Izuku Midoriya's POV
The morning of the U.A. Entrance Exam felt like the first real day of my life.
I woke up at 5:00 a.m., heart hammering so hard I thought it might crack a rib. The apartment was quiet—Mom still asleep—but I could already hear the city waking up outside my window: distant trains, early birds, the low hum of people starting their day. I stared at the ceiling for a long minute, flexing my right hand.
Water rose from the glass on my nightstand, coiling around my fingers like liquid silk. I snapped it into a whip—sharp, controlled. Then a shield—curved, solid, shimmering in the dim light. I'd practiced every night for the past month.
Range: 8 meters now. Pressure: strong enough to cut through wood (I'd tested that on an old broom handle in the park at 3 a.m.). Healing: still slow, but it closed cuts in under a minute.
I wasn't Quirkless anymore.
And today, I would prove it.
I showered, ate breakfast (Mom made extra rice balls, fussing over me like I was going to war), and left the apartment at 7:15 a.m. The written exam started at 9:00. I walked the whole way—needed to burn off the nervous energy.
The U.A. campus gates rose ahead of me like a fortress. Massive. Intimidating. Thousands of hopefuls streamed in—some laughing, some pale, some already showing off Quirks (a boy levitating his bag, a girl stretching her arms like rubber). I kept my head down, notebook clutched to my chest, but my posture was straight. No slouching. No apologies.
The written exam hall was huge—rows of desks, proctors everywhere. I took my seat near the back, opened the booklet, and exhaled.
Easy.
Math, science, Japanese literature, hero ethics, history—everything flowed. I'd spent years studying heroes, analyzing Quirks, memorizing laws.
The questions were challenging for most, but for me? Child's play. I finished with twenty minutes to spare, double-checked every answer, and handed it in.
Now the real test.
They herded us into waiting areas. Present Mic's voice boomed over the speakers—welcoming us, explaining the rules: ten-minute mock battle in assigned fake city zones. Destroy robots for points. Rescue points hidden. No fighting other examinees.
I was assigned to Battle Center B.
When the gates opened, I sprinted in with the crowd.
The city replica was massive—crumbling buildings, overturned cars, smoke machines for atmosphere. Robots rolled out immediately: one-pointers (small, tank-like), two-pointers (faster, armed with cannons), three-pointers (taller, multi-limbed).
I didn't hesitate.
Water surged from the air, from broken hydrants, from puddles left by morning sprinklers. I formed two whips—one in each hand—and charged.
First robot: one-pointer. I snapped a whip around its treads, yanked hard. It toppled. I followed with a water ball—compressed, high-pressure—straight through its core. Explosion of sparks. One point.
Next: two-pointer. It fired a small cannon. I raised a shield—water curved, solid. The blast dispersed harmlessly. I lunged, whip cracking across its sensor array. Another water ball to the chest. Two points.
I moved like water myself—fluid, relentless. I took down ten two-pointers in the first three minutes: whips disarming, shields blocking counter-fire, water balls punching through armor. Twenty points.
Then the three-pointers.
They were bigger. Smarter. One had a claw arm; another fired nets. I dodged the net, whipped the claw arm clean off, then formed a larger shield to block a second robot's charge. I countered with a double whip strike—both robots crumpled. Three points each.
I kept going. Ten three-pointers down. Thirty points.
Fifty villain points total.
I was breathing hard, but not tired. The water felt alive—part of me. Every movement was instinct now.
Then I heard the scream.
A girl—brown hair, round cheeks—was trapped under a collapsed wall section. Above her, the zero-pointer—the massive, building-sized robot—had gone berserk. One leg had broken through the street, and it was stomping forward, red eyes locked on her.
The timer was almost up.
Most examinees were running away.
I didn't think.
I sprinted toward her.
Water surged under my feet—propelling me faster, like a liquid jet. I reached her in seconds, skidded to a stop, and threw up the largest shield I'd ever made—thick, curved, reinforced with pressure layers. The zero-pointer's foot came down.
The impact shook the ground. My shield cracked—but held. Water sprayed outward. The robot's leg lifted again.
I grabbed the girl's arm.
"Hold on!"
I formed a water platform beneath us, pushed upward with a burst of pressure. We shot into the air—higher than the robot's reach. I redirected the water into a spiral, slowing our descent. We landed hard on a rooftop, tumbling once.
She stared at me—wide-eyed, cheeks flushed.
"You… you saved me."
I helped her up. "You okay?"
She nodded, then—before I could react—leaned forward and kissed my cheek.
Soft. Warm. Quick.
My face exploded into heat. I felt like I'd been hit with a fire Quirk.
"Th-thank you!" she squeaked, bowing repeatedly. "I'm Ochaco Uraraka!"
"I-Izuku Midoriya," I stammered, hand on my cheek. "Nice to… uh… meet you."
Behind me, a low growl.
"Not bad, Deku."
I turned.
Katsuki Bakugo stood on the next rooftop over—palms smoking, expression unreadable. He'd seen everything.
"For a late bloomer," he added, voice tight.
I met his eyes.
He didn't attack. Didn't explode. Just stared.
Then he turned and walked away.
The buzzer sounded.
Exam over.
I walked out of the gates in a daze—cheek still tingling, notebook full of frantic post-exam notes.
Five minutes after I got home, the doorbell rang.
Mom opened it. A small metal disk floated in—U.A. emblem glowing.
I took it with shaking hands.
A hologram flickered to life.
All Might—muscular, smiling, voice booming.
"Hey there, Young Midoriya! Congratulations! You passed the U.A. Entrance Exam with flying colors! Fifty villain points from robot destruction, and—thanks to your heroic rescue—an additional sixty rescue points! That puts you at one hundred ten points total—first rank in the practical exam!"
He laughed—that famous, earth-shaking laugh.
"You're officially admitted to the Hero Course, Class 1-A! Welcome to U.A.!"
The hologram winked out.
I stared at the disk.
Then I squealed—high-pitched, embarrassing, pure joy.
"Mom! MOM!"
She ran in, eyes wide.
I shoved the disk at her.
"I passed! First place! One hundred ten points!"
She read the message. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, Izuku…"
She pulled me into a hug so tight I couldn't breathe.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered, crying happy tears into my shoulder. "My baby… my hero."
I hugged her back.
For the first time in my life, I believed it.
I was going to be a hero.