Chapter 7: Class of Heroes 1-A
The acceptance letter from U.A. arrived in a plain white envelope. It contained a small, disk-like device. When Sasuke placed it on his table, a hologram of All Might flickered to life, congratulating him on his performance. The hero informed him he had passed with 68 villain points and 15 rescue points, awarded for an unseen act of preventing a piece of falling debris from hitting another examinee—an act so reflexive and minor that Sasuke himself hadn't even registered it.
He listened to the booming message, his expression unchanging. When the hologram faded, he picked up the letter, confirmed his assignment to Class 1-A, and placed it on his kitchen counter. There was no joy, no celebration. It was merely a confirmation of a calculated result. The next step on his path.
His first day was a sensory overload of noise and color. The classroom for 1-A was vast, its door ridiculously oversized. Inside, the students he recognized from the exam were already forming cliques. He saw the tall, rigid boy with glasses chopping his hand in the air, lecturing the explosive blond for having his feet on the desk.
Sasuke's eyes swept the room, cataloging. Iida Tenya: engine Quirk, follows rules to a fault. Predictable. Bakugo Katsuki: explosion Quirk, arrogant, insecure, easily provoked. Dangerous but manageable. Uraraka Ochako: gravity manipulation, cheerful, seems naive. He continued his silent assessment, identifying powers and personalities, categorizing them as potential threats, assets, or, for the most part, irrelevant obstacles. He chose a seat in the back corner by the window, a strategic position offering maximum visibility and comfortable distance.
The chatter died down when the green-haired boy, Midoriya Izuku, entered the room. A moment later, a figure in a yellow sleeping bag shuffled into the classroom like a giant caterpillar. Sasuke, whose senses were always on high alert, had noticed the man outside the door a full ten seconds before he entered. There was an aura of profound apathy and exhaustion around him, but underneath it, a tightly coiled readiness. This was a man who lived in a state of constant, low-level combat awareness. Sasuke felt a flicker of professional respect.
The man emerged from the sleeping bag. "It took you all eight seconds to quiet down," Shota Aizawa said, his voice a tired drone. "Life is short. You're all too slow." He introduced himself as their homeroom teacher. "Put these on and meet me on the field." He tossed a set of U.A. gym uniforms onto his desk.
On the field, Aizawa explained the task: a Quirk Apprehension Test.
"But what about the entrance ceremony? And orientation?" Uraraka asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"We don't have time for pointless pleasantries," Aizawa stated, his gaze sweeping over them. "You're here to be heroes. You're not here to make friends." He turned to Bakugo. "You got the highest score in the practical exam. What was your best softball throw in middle school?"
"Sixty-seven meters," Bakugo grunted.
"Try it with your Quirk."
Bakugo grinned, winding up. "DIIIIE!" he screamed, launching the ball with a massive explosion. It soared through the air, a tiny speck against the sky. Aizawa's device beeped: 705.2 meters.
"To gauge your potential, we must know your limits," Aizawa said. A thrill went through the class. This was going to be fun.
"Fun?" Aizawa's voice dropped, and a chilling smile spread across his face. "You think this is fun? Very well. The student who ranks last in total points will be judged to have no potential... and will be expelled immediately."
Panic erupted. Expulsion on the first day? It was insane. It was unfair.
Sasuke remained impassive. The threat was irrelevant. He would not be last. More than that, he understood the tactic. It was a logical deception, a way to force them to go all out from the very beginning. A test of their resolve.
In the 50-meter dash, Sasuke channeled a controlled burst of chakra to the balls of his feet the instant the starting pistol fired. He shot off the line with explosive speed, finishing in 4.1 seconds, a time that would be elite for a track star, achieved with what looked like pure, unassisted athleticism.
For the grip strength test, he subtly reinforced the muscles of his hand and forearm. The machine beeped, displaying a score of 180kg, a number completely incongruous with his lean physique.
Then came the ball throw. He watched Midoriya's dramatic, conflicted display, culminating in a Quirk-infused finger-flick that sent the ball just past Bakugo's score. When his own turn came, Sasuke picked up the ball. He didn't focus on raw power. He focused on form. He mirrored the posture of a professional javelin thrower, his body coiling like a spring. He drew a steady, controlled stream of chakra from his core, letting it flow through his torso, into his shoulder, down his arm. At the exact moment of release, he unleashed it in a single, sharp, invisible pulse.
The ball shot from his hand with a sharp whipping sound. It didn't explode; it flew with a perfect, piercing trajectory. The device beeped: 703.1 meters. Not the highest score, but achieved with a level of control and physical perfection that was, in its own way, more impressive than the raw power displays.
Throughout it all, Aizawa watched him. His tired eyes missed nothing. He saw the scores that didn't match the body. He saw the complete lack of any visible energy signature—no sparks, no glow, no physical transformation. He saw the cold, calculating look in Sasuke's eyes, a look that was utterly alien among the frantic, desperate expressions of his peers.
When the final results were displayed, Sasuke was ranked fourth. He wasn't surprised. At the bottom of the list, as expected, was Midoriya Izuku.
"And I was lying about the expulsion," Aizawa said with a deadpan expression. "It was a logical ruse to make you push your limits."
While most of the class sighed in relief or cried out in shock, Sasuke felt nothing. His assessment had been correct. As the students began to shuffle back toward the locker rooms, their teacher's tired voice cut through the air.
"Uchiha."
Sasuke stopped, turning. The other students gave them a wide berth. Aizawa walked up to him, his black scarf shifting in the breeze. His gaze was sharp, analytical, and unnervingly perceptive.
"I've read your file. It's mostly sealed due to the 'Incident,' but your registration lists your Quirk as 'Undetermined.' Today, you consistently performed at the level of a top-tier enhancement-type, yet my eyes," he gestured to his own face, "detected zero Quirk factor activation. Not once. So I'll ask you directly. Explain."
Sasuke met his teacher's penetrating gaze without a hint of fear or deception. His expression was a placid mask.
"I'm strong," he said, his voice flat and even.
Aizawa's eyes narrowed. The air between them crackled with unspoken challenge. It was not the answer of a student to a teacher. It was the answer of one professional withholding information from another. This boy, Aizawa realized, was going to be a problem. A very, very interesting problem.