Morning broke.
The darkness receded as the sun ascended over the horizon.
Kirishima woke early, as he always did.
Stepping out of his room, he almost bumped into Ojiro, who was emerging from his own.
"Oh? You're up. Sleep well?"
"Yeah. Maybe it was the comfortable bed, or perhaps it was that delicious dinner—I slept like a log."
"That's good to hear. I'm heading out for my morning exercise. Want to come along?"
"Sure, sounds great. Just give me a minute to change into something more comfortable."
After a brief return to his room, Kirishima reappeared, and the two of them left the house together.
The summer morning air—still cool before the sun fully warmed the day—felt refreshingly crisp.
While stretching to warm up, Kirishima said to Ojiro, "I don't know this area very well, so why don't we do your usual route today? I'll follow your lead."
"I just run a couple of laps around the village. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Alright. That sounds perfect."
After finishing their warm-up, the two began a leisurely jog through the village.
It was still early, and only a few people were about.
The few passersby all seemed to recognize Ojiro and greeted him warmly.
"Oh, Ojiro! Working out with a friend today?"
"Yes, indeed. Good morning, sir."
"Good morning to you!"
When an elderly neighbor, sweeping in front of his house, called out, Kirishima joined Ojiro in returning the greeting before remarking, "You really are popular—everyone we meet knows you."
"I've lived here all my life. People always liked me because I was the kid who both studied hard and excelled in sports. Honestly, I started martial arts and put in a lot of effort simply because adults kept telling me I had what it took to become a hero."
"Oh, so you're laying it on thick? Must be nice growing up in such a good environment."
"I'm just saying it as it is. What about you? Did you grow up in a rundown neighborhood? I heard your family had a perfectly decent home, too."
"Yeah, my family had it good as well."
Kirishima laughed as he replied, the painful memories of his impoverished early years no longer weighing on him.
Now that he thought about it, if this kid aspired to attend U.A., he must have been pretty bright to garner such praise from adults.
Before long, their easy conversation had taken them on two complete laps of the village.
Returning home, they stepped back inside.
"Kirishima, do you really not sweat? I'm feeling a bit warm, and you haven't even broken a drop of sweat."
"Yeah, something like that."
Finding it hardly worth distinguishing from simple breathing exercises, Kirishima merely agreed with a noncommittal nod.
After they took turns showering, Ojiro's parents greeted them warmly.
"Good morning. Did you both sleep well?"
"Good morning, ma'am. Thanks to you, I slept soundly."
"Good morning. I slept well, too."
After exchanging morning pleasantries, the two shared breakfast with the family before seeing off Ojiro's father, who was leaving for work.
Later, the two friends spent some time in Ojiro's room discussing the upcoming U.A. entrance exam.
Ojiro mostly grumbled about its difficulty, with Kirishima listening patiently.
Then, at 9:30 a.m.—thirty minutes before the dojo opened— they left the house.
Taking advantage of the quiet weekday morning was one of the perks of being a student on summer break.
"Being young has its benefits. Sure, school can be a time-sink when you're not on break, but this is one of those moments where you can really enjoy yourself."
The dojo was situated well away from the busy heart of town.
When Kirishima caught sight of the rather shabby building, he commented, "I can't believe you used to have the guts to come here as a kid. It looks like the sort of place where criminals might be hatching schemes."
"It might look rough on the outside, but once you step inside, it’s fully equipped. Come on, let's go in."
Arriving exactly five minutes before ten, the two opened the dojo door.
Inside stood a broad-shouldered middle-aged man.
Since it was a weekday morning, no one else was present.
"You're not late today—a diligent kid as always. Welcome, Ojiro."
"Good morning. You know, years ago you warned that if I got complacent, I'd start arriving late, but here you are still keeping track. Sometimes, even when I want to be late, I just can't."
"Exactly my point," he replied.
Turning to Kirishima, who was noticeably taller, the man continued, "So you must be the friend Ojiro mentioned from time to time. You've got a solid build—better than I expected. I'm Tadayoshi Ooyama, the head instructor here."
"Nice to meet you! I'm Kirishima Eijiro, Ojiro's friend. Please take good care of me!"
"Good. Now, both of you go change. Ojiro, take your friend to the changing room. Kirishima, since you likely don't have a gi, just put on something comfortable."
"Yes, sir!"
After changing in the locker room, the pair reemerged.
Ojiro was dressed in his formal gi, while Kirishima sported a sleeveless shirt with athletic pants.
Observing Kirishima as he stepped out, Ooyama let out a small, admiring exhale.
With his T-shirt gone, the contours of his physique were revealed—an ideal build for someone who had trained on his own.
It wasn’t raw, bulging muscle so much as compact, well-developed strength throughout his body: broad shoulders, a straight waist, and long, powerful legs.
"Before we move on, show me what you've got. I need to gauge your skill level so I can teach you properly."
"Yes. I'll demonstrate what I do best."
At Ooyama’s cue, Kirishima assumed a basic stance—both hands raised to about face level and his feet set diagonally at an appropriate distance, a textbook boxer's position.
*Hmm. Boxing? Nice, clean form,* he thought.
In that instant, Kirishima's one-two combo erupted.
The supersonic strikes split the air as if slicing through it.
A profound silence fell over the small dojo.
"That's the move I'm most confident in," he declared.
Ooyama Tadayoshi blinked, utterly astonished by what he had just witnessed.
The flawless strike he had spent his life pursuing had materialized before him—a center of gravity as immovable as a mountain, a step measured as precisely as the scales of justice, a torso and shoulders that unleashed power like the recoil of a cannon, and a fist that sliced through space with a soundless fury.
For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Ooyama felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.
*I intended to teach him a few techniques, but it looks like I'm the one who needs to learn. So there are still people like this in the world...* he mused.
When Ojiro first mentioned meeting an online friend fascinated by martial arts, Ooyama had found it odd yet refreshing. In an era where traditional martial arts were rapidly fading, encountering someone who still walked that path was a rare delight.
At the same time, he worried that this gifted boy might have nefarious intentions toward Ojiro. After all, there were many who ridiculed martial artists as outdated relics of the pre-Quirk era.
But learning that the boy was using his summer break to train reassured him—it meant he wasn’t one of those who toyed with the earnest efforts of anonymous practitioners.
Ooyama had also heard that, lacking a nearby dojo, the boy had been self-teaching through videos. Naturally, there would be gaps in his knowledge.
He had planned to impart everything he could, even if only briefly, yet now he realized that the boy—just as old as Ojiro—had already honed his technique to perfection with a single demonstration.
*I was nothing but a frog in a well compared to this,* Ooyama thought.
"You're the same age as Ojiro, right? So how many years of training do you have?"
Struggling to steady his racing heart, Ooyama asked carefully.
"I started training at two, so it's been about fourteen years."
"I see. Incredible."
Ooyama found himself reflecting on his own life. As a child, he had despised his father's insistence on training. While he respected his father as the head of the household, clinging to fading martial arts in a rapidly changing era struck him as foolish.
He had spent his youth dodging training, fleeing at every opportunity, only beginning to understand his father's point of view in his twenties—though even then, work and social life often provided convenient excuses to skip practice.
He despised the past version of himself who had abandoned training for every excuse imaginable, from a friend landing a job to an acquaintance needing cheering up, or even a coworker succeeding in an investment. Had he confronted martial arts with more sincerity, perhaps he could have come even a little closer to that breathtaking strike he so admired.
The thought stung—despite having nearly three times the years that the boy had, he could scarcely fathom mimicking that perfect blow.
Clearing his throat to steady his quavering voice, Ooyama asked, "Ahem. So, what brings you here? To be honest, you’re already a martial artist far stronger than I am. I'm not quite sure what I can possibly teach you."
"Not at all. I still have a lot to learn. What I just demonstrated is still far from where I want to be. Besides, all my training has been in boxing—I’m pretty clumsy when it comes to techniques beyond using my fists."
Activating [Hardening] and showing off his sharpened hand, Kirishima admitted, "I don’t quite know how to fully utilize this yet."
Ooyama felt his resolve weaken at the sight.
*We’re not cut from the same cloth...* he reflected.
Only then did he fully grasp the difference between himself and this remarkable boy. While his own focus had been solely on preserving the old ways of martial arts, the boy’s gaze reached toward something entirely different.
It was clear now what was truly needed to keep the spirit of martial arts alive: a transcendent formidable force, a figure elevated to star status through the art—someone everyone would revere.
And here, standing before him, was that very existence.
*A god of martial arts is about to be born. Or perhaps even a monster,* Ooyama thought.
At fifteen, bursting past ordinary human limits with dazzling talent, an ironclad physique, and an insatiable drive to improve, the boy embodied everything that defined true martial spirit. The sight of him executing such a flawless strike—and then still yearning to reach ever greater heights—sent a shiver down Ooyama's spine.
Ooyama could already envision the young warrior becoming either the incarnation of martial arts or a fearsome force altogether.
"Excellent! In that case, I'll teach you the basics of Kyokuhakushiki Karate—whatever I can," he declared.
"Yes, sir! I’ll work hard!"
Determined, Ooyama resolved to impart every scrap of knowledge he possessed to this young genius.
If even a small part of the techniques he passed down could aid a boy destined to etch his name in history, it would be the greatest reward of all.
Though they had only just met that day, Ojiro had mentioned on several occasions that the boy not only possessed rare talent but was also remarkably humble and considerate—a true candidate for a future hero.
Ooyama hoped that he would retain this gentle nature and use his achievements to help others.
Perhaps it was naive to think so, given Kirishima's fierce fighting spirit and stubborn streak.
Of course, he would never cause his parents any undue trouble.
Unaware of Ooyama's inner thoughts, Kirishima simply smiled at the prospect of learning a new technique.
*I've never really understood when or how to use [Hardening] properly, but I'll learn that here. This journey is off to a great start,* he mused.
Seeing Kirishima's smile, Ooyama broke into a hearty laugh.
Thus began the first step of their training—a shared journey born of two very different dreams.
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