Chapter 10: A Question of Speed.
The city was a cacophony of explosions, shouting, and the screech of stressed metal. Yet, for a single, profound moment at the entrance of Battle Center B, there was only silence. A vacuum of sound had been created by the sheer impossibility of what the examinees had just witnessed. Where the blond-haired boy known as the Yellow Flash had stood, there was now only empty space.
Then, heads snapped upwards. All eyes followed the trajectory of the silver glint that was still sailing through the air—the three-pronged kunai. It spun, end over end, on a perfect arc that culminated in it embedding itself with a solid thunk into the head of a one-point robot fifty meters down the main street.
And in that exact instant, he appeared.
A flash of brilliant yellow light erupted on the robot's shoulder. To the stunned onlookers, it was as if a bolt of lightning had chosen to strike from a clear blue sky. Minato stood there, perfectly balanced, one hand already gripping the handle of his kunai. The other students, who had just begun to recover their wits and surge forward, froze once more, their mouths agape.
Minato's mind, however, was a vortex of calm calculation. The chassis is reinforced steel. A direct kick might crack it, but it won't guarantee immobilization. Inefficient. He didn't waste a nanosecond on the thought. With a smooth, practiced motion that spoke of endless drills with Edgeshot, he wrenched the kunai free and, in the same fluid movement, plunged it deep into the robot's optical sensor.
There was a shower of blue sparks, a high-pitched electronic squeal, and the one-pointer slumped forward, dead.
He landed softly on the pavement, pulling his kunai free as the machine crashed behind him. He already had his next target sighted: a two-pointer rounding a corner a block away. He raised his arm, the kunai poised.
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the air—a deep, powerful hum, like a miniature jet engine spooling up. A figure cloaked in silver and blue shot past him, leaving a gust of wind in his wake. It was the tall, serious boy with glasses from the auditorium. The pipes on his calves roared to life, emitting bursts of orange flame.
"Recipro Burst!" the boy yelled, his voice crisp and determined.
He closed the distance to the two-pointer in a heartbeat. His leg swung up in a powerful, graceful arc, his metal-plated boot smashing into the robot's head with devastating force. The sound was like a car crash. The robot's head didn't just break; it atomized into a thousand pieces, and the hulking body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The boy landed, his engines winding down with a hiss. He turned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and looked directly at Minato. "You are the one they call the 'Yellow Flash,'" he stated, not as a question, but as a declaration. His eyes, behind their lenses, burned with a fierce, competitive light. "Your Quirk is impressive. But if this is a matter of pure speed, do not for a second believe that I will lose."
Without waiting for a reply, he ignited his engines again and blasted off, deeper into the city. Inspired by his decisive action, the dam of hesitation finally broke, and the rest of the students surged forward, a wave of Quirks and battle cries flooding the streets.
Minato remained where he was for a moment, an island of stillness in the spreading chaos. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips. He's stages slower than me in terms of translocation, he thought, his mind analyzing the encounter with detached clarity. But his raw forward momentum is incredible. Those legs are not just a Quirk; they are a pair of finely-tuned, well-trained weapons.
He looked down at the kunai in his hand, the intricate seal on its handle seeming to mock him. I have the ability to bridge space with this mark. To be anywhere I need to be in an instant. A shadow of doubt, a question born from his rival's challenge, crept into his mind. But have I become complacent? Edgeshot spent months forging my body into a weapon, a vessel worthy of the power. Has the convenience of the flash made me forget the importance of the foundation?
The thought struck him with the force of a physical blow. He had been so focused on mastering the 'how' of his Quirk that he had neglected to continue sharpening the 'what'—his own physical prowess.
Just then, a figure stumbled past the starting gate, panting and looking around with wide, terrified eyes. It was the green-haired boy, the muttering one. He looked utterly lost, a lamb wandering into a lion's den, his hands held up defensively as if expecting a robot to jump out at any second. He looked completely, utterly Quirkless.
Minato watched him for a second, then turned his gaze back to the city. The introspection was over. The question had been asked, and now it was time to answer it. He would not just be a flash of light. He would be a shinobi.
He vanished.
The next seven minutes were a masterclass in efficiency. Minato became a phantom haunting the battlefield. He was no longer just teleporting from point to point; he was integrating his physical training. He would sprint down an alley, his footsteps silent, using his agility to scale a wall for a better vantage point. He would then hurl a kunai, not at a robot, but at a wall behind a group of them.
Flash.
He would appear in their midst, a whirlwind of precise, disabling strikes. A kunai to an exposed joint here, a powerful, focused kick to an unarmored servo there. He was a reaping machine. The other students began to see him as less of a competitor and more of a force of nature. A boy who could create explosions saw his target disappear a second before his blast hit, only to see Minato on the other side of the street, standing over its smoking chassis.
The cheerful, round-faced girl, Uraraka, had a brilliant strategy. She would make the hulking robots weightless with a touch, sending them floating helplessly into the air for an easy takedown. But twice, a yellow flash would intercept her floating targets. A kunai would sail through the air, and Minato would appear beside the helpless machine, driving his weapon into its core before vanishing again, leaving her to stare at the empty space where her points used to be.
The city became his personal playground. He was everywhere at once, a golden specter of absolute dominance.
Then, with one minute left on the clock, the ground began to shake. A deep, tectonic groan echoed from the center of the city, and a shadow fell over everything, so vast it was like a solar eclipse. The panicked screams of the other students signaled the arrival of something new. Something terrible. The gimmick. The Zero-Pointer.
.
.
.
More Chapters;
Pat reon. com/Salamandar