Chapter 5: After the Ash
The evaluation room deep within the secure administrative wing of U.A. High School was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the harsh, blue-white glow of dozens of massive, high-definition monitors. The air conditioning hummed a low, sterile note, failing to completely dispel the heavy tension that filled the space. The faculty, a gathering of the nation's top professional heroes, sat in tiered rows of comfortable leather chairs, their faces bathed in the flickering light of the recorded exam footage.
At the center of the front console, Principal Nezu pressed a small button, pausing the chaotic montage of crumbling robots and running teenagers.
"An exceptionally rare occurrence this year, ladies and gentlemen," the small, impeccably dressed principal announced, his tone pleasant but carrying a sharp, underlying edge of keen interest. "It is not entirely unprecedented, but to have it happen twice in a single examination cycle... that is a statistical anomaly worth discussing."
With a few keystrokes, Nezu split the primary viewing screen into two separate, massive feeds.
"Two Zero-Pointers," Nezu continued, gesturing to the screens. "Deployed in Battle Centers A and B. Both completely neutralized."
A low murmur rippled through the dark room. The Zero-Pointers were never meant to be fought. They were psychological barriers, massive, overwhelming forces designed to test the applicants' threat assessment and their capacity for rational retreat under pressure. To destroy one required an absurd, almost terrifying level of raw power.
On the left screen, the footage showed a frail-looking boy with unkempt green hair launching himself hundreds of feet into the air. The sheer, catastrophic kinetic force of his punch shattered the colossal machine's head, but the recoil violently destroyed the boy's own arm and legs, leaving him plummeting toward the earth like a broken doll.
On the right screen, the footage was equally, if not more, terrifying. A heavily built, grim-faced teenager had intentionally embedded himself into the armor of the rolling behemoth. The thermal cameras flared violently, the screen washing out into pure, blinding white as an immense, omnidirectional wave of volcanic heat erupted from within the machine. When the visual sensors recalibrated, the robot was a hollowed-out, melting husk, and the boy was found lying unconscious, peacefully resting in a localized pool of bubbling magma.
"The applicant in Center A," Vlad King, the Blood Hero, spoke up, crossing his massive arms. His voice was a gruff rumble. "Immense raw power, but zero fundamental control. He is a liability to himself and others. But the one in Center B..." He gestured toward the image of Sakazuki. "That is not heroism. That is a military-grade execution. He possesses a quirk of pure, unrestrained lethality. Magma is not designed to apprehend villains; it is designed to eradicate them."
Snipe, adjusting the brim of his cowboy hat, nodded in agreement. "The thermal output is off the charts. If he loses his temper in a populated civilian zone, the collateral damage would be catastrophic. He melted military-grade steel like butter."
"I ask you to look closer," Nezu said softly, his dark eyes gleaming with analytical intelligence. He rewound the footage of Sakazuki by thirty seconds, playing the sequence at half speed. "Observe his methodology."
The heroes watched in silence. They saw the Zero-Pointer approaching. They saw the trapped girl. They saw Sakazuki sprint toward the danger, but more importantly, they saw his interaction with the Beast Boy. The audio feed caught his deep, commanding roar, ordering the physically stronger applicant to extract the civilian while he drew the machine's aggro and dismantled its forward momentum.
From the back row, a heavy, tired sigh cut through the room.
Shota Aizawa, the Erasure Hero, slouched deeply in his seat, his eyes half-closed and heavily ringed with dark shadows. He squeezed a nutrient jelly pouch into his mouth, chewing slowly as he stared at the two frozen screens.
"One shatters his own limbs because his body cannot contain his output," Aizawa drawled, his voice flat and laced with deep, preemptive exhaustion. "The other harbors a dormant volcano in his bloodstream."
Aizawa dropped the empty jelly pouch into a nearby bin and rubbed his temples, already feeling a migraine forming behind his eyes. "It is blatantly obvious how this is going to end. I am going to be saddled with these two massive headaches, aren't I?"
Nezu simply smiled, a polite, entirely unreadable expression. "The scoring committee will tally the rescue points accordingly. Let us proceed to the next batch of applicants."
Hours later, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the city into the quiet, neon-lit calm of the early evening.
The heavy lock of a small apartment door clicked, and the door swung open. Sakazuki stepped inside, the hinges squeaking softly in protest. The transition from the sterile, high-tech medical bays of U.A. High School to the cramped, familiar entryway of his home was jarring.
He was not wearing his dark, meticulously ironed school uniform. That uniform had been completely incinerated, reduced to ash when his internal cooling system failed and he unleashed the full magnitude of his magma. Instead, he wore a generic, slightly oversized gray tracksuit provided by the academy's medical staff. On his right cheek, a small, pale Band-Aid covered a shallow scratch—a minor piece of shrapnel from a destroyed One-Pointer that had grazed him before he could melt it.
He closed the door behind him and began to untie his heavy boots.
His body felt incredibly heavy, a profound, bone-deep exhaustion radiating outward from his core. His internal furnace had been pushed to its absolute threshold. Even now, hours after the exam, his skin was radiating an unnatural, uncomfortable warmth, and his throat felt like a desert landscape. The air inside the apartment felt stifling to him, despite the cool evening draft coming from the window.
"Sakazuki?"
His mother's voice called out from the small living room. She appeared around the corner, wiping her hands on a small towel. The moment her eyes landed on him, she stopped. Her gaze swept over the unfamiliar gray tracksuit, instantly noting the absence of his uniform, before locking onto the small adhesive bandage on his cheek.
The motherly radar was instantaneous and entirely uncompromising. She crossed the short distance between them in three rapid steps.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice tight with immediate concern. She reached up, her cool fingers gently hovering near the bandage, afraid to press down. "Your clothes... are you hurt? Did something go wrong at the exam?"
Sakazuki looked down at her, his expression remaining perfectly stoic, entirely masking the physical fatigue crushing his muscles. He knew that if he told her the truth—that he had passed out from extreme thermal exhaustion in a pool of his own molten rock—she would likely suffer a panic attack.
"The exam was highly physical," Sakazuki replied, his deep voice a steady, grounding rumble designed to project absolute normalcy. "A piece of concrete debris grazed my cheek during a maneuver. It is a superficial scratch. The medical staff provided these clothes as a precaution, as my uniform sustained minor damage."
It was an intentional, calculated downplaying of the events, but it served its purpose. His mother let out a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving her shoulders as she carefully inspected his eyes for any sign of concussion or hidden pain.
"A superficial scratch," she repeated softly, shaking her head. "You are just like your..." She stopped herself, the words catching in her throat. She quickly composed her expression, offering a warm, slightly strained smile. "I am just glad you are home in one piece. Go wash your hands."
Sakazuki nodded. He walked past her, intending to head straight for his bedroom to change. His mind was already locking back into its rigid schedule. The exam was over. He had calculated his points; his acceptance was a statistical certainty. Therefore, it was time to resume normal operations.
He reached the closet in the hallway and opened the door, pulling out his dark brown work apron.
"What are you doing?" his mother asked, turning around to watch him.
"My shift at the bakery begins in twenty minutes," Sakazuki stated, holding the heavy fabric. "I will manage the closing procedures and handle the inventory count for tomorrow morning. You should rest for the remainder of the evening."
He took a step toward the door, but a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. The intense dehydration from vaporizing his own sweat earlier in the day caused the hallway to tilt violently for a fraction of a second. He stopped, planting his feet firmly to steady himself, his breathing hitching slightly.
His mother did not miss the microscopic waver in his posture.
Before he could take another step, she stepped directly into his path, blocking the doorway. She was a frail woman, exhausted by years of labor, yet in that moment, she projected an authority that even a boy made of magma could not bypass.
"The bakery is closed," she said, her voice leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
Sakazuki blinked, a rare flash of genuine confusion breaking through his serious facade. "Closed? Today is Tuesday. We do not close on Tuesdays."
"We did today," she replied firmly, gently reaching out and pulling the work apron from his large, calloused hands. She folded it neatly over her arm. "I locked the doors at three o'clock. I put up a sign that said we were closed for a family celebration. The inventory is done. The floors are swept. You are off duty, Sakazuki."
"That is an unnecessary loss of daily revenue," he argued mechanically, though his voice lacked its usual commanding edge. The sheer, overwhelming thirst in his throat was making it difficult to speak clearly.
"Revenue can wait for tomorrow," she countered, placing her hands on her hips. She looked up at him, her eyes softening as she registered the unnatural, dry heat radiating off his skin. She knew his quirk's toll better than anyone. "You pushed yourself to the absolute limit today. I can feel the heat coming off you from here. If you try to stand behind that register, you will collapse."
Sakazuki opened his mouth to protest, to insist that his discipline could overcome his biology, but his body betrayed him. His shoulders slumped forward slightly, the heavy burden of the day finally breaking through his iron will. He was terribly, completely exhausted.
For the first time in ten months, he did not argue. He simply exhaled a long, heavy breath and nodded slowly.
"Go sit down," she instructed gently, pointing toward the living room.
Sakazuki walked heavily into the small room and lowered himself onto the worn, brown leather sofa. The cushions sank under his considerable weight. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. The muscles in his legs throbbed, and his forearms ached where the magma had torn through his skin.
A moment later, his mother returned from the kitchen. She set a small wooden tray on the low coffee table in front of him. On it was a simple plate of cold soba noodles and a massive, condensation-covered glass pitcher filled to the brim with ice and water.
She poured a large glass, the ice clinking sharply against the sides, and handed it to him.
He took it with both hands. He did not drink politely; he drained the freezing water in long, desperate swallows, letting the intense cold wash down his raw throat and spread through his overheated chest. It was the most profound, immediate relief he had felt all day.
His mother sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. She did not ask him about the written test questions, nor did she ask him about the other applicants. She simply watched him, a quiet, peaceful smile resting on her face as he poured himself a second, massive glass of water.
The apartment was filled with the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock, the soft hum of the refrigerator in the next room, and the distant, muffled sound of a train passing through the city. The cool condensation from the glass dripped slowly onto Sakazuki's fingers, a sharp contrast to the burning ash of the morning.