The exam began.
First: written.
Genos, with his high-precision processors, finished in five minutes—with a perfect score.
Hero history, monster taxonomy, ethical dilemmas—water off a duck's back.
Saitama's room, in contrast, was silent.
He chewed his pen and glowered at the test.
"Q1: Describe your concept of heroism and its social importance. (20 pts)"
He thought hard, then wrote: "Defeat monsters."
"Q2: When a city faces a massive crisis, and your power risks collateral damage, how do you weigh the choice? Use cases. (30 pts)"
Saitama: "Uh… punch it away?"
He handed in a sheet mostly blank—save a few words and a doodle of a monster getting one-punched.
"Um… Mr. King," a proctor ventured, "this candidate seems… underprepared academically…"
"The strength of a hero should not be defined by paper and pen," Lin Mo said without blinking.
Not loud—but absolute.
Spines straightened. "Of course! Understood!"
Scores came out: an embarrassing single digit.
With King's earlier "note," the high-ups ignored it and moved straight to physicals.
Genos first.
He stepped onto the floor and drew every eye.
"Strength test: strike the meter."
He exhaled and drove a fist home.
Bang!
Numbers screamed upward, shattered every record, then the display died in a string of gibberish.
He proceeded to crush every longstanding Association mark.
Then Saitama's turn.
"Power test: full-force blow."
He approached a target rated to withstand S-Class strikes and flicked a casual punch.
KRA-KOOOM!
From the center outward, web cracks bloomed—and the "Dragon-proof" meter crumbled into scrap.
"N-next," the head proctor stammered, sweat beading. "Fifty-meter shuttle run."
"Okay." Saitama padded to the line and struck a lazy pose.
"Ready—go!"
Whoosh—gone.
Before the staff could blink—whoosh—back.
"Done," he said, dusting his hands.
The timers read: 0.00.
"How… how is this possible?" a senior sputtered, waving Saitama's file. "Physical scores: off the charts! Written: twenty-one—twenty given for neat handwriting!"
"Unprecedented! We've never seen an exam this extreme!"
Another senior added, "S-Class body, no doubt. But his mental evaluation…"
"And crucially—Mr. King personally brought him," a suited manager cut in.
At the name, the room fell still.
Exactly. That was the crux.
What rank do you give a newbie this strong and this close to the Strongest?
S-Class, straight away?
That breaks protocol. S-Class isn't just raw power; it's proven contribution and an indisputable record. You don't hand it out after internal tests.
C or B?
Make a man who liquefied our meter chase petty thieves? That insults him—and snubs King.
No one wanted King's wrath.
"I propose an exception." A thoughtful senior finally spoke. "Given his unparalleled physicals and Mr. King's implicit endorsement, we bypass C and B—assign him to A-Class."
Agreement was immediate.
Recognition for Saitama, respect for King, and a perfect middle path.
"As for rank—putting him straight at A-Rank 1 will anger others, especially Sweet Mask."
"Start at the bottom. A-Class churns fast. With his strength, he'll climb on merit. That'll shut mouths."
—
When Saitama and Genos were called to the hall, the results were announced.
"Examinee 72, Genos! Composite score: 99.5. Perfect marks in both segments!"
"In light of your performance and potential, the Association hereby appoints you to S-Class, Rank 17!"
Genos's face stayed neutral, but his golden eyes gleamed. One step closer to truth.
"And examinee 71, Saitama! Physical score… immeasurable. Written… passing. Composite: A-Class, Rank 39! Congratulations."
The hall erupted.
"What? Sensei… A-Class?" Genos snapped around, disbelief flashing to anger.
"Who set that score!? I'll burn him with his office!"
Heat shimmered off his palms; his core spiked.
"Whoa, calm down," Saitama said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. He didn't want to be wanted for assaulting Association brass on day one.
He didn't care about rank or clout. He took the hero license and flipped through it—more interested in one thing.
"Uh, excuse me—how much is the monthly salary for an A-Class hero?"
A brief blink—and the senior quoted a number that made Saitama's eyes sparkle.
Watching Saitama beam, Lin Mo smiled. Making him S-Class instantly was never realistic. The staff wouldn't allow it.
A-Class was the sweet spot—and would get him more exposure.
-------
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