After enjoying a sumptuous dinner and returning to the hotel, Kirishima spent a few moments playing with the girls before retreating to his room.
Relieved from the whirlwind of their chatter, he calmly reviewed his plans.
"Tomorrow... hmm. I probably don’t have to show up at the company. Sure, the guys are a bit odd, but they get the job done," he mused.
He briefly considered stopping by Tenma’s booth out of courtesy, then dismissed the idea. There was plenty of time ahead, and he’d already visited I-Island as soon as he arrived. No need for consecutive drop-ins.
After all, although they were investors, they didn’t require close management. An outsider meddling in their affairs would likely only complicate things further.
More than anything, he had come to truly relax after a long time, so he longed to be free of obligations.
"Bakugo and Shoto are coming tomorrow, right? I should give them a call," he decided, anticipating that even more people might join his group the next day. With that uneasy premonition, he closed his eyes for a moment.
Thus ended the complex first day of his vacation.
The next morning, as usual at dawn, he rose, stretched, washed up, and then called Ashido.
A groggy voice answered, "Uu... Eijiro. Good morning..."
"Yeah. It’s already eight. You’d better get up so we can head out for breakfast," he replied.
"Mm, right. I’ve really been wanting to try that hotel buffet..."
"Then hurry up. There are at least two others who need to get ready besides you," Kirishima prompted.
"Okay, just wait a bit," came the sleepy response.
"I’ll wait, so wake everyone up and come out," he said.
Even though the buffet lasted until ten, he couldn’t really allow any extra delay. After all, his party consisted of three girls, and experience had taught him that getting them ready always took time.
Feeling satisfied that he hadn’t woken them too early, Kirishima pulled out the tablet he’d brought along. His long, nimble fingers tapped on the screen, and soon a video began to play.
The clip featured a burly man demonstrating various stances with a longsword. Intercut with illustrations from an ancient manuscript, the display was captivating.
"Yeah, facing something like this head-on would be troublesome," he noted.
Usually, when a fist fighter squared off against a swordsman of similar caliber in plain clothes, the swordsman would almost always prevail. In any contest of weapons, seizing the initiative is everything. A longer weapon not only wields greater power but also enjoys the advantage of reach, leaving a shorter arm at a severe disadvantage.
There was a saying—if a one-sun-long weapon was long, then it was strong; if short, then dangerous. If even weapons bore such stark differences, one could only imagine how a bare-handed fighter would fare.
Without extraordinary circumstances, victory for a fist fighter was a long shot.
"For someone like me, though, it’s not really a challenge," he remarked.
Of course, that line of thinking never applied to Kirishima. Free from the one vulnerability that usually hindered fist fighters—the inability to properly defend himself—his naturally durable body, tougher than any sword, gave him a distinct edge.
Still, in a world where any opponent might harness a mysterious Quirk, he couldn’t afford to be complacent.
"I’d better get moving," he decided.
After watching the video for a while and realizing how much time had slipped by, Kirishima turned to his mirror. Reflecting his tall, well-built figure perfectly in the three-meter mirror—a nod to I-Island’s quirk-friendly design—he caught sight of his own handsome yet somehow unsatisfied expression.
Dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black vest that accentuated his muscular frame, he exuded an air of danger mixed with charm. Paying little mind to the familiar face he saw daily, he scanned himself for any creases and then gathered his phone and wallet.
No sooner had he tucked his wallet into his inner pocket than Ashido’s call came through.
"Eijiro! We’re ready. Let’s go!"
"Alright, I’m coming," he replied.
Opening the door, he was greeted by the sight of the girls, neatly dressed yet casually comfortable since they planned to have breakfast before heading out.
"Kirishima! Good morning!" they chimed.
"Morning. Sleep well? Kirishima," one teased, using his first name affectionately.
"I slept fine. How about you two? And good morning, Hagakure," he returned warmly.
After exchanging greetings amidst the lively banter and finishing breakfast, Kirishima quickly brushed his teeth and left the hotel.
Stepping into the plaza, he noticed that despite the early hour of 9:30, a sizable crowd had already gathered—typical for I-Island, where Quirks ran wild and spectacles abounded.
The girls enthusiastically led him to various attractions, and for three exhilarating hours, he marveled at the sights around him. Just as even the indefatigable girls began to show signs of weariness, his phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hello. We’ve arrived, Kirishima," came the voice on the line.
"Oh, really? Then meet me at the plaza. There’s a huge, harp-shaped structure right in the center—you can’t miss it," he instructed.
"Got it. Uh, Bakugo—wait a minute. I was just about to pass the phone back!"
A brief scuffle ensued, and Bakugo’s gruff voice eventually came through as if he had wrested control of the phone from Shoto.
"Loudmouth!"
"You don’t need to shout; I can hear you just fine. You know I hate noise," Kirishima chided.
"Hate noise? Like I care!" Bakugo retorted.
"Then don’t be surprised if you end up half-dead, spending your time on I-Island in a hospital," Kirishima warned.
"Tch! You think threats can scare me?" Bakugo shot back defiantly.
Watching Bakugo’s unyielding spirit, Kirishima sighed; it was classic Bakugo behavior. He also mused that while close friends might exchange boisterous insults, that didn’t automatically indicate deep camaraderie—even though he did consider Bakugo a friend in his own way.
"Alright, what are you getting at?" Kirishima asked.
"I looked it up—there’s a place where you compete by smashing robots to set records!" Bakugo exclaimed.
"So?"
"It’s a showdown, you loudmouth!"
"Hey, you could have mentioned that when we first met," Shoto interjected.
"Hmph. I’m giving you a heads-up," Bakugo replied.
"Alright, now give the phone back to Shoto," Kirishima said with a resigned sigh, instructing Shoto to come over immediately.
Meanwhile, Bakugo’s tone was unmistakably cocky. Shoto tilted his head and remarked, "You seem to be in a good mood. Is seeing you get your comeuppance really that entertaining?"
"What are you babbling about? I’m not happy to see him—I’m happy to have put him in his place!" Bakugo retorted.
"Put him in his place? You mean by yelling?"
"Yeah. That tall guy has been weak around loud noises since he was a kid. So I make sure to shout extra loud at him!"
Bakugo grinned maliciously, the left corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Shoto, clearly finding the entire scene rather wicked, asked, "But does any of that really matter?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, aren’t you two friends anyway?"
"Friends? No—we’re rivals," Bakugo barked.
"Considering everything, you two seem pretty close..."
"Shut it! Just hurry up and get over here!"
Bakugo’s outburst was punctuated by a few playful taps on Shoto’s head. Though Shoto’s transformation into a stoic figure meant the taps caused little harm, it was unmistakably Bakugo.
Even as the duo hurriedly hailed a taxi from the airport entrance, they continued bantering. Soon enough, as they stepped out, the enormous harp-shaped structure Kirishima had mentioned came into view.
It wasn’t far at all; after a brisk five-minute walk, they found Kirishima and the girls waiting.
"Bakugo! Over here! Over here!" called one of the girls.
"Still sporting those fierce eyes, I see," Bakugo teased.
"Don’t make fun of appearances, Mina. Ribbit," another chimed in.
Bakugo’s sulky expression couldn’t hide his annoyance at the playful jibes, while Shoto, now sidelined, lowered his eyebrows in resignation.
"I made it too..." Shoto mumbled.
"Oh, of course you did, Shoto! We saw you coming from the far end of the road!" one of the girls insisted.
"I was hidden by all the people, so I didn’t get a good look," Shoto grumbled.
"Ah..."
At Tsuyu’s razor-sharp observation, Shoto’s expression crumbled, drawing a collective sigh from the group. Truly, she was the class’s undisputed fact-checker.
Kirishima clapped his hands to revive the settling mood. "Alright, let’s have lunch first. It might be a bit early, but this should work, right? Besides, Bakugo and Shoto probably skipped lunch."
"Are we not going straight to smashing robots?" Bakugo grumbled.
"You need to eat before you charge into battle, you brute," Kirishima teased, putting an end to Bakugo’s protest.
They then headed to a park restaurant. Although modest, the Italian fare—pasta, ravioli, and pizza—was remarkably good.
After lunch and at Bakugo’s insistence, they started toward the robot-smashing arena. As they walked, Kirishima’s eyes caught sight of something unusual off in the distance.
The commotion was several hundred meters away. Thanks to his sharp eyesight and towering height, Kirishima noticed details even an eagle might miss. He quickly sent the girls ahead.
"Bakugo, go on without me. I’ll catch up shortly," he instructed.
"Huh? What’s this sudden nonsense?" Bakugo retorted.
"Watch your language, you savage. I’ll be there soon, so start without me."
Bakugo raised his eyebrows as if to argue, then inexplicably grinned and strode off without another word. The other kids, sensing something was afoot, dispersed without further questions.
Now alone, Kirishima proceeded purposefully toward the source of the disturbance. With long strides and a quick pace, he soon arrived at his destination and witnessed a striking sight.
A man stood in a perfectly stable stance, clutching an unsharpened longsword.
The elderly warrior, his hair as white as freshly fallen snow and grown past his shoulders, stood with his eyes half-closed, the sword pointed resolutely toward the sky.
"That posture... he’s taken it too far," Kirishima thought.
From the very aura the old man emanated, Kirishima sensed he was no ordinary fighter. Although not well-versed in swordsmanship himself, Kirishima’s deep understanding of the human body allowed him to appreciate the intensity and natural power in the old man’s stance.
Just as he felt the urge to capture this moment on his tablet, baseballs suddenly flew through the air from somewhere, hurtling toward the old man.
Exactly five baseballs raced his way, and as soon as the old man moved his arm, every ball shattered into pieces and fell to the ground.
Kirishima was convinced that the old man possessed something akin to aerial mastery—and he couldn’t help but be impressed. Most of the onlookers might never have noticed, but the veteran had executed precisely ten distinct movements.
The cascade of slashes, moving from top to bottom and then in reverse, followed the natural rhythm of his lower body, leaving the baseballs in ruins.
"This exceeds all my expectations. To think I’d encounter a true master in a place like this..."
Amid the spontaneous applause of the gathered crowd, the old man smiled gently as he methodically gathered the fragments of baseballs. Kirishima cautiously advanced.
At the moment he stepped forward, the old man’s head—previously bent to pick up the debris—rose. His eyes, sharp and unyielding as a thrusting blade, locked onto Kirishima’s gaze.
Without flinching, Kirishima took another step toward him.
In that instant, both men sensed it clearly: they had entered each other’s personal realms.
For a heartbeat—an interval so brief that the crowd might have missed it—a fierce undercurrent of tension passed between them. Their barely perceptible preparatory movements conveyed volumes; each could anticipate the next shift in the other’s posture.
The silent duel only ceased when Kirishima withdrew first.
"I’m not here to provoke you, elder. How about we leave it at that?"
"And who might you be?" the old man demanded in clipped, German-accented English, his tone brusque yet measured.
Kirishima, understanding the cautious reserve of a martial artist confronting a master, replied politely, "You might not recognize me even if I explained—I’m still a student. I came from Japan."
"A student? Are you mocking me?" the old man retorted.
"I really am a student. Why would I lie to an elder I’ve just met?"
"No one with 18 years of experience could possess your skills. Honestly, anyone who believes otherwise is strange," the old man shot back.
"Actually, I’m fifteen," Kirishima admitted.
The old man’s brows twitched as if struggling to comprehend this absurd claim.
Although Kirishima couldn’t read minds, it was clear his statement left the veteran perplexed.
"Believe what you will—but it’s the truth," Kirishima insisted.
"I’ll take your word for it. So what brings even a person like you here?" the old man inquired.
"I’m not here on business. It’s vacation time—I got an invitation, and I’m enjoying a little adventure with friends. That’s how I came across you," Kirishima explained.
In response, the old man calmly slid his drawn sword back into its scabbard. In an instant, the intense aura dissipated, and his expression softened to resemble that of a kindly, if formidable, elder next door.
"I see. The world is indeed vast. If what you say is true, then someone who has reached this level in fifteen years must be extraordinary," the old man observed. Though his tone might have carried a hint of sarcasm, his expression was unmistakably serious, and goodwill shone in his blue eyes.
"No, I still have a long way to go. You know what they say—the last kilometer, from 99 to 100, is the toughest," Kirishima replied.
"That’s true. Even knowing that is impressive. By the way, I never caught your name. I’m Johannes Paulus," the old man introduced himself warmly.
"What a great name. I’m Kirishima Eijiro," Kirishima responded.
They exchanged smiles and shook hands firmly—the old man’s grip, fashioned by decades of discipline wielding a single sword, was both reassuringly strong and steeped in history. Here, on I-Island—the island of science—a relic of bygone martial prowess had unexpectedly resurfaced.
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