Chapter 1: Hinode Exam's!

Monday morning, 9:47 A.M.—the quiet of the Shimizu household was just beginning to stir. “Rin, wake your ass up! You’re going to be late, you know!” a voice bellowed from the kitchen downstairs. Rin groaned, rolling off the bed in a clumsy heap. Her feet knocked against the floor, sending a loud crash echoing through the house. “All right! I’m up, geez!” she shouted, tugging herself out of bed. She went to her closet and grabbed her usual black bra, black coat, and a pair of black jeans. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed only in her bra, coat, and jeans. Rin strutted down the stairs, each step echoing slightly in the quiet house. “Rin! Put a shirt on!” her mom yelled from the kitchen. “Hell no! They’re uncomfortable! I don’t care what guys think—it’s my body!” Rin’s mom called after her, a hint of resignation in her voice. “Fine. Do whatever… just don’t get hurt, you know.” she said calmly, watching Rin stride into the dining room to grab breakfast. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Mom. Besides… you do know my core power is lightning, right?” Rin said, “Yeah, I know, Rin. I just care about you… and your siblings. Besides, it’s your first day at Hinode Academy. To be honest, when I went there, we had to take an exam just to get in, you know?” She said, “Well, yeah! I studied my ass off, so I know exactly what to do!” Rin said, smirking as she grabbed a piece of toast. “Besides, I’ve been waiting for this day forever. Hinode Academy won’t know what hit it.” Her mom shook her head with a small smile. “Just… don’t get too cocky. Exams aren’t the only challenge waiting for you there.” Rin shrugged, unbothered. “Pfft, whatever. I’ve got this.” Two kids came barreling down the stairs. “Issac! Sophia! Be careful!” Rin yelled, stepping aside just in time. “Sorry, big sis! We just wanted to wish you the best of luck on your exams!” the twins chorused, their voices full of cheer and excitement for their sister finally heading to the school she’d been dreaming about. Rin laughed out loud—until her eyes widened. Someone was charging at her. Her father came barreling forward, his foot aimed straight for her face. Rin squeezed her eyes shut, barely making out the blurred outline of him. On instinct, she jerked her head to the side. Her father’s kick missed—and he slammed into the wall with a deafening crash, leaving a massive hole where he’d hit. Rin’s mom’s eyes went wide with shock—and then narrowed into a storm. “TAKESHI! What the hell are you doing?!” she shouted, marching over to her husband, hands on her hips. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?! And now look at my wall!” Takeshi rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, trying to grin. “Uh… it was an accident! I swear!” Rin stifled a laugh, watching the chaos unfold around her. “Anyway, I better get going. Can’t be late for the exam, you know?” Rin said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She shot a cheeky grin at her parents. “Don’t worry, I’ll make you proud… or at least try not to destroy the place.” Her mom shook her head with a mix of worry and amusement. “Just… focus on the exam, Rin. No lightning tricks inside the building, got it?” Rin laughed. “No promises!” With that, she turned and headed for the door, her excitement barely contained as the twins waved furiously behind her. Rin looked up at the sky, her fist clenched tight. Sparks of lightning crackled along her knuckles, dancing with raw energy. Determination burned in her eyes, sharper than ever. “This is it,” she whispered to herself, a grin spreading across her face. “Time to show them what I’m made of.” The wind picked up around her, tugging at her coat as if echoing her excitement. With a deep breath, she tightened her grip on her bag and started running toward Hinode Academy. Thirty minutes later, Rin finally slowed to a stop, panting heavily. She wiped sweat from her brow and looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of Hinode Academy towering before her. The sun glinted off its sleek walls, and the ornate gates seemed to hum with quiet power. Her heart raced—not just from the run, but from anticipation. This was it: the place she had been dreaming about, the place that would test everything she had studied. Taking a deep breath, Rin straightened her coat, clenched her fists, and muttered under her breath, “Time to see if all that studying actually paid off.” With renewed determination, she pushed open the massive gates and stepped onto the academy grounds. Rin made her way to the exam hall—but what she saw made her freeze. This didn’t look anything like the traditional exam hall she’d imagined from the paperwork. The “exam” wasn’t just about answers on a page. It was designed to test everything: physical strength, the power of one’s core, and sharpness of mind under pressure. A shiver ran down her spine. This was going to be more intense than she had ever anticipated. A loud, buzzing noise crackled through the speakers. “Attention, everyone! This is Principal Jako speaking,” the voice boomed. “As you can see, many of you have been deceived. This is not an exam on paper. This is a test of your physical strength, your core abilities, and your mental acuity!” Murmurs and nervous whispers swept through the students. Rin’s eyes narrowed, sparks of lightning flickering faintly along her fingers. The doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, revealing a sprawling obstacle course filled with various challenges, each more intimidating than the last. Rin clenched her fists tighter. “Time to see what I’m really made of,” she said, her voice low but determined, as she stepped forward into Strength Exam Room. The heavy metal doors slammed shut behind her, sealing the room in an eerie silence. The air was thick with tension, and the faint scent of iron hung in the space. Ahead, rows of weighted pillars, towering sandbags, and reinforced training dummies stood like silent sentinels, waiting to test her limits. A digital display flickered to life above the far wall: “Strength Evaluation — Begin.” Rin cracked her neck “Alright,” she murmured, “let’s get this over with.” The instructor stepped forward, clipboard in hand. “For this Strength Evaluation, you’ll complete three tests. First: as many push-ups as you can in sixty seconds. Second: as many pull-ups as you can in the same time. Finally, you’ll strike the training bag so we can measure your raw punching power.” Rin raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a half-smirk. Push-ups, pull-ups, and punching a bag? she thought. That’s it? I was expecting something insane, not gym class. She stretched her arms back and shook them loose, then sighed. “Alright, fine. Let’s do this.” “Begin!” the instructor barked. Rin dropped to the floor, palms pressed flat against the mat. She started her push-ups at a steady pace, her body straight, breathing steady. Ten came and went easily, then twenty, then thirty. By the time she pushed past forty, her arms shook and her chest burned, but she forced herself through until the timer finally buzzed. She collapsed onto her knees, panting hard. “Forty-two,” the instructor called out, scribbling the number onto his clipboard. “Respectable.” Rin shook out her arms and stepped toward the pull-up bar. She jumped, gripped the steel, and began. The first dozen were smooth, her chin clearing the bar without trouble. Past fifteen, her biceps quivered and her hands started to slip. By twenty, sweat stung her eyes, and her breath came short and sharp. The buzzer sounded just as she pulled herself over one last time. She dropped down, arms trembling. “Twenty-three,” the instructor noted flatly. Rin rested her hands on her knees, breathing heavy but with a small smirk tugging at her lips. Not bad… but I can still do more. The instructor pointed to the reinforced punching bag at the far end of the room. “Final test.” Rin grabbed her water bottle, took a long drink, and let herself cool off for a moment. Her breathing steadied, and when she finally stood, her focus was sharp again. She walked toward the punching bag, every step deliberate. She stopped in front of it, eyes narrowing with determination. Raising her arms, she set her stance—guard up, feet braced. She drew in a deep breath and shifted her weight, channeling everything into her right arm. Her muscles tightened, veins rising against her skin as she coiled her strength. Then she struck. Her fist slammed into the bag with a thunderous impact that echoed through the chamber. The scoreboard above her flickered wildly as numbers shot upward, climbing faster and faster before gradually slowing. Rin stepped back, chest heaving, her eyes widening at the final score as sweat dripped from her brow. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d poured into that punch until her knuckles throbbed from the force. The air was tense as Rin stepped out of the testing chamber, the scoreboard flashing behind her: two thousand two hundred thirty-two. The numbers glowed in bold red, locking in her results for everyone to see, and a hush swept through the room. Dozens of eyes widened—students, assistants, even some of the senior proctors. The instructor, who had been calmly recording scores all morning, froze mid-pen stroke, his brows shooting up, his jaw slackening slightly before he managed to speak. “...Two thousand two hundred thirty-two?” His voice carried a rare tremor, the kind that only surfaced when history was being rewritten. He double-checked the system, tapped the screen, then checked again as if daring the numbers to change. They didn’t. Slowly, his lips curled into something between disbelief and awe. “I haven’t seen a score that high in nine years...” he muttered, loud enough for the class to hear. He turned toward Rin, his eyes sharper now, studying her as if she were some anomaly the academy itself had conjured. “Do you understand what this means? That number isn’t just impressive. That’s the kind of strength that ranks just below the top ten heroes in the entire country. Below the faculty... the principal... and no one else.” A wave of gasps rippled through the students. Whispers turned into murmurs of shock, excitement, and jealousy. Some stared at Rin with open admiration, others with fear. The instructor straightened, his tone becoming official once more, though the awe still clung to every word. “Class... mark this day. You’ve just witnessed the highest strength score this school has recorded in nearly a decade.” And Rin—calm just stood there, the weight of every gaze pressing against her back. The air was tense as Rin stepped out of the testing chamber, the scoreboard flashing behind her: two thousand two hundred thirty-two. The numbers glowed in bold red, locking in her results for everyone to see, and a hush swept through the room. Students froze mid-step, their mouths agape, whispers erupting and dying down like waves crashing against a shore. Other families in the crowd reacted just as strongly, parents of top-tier students whispering in astonishment, exchanging stunned glances, unable to believe a newcomer had reached a score their own children hadn’t even approached. The teachers’ reactions were immediate and audible: Mr. Takeda, the combat instructor, leaned forward, hand on his chin. “I… I haven’t seen anyone even come close to this since my first year,” he muttered, while Ms. Hayashi, overseeing mental training, covered her mouth, jaw tight with disbelief, and even the assistant instructors froze, notebooks trembling in their hands. At the front of the hall, Principal Jako’s expression hardened; he had seen the best of the best—top-tier students, elite heroes, even some of the most powerful faculty in the country—but this number made him pause, his usual composed demeanor cracking ever so slightly. “Rin Shimizu…” he said, voice low but carrying through the room. “I’ve been at this academy for over twenty years. I’ve trained and tested countless students. None… none have ever reached a score like this. You’ve just set a record that surpasses nearly every strength test I’ve ever administered—including those of the top ten heroes and all of my faculty.” He straightened, voice echoing now with authority. The head instructor’s voice carried weight, echoing off the gym walls. “Mark this day. Class… you have just witnessed the highest strength score this school has recorded in nearly a decade.” Gasps, murmurs, and stunned silence spread through the room; families cheered quietly, proud but in awe, while students stared at Rin in admiration, fear, and a few in envy, already plotting to catch up someday. Rin, calm and unreadable, stood there, letting every gaze—from students, teachers, and family alike—press against her back. Her chest heaved slightly, but her expression betrayed nothing; she had expected nothing less, and yet, seeing all the reactions, she allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible nod. Whispers erupted among the students. “Did you see that score? 2232… that’s impossible!” “I’ve been training for years and can’t even reach half of that.” “She… she’s on a completely different level.” Even the teachers exchanged stunned glances, some shaking their heads, silently acknowledging that Rin had shattered every record in Hinode Academy’s history. A few students, bold or perhaps foolish, stepped closer. “Rin… how… how do you even reach 2232?” Rin’s eyes flicked toward them, cool and measured, and she said nothing, letting the silence answer them instead; their curiosity quickly melted into respect—or intimidation. “Next up—Mental State Evaluation! Every student, please form a line and proceed to the designated rooms for your assessment,” Principal Jako’s voice boomed clearly over the gym’s speakers, leaving no room for confusion. Whispers rippled through the students as they shifted into lines, some fidgeting nervously, others trying to mask their anxiety with forced confidence. The mental state check wasn’t just about focus or intelligence—it measured resilience, composure under pressure, and the ability to think clearly in chaotic situations. Rin joined the line with calm precision, her posture straight, eyes forward. Around her, students muttered and exchanged theories about how the exam would work. “I heard they simulate stressful scenarios,” one boy whispered. “Some even say they put illusions in front of you to test your reactions.” A girl behind him shivered. “I’m not ready for that…” The gym doors opened, revealing long, stark hallways that led to individual rooms. Each door bore a number and a small, glowing symbol—indicators that the mental exam inside was active and ready. One by one, students were called in. Rin’s turn came quickly. She stepped forward, her shadow stretching along the hallway floor. Her mind felt clear, focused, and strangely energized after her record-breaking strength test. She pushed the door open and entered the room, where a soft hum of machinery and glowing lights greeted her. The first challenge awaited, and Rin knew—just like before—she wasn’t here to merely participate. She was here to excel. Rin stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over the soft hum of machinery and the glowing instruments lining the walls. The mental state test was infamous at Hinode Academy—not for how it measured intelligence, but for how it evaluated the stability of a student’s mind. In this society, a “psycho” rating was a death sentence for one’s future, often leading students to spiral into villainous paths, losing control of their impulses and hurting those around them. As the test began, Rin felt the simulations probing every corner of her psyche: stress, fear, temptation, anger. Scenarios flashed in front of her eyes—some designed to trigger rage, others meant to tempt dishonesty or cruelty. Students who failed these tests often erupted in panic or defiance, but Rin remained calm, every illusion and challenge met with meticulous control. Her body tensed only slightly when necessary, her mind analyzing each scenario with precision, never letting impulse override reason. Minutes stretched as the test escalated in intensity, a particularly cruel simulation forcing Rin into a moral dilemma: save a stranger or gain a tremendous personal advantage. Her heart pounded, but she made the choice swiftly, carefully, without hesitation, the system recording her reactions and measuring not just thought, but restraint. When the test ended, a soft chime echoed through the room, the results flashing on a hidden terminal visible only to the proctor and Principal Jako: Mental State: Psycho. The proctor murmured into a communicator, voice low. “She’s classified as psycho… but she demonstrates complete control over her actions. She won’t go rogue. This is unprecedented.” Outside, Rin emerged from the testing room as composed as ever. No one around her knew the truth. To the other students, she had simply completed the mental test like everyone else, whispers of anxiety and curiosity buzzing through the hallway, but Rin moved among them with her usual calm, her secret classification hidden from all but the two people who truly understood its significance. In a society where a “psycho” label meant inevitable villainy, Rin was an anomaly; she carried the darkness of a mind classified as dangerous—but with discipline, foresight, and control that even the Academy hadn’t seen before. And as she walked down the hall, blending seamlessly with her peers, she felt a quiet thrill: strength, intelligence, control—her path was hers alone, and no one could dictate it. Hours dragged by as students trickled out of the mental state rooms, exhausted, anxious, or trembling from what they had just endured. Some had been dismissed entirely—unable to maintain control under the relentless simulations. Others barely moved, paralyzed by fear, hesitant to take even a single step forward. Whispers filled the hallways, the air thick with tension and unspoken dread. Finally, the announcements shifted to the next stage. The loudspeakers crackled as Principal Jako’s voice rang out once more: “Attention students. The final evaluation is about to begin. This is the Core Control Test—your ultimate assessment of stability, focus, and mastery over your primary abilities. Only those who have proven themselves in strength and mental fortitude may proceed.” A ripple of anticipation ran through the remaining students. The Core Control Test wasn’t just a measure of skill—it was a demonstration of everything they had learned and, for some, a crucible that could expose weaknesses they hadn’t even realized existed. The test would push their abilities to the edge, forcing them to stabilize, synchronize, and master the very essence of their powers. Rin stepped forward as the call was made. She had already shattered records with her strength and demonstrated unparalleled composure in the mental evaluation. Yet even she felt the weight of what was to come. This final trial would reveal not just her limits, but the core of who she truly was—and only those capable of absolute control would leave the test unscathed. The doors to the Core Control chamber opened, glowing with a strange, pulsating light. One by one, students were guided in, leaving the hallway in tense, expectant silence. Rin took a deep breath and walked forward, her steps steady and deliberate. She had faced impossible strength scores and the darkest corners of her own mind. Now, it was time to prove mastery over the very core of her being. The chamber was vast, almost otherworldly. Panels of glowing energy stretched across the walls, and a soft, vibrating hum resonated through the floor. In the center floated a translucent orb, pulsating with light—the Core Simulator. This device was said to measure the very essence of a student’s abilities, forcing them to maintain absolute stability while executing complex tasks that tested strength, speed, focus, and instinct simultaneously. One by one, students stepped into the orb’s sphere of influence. Trembling hands, shallow breaths, and wide eyes betrayed their uncertainty. Sparks of energy licked the floor around them as the simulator projected challenges: sudden bursts of opposing forces, illusions of multiple opponents, and rapid tests of coordination. Many faltered immediately, their bodies twitching uncontrollably, unable to synchronize with the Core’s rhythm. Some screamed, others collapsed, expelled by the system for failing to maintain control. When Rin’s turn arrived, the chamber seemed to quiet itself. She walked to the center, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the orb. As she entered the field, the simulator pulsed, sending waves of energy coursing around her. Immediately, multiple projections appeared—phantoms striking from every direction, environmental hazards shifting rapidly, and flashing lights designed to disorient even the most focused mind. Her body moved with fluid precision. Every strike was measured, every movement controlled, every instinct perfectly timed. The orb’s sensors tracked her response, adjusting the difficulty with every success, yet Rin never faltered. Where other students had been thrown off by a single illusion, she anticipated and countered dozens simultaneously. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but her breathing remained steady. The simulator increased the challenge, forcing her to use not just strength or reflex, but coordination, timing, and mental clarity in perfect harmony. Despite the intensity, Rin’s expression betrayed nothing—calm, composed, unbreakable. Finally, the orb’s light blazed and then faded, leaving Rin standing alone, perfectly stable, her movements still graceful and controlled. The chamber doors opened, and the proctor’s voice crackled over the speakers: “Student… Rin. Core Control test complete. Full mastery achieved. No instability detected. Exceptional performance. Record level.” Behind the walls, the other students whispered in awe. None of them had come close. Some had failed at the first projection; others hadn’t lasted five minutes. Rin had not only survived—she had dominated. As she stepped out of the chamber, calm as ever, a subtle thrill ran through her. Strength, mind, and core—every aspect of her being had been tested, and every aspect had emerged victorious. The academy had pushed her to the limits, yet she had proven one undeniable truth: no challenge, no test, and no system could break her control. The hallways of Hinode Academy were quieter now, the tension of the day fading as the last students trickled out. Rin walked steadily toward the main gates, her movements calm, measured, carrying the weight of everything she had accomplished. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the grounds, but she didn’t glance back. There was no need—the tests were over, the results were hers, and only she knew the full scope of what had transpired. Outside the gates, the streets were bustling with afternoon activity. Rin wove through the crowd with quiet confidence, her mind replaying the day’s events: shattering the strength record with a staggering 2232, dominating the mental state evaluation without losing control, and flawlessly mastering the Core Control test. Each memory brought a small, subtle thrill, a satisfaction that could only come from knowing she had truly surpassed everyone else. As she walked, Rin allowed herself a brief moment of anticipation. She had faced the impossible and emerged victorious, but the part she was most eager for was yet to come: telling her family. They had been proud of her before, but this—this was something extraordinary, something that needed to be shared in person. The streets grew quieter as she approached her neighborhood. Her footsteps were steady, echoing softly against the pavement. Finally, she reached her home and opened the door. The familiar warmth of the house enveloped her, and the smell of dinner lingered faintly in the air. Her family looked up in surprise. “Rin! You’re home early,” one of her siblings said, eyes wide. Rin smiled faintly, a rare softness touching her features. “I… have something to tell you,” she began. Her voice was calm, but beneath it was a quiet pride. “Today… I set the highest strength score the academy has ever recorded. I passed every test, even the Core Control evaluation. Every challenge they gave me… I overcame it.” Her family’s eyes widened in astonishment. Whispers of admiration and disbelief filled the room. “You… you did all that?” one of them asked, barely able to believe it. Rin nodded, her posture straight and composed. “Yes. Every test. I’ve proven myself today. And I wanted you to know… firsthand.” The room was silent for a moment, filled with awe, pride, and an unspoken understanding of just how extraordinary Rin had truly become. Today had been more than exams—it had been a demonstration of her power, her control, and the fact that she alone determined the path she would walk. And as she finally allowed herself to relax in the presence of her family, Rin felt a quiet certainty settle within her: this was only the beginning. The room was still, heavy with awe and pride, when Rin’s father finally stirred from his chair. His usually stoic expression softened, and he leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “Rin… there’s something I’ve never told anyone,” he began, his voice low, deliberate. Her siblings glanced at him curiously, but he didn’t look at them—his eyes were fixed solely on Rin. “I used to be the Eighth Pro Hero,” he said quietly, almost as if saying it aloud made it real again. “I retired years ago, before you were even old enough to understand what it meant. Your mother knew, but no one else in the family ever did.” Rin froze for a moment, letting the words sink in. The Eighth Pro Hero… a name she had heard whispered in legends and news reports, someone whose feats were respected and feared across the nation. And now, that legacy was hers by blood. Her father’s gaze was steady, carrying the weight of unspoken battles and sacrifices. “I retired not because I wanted to, but because I realized I needed to protect my family in ways I couldn’t as a Pro Hero. And now… seeing what you’ve accomplished today, I understand something clearly: you have the strength, the discipline, and the heart to walk a path even I could not have imagined.” Rin’s mother reached over, gently squeezing his hand, her eyes warm but solemn. Only she had known this truth all along. The secrecy had been a burden, but now, seeing Rin stand before them, victorious and composed, it felt like the right moment to let a small part of that truth emerge. Rin looked at her father, her expression calm yet alive with a spark of recognition. “I understand,” she said softly. “And I… I won’t let that legacy go to waste.” Her father nodded once, a rare smile breaking through his otherwise reserved demeanor. “I know you won’t, Rin. You’ve already proven it today.” The room remained quiet, but the weight of the revelation hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable. Rin now carried not only her own extraordinary achievements but also the legacy of a hero who had walked a path of unimaginable trials—a secret strength that would guide her in the days to come. The excitement and tension of the day slowly faded as Rin sat quietly in her room, reflecting on everything she had accomplished. Strength, mental fortitude, and core control—she had conquered all the exams, and every test had proven her dominance. Yet even with her record-breaking score and flawless performance, she knew this was only the beginning. Her father’s quiet revelation lingered in her mind, a hidden legacy that added both weight and inspiration to her journey. For now, though, there was no more testing, no more simulations—just the calm before the next challenge. Tomorrow marked the first day of actual classes. The exams were over, and the real life of a student at Hinode Academy would begin. Rin’s steps, thoughts, and abilities would now be measured not just by tests, but by the everyday trials of learning, strategy, and interacting with her peers. She lay down, letting the day’s exhaustion wash over her. Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in warm, fading light. Rin’s mind remained sharp, focused, already anticipating what tomorrow would bring. The exams were behind her. The academy awaited. And Rin—calm, controlled, and unstoppable—was ready to face her first day as a student, fully aware that every eye would now be on her.