Sunday, 1:30 PM.

  The Academy's inner halls buzzed with activity as cadre members moved with purpose, making final preparations. The moment was approaching—the moment when over 500 heroes would face judgment.

  Golden afternoon light streamed through stained glass windows, casting colorful shadows across ancient stone floors worn smooth by generations of heroes. The air thrummed with anticipation and anxiety, the very walls seeming to absorb the tension.

  In a secluded room designed for meditation, Mr. Haikito sat alone, his breathing slow but controlled. His hands rested on his lap, palms upward in a gesture of receptivity, but his chest rose and fell with a weight that even he found difficult to bear. Judging the newcomers had been one task—their potential was fresh, unformed like clay awaiting the potter's hands. But evaluating the licensed heroes? That would push his concept to the absolute limit.

  A cadre standing nearby noticed Haikito's breathing growing heavier. His sharp, piercing blue eyes remained focused, but there was a subtle stiffness to his posture that betrayed his strain.

  "Mr. Haikito, will you be alright?" the cadre asked, his voice carefully modulated to hide his concern.

  Haikito didn't break his concentration, the blue of his eyes intensifying momentarily. "Of course," he replied, his voice steady despite the effort etched into the lines around his eyes. "I'm just ready for this to be over with."

  Meanwhile, outside the Academy gates, a storm was brewing of a different kind.

  A lone figure marched toward the entrance, each footfall creating a metallic clang against the pavement as his skin hardened into steel. The transformation rippled across his body like a wave—flesh to metal, vulnerability to armor—a physical manifestation of his rising fury.

  Shinjuu was beyond furious.

  "A retrial? Are you kidding me?" he seethed through clenched teeth, the words hissing between metallic lips. His steel-plated knuckles tightened into fists that could punch through concrete. "I'm a certified hero with years of service, and I need to prove myself again?!"

  Yet beneath his rage, a current of fear ran cold and deep. Shinjuu had grown up in the slums of District 7, where failure meant starvation or worse. His steel body hadn't been for show—it had been his ticket out of poverty, his only chance at a life with dignity. Twenty years of service, and he'd never quite shaken the feeling that it could all be taken away in an instant. Every medal on his wall, every certificate of honor, every piece of his identity as a hero—all hanging by a thread controlled by others.

  His rage grew with each step, memories of past humiliations flashing through his mind like lightning.

  That night... the night of the incident.

  Rei had passed out, unconscious after using his ability in public. Shinjuu had been the one to apprehend him, securing Rei's wrists behind his back with specialized restraints designed to suppress mana flow.

  "Unauthorized sorcery use. You're coming with us," Shinjuu had said coldly, his body already shifting into steel in case Rei regained consciousness and resisted.

  But just as he was about to escort him into the police vehicle...

  A sleek black car pulled up, its engine purring with quiet power. The vehicle alone screamed authority—custom-built for someone who didn't just have power, but wielded it.

  Out stepped Mr. Haikito himself, not in his usual formal attire but in combat gear, suggesting he'd been expecting trouble.

  The entire precinct froze. The Chairman personally intervening in an arrest? That was unprecedented, the stuff of Academy gossip and speculation.

  Shinjuu had turned, irritation evident in his metallic features. "What's this about, sir?"

  Haikito's expression remained unreadable, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the scene with calculated precision. "I'll be taking custody of him."

  Shinjuu's mind flashed to his youngest brother, picked up for a minor offense five years ago, no Academy intervention for him. Just a stamp on his record that made sure he'd never rise above janitorial work, never have a chance at something better. The sting of that memory fueled his response.

  "He broke the law. He used his ability as a civilian—"

  "I will ensure this does not happen again." Haikito's voice was firm, absolute—the voice of someone who didn't make requests, but statements of fact.

  Shinjuu watched in frustrated disbelief as the officers complied instantly, unlocking Rei's restraints. Rei, still unconscious, was loaded into Haikito's car and driven away.

  It was as if the laws that Shinjuu had sworn to uphold simply... bent around Haikito's will. The laws that had never bent for people like him or his family.

  That moment had haunted Shinjuu ever since, a splinter in his mind that festered with each passing day. And now this—a retrial that called his very worth as a hero into question.

  "And now that brat gets an honorary license while I have to go through this bullshit?!" He clenched his jaw, steel grating against steel with a sound like sharpening knives. His fury was a physical thing, altering the very composition of his metal skin, making it harder, sharper, more dangerous.

  He touched the small medallion hidden beneath his uniform, a cheap brass thing his mother had given him when he first joined the Academy. "Make us proud," she'd said. The only thing of value in their cramped apartment, pawned and repurchased countless times to put food on the table, now a talisman against his own insecurity.

  The massive auditorium was packed with licensed heroes by the time Shinjuu arrived. The space—designed to accommodate large gatherings—felt claustrophobic with the presence of so many powerful individuals. Their collective mana created an almost visible haze in the air, currents of energy flowing and colliding.

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  Some murmured among themselves, huddled in groups of shared specialties or graduating classes. Others stood with arms crossed, silent but radiating resentment. The entire room was filled with a volatile mix of emotions—confusion, anger, indignation, and beneath it all, fear.

  "I heard the newcomer trials were insane," one hero whispered to his colleague, both of them bearing the scars of years of service.

  Another scoffed, his voice carrying farther than intended. "You mean the ones Haikito handed licenses to? Yeah, real tough getting a free pass."

  The discontent spread like ripples in a pond, growing stronger with each repetition. Shinjuu found himself nodding in agreement with the whispers, his own indignation finding kinship.

  The announcer finally stepped up to the podium, adjusting his robes—a ceremonial gesture that felt hollow in the charged atmosphere. He gripped the microphone, the feedback squeal momentarily silencing the discontent.

  "Heroes, welcome to your retrial." His voice carried across the auditorium, trained to project both authority and respect. "This trial will be simple. Each of you will enter a room one by one, where Mr. Haikito will look at you and determine your worth."

  A ripple of disbelief swept through the crowd, starting as a murmur and swelling rapidly into open outrage.

  "What?!" "You're joking!" "That's it?! He just decides?!"

  The announcer had anticipated their response, but even he wasn't prepared for how quickly the hall descended into chaos. Voices overlapped in a cacophony of indignation, hundreds of heroes—each accustomed to being respected, to being vital—suddenly reduced to supplicants awaiting judgment.

  "I worked my whole life for this!" "Mr. Haikito is gifting licenses to civilians, but we have to be retrialed?!" "This is an insult to everything the Academy stands for!"

  The crowd's anger boiled over, faces flushed with emotion, gestures growing more animated. Some of the younger heroes looked to the veterans, seeking guidance, but found only mirrored outrage.

  The announcer struggled to control the room, his voice lost in the tumult. He raised his hands, trying to appeal for order, but the heroes refused to be silenced.

  Suddenly—

  A new voice cut through the chaos, amplified not by technology but by authority.

  Kenji, a high-ranking official known for his fairness, stepped forward. "Calm yourselves. This is—"

  "Bullshit!" Shinjuu's voice thundered over the crowd, metal vocal cords lending his words a resonance that cut through the noise.

  Kenji turned just as Shinjuu stormed forward, his steel-clad arms crossed in defiance, his footsteps leaving indentations in the floor.

  "Haikito gave that brat a license, and I'm the hero who saved the day! Why am I standing here like some rookie?!"

  The crowd cheered in agreement, their collective anger finding a focal point in Shinjuu's words. The tension in the room reached a critical point, mana flaring visibly around some of the more emotional heroes.

  Footsteps echoed from the side of the stage.

  Everyone turned as Haikito walked into view, his presence undiminished despite the exhaustion evident in the set of his shoulders.

  The room fell silent.

  Unlike the dramatic entrances of most authority figures, Haikito moved with an almost gentle precision, each step measured, deliberate. He wore no special regalia, no symbols of office, nothing that screamed power. Just a simple black suit, impeccably tailored. The absence of ostentation only heightened the effect—a man who needed no external markers of authority.

  His presence alone commanded attention—not through intimidation but through an ineffable quality that seemed to compress the very air around him, as if reality itself bent slightly in his presence.

  His piercing blue eyes swept across the assembled heroes like a spotlight, each person caught in his gaze feeling suddenly, uncomfortably seen. Not judged, but truly seen, as if Haikito was looking past their abilities, past their accomplishments, into something more fundamental.

  "Go on." His voice was quiet, conversational, yet it carried to every corner of the room without apparent effort. "Continue your rumblings."

  You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium. Hundreds of heroes, each powerful in their own right, stood frozen under Haikito's unwavering gaze.

  His eyes glowed slightly, deepening their hue as he studied them. "Why don't you treat my staff with the same respect you give me?" His tone remained eerily composed, lacking the expected anger. Instead, there was something like genuine curiosity in his question, as if he were conducting a social experiment rather than disciplining subordinates. "They asked you repeatedly to quiet down, yet you kept raving."

  The crowd stiffened collectively, some dropping their gazes, unable to meet his eyes. This wasn't the confrontation they had expected—no shouting, no threats, just a quiet inquiry that somehow cut deeper than rage.

  Haikito's eyes glowed brighter, the blue deepening to something almost otherworldly. The temperature in the room didn't drop, but something else did—as if hope itself was being slowly compressed out of the space.

  "If you're so bold, bring your concerns to me, right here. Right now."

  The silence was deafening.

  For a long moment, no one spoke, no one moved. Heroes who had faced down villains, monsters, and disasters without flinching now found themselves unwilling to challenge the man before them.

  Then—

  Shinjuu stepped forward, steel fists clenched so tightly they creaked with strain. Twenty years of buried resentment, of watching the rules bend for some but remain rigid for others, pushed him forward when everyone else stepped back.

  "You gave that brat a license, and I'm the one who saved the day! Why are you doing this?!"

  Haikito's gaze settled on Shinjuu, truly focusing on him perhaps for the first time. The room seemed to recede, the hundreds of onlookers fading to background noise as Haikito studied the metal hero with unexpected attention.

  Then, rather than responding immediately, Haikito did something no one expected. He walked toward Shinjuu, steps unhurried, and stopped just a few feet away. Close enough that Shinjuu could see the faint fatigue in the Chairman's eyes, the slight line of tension in his jaw.

  "Did you save the day?" Haikito asked quietly, the question genuine rather than rhetorical. He reached into his pocket and withdrew something small—a memory crystal, standard Academy recording technology.

  Shinjuu flinched as if struck, recognizing the object instantly.

  Haikito held it up, not activating it but simply letting it catch the light. "Or were you about to get your head blown off until he took action?"

  The crystal contained footage from that night—footage Shinjuu thought had been erased. His metal skin couldn't pale, but his posture sagged imperceptibly.

  "To save your reputation, I ensured no footage surfaced showing what actually happened." Haikito's words were like a blade twisting deeper with each syllable, yet delivered without malice. If anything, there was a hint of compassion in his voice, which somehow made it worse. "Yet you stood on camera and boldly claimed you stopped Baku."

  Shinjuu's steel-coated fingers trembled perceptibly.

  The entire crowd stared, hundreds of pairs of eyes witnessing his humiliation.

  No one dared to speak.

  Then Haikito did something even more unexpected. He placed the memory crystal in Shinjuu's hand, closing the metal fingers around it.

  "Your record shows twenty years of service, Shinjuu. Forty-three lives saved directly by your actions. Three major villain organizations dismantled with your assistance." Haikito's voice remained quiet, but carried throughout the silent hall. "One moment of exaggeration doesn't erase that. But neither does your service record place you above scrutiny."

  The personal touch, the acknowledgment of his accomplishments alongside his failing, left Shinjuu speechless. This wasn't public humiliation—it was something far more complex, a lesson delivered with surgical precision.

  Haikito took a slow breath, centering himself as he turned to address the wider audience. "The trial begins now. Single file line. Follow my cadre."

  Silently, the crowd obeyed, the rebellion crushed not with force, but with words that cut deeper than any weapon.

  As the heroes lined up, one of them muttered to Shinjuu under his breath:

  "Good one, steel-toe boots."

  Shinjuu ground his teeth, metal scraping against metal, but said nothing. Inside his closed fist, the memory crystal felt impossibly heavy, a physical reminder of the gap between perception and reality.

  The retrial had begun, and with it, the judgment that would determine who among them truly deserved the title of hero.