With his Quirk fully awakened, Yaoyorozu Chihiro felt a newfound surge of confidence ripple through his body. The thought that he would soon enter the Heroes Division of U.A. High School no longer seemed distant—it was a challenge, yes, but one he could meet. In his mind, Chihiro ran through every possibility, every calculation of strength, reflexes, and quirk compatibility. For someone like him, entering U.A. should not be a problem—but he could not deny the prick of irritation at the thought of being forced into someone else's plan.
The middle-aged man overseeing Chihiro's affairs watched him closely. His decision was firm, unyielding.
"Chihiro," he said, voice steady, "prepare yourself to participate in the U.A. assessment."
Chihiro merely nodded. There was no argument, no hesitation. The path was laid before him, and resistance would only waste time. Yet, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he mused over the absurdity of the situation: a boy who had trained with the precision of a master swordsman, who had honed his body and mind while the world slept, now marching into the hallowed halls of hero education.
A slow smile crept across his face—not of joy, but calculation. There was a rhythm to this, a strategy in the chaos. Everything would serve him, everything could be leveraged. Even the assessment, which many might see as a trial, was merely another variable in his equations.
The next morning arrived with the city already alive with motion. Neon signs flickered against the pale dawn, and the streets were alive with movement—merchants opening shops, heroes-in-training hurrying along familiar routes, the mundane mingling with the extraordinary. Chihiro, clad in his simple black robe to remain inconspicuous, slipped through the streets like a shadow. Only his piercing eyes betrayed the presence of someone watching, calculating, anticipating.
In this world, strange phenomena were ordinary. Inhuman quirks, unpredictable behaviors, and hidden dangers lurked at every corner. Most people avoided attention, and Chihiro, naturally, was no exception. He had learned early that observation and stealth often outweighed brute force in securing information—or survival.
He traveled down long streets, weaving past crowds unnoticed, until he arrived at the base of a seemingly ordinary high-rise. At the entrance, two security guards stood like statues, clad entirely in black with mirrored sunglasses obscuring their eyes. Their presence radiated authority, their silence a test in itself.
"Please show your identification," one of them said in a low, unyielding voice.
A couple nearby exchanged confused glances. "Identification?" the woman whispered, barely comprehending.
The guards offered no explanation, their expressions cold, unyielding. Even the couple's nerves twitched at the tension.
Chihiro shook his head slightly, amused. As he passed them, he muttered softly, "Identification is only necessary for those who are unqualified."
The couple's faces flushed crimson. They gawked at the young man's retreating figure, mouth open, ready to protest—but as their gaze flicked to the stone-faced guards, reality set in. Hesitating, they bowed instinctively, muttering in awe, "Welcome… number seven."
Chihiro ignored them, his focus absolute. A slight wave of his hand seemed to dismiss the display entirely—as if identity itself was secondary to his presence.
Inside, the building opened into a space like no ordinary hall. Chihiro moved silently, stepping lightly along the polished floors. He could hear whispers—fragments of conversations that spoke of victories and failures, names spoken with reverence or fear:
"That's number seven. I've been here ninety-eight times, tied six, never failed. Some say he's invincible.""Mysterious, terrifying… blood follows him when he moves.""Leng Jun mentioned number seven. No wonder I felt a chill when he passed…"
Chihiro smirked faintly. So this was how the world perceived him. Myths and legends, woven around his presence without him ever trying.
Passing through a series of iron gates, Chihiro produced a small golden token from his pocket. The gates opened, revealing a vast arena filled with spectators, each voice blending into a roaring wave of sound. The energy was palpable—the same rush one might feel at a grand sporting event, magnified by quirks and the anticipation of combat.
"Win! Win! Mad Bull takes his sixth victory tonight! Let's cheer for him!" shouted a booming voice. Excitement surged like electricity through the hall, drowning out dissenting voices.
On the central stage, a muscular figure with a bull's head and thick black horns pounded his chest, a living emblem of raw quirk-powered energy. The crowd erupted, and the arena itself seemed to pulse with their collective adrenaline.
Chihiro paused for a moment at the threshold, taking in the scene. Here, in this arena, heroes would rise and fall. The world would watch. And he, Yaoyorozu Chihiro, would soon step into the chaos, not as a participant bound by expectation, but as an analyst, a strategist, a swordsman who had mastered both body and mind.
The lights, the cheers, the sheer magnitude of quirks on display—everything merged seamlessly in Chihiro's mind. He adjusted his cloak, blending into the shadows of the arena, observing, calculating. Each figure, each move, each whisper of strategy became data to be collected. And deep down, he felt the thrill of anticipation—this was not just a test. This was the stage upon which his potential would finally be measured.
The night of reflection, strategy, and silent calculation had led here. The next step was simple in his mind: enter the arena, see the field, and assert his presence. Everything else would follow.