Inside the Hero Public Safety Commission building, a meeting was currently underway.
Everyone in the room wore formal suits, It was an established committee of the Bureau.
This particular committee was responsible for organizing and overseeing the Hero License Exam—a process they carried out with meticulous care every year. Their objective was clear: ensure that only a select few would succeed in obtaining a provisional hero license, the best of the best among the students.
The people gathered here formed a specialized division, one solely dedicated to the planning and execution of the licensing test. They handled each iteration of the exam, refining its structure and maintaining strict standards. They were, in a way, the best of the best in logistical planning for hero regulation.
One of the members, standing at the front of the room, began a presentation. His voice carried a calm note and a firm undertone as he addressed the others.
"Currently, we have 1,650 applicants from across all regions of Japan. As always, we are only permitted to issue 100 licenses through this exam. So, we need to determine how we'll test the candidates this year."
A quiet murmur of acknowledgment passed through the room. One of the other officials stood up and made his way to the front, taking over the presentation seamlessly.
"For this, we've put forward a proposal. As you're all aware, the first phase of the exam traditionally centers around combat. It allows us to evaluate the participants' individual strengths and determine whether they possess the raw potential required of a hero. But at the same time, we need to guarantee a level of safety—after all, the goal isn't to risk serious injuries or fatalities."
As he spoke, he clicked to the next slide in the presentation.
"The system we propose is called 'Damage Status.' Each student will wear a specially designed suit that monitors their physical condition and converts it into a visible percentage. Every participant will begin at 100%."
Another member of the committee leaned forward with a slight frown. "And once their percentage reaches zero, they're considered out of comba and out of heath?" he asked.
"Not exactly," the presenter replied, his tone measured. "The suits display percentages from 100 down to 1, but the real threshold is calibrated differently. In reality, what we're calling 100% to 1% reflects only the top 70% of a student's actual health. Once a participant drops below that hidden 70% line, they begin to risk more serious injuries. This design helps avoid unnecessarily prolonged fights and keeps them within safe boundaries."
He paused, letting the information sink in before continuing.
"With this method, we're not only evaluating the students' raw strength, but also their ability to minimize damage. Heroes often operate in high-risk environments, sometimes solo, sometimes with civilians. It's critical that we assess their awareness and judgment in combat—not just their offensive capabilities."
As he spoke, he handed out folders to the ten people seated at the long table. Each contained detailed breakdowns of the new system and its role in the first phase of the Hero License Exam.
Moments later, another committee member rose from his seat and approached the screen where the presentation continued.
"Now, gentlemen, let's move on to the second phase of the exam—rescue operations," he said. "As in previous years, we'll use trained professionals acting as victims. They'll evaluate the students' performance directly. We'll also be using the standard point deduction system. Candidates will start with 100 points, distributed across various criteria. Points will be subtracted as mistakes occur."
Just as he wrapped up, another member of the commission raised his hand with a question.
"I have a concern," one of the men said, his voice carrying the weight of long-brewing doubt. "As we all know, and as the data clearly shows, U.A. students have faced considerable challenges this year. Many of them were forced into combat situations, even within the supposed safety of their own campus."
He paused, glancing around the table, ensuring he had their full attention.
"If such a thing could happen at one of the most prestigious hero academies in Japan, we can't rule out the possibility of similar incidents occurring at other institutions. After the attack on U.A., that incident—it opened a door. And I believe it's time we raise the standard for earning a provisional hero license. In line with this, I propose we include a confrontation against a villain during the second test. That is, after all, the reality of a hero's work. There's almost always a perpetrator."
His words sparked a flurry of debate. The men around the table discussed in low voices, weighing the risk, the realism, and the implications.
Eventually, after careful deliberation, the final outline for the Hero License Exam was agreed upon.
Meanwhile,
Across the city—Inside a dimly lit apartment, a man sat on a worn-out couch, facing a wall covered in pinned photographs. He sat still, a glass of whiskey resting in one hand. His eyes were fixed on the chaotic collage before him.
At the center of the wall, a photo of a hotel stood out—the same hotel that had been attacked during Raiden's internship. Radiating outward from that image were dozens of others: surveillance stills, newspaper clippings, printed screenshots.
Faces of heroes surrounded the central image, each connected with red string. There were also images of the mutated villains who had caused havoc during that same incident.
To one side, a section of the wall had been left open, reserved for "Possible Scenarios," scribbled in thick marker.
The man leaned forward, his shoulders were tense as he studied his work. This had taken him two months. He barely sleeps to do this. He took a slow sip from the glass, letting the bitterness linger on his tongue. Then, with a quiet exhale, he reached out with his free hand and gently caressed the head of a small teddy bear sitting beside him.
The toy was old, missing one arm, its fur singed in places. Despite its damage, it had clearly been kept with care.
If anyone could see the man now, they'd notice the dark circles carved beneath his eyes, the oversized clothes hanging loosely from his frame, and the dry, cracked texture of his skin. He looked like a man drained of time. He might have been no older than thirty-five, but now, he easily passed for forty-five.
His brown, spiky hair had strands of gray scattered throughout, adding to the weathered look. His eyes, once bright, were now dull—lifeless. Like those of a dead fish laid out in the morning market.
As he stroked the teddy bear's burnt head, he finally spoke.
"I've finally put all the pieces together. Now, at last, my dear... it's time. Time for justice. Time to make the final adjustments."
With that, he stood and left the apartment.
He made his way down to the basement of the building, where the residents' parking area lay mostly empty at this hour. Without pause, he walked to a maintenance room tucked near the corner of the lot.
Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and secured it behind him with a heavy padlock.
The room itself was unremarkable—utility shelves, an old mop, rusted pipes—but against one wall stood a large locker. He gripped its edge and heaved it aside with practiced effort, revealing a dark hole beneath the concrete.
He didn't hesitate.
He jumped.
The drop was steep—fifteen meters at least. When he landed, his boots thudded against the dusty ground beneath the foundations of the building. Towering concrete pillars rose around him, holding up the structure above like the bones of some massive beast.
He stood in the silence, breathing in the cold, damp air. Then he began walking toward the center of the chamber, muttering curses under his breath, his voice echoing faintly between the stone.
"Fucking heroes…" he spat, pacing beneath the shadow of the massive pillars. His voice cracked, raw with fury. "Worthless pieces of shit. You only care about fame and flashy fights… How the hell is it possible you acted so late, always so late, you...you..."
His fists clenched. His jaw trembled.
"There were a hundred ways—a hundred—they could've saved more people. If they hadn't wasted time showing off, fighting like it was some performance…"
His voice broke.
"…she could've still been here. With me, my... she should be here... she deserved a happy life, not this."
As the words left his mouth, something shifted.
From his back, metal wires burst outward with a violent screech, like a nest of serpents awakened. They curled, snapped, and sliced through the air, responding to his emotions like extensions of his own body. He moved with frightening precision—maneuvering through the foundations of the building, weaving patterns of attack in mid-air, striking imaginary foes. His training wasn't just for strength. It was for control. For revenge.
Only when his breathing steadied, only when sweat dripped from his brow and his arms trembled slightly from exertion, did he stop.
He returned to the center of the underground space, his sanctuary of rage, there he moved the wires again, this time forming an armor around him, his height towered to four meters forming a monster made of wires, and whispered:
"I'll start with the sidekicks. The ones closest to the real culprit. Musha."
His eyes narrowed, burning now with a calculated coldness.
"That old man... everyone calls him a top hero? What a joke. He couldn't even save her. He's the reason she's gone. All of this—all of it—is his fault. I'll make him suffer. I'll make him regret. And only then…MUSHAA...MUSHAAA... YOU WILL DIEEE"
He paused.
"…only then, I'll kill him, yes, yes, first the side kicks, and his family, he had to lose everything, just like me, otherwise It couldn't be justice, yes, yes that's how it had to be, only then the heroes could now how much pain the cause me, they shall know pain."
His breathing quickened. The anger he tried to tame now surged again, fueled by memory. The image of that day carved itself behind his eyes—the chaos, the screaming, the monsters, the heroes. The moment he lost everything.
His wife had died in an accident years before. But his daughter—she was his last light. His reason to wake up every morning.
"I promised her…" he muttered, voice shaking. "I promised I'd protect her. I'd raise her right. Walk her down the aisle one day…"
He stopped, eyes unfocused, staring at the wall like she might somehow appear there.
"She was a good girl. My little girl…"
His voice grew thin. Haunted.
That day, when the creatures attacked the hotel, Yoroi Musha had made a single move—just one powerful swing. It clashed with a mutant, but the resulting shockwave destabilized part of the building. It was subtle. It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
The chain reaction was instantaneous. The man, clutching his daughter's hand in the chaos, felt the tremor, lost his grip—and in the next instant, she was gone. A piece of debris had crushed her before he even had time to scream.
He collapsed.
He had a Quirk. Of course he did—most people did. But he'd always believed in restraint. That was what the world taught him. That even a good Quirk used in the wrong moment could make things worse. So he waited. He trusted the system. He trusted the heroes.
And that trust killed his daughter.
He didn't act.
He didn't save her.
But if he couldn't save her—then he would avenge her.
Now that he had mastered his ability—those wires, that power, that rage—he was ready.
He would hunt them. Every single one of them. Every sidekick, every assistant, even that damn intern who had followed Musha like a dog.
No one would be spared.
He whispered, voice low and certain, "I'll make them all feel what I felt. No more mercy. No more waiting, they shouldn't be the only ones having the power, all of us had, and now they will see, how powerfull the people can be, and how little they are needed."
End of the chapter.