Shota Aizawa (Dragon rider)

You landed heavily in front of your den, the ground trembling beneath your claws. The familiar scent of warm stone and the soft, dry moss of your nest should have been a comfort. But something was wrong. A cold, hollow feeling settled in your chest. You nudged the eggs gently with your snout, counting. One... two...

Where was the third?

A low, rumbling growl started deep in your throat, building into a roar of pure, unadulterated fury that ripped through the forest clearing. It was a sound of shattered bonds and stolen promise, a primal alarm that shook the leaves from the trees. My egg. Someone has taken my egg.

Miles away, in the quiet hum of U.A. High’s teacher’s lounge, Aizawa Shota jerked upright from his sleeping bag, his coffee mug slipping from his hand to shatter on the floor.

“What... oh, no,” he muttered, his blood running cold. He knew that roar. It wasn’t just anger; it was heartbreak, laced with a threat of imminent, indiscriminate destruction. “She’s angry.”

Without another word to his stunned colleagues, he was a blur of capture weapon and frantic motion, vaulting over a desk and bolting for the door.

“Sensei?!” Midoriya yelped, peering into the now-empty lounge from the hallway where Class 1-A had been passing by.

“What’s wrong with him?” Uraraka asked, eyes wide.

“He said... a dragon?” Iida chopped his hand through the air, utterly perplexed. “That is illogical! There must be a villain attack!”

Curiosity and concern overriding protocol, the class exchanged a single, unified glance before pouring out of the building after their teacher. They found him already on his personal motorcycle, the engine snarling to life.

“Stay here!” Aizawa commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. But the fear underneath it was something they’d never heard before. “I have to calm my dragon down before she does something... before she burns the entire forest down looking for it.”

He peeled away, leaving a cloud of dust and twenty utterly gobsmacked teenagers in his wake.

“DRAGON!!?” the class shouted in unison, their voices a chorus of disbelief.

“Did he just say ‘my dragon’?” Kaminari whispered, his jaw slack.

“There’s no time for questions!” Momo Yaoyorozu declared, already creating a set of keys. “If Aizawa-sensei is that worried, he needs backup! Even if it’s... dragon-related!”

As they scrambled into a school van, their minds raced. Their perpetually tired, pragmatic homeroom teacher... had a dragon? And it was on a rampage? The surreal reality of it crashed over them, but their training kicked in. Whatever was happening, their teacher was heading into danger alone. They wouldn’t let him face a furious dragon, or the thief who had provoked it, by himself.

You landed heavily in front of your den, the ground trembling beneath your claws. The familiar scent of sun-warmed stone and the soft, dry moss of your nest should have been a comfort. But something was wrong. A cold, sharp instinct prickled along your spine.

You lowered your great head, snuffling carefully at the carefully arranged circle of your eggs. One. Two.

There should be three.

A low, guttural rumble started deep in your chest, building into a thunderous roar of pure, unadulterated fury. The sound ripped through the peaceful afternoon, shaking leaves from the trees and echoing off the distant mountains. It was a sound of violation, of loss, of a promise broken. You knew he would hear it. He had to.

Miles away, in the quiet of U.A. High’s teacher’s lounge, Shota Aizawa jerked upright from his sleeping bag, his coffee mug slipping from his hand to shatter on the floor.

“What... oh... no.” His blood ran cold. The echo of that roar in his mind was unmistakable. “She’s angry.”

Without a word of explanation to the startled colleagues around him, he was on his feet and moving, his capture scarf already unwinding. He burst out of the building at a dead sprint, his usual lethargy burned away by adrenaline.

Behind him, Class 1-A, who had been heading for training grounds, skidded to a halt.

“What’s with Mr. Aizawa?” Kirishima gaped.

“He looked... panicked,” Momo observed, a rare note of uncertainty in her voice.

“Something’s wrong,” Midoriya muttered, already analyzing the teacher’s unprecedented speed.

A collective, impulsive decision passed between them without words. They exchanged a glance and took off after their teacher, a stream of colorful costumes chasing the fleeing black blur.

Aizawa ran faster than any of his students had ever seen, his mind racing faster than his feet. The eggs. It has to be the eggs. He pictured her—the great, sapphire-scaled dragon he had formed a fragile, respectful bond with over years of careful, quiet visits. She was intelligent, proud, and fiercely protective.

“I have to calm her down,” he breathed, the wind whipping past his ears, “before she does something... before she decides the whole forest is a threat.”

The word finally registered with the chasing students.

“DRAGON?!” The shout was a chorus of disbelief and shock, voices cracking in unison. Their sprint became a frantic scramble, a dozen questions dying on their lips as they pushed themselves to keep up, driven now by fear and a dawning, terrifying curiosity.

What had made their unflappable teacher so afraid? And what, exactly, were they running toward?

The sun was setting over the lush, wooded valley, casting long shadows from the towering pines. You, a magnificent emerald-scaled dragon, landed with a soft thump before the entrance of your cliffside den, the familiar scent of warm stone and dry herbs welcoming you home. You nudged your way inside, your large body moving with practiced care towards the nesting hollow at the rear.

A deep, rumbling purr of contentment began in your chest, ready to greet your clutch. But it died instantly.

The nest of soft moss and woven branches was there. Two of the large, opalescent eggs, each the size of a boulder, gleamed softly in the dim light, their surfaces shimmering with hints of gold and deep green. But the third... the third was gone. Only a faint, cooler indentation in the bedding remained where it had been.

A cold, sharp dread pierced your heart, followed immediately by a volcanic surge of primal rage. Your head snapped up, nostrils flaring, drawing in the scents of the den. Your own scent, the earthy smell of the eggs... and a faint, lingering trace of ozone and human. Aizawa.

A roar tore from your throat, a sound of such profound betrayal and fury that it shook the very foundations of the cliff. Trees trembled, birds erupted from the canopy for miles, and the sound waves rolled down the mountain like tangible thunder.

Miles away, in the quiet of U.A. High’s teacher’s lounge, Shota Aizawa was halfway through a sip of terrible coffee. The cup shattered in his hand as the distant, but unmistakable, roar reached his ears. The liquid soaked into his capture weapon, but he didn’t notice. His blood ran cold.

“What... oh, no,” he muttered, his usually tired eyes widening in alarm. “She’s angry.”

Without another word to the confused colleague across from him, he was a blur of motion, vaulting over the couch and sprinting out the door, his boots pounding down the hallway.

He burst into Classroom 1-A, where the students were in the middle of post-heroics theory discussions. “Out of my way!” he barked, not breaking his stride as he shot past the podium and out the room’s rear exit that led to the training grounds.

A stunned silence held for a split second.

“Did... did Mr. Aizawa just run?” Kirishima asked, pointing a shaky finger.

“He looked terrified,” Uraraka whispered, her face pale.

“A logical course of action is investigation,” Iida declared, already chopping his hand towards the door. “Something is clearly wrong! We must ensure our teacher does not require assistance!”

A chorus of agreement rose, and as one, the class of twenty surged after their teacher, a chaotic stampede of curious and concerned hero students.

Aizawa was already a speck in the distance, using his capture scarf to swing and propel himself across the grounds with desperate speed towards the forested border. “Fool, fool, fool,” he cursed under his breath, the wind whipping past his face. “I just moved it for safekeeping. I didn’t think she’d be back so soon. I have to calm my dragon down before she does something... drastic.”

The class, using their various Quirks to keep up—Iida’s engines, Bakugo’s explosions for short bursts, Yaoyorozu creating a scooter—finally caught up to him at the edge of the forest. They were panting, confused by the frantic, cross-country sprint.

“Mr. Aizawa!” Midoriya called out. “What’s happening? What was that sound?”

Aizawa didn’t slow, his eyes fixed on the mountain ahead. “A problem. My problem. Go back to the dorms.”

“But sir—” Momo began.

He cut her off, his voice strained but deadly serious. “I’m not asking. I have to get to my dragon. Now.”

The word hung in the air.

“DRAGON!!?”

The collective shout from Class 1-A was a perfect harmony of disbelief, terror, and awe. Their eyes bulged, looking from their normally lethargic, pragmatic teacher to the ominous mountain where another, closer, guttural roar of fury echoed through the twilight. Aizawa was already disappearing into the treeline, leaving his students with the world-altering revelation and the echoing, earth-shaking anger of a creature straight out of a myth.