Chapter 13: A Measure of Pain
The athletic field at U.A. was a testament to overwhelming resources. It was a sprawling expanse of perfectly manicured grass, a state-of-the-art running track, and various sandpits and testing grounds, all overshadowed by the colossal, gleaming towers of the main school building. The air itself felt different here—charged with potential, heavy with the legacy of heroes who had once stood on this very ground. For the twenty students of Class 1-A, it was an intimidating paradise.
Shota Aizawa addressed them with an air of profound boredom, as if the very act of speaking was a tedious chore. "You've been taking standardized physical tests since middle school," he droned, his voice flat. "But you were never allowed to use your Quirks. Today, we rectify that. This Quirk Apprehension Test will give us a baseline of your raw potential."
He turned, his tired gaze scanning the crowd of students. Lee felt a strange sense of calm. This was familiar territory. A test of the body. His body was all he had.
Aizawa's eyes passed over the obvious powerhouses—the explosive Bakugo, the stoic, bicolored boy named Todoroki—and then, to the surprise of everyone, they landed on Lee.
"Rock Lee," Aizawa called out, his voice cutting through the nervous murmurs.
Lee's eyes widened slightly, but he immediately straightened up, his back rigid. "Yes, sir!"
Aizawa tossed him a softball. "What was your best result for the softball throw in middle school?"
"It was forty-one meters, sir!" Lee answered, his voice clear and respectful.
"Right," Aizawa said. "Now, try it with your Quirk. Do whatever you want, just stay inside the circle."
Lee walked to the white circle marked on the ground, the ball feeling heavy and foreign in his hand. A wave of whispers erupted from the class behind him.
"He's up first?"
"What's his Quirk, anyway? I didn't see him use it in the entrance exam."
"Maybe it's some kind of enhancement Quirk."
Lee stood in the circle, his mind racing. Use my Quirk. The command was an impossibility. He had no Quirk to use. But he had his body. He had his training. He took a deep breath, focusing his energy, preparing to channel all his strength into this single throw. He drew his arm back, his muscles coiling. As he began the throwing motion, however, a searing, electric pain shot through his right arm, from the wrist to the elbow. It was the ghost of his training with the bokken, the deep, agonizing bone bruises protesting this sudden, violent movement.
He grunted, his face contorting in a grimace of pure pain, but he pushed through it, launching the ball forward. It flew through the air in a weak, pathetic arc, landing with a soft thud not far away.
A small device in Aizawa's hand beeped. He held it up for the class to see. "20.5 meters."
A stunned silence fell over the students, followed by a wave of disbelieving snickers and confused murmurs.
"Twenty meters? Is that a joke?"
"Did his Quirk backfire?"
"That's worse than his middle school score!"
Lee was not shocked by the number. He was frustrated. He stared at his trembling hand, the deep, throbbing ache in his forearm a testament to his weakness. This was the absolute maximum his damaged body could offer right now. The thought was a bitter pill to swallow.
Aizawa's voice, now laced with a dangerous edge, cut through the noise. "Do you think I am joking here? Is this the best you can do?"
Lee turned and bowed deeply to his teacher. "I sincerely apologize, sir," he said, his voice strained but respectful. "I believe that is the absolute most I can achieve at this present time, due to the current condition of my arms."
As Lee lowered his arms after the bow, the sleeve of his gym uniform slid up by a mere centimeter. But it was enough. For a fraction of a second, Aizawa caught a glimpse of the skin on Lee's forearm. It was not the healthy color of flesh. It was a sickening, deep mottling of blue and purple, the kind of severe bruising that spoke of repeated, traumatic impact.
Aizawa's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. His internal monologue, usually a stream of tired complaints, shifted. What in the world…? That's not a simple strain. That's the kind of injury you get from being beaten with a pipe. What kind of training regimen is this kid putting himself through? He realized then that Lee's failure wasn't due to a lack of effort or a weak Quirk. It was due to a body that had already been pushed past its limits before the test had even begun. This changed things. This was… intriguing.
His gaze left Lee, a new, calculated plan forming in his mind. "Katsuki Bakugo."
The explosive boy smirked, swaggering forward. "Yeah?"
"You placed first in the entrance exam," Aizawa stated. "What was your best throw in middle school?"
"Sixty-seven meters or something," Bakugo answered with a bored shrug.
"Try it with your Quirk," Aizawa instructed.
Bakugo stepped into the circle, a feral grin spreading across his face. He stretched his arm, a low, rumbling sound emanating from his palm. He drew back, and then unleashed his arm forward with a deafening roar.
"DIE!"
A massive, concussive explosion erupted from his hand, propelling the ball forward like a cannon shot. It screamed through the air, a white speck disappearing into the clear blue sky, leaving a trail of smoke behind it.
Aizawa watched the tracker. A moment later, it beeped. He held up the result. "705.2 meters."
The class exploded with noise.
"Seven hundred meters?!"
"Whoa, that's insane!"
"That's what I call a hero's power!"
Mina Ashido, the cheerful pink-skinned girl, bounced on her feet. "This looks so fun! We get to use our Quirks as much as we want!"
Aizawa's expression darkened, a shadow falling over his face. "'Fun'?" he repeated, the single word dripping with menace. "You think this is fun? You have three years to become heroes. You think you'll be spending it with smiles on your faces?" He smirked, a cold, cruel expression. "Alright. New rule. Let's make this really fun. The student who ranks last in total points after all eight tests will be judged to have zero potential… and will be expelled immediately."
Panic. Pure, undiluted panic swept through the class. Their excited smiles vanished, replaced by faces of pale horror. This wasn't just a test anymore. It was a battlefield for their very future at U.A.
The tests began in earnest. The 50-meter dash was first. Lee was paired with the tall, serious boy with glasses from the classroom doorway, Tenya Iida. They took their places at the starting line.
"Ready… go!" the robotic voice from the sensor chirped.
Iida's Quirk activated instantly. The three pipes in each of his calves roared to life, shooting out blue flames. He shot forward with an incredible burst of acceleration. But Lee was right there with him. With no Quirk, no explosion, just the pure, raw power of his legs, Lee matched his pace. It was a bizarre sight: Iida, propelled by miniature engines, and Lee, a silent green blur, running neck-and-neck. For a moment, it looked like Lee might even pull ahead. But in the final ten meters, Iida unleashed another, more powerful burst, and crossed the finish line a mere fraction of a second before Lee.
Iida stood panting, his engines hissing as they cooled. He stared at Lee, who was breathing heavily but was otherwise fine. Impossible, Iida thought, his logical mind struggling to process the data. I had to use my Recipro Burst to beat him. He was on the verge of overtaking me. But… I saw no Quirk. I felt no energy. His speed was generated entirely by his own body. Who in the world is he?
The tests continued. For the grip strength test, Lee's result was abysmal. The moment he tried to clench his fist around the device, the deep bruises in his arm sent a wave of agony through him. He managed a score that was below the average for a Quirkless teenager, earning more confused looks from his classmates.
But then came the standing long jump. He cleared the entire sandpit with a single, powerful leap. In the repeated side steps, his feet were a blur, his agility and stamina earning him the second-highest score in the class. His performance was a baffling paradox. In any test that relied on his legs or core agility, he was a monster, easily placing in the top three. But in any test that required the use of his damaged arms, he failed spectacularly.
He and the quiet, green-haired boy, Midoriya, who had yet to use his own Quirk, became the two great enigmas of Class 1-A. They were the outliers, the question marks in Aizawa's brutal equation. The class watched them both with a mixture of pity, confusion, and a dawning, unsettling sense of awe.
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