Midoriya stepped into the circle.
The ball felt heavier than it should've. Not because of its weight—but because everything now rested on what he did with it. He stared at it, unmoving, while the whispers of his classmates buzzed behind him.
Iida Tenya, his expression grave, murmured, almost to himself but loud enough for those nearby, "It's not looking good for Midoriya if he continues like this."
Bakugo Katsuki scoffed loudly from where he stood, arms crossed, a sneer etched on his face. "Hah? 'Course he is. He's a Quirkless small fry. Always has been. What's he gonna do, throw it normally and get dead last? Serves him right for even getting in."
Iida spun towards Bakugo, his brow furrowed in genuine surprise and a touch of indignation. "Quirkless? Are you serious, Bakugo? Did you not witness his performance during the entrance examination?"
Bakugo's sneer faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of irritation and perhaps… confusion? He quickly covered it. "Huh?"
Midoriya filtered all the noise from the surrounding and just concentrated with his eyes closed and head down. He wanted to feel that power within him. He wanted to feel his control over it.
But all he could feel was dread.
This is it, he told himself. I have to go all out. I can't get expelled—not after everything…
His legs trembled. His breath caught.
He pulled his arm back, winding up to throw—ready to sacrifice the limb. Just one shot. One score. Whatever it took.
One For All surged.
Power pooled at his shoulder. Crackling in his arm. This was it.
Then—
A strong, unmovable hand clamped down on his outstretched arm.
Midoriya gasped and turned sharply.
Standing behind him was Kratos.
Closer than he'd realized. When had he moved?
His presence alone made the air feel heavier. Denser.
The boy trembled. "D-Did I… do something wrong?"
Kratos said nothing at first.
He looked down at Midoriya—really looked. Not as a teacher to a student, but as a warrior who saw something familiar.
In the boy's eyes, he saw the fire again.
That same reckless flame he'd once seen in Atreus—back in a different realm, a different life.
A need to prove.
To act.
To matter.
But back then, that fire had nearly burned them both.
Kratos took a deep breath and came out of his memories. He looked at Midoriya for a second before releasing his arm.
"You throw like that…" he said quietly, his voice like breaking stone, "…and the arm is gone."
Midoriya froze.
"You'll be done. No more tests. No more proving anything."
The words struck harder than any punch. The ball nearly slipped from his fingers.
A cold weight settled in his chest.
"I…" Midoriya's voice cracked. "I can't… if I don't throw it far, I'll fail. I'll get expelled. I—"
He raised one hand, slow and deliberate, and placed a single finger right over Midoriya's heart.
Not with force.
But with purpose.
As the boy froze under his touch, Kratos stood still.
For a moment, the battlefield faded. The noise, the onlookers, the weight of the test—they all vanished.
After the events of Ragnarok… Kratos learned not just how to fight. Not just how to survive.
But how to feel.
Atreus had shown him that.
There was a time he'd told his son to close his heart—to the suffering of others, to their desperation, to the weakness of the world.
Because that was the only way he had survived.
But Atreus… was not him.
His boy couldn't ignore pain. Couldn't turn away. Couldn't shut out the world just to stay strong. And in the end, Kratos understood…
His way was not the only way.
Strength without empathy is cruelty.
Power without purpose is hollow.
And a warrior's heart must not always be shut—it must know when to open and when to close.
And now, looking at this trembling boy—so much like his son once was—Kratos did not force his way upon him.
Instead, he offered him the first lesson:
His voice, low and steady, carved from stone and memory—
"Close your heart to it."
Midoriya's eyes widened.
Kratos didn't blink.
"Close your heart to the fear."
"Close your heart The hesitation."
Then, he lifted his hand, placing that same finger gently against Midoriya's forehead.
"Use this." A quiet tap.
"Strength only matters when it obeys the mind. Not the impulse."
Midoriya stood there—frozen, breath held.
"Think," Kratos said. "Is this the only way? Or just the loudest?"
There was silence.
Even the students watching had gone still, unsure what was happening—but feeling its weight all the same.
Mimir, watching from Kratos' belt, said nothing. For once, even he knew this was not the moment to jest.
Midoriya lowered his arm slowly, staring at the ball.
Then down at his own hand.
And slowly…
He began to think.
His breath trembled in his chest.
But his hand no longer did.
He took a step back into the circle. Eyes set. Shoulders squaring—not with desperation, but resolve.
He shifted his stance, just slightly.
Kratos' words still rang in his mind.
Close your heart to the fear…
Use your head.
Think.
"If I use my full strength, my arm's done," he thought. "But what if… just one finger?"
He drew his arm back, the ball cradled in his grip.
His other fingers curled in, tight.
Just the tip of my finger. All of it. Right there.
His entire body coiled like a spring, tension building—but this time, it wasn't reckless. There was no wild flare of power, no chaotic burst like before. Instead…
There was precision.
Focus.
Like a blade being drawn across a whetstone.
And then—
With a cry torn straight from his chest, Izuku hurled the ball forward.
"SMASH!"
For the briefest instant, the world held its breath.
Crimson-black lightning crackled around his outstretched right index finger—a jagged halo of raw force, converging at the very point of release.
BOOM!
A miniature shockwave burst outward, blowing dust from the circle in a wide ring. The air shimmered where the ball passed, a rippling distortion like heat mirage. The softball rocketed away with such force it looked as though the wind itself was struggling to keep up.
Students gasped.
"WHOA!" Kaminari yelped, eyes wide.
"No way!" Sero gasped.
"What was THAT?!" Ashido Mina exclaimed, bouncing on her heels.
Uraraka's jaw dropped. "whoaaaa…!"
The ball finally arced and landed far, far down the field.
Izuku stumbled slightly, his right hand flying up to clutch his index finger, which was already swelling, turning an angry shade of purple and clearly broken. But he was standing. His arm wasn't a mangled mess. Tears of pain and relief pricked at his eyes. "Sensei…" he gasped, his voice hoarse, "I… I can still move!"
Kratos lowered the tracking device, then he nodded lightly towards Midoriya. He held up the screen. 705.3 meters.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then, an explosion of sound.
"Point three?!"
"He beat Bakugo by a fraction!"
"But look at his finger!"
Bakugo, however, was no longer seething silently. The numbers, Deku's power, Deku standing there having used a Quirk – it all coalesced into a singular, explosive rage.
"DEKU, YOU BASTARD!" he roared, his palms already igniting with furious explosions. He lunged. "TELL ME HOW YOU DID THAT, OR YOU'RE DEAD!"
Midoriya, clutching his throbbing finger, could only watch as the blonde blur burst into the circle—no one strong-armed him, no one stopped him, and before anyone could react, he snatched Midoriya by the collar.
Izuku's jaw trembled. "I—I can't explain—"
Before Bakugo could wrench more answers from him, a massive hand closed around Bakugo's shoulder—an irresistible grip that yanked him clean off Midoriya.
He flew backward like a ragdoll—rotated once in the air—and landed on his feet in a tumble of dust and gravel, barely regaining his balance. Around him, the students gaped.
One step, then another, Kratos closed the distance, each footfall a verdict.
Bakugo looked up. The God of War now stood at a distance of 2 meters from Bakugo, arms folded across a breastplate of aged leather and steel. Kratos' golden eyes were ice itself—slow, deliberate, cutting.
"What. Are. You. Doing."