One thing becomes abundantly clear as this exam continues: None of these aspiring heroes had ever been in significant danger, none had ever needed to fight for their bare lives.

They don't know that particular kind of desperation that chokes you when you stand on the brink of nothingness, one step away from falling into the waiting arms of the Shinigami. That kind of hopelessness that carves itself into your very core, a singular experience that leaves a permanent mark, one that time cannot hope to erase and will forever be etched into your existence.

That is not to say they have never encountered hardships. Madara is not naive enough to believe that the absence of war brings peace, but these children—and they are indeed children, with innocent minds and their heads in the clouds, dreaming in pastel hues—they have never trudged through gore-soaked mud, evading steel that gravitates toward their necks like magnets drawn to the iron pulsing in their jugulars.

They have never had to kill strangers they neither knew nor would ever know, fighting for the mere right to exist in a world that resembles a hellscape. They have never had to rip an enemy's throat out with their bare teeth because their last kunai is wedged between two ribs in another's chest. They have never felt the life force of family and friends extinguish beside them, like a flickering flame in the wind.

Perhaps, when they become heroes, they will someday understand. But today, a certain peace of mind still envelops them, a fragment of hesitation and squeamishness lingers in their shoulders that would have cost them their lives three times over in the merciless world of the Shinobi, where power means survival, and defeat is synonymous with death.

Madara is aware that this hunt is not a battle where anyone's survival is endangered in any way. The entire country of Japan is much safer than the Elemental Nations could ever be. Still, he can't help but notice how carefree some of these children appear to be.

Then again, pro-heroes are not meant to be paranoid, ruthless contract killers. They are meant to be defenders of justice and symbols of hope. This world is far more forgiving, allowing for such idealism, allowing those children to remain innocent for a while longer.

Nonetheless, Madara is not above exploiting these future heroes' vulnerabilities just because this world has coddled them up to this point.

"Comeback," he addresses the girl crouching beside him, behind the air-conditioner unit on the rooftop. "Can you knock them both out simultaneously with your Boomerangs from here?"

He gestures toward the two members of Team Red guarding the rooftop entrance of the library on the neighboring building. They nonchalantly lean against the railing, absorbed in their own inane conversations, seemingly not expecting someone to approach them from behind without alerting the guards on the street below first.

"I think—"

"Don't think. Do you know that you can, or can you not?" Madara presses. They need to eliminate these two guards before making their move onto the library's rooftop. There is no cover further ahead, and alerting these guards would mean alerting the entire building. If Comeback misses her shot, they won't get a second chance. "As a hero, you should have a grasp of your own capabilities. So, can we count on you, or should Augury and I handle it?"

It's a low blow, but an effective one; besides, what Madara said holds true. Understanding her abilities and their limits is paramount if she wishes to become a capable hero.

Comeback clenches her jaw in anger, her pride stung. She takes a deep breath, visibly steadying herself. "I can do it," she says with much more resolve, glaring at Madara and daring him to say otherwise.

He does no such thing. So, she retrieves her two weapons from their holsters and cautiously emerges from their hiding place, keeping herself close to the ground. As her breathing evens out, she takes aim, and a moment later, she hurls both boomerangs in rapid succession.

They slice through the air in a wide arc with a faint swishing sound that goes unnoticed by their targets. Comeback's aim remains true, and almost simultaneously, the boomerangs strike the guards on the back of their heads.

Before the weapons can clatter to the ground, the girl extends her arms and activates her quirk. Her weapons instantly change trajectory and accelerate back towards her, where she catches them with a small, satisfied smirk.

Augury whistles lowly. "Nice shot."

Madara on the other hand, is already in motion, crossing the rooftop and leaping over to the library. He approaches the incapacitated individuals with caution, confirming that they are indeed unconscious, before crouching down and pulling the flags from their backs, then searches their pockets for keys.

"Well done," he comments offhandedly as he hears his teammates join him.

After a brief yet meticulous investigation, Madara's fingers close around a pair of keys. He retrieves them from the guard's pocket and let them disappear into his own cloak with a satisfied hum.

Without wasting any more time, the three of them vanish into the building soundlessly, descending onto the highest floor of the library, where rows and rows of deserted, dusty bookshelves and stale air greet them. Madara roams his gaze carefully across the shelves, then signals his teammates to disperse.

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In his role as a teacher, it is Shota's responsibility to oversee the Hero License Exam of his former students, even though, technically, they are no longer under his tutelage. However, such technicalities hold little importance for him. Every six months, he shows up to witness the progress of these young adults who have grown and matured under UA's care.

Some of them have been familiar faces since their first day in his classroom, some he has guided through three years of strenuous and relentless work, assisting them in overcoming each challenge along the way. It feels only right to accompany them on the final leg of their journey as students and the beginning of their careers as heroes.

Shota is not the only one in the observation room; numerous teacher colleagues gather here twice a year to support their students, to congratulate those who succeed, and to console those who do not. Many pro-heroes are also present, scouting the new generation for potential sidekicks for their agencies or simply out of curiosity.

Nonetheless, despite his dedication to all his students, Shota has not laid eyes on any of them for over an hour. He cannot tear his gaze away from the screen designated to a specific boy, and one boy alone – too young, far too young to be participating in this exam, yet he is tearing through the cityscape like a wrath made flesh.

This one particular screen, unlike the dozen others that continually shift between various points of action, has not wavered from its focus since the beginning of the hunt. Shota's eyes stay locked on it, a turbulent mixture of anger, shock, and indignation swirling within him, causing him to tense up further by the minute.

He is not the only one transfixed by this particular screen. Practically everyone in the observation room shares his fixation, speculating about the boy's identity, his quirk, his origin, and the nature of his training. Some murmur with curiosity, others nod in silent respect, and a few squint with suspicion at the mysterious child shrouded in a dark cloak, his wild mane obscuring half of his face.

Nobody recognizes him, and nobody has heard of him before. Nobody, except Shota, it seems. Even after more than a year, he still vividly remembers the hostage situation the child had been entangled in with his brothers. How could he forget? It had been jarringly similar, unearthing painful memories of an explosion, a collapsed building, smoke, and debris. Amidst the chaos, a child cried out for his brothers – friend - covered in blood and grime.

Shota had found it impossible to sleep properly for weeks afterward and eventually had to take a mandatory leave from his hero work to get his head back on straight. He left Naomasa to complete the investigation, despite his own reluctance.

Deep in his bones, he had sensed something strange about the three children even back then; the case simply didn't add up. Their survival, as relieving as it had been, couldn't have been possible for three quirkless children. However, it turned out they were not as quirkless as initially assumed; as he had learned later upon his return from the forced vacation.

Naomasa had assured him that the case was closed, or as much as it could be. Apparently, a shield quirk had saved the children. Even then, Shota couldn't shake the nagging feeling in his gut that something was off about these boys—the way they carried themselves, how they expressed themselves, and how they talked. However, he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, and all evidence related to the case had been reduced to ashes in the explosion, leaving only the children's accounts as a reference. In the end, he had to let it go, and he never heard or saw them again.

Until today, a year and a half later, Arano reappears. Seemingly fully recovered from injuries that by all means should have been debilitating, taking down one hero student after another without breaking a sweat or even activating his quirk. It makes that itch inside Shota return with a vengeance, raising the hairs on his neck. Something is wrong.

This is not a twelve-year-old child, his mind whispers. Arano fights with a ruthless viciousness that is learned from life's brutality itself and not taught in lessons. He commands his teammates with an authoritative and self-assured manner, akin to a battle-hardened general. There is not a trace of innocence in this child, no insecurity or clumsiness. Arano appears to tower above all the young heroes around him, despite standing several heads shorter than them.

Shota had read the files on Arano and his two brothers; he remembers it well. He had to grit his teeth and carefully control his rising anger as he did so.

Two of them were born into a filthy brothel surrounded by the worst scum of Tokyo, with absent fathers, and a neglectful and borderline abusive mother. They had never even attended school until their eventual rescue. The other brother had an equally absent father, a deceased mother, and suspected childhood depression. Shota couldn't fathom the hardships they must have endured growing up in such circumstances. He aches for those children, and if he could, he would punch their useless parents in the face.

It is evident that their upbringing had left negative effects on their social development, as both younger brothers have turned out to be quite the troublemakers in school, often reacting violently toward other children. Not to mention he had discovered them loitering alone on a rooftop at the crack of dawn without realizing the danger they were in. The oldest one seemed to be antisocial and reclusive, with no friends, almost akin to a ghost, as described by his teachers.

Seeing that same twelve-year-old fight with the proficiency of a veteran has renewed anger boiling in the depths of Shota's very being. A mere child should not participate in these exams to begin with, nor should he possess the skill to excel in them. What had it taken for him to reach this level of skill? What pain had the child endured to stand here today? He fought like a soldier, moved like a soldier, and spoke like a soldier, but his face is still that of a twelve-year-old, with rosy round cheeks and large eyes framed by unruly locks.

A child should not carry himself as if he is a living weapon or speak as if he is at war. It is wrong, and Shota can't help but ask himself, what has he missed? What has he overlooked a year and a half ago? Is it his fault that a child soldier stands before them today? What asshole had trained this kid and where can he find them?

He has not been the only one to protest Arano's participation; however, The HPSC head proctor himself had repeatedly assured the present heroes that everything was within their policy, legally acceptable, and no amount of shouting and protesting could alter that fact. Shota has barely had enough self-control to not strangle the man then and there. Screw the HPSC and their rules; this is a literal child, damn it!

He should focus on his students, as their teacher it's his duty and honor; however, he can't look away as Arano sneaks into the library with his two teammates, or when he dissolves into shadows like liquid darkness, issuing orders to his teammates with steel in his voice and cold calculation in his eyes.

"Who trained him?" Endeavor, of all people, asks with an ominous glint in his eyes that Shota couldn't entirely decipher. Like most heroes observing the exams, Endeavor is on the lookout for potential additions to his agency, yet he rarely displayed interest in any of the participants.

"He has no affiliation with any heroes. His file suggests he has extensive experience in various martial arts, though," an HPSC employee comments dryly.

Endeavour scoffs derisively, crossing his arms with a scowl. "He couldn't have reached this level of proficiency without some kind of mentor. There must be someone."

The man in the black suit remains unfazed by the flame hero's shitty attitude, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen with professional composure. "If that's the case, we're not aware of it."

Everyone in the room knows that Endeavour is right, and Shota knows it as well, but no one seems to have an answer to the question of Arano's mentor or training.

On the screen, Arano suddenly emerges from his cover and effortlessly knocks out an opponent twice his size with a few quick and precise hits, while his teammates deal with the other member of Team Red. They don't linger and quickly retreat into the shadows cast by the bookshelves.

"That makes eight," someone comments, a hero Shota didn't recognize. "They've taken out eight members of Team Red."

No one says it, but everyone thinks it: Arano's team doesn't even seem winded. Shota doubts they have witnessed the full extent of the kid's potential yet. There is no nervousness or uncertainty in the kid's expression, not a shred of doubt in his actions as he leads his team down a story deeper into the library.

Upon encountering two more opponents, he calmly signals Augury to engage, and the older boy does so without question, fully trusting Arano's judgment. Comeback soon follows, offering valuable support from a distance. All the while, Arano slinks around in the shadows as if he belongs there, striking like a viper when the time is right.

"That makes ten," another person mutters. "And I think they've got eight keys in total."

A shrill beep echoes through the observation room, followed by an announcement from a proctor. "Team Red is using three keys to free the following captured members: Iron Judge, Stormcloud, and Mirko."

An excited murmur sweeps through the room, and one of the screens switches to the participants mentioned as they re-enter the arena. It comes as no surprise to anyone that Mirko sprints off like a shot the moment she sets foot in the city, her red eyes fixed on the horizon like a bloodhound tracking its prey.

Shota had entered this exam with the intention of watching his students become real heroes, but in the end, he could barely spare them a glance.

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Madara delivers a devastating blow to his opponent's head, finishing him off cleanly. They are back on the street before the library, having taken care of the members inside and are now dealing with the remaining guards outside, who were utterly unaware of what happened behind their backs as they patrolled the deserted street.

Augury and Comeback are engaged in a fight with the last two standing opponents, taken by surprise at the sudden assault. After dealing with those two, the library is clear, and their assassination count, which Madara jokingly calls it in his head, is up to fifteen. That amounts to roughly a third of Team Red, which he considers a reasonable outcome.

As he is about to turn to his teammates, when a sudden chill runs down his spine, and he senses a subtle shift in the air, followed by the faint crunch of pebbles on the street. Madara has barely enough time to dodge to the side as a white blur barrels past him.

When he faces the threat, he finds Mirko crouching before him, a menacing grin on her lips.

"They released you then, I assume?" Madara asks, unimpressed, adopting a ready stance with his staff held firmly in both hands.

"Of course they did, and I've been searching for you since then, bastard. You won't get away a second time!" She bellows as she charges at him again, more akin to an enraged bull than a rabbit.

Madara evades again with an air of indifference, regarding Mirko as one would a mischievous child. "Do you believe brute force will win you this fight now when it failed before? Have you learned nothing from our initial encounter? How disappointing."

He diverts her subsequent kicks to the side and steps right into her space, delivering a powerful kick of his own to her solar plexus. The impact leaves Mirko gasping for air, but she retreats before Madara can strike again. Her face twists in anger, teeth bared, and her next lunge is clumsy and uncontrolled at best, and a personal insult at worst.

Madara's face slacks in boredom, which only seems to add fuel to Mirko's fire. "You think you're so much better than me, huh?" She growls, attacking with renewed vigour. In her next fierce strike, she successfully disarms Madara of his staff, sending it soaring into the air before clattering to the ground with a resounding clang.

Mirko is immediately in his face, her expression dripping with cruel satisfaction.

Madara remains unruffled. Sighing disappointed he contemplates whether she will learn this time. His hands are already closed around the knives hidden in his wide sleeves, and he pulls them out in a split of a second, their polished blades briefly gleaming in the sunlight before disappearing from sight again.

Time seems to freeze in a mockery of peaceful silence for one, two heartbeats. Then it's shattered by a pained grunt and the impact of a body hitting the rough asphalt. "Fuck!"

Mirko quickly sits back up and attempts to stand from her slumped position, but her legs give way with each attempt. When she finally glances down, cursing like a sailor, she notices the blood staining her calves and thighs, with four knives protruding around her knees. Her hands instinctively reach for the hilts, ready to remove the embedded blades.

"I would not do that," Madara says dully, approaching the fallen bunny. " You risk further damage to your tendons. You should wait for a medic."

Disregarding her venomous outbursts, he encircles her to strip her of her flag once more.

"A word of advice," he says lowly from behind her. "Never celebrate your victory before the enemy is dead or fully incapacitated."

With that, he turns away and heads toward his teammates, who are still engaged in combat with their respective opponents, leaving a raging Mirko where she lies.

The remaining adversaries are quickly dispatched, and they find two more keys, adding to their collection, now totaling eleven gleaming golden keys. Madara's smirk, far from amiable, conveys a sense of satisfaction.

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The countdown on the clock in the observation room continues to tick down. Only 2 minutes remain, and neither team has managed to secure the treasure chest.

The ticking is abruptly interrupted by the announcement signal, as a stern voice cuts through the tension. "Team Green is using eleven keys to free the following captured members: Mist Mistress, Tauron, Battle Cry, Rosery-"

The names continue to be listed as the minutes and seconds dwindle. As the announcer's voice fades away, the observation room falls into a stiff silence, everyone fixated on the capture count displayed on the main screen, alongside the steadily ticking countdown.

...3...2...1... A resounding signal reverberates through the room and the arena.

"The time is up, the hunt is concluded. I repeat, the hunt is concluded. Please cease your actions and exit the arena. Anyone with injuries, please make your way to the-"

The final result remains prominently displayed in large numbers and letters on the screen:

Team Red: 28 vs. Team Green: 34

Winner: Team Green