There was a training area inside the mansion.
Kirishima felt a familiar comfort at the sight of sandbags, shin guards, and hand wraps hanging everywhere.
Even when he had been studying karate in Tokyo, it had been a welcome experience in its own right, though that setup was a world apart from a boxing gym.
A Muay Thai training space, on the other hand, bore a much closer resemblance to one.
It was a shame there weren’t any speed bags or similar equipment.
Samat turned to Kirishima and said, "All right, show me what you've got. If you’re truly confident, you won’t embarrass yourself by flailing your hands and feet."
"Haha. Don’t be too surprised," came the reply.
Kirishima began to loosen up.
Samat observed intently as Kirishima methodically warmed his entire body and began stretching with meticulous care.
"At least he’s got the basics down. The technical side I'll judge for myself—self-taught, after all," Samat thought silently.
While Samat silently scrutinized him, Kirishima finished his stretching.
Then, with a calm, steady gaze, he assumed his stance.
Closing his eyes for a moment to focus, he sprang into action.
Both feet pushed off the ground in a rhythmic, almost dance-like cadence.
The power rising from his lower body surged upward through his waist, moving smoothly yet with steely determination.
His punches, launched from his shoulders, synchronized perfectly with his footwork.
The entire sequence of movements transcended sound, unfolding like fragmented frames in a low-frame-rate film.
"What the hell is this kid doing? Has he deceived me?"
Samat was dumbfounded by Kirishima’s display.
He maintained a stern expression, though inside he nearly wanted to scream.
The sight before him was utterly baffling.
Martial arts cannot be mastered in isolation.
Without guidance, one cannot learn the proper stance, and all too easily, one’s technique can fall to shambles.
Not having anyone to correct your mistakes is a trap far more dangerous than it appears.
Believing that a wrong approach is right will leave you more exhausted in the end than not trying at all.
Samat assumed that Kirishima’s methods were no exception.
He had expected only an amateur burdened with a few bad habits.
Yet once the performance began, his expectations were utterly shattered.
"Stop. Were you lying to me?"
"Huh? I haven’t told any lies," replied Kirishima.
"Then what was that just now? You said you're self-taught. How else could you move like that? If you were merely an ordinary ex-pro, I might understand—but this is something else entirely."
Despite the rebuke, Kirishima understood Samat’s frustration.
Truthfully, even Kirishima was baffled.
The display before him was the kind of refined skill that could only come from years of grueling training under an exceptional master—even for someone of world-class talent.
Even that would have been an arduous feat.
If it were simply a matter of natural speed and strength, Samat wouldn’t have been so shaken.
After all, raw speed and power can be enhanced with a Quirk any time.
What truly mattered was technical precision.
Every technique Kirishima executed was at a master’s level.
In particular, his straight punches were nothing short of spine-tingling.
"No matter what you say, I truly taught myself. There isn’t even a boxing gym where I live. And it’s not as if some reclusive legend secretly trained me—do people like that even exist these days? I really learned it all on my own."
"You’re telling me you truly taught yourself? Without any help?"
"Yes. I mean, I haven’t met another boxer besides myself. I learned the fundamentals by watching instructional videos, mimicking them, and then filming myself to compare. For application, I studied old boxing matches."
"Is that for real? Hah!"
Samat let out a frustrated sigh.
Observing a master shadowbox, one can almost discern the imagined opponent.
Having reached a level where few could outmatch him, Samat knew exactly what that meant.
Kirishima moved as though he were up against a world-class adversary.
If he were to be believed, it was likely modeled on one of the boxers from those videos.
But could mere observation truly bring forth such mastery?
The kid was nothing short of extraordinary.
Even before Quirks reshaped the world—when martial arts reigned as a colossal global enterprise—this boy could have claimed the title of the world’s best.
Although Muay Thai was his primary art, like many nak muay, he had also ventured briefly into boxing.
He had even managed to attain commendable results.
Even Samat could see that what the boy displayed was that of a champion—a great champion whose name would echo through history.
And to think he had accomplished it all by himself.
Is it truly possible for a fifteen-year-old to achieve this?
"Still, I put in an incredible amount of effort. I started training at the age of two, and I've lost count of how many times I replayed my recorded form to perfect it. I'm not exaggerating."
"No, kid. That doesn't make it possible."
"How’s that supposed to work?"
Samat’s feelings grew complicated as he watched Kirishima answer with a nonchalant indifference, as if he were deliberately playing dumb.
Samat, who was born and raised in Thailand, remembered that back in his day, Muay Thai was one of the few ways for a poor child to turn their fate around.
Numerous children had attempted it, many failed, yet most survived.
Thailand was a breeding ground for prodigious talent, and Samat had once been among its very best.
Even Samat considered this performance to be utterly anomalous.
He appeared as though he were the living incarnation of martial arts.
One might have thought a devil had bestowed upon him an otherworldly blessing at birth.
There was simply no other explanation.
"Heh, so that's how it is. 'How’s that supposed to work?'—you’ve rendered me speechless. I once answered a man who asked how to become strong, much like you did. I explained as best as I could, yet he still didn’t understand. And now, you've left me equally dumbfounded."
"Oh, I'm sorry if that offended you."
"No need to apologize. I'm not upset. When I was in my prime, I might have been jealous or even angry, but now that I'm seventy-six—having lived through spring, summer, and autumn—I only feel astonishment and disbelief."
"That's a relief."
Samat let out a soft chuckle at Kirishima's words.
Then, with eyes blazing, he said, "This is getting interesting. I never cared about preserving martial arts the way others do. To me, it was merely a tool—something I honed out of necessity in a world overflowing with people who have Quirks. I learned it so I could live well and enjoy life. So I figured that if no one were left to carry it on, it might as well vanish. Isn’t that natural? Only what is useful and strong survives—martial arts, however, seldom do."
"I see. When you put it that way, it does sound persuasive. Still, I think our era relies too much on Quirks—so much so that even those whose abilities could benefit from martial arts don’t bother learning them."
"That’s true enough. I’m not here to debate what’s right or wrong—I simply don’t have time for that. The important thing is, I never intended to teach Muay Thai in the first place, but you've convinced me."
"I'm glad to hear that. I traveled all this way, and it would have been a real disappointment if I had come away empty-handed."
"It’s all thanks to your skill. Honestly, I never imagined a kid like you would be born in this era. If you have any sense at all, you’ll know that you’re beyond the ordinary—and I can’t wait to see what the world intends for someone like you."
He grinned.
For a man past seventy, he looked almost mischievous.
That smile carried an intense anticipation.
Kirishima returned the smile and replied, "Haha. Even if you say that, I'll live the way I want. Of course, I have no intention of doing anything evil."
"That goes without saying. People should live true to themselves. You taught yourself boxing because you wanted to, didn’t you? And needless to say, you have no reason to commit evil. At first glance, villains may seem to thrive, but in the long run, righteousness always stands tall."
"That's true."
Perhaps it was his age that made Samat speak in such winding terms, but Kirishima nodded in agreement.
Humanity, over the long haul, has always trended upward toward a better future.
Toward more peace, toward a higher ideal.
And yet, within the span of a single lifetime, the world remains awash with misfortune and tragedy.
He did not intend to ignore that reality and focus solely on dreamlike ideals—and Samat likely didn’t mean it any differently.
A man who had clawed his way through chaos would not be easily swayed by lofty ideals.
"Hmm. I seem to have gone off on a tangent again—old age, you know! Anyway, what I want to say is this: I’ve decided I want to teach you properly. So pay close attention and note well who your teacher is."
After saying that, Samat stepped up in front of the sandbag.
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.
Amid the quiet rhythm of his measured breaths, he opened his eyes and adopted his stance.
It resembled a boxing stance, but his lead foot pointed directly forward and his center of gravity was noticeably higher.
His feet were positioned closely together, and his hips faced squarely ahead.
That posture spoke clearly of his mastery in Muay Thai.
Even at an age when most would be contemplating life's final chapters, his stance was so impeccable that not a single opening could be found.
Kirishima watched Samat’s form, pondering what he might do if he were in his place.
With half-closed eyes fixed on the sandbag, Samat said in a measured tone, "Your punches were impressive. Honestly, they nearly knocked my eyes out of their sockets. I never imagined that a fifteen-year-old in this era could put on a display like that. You gave me a fine show, so now it’s my turn."
No sooner had he finished speaking than he launched into a kick.
His right hand swept upward diagonally as the right side of his torso rotated slightly to the left.
At the same time, the inside of his left foot planted firmly on the ground, facing forward.
As his right hand descended, his right foot forcefully pushed off the ground and sprang upward.
His previously contracted left side extended fully as his hips turned over.
In that fluid motion, his shin traced a beautiful diagonal arc, striking the sandbag like a flash of lightning.
The sandbag, having absorbed a nearly flawless kick, folded in with a resounding roar.
Even though it was a premium sandbag filled with sand only in its center and lower sections, it split deeply, spilling sand everywhere.
"Well? Not bad, right? This old man’s kick can still pack a punch."
Samat said this to Kirishima with a playful smirk.
Kirishima regarded him once again, now with a new appreciation for the man before him.
In his previous life—spanning eighteen years—and in this one another thirteen, a total of thirty-one years of relentless training had distilled into what many mistook for a simple one–two combo.
That technique, the very foundation of his boxing, was both his beginning and his end—nothing more than the basics, yet encompassing everything.
It was the culmination of an ever-escalating tower of fundamentals, built higher and higher until it seemed to touch the heavens.
Samat’s kick echoed that same perfection.
It was the very technique that nak muay relied on most during their bouts.
Unlike the flashy knees and elbows commonly associated with Muay Thai, this was the quintessence of the basics.
In essence, his kick was the perfect refinement of fundamental technique.
"Amazing," said Kirishima. "I’m truly astonished. That was a beautiful kick."
"Back in the day, I executed it as naturally as breathing. These days, though, old age makes it tougher—and the power has dropped considerably. Tsk."
Samat chuckled at Kirishima’s praise, feigning complaint.
Kirishima clenched his fists as he watched him.
This was the first true master Kirishima had encountered since arriving in this world.
He had been prepared to meet nothing but pretenders on his journey, and yet here he was—meeting someone extraordinary. He truly felt fortunate.
Once again, Kirishima thought that taking such a devoted trip during the crucial summer break of his third year of middle school had been entirely worth it.
Observing the exhilarated Kirishima, Samat straightened his creaking frame.
His body, no longer as young as it once was, now grew fatigued with even the slightest movement.
Yet he had deliberately demonstrated that kick as a token of thanks for the technique the young man had shown him.
On another level, it was his way of asserting that he was still alive and worthy of respect.
Fortunately, even after a long hiatus, the technique he had honed throughout his life landed flawlessly.
Relieved that he hadn’t lost face, Samat began contemplating how he would now teach Kirishima.
It was the moment when the legacy of an old man, whose era had passed, intersected with the dawn of a new one embodied by a young man.
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