Chapter 12: Erasure
The man stepped fully into the pale moonlight.
He didn't look like a typical villain, but he definitely didn't look like a Pro Hero either. He wore baggy black clothes, a tactical utility belt, and thick layers of strange, gray cloth wrapped heavily around his neck. His face was unshaven, and dark, heavy bags hung under his eyes, making him look chronically exhausted.
Zoro didn't relax his grip on the iron beast. He studied the intruder's sloppy posture.
The tired, unshaven face looked faintly familiar. Zoro felt like he had seen this hobo somewhere before, maybe months ago before his training began. But his memory for faces was just as terrible as his sense of direction. He couldn't place him, so he immediately dropped the thought.
"You look like a walking corpse," Zoro said, his voice completely flat. "Did you get lost?"
The man sighed, a sound of deep, profound irritation. He scratched the back of his neck. "Two patrol officers reported a teenager carrying a localized black hole on his shoulder. Said he shattered a concrete sidewalk just by shrugging. They thought it was a rogue strength Quirk playing vigilante."
The man's eyes suddenly flared a brilliant, glowing red.
The air pressure in the courtyard seemed to drop instantly. The stranger's messy black hair defied gravity, floating upward as if caught in a strong updraft. The thick gray cloth around his neck uncoiled, slithering in the air like living snakes. He stared intensely at Zoro, pushing a heavy, intimidating aura directed entirely at the exhausted boy.
Zoro stared back.
He waited for an attack. He waited for a blast of energy, or a sudden movement. He felt absolutely nothing. His left arm was still numb. His blisters still burned.
Zoro tilted his head slightly, genuinely confused. "Is there something wrong with your eyes?"
The glowing red faded. The floating black hair dropped instantly back to the man's shoulders. He blinked, visibly taken aback for a fraction of a second.
"Still no internal resistance," the man muttered to himself, his posture shifting from aggressive to analytical. "I had to double-check. The cops swore it was a strength Quirk, and lifting that weight shouldn't be humanly possible. But nothing has changed since that day on the street. You really did all this with just raw muscle. You're still completely Quirkless."
"I already told the cops," Zoro grunted, shifting the heavy tungsten off his lap. He planted the blunt tip into the dirt with a heavy thud, using it to help support his tired body. "It's training equipment."
The man looked at the broken wooden bokken, the shallow cut on Zoro's neck, and finally, the massive green armor plate sitting in the dirt. His eyes narrowed.
"That's a Class-A military-grade plating from a U.A. practice arena," the stranger said, his tone turning dangerously sharp. "How did a street kid get his hands on classified school property?"
"My master," Zoro replied. "And I'm going to cut it."
The man scoffed. It wasn't a laugh, just a short, harsh exhale of breath. "With a blunt piece of tungsten? You'll shatter your own ribs before you even scratch that paint."
Without any shift in his shoulders, without bending his knees, the man attacked.
The gray cloth around his neck whipped forward with the speed of a bullet. It didn't aim for Zoro's chest; it aimed directly for his right wrist, intending to disarm the boy before he could react.
Zoro's combat instincts fired on pure muscle memory. He didn't try to dodge. Dodging took too much energy. Instead, he twisted his waist and jerked the iron beast upward, intercepting the flying cloth.
The gray fabric wrapped around the thick tungsten like steel wire.
The man pulled back violently, fully expecting to rip the weapon out of the tired kid's hands, or drag the boy face-first into the dirt.
Zoro dropped his hips. He anchored his bare heels deep into the gravel, executing the exact defensive stance Master Kenji had drilled into him earlier that morning.
CREAK.
The iron beast didn't budge. Zoro held his ground, his right bicep bulging under the intense strain.
The sudden, immovable resistance caught the stranger completely off guard. Instead of pulling Zoro forward, the man himself was yanked half a step toward the boy, his heavy boots sliding in the dirt.
The courtyard fell dead silent.
Zoro glared at the man, his teeth bared in a feral grin. "Don't touch my swords."
The man stared at the immovable iron slab, then looked up at Zoro's bloodshot eyes. Slowly, the stranger released the tension on his capture cloth, letting it unravel and slither back around his neck.
"You have the raw strength of a mutant," the man said quietly, burying his hands in his pockets. "But the situational awareness of a seasoned veteran. You anchored your weight perfectly."
Zoro didn't lower his weapon. "Who are you?"
"My name is Shota Aizawa," the man said, turning his back toward the broken gate. He glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes locking onto Zoro. "I teach at U.A. High."
Zoro's eyes narrowed slightly.
"If you can't hear the breath of that armor plate in ten months," Aizawa added, his voice completely devoid of pity. "Don't bother showing up to the entrance exam. Because the real test will kill you."
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