TACO Run

Chapter 35

When Olberic emerged from the Truthseeker's bathing room in the morning, it was to see that Makoto had not yet risen for the day, and the Truthseeker himself was still abed. That seemed odd, as to his knowledge the Truthseeker and his sister were both early risers, much as he was.

It would be rude to awaken them, and presumptuous to use their kitchen and provisions himself without permission, so Olberic took the time while he waited for them to rise to go over his gear and clothing, which Makoto had so kindly laundered for him two days previous.

They had been cared for well, even down to his old, much-worn socks, whose age-greyed color had lightened noticeably. The leather of his belt, brassards, and other such gear had also been cleaned properly and hung on the rack by the front door, along with the Truthseeker's hat and long-coat.

Olberic would not have asked it of her. She was his host, as much or more than the Truthseeker, and such menial tasks were ones he could have easily completed himself. But in discussing the subject with her the previous evening, she had lightly stated that it had been enjoyable for her to learn how to care for such things properly, as they were not a part of her usual routine.

Olberic was not surprised that Makoto had found Cyrus' company enjoyable. Like the scholar, she seemed endlessly curious and enamored of learning.

He was just finished dressing for the day—reluctantly setting aside the comfortable sleepwear in favor of his newly cleaned clothing and surcoat—when the Truthseeker's door opened. "A good morn to you, Truthseeker," he said politely, as the younger man yawned and stretched. "I hope I did not wake you."

A blank look, and then a short laugh, as the Truthseeker waved a dismissive hand and disappeared back into his room.

Ah. Of course, he had not yet awoken his translation device.

Olberic fetched the one he had been given while the Truthseeker fetched his own, and carefully woke it from its slumber. It still took a short while to make sure it was functioning as it should—its glass front made him treat it with great care—but he managed it by the time the Truthseeker had emerged again and gave him a proper morning greeting.

It turned out that today was a rest day, and the Truthseeker and his sister had both taken the opportunity to lay abed a little longer than they would have normally.

"I'm sorry for not telling you last night," the Truthseeker said wryly, scrubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't even think about it."

Olberic waved his own dismissive hand. "You need not apologize. It has been a relaxing morning." The urgency with which the Truthseeker went about his days had felt… not quite oppressive. It was good to see that even so driven a man as he could take time to rest.

A sideways smile said that the Truthseeker might have guessed his thoughts. "Well, I'm going to take a quick shower, and then I can make breakfast."

A quarter-hour later, the Truthseeker was clean and dressed for the day, in a short-sleeved shirt and straight-legged trousers. While he prepared breakfast—slices of bread which had been soaked in eggs and milk, and then fried in a skillet—Makoto also emerged from her room and went about her morning routine. The food was delicious, if strange, and they discussed their plans for the day over breakfast. Makoto was going to meet friends of hers in another area of town, while the Truthseeker had no specific plans, but thought he might visit a place called a bassen later.

He was attempting to explain what a bassen was when his translation device chirped for his attention, and he excused himself to converse with it for a moment.

"I wonder if Nao thought about what he's going to do with you today," Makoto said lightly, taking another bite. "He's still not allowed to leave you unsupervised unless you're at the guardhouse."

Olberic frowned faintly. "I had not realized." Thinking back on it, he could see how that had been the case, but it had not been stated to him explicitly in that manner. "I do not mind his company, if he wishes it. Or if he would prefer, I can endure the trip to the guardhouse again, so that he may go freely about his day."

"How about both?" the Truthseeker asked, ending his conversation with the translation device. "That was the Chief—he said that he was contacted not long ago, and we've got the approval to return your sword. There's still some paperwork to do," he warned quickly, when Makoto cheered and Olberic straightened in surprise. "But it's the kind you have to be present for, and apparently one of the newer people on staff at the licensing office has a Quirk that lets them do four times the work at once, so they managed to expedite things."

"I would not ask that they overwork themselves for my sake," Olberic demurred, feeling perhaps a bit guilty. "…but I appreciate their efforts." His hands itched to hold his sword again, for while the practice weapon Master Kamiya had lent him helped, it was not the same. The weight, the balance, the grip—all were different, and could only soothe his restlessness so much.

"Apparently they volunteered," the Truthseeker assured him. "I'm not sure of their reasoning, but you don't have to worry about it."

That was a relief. "In that case, Truthseeker, I am ready when you are."

Naomasa sighed internally, staring down at the sheathed sword resting on the evidence room's desk.

On the one hand, he genuinely did want to return it to Olberic—it belonged to him, and they had the paperwork to prove it now. Not to mention that Olberic's quiet eagerness was palpable, and given that there was no longer a legal reason to keep it from him, Naomasa should have felt nothing but pleased to return it.

On the other hand, even with the paperwork in place, part of Naomasa rebelled at the idea of a live weapon—a lethal weapon—being put in the hands of someone who wasn't a member of the armed forces, police, or even a Hero. No matter how much he liked him personally.

The lock on it helped calm his nerves, but simultaneously made him feel guilty. Miss Kamiya had openly declared that Olberic could be trusted with live steel, almost to the point of staking her reputation on it, so locking the sword in its sheath was as much as declaring that he didn't trust Olberic, or miss Kamiya's judgement.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Olberic, exactly. He really did believe that miss Kamiya was right, and Olberic would never hurt someone by accident, or without good reason. It was just that, well…

Kikuchi's report—and a few conversations with the clerk later—had indicated that Olberic had openly worried about not having a place in Japan, specifically because he practically defined his reason for living to be wielding his sword in defense of the helpless.

What were the chances of him encountering a Villain, or even just a street thug menacing someone, and not drawing his sword?

…actually, their first meeting said chances were pretty good. He hadn't drawn on the two idiots who'd tried to mug him, after all. But still, even one incident of him drawing steel on someone would technically count as assault with a deadly weapon, and that was seven levels of headache Naomasa and the Chief did not need.

…hopefully, Olberic would agree with him, even if he didn't like it.

Well, time to find out.

Olberic strode down the path at the Truthseeker's side, feeling more himself than he had since his arrival in this land. The weight of his sword at his side was a comfort and a relief so great that he had felt himself stand taller. Even the fact that his sword was peace-bonded could not dampen his spirits.

He understood the need for the peace-bonding, even if he would prefer his blade be unimpeded. In a land where few went armed, a stranger wielding a blade would be a frightening sight to the commonfolk, and as the Truthseeker's duties were in defense of the people's everyday lives…

Yes, Olberic understood the Truthseeker's concerns, and those of his commander. And he appreciated that the Truthseeker carried the key himself, rather than leaving it in the possession of his commander, who would be more difficult to locate in a crisis.

"I'm going to be spending most of my time with you anyway," the Truthseeker had said plainly. "This way, when you find your friends again, even if you have to leave immediately, I can give you the key first."

Though in the event he could not, Therion's skills were always an option.

They had spent a short time in the guard house's training hall, as Olberic walked himself through testing swings, refamiliarizing himself with the sword, its heft and balance and the feel of it in his hands. Swings with its sheathed form were more difficult, as the sheath had its own weight, and disturbed the balance of the blade, but a quarter-hour's practice assured him that in a pinch, it would not be too great a detriment.

The Truthseeker had looked on with a faint smile, expression wry in a manner Olberic could not interpret, but had made little comment. Once Olberic was ready, however, he did give voice to his thoughts.

"That took most of the morning, so why don't we go have lunch? I can show you what a bassen is afterwards."

Olberic had readily agreed, and now, after a filling meal, they walked down the street towards the Truthseeker's preferred place for relaxation.

"Is your headache gone?"

Olberic blinked down at the Truthseeker, and then nodded. "Aye, it has faded." The paperwork he had needed to go through to have his sword returned had been… extensive. Even the assistance of the Truthseeker and a clerk had only helped so much, and he had been left with an ache between his brows and cramps in the small muscles of his hand and fingers.

A crooked grin. "You're not the only person I know who's bad with desk-work," the Truthseeker laughed shortly, as though at a personal joke. "Just be glad yours is over—his is an everyday problem."

Olberic could not help a smile of his own from spreading. "I would like to meet this friend of yours, if I am in this land for too long a time."

For some reason, that made the Truthseeker snort and look away, covering what might have been a snicker. "Sorry, sorry," he managed after a moment. "I just imagined you two meeting and it would be… bizarre."

Moreso than their circumstances already were? Olberic had difficulty believing that.

"I think you'd get along pretty well, though," the Truthseeker continued, humor relaxing into an easy smile, hands sliding comfortably into his trouser-pockets the way some men might hook their thumbs through a belt. "He's one of the greatest men I know, even if we're both usually too busy to have down-time together." A sigh, scrubbing the back of his neck, before his hand returned to his pocket. "And considering your own circumstances… I think he might be able to be himself around you as much as he can around me."

An odd statement, but not one that Olberic cared to call the Truthseeker on. If he wished to explain, he would do so.

"Ah—there's the bassen's entrance!" The Truthseeker extended one hand to point at a narrow set of stairs between two buildings, a block distant. A sign hung above them, inscribed with the local letters Olberic could not read. The Truthseeker picked up his pace a little, enthusiasm infusing the motions in a way that shaved years from his appearance and made him seem a slightly younger man.

Olberic did not follow suit. Instead his pace slowed, as a tingling sensation made the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand up. It was not the sense of being watched; despite the crowds on the walkway and the carriages in the streets, there was no undue attention turned his way. In fact, he could see a few other individuals pausing in their tracks, looking about themselves in confusion. The Truthseeker also paused just before reaching the entrance to the bassen, allowing Olberic to catch up as the tri-colored light above the nearby crossroad flickered.

Then lightning cracked, and something dark and enormous erupted from a nearby alley, and Olberic barely had time to draw his sword to block, sheath and all, before an enormous hand smashed into it and everything fell to chaos.

Therion drifted with the crowd, eyes and ears open for trouble and opportunities both. His stuff was all clean and dry, and his temporary base hadn't gotten any attention since he'd moved in, so he'd gathered up everything he owned, stashed it all about his person, and left to continue his search for the other guys.

Thankfully, he hadn't seen that huge guy who'd chased him again at all.

He still didn't know why he'd been chased. Sure, he knew a bunch of things he'd done that would have inspired a pursuit, but he hadn't done any of them to or near the guy as far as he was aware, so it'd seemed to come out of nowhere.

Thankfully, he hadn't seen him again, and it'd been easy enough to avoid the city guards' eyes. He didn't stand out at all here, after all, so as long as he didn't act suspicious, no one would give him a second glance.

Breakfast had been an easy find. Some apples and a small carton of red berries from the local market, once it opened, were more than enough to fill his stomach. He'd wandered around for a few hours, watched an attempted purse-snatching get foiled by the local guard, and picked a different direction to wander.

He was just finishing off an ill-gotten lunch—he'd found another skewer-seller, though this one's skewers had had some kind of weird sauce on them—when a crack like distant lightning caught his ears. No rumble of thunder and a lack of cloud cover said it couldn't be from a real storm, and he was headed that direction almost before he knew it.

Cyrus. This was the best indication of the scholar's presence he'd gotten so far, and he didn't dare risk ignoring it.

The rest of the crowd hadn't seemed to notice the sound, or if they had, seemed to dismiss it as not their problem. Therion dodged his fellow pedestrians, darted through a couple alleys, and listened for any repeat of the Lightning Bolt or a declaration that nothing could quiet the storm.

For once, he didn't even want it to.

The crackle of electricity and the sharp smell of after-lightning said he was getting close, and Therion skidded to a stop before he could stumble onto a potential battlefield unprepared. Peeking around a corner as something bellowed, and several somethings chittered, Therion quickly took stock.

One big monster, probably two or three horse-lengths from nose to rump and a swampy green-black color, with long, sturdy limbs that ended in newt-like webbed feet. Round, beady eyes were set in the sides of a slick, elongated skull, and bright yellow stripes stretched the length of its body from either side of its snout, down along its flanks and a long, slimy tail heavy enough to act as a counterweight so it could stand on its hind legs if need be.

Skittering and chittering around its feet, swarming and clawing at the knees and ankles of screaming pedestrians, was a tide of small black… things. They were maybe two spans tall, bandy-legged, and with eyes and mouths far too large for their bulbous heads. Their eyes glowed yellow-red, but the rest of them, down to teeth and claws, were solid black, and even from where he stood they reeked of rock oil and hot pitch.

Posh scholar, posh scholar, where the fuck's the posh scholar—

No Cyrus. There was a guy in short sleeves trying to direct the crowds into a more controlled form of chaotic stampede, and occasionally punting a little black monster away from himself or other people's feet, but no sign of a slender spellcaster.

Lightning crackled over the big newt-monster-thing's skin, and its tail lashed, sending electricity crawling up the light-pole it struck to arc through the air with a crack as the lines along its flanks flickered and dimmed.

Damn. No way was he sticking around for that nonsense, not if Cyrus wasn't around—

"Have at thee!" A broad-shouldered figure in blue shoved the monster back through pure brawn, making it bellow, and Therion was moving almost before he realized it again, shoving through the crowd and past the short-sleeved guy with a mutter for him to get out of the way. Another light-pole had been broken in the fight, and leaned at a precarious angle, light extinguished and no sparking wires writhing dangerously around it.

Therion sprinted up the angled pole, needing the height to reach the monster's more vulnerable head.

I'll make this quick.

Daggers drawn, he jumped.

Alfyn was up and dressed and even done shaving for the day by the time Father Fugo came to get him. He was rarin' to go, ready to make their way back to the tavern and find out if they'd learned anything else about Cyrus, hopefully get directions to the other tavern he was hanging out at, but Father Fugo just chuckled and shook his head fondly.

It took a little while, trying to communicate over breakfast, but eventually Father Fugo got across that today was a holy day, so he'd be too busy to take Alfyn anywhere, even the tavern, until late tonight. But he made up for it by cooking some of those egg-wrapped-saucy-grains things for Alfyn, the ones that missus Meeky had made before, and made sure his waterskin was full of nice clean water from his filter-pitcher.

Alfyn was briefly torn, not wanting to just run off on him without a proper thank-you or anything, but not willing to waste a whole 'nother day waiting…

So he took an hour to weed the garden and the front walk again—grass and weeds sprouted fast in early spring—and held the door for people as the congregation started arriving, and once it looked like everyone was there for morning services, he snuck around to the side-hall, collected his satchel, neatened the room he'd been lent, and left.

He left a note behind for Father Fugo, of course. With little doodles to show him saying thanks, since words wouldn't work. They weren't the best doodles, but they'd get the point across.

The tavern wasn't even open yet when he got there, so Alfyn loitered around the entrance for a couple of hours. It was only an hour before noon by the time miss Shinobu and that Taisho guy showed up, and they gave him surprised and worried looks as they hurried to unlock the front door and let him in.

Alfyn felt a little bad for hanging out in the tavern before it was even open—if he'd realized they didn't open until lunch time he'd've stayed with Father Fugo for the morning—so he insisted on helping them set up for the day, taking the chairs down off the tables, carrying stuff outta the back pantry for Taisho, sweeping the entrance out, that kind of thing. With his help, they managed to get all the prep stuff done early, except for the cooking. Taisho wouldn't let him help with that at all, other than peeling vegetables, so once he'd finished that, and helped little miss Shinobu with what he could, he sat down backwards on one of the chairs and waited for one of 'em to have a minute to chat.

It didn't take long to get directions to the tavern Cyrus was at. It was a long way, at least a couple of hours he figured, and with a lot of twists and turns and such. Taisho seemed kinda surprised once he realized Alfyn was travelling on foot, which… what else was he supposed to do? It wasn't like he had a horse or donkey. Those self-driving carriages were pretty fast, but he didn't exactly have one of those either. And he wouldn't know how to use one if he did.

He did get a glance at a map of the whole city before he left, though, which… holy shit was it huge. He'd figured it was at least as big as Grandport, but just looking at how skinny the roads were drawn on it made it plain that the city was enormous. Like, at least three days of travel across on foot, and that was without stopping for lunch or anything! And there were a lot of roads, half of 'em tangled up like a wad of string and the other half as neat as warp and weft on a loom.

Thankfully, it didn't look like wherever Cyrus was at was on the far side or anything. And the directions, while long and kinda complicated—especially since he couldn't read the words and would have to just compare them to what he saw—should be something he could handle. If not, he'd at least be able to mark his path back, and not get completely lost.

So after one more round of thank-yous, Alfyn hitched his satchel up on his shoulder, grinned reassuringly at miss Shinobu and Taisho, and hit the road.

It was maybe a half-hour after noon when Alfyn heard a distant crack of lightning, and looked up at the sky, worried it might be getting ready to rain again.

No clouds. And no rumble of thunder either, which was weird if the lightning was close enough for him to hear it. He hadn't gone nearly far enough to have found Cyrus—and anyway the scholar wouldn't be throwing lightning around a tavern—but he picked up the pace anyway.

Maybe a minute later, there was another crack, and he started to see people running away from whatever the trouble was, and he picked up the pace even more, fingers gripping the strap of his satchel worriedly. Because that sure sounded like lightning-magic, and if people were running away then either there was a monster in the middle of a huge city like this, or something else had gone really, really wrong.

A distant, familiar shout of challenge, followed by a bellowing screech of agony, and Alfyn broke into a full-out sprint, skidding around a corner just in time to almost get trampled by the fleeing crowds. "Whoa!" He managed to duck into a storefront—the window was broken—and peeked out again to get a better look at what was going on. "Well, shit!" There was a monster alright, a big honkin' salamander-eel thing with pale yellow stripes down its flanks, which dimmed to a dull, dirty white as it let out a crack of lightning magic and shattered another window.

And there, facing off against the big monster in a knee-deep swarm of little skittery black monster things, were Olberic and Therion.

Alfyn's heart jumped, and he looked around frantically for anything he could use in a fight—there! On the far wall of the shop, in a glass-fronted display case of some kind, was a hatchet with a bright yellow handle and a bright red head. "Don't mind if I do!" he grinned, and smashed the glass to grab it, feeling only a little guilty about the theft and damage. He'd find a way to pay 'em back later.

Then he waded out into the swarm of ankle-biters, and charged into the fray. "Therion! Olberic, your Lordship! Hang on, ol' Alfyn's on his way!"

Cyrus came awake sharply, from a sleep that had, so far as he could remember, included no dreams. He went briskly about his morning ablutions, gathered all of his belongings about his person—his chain of soulstones joined the bronze shards in the shocking-green bag—neatened his desk area, and left the Net Kaffe.

He had spent the previous evening, after leaving the confectioner's shop, in research regarding the city guard, and the location of the guardhouse. It had taken some time, because it seemed that the translation of the words was not exact, and so he had to learn how to make his phone recall their previous conversation so that he could discover which symbols in the local tongue referred to the city guard and utilize those in his search of the 'Net. Eventually, however, he had discovered the location of the city guard's headquarters—an area of the city referred to as 'Hosu'.

It was an unreasonable distance from the area he was in, at least as concerned traveling afoot. Therefore, with great reluctance, Cyrus consigned himself to utilizing the train system one more—and solely one more—time.

His personal distaste for the experience came second to the prospect of finding his friends again.

Thankfully, there was no horrid encounter like the last time, and his nearest neighbors had excellent dental hygiene. In fact, one particular individual, a very tall and well-built man with white hair like Therion's, had lower eyeteeth prominent enough that they were visible even with his mouth closed, not unlike the tusks of a wild boar, though to a somewhat lesser degree.

Cyrus considered attempting to communicate with the man—he was only slightly shorter than Olberic, and nearly as broad—but decided against it, as he felt it imperative that he focus on reaching his destination as quickly and eventlessly as possible, and therefore dared not risk a possible distraction causing him to miss his stop.

He spent the time aboard the train cataloguing the visible abnormalities of everyone he could see, wondering if there were some way to properly categorize them, and if so, what it might be. But every time the announcement of a stop was made, he turned his focus strictly to that.

"Hosu-cho, Hosu-cho—"

Oh, thank the gods. Now he need only navigate the station itself, and then the unfamiliar streets, in order to find his destination.

Some hours later, tired, hungry, and rather irritated, Cyrus sat on a small bench and consulted his phone. He had managed to leave the train station via the wrong exit the first time, which had made following the directions he'd found on the 'Net impossible, until he returned to the station and worked his way back through it to the proper street. At which point he'd started the arduous process of navigating the twisting streets towards his eventual destination.

And taken more than one wrong turn, as some of the street signs had been recently damaged, defaced, or otherwise tampered with, and he'd had to resort to questioning nearby pedestrians via the translation function of his phone to ensure he was going the correct way—and the most recent of those individuals had obviously thought it a clever prank to mislead a hapless foreigner by giving him the wrong information entirely.

Thankfully, Cyrus' prodigious memory was clear enough for him to backtrack to the point at which he had been misled, a very small park with a bench and some early-blooming flowers, and he decided to take a short break to refresh, calm, and reorient himself.

A long drink and a chance to rest his feet for a moment allowed Cyrus to regain his composure, and he felt perhaps a bit embarrassed by his former ire. It wasn't like him to be so irritable. Yes, he urgently wished to find his dear friends, and yes, his time had been wasted in traveling the wrong direction… but it wasn't necessarily true that he had been directed wrongly on purpose. Even with his phone's translation function, there could easily have been a misunderstanding. And even if it was deliberate, it isn't as though I've a schedule to keep.

Bracing himself with that logic, Cyrus stood up. It was nearly noon. If he understood the directions on his phone correctly, he might be able to arrive at the guardhouse in a little over half an hour.

Cyrus was tucked uncomfortably into the overhang of a doorway, avoiding the crowds fleeing some local Villainous attack no doubt, when he heard a distant and utterly familiar voice cry out.

Olberic! Cyrus' heart soared, and he began moving almost without realizing it, fighting his way through the tide of humanity. "Excuse me. Coming through. I beg your pardon. I'm in a bit of a hurry—"

The crowds abruptly parted, and Cyrus stumbled forward at the sudden lack of resistance, quick-stepping for a moment to keep his feet and fetching up against another doorway, where a resident or shopkeeper had hastily abandoned a broom in their flight.

Something scrabbled at his leg, and he glanced down.

"Augh!" Hasty flailing of the limb sent the two-span high creature tumbling before it could sink coal-black teeth into his calf, and Cyrus hastily snatched up the broom to beat off another such creature that lunged his way. "Good gods!" There were dozens of the creatures, a veritable incursion of them, red eyes glowing pits in their oversized, bulbous heads. A fleeing woman screamed when one leapt at her, only for the foul little beast to be repelled by a dome of protective light.

Cyrus whacked at another little monster with the broom, only for the creature to bite down on the bristles and attempt to wrest it from his grasp. An instant's observation and quick thinking let Cyrus realize that the broom's handle was a separate entity from its head, and he twisted it so that the two came apart and the vicious little creature was left with a mouthful of thin black straws.

That little monsterling seemed adequately distracted for the moment, but there were more, so many more, and Cyrus was forced to divide his attention between fending them off and taking in the overarching situation. Oh, if only he had the room to safely unleash a spell or two! A Firestorm would surely discourage such attacks, if it didn't eliminate the beasts entirely. But no, while they were fleeing as quickly as they were able, there were still noncombatants in the area who might get caught in such a blast—

Another familiar shout, this one the cheerful ferocity only dear Alfyn could manage in battle, made up his mind for him. He was not going to stand idly by while friends of his risked their lives!

Building shapes, street directions, the spread and pattern of the little monsterlings, the locations of all of the innocents he could see—all of these things crystalized within his mind, building a map of the area that said going down that alley would take him to Alfyn's location faster than running ahead to the corner, and with less interference from the enemies. Cyrus was running down it even as the monster that had been briefly distracted by its supper of broom-bristles spat them out and gave a chittering screech, plunging down the alley in his wake.

Distantly, Cyrus hoped that meant that it and its compatriots had left off menacing fleeing townsfolk. More immediately, however, was the realization that the darkness in the alley wasn't just a lack of sunlight, but a seething darkness spangled with paired pinpricks of red.

A small tide of loathsome little beasts was digging through garbage and clawing up the odd, tarry paving, and Cyrus had to fight the urge to reverse direction when that swarm of gazes locked onto him. I am not meant to charge headlong into battle! He slowed to a brisk walk instead, letting the shocking-green bag fall from his shoulder to dangle at his elbow as he loosened its strings. There were monsters before him, more little monsters behind him, at least two of his dear friends in need of his assistance ahead, and no noncombatants to worry about.

Cyrus swung his makeshift staff one-handed as the vicious little monsters attempted to swarm him.

"Would youkindly!"

Bonk.

"Leave!"

Bonk.

"OFF!"

Bonk-bonk-bonk.

The series of furious but mostly ineffectual blows cleared a space in the wave of tiny chittering monsters, enough for Cyrus to draw his spell-book, flip it open to the appropriate page from memory, and take a preparatory breath. "Let the winds of fortune dance—Ventus Saltare!"

A/N: A bassen is a batting cage. Naomasa really likes baseball.

A/N: The guy whose Quirk allows him to do four times the work at once? Souma Kazuya from How A Realist Hero Rebuilt The Kingdom. In this case, Living Poltergeist is his Quirk, and he's a civil servant.

A/N: Cyrus used a wind spell instead of fire because he wants to move them out of his way, not just kill them. Killing them would mean he has to navigate their corpses.