— — START — —
"Stop. That's enough."
The shout cut clean through the air.
Both teens froze mid-motion, mist still curling faintly around the metal staff. The cloud dispersed a second later, thinning into nothing as its owner exhaled.
"I've seen everything I needed to see," the older man said, stepping forward with an easy smile that didn't quite soften his eyes.
The two disengaged, backs straightening. They dusted grass from their clothes, exchanged a quick dap—familiar, wordless.
"It was a good spar," one of them said, smiling.
"You're still frustrating to fight," the other shot back, just as fond.
Tensei let them have the moment before clapping once, sharp.
"Alright," he said, voice calm but authoritative. "Let's start with you."
His gaze shifted to the dark-blue-haired runner.
"You're fast. That's obvious. But you're also predictable."
The younger brother stiffened. "Predictable?"
"You open the same way every time," Tensei continued. "Straight acceleration, lateral feint, right-side strike. It works because most people can't react fast enough—but a thinking opponent will."
He gestured vaguely with one hand, mimicking a sharp turn. "You rely too much on speed to correct your decisions instead of making better ones from the start."
The teen opened his mouth, hesitated, then nodded. "…I see."
The older man raised a finger. "You telegraph your intent with your posture. The moment you lean forward, anyone experienced knows you're about to burst forward. Your shoulders drop, your weight shifts. Your body announces you before your engines do."
"You also commit fully to your strikes," Tensei added. "Every kick is meant to end the exchange. It's admirable, but dangerous. Miss once, and you overextend. A smarter opponent will bait that."
Tenya straightened, then bowed slightly. "…Understood."
"You're not bad, Tenya," Tensei added immediately. "You're disciplined. That's good. But discipline without variation becomes a pattern. And patterns get broken."
The Pro Hero released a small satisfied laugh, "Damn, I'm on a roll right now."
Then his attention shifted.
The air felt heavier somehow—not because of pressure, but expectation.
"And you," the hero said, eyes settling on the light-haired boy. "You're interesting."
A brow lifted. "That sounds ominous."
Tensei huffed a laugh. "Relax. What you're doing with your quirk—using it to stabilize yourself, to absorb impact, to correct your balance?"
He pointed to the spot where Sorashi had skidded earlier. "That's good. Very good. Most kids your age panic when they lose footing. You compensate instinctively."
The praise landed, warm—
Then came the turn.
"But," Tensei continued, tone sharpening just slightly, "you're letting it do too much."
Sorashi blinked. "Too much?"
"You stop yourself from falling before your body even tries," the hero said. "You land not because you learned how—but because your quirk fixes it for you."
The teen frowned faintly. "Isn't that… the point?"
Iida looked at him with a face that seemed to say, 'I told you so.'
Sorashi stuck his tongue out at that.
"Not at this stage."
Tensei crossed his arms. "Think of it this way. You're using a wheelchair even though you can walk perfectly fine. Sure, it gets you where you're going—but what happens when you need to run?"
Silence stretched.
"You have legs," the hero continued. "Use them. Let them fail first. Let them learn."
Sorashi swallowed, jaw tightening—not defensive, just thoughtful.
"And another thing," Tensei said, eyes narrowing slightly. "You keep your clouds close. Very close."
The teen's grip tightened on his staff. "I control them better that way."
"Can't control them far?"
"I can," he replied quickly. "But commands are clearer when they're near me or connected to me. Or the staff. Distance messes with precision."
Tensei hummed, staring off for a moment.
"…That," he said slowly, "is a problem."
Sorashi stiffened.
"A big one," the hero added. "Because heroes don't get to choose ideal distances. You won't always be able to fight up close. You won't always be at the center of the situation."
"If people realize your control drops with distance," Tensei continued, "they'll exploit it. Villains don't play fair. They won't let you fight on your terms."
He met the teen's eyes again. "To be a Hero means to have no weaknesses, or to appear as such." He reiterated, "A strength doesn't have to always be real. It just has to look real."
The words settled heavy.
Sorashi exhaled slowly. "…So what do I do?"
A grin tugged at the hero's mouth.
"We fix it," he said simply. "But not yet."
The teen tilted his head.
"First," Tensei said, pointing between the two of them, "we unlearn the bad habits you've already built."
A pause.
"Then," he added, eyes glinting with something sharper at Sorashi, "we make your long-range control terrifying."
Sorashi's lips curved into a smile—slow, eager.
"I like the sound of that."
"Good," the hero replied. "Drink some water. Five minutes."
He turned toward the house, already rolling his shoulders. "When we start," he called over his shoulder, "I'm not going easy."
The clouds stirred faintly at Sorashi's feet.
And this time, he didn't let them.
— — END — —
What's a man gotta do to get stoned?