Chapter 8: The Verdict of the Entrance Exam
The morning of the U.A. High School Entrance Exam began not with the sound of an alarm, but with the heavy, pressurized silence of a man who had already lived a lifetime of judgments.
Hiromi Higuruma stood in the center of his bedroom in the Higuruma estate. The room was a stark contrast to the opulence of the rest of the mansion—it was minimalist, resembling a high-end law office more than a teenager's sanctuary. On the wall hung a single framed calligraphy piece: "Justice is a heavy stone."
He stood before a full-length triptych mirror, adjusting his tie. The reflection staring back was striking. He possessed the distinct, tired elegance of the original Higuruma—the sharp, hooded eyes that seemed to carry a permanent weight of cynicism, and the slicked-back dark hair that gave him the air of a professional. However, the "vessel" of this world had refined those features. His jawline was more defined, a sharp edge of bone and intent. His skin was flawless but pale, and his height was imposing, standing a head taller than most his age.
Underneath the crisp white shirt and black waistcoat lay the true anomaly. Hiromi traced the line of his forearm. His muscles weren't bulky; they were dense and streamlined, resembling the hyper-compacted fibers of a deep-sea predator. This was the Yuji-like physical evolution—a body built to withstand the explosive output of a master's Cursed Energy. Every tendon was a coiled spring, every bone reinforced by the biological remnants of a legendary fighter's potential.
"Fourteen years of preparation," Hiromi thought, his fingers tightening on his silk tie. "In my last life, I tried to save the system from within, and it broke me. In this life, I have been gifted a body that cannot be broken and a power that cannot be ignored. I will not be a 'Hero' who plays by the rules of a flawed society. I will be the Auditor who decides if those rules deserve to exist."
He picked up a wooden gavel from his nightstand—a medium for his technique—and felt the Cursed Energy hum in response. It felt like liquid lead circulating through his veins. He closed his eyes, visualizing the "Dark Well" in his gut. Today, he would finally let it overflow.
The Arrival: The Gates of the Elite
The atmosphere at the U.A. campus was a cacophony of nervous energy and adolescent ego. Hiromi walked through the gates, his presence acting like a silent shockwave. While other students wore tracksuits or flashy athletic gear, Hiromi wore a bespoke, three-piece black suit.
He didn't run. He didn't stretch. He simply walked with a rhythmic, steady pace that suggested a man walking toward a podium, not a battlefield.
"Look at that guy," a student whispered, nudging a friend. "Is he a teacher? He looks... dangerous."
"No, look at the examinee tag. He's a student. But those eyes... he looks like he's about to file a lawsuit, not fight robots."
Hiromi ignored them. His gaze was fixed on the massive doors of Exam Center C. He sensed the flickering energies around him—minor quirks of fire, speed, and transformation. They felt thin and fragile compared to the dense, jagged aura he was suppressing within his core.
In the orientation hall, Present Mic screamed his lungs out, explaining the points system. Hiromi sat in the middle of the crowd, his hands folded over his lap. Beside him, a boy with messy green hair was muttering to himself, and a tall boy with glasses was waving his arms in a rigid, mechanical fashion.
"A school built on points and combat," Hiromi mused, his eyes narrowing. "They are training soldiers, not protectors. The lack of legal oversight in this curriculum is staggering."
The Exam: The Field of Ruin
"START!"
The gates of Exam Center C swung open with a mechanical groan. While the other examinees hesitated for a microsecond, Hiromi was already a blur. He didn't use a Quirk; he used Cursed Energy Reinforcement on his calves and soles.
The concrete beneath his feet didn't just crack; it vaporized into a fine powder from the sheer force of his kick-off. He cleared a fifty-meter gap in a single stride, landing in the center of the mock city before the first explosion had even occurred.
The First Encounter: Precision and Impact
Three 1-Pointer robots rolled out from an alleyway, their red eyes locking onto him. They raised their missile launchers. These were the grunts—the low-level offenders of this simulated society.
Hiromi didn't reach for his gavel yet. He took a low, centered stance. He visualized the "flow" of energy, moving it from his core into his right forearm.
Reinforcement: Level 2.
The first robot fired. Hiromi stepped into the path of the missile. He didn't dodge. He caught the projectile with his bare hand. The heat of the thruster scorched the air, but Hiromi's palm—coated in a dense, shimmering layer of Cursed Energy—was untouched. He twisted his wrist, redirecting the missile's kinetic energy.
He shoved the missile into the second robot's chassis.
BOOM.
As the metal twisted, Hiromi moved. He appeared in front of the third robot. He delivered a palm strike to its center of gravity—the point where the torso met the wheel tread.
Divergent Strike: Atmospheric Distortion.
The physical impact hit first, a sharp clack of bone against steel. The robot barely moved. But a millisecond later, the "delayed" wave of Cursed Energy exploded outward. The sound wasn't a crash; it was a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the surrounding buildings. The robot's internal components weren't just crushed—they were pulverized into metallic dust. The shockwave traveled through the robot and into the ground, creating a ten-foot radial crack in the asphalt.
"Defendant silenced," Hiromi whispered.
The Rain of Gavel Strikes
As he moved deeper into the city, Hiromi finally drew his gavel. He funneled his energy into the wood, and the tool grew in size, transforming into a massive, three-foot-long war-hammer of dark, polished mahogany.
He encountered a swarm of six 2-Pointers. They were faster, heavier, and armed with high-caliber cannons. They surrounded him in a tactical formation, their processors calculating his trajectory.
Hiromi leaped. In mid-air, he spun his body like a cyclone. He brought the gavel down on the head of the lead robot.
CRASH.
The impact didn't just destroy the robot; it created a vacuum pocket. The sheer pressure of the gavel hitting the ground forced the air outward in a visible ring of white vapor. The surrounding five robots were caught in the pressure wave, their hydraulic systems failing as the atmospheric shift crushed their sensors. Shrapnel from the lead robot whistled through the air, embedding itself in the brickwork of nearby shops.
He landed in a crouch, the tails of his suit jacket fluttering. He didn't look at the wreckage. He looked at his watch.
"Thirty-eight combat points. Twelve minutes remaining. Suboptimal."
The Alleyway Ambush
Turning a corner, Hiromi found himself in a narrow chokepoint. From the shadows, four 3-Pointer robots emerged. These were the "Elite" units of the minor robots, boasting heavy armor and multi-jointed arms designed for grappling.
The first 3-Pointer lunged, its massive metal claw snapping at Hiromi's head. Hiromi leaned back—a precise, calculated movement that missed the claw by millimeters. He gripped the robot's arm, his fingers digging into the steel as if it were wet clay.
With a grunt of effort, he swung the entire two-ton robot off the ground, using it as a flail. He smashed it into the second 3-Pointer, the collision producing a shower of sparks and the screech of grinding gears.
The third 3-Pointer attempted to fire its laser at point-blank range. Hiromi didn't flinch. He channeled CE into his free hand and swatted the laser beam. The energy didn't disperse; it refracted off his CE-mantle, slicing through the fourth robot's leg and causing it to collapse into a heap of useless metal.
Hiromi then brought his gavel down in a horizontal sweep.
CRACK.
The strike hit the center of the remaining two robots. The impact was so dense that the metal didn't fly away—it folded inward. The robots were crushed into a single, mangled ball of scrap. The sheer wind pressure from the swing shattered the glass windows of the buildings on both sides of the alleyway, glass raining down like diamonds in the morning sun.
The Calm of the Judge
Hiromi stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the smoldering remains of nearly twenty robots. His breathing was steady, his suit still perfectly ironed. He wasn't panting like the other students he could hear in the distance—students who were screaming and using their quirks with reckless abandon.
He looked at his hands. The black sparks of Cursed Energy were still dancing between his fingers, hungry for more.
"They are just machines," he thought. "They follow their programming. They have no intent, no malice, and therefore, no weight. Fighting them is like filing a standard motion. It is necessary, but it is not the trial."
He sensed a shift in the air. The vibrations through the asphalt were changing. The high-pitched whine of the minor robots was being replaced by a low-frequency rumble—a sound that suggested something much larger was approaching from the city center.
"The primary witness is arriving," Hiromi mused, sheathing his gavel back into its miniature form. "It is time to see if U.A.'s 'Greatest Obstacle' can withstand the burden of my verdict."
He turned his head toward the dust cloud rising above the skyscrapers. He didn't run away like the others. He began to walk toward it, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the cracked pavement.
"Come," he thought, his eyes glowing with a dark, judicial intensity. "Let us see how much weight you truly carry."