Heroes Gamble: A BNHA Story

Chapter Four: Entrance Exam Prelude

Hayato awoke before dawn, as he always did. The dim light filtering through the window was barely enough to make out the outlines of the furniture in his small apartment, but that was fine—he didn't need much light. The soft hum of the city waking up outside didn't disturb him either; his body was trained to rise at the first hint of daylight, an instinct ingrained into him from his time in the underworld.

In those days, waking up early was a necessity. The first jobs of the day were often the best—the ones with the highest payouts or the cleanest breaks. If you hesitated, if you let yourself sleep too long, the good jobs would be gone, taken by others. And in his line of work, missing out wasn't just an inconvenience—it could mean the difference between eating for the week or starving, between living another day or being hunted down by someone faster, hungrier. He'd learned that lesson early.

Today wasn't so different, at least in the way his mind and body worked. He rose from his bed quickly, moving through the morning ritual that had become second nature. His body was a finely tuned machine, each movement precise, with no wasted energy. Even when preparing for something as mundane as a day at school—or in this case, a make-or-break entrance exam—his mind approached it with the same cold efficiency that had kept him alive all these years.

He moved to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, the chill jolting his senses fully awake. A quick glance in the mirror reminded him of what he was. His mismatched eyes—a deep electric blue and the other a clouded white rimmed in black—stared back at him, unblinking. He didn't need to look long to see the scar that carved down from his forehead, over his left eye, to his jaw.

His gaze then shifted, catching more of his reflection. The scars—so many scars. His eyes skimmed over them, trying not to linger too long, but they were hard to ignore. Each line, each mark on his skin, was a story he didn't want to remember but could never forget. The face looking back at him wasn't the one he would have had if things had gone differently. It wasn't a hero's face. It was the face of someone who had survived in a world of violence, treachery, and pain. So much pain.

He turned away from the mirror, shaking off the memories that threatened to resurface. The past is just that—the past, he reminded himself. After a quick shower, he dressed. He pulled on his usual clothing, nothing fancy, just something practical. The pants were worn but durable, and the dark gray shirt hung loosely on his lean frame. His boots were a relic from his mercenary days, scuffed and broken in after years of use but still functional. Everything about his appearance was utilitarian—he had no need for style, no interest in fitting in. If anything, he wanted to fade into the background, never to be seen.

The clock now reading 7:19 am, Hayato began to prepare his breakfast. A simple meal, consisting of whatever was on sale the day before at the market. Luckily for him, it meant he had eggs, sausage, and toast. A very easy meal to cook and pleasing to eat. Hayato didn't need anything fancy or special, just enough food to make it through the day, hell when he first started his mercenary work, starvation was a prominent daily thing back then.

Having finished eating Hayato glanced at the clock. 7:57 am. The entrance exam wasn't until 9, but it was always better to arrive early, to get a feel for the environment and prepare himself mentally. You didn't survive in his world by showing up late or unprepared. The twenty-minute walk gave him plenty of time to clear his mind, though flashes of his old life kept surfacing despite his best efforts to push them down. The routines of his past clung to him like a second skin, difficult to shake even now and besides U.A. wasn't the battlefield he was used to, but it was a battlefield, nonetheless. Preparation favours the bold after all.

At 8:00 sharp, Hayato stepped out of his apartment, the crisp morning spring air biting at his skin as he made his way toward U.A. High. The streets were still quiet, the city not yet fully awake. It gave him time to think—something he both appreciated and despised. His mind wandered back to his past as he walked. The mercenary life hadn't been easy, but it had been simple in a way. Jobs came in, you took them, you survived. There wasn't the weight of expectations or the threat of failure hanging over your head. If you failed in the underground, you died. Simple. But here? Failure meant more than death. It meant being thrown back into the system, losing the small sliver of hope he'd been given.