Chapter 7: The Metric of Power
The atmosphere inside Class 1-A was a chaotic, disorganized mess of adolescent energy.
Sakazuki sat silently at his desk near the back of the spacious, brightly lit room. Beneath the unbuttoned gray academy jacket, his dark red dress shirt was crisply ironed, and the white military-style cap rested firmly on his head, casting a permanent, intimidating shadow over his sharp eyes. He did not participate in the loud chatter bouncing off the walls. To his left, the tall boy with rectangular glasses, Tenya Iida, was rigidly chopping his arms through the air, strictly reprimanding a spiky, ash-blonde teenager who had casually thrown his heavy combat boots onto the surface of his desk.
The blonde boy, Katsuki Bakugo, merely sneered, leaning back in his chair with an explosive, arrogant disregard for the rules. A moment later, a green-haired boy entered the classroom, immediately drawing more loud, nervous conversation.
Sakazuki observed the display with cold, clinical detachment. This was supposed to be the premier hero academy in the nation, the ultimate forging ground for the next generation of law enforcement and justice. Yet, the room felt like a chaotic playground. The noise was pointless. The lack of discipline was entirely unbefitting of a military-grade institution.
"If you are just here to make friends, you can pack up your things and leave."
The voice was incredibly dry, rough, and entirely devoid of enthusiasm. It sliced through the overlapping chatter of the students, instantly plunging the room into absolute silence.
Every head turned toward the open doorway. Lying on the floor was a massive, bright yellow sleeping bag. Slowly, the zipper descended, and a tall, severely unkempt man stepped out. He wore a baggy black uniform, a long scarf composed of strange, cloth-like material wrapped around his neck, and his hair hung in messy, unwashed strands over his face.
The students stared in shock and confusion. This disheveled figure did not look like any professional hero they had ever seen on television.
Sakazuki, however, did not share their confusion. His dark eyes scanned the man, immediately processing the subtle, non-verbal data. He noted the heavy, dark bags under the man's half-closed eyes. He saw the complete absence of unnecessary movement, the relaxed but hyper-vigilant posture of a predator entirely comfortable in its environment.
This is a veteran, Sakazuki deduced internally, his respect solidifying instantly. A man who likely has not slept a full night in a week. He spends his nights in the shadows, hunting down the criminal element, and dedicates his waking hours to forging the next generation. He possesses the dead, focused eyes of a soldier who prefers absolute results over theatrical appearances.
"It took you eight seconds to quiet down," Shota Aizawa drawled, holding up a small juice pouch. "Time is a limited resource. You kids are not rational enough." He reached into his sleeping bag and pulled out a dark blue, folded garment with thick white lines. "Put these gym uniforms on and head out to the physical training grounds immediately."
A ripple of surprise went through the students. What about the entrance ceremony? What about the orientation?
Beneath the brim of his white cap, a microscopic, entirely invisible half-smile tugged at the corner of Sakazuki's mouth. Straight to practical application from the very first minute. An excellent, uncompromising system. There is no time to waste on empty speeches.
Ten minutes later, the boys of Class 1-A filed into the male locker room. The metallic clanking of locker doors and the rustling of fabric filled the narrow space as the teenagers excitedly discussed what the upcoming test could be.
Sakazuki found his assigned locker. He set his cap carefully on the top shelf. He unbuttoned his dark red dress shirt and pulled it off, exposing his torso to the cool, artificially circulated air of the room.
The effect was immediate and suffocating.
The loud, boisterous conversation in his immediate vicinity simply died. The silence spread outward like a drop of ink in water, quickly consuming the entire locker room. Normal fifteen-year-old boys possessed smooth, unblemished skin. Sakazuki possessed a physical history written in violence.
His broad, heavily muscled back, chest, and forearms were covered in a sprawling, jagged network of deep, discolored burn scars. The hardened tissue looked like cooled volcanic rock fused directly over dense muscle fiber. It was the undeniable, terrifying proof of a boy who had forced a catastrophic, lethal power into submission through sheer, agonizing physical trauma. Furthermore, the ambient temperature of the room seemed to rise just from his bare skin being exposed.
None of the boys spoke. A red-haired boy with sharp teeth, Kirishima, froze with his shirt halfway over his head. A boy with tape dispensers on his elbows simply stared, swallowing hard. They communicated entirely through wide, intimidated eye contact, a silent, mutual realization that there was a monster in the room playing by an entirely different set of rules.
A boy with split white and red hair, Shoto Todoroki, stood a few lockers away. His mismatched eyes lingered on Sakazuki's scarred back for a long, silent moment. Todoroki did not speak. He simply pulled his own blue gym shirt over his head, closed his locker, and was the first to leave the room, his expression unreadable.
Sakazuki ignored them all. He pulled on his gym uniform methodically. To manage his intensely high internal core temperature, he deliberately left the jacket entirely unzipped, exposing the tight black undershirt beneath, and rolled the thick sleeves up past his elbows. He closed his locker with a solid, metallic thud, turned, and walked out the door.
The heavy door swung shut behind him. For a long, heavy second, the boys in the locker room remained frozen in place.
Finally, a blonde boy with a black lightning bolt in his hair, Denki Kaminari, let out a massive, trembling breath. "Did you guys just see that?" he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
Out on the expansive dirt field, the bright morning sun beat down relentlessly. Aizawa stood before the assembled class, a small, digital tracking device in his hand. He explained the parameters of the quirk apprehension test—a series of physical exams where they were entirely permitted to use their superhuman abilities to achieve the maximum possible scores.
Then, Aizawa dropped the absolute condition. "Whoever ranks last in all eight tests will be judged to have no potential and will be punished with immediate expulsion."
A collective gasp of horror and outrage erupted from the students. "Expulsion?! On the first day?!" a girl with pink skin cried out. "That is incredibly unfair!"
Sakazuki stood as solid and unmoving as a mountain, his expression stoic and unbothered. He looked at the panicking students with quiet disdain. Unfair? The battlefield does not care about your feelings. It does not forgive weakness. If they cannot adapt to pressure and instantly overcome their fear, their place is not here. The weak will only become casualties. The tests began. In the fifty-meter dash, Sakazuki did not rely on basic sprinting mechanics. When the robotic voice announced the start, he utilized a scalpel-like application of his quirk. Instead of a massive explosion, he directed a hyper-compressed, precise pulse of magma directly from the reinforced soles of his boots. The localized thermal expansion acted as a violent thruster, launching his heavy frame forward like a low-flying artillery shell, allowing him to cross the finish line in a blur of heat and dust.
During the grip strength test, he did not activate his quirk at all. He wrapped his large, calloused hand around the digital meter and squeezed. The machine groaned under the sheer, unadulterated physical power he had cultivated through years of grueling, isolated training. He registered an exceptionally high human metric, proving that his foundation was built on iron discipline, not just a destructive quirk.
Then came the softball throw.
Aizawa looked down at his clipboard, his tired eyes scanning the data. "Akainu. You secured the first place in the practical entrance exam. Step into the circle."
Sakazuki walked forward, his heavy boots crunching against the dry earth. The whispers among the students ceased instantly. The sheer weight of his presence commanded absolute attention. Aizawa tossed him a standard baseball. Sakazuki caught it effortlessly.
He stepped into the center of the white chalk circle. He did not stretch. He did not boast.
He held the ball firmly in his right hand. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right arm, pointing the baseball toward the sky at a strict, precise ten o'clock angle. He brought his left arm across his chest, placing his open left palm flat against his right elbow, stabilizing the limb like the reinforced chassis of a heavy military cannon.
The air around him instantly warped. A terrifying wave of blistering heat washed over the class, forcing several students to take an involuntary step backward.
"Magma Missile," Sakazuki stated, his deep, commanding voice vibrating with absolute authority.
His right arm erupted. The flesh transformed instantly into a blindingly bright, churning mass of superheated liquid rock. He channeled the immense thermal pressure entirely behind the ball. With a deafening, thunderous roar that echoed across the entire campus, a colossal, fist-shaped projectile of pure magma launched into the stratosphere, leaving a thick trail of black ash and distorted air in its wake. The baseball was propelled forward at a catastrophic velocity, breaking the sound barrier with a sharp, kinetic crack.
Silence descended on the field as the magma streak vanished into the clouds. Aizawa looked down at his digital device and silently turned the screen toward the class.
400.2 meters.
"Four hundred meters..." someone muttered, their eyes wide with awe. "That is insane. It's like heavy artillery."
The students were mesmerized, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, destructive magnitude of the display.
"Tch."
A sharp, incredibly aggressive scoff shattered the awe.
Katsuki Bakugo stepped out from the crowd, his crimson eyes narrowed in absolute, burning defiance. A dark, dangerous grin stretched across his face.
"Soldier," Bakugo sneered, the word dripping with raw condescension. He walked toward the equipment basket, carelessly picking up a fresh baseball. He tossed it up and down in his palm with a relaxed, mocking rhythm. "That is not how you do it."
Aizawa stepped back, offering no interference. Sakazuki turned his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto the blonde boy.
Bakugo marched confidently into the white circle. He did not stabilize his arm. He did not aim carefully. He twisted his entire torso backward, coiling his muscles like a tightly wound, highly volatile spring.
"DIE!!!" Bakugo roared at the top of his lungs.
He threw his arm forward. A massive, blinding explosion of kinetic force and brilliant orange fire detonated directly from his palm. The sheer concussive shockwave of the blast hit the watching students like a physical wall, kicking up a massive cloud of dust and rattling the distant academy windows. The ball vanished into the horizon, propelled by raw, untamed explosive fury.
The dust slowly settled. Aizawa raised the tracking device.
705.2 meters.
The class collectively gasped, their jaws dropping in absolute shock. The number was monstrous. It eclipsed Sakazuki's strict, calculated artillery strike by over three hundred meters.
Sakazuki watched the numbers on the screen. His facial expression remained carved from stone, entirely calm, but a microscopic crease of irritation formed between his dark brows.
Bakugo turned around, the smoke still rising from his glowing palms. He locked eyes directly with Sakazuki. With a sharp, deliberate motion, Bakugo extended his arm and pointed his thumb straight down toward the dirt.
"That rigid, military aura of yours belongs over at Shiketsu High, not here," Bakugo declared loudly, his aggressive voice cutting through the stunned silence. He turned his fierce, burning gaze away from Sakazuki, sweeping it over the rest of the terrified, paralyzed students.
"This is U.A.!" Bakugo shouted, his ambition radiating from him like a physical heat. "We are the elite. If some small, pathetic scars on the soldier's body are enough to make you shake in your boots, then pack your bags and leave right now. Because on our path to becoming the greatest heroes, we are going to earn much bigger scars than that!"
The words hung heavily in the air. The sheer, overwhelming audacity of the blonde teenager struck the class like a lightning bolt. The fear and intimidation that Sakazuki had passively instilled in the locker room evaporated, replaced by a sudden, fierce spark of competitiveness in the eyes of several students. Kirishima slammed his fists together, a grin breaking across his face. Todoroki narrowed his eyes, his posture straightening. The atmosphere of the class was instantly transformed from terror to a battlefield of raw ambition.
Sakazuki observed the shift. He analyzed the explosive boy standing in the center of the circle.
This arrogant boy does not speak from empty pride, Sakazuki thought, his tactical mind instantly recalculating the threat level of his peers. He possesses severe behavioral issues, but his raw talent and his uncompromising drive to dominate are undeniable.
Bakugo walked back toward the crowd, stepping directly into Sakazuki's personal space. Their shoulders were merely inches apart as they passed each other.
"Don't get cocky just because you secured first place in the entrance exam," Bakugo growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register meant only for Sakazuki to hear. "I am going to crush you, and I am going to stand at the absolute peak of this class."
Sakazuki did not turn his head. He did not respond with a threat, nor did he alter his heavy, stoic posture. The challenge had been issued, the parameters of the war had been set, and he would answer it not with words, but with absolute, crushing reality when the time came.