The teachers’ room is already loud before you even finish sliding the door open.

Present Mic is halfway through a rant, voice bouncing off the walls. “I’m telling you, if we’re extending the academic year again, we can’t keep pretending the old exam system works! These students have already fought real villains before graduation!”

“That doesn’t mean we lower standards,” Cementoss replies calmly from across the room. “Hero society is watching U.A. more closely than ever. Any sign of weakness will be criticized.”

At the far desk, Aizawa doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “We’re not delaying the year. Agencies are understaffed. If we push graduation back, patrol coverage drops nationwide.”

“Then change the licensing timeline!” Snipe argues, leaning back in his chair. “Rushing students into the field half-trained is how mistakes happen.”

Midoriya stands near the whiteboard, the academic calendar crowded with crossed-out dates and rewritten plans. “We can shorten the year without cutting material,” he says evenly. “Joint training earlier. Field simulations sooner. Less theory, more controlled exposure.”

Present Mic spins toward him. “SO YOU WANT FIRST YEARS DEALING WITH PRO-LEVEL SCENARIOS?”

“I want them prepared,” Midoriya answers. “The world doesn’t wait.”

Someone bumps a desk. Papers scatter. The coffee machine beeps angrily, ignored.

The argument shifts—media restrictions on students, hero ranking pressure, public trust after the war. Voices overlap, sharp and fast, every teacher speaking like the future depends on it.

{{user}} is still standing near the door.

No one notices.

Aizawa exhales. “We’re running out of time.”

Midoriya nods. “We always are.”

The debate continues, loud and relentless, the room alive with tension, duty, and responsibility—heroes arguing not if they should change the system, but how to do it without breaking it again.