heavily muscled and bleeding from the mouth, burst through the flames. He grabbed Izuku by the collar, pulling him back just as the sludge tendril smashed into the concrete where the boy had been standing a millisecond before.

 

"All Might!" Izuku gasped.

 

"Pro heroes are always having to risk their lives!" All Might roared, grabbing Bakugo's arm with his free hand. He pulled his right arm back, the muscles bulging with unimaginable power. "DETROIT... SMASH!"

 

The resulting punch didn't just obliterate the Sludge Villain, splattering him across the alleyway. The sheer atmospheric pressure of the blow changed the weather. The flames were snuffed out instantly by a localized hurricane. The clouds above parted, and rain began to fall on the stunned, silent city.

 

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers.

 

Izuku sat on the wet concrete, shivering, watching All Might stand triumphant. It was over. The heroes had saved the day. The natural order was restored. Izuku looked down at his raw, bleeding hands. He had done nothing. He had only gotten in the way.

 

 

 

Thirty minutes later, the alleyway was illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers. Paramedics were treating Bakugo, who was surrounded by praising Pro Heroes.

 

"You were amazing, kid!" Death Arms clapped Bakugo on the shoulder. "That Quirk of yours is incredible! You held out so long. When you go Pro, you've got a spot at my agency!"

 

A few yards away, the reception was entirely different.

 

"What were you thinking?!" Kamui Woods scolded Izuku, towering over the shivering boy. "You have no Quirk! You threw yourself into a hostage situation and nearly got yourself killed! You didn't help, you just gave the villain another target!"

 

"If All Might hadn't shown up, you'd both be dead!" Death Arms added, walking over with a scowl. "Leave the hero work to the professionals, kid. Your suicide run didn't accomplish anything."

 

Izuku kept his head bowed, the rain mixing with his tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

 

Eventually, the heroes lost interest in scolding him and returned to the cleanup. Izuku was dismissed, treated like a nuisance, a civilian who had stepped out of his lane.

 

He picked up his soaked, half-empty backpack and began the long walk home.

 

The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. His ribs ached from the fall into the cavern, his hands burned from the sludge, and his soul felt utterly hollowed out.

 

He walked down a narrow, darkened alley, taking a shortcut toward his apartment complex. The shadows were deep here, away from the streetlights.

 

"Hey. Deku."

 

Izuku stopped. He turned around to see Bakugo standing at the entrance to the alley, breathing heavily. The ash-blonde boy looked furious, his fists clenched at his sides.

 

"Kacchan?"

 

"Listen to me, you Quirkless nobody," Bakugo snarled, marching forward a few steps before stopping. "I didn't need your help! I had it handled! Don't you dare think you saved me! You didn't do anything! You're just a useless Deku, and you always will be! Don't look down on me!"

 

Bakugo turned on his heel and stomped away, leaving Izuku alone in the dark.

 

Izuku let out a ragged breath, sliding down the brick wall of the alley until he was sitting in the damp grime. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in his arms.

 

It was true. All of it. Bakugo was right. Death Arms was right. All Might was right.

 

He was useless.

 

Clank.

 

Izuku froze. The heavy, metallic sound of a boot striking pavement echoed from the opposite end of the alley.

 

Clank. Clank. Clank.

 

Izuku lifted his head. Emerging from the shadows, bathed in the dim light of a distant streetlamp, was Kad. The Mandalorian’s armor was streaked with soot and rain. The T-visor locked onto Izuku’s pathetic form.

 

"They reprimand you," Kad’s mechanical voice sliced through the sound of the falling rain. "They call you foolish. They praise the boy who was captured, because he was born with fire in his palms, while they scold the boy who ran into the inferno with nothing but his bare hands."

 

Izuku sniffled, wiping his eyes. "They're right. I didn't do anything. I just got in the way."

 

"You bought him a breath," Kad said, stepping closer. The imposing figure towered over Izuku. "I tracked the engagement. The villain's grip was absolute. The captive's oxygen saturation was at critical failure. Your strike to the optic sensor caused a flinch response. You loosened the grip for one-point-two seconds. You bought him a breath. That breath kept him conscious until the giant arrived."

 

Izuku stared up at the emotionless silver helmet, his heart skipping a beat. "I... I did?"

 

"The 'heroes' stood by, calculating their odds, worrying about their image and their elemental disadvantages," Kad scoffed, the vocoder laced with absolute disgust. "They are cowards playing dress-up. But you..."

 

Kad knelt down, the servos in his armor whining softly. He was now at eye level with Izuku.

 

"I saw what you did, Izuku Midoriya. You possessed no armor. No weapons. No tactical advantage. You knew you were outmatched, and yet, you charged. You embody the core truth that these fools have forgotten: A warrior is not defined by the magic in his blood. A warrior is defined by the iron in his spirit."

 

Izuku’s breath hitched. For fourteen years, he had waited for someone—anyone—to tell him he could be a hero. He had begged All Might for those words. He had been denied.

 

And now, here, in the rain and the mud, an alien soldier was looking at him with something that felt terrifyingly like respect.

 

"I... I just wanted to save him," Izuku whispered, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. "I just want to save people. But I can't. I'm Quirkless. I'm weak."

 

"You are weak," Kad agreed bluntly. "Your body is fragile. You lack training, discipline, and armament. You are soft iron, unworked and untested."

 

Kad reached out, placing a heavy, beskar-plated gauntlet on Izuku's trembling shoulder. The metal was cold, but the grip was firm, grounding Izuku to the earth.

 

"But iron can be forged," Kad said. "I am the last of my clan. My body fails me with age. The Manda calls to me, and soon, I will march away. I will not leave my legacy to rust in a subterranean tomb. I need an heir. A Foundling."

 

Izuku stared at him, his mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. "A... Foundling?"

 

"It is the Way of the Mandalore," Kad explained, his voice taking on a reverent, ancient cadence. "We are not a race. We are a Creed. We take in the lost, the orphaned, the castaways, and we forge them into Mandalorians. We teach them to survive. We teach them to fight. We teach them honor."

 

The T-visor seemed to pierce straight through Izuku's soul.

 

"You asked your giant if you could be a hero without a Quirk," Kad said. "He told you no. I tell you this: you do not need a Quirk to save people. You need discipline. You need armor. And you need a Creed."

 

Kad removed his hand from Izuku's shoulder and stood up, offering his hand to the boy on the ground.

 

"I will not give you magic, Izuku. I will give you pain. I will break you down, and I will rebuild you in Beskar. I will teach you the arts of war, the mastery of weapons, and the tactics of the hunt. I will make you a Mandalorian."

 

The rain fell heavier, washing the grime from Izuku's face. He looked at the armored hand extended toward him. He thought of All Might’s deflating form. He thought of Bakugo’s sneer. He thought of the terrifying, absolute certainty in Kad’s voice.

 

Hero Society didn't want him. They demanded a genetic ticket to entry that he simply didn't possess.

 

But this man didn't care about genetics. He cared about spirit.

 

Izuku’s trembling stopped. A new emotion, something hard and sharp and utterly alien to the boy who had spent his life crying, sparked in his chest. It felt like defiance.

 

Izuku reached up and grabbed the Mandalorian’s hand.

 

Kad’s grip was like a vice. He pulled Izuku to his feet, hauling him out of the mud.

 

"Do you swear to walk the Way?" Kad asked, the mechanical voice ringing with solemnity. "To wear the armor, to protect the innocent, to master yourself, and to never reveal your face to an enemy until their end?"

 

Izuku stood tall, his green eyes burning with a newly ignited fire. He squeezed Kad's gauntlet.

 

"I swear."

 

Kad gave a single, sharp nod. "Then your training begins tomorrow at dawn, Foundling. We have much work to do before the trials."

 

"Trials?" Izuku asked, wiping the rain from his chin. "What trials?"

 

"The entrance exams for the school they call U.A.," Kad stated matter-of-factly, turning to walk back toward the shadows. "You will walk into their fortress of vanity. And you will show them that iron is stronger than magic."

 

Izuku watched the Mandalorian disappear into the darkness, the heavy clank of his boots fading into the sound of the rain. For the first time in his life, Izuku Midoriya didn't feel useless. He looked down at his own hands, no longer seeing fragile, Quirkless flesh.

 

He saw the raw material. He saw unworked iron.

 

"This is the Way," Izuku whispered to the empty alley.

 

He didn't know what the words fully meant yet, but as he turned and began the walk back to his apartment, they felt like armor settling over his heart.

 

The descent into the subterranean cavern beneath Dagobah Beach became Izuku Midoriya’s daily pilgrimage.

 

Every morning, hours before the sun dared to crest over the horizon of Musutafu, the fourteen-year-old boy hauled himself out of bed. He left his All Might posters behind in the dark, slipping silently from his apartment while his mother, Inko, still slept. He ran the two miles to the beach, his lungs burning in the crisp dawn air, before navigating the labyrinth of rusted scrap to the hidden ventilation shaft.

 

Down in the dark, the real work began.

 

“You are late,” the mechanical rumble of Kad’s vocoder echoed through the massive cavern on Izuku's second day. The Mandalorian stood beside the hulking mass of the Kom'rk-class fighter, his armor gleaming dully under the harsh, artificial work-lights he had rigged up.

 

Izuku checked his cheap digital watch. “I’m sorry, Kad-sensei! I ran as fast as I—"

 

“Do not call me ‘sensei,’” Kad interrupted, his helmet tilting slightly. “I am not a teacher of mathematics or a philosopher of your soft society. I am your Ba’buir. Your mentor. Your commander. And here, time is not measured by the turning of hands on a clock. It is measured by readiness. If you are not early, you are late. And on a battlefield, late means dead. Run the perimeter.”

 

“The... the perimeter?”

 

Kad gestured to the cavern walls, a jagged, uneven circuit of loose rocks, sharp stalagmites, and discarded metal that stretched for nearly a mile in the dark. “Twenty laps. Go.”

 

Izuku didn't argue. He turned and ran.

 

By the fifth lap, his legs felt like lead. By the tenth, he was tripping over loose debris, his knees scraped and bleeding. By the fifteenth, he was crying, gasping for breath in the dusty, stagnant air. When he finally collapsed at Kad’s armored boots after the twentieth lap, he could not feel his legs.

 

“Get up,” Kad said.

 

“I… I can’t,” Izuku wheezed, tasting copper in his throat.

 

Kad reached down, hauling Izuku up by the collar of his t-shirt. He didn't offer a towel. He didn't offer water. He pointed to a cleared space on the metal floor of the cavern.

 

“Your heroes rely on their Quirks to dictate their fighting styles,” Kad lectured, pacing around Izuku as the boy swayed on his feet. “They are hammers, and so they treat every problem as a nail. A man who shoots fire from his hands forgets how to throw a punch. A man who hardens his skin forgets how to dodge. They are predictable. A Mandalorian is fluid. You will have no Quirk to rely on, Izuku. Therefore, your body must become the supreme weapon. Stance.”

 

For the next ten months, Izuku Midoriya’s life was an endless symphony of bruises, sweat, and blood.

 

The training was brutal, stripping away the soft, anxious boy who had cowered under Bakugo’s explosions and forging something entirely new. Kad was a ruthless instructor. He did not care about Izuku’s tears, nor his apologies. He only cared about results.

 

The physical conditioning was only the first phase. Once Izuku’s body stopped failing him after the morning runs, the hand-to-hand combat began.

 

Kad taught him Echani and Teräs Käsi, ancient martial arts from star systems Izuku could not comprehend, adapted for fighting larger, stronger opponents. Kad fought Izuku relentlessly. He did not hold back. He threw the boy across the cavern, swept his legs, pinned him in chokeholds until Izuku nearly passed out.

 

“Predictable!” Kad would bark as Izuku threw a wild, telegraphed punch. Kad sidestepped, gripping Izuku’s wrist and throwing him to the metal floor with a bone-rattling thud. “You are fighting with anger! Anger makes you blind! Focus!”

 

“He… he told me to take a swan dive off the roof!” Izuku screamed one afternoon, tears of frustration streaming down his face as he pushed himself up from the floor, his lip split and bleeding. He was thinking of Bakugo. He was always thinking of Bakugo, of the laughter, of the burns. “He said I was nothing!”

 

Kad stepped forward, the expressionless T-visor staring down at the boy.

 

“And you believe him?” Kad asked softly.

 

“I… I don't know,” Izuku sobbed.

 

“If you fight to prove a fool wrong, you give the fool power over you,” Kad rumbled, kneeling down to Izuku's level. “A Mandalorian does not fight for the approval of others. We fight for the Creed. We fight for the Resol'nare. The Six Actions. We wear the armor, we speak the language, we defend ourselves and our families, we raise our children as Mandalorians, we contribute to the clan's welfare, and we rally to the Mandalore. What does a bully’s words matter against an ancient law? Empty your mind of the boy with fire in his hands. He is undisciplined. He is a child throwing a tantrum. You are becoming a soldier. Now. Stance.”

 

Izuku wiped the blood from his lip. He took a deep breath, pushing Bakugo’s sneering face out of his mind. He settled into his stance, raising his fists.

 

“Again,” Izuku said.

 

As the months bled into one another, the tears stopped. Izuku’s soft, rounded features sharpened. The baby fat melted away, replaced by lean, coiled muscle. His hands, once soft and prone to anxious fidgeting, became heavily calloused. He grew taller, his posture straightening. He no longer walked with his head bowed; he walked with the silent, purposeful stride of a predator.

 

Then came the weapons.

 

Inside the armory of the Kom'rk, Kad possessed an arsenal that made the support gear of I-Island look like children’s toys. He introduced Izuku to the heavy blaster pistols.

 

“These are Westar-35s,” Kad explained, handing the twin pistols to Izuku. They were heavy, metallic, and cold. “They fire cohesive energy packets. For your purposes on this planet, I have modified the power cells. You will not kill unless it is a matter of absolute survival. You will set them to stun, or heavy concussive impact. They hit like a battering ram. Treat them with respect.”

 

Izuku’s analytical mind, previously devoted to sketching Hero costumes and cataloging Quirks, devoured the technical specifications of the Mandalorian weaponry. He learned the precise firing rate of the blasters, the fuel consumption of a Z-6 jetpack, the payload spread of the whistling birds, and the tensile strength of a fibercord whip.

 

He practiced his marksmanship until his fingers bled. Kad set up automated training remotes—small, floating spheres that shot painful, low-power lasers. Izuku spent weeks dodging the stingers, learning to fire back on the move. He learned to shoot not by aiming down the sights, but by feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand, letting it become an extension of his own arm.

 

By month eight, Izuku could draw his twin blasters and hit six moving targets in under three seconds, completely blindfolded, relying solely on the sound of the repulsorlifts.

 

When he wasn't fighting, he was studying. Kad forced him to watch the news feeds, analyzing the fights between Pro Heroes and Villains.

 

“Look at this fool,” Kad pointed to a holographic projection of Mt. Lady destroying a city block to catch a purse snatcher. “Collateral damage is at ninety percent. Tactical awareness is zero. She relies on intimidation and mass. If an enemy bypassed her line of sight, she would be dead. What is her weakness, Izuku?”

 

“Her joints,” Izuku answered instantly, his green eyes locked on the hologram. “At that size, her knee and ankle joints bear an impossible load. A concentrated fibercord snare around the ankles, followed by a heavy concussive blast to the back of the knee, would topple her. The fall alone would neutralize her.”

 

Kad’s helmet nodded slowly. “Good. Never look at the power, ad'ika. Look at the man wielding it. Every armor has a chink. Every Quirk has a biological limit. Find the limit. Exploit it.”

 

 

 

On the night before the U.A. Entrance Exams, the cavern was unusually hot.

 

Kad had fired up the ancient forge located in the engineering bay of the crashed ship. The air was thick with the smell of ozone, melting metal, and burning fuel. The rhythmic, deafening CLANG of Kad’s heavy hammer striking an anvil echoed against the stone walls.

 

Izuku stood at attention just outside the forge, shirtless, his lean, scarred torso slick with sweat. His heart hammered in his chest. Tonight was the night.

 

Ten months of agony, of broken bones healed by ancient kolto patches, of grueling tactical simulations, and endless recitations of the Resol'nare. He was ready.

 

The clanging stopped. Kad emerged from the blinding orange light of the forge. He held a large, heavy bundle wrapped in a dark, heat-resistant cloth. He walked toward Izuku, the servos in his armor whining with every step.

 

“A Mandalorian without his armor is like a crab without its shell. Vulnerable. Incomplete,” Kad’s voice was softer than usual, carrying a heavy, ceremonial weight. He set the bundle down on a sturdy metal crate.

 

“I do not have enough pure Beskar to forge you a full suit,” Kad admitted, pulling back the cloth. “The iron of Mandalore is rare, and my stores are nearly depleted. But I have salvaged the highest-grade durasteel from the ship's internal bulkheads, layered it with plasteel for kinetic absorption, and alloyed it with what little Beskar I could spare.”

 

Izuku stared in awe as Kad lifted the pieces.

 

The base suit was a flight-suit of reinforced, dark grey mesh—fire-retardant and temperature-regulating. Over this went the plating. Dark, forest-green durasteel plates for the thighs, shins, and forearms. The boots were heavy, mag-clamped, and reinforced with steel toes. Around the waist was a heavy leather belt laden with pouches, thermal detonators (modified for concussive blast and cryo-freezing), and the twin holsters for his Westar-35s.

 

“Hold out your arms,” Kad ordered.

 

Izuku complied. Kad began to strap the armor onto him. The gauntlets were heavy. The left gauntlet housed a grappling line, a fibercord whip, and a repulsor-pad. The right gauntlet housed a flamethrower and the launcher for his whistling birds—miniature, guided wrist-rockets.

 

Next came the chest plate. It was heavy, angular, and painted a matte black.

 

“The heart must be protected above all,” Kad said, his gauntleted hand resting over the center of Izuku’s chest. “This breastplate, and the gorget protecting your neck, are forged of pure Beskar. It will deflect energy blasts. It will shatter blades. It is the legacy of my ancestors, passed to you.”

 

Izuku felt the terrifying, empowering weight of the metal settle over his shoulders.

 

Finally, Kad reached back into the bundle. He pulled out the helmet.

 

It was a masterpiece. It retained the classic, intimidating silhouette of the Mandalorian buy'ce, but it was uniquely Izuku’s. The main dome and cheeks were painted dark green, matching his armor plating. The T-visor was pitch black, a one-way mirror into his soul.

 

But around the lower half of the visor, framing the vertical slit, Kad had painted something subtle in dark, jagged charcoal grey. It was a slight, upward curve. A smile.

 

“You told me once that you wanted to save people with a smile,” Kad said, looking at the helmet. “To show them they had nothing to fear. I told you that a helmet hides the face to instill terror in the enemy. This is our compromise. Let the innocent see the smile. Let your enemies see the iron.”

 

Izuku’s hands trembled as he reached out, taking the helmet. The metal was cool to the touch. He traced the jagged smile with his thumb. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of profound, overwhelming gratitude.

 

“Kad… I… thank you.”

 

“Do not thank me yet. The burden of the helmet is heavy. Once you put it on, you are no longer just Izuku Midoriya. You are a representative of the Manda. Will you uphold the Creed?”

 

Izuku looked up, meeting the black T-visor of his mentor. He wiped his eyes, his expression hardening into absolute resolve.

 

“I swear it,” Izuku said firmly.

 

He lifted the helmet, the interior padding sliding smoothly against his head. With a soft hiss of pressurization, the helmet locked into the neck seal.

 

Inside, the heads-up display (HUD) blinked to life. A faint blue glow illuminated the interior, feeding Izuku a stream of data. Thermal tracking. Acoustic amplification. Life-sign monitoring. The world outside, previously limited to his biological eyes, suddenly expanded into a matrix of tactical information.

 

Izuku breathed in. The air filtering through the rebreather was crisp and metallic.

 

“How do you feel?” Kad asked, his voice filtering through Izuku's external audio receptors.

 

Izuku engaged his vocoder. When he spoke, his voice was no longer that of a squeaky, anxious teenager. It was deep, modulated, and resonated with metallic authority.

 

“I feel ready.”

 

Kad nodded. “Tomorrow, you walk into the den of the false heroes. Show them no fear. Strike true. This is the Way.”

 

Izuku clenched his beskar-plated fists.

 

“This is the Way.”

 

 

 

The morning of the U.A. Entrance Exam brought a crisp, clear sky over Musutafu.

 

The sprawling, glass-and-steel campus of U.A. High School was a monument to superhuman achievement. Thousands of hopeful teenagers swarmed the massive front gates, chatting nervously, flexing their Quirks, and dreaming of stardom.

 

Then, the murmuring died down.

 

A ripple of silence spread through the crowd starting from the back, parting the sea of students like a physical wave. Whispers erupted, accompanied by pointed fingers and confused stares.

 

Walking up the main path toward the U.A. gates was a figure that looked like it had stepped out of a warzone.

 

Izuku moved with a measured, predatory grace. The heavy clank, clank, clank of his mag-clamped boots against the pavement provided a rhythmic soundtrack to the sudden silence. He wore his dark green and black armor, the dark cape draped over his right shoulder fluttering gently in the breeze. His twin blasters were holstered at his thighs. The dual-pronged jetpack rested securely on his back.

 

Behind the dark T-visor, Izuku’s eyes flicked rapidly across his HUD. He was analyzing everyone. Mutant type, heavily muscled—weakness: lack of agility. Emitter type, localized electrical current—weakness: insulated ground. Transformation type...

 

“What the hell is that?” a boy with spiky red hair muttered as Izuku walked past.

 

“Is that a villain? Why is he dressed like a cyborg?” a girl with pink skin whispered.

 

“Probably just some rich kid relying entirely on support gear. Pathetic,” another scoffed.

 

Izuku ignored them all. A lion does not concern himself with the opinions of sheep, Kad had told him. He kept his gaze fixed forward.

 

“Hey! Out of my way, extras!”

 

The explosive shout cut through the murmurs. Izuku stopped, his HUD instantly identifying the acoustic signature. He didn't need the computer to tell him who it was, though.

 

Stomping up the path, hands shoved deep into his pockets and a permanent scowl etched onto his face, was Katsuki Bakugo.

 

Bakugo marched forward, fully expecting the crowd to part for him. When he encountered the armored figure standing still in the middle of the path, his eyes narrowed.

 

“I said move, tin-can,” Bakugo snarled, tiny sparks popping in his palms.

 

Izuku slowly turned his helmeted head to face his childhood tormentor. His HUD highlighted Bakugo in a faint red outline, calculating the distance, the explosive yield of his palms based on previous data, and optimal strike points.

 

“Are you deaf under that bucket?” Bakugo barked, stepping closer. “Move before I melt you into scrap!”

 

Izuku did not move. He stood his ground, letting the intimidating silence of his armor do the talking.

 

Bakugo sneered, reaching out a hand to shove the armored figure’s shoulder. “Listen here, you—”

 

Quicker than Bakugo could blink, Izuku’s left hand shot out. He gripped Bakugo’s wrist. The durasteel gauntlet locked around Bakugo’s arm like a vice. Bakugo gasped, his eyes widening in shock as he tried to yank his arm back, but the grip was absolute. He couldn't budge an inch.

 

Inside the helmet, Izuku felt a strange sense of calm. The boy who had terrified him for a decade, the boy whose explosions had scarred his skin, was just a boy. A boy with poor posture and telegraphed movements.

 

Izuku leaned in close, the T-visor inches from Bakugo’s face. He engaged the external speakers, projecting a burst of white noise—the roaring sound of a jet engine—for a fraction of a second, causing Bakugo to flinch violently.

 

Then, Izuku released the wrist, stepping smoothly around the stunned explosive user, and continued his march toward the auditorium without uttering a single word.

 

Bakugo stood frozen, his wrist throbbing, staring at the back of the retreating armored figure. A cold sweat broke out on his neck. He didn't know who the hell that was, but the eyes boring into him from behind that black visor felt terrifyingly familiar.

 

 

 

The orientation in the massive auditorium was loud, flashy, and utterly grating on Izuku’s senses. The Voice Hero, Present Mic, screamed into the microphone, outlining the rules of the practical exam.

 

Izuku sat perfectly still in his seat, ignoring the strange looks from the blue-haired boy with glasses sitting next to him.

 

Urban combat simulation, Izuku analyzed as Present Mic explained the point system based on destroying robotic villains. Robots. Non-organic targets. Lethal force parameters authorized. Armor plating analysis required. This is not a test of heroism. It is a test of destructive capability and localized awareness.

 

When Present Mic revealed the existence of the "Zero Pointer"—a massive, unkillable obstacle designed to be avoided—Izuku nodded slowly to himself. A tactical hazard. An environmental area-denial weapon. Avoidance is the logical objective, unless it threatens a high-value asset.

 

Minutes later, Izuku stood before the towering gates of Battle Center B. He was surrounded by dozens of other examinees, all of them stretching, hyperventilating, or hyping themselves up.

 

Izuku simply checked his gear.

 

Blaster charge: 100%.

Jetpack fuel: 100%.

Whistling birds: Armed.

Beskar integrity: Optimal.

 

“Right, let’s start!” Present Mic’s voice boomed from the overhead speakers. “Get moving! There are no countdowns in real battles! Run, run, run!”

 

The massive metal gates began to creak open. Before they were even wide enough for a person to comfortably fit through, Izuku moved.

 

He didn't run. He ignited his jetpack.

 

FWOOSH!

 

A burst of blue flame erupted from the twin thrusters on his back. Izuku shot through the narrow gap in the gates like a dark green missile, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. The other students cried out in shock, stumbling backward from the sudden exhaust blast.

 

By the time the other examinees sprinted into the faux-city, Izuku was already a ghost.

 

He landed softly on the roof of a three-story building, his mag-boots clicking against the concrete. His HUD mapped the city below. He spotted a cluster of three One-Pointer robots rolling down the main avenue.

 

Izuku drew his twin Westar-35s. He didn't aim down the sights. He looked at the targets, felt the weight of the blasters, and squeezed the triggers.

 

Pew! Pew! Pew!

 

Three blinding bolts of blue concussive energy rained down from the rooftop. The first struck a robot directly in its optical sensor, blowing its head off in a shower of sparks. The second hit the main chassis of the next robot, the sheer kinetic impact caving in its armor and sending it flying into a brick wall. The third blasted the treads off the final robot, immobilizing it instantly before Izuku fired a follow-up shot to its power core.

 

Three points. Elapsed time: 14 seconds.

 

Izuku holstered his left pistol and leaped off the roof. He fired a burst from his jetpack to break his fall, landing in a crouch in the middle of the street.

 

A Two-Pointer, shaped like a massive mechanical scorpion, lunged at him from an alleyway, its heavy tail raised to strike.

 

Izuku didn't flinch. He raised his right arm. Target lock.

 

With a sharp command from his HUD, the casing on his right gauntlet slid back. Four tiny, needle-like missiles—whistling birds—shot out with a terrifying, high-pitched screech. They arced beautifully through the air, curving around the scorpion’s blocking claws, and buried themselves into the joints of its legs and its tail base.

 

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

 

A series of localized, high-yield explosions ripped the robot apart from the inside.

 

Five points.

 

Izuku didn't stop to admire his work. He was a machine of efficient destruction. He moved fluidly through the fake city, a blur of dark green and black. He used his fibercord whip to lasso flying Three-Pointers, slamming them into the ground. He used thermal detonators to clear entire intersections of grouped enemies. He used his blasters with terrifying, lethal precision, never missing a shot, never wasting a movement.

 

 

 

Deep inside the U.A. observation room, the faculty watched the monitors in stunned silence.

 

The screens displayed the various examinees. A boy with engines in his legs was kicking robots in half. A girl who could manipulate gravity was floating them into the air and dropping them. A boy creating massive explosions was tearing through the city like a localized natural disaster.

 

But the largest monitor, commanded by the diminutive, animal-like principal, Nezu, was locked onto Examinee Number 7114.

 

“Eraserhead,” Nezu squeaked, taking a sip from his teacup, his beady eyes wide with fascination. “Your assessment of this applicant?”

 

Shota Aizawa, a man wrapped in what looked like a yellow sleeping bag, narrowed his bloodshot eyes at the screen. He watched the armored figure slide under a robot’s attack, blast its knees out, and vault over its falling chassis without breaking stride.

 

“He’s entirely reliant on support gear,” Aizawa noted, his voice flat but laced with undeniable intrigue. “He registered as Quirkless on his application. But… he doesn't move like a kid with a new toy. He moves like a veteran. There is zero hesitation. Zero wasted energy. His situational awareness is flawless.”

 

“Who trained him?” Snipe, the gun-toting hero, leaned forward, his masked face inches from the screen. “I’ve never seen firearms like that. They aren't firing ballistic projectiles. It's directed kinetic energy. And that jetpack… the acceleration is insane. I-Island tech?”

 

“No,” a skeletal, blonde man standing in the back of the room murmured. Toshinori Yagi clutched his stomach, his blue eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the screen. He recognized the green of that armor. He recognized the name on the file.

 

Izuku Midoriya.

 

The Quirkless boy from the rooftop. The boy he had told to give up.

 

What have you done, young Midoriya? All Might thought, a knot of dread and awe forming in his stomach. Where did you get this power?

 

“He’s currently sitting at seventy-four villain points,” Nemuri Kayama, the R-Rated Hero Midnight, purred. “He’s decimating the field. And he hasn't taken a single hit.”

 

Nezu placed his teacup down with a soft clink. “Let us see how our young commando handles a disruption in his tactical parameters. Activate the arena trap.”

 

Nezu pressed a large red button on his console.

 

 

 

Back in Battle Center B, Izuku had just finished securing a sector when the ground beneath his mag-boots trembled.

 

It wasn't a localized tremor. The entire fake city shook violently, glass shattering from the faux-windows above him. A massive shadow fell over the street, blocking out the sun.

 

Izuku looked up.

 

Rising from the center of the arena, tearing through a skyscraper as if it were made of cardboard, was the Zero Pointer.

 

It was an absolute behemoth. A mountain of steel and tread, easily the size of a city block. Its massive red optical sensor scanned the street below, locking onto the fleeing examinees. It raised a fist the size of a house and slammed it into the ground, sending a shockwave that threw several students off their feet.

 

“Run!” someone screamed.

 

“It’s the Zero Pointer! Time’s almost up, just run away!”

 

Izuku’s HUD went wild, flashing red warning klaxons.

 

Threat level: Catastrophic.

Armor integrity against direct physical strike: 0%.

Evacuate immediate vicinity.

 

Izuku turned on his heel, preparing to ignite his jetpack and clear the blast zone. The logic was sound. There were no points to be gained here. Retreat was the only tactical option.

 

“Ow! Please, somebody!”

 

The voice cut through the sound of crushing concrete and grinding metal. Izuku stopped. He spun around, his audio receptors pinpointing the cry.

 

Trapped beneath a large slab of debris that had fallen from the crushed building was a girl with short brown hair. Uraraka. The girl who had stopped him from tripping at the front gates earlier that morning. She was desperately trying to push the rock off her leg, tears streaming down her face, but she was exhausted.

 

The Zero Pointer’s massive treads were rolling forward. It hadn't noticed her. It was going to crush her like an insect.

 

Izuku’s HUD flashed a new calculation.

 

Distance to target: 40 meters.

Estimated time to crush: 6 seconds.

Tactical recommendation: Evacuate.

 

To hell with the tactical recommendation, Izuku thought.

 

“Gar taldin ni jaonyc,” Izuku muttered the Mandalorian oath under his breath.

 

He didn't run away. He sprinted directly toward the colossal machine.

 

In the observation room, the heroes gasped.

 

“What is he doing?!” Midnight yelled. “He can’t fight that thing! It’s designed to be indestructible to normal attacks!”

 

“He’s going for the trapped girl,” Aizawa realized, gripping the edge of the console. “But he doesn't have the strength to lift that debris, and he doesn't have the time to pull her out before the treads reach them!”

 

“Stop the test!” All Might yelled, coughing violently. “He’ll be killed!”

 

“Watch,” Nezu said quietly.

 

Izuku hit the thrusters on his jetpack, soaring over the terrified, fleeing examinees. He didn't fly toward Uraraka. He flew directly upward, angling himself toward the Zero Pointer's massive, domed head.

 

The robot’s optical sensor tracked the flying annoyance. It raised its massive hand to swat Izuku out of the sky like a fly.

 

Izuku cut his thrusters, entering a free-fall directly toward the incoming giant hand. At the last possible millisecond, he hit the lateral thrusters, violently dodging to the left. The massive hand swiped empty air, the wind pressure alone spinning Izuku out of control.

 

Izuku stabilized himself, drawing both of his Westar-35s. He overloaded the power cells, bypassing the safety inhibitors. The blasters whined with a dangerous, high-pitched pitch.

 

“Let’s see how you like it blind!” Izuku roared through his vocoder.

 

He fired simultaneously. Two massive, blindingly bright bolts of blue energy lanced across the sky, striking the Zero Pointer directly in its massive red optical sensor.

 

The energy shields flared, but the concussive force of the overloaded blasters shattered the glass plating. The robot’s sensor array exploded in a shower of sparks and black smoke.

 

The Zero Pointer let out a deafening, metallic shriek. Blinded and off-balance, the machine’s internal gyros overcompensated. It stumbled backward, its massive treads screeching against the pavement, halting its forward momentum away from Uraraka.

 

Izuku was falling rapidly now, his jetpack sputtering as the emergency maneuvers drained its primary fuel cell. He was plummeting toward the street, directly above Uraraka.

 

He aimed his left gauntlet at a sturdy structural girder protruding from a nearby, half-destroyed building.

 

Thwip!

 

The fibercord grappling line shot out, wrapping securely around the steel beam. Izuku swung like a pendulum, his trajectory swooping low over the debris where Uraraka was trapped.

 

As he swung over her, he didn't try to lift the rock. He reached down with his right arm, engaging the repulsor-pad built into his gauntlet.

 

BZZZT!

 

A wave of localized anti-gravity kinetic force blasted downward, shattering the slab of concrete pinning Uraraka’s leg into dust.

 

Izuku dropped the grappling line, landing heavily on the ground beside her, the shock absorbers in his knees screaming in protest. Without missing a beat, he scooped the stunned girl into his arms, bridal style.

 

He ignited the last reserve of his jetpack fuel, blasting horizontally down the street, away from the staggering, blinded Zero Pointer.

 

They crashed into a roll behind a barricade of wrecked cars just as the timer buzzer echoed across the city.

 

“THE EXAM IS OVER!” Present Mic’s voice blared.

 

Silence descended upon Battle Center B, save for the whining down of the deactivated robots.

 

Izuku lay on his back, his chest heaving inside the armor. His HUD was flashing multiple warning signs. Blasters overheated. Jetpack fuel empty. Left knee actuator damaged.

 

He slowly sat up, groaning. He looked down.

 

Uraraka was staring at him, her large brown eyes wide with absolute awe. She was trembling, covered in dust, but alive.

 

“Y-you saved me,” she whispered. “Who… who are you?”

 

Izuku looked at her. Through the dark T-visor, she couldn't see his eyes. But she could see the dark, jagged smile painted across the faceplate.

 

Izuku stood up, his armor clanking. He offered her a gauntleted hand.

 

“Are you injured?” the deep, metallic voice asked.

 

Uraraka took his hand, letting him pull her up. “I… my ankle is sprained, I think. But I’m okay. Thank you.”

 

Izuku nodded once. He turned, looking back at the blinded, frozen form of the Zero Pointer. He had faced a monster, and he had not broken. He had used his wits, his gear, and his training.

 

He was a Mandalorian.

 

As the other students tentatively walked back into the street, staring at him with a mixture of fear and reverence, Izuku ignored them. He holstered his blasters, adjusted his cape, and began the long walk toward the exit gate.

 

He had passed the trial. Now, the real war was about to begin.

 

The dawn had barely broken over the subterranean cavern of the crashed Kom'rk-class fighter, but Izuku Midoriya was already awake.

 

He stood in the center of the armory, the harsh glow of the overhead luminaries reflecting off the polished durasteel and beskar plating laid out on the workbench before him. For the past ten months, putting on the armor had been a clunky, unfamiliar process. Now, it was a ritual.

 

He pulled the dark grey, fire-retardant mesh undersuit over his lean, heavily scarred torso. Next came the heavy leather belt, laden with pouches containing extra energy cells, kolto patches, and his specialized grenades. He strapped the dark green durasteel greaves to his shins, securing the mag-boots that clicked heavily against the metal floor. The thigh plates, the arm guards, the gauntlets housing his flamethrower, whistling birds, and repulsor-pad—every piece locked into place with a satisfying, magnetic clack.

 

Finally, he lifted the solid black beskar chestplate, securing it tightly over his heart, before draping the ragged, sand-colored cape over his right shoulder.

 

"Your armor integrity is at ninety-eight percent," Kad’s mechanical voice echoed from the doorway. The old Mandalorian leaned heavily against the bulkhead, his own armor scratched and faded, a stark contrast to the freshly forged plates of his Foundling. "The energy cell in your left Westar-35 has a micro-fracture. I swapped it. Do not overheat it again."

 

"Understood, Kad," Izuku replied, checking the draw on his twin blasters, spinning them once by the trigger guards before slapping them smoothly into his thigh holsters.

 

"Today you enter their academy," Kad continued, stepping into the room. "You will be surrounded by children who believe they are gods because of the blood in their veins. They will look at your armor and see a crutch. They will look at your lack of a Quirk and see weakness. Do not try to correct them with words."

 

Izuku reached for his helmet—dark green, a black T-visor, and the faint, jagged charcoal outline of a smile painted across the lower faceplate.

 

"I know," Izuku said softly. "Words mean nothing on the battlefield."

 

"Precisely," Kad nodded. "Let them boast. Let them flaunt their magic. But when the time comes to strike, you show them the iron of Mandalore. Walk with honor, Izuku."

 

Izuku slid the helmet over his head. The internal seals hissed, locking it into the neck ring. His heads-up display (HUD) booted up, bathing his vision in a faint, tactical blue light. The world sharpened. Temperatures, acoustics, and structural analyses scrolled across his peripheral vision.

 

He engaged his vocoder. "This is the Way."

 

"This is the Way," Kad echoed.

 

 

 

The morning commute to U.A. High School was a lesson in isolation. As Izuku walked through the streets of Musutafu, civilians parted like the Red Sea. In a society accustomed to flamboyant heroes and bizarre mutant Quirks, a silent teenager clad in battle-scarred, military-grade armor walking with the precise, measured stride of a soldier was deeply unsettling.

 

He arrived at the massive glass gates of U.A. without incident. The halls were a labyrinth, but his HUD mapped the architectural schematics easily. He navigated the corridors until he stood before a ridiculously massive door labeled 1-A.

 

Izuku didn't hesitate. He reached out with his beskar-plated gauntlet and slid the door open.

 

The low hum of chatter instantly died.

 

Izuku stepped into the room. Twenty pairs of eyes snapped toward him. The atmosphere, previously buzzing with the excited energy of teenagers on their first day of high school, instantly dropped ten degrees.

 

"Whoa," a boy with spiky yellow hair and a black lightning bolt streak muttered, leaning back in his desk. "Is that the guy from the entrance exam? The cyborg?"

 

"He's not a cyborg, idiot, it's a suit of armor," a girl with earphone jacks hanging from her lobes whispered back.

 

Izuku ignored them. He scanned the room, his HUD logging each student. He recognized several from the exam. Then, his auditory sensors picked up the heavy, rhythmic stomping of feet.

 

"Excuse me!"

 

A tall boy with dark blue hair and glasses marched up to Izuku, chopping the air with his hand in rigid, robotic motions. It was the boy who had interrupted Present Mic during the orientation. Tenya Iida.

 

"I am Tenya Iida from Somei Private Academy! While I acknowledge your exemplary performance during the practical exam, I must insist that you remove your helmet! It is highly disrespectful to wear headgear in the classroom, let alone a full combat helmet! Are you not taking U.A. seriously?!"

 

Izuku looked up at Iida. The T-visor offered no emotion, no micro-expressions for Iida to read.

 

"I am taking it perfectly seriously," Izuku's modulated, metallic voice filled the room, causing several students to flinch. It didn't sound like a teenager's voice. "But I will not remove my helmet."

 

"What?! But it violates the school dress code!" Iida protested, adjusting his glasses furiously. "Furthermore, relying entirely on support gear without demonstrating your Quirk is—"

 

"Hey. Tin-can."

 

The dangerously low, guttural voice came from the back of the classroom. Izuku’s HUD shifted its focus, bypassing Iida entirely.

 

Sitting with his feet propped up on his desk, his uniform jacket open and his red eyes burning with barely contained fury, was Katsuki Bakugo.

 

Bakugo slowly lowered his feet to the floor. He hadn't stopped thinking about the armored freak from the exam. The way the guy had grabbed his wrist, the unbreakable grip, the paralyzing white noise blast. But more than that, it was the sheer disrespect. The absolute refusal to acknowledge Bakugo's superiority.

 

"I know that green," Bakugo sneered, standing up and kicking his chair back. "You're the extra who got in my way at the gates. You're the one who blew up the Zero Pointer with those rigged blasters." Bakugo began marching down the aisle, tiny explosions popping in his palms, filling the air with the smell of caramelized sugar and ozone. "Take the bucket off. I want to see the face of the cheating bastard who thinks his toys make him better than me."

 

Izuku stood his ground. "My face is none of your concern."

 

Bakugo stopped a few feet away. His crimson eyes narrowed, scanning the armor. He looked at the green plating. He looked at the height. He looked at the battered yellow backpack slung over the armored shoulder.

 

A horrific, impossible realization dawned in Bakugo’s eyes. The explosions in his palms sputtered and died.

 

"No," Bakugo whispered, his face draining of color before flushing violently red. "No, it's impossible. You're Quirkless. You're just a useless pebble. There's no way."

 

"What's he talking about?" the red-haired boy, Kirishima, asked out loud.

 

Bakugo lunged forward, his hands reaching for the edge of Izuku's helmet. "DEKU! TAKE THAT OFF RIGHT NOW!"

 

Before Bakugo’s hands could even make contact, Izuku’s left hand shot up, his fingers clamping down on Bakugo’s collar. With a fluid, terrifyingly fast motion utilizing his opponent's own momentum, Izuku pivoted, sweeping Bakugo’s leg and slamming the explosive teen onto the hardwood floor of the classroom.

 

THUD.

 

The entire class gasped, jumping to their feet. Bakugo hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Izuku stood over him, his durasteel boot resting lightly—but with clear intent—against Bakugo’s chest, pinning him down.

 

"If you attempt to touch my helmet again," Izuku stated, his modulated voice devoid of anger, entirely clinical and cold, "I will break your fingers."

 

"Get off me!" Bakugo roared, trying to ignite his palms, but Izuku shifted his weight, pressing the toe of his heavy mag-boot precisely onto a cluster of nerves in Bakugo’s shoulder, paralyzing the arm with a shock of agonizing pain.

 

"If you're done playing pretend," a tired, raspy voice drifted into the room.

 

Everyone froze. Standing in the doorway, zipped inside a yellow sleeping bag and holding a juice pouch, was a haggard-looking man with messy black hair and bloodshot eyes.

 

Shota Aizawa.

 

Aizawa unzipped his sleeping bag and stepped out, the capture weapon scarf unwinding around his neck. "It took you all eight seconds to quiet down. Time is limited. You kids are not rational enough."

 

Aizawa’s tired eyes drifted to the floor, where Izuku still had Bakugo pinned.

 

"Let him up," Aizawa ordered.

 

Izuku held Aizawa’s gaze for a fraction of a second, his HUD analyzing the man. Pro Hero Eraserhead. Quirk: Erasure. Weakness: requires line of sight, physical stamina.

 

Izuku stepped back, releasing Bakugo. Bakugo scrambled to his feet, clutching his shoulder, his eyes wide with a mixture of humiliation and homicidal rage. "I'll kill you, Deku..." he hissed.

 

"Sit down, Bakugo," Aizawa warned, his hair hovering slightly, his eyes glowing red. Bakugo grit his teeth but aggressively shoved his way back to his desk.

 

Aizawa walked to the podium, pulling a stack of blue gym uniforms from his sleeping bag. "I'm your homeroom teacher, Shota Aizawa. Nice to meet you. Put these on and head out to the P.E. grounds."

 

As the students began to murmur and grab the uniforms, Aizawa pointed a finger directly at Izuku.

 

"Examinee 7114. Midoriya."

 

Izuku stood at attention. "Yes, Aizawa-sensei."

 

"You registered as Quirkless. The principal allowed you into this course based on your combat prowess with support items," Aizawa said, his tone flat. "But in my class, we don't hide behind masks. Take the helmet off. If I can't see your eyes, I can't teach you."

 

The room went dead silent again. Everyone watched the armored boy.

 

Izuku didn't reach for his helmet. He stood perfectly still.

 

"With respect, Aizawa-sensei," Izuku replied, his metallic voice echoing in the quiet room. "I will not."

 

Aizawa’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you defying a direct order on your first day? I can expel you right now, Midoriya. I've expelled entire classes for less."

 

"You may expel me if you wish," Izuku countered smoothly, showing no fear. "But I will not remove my helmet. It is not a mask to hide behind. It is a vow. I swore the Creed of the Mandalore. I am a Mandalorian, and to remove my helmet in the presence of others is to break my oath. I will not sacrifice my honor for a place in your classroom."

 

Aizawa stared at him. He looked for a tell, a sign of teenage rebellion or arrogance. But the boy stood with the immovable posture of a seasoned soldier. The conviction in the metallic voice was absolute. This wasn't a fashion statement. This was deeply, uncomfortably religious.

 

Aizawa sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Wear the bucket. But if it hinders your performance today, you're gone. Head to the field."

 

 

 

The P.E. grounds were bathed in the morning sun. Class 1-A stood in their blue tracksuits, looking nervous. Among them stood Izuku, still fully clad in his dark green and beskar armor, his cape blowing gently in the wind.

 

"A Quirk Apprehension Test?!" the class shouted in unison.

 

"What about the entrance ceremony? The orientation?" Uraraka asked, looking concerned.

 

"If you're going to become a hero, you don't have time for such leisurely events," Aizawa replied, turning his back to them. "U.A.'s selling point is how unrestricted its school traditions are. That's also how the teachers run their classes."

 

Aizawa turned to Bakugo. "Bakugo, you finished first in the practical exam. In junior high, what was your best result for the softball throw?"

 

"Sixty-seven meters," Bakugo muttered, glaring daggers at the back of Izuku's armored head.

 

"Then try doing it with your Quirk." Aizawa tossed him a baseball.

 

Bakugo stepped into the pitching circle. He stretched his arms, a feral grin spreading across his face. "Die!" he roared, unleashing a massive explosion as he threw the ball. The shockwave ruffled the hair of the students watching.

 

Aizawa held up a device. 705.2 meters.

 

"Know your own maximum first," Aizawa said. "That is the most rational way to form the foundation of a hero."

 

The class erupted into excited chatter. "705 meters?! That's awesome!" "We can use our Quirks as much as we want! This looks like fun!"

 

Aizawa’s eyes darkened. "Fun, is it? You have three years to become heroes. Will you have an attitude like that the whole time? Alright. Whoever comes in last place in all eight tests will be judged to have no potential and will be punished with expulsion."

 

The excitement vanished, replaced by sheer terror.

 

"You can't do that!" Uraraka protested. "It's the first day!"

 

"Natural disasters, massive accidents, and selfish villains. Calamities whose time or place cannot be predicted," Aizawa lectured. "Japan is covered with unfairness. Heroes are the ones who reverse those situations. If you wanted to go talk to your friends at McDonald's after school, too bad. For the next three years, U.A. will do all it can to give you one hardship after another. Go beyond. Plus Ultra. Overcome it with all you've got."

 

Aizawa’s eyes flicked to Izuku. "We'll see how far your 'Creed' gets you when you're restricted by the limits of a normal human body, Midoriya."

 

Izuku didn't flinch. Behind the visor, his HUD was already calculating the physics of each event.

 

Event 1: 50-Meter Dash.

 

Izuku lined up at the starting line alongside Iida.

 

"I don't know what kind of trick you used to beat Bakugo," Iida said, getting into a runner's stance, his engine calves revving. "But raw speed is my domain. I will not lose."

 

Izuku stood straight, his arms at his sides. He didn't take a runner's stance.

 

"On your marks..." the robotic camera announced. "Get set..."

 

BANG.

 

Iida launched forward, his engines blasting exhaust. He crossed the finish line in a blur. 3.04 seconds.

 

Izuku hadn't moved.

 

"Did his suit malfunction?" Ashido whispered.

 

"He's giving up," Bakugo sneered.

 

Izuku checked the distance. He tapped a button on his left gauntlet.

 

FWOOSH!

 

Izuku’s jetpack ignited, but he didn't fly upward. He launched himself perfectly horizontally, hovering two inches above the dirt track. He shot forward like a dark green missile, the sheer acceleration creating a sonic crack. He crossed the finish line and engaged his reverse thrusters, coming to a dead stop instantly, kicking up a massive cloud of dust.

 

1.89 seconds.

 

Iida’s jaw dropped. Aizawa raised an eyebrow.

 

Event 2: Grip Strength.

 

A multi-armed mutant student, Shoji, crushed his device, scoring 540 kilograms. The class cheered.

 

Izuku held his testing device in his right hand. He engaged the servos in his durasteel gauntlet, bypassing the safety limiters on the pneumatic crushers built into the palm. He squeezed.

 

The metal device shrieked, bending and warping under the immense mechanical pressure until it sparked and died.

 

Izuku held it up. The screen was shattered, frozen on 850 kg before it broke.

 

"It's broken," Izuku stated flatly, tossing the mangled metal to Aizawa.

 

Event 5: Softball Throw.

 

Uraraka had just scored an infinity, floating the ball into the stratosphere. The class was demoralized, especially those with non-physical Quirks.

 

"Midoriya. You're up," Aizawa called out.

 

Izuku stepped into the circle. He took the baseball in his right gauntlet. He looked out at the field. He couldn't just throw it; his mechanical servos were strong, but they wouldn't beat Bakugo's 705 meters. He needed propulsion.

 

He loaded a specialized, blunt-force concussive charge into his whistling bird launcher. He tossed the baseball lightly into the air.

 

Suddenly, a strange feeling washed over him. The hair on his arms stood up. He looked at Aizawa.

 

The teacher's hair was floating. His eyes were glowing a bright, menacing red. He was glaring directly at Izuku.

 

Izuku caught the baseball. He looked at Aizawa, tilting his helmet slightly.

 

"Are you attempting to erase my Quirk, Aizawa-sensei?" Izuku's voice cut through the silence.

 

Aizawa blinked, his hair falling. "What?"

 

"My HUD detects a sudden spike in your biometric output and localized electromagnetic interference," Izuku explained calmly. "Your Quirk is Erasure. But as my file states, I am Quirkless. You cannot erase iron."

 

Before Aizawa could respond, Izuku tossed the ball into the air again. As it descended, he swung his right arm in a pitching motion. The moment the ball left his fingertips, he triggered his gauntlet.

 

A heavy, concentrated blast of fire and concussive kinetic energy erupted from his wrist. The explosion slammed into the baseball, acting as a massive, localized propellant.

 

The ball shot into the sky with the speed of a bullet, leaving a trail of smoke.

 

The class watched in stunned silence as the ball vanished over the horizon.

 

BEEP.

 

Aizawa held up the device. 706.1 meters.

 

Bakugo’s eye twitched. "Seven hundred and six... he beat me... by a meter?"

 

Aizawa looked at the armored boy. The teacher realized his mistake. He had viewed Midoriya's armor as a crutch, a piece of support gear that did the work for him. But watching the boy calculate the perfect angle, the perfect explosive yield, and execute it with flawless, unflinching timing... the gear wasn't a crutch.

 

The gear was an extension of his body. The real weapon was the mind inside the helmet.

 

"He's rational," Aizawa muttered to himself, a terrifying grin spreading across his face.

 

"DEKU!"

 

The scream shattered the silence. Bakugo could not take it anymore. The entrance exam. The classroom throwdown. And now this. A Quirkless loser, in a tin can, was beating him.

 

Bakugo launched himself at Izuku, his palms sparking dangerously. "YOU CHEATING BASTARD! TELL ME WHAT YOU DID! I'LL TEAR THAT SUIT OFF YOU!"

 

Izuku didn't even draw his blasters. He stood perfectly still, his body relaxed.

 

Suddenly, a thick, white cloth wrapped around Bakugo, snapping him to a halt mid-air. He hit the ground, struggling furiously against the capture weapon.

 

"What the... this cloth is stiff!" Bakugo yelled.

 

"It's a capture weapon made of carbon fiber woven with metal wire," Aizawa said, his eyes glowing red again, his hair floating. "Stand down, Bakugo. Or I will expel you right now."

 

Bakugo glared at Izuku, hyperventilating with rage. Izuku looked down at him through the T-visor, entirely unfazed.

 

"He lacks discipline," Izuku noted aloud, turning his back on Bakugo and walking back to the group.

 

The rest of the tests proceeded. When the final scores were tallied, Izuku placed 4th overall, comfortably behind Yaoyorozu, Todoroki, and Bakugo (who had dominated the other events).

 

"By the way, I was lying about the expulsion," Aizawa announced with a terrifying smile. "It was a rational deception to draw out the upper limits of your Quirks."

 

The class (mostly) breathed a sigh of relief. Izuku merely nodded. Psychological manipulation to induce stress responses. Effective training protocol.

 

As the students headed back to the locker rooms to change, Bakugo stomped past Izuku, deliberately shoving his shoulder against the beskar plate. It hurt Bakugo more than it hurt Izuku, but the blonde didn't care.

 

"This isn't over, Deku," Bakugo hissed venomously. "I don't know who made those toys for you, but they won't save you in a real fight. You're still just a Quirkless nobody underneath it all."

 

Izuku didn't reply. He just watched Bakugo walk away.

 

He is angry, Izuku thought. Anger makes a warrior blind. He will be easy to break.

 

 

 

The next afternoon, the tension in Class 1-A reached a boiling point.

 

Hero Basic Training.

 

"I AM..." the booming voice echoed from the hallway before the door slammed open. "...COMING THROUGH THE DOOR LIKE A NORMAL PERSON!"

 

All Might stood in his Silver Age costume, his massive muscles flexing, his trademark smile blinding. The class erupted into cheers.

 

"Hero Basic Training! The class that will put you through all sorts of special training to build the basics of heroism!" All Might announced, marching to the podium. "Today, we'll be doing Combat Training! And to go with that... these!"

 

He pointed to the wall, where numbered cases slid out.

 

"Costumes made based on your Quirk registrations and requests! Get changed and gather at Ground Beta!"

 

The class rushed for their cases. Izuku remained seated.

 

"Young Midoriya?" All Might asked, his smile faltering slightly as he looked at the armored boy. He still couldn't reconcile the weeping, fragile kid on the rooftop with this imposing, metallic soldier. "Where is your costume case?"

 

Izuku stood up, the servos in his legs whining softly.

 

"I am already wearing it, All Might-sensei," Izuku replied. "Mandalorians do not have costumes. We have armor."

 

All Might swallowed hard. "Right. Very well. Proceed to Ground Beta."

 

Ground Beta was a massive, realistic mock-city. Class 1-A arrived looking like a vibrant, chaotic comic book cover. There were capes, spandex, robotic arms, and strange helmets.

 

And then there was Izuku. Amidst the bright colors of heroism, his battle-scarred dark green and black armor, draped with the ragged cape, looked distinctly out of place. He looked like an apex predator at a children’s costume party.

 

All Might explained the rules. 2v2 indoor combat. Villains guard a nuclear weapon; Heroes must secure it or capture the villains within the time limit.

 

All Might drew the lots.

 

"Team A will be... Izuku Midoriya and Ochaco Uraraka!" All Might announced. "And Team D will be... Katsuki Bakugo and Tenya Iida!"

 

Izuku’s HUD immediately highlighted Bakugo and Iida across the crowd. Bakugo was staring at him, a manic, terrifying grin spreading across his face. He pounded his gauntleted fists together, letting out a small explosion.

 

"They are the Villains," All Might said. "Team A are the Heroes. You have five minutes to prepare before infiltration!"

 

Izuku walked away from the group, pulling out a detailed holographic map of the building from his gauntlet projector. Uraraka jogged to keep up with him.

 

"Hey, we're a team!" she smiled, tapping her pink cheeks. "I'm Uraraka! Thanks again for saving me during the exam. I didn't get to properly thank you."

 

"A warrior does not require thanks for doing his duty," Izuku replied smoothly, his eyes scanning the blueprints. "Our opponents are Bakugo and Iida. Iida has localized engine acceleration in his calves. High straight-line speed, poor cornering. Bakugo secretes nitroglycerin-like sweat and ignites it. High destructive capability, highly aggressive, poor emotional control."

 

Uraraka blinked, taken aback by his clinical, robotic assessment. "Uh, wow. You know a lot about them."

 

"I know my enemy," Izuku said, turning to her. "What is your Quirk?"

 

"Zero Gravity! Anything I touch with the pads on my fingers becomes weightless," she explained proudly. "But if I use it too much, I get nauseous."

 

Izuku processed this. Tactical application: asset retrieval, environmental manipulation.

 

"Here is the plan," Izuku pointed to the hologram. "Bakugo's primary objective will not be defending the weapon. His primary objective will be killing me. He is obsessed with proving his superiority. He will abandon the objective to hunt me down."

 

"He'll abandon his teammate?" Uraraka asked, shocked.

 

"Yes. That is his weakness. He is a hammer; he only sees nails," Izuku said. "When we enter the building, I will take the vanguard. I will draw Bakugo's aggro. Once he engages me, you will bypass us and proceed to the top floor. Iida will be guarding the weapon alone. Use your Quirk to manipulate the environment. Remove the floor from beneath him, or float the debris to distract him, and secure the weapon."

 

"What about you?" Uraraka asked, looking at his scarred armor. "Bakugo's explosions are huge. Can you handle him alone?"

 

Izuku looked up from the map. The black T-visor stared into Uraraka’s eyes.

 

"I am not locked in there with him, Uraraka-san," Izuku said softly. "He is locked in there with me."

 

 

 

The buzzer sounded.

 

Izuku and Uraraka entered the ground floor through an open window. The interior of the building was dark and silent.

 

Izuku immediately took point. He didn't walk normally. He moved with a specialized, heel-to-toe tactical glide that Kad had drilled into him. Despite the heavy beskar and mag-boots, he made absolutely zero sound.

 

He raised his right hand, making a fist. Hold. Uraraka froze behind him.

 

Izuku tapped the side of his helmet. His vision shifted to thermal imaging. The walls of the building became semi-transparent, displaying a spectrum of blues and greens.

 

He looked up. Through the ceiling of the first floor, he saw a glowing red, human-shaped mass of heat standing completely still in the center of the hallway above them.

 

Target located. Ambient heat signature abnormally high. Sweat glands active.

 

Izuku turned to Uraraka. He pointed up, making a walking motion with his fingers, then pointed to her, and pointed to a side stairwell. He's above us. Go around.

 

Uraraka nodded silently, slipping away into the shadows.

 

Izuku drew his right Westar-35. He set it to stun. He didn't want to kill Bakugo; he just wanted to put him to sleep.

 

He walked up the main stairwell, his boots clicking softly against the concrete. As he reached the landing of the second floor, he saw him.

 

Bakugo stood at the end of the long corridor, his back to Izuku. He was waiting.

 

"I know you're there, Deku," Bakugo’s voice echoed in the hallway, low and trembling with rage. "You didn't make a sound, but I can smell your pathetic fear."

 

Bakugo slowly turned around. His massive grenade-shaped gauntlets hummed.

 

"I've been thinking about it," Bakugo sneered, sparks popping in his hands. "There's no way a Quirkless loser like you got into U.A. Those toys you're wearing... somebody gave them to you. You're cheating. You're pretending to be strong."

 

Izuku stood at the end of the hall, his blaster aimed squarely at Bakugo’s chest.

 

"Armor is not pretend, Bakugo," Izuku replied, his metallic voice calm. "It is forged. Just like discipline. You rely on an accident of your birth. I rely on what I have built."

 

"SHUT UP!" Bakugo roared, launching himself down the hallway with a massive explosion from his palms, propelling himself like a rocket directly at Izuku.

 

Speed: 80 km/h. Trajectory: Linear.

 

Izuku didn't fire the blaster. It would be too easy to miss a fast-moving target in a narrow space. Instead, as Bakugo closed the distance, raising his right hand for a devastating right hook, Izuku holstered the blaster.

 

He engaged the repulsor-pad on his left gauntlet.

 

BZZZT!

 

A wave of kinetic force blasted outward just as Bakugo swung. The invisible wall of energy caught Bakugo mid-air, violently halting his momentum and sending him crashing into the wall of the corridor.

 

Bakugo gasped, the breath knocked out of him. But he was relentless. He kicked off the wall, swinging his left hand, unleashing a blinding explosion right in Izuku’s face.

 

BOOM!

 

Flames engulfed the hallway. In the observation room, Class 1-A screamed.

 

"Midoriya!" Kirishima yelled.

 

But as the smoke cleared, Izuku was still standing. He had raised his left arm, taking the brunt of the explosion against his beskar-plated forearm. The pure Mandalorian iron didn't even scorch. It simply absorbed the heat, the kinetic energy dissipating harmlessly.

 

Izuku stepped out of the smoke, his right fist shooting forward. He utilized Teräs Käsi, the martial art designed to fight Force-users, striking Bakugo in the solar plexus with the reinforced durasteel knuckles of his gauntlet.

 

Bakugo gagged, his eyes bugging out, as he folded over. Izuku grabbed the back of Bakugo's neck, driving his armored knee squarely into Bakugo’s face.

 

Blood sprayed from Bakugo's nose as he stumbled backward, completely dazed.

 

"You fight like a brawler," Izuku lectured, walking slowly toward the bleeding teenager. "You have immense power, but no control. You telegraph your right hook because you favor your dominant hand. You leave your center of mass completely exposed when you propel yourself. You are sloppy."

 

Bakugo wiped the blood from his mouth, staring at the emotionless T-visor. He had never been hit that hard in his life. He had never been out-maneuvered. He was the best. He was Katsuki Bakugo.

 

A primal, terrifying rage seized Bakugo’s mind.

 

"Don't you lecture me... YOU QUIRKLESS NOBODY!"

 

Bakugo raised his right arm, grabbing the pin of his massive grenade gauntlet.

 

In the observation room, All Might grabbed the microphone. "Young Bakugo, stop! Are you trying to kill him?! That blast will destroy the building!"

 

"If I hit him head-on, he'll die!" Bakugo screamed back, his eyes completely bloodshot. "But not if he dodges!"

 

Bakugo pulled the pin.

 

Time seemed to slow down. Izuku’s HUD flashed a catastrophic warning.

 

Danger: Massive thermal expansion detected. Lethal yield.

 

Izuku didn't have time to run. He couldn't dodge in the narrow hallway; the blast radius was too wide. Uraraka was somewhere above him. If he moved, the structural integrity of the building might collapse on her.

 

A Mandalorian does not retreat when innocent lives are at stake.

 

Izuku planted his mag-boots, locking them directly into the concrete floor. He crossed his arms over his chest, ensuring the pure Beskar plating of his gauntlets and breastplate covered his vital organs and his helmet. He hunkered down, forming a literal wall of iron.

 

FWOOSH—BOOOOOOOOM!

 

A column of blinding, white-hot fire erupted from Bakugo’s gauntlet. It tore through the corridor, incinerating the walls, shattering the windows, and completely engulfing Izuku. The sheer concussive force shook Ground Beta to its foundations.

 

In the observation room, the monitors whited out.

 

"MIDORIYA!" All Might roared.

 

Bakugo stood at the end of the hallway, his arm trembling from the recoil. The corridor was a blackened, melted ruin. Smoke billowed out of the shattered windows.

 

Bakugo panted heavily, a maniacal grin on his face. "I told you... I'm the best."

 

"Your reliance on raw power is your undoing."

 

Bakugo’s breath caught in his throat.

 

The smoke parted.

 

Standing in the center of the melted corridor, his mag-boots still locked to the floor, was Izuku.

 

His dark green cape was gone, incinerated to ash. The durasteel plating on his legs and arms was scorched and glowing dull red. But the beskar chestplate and the helmet were pristine. Izuku slowly lowered his arms. He hadn't moved an inch.

 

Bakugo stared in absolute horror. He had hit him with everything. A blast that could level a building. And the Quirkless Deku just took it.

 

"Impossible," Bakugo whispered.

 

"My turn," Izuku said.

 

Izuku drew a small, silver cylinder from his belt—a cryban grenade. He primed it and threw it directly at Bakugo's feet.

 

Bakugo tried to jump back, but the grenade detonated. It didn't explode with fire; it exploded with a hyper-pressurized burst of liquid nitrogen. The temperature in the hallway instantly plummeted to absolute zero.

 

The blast coated Bakugo’s legs and arms in thick, solid ice. Bakugo cried out in shock, shivering violently as the frostbite set in.

 

"My hands... I can't..." Bakugo tried to spark an explosion, but his sweat glands were completely frozen shut. His Quirk was neutralized.

 

Izuku didn't hesitate. He raised his left arm. Thwip!

 

The fibercord whip shot from his gauntlet, wrapping tightly around Bakugo’s torso and pinning his arms to his sides. Izuku yanked the cord violently, pulling Bakugo off his feet. The explosive teen crashed to the floor, completely immobilized, wrapped like a fly in a spider’s web.

 

Izuku walked over to the defeated boy. He drew his right Westar-35 and pressed the cold muzzle directly against the center of Bakugo’s forehead.

 

"Yield," Izuku commanded, his voice cold and metallic.

 

Bakugo stared up at the black T-visor, tears of frustration and humiliation freezing on his cheeks. He struggled against the cord, but it was useless. He was beaten. Completely, utterly, and devastatingly beaten by the boy he had told to kill himself.

 

"Hero Team... WINS!" All Might’s voice echoed over the PA system, sounding shaken. Uraraka had successfully secured the weapon upstairs.

 

The match was over.

 

Izuku holstered his weapon. He hit a button on his gauntlet, retracting the fibercord whip and freeing Bakugo. Izuku turned his back and began walking away.

 

"Why...?"

 

Bakugo's cracked, trembling voice stopped Izuku.

 

Bakugo pushed himself up on his frozen arms, glaring at Izuku’s back. "Why didn't you die? How are you so strong? You don't have a Quirk! You're nothing! You're just a Quirkless Deku! You're nothing without those weapons!"

 

Izuku stopped. He stood in the ruined hallway, the smoke swirling around his battle-scarred armor.

 

He slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the broken, weeping boy on the ground.

 

"You are right, Bakugo," Izuku said, his voice echoing with ancient, terrifying authority. "I am nothing without my weapons. Just as you are nothing without your Quirk."

 

Izuku turned fully to face him.

 

"But you view your power as a right. You view it as a toy to bully those weaker than you. I view my weapons as a sacred duty. They are not tools of oppression. They are tools of salvation."

 

Izuku reached up, tapping the side of his beskar helmet.

 

"I am a Mandalorian. And weapons are part of my religion."

 

With that, Izuku turned and walked out of the smoke, leaving Katsuki Bakugo alone in the dark.