The three months since receiving his exam ticket had been a period of intense, clandestine focus for Izaya. The Kurogane Orphanage's small, walled-off backyard became his dojo, his laboratory, and his stage. Under the watchful, encouraging eyes of Lunar Sentinel, he practiced not to unlock his power, but to lock it down—to channel the boundless symphony of cosmic motion into a simple, recognizable melody the world would call "Matter Manipulation."
His first and most crucial creation was the staff.
It had started as an exercise in fine control. He'd focus on a chunk of broken brick, feeling not its solidity, but the frantic vibration of its atoms. His will, a gentle but unyielding pressure, would seep into those spaces. Slow. Still. Coalesce. The brick wouldn't crumble; it would silently disintegrate into a fine, red-grey dust, hanging in the air like a phantom. Then, the real work began. He'd guide the dust, compelling the particles to align, to bond, to form a new structure. The first attempts produced brittle, misshapen rods that shattered under their own weight. But slowly, painstakingly, he learned. He learned to mimic the molecular lattice of high-density polymer, to weave the dust into a six-foot-long staff of incredible durability and perfect balance.
He named the process "Dust-Weaving." It was his foundational lie, the cornerstone of his "Matter Manipulation" quirk.
The staff itself was an extension of this lie. By manipulating the kinetic energy between the dust particles, he could make the staff extend, contract, or shift its density. A thought would send one end shooting forward like a piston, while another would make the entire structure become as light as balsa wood, allowing for blindingly fast spins and strikes. He modeled its behavior after the legendary Ruyi Jingu Bang, the staff of Sun Wukong from the old stories Lunar had read to him—a weapon that could alter its size at will. It was a perfect cover. Who would suspect that the boy with the extendable dust-staff was, in reality, controlling the fundamental forces of motion itself?
This martial prowess was grafted onto a foundation built years before his power awoke. Feeling vulnerable as a quirkless child in a world of superpowers, Izaya had begged Lunar to let him learn to fight. He'd studied Aikido and Jujutsu, disciplines that emphasized using an opponent's force against them, of redirection and control. It was a philosophy that resonated deeply with him, even before he knew why. Now, with his staff and his awakening, those flowing, circular movements became the dance for his cosmic power. He wasn't a brawler; he was a conductor.
The day of the U.A. entrance exam dawned bright and clear. Standing before the massive, gleaming gates, surrounded by hundreds of other hopefuls buzzing with nervous energy and displaying flashes of incredible quirks, Izaya felt a profound sense of calm. His heartbeat was steady, his breathing even. The chaos of the crowd was just another form of motion, and he was an island of stillness within it. He wore a simple, dark training gi, his newly registered staff, currently collapsed to the size of a flashlight, secured at his hip.
He caught snippets of conversation. "—my explosion quirk will blow those robots away!" "—gonna freeze the whole arena!" "—hope there's more to it than just smashing stuff."
Izaya simply listened. His goal wasn't to be the flashiest or the loudest. It was to be efficient, effective, and utterly, completely believable.
The written exam was a breeze. He finished with time to spare, his answers reflecting a logical, analytical mind well-versed in hero law and ethics. Then came the practical.
They were ushered into a massive, theater-like auditorium. The lights dimmed, and the screen lit up. The speaker was the Voice Hero, Present Mic, his energy blasting through the room like a physical force.
"ALRIGHT, LISTENERS! WELCOME TO THE SHOW! TODAY'S PRACTICAL EXAM IS SIMPLE: VIOLENCE! WE WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU'RE MADE OF!"
On the screen, diagrams of three types of robots appeared: One-Pointers, Two-Pointers, and Three-Pointers.
"SMASH THESE FAKE VILLAINS FOR POINTS! BUT REMEMBER! CAUSING HARM TO OTHER EXAMINEES IS AN INSTANT FAIL! SO DON'T DO IT!"
As Present Mic finished his explosive explanation, a blue-haired boy with glasses shot up, chopping the air with rigid precision. "EXCUSE ME! BUT ON THE PRINTED HANDOUT, THERE ARE FOUR TYPES OF VILLAINS LISTED! SUCH AN OVERSIGHT IS UNBEFITTING OF THIS GREAT INSTITUTION!"
Izaya watched the exchange with detached interest. The boy was right, of course. There was a fourth, zero-point silhouette. A distraction, Izaya presumed. Something too large to be worth the effort.
"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! THE ZERO-POINTER! IT'S WORTH NO POINTS AND IS BASICALLY JUST AN OBSTACLE! BETTER TO JUST RUN AWAY! NOW, ARE YOU READY?!"
A chorus of affirmatives answered him.
"THEN WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? THERE ARE NO COUNTDOWNS IN REAL BATTLES! GO! GO! GO!"
The massive gates to the mock cities slammed open, and the tide of applicants surged forward. Izaya didn't run with the frantic pack. He moved with purpose, slipping into a side street away from the initial frenzy. The sound of crashing metal and excited shouts echoed from the main boulevards.
His first opponent rounded a corner: a One-Pointer, a bulky, tank-like robot with a single menacing red eye. It charged, its treads grinding against the pavement.
Izaya didn't flinch. He unclipped his staff and with a flick of his wrist, it extended to its full six-foot length, a swirl of dust solidifying in its wake. As the robot closed in, he sidestepped with the fluid grace of his Jujutsu training, the machine's momentum carrying it past him. In the same motion, he brought the staff down in a sharp, precise arc on its main body.
But he didn't just hit it. As the staff made contact, he issued a silent, internal command. Dismantle.
The area of the robot where the staff struck didn't dent; it simply dissolved. A perfect, palm-sized section of its armored plating turned to metallic dust, revealing the sparking wires beneath. The robot shuddered, its systems failing, and collapsed inert.
One point.
It was clean, efficient, and perfectly sold the lie. He hadn't stopped its motion; he had deconstructed a part of it. To any observer, it was a brilliant application of Matter Manipulation.
He moved on, a ghost in the simulated urban warfare. He didn't hunt for robots; he let them come to him, turning the city's geometry to his advantage. A Two-Pointer, agile and spider-like, dropped from a rooftop. Izaya planted his staff on the ground and commanded it to extend upward like a piston, smashing into the robot's undercarriage and sending it flying back onto the roof, where it shattered. Two points.
He found a group of three One-Pointers cornering a girl with vines for hair. Without a second thought, he sprinted forward. He slid under the first robot, his staff extending sideways to sweep the legs out from the second. As the third turned its cannon towards him, he rolled to his feet, tapped the cannon with the tip of his staff, and willed its barrel to collapse inward into dust. The cannon backfired, disabling the robot.
"Th-thank you!" the girl stammered.
Izaya simply nodded, offering a small, reassuring smile before melting back into the side streets. He wasn't here for gratitude; he was here to prove a point.
The minutes flew by in a blur of calculated movements. Extend, contract, strike, dismantle. He used his environment, "weaving" debris from destroyed buildings into temporary shields or tripwires. He was a problem-solver, not a powerhouse. His point counter climbed steadily, but he had no idea if it was enough. The sounds of destruction around him were immense, a testament to the raw power of his competitors.
Then, the ground began to tremble.
It started as a low rumble, then built into a deafening quake. Buildings shook, and a colossal shadow fell over the entire exam area. The zero-pointer. It was a monstrous, skyscraper-sized robot, crushing everything in its path as it emerged from the ground.
Present Mic's advice was sound. It was an obstacle. Running was the smart move. The mass of examinees turned and fled in a panic.
But then Izaya heard it—a faint, pained cry. His eyes scanned the chaos and found its source. A girl with blue hair was trapped, her leg pinned under a pile of rubble shaken loose by the giant robot's approach. She was directly in its path.
Every logical part of his brain screamed run. This was a test. It offered no points. Engaging it was suicide. But then he saw Lunar Sentinel's face in his mind. "Your heart is stronger than any power you could ever possess."
This wasn't about the exam. This was about the truth he carried inside.
As the other applicants scrambled to safety, Izaya Kurogane turned and ran towards the zero-pointer.
"Hey! What are you doing?!" someone yelled.
He didn't answer. His focus was absolute. The world narrowed to the trapped girl, the advancing behemoth, and the motion of all things. He couldn't destroy the robot. His "Matter Manipulation" lie wouldn't cover that. But he could stop it.
He skidded to a halt between the girl and the robot, his staff held before him. The ground shook violently, the wind from the robot's arm alone threatening to knock him over.
It's all motion, he told himself, digging his heels in. Its mass, its momentum, its destructive force. It's all just kinetic energy.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the screaming of his instincts. He reached out with his mind, not to the dust, not to the air, but to the concept of motion itself around the zero-pointer's massive, piston-like leg as it began its downward crush.
He didn't try to oppose it. That would have vaporized him. Instead, he did what he had learned from Aikido, what he had practiced with dust motes and candle flames. He redirected.
He poured his will into the space between the robot's foot and the ground. He didn't create a shield; he created a slope. An invisible, frictionless plane that altered the vector of the force.
The giant metal foot slammed down—and slid. It skidded sideways with an ear-splitting shriek of tortured metal, missing the trapped girl and Izaya by a mere ten feet, carving a massive trench into the street instead. The robot, thrown off-balance by its own redirected momentum, wobbled precariously, its gears groaning in protest.
The effort was immense. A nosebleed trickled from Izaya's nostril, and a thunderous headache pounded behind his eyes. It felt like he'd tried to hold back a tidal wave with a teacup.
But he had done it.
In that moment, the other examinees stared, stunned. The boy with the extendable staff had just made a building-sized robot slip.
The girl with the vine hair, who had been helping others escape, saw her chance. She used her vines to lift the rubble off the trapped girl, who was then helped to safety by a boy with spiky auburn hair who created small obsidian bubbles with his palms.
The zero-pointer righted itself, but a loud air horn blared.
"TIME'S UP!" Present Mic's voice echoed. "THE PRACTICAL EXAM IS OVER!"
Izaya stood panting, his staff clattering to the ground as he released his hold on it, allowing it to dissipate back into harmless dust. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He was exhausted, his mind feeling scraped raw.
He looked at the stunned faces around him, at the gargantuan robot that had nearly crushed him, and then down at his trembling hands. He had passed the exam, he was sure of it. But more than that, he had taken the first, terrifying step onto the tightrope he would have to walk from now on—balancing the immense truth of his power with the careful, constructed lie of his quirk.
He had come to U.A. to find his brother and become a hero. As he walked out of the ruined mock city, he realized the greatest battle wouldn't be against villains, but against the very nature of what he was.