Mashirao Ojiro trembled, as if lightning were coursing down his spine.
"That’s the peak of the next generation," he thought.
The moment he witnessed Kirishima’s strike, Ojiro knew in his heart—there was no way he could beat that.
Though the world was vast, he couldn’t imagine anyone his age who might defeat that guy.
"Good. Lower your stance a bit more! And don’t think of your guard like a boxing guard—imagine your lead hand deflecting every incoming attack like a wall," Ooyama instructed.
"Like parrying or stopping?" Kirishima asked.
"The idea is similar, though the details differ," Ooyama replied.
"I see," Kirishima answered.
As Ooyama taught the stance before moving on to specific techniques and Kirishima peppered him with questions during his kata, Ojiro felt a rising swirl of emotions. Jealousy, self-loathing, despair, anger, and embarrassment churned within him like boiling water.
Kirishima was a genuinely good guy—one of the few his age with shared interests in these challenging times, and his personality was unblemished by arrogance. From their very first meeting, he had been friendly, and even when visiting Ojiro’s home he showed nothing but respect toward his parents.
Yet the more Ojiro found himself nursing these bitter feelings toward Kirishima, the more he felt both pathetic and contemptible.
Ojiro’s punching arm and the rest of his body trembled, mirroring his unsettled heart. Even his tail drooped.
"That kid... he’s shaken," he thought.
Ooyama, glancing at Kirishima’s steady posture, noticed Ojiro’s wavering and instantly read his inner turmoil. He wasn’t surprised—if he had witnessed that strike in his own youth, before his spirit had grown resolute, he, too, would have despaired. Perhaps he would have abandoned martial arts altogether that very day. Back then, he had practiced simply out of habit, without a steadfast conviction.
Ooyama realized that only someone who had faced countless failures and learned to let go could accept what Kirishima had shown him. In contrast, Ojiro, as far as anyone knew, had never truly experienced failure. The boy was always diligent, smart, and athletically gifted; martial arts came naturally to him. His Quirk might have been a little ambiguous, but no one would call it weak. And now, for the first time, he was facing a mountain among his peers—a mountain so insurmountable it defied even his imagination.
"Hang in there, Ojiro. You can do it," Ooyama silently encouraged, before turning his focus back to teaching Kirishima.
Having known Kirishima for eight long years, Ooyama was confident that even if Ojiro’s resolve wavered, his intrinsically upright nature would never truly crumble. For now, though, his attention belonged solely to the genius before him.
What Ooyama had observed while teaching was extraordinary: Kirishima wasn’t just a typical prodigy. While most geniuses absorbed new techniques at breakneck speed, this boy went further—persistently reflecting, comparing, and transforming every lesson into something uniquely his own.
"No, maybe this is what a real genius looks like. I haven’t met many true geniuses before," Ooyama mused.
Glancing at his clock, he realized an hour had already slipped by. In that time, he came to understand an old saying: one of the noble man’s greatest joys is to recognize and teach a gifted youth.
"All right. Let’s take a short break," he announced.
"Yes, sir," replied Kirishima, and a hesitant "Yes..." came from Ojiro.
Walking over to Ojiro with a grin, Kirishima observed his friend’s lowered tail and sullen expression—and it was clear exactly what he was thinking.
"Hey," Kirishima called.
"Huh? What’s up?" Ojiro replied.
"You jealous?"
Ojiro’s face fell, as if he had just been struck. Of course he was—how was he supposed to respond after witnessing such brilliance just moments earlier?
"Yeah," Ojiro mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.
His chest felt tight at the sight of the cheerful face he had shared laughs with only that morning.
"I wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. I mean, it would be odd to go around bragging about myself, right?" Kirishima teased.
"Yeah," Ojiro agreed softly.
Suppressing the urge to comment that Kirishima had already shown him enough yesterday and today, Ojiro thought how preposterous it would be to explain everything in advance when it would all become clear eventually. There was no way this kind-hearted guy had acted out of malice—or even improperly.
"You little—getting sulky over such a thing makes me sad. How long do you think it took me to perfect that one-two?" Kirishima chided gently.
"How would I know?" Ojiro retorted with a small laugh.
"Fourteen years. I trained every single day from my first day. For about three of those years, I did nothing but that one-two ten thousand times a day, giving my all with every rep."
Only then did Ojiro begin to understand, even a little, how such an almost superhuman strike had come to be. Martial arts appealed to him too, yet the notion of drilling a single technique ten thousand times daily was daunting—and utterly horrifying.
Like a pressure release, the overwhelming turmoil in his stomach began to settle. It wasn’t merely the product of dazzling talent; it was the result of grueling, blood-spitting effort with every single step.
Somehow, that made sense.
"Besides, you’ve only been training for eight years. Think of it this way: while one guy’s busy as a pro hero taking down villains, the other might still be in diapers," Kirishima joked.
"I wasn’t in diapers," Ojiro replied with a slight chuckle.
"What kind of name is that? It’s not even your own technique if you’re just slapping on a name like that. It sounds so odd..."
"Then work hard, succeed, and come up with a cool name of your own," Kirishima encouraged with a warm smile.
"Fine. When the time comes, I’ll name it something worthy of a real finishing move," Ojiro vowed.
Kirishima didn’t point out that the one-two wasn’t actually a finishing move—he wouldn’t want to dash the spark of determination the boy had just rekindled.
Seeing them banter lightly, Ooyama exhaled a sigh of relief. He had been worried that Ojiro’s discouragement might linger for too long, but it was clear Kirishima had cheered him up.
With a fond glance at the two, Ooyama’s booming voice rang out to signal the end of their break.
"All right! Break’s over! Kirishima, practice the movement sequence that flows from the three-legged stance into the cat stance. Ojiro, it’s time for a sparring session with me after a long while."
The training resumed with renewed energy and a thunderous roar, filling the dojo with a sense of exhilaration. Time slipped by quickly until hunger beckoned, and soon the three wrapped up their session for a meal.
The dojo door swung open as a girl, about ten years old, stepped inside. With short hair and one side neatly braided, she was undeniably cute.
"Dad, I’m home! Wait—there’s someone here besides Ojiro? Are you training with a new trainee?" she asked brightly, her eyes lighting up as she approached Kirishima.
Usually, first impressions of Kirishima—given his tall frame and the scars on his forehead and chin—tended to unsettle newcomers. Yet his handsome features rarely caused anyone to shy away. This time, however, the child barreled up to him without hesitation, chattering cheerfully.
"You don’t have a gi yet? How many months did you sign up for? Oh—are you just here as a guest today?" she quipped.
"Well, I’m training under the master for now," Kirishima explained.
"Aha! Smart thinking! At home, Dad might be a bit shy, but he’s spent forty-five years walking the straight path of martial arts. He’ll teach you well," she said enthusiastically.
A brief cough interrupted as Kirishima added, "Ahem. Yui, this young man isn’t an official trainee—he’ll only be here for about a week."
"Huh? Why?" the girl asked, her eyes widening with sudden disappointment. Kirishima smiled reassuringly as he explained, "My home is in Chiba, and since I’m on a training journey during the summer break, I can’t stay in one place very long."
"Oh… I thought it’d be great! I was looking forward to helping out around the house and seeing a handsome big brother again," she lamented.
"You never even called me handsome before," Kirishima teased lightly.
"Well, Ojiro is just ordinary, isn’t he?" she replied, eliciting a brief frown from Ojiro as his chin drooped at the remark.
Kirishima found the scene amusing, his mind drifting to memories of when Ashido was little—back when everything was cute, though now it sometimes felt a bit overwhelming.
"We’ve already exchanged introductions, but I should do it properly. This is Ooyama Yui, my daughter," Kirishima announced cheerfully.
"Hello! I’m Yui! I’m twelve, and as you can see, I’m the master’s daughter. Please, just call me Yui," she said brightly.
"Sure. Hello. I’m Kirishima Eijiro, and I’m Ojiro’s friend—feel free to call me by my first name," he replied.
"Okay! I’ll call you Eiji-nii," she chirped.
Her infectious smile spread warmth through the dojo, and soon the four of them headed to a Chinese restaurant where ramen, mapo tofu, and dumplings filled their stomachs and lifted their spirits.
In the afternoon, Yui even joined in on their training. Though still young, she displayed remarkably solid fundamentals, hinting at a future as a fine martial artist.
After training together until three o’clock and finishing with cool-down exercises, Kirishima took a shower and changed. Emerging from the bath, he was met by Ooyama.
"You said you’d stay at Ojiro’s, right? How about staying at my place while you’re in Tokyo? If that feels too much, you can always sleep at the dojo," Ooyama offered.
"I appreciate the offer, but that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? We just met today," Kirishima replied, a hint of hesitation in his tone.
"I’m saying this because you’ve got a great personality! If you were some spoiled punk, I wouldn’t have offered a thing," Ooyama said with a hearty laugh.
Kirishima scratched his chin thoughtfully. Truth be told, spending the night at the dojo felt more comfortable than crashing at Ojiro’s house.
"Hmm. What do you think?" Ooyama asked.
"Honestly, your opinion matters more. I enjoy hanging out with you, but spending even a little time with the master means learning more. Do as you please—I’m not saying this because I’m uncomfortable," Ojiro added, his smile masking the underlying seriousness.
After a moment’s thought, Yui jumped in. "Big brother, come stay at our place! I’ll cook something delicious and even do your laundry!"
"No, kid. I’d be the one imposing on your family. And besides, why are you so excited?" Kirishima asked with gentle reproach.
"Because the house is big, but it gets boring spending all your time with just Dad. It’s been ages since we had anyone else at home!" Yui exclaimed.
"Was I really that boring as a dad...?" mumbled Ojiro, clearly disheartened by her words.
Ignoring Ooyama’s slightly dejected look in response to his daughter’s outburst, Kirishima paused, lost in thought as Yui’s bright, determined eyes seemed to pierce right through him.
Finally, with a resigned smile, he conceded, "All right. I’ll be in your care for a little while. Thank you, Master, and thank you too, Yui."
"Great! It’s been ages since we had a guest!" Ooyama cheered.
"Hehe. Yay! A handsome big brother is coming!" Yui added.
"Ditching your friend after one day?" teased someone, prompting a chorus of reactions.
Kirishima grinned at the varied responses. Ojiro’s face, though saying “it’s fine,” still betrayed a hint of disappointment. For Kirishima, staying at someone else’s house was hardly a big deal—he had enjoyed his time with Ojiro, but the thought of spending time with Yui’s infectious spirit was irresistible.
"Then I’ll head back to Ojiro’s, pack up, and come right back," he declared.
"All right. I’ll be waiting, so hurry back," Ojiro replied.
Accompanied by Ojiro, Kirishima promptly returned home. Though Ojiro’s mother expressed some regret at the thought of her son leaving, she sent him off with warm encouragement.
After tucking his belongings into a large duffel bag and leaving Ojiro’s house, Kirishima set off toward the dojo. As he strolled along at a relaxed pace, a loud jeer reached his ears, and he stopped to listen.
"You can’t be a hero with that Quirk!"
"Yeah! Your Quirk isn’t even anything special!"
"Or are you going to use that fancy martial arts to be a hero? My mom says martial arts are outdated anyway!"
Curious, Kirishima turned his head, drawn by the high-pitched voices. There, amidst a cluster of children who appeared to be his age, Yui stood holding a black bag.
"Hmm. Are they picking on her?" he wondered, his expression firm as he surveyed the scene.
Though he had only just met the spirited girl that day, her unabashed approach and cheerful demeanor had already won him over; if she were in trouble, he’d be the first to help. Yet he knew that in the complex world of children’s cliques, a single intervention often meant little.
"My Quirk just gives me slightly longer arms—not something extraordinary. But mark my words, I’m going to be a hero. And don’t you dare look down on martial arts! My dad has safeguarded it with all his heart!"
Though Yui began speaking calmly, as she grew more animated her voice rose to a shout, leaving no doubt about her conviction. Watching her stand up for herself amidst jeers and insults from her peers filled Kirishima with a deep sense of pride. He had always admired people with true conviction and pride, and seeing a child like Yui display such spirit was nothing short of inspiring.
"That’s a great line!" he bellowed.
His resonant voice echoed around them, capturing the attention of all the nearby children. Looking at Yui, whose eyes had widened in surprise, Kirishima grinned broadly, feeling as though the world had just grown a little brighter.
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