Riding the swaying train, Kirishima considered his destination for the day.
In preparing for this journey, he had made one thing his top priority: visiting only authentic martial arts dojos.
Even in his previous life, countless impostors ran fake martial arts schools, exploiting people’s fantasies for profit.
Indian traditional martial arts, ninjutsu, and the like – they were exactly the kinds of institutions he despised.
In a world where genuine martial arts were already fading, finding a dojo was a challenge in itself; discerning the true masters from the frauds was an even steeper hurdle.
He had meticulously sought out dojos with video evidence of legitimacy and weeded out the absurd ones along the way. The result of that painstaking process was this training journey.
Even so, Kirishima steeled himself for the likelihood that more than half of the dojos he visited would be dead ends.
“Please stop. If you don’t let go right now, I won’t just stand by,” he threatened.
“Oh my. How frightening. And what exactly do you plan to do if I let go?” retorted the man.
As Kirishima quietly reviewed his travel plans, a small voice reached his ears.
He turned to see a suited woman being accosted by a man whose arm was draped casually over her shoulder as he spoke to her.
Irritated by the interruption, Kirishima gripped the man’s arm tightly and growled,
“Sir, when you’re riding the train, conduct yourself properly. You’re old enough to know you shouldn’t harass people. Although, I can’t guarantee you’ll be allowed on trains again after this.”
“Ah—thank you,” the man mumbled.
The woman, despite just having been harassed, expressed her gratitude in a calm voice.
Her cool, composed demeanor made her a striking beauty.
Kirishima, whose grip was strong enough to break a wrist if fully applied, held back just enough to avoid causing real harm, yet the harasser still winced in severe pain.
Glancing at the man’s twisted expression, Kirishima said to the woman, “Could you call a conductor for me? My hands are a bit occupied.”
“Of course,” she replied.
Soon enough, a conductor arrived, and the man was led away, destined to be handed over to the police at the next station.
“No matter where you go, there are always people like him. Perhaps incidents like this are even more rampant on the subway without any Heroes around,” she remarked.
“Thank you for saving me. My name is Sumire Nagare,” she said gratefully.
“Oh? I just did what anyone should do. I’m Eijiro Kirishima,” he replied casually.
Before he knew it, he had exchanged names with the woman—a pleasantly bewildered Sumire.
She mentioned that she worked for a small newspaper and was returning from a reporting assignment in Chiba.
While she had been mulling over whether to use her Quirk to fight back, she expressed relief that Kirishima had intervened; as she looked at him, her eyes shone—not with romantic longing, but with the keen glint of a reporter spotting a story.
By the time he had answered her myriad questions, they had reached his station.
“Take care, Kirishima. I hope your journey goes well. And thank you once again for your help today.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll be off now. Please take care on your way, Sumire,” he replied.
Stepping out through the automatic doors, Kirishima shook his head in mild bemusement.
They hadn’t exactly started off on a friendly note, yet somehow they ended up on a first-name basis—even exchanging phone numbers. It was a strange feeling.
Maybe it’s because she’s a reporter?
Since it was still before rush hour, the station was relatively quiet as Kirishima left and headed for a café.
“Let’s see… Mayflower, Mayflower. Ah, here it is,” he murmured as he found the café where he was to meet a man known by the nickname Tailman.
He walked in immediately. With about thirty minutes remaining before the appointment, he planned to sit down, sip a coffee, and wait.
Hmm. And what about Tailman? Does he really have a tail, or is it just a fascination?
He had been watching a video of himself shadowboxing, recorded with his high-performance camcorder, when that peculiar thought suddenly struck him.
He tilted his head in puzzlement at the question but soon refocused on the video.
After all, he would have plenty of time to ask when they met.
After about five minutes, the shop door swung open and a man entered.
Seeing him, Kirishima grinned.
‘No need to ask after all,’ he thought.
The man sported a thick, long tail.
Taking care not to be too loud, Kirishima raised one hand and called out,
“Hey, Tailman! Over here!”
“You’re the Champion? And could you please not call me Tailman? It sounds odd... Why do you call me that?”
At Kirishima’s playful, almost boyish tone—a tone that belied his growing maturity—Tailman narrowed his eyes slightly.
They had already confirmed online that they were peers and had become on a first-name basis, so their conversation flowed naturally, as if they had known each other for years.
“Then, from now on, I’ll call you Tailman properly. Pleasure to meet you. This is our first time face-to-face, right? I’m Eijiro Kirishima—and yes, ‘Champion’ is my nickname.”
“I certainly hope so. I’m Mashirao Ojiro. I’m not late, though I did arrive a bit earlier than expected,” he replied.
“I’m rather strict about punctuality. I took the train to make sure I arrived with time to spare, and then I passed the rest of the time watching this video,” Kirishima explained while shaking his phone.
Ojiro had initially wondered if it was a movie or something similar, but upon seeing Kirishima on the screen, he was noticeably impressed.
“Is that really you? You’re even more impressive than I had guessed. My first impression was that you were huge, and the scar on your forehead caught me off guard. You really do seem like the type who’d travel during summer break just to study martial arts,” Ojiro commented.
“This is nothing out of the ordinary,” Kirishima replied. “By the way, do you want to order something, or should we head out immediately?”
“Let’s leave right away. I’m not even thirsty—no need to waste money,” Ojiro said.
“Really? Then I should probably pick up a gift for you on the way. What does your mother like? More importantly, is it alright for me to stay at your place? Even though we’ve only met online, won’t your family worry if I suddenly show up? I can always stay in a hostel if it’s a burden, so just say the word.”
“It’s fine. We’ve known each other for six years now—and you’ve even spoken with my mother on the phone. Besides, she mentioned that she was looking forward to meeting the real you rather than just your picture,” Ojiro replied.
“Hmm, your mother is pretty bold—and it sounds like you’re a son she truly trusts,” Kirishima observed, admiring silently how extraordinary Ojiro’s mother was for permitting things he himself would have fiercely opposed.
“Stop being so shy, and forget about the gift. You’re only staying a few days, so there’s no need for such formalities,” Ojiro teased.
“Maybe you don’t understand, but since I’m staying for several days, I ought to bring something to make a good first impression,” Kirishima insisted.
“Honestly—if you’re going to buy something, let’s just get some juice. Your mother likes orange juice,” Ojiro suggested.
“Roger that. Let’s go,” Kirishima agreed.
With that, Kirishima left the café, followed Ojiro to a nearby supermarket, and bought a case of orange juice.
Then he trailed after Ojiro to his home.
Ojiro’s house was a modest two-story home.
Surveying the place, Kirishima remarked, “Hmm, nice house. I prefer a cozy place like this over a huge mansion any day.”
“I suppose I’d like a mansion if I could manage it,” Ojiro replied.
“Maybe from the outside they do look impressive, but living in one isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Wait—do you live in a mansion? So you’re secretly from a wealthy family?”
“Huh? No—I live in a house much like yours. Mansions are just relics from some distant, otherworldly past.”
“What are you even saying… You’re quite the eccentric, aren’t you? I’ve known you ever since you got so passionate about martial arts.”
“Me? I’m just an ordinary teenager,” Kirishima protested.
“Even you know that sounds a bit odd coming from you. Come on, let’s get inside already,” Ojiro urged.
Embracing the quirky banter reminiscent of his former life, Kirishima clicked his tongue and followed Ojiro into the house.
“Mom! I’m home,” Ojiro called out as they entered.
“You’re here? And did you bring your friend?” his mother inquired.
“Good to meet you. I’m Eijiro Kirishima. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he said.
Emerging from inside, Ojiro’s mother displayed a tail similar to her son’s – though noticeably thinner and shorter – and her features bore a striking resemblance to his.
She carried a more delicate, refined version of Ojiro’s charm, leaving no doubt whose mother she was. Kirishima greeted her warmly, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Oh my, we’ve only ever spoken over the internet, and meeting face-to-face is quite something. You’re even more elegant and attractive than I expected. Our Mashirao has been fretting about his lack of growth, but you seem completely immune to such worries,” he joked.
“Haha. Ojiro will grow soon enough. And even if he doesn’t, he’ll manage just fine,” she replied with a light laugh.
“Did you hear that, Mashirao? Enough with the whining about your height—that was Kirishima, by the way,” she quipped.
“Mother, that’s not what he meant…” Ojiro protested.
“Anyway, since we have a guest tonight, I prepared sukiyaki as a special treat. Look forward to it,” she announced.
“Oh, that sounds delicious. It’s been ages since I had sukiyaki,” Kirishima said eagerly.
“We’ll see about the taste at dinner. For now, let’s go to my room,” Ojiro interjected, cutting the conversation short before it could drag on.
Upstairs, Ojiro led Kirishima to his room on the second floor.
When the door opened to reveal a modest room, Kirishima murmured appreciatively, “Oh. This is more ordinary than I expected. I thought there’d be martial arts gear everywhere.”
Aside from a training uniform hanging on the wall, the room contained no overt martial arts memorabilia.
There was a reasonably sized bed, a desk with a laptop, and a wardrobe tucked in one corner – every detail of the room was strikingly normal.
At the remark about its ordinariness, Ojiro’s tail drooped momentarily, though he quickly added, “Well... most of the martial arts equipment I need is at the dojo anyway.”
“I see. So what do you usually do at home?” Kirishima asked.
“I browse the internet, watch martial arts videos, or study—whatever keeps me occupied,” Ojiro replied.
“Don’t you record yourself and analyze the footage?”
“Huh? The instructor already reviews my form at the dojo. Is it really necessary to go that far?”
“It’s not that. I haven’t met your master yet, so I can’t say for certain—but even the best teachers are human. They can’t possibly remember every detail of your posture and offer precise corrections every time,” Kirishima reasoned.
“I suppose you’re right,” Ojiro conceded.
Listening to Ojiro speak so passionately about martial arts, Kirishima sighed.
This world had one undeniable flaw.
Everyone agreed that if one wanted to be a Hero, raw combat power was essential—but the training methods were archaic.
Frankly, compared to his previous life, it all seemed thirty or even forty years behind.
In his earlier days, serious athletes no longer relied solely on a single instructor; elite competitors assembled teams of specialists who shared insights and devised comprehensive training strategies.
They even employed video equipment to meticulously compare yesterday’s routine with today’s, striving to perfect their form and avoid injuries.
But here, one had to figure out how to get stronger on their own—and even how to put that strength to use without much guidance.
Kirishima still hadn’t entered U.A., so he didn’t know exactly how Japan’s top educational institution operated, but the overall state of things left him utterly perplexed.
“Once I retire, maybe I’ll teach kids, set up a coaching team, and even open my own academy. It could be very lucrative,” he mused.
Perhaps, in the end, making money might even surpass what he earned as a Hero.
“Just give it a try first. Once you see how beneficial it is, you’ll be bowing in gratitude,” he advised.
“If you’re so sure, I’ll give it a shot,” Ojiro agreed.
“Better equipment is always welcome, of course, but there’s no need to start with something expensive. Even a phone will do for now—and that won’t be half bad.”
“Understood. I’ll do it—so can we stop talking now?”
“Very well. I trust you, since you’re truly dedicated to martial arts.”
With that, Kirishima grinned broadly.
After that, they spent a while discussing Ojiro’s training and boxing—occasionally demonstrating poses as their conversation veered into the realm of martial arts theory.
They would learn everything eventually, but when martial arts enthusiasts gathered, the conversation never seemed to run dry.
Before long, their dialogue carried them into the evening.
Kirishima descended with Ojiro, greeted his father, and shared dinner with the family.
The sukiyaki—tasted after far too long—was absolutely delicious.
After dinner, following a quick wash-up and some more conversation with Ojiro, Kirishima lay down in the guest room and reflected that, judging by the good people he had met right from the start, his training journey was off to a promising beginning.
And thus, the first night of the journey came to an end.
Man like Ryu on his training journey