Chapter 81: The Man Who Flies Too Fast and the Ice on the Asphalt
[Fukuoka Prefecture - Kyushu - Wednesday Afternoon]
The bullet train ride from Musutafu to Fukuoka took exactly five hours.
For Aokiji, stepping out of the Hakata Station was like stepping onto a different planet. The crisp, chilly autumn air of Tokyo was replaced by the lingering, humid warmth of southern Japan. The scent of the ocean salt mixed heavily with the aroma of street food stalls lining the busy intersections.
He adjusted the collar of his dark trench coat, his hero costume securely packed in the metal briefcase he carried in his right hand. The micro-vents in his casual clothing hissed subtly, releasing tiny wisps of steam to keep his internal core temperature regulated against the Kyushu heat.
He looked up.
Towering above the bustling commercial district was a sleek, aerodynamic skyscraper made almost entirely of reflective glass. At the very top, an enormous red feather emblem caught the afternoon sun.
The Hawks Agency.
Aokiji let out a long, slow sigh. "Well," he muttered to himself, slipping his free hand into his pocket. "Time to see if birds and ice mix."
[The Hawks Agency - Top Floor Office]
The elevator ride was nauseatingly fast. When the polished steel doors finally slid open with a soft ding, Aokiji stepped into a room that didn't feel like a hero's office at all.
There were no massive motivational posters, no heavy oak desks, and no intimidating trophies. The entire far wall was simply gone—a massive, open-air balcony that let the furious high-altitude winds whip through the room, scattering loose papers everywhere.
Sitting precariously on the railing of the balcony, his back to the dizzying drop, was the Number 3 Pro Hero.
Hawks was younger than Aokiji expected. He wore his thick, fur-lined jacket casually, his golden eyes hidden behind yellow-tinted visors. His massive, vibrant crimson wings shifted lazily behind him, catching the wind to keep his balance perfect.
He wasn't brooding. He was holding a skewer of grilled chicken.
"Yo!" Hawks called out, his voice bright, casual, and impossibly relaxed over the howling wind. He took a bite of the chicken, chewing happily. "Kuzan Aokiji, right? Welcome to Fukuoka! Want some yakitori? It's from the stall down the street. Legendary stuff."
Aokiji blinked slowly. The sheer, overwhelming informality of the man was jarring. He walked forward, his boots clicking against the polished hardwood floor.
"I'm good, thanks," Aokiji drawled lazily, stopping a few feet from the open drop. "You wanted to see me. You sent the request."
"Sure did!" Hawks tossed the empty wooden skewer into a nearby trash can with absolute, terrifying precision. He hopped off the railing, landing without making a single sound. "You made quite a splash at the Provisional Exams. The rumor mill says the U.A. Ice Prince lost his crown and became a grounded tactician."
Aokiji's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The lazy facade didn't drop, but the air around his boots dropped exactly five degrees.
"News travels fast," Aokiji noted.
"I'm a bird. I see everything," Hawks grinned, tapping the side of his visor. "I watched the footage. The way you condensed your ice to snipe Gang Orca... brilliant. You traded a sledgehammer for a scalpel. But you know what your problem is right now?"
Hawks suddenly vanished.
There was no sound of footsteps. Only the rush of displaced air.
Whoosh.
Aokiji's instincts screamed. His pupils dilated. He didn't turn around; he instantly formed a razor-thin dagger of ice backward over his own shoulder, aiming for where the presence had shifted.
Clink.
Aokiji froze.
Hawks was standing directly behind him. The Pro Hero held a single, stiffened crimson feather between his index and middle fingers. The razor-sharp edge of the feather was resting gently against Aokiji's jugular vein, perfectly blocking the backward thrust of Aokiji's ice dagger.
Aokiji hadn't even seen him move.
"Your problem," Hawks whispered, his voice losing its playful edge, becoming sharp and terrifyingly clinical, "is that you're still thinking like a heavy artillery unit. Your mind is still preparing to drop a nuke, even though your body can only fire a bullet. You're too slow. Your startup time will get you killed on the streets."
Aokiji stared straight ahead, the razor-thin edge of the crimson feather resting flush against his racing pulse. He didn't formulate a coherent thought about speed. Instead, his body reacted with raw, primal alarm. A cold sweat broke across his nape. His brain had registered the threat, calculated the counter, and triggered the attack—but his muscles simply hadn't possessed the biological velocity to execute it in time. The gap wasn't in his mind; it was in his flesh.
He bypassed my synapses entirely, Aokiji realized, a heavy chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with his quirk.
Hawks stepped back, the oppressive pressure instantly vanishing. He spun the feather on his finger, smiling brightly again.
"But your instincts are sharp! You knew exactly where I was going to be. You just couldn't move your muscles fast enough to stop me," Hawks laughed, walking back toward the balcony. "Go put your costume on, Frost. We're going on patrol."
Ten minutes later, Aokiji stepped out of the agency lobby in his dark blue hero costume, the micro-vents hissing softly. He expected Hawks to be waiting by the door.
"Look up!"
Aokiji tilted his head back. Hawks was hovering fifty feet in the air, his red wings fully extended against the blue sky.
"Fukuoka is a fast city," Hawks called down, his voice carrying easily over the traffic. "I don't walk. I fly. Your job today is simple: keep up with me."
Before Aokiji could reply, Hawks banked sharply and shot across the skyline like a crimson missile, breaking the sound barrier with a muffled boom.
"You've got to be kidding me," Aokiji sighed.
He didn't run. Running was inefficient. He slammed his right boot onto the asphalt.
Hiss!
A thick, slick track of ice erupted from his heel, paving the road ahead of him. Aokiji crouched low, his trench coat flaring, and launched himself forward like an Olympic speed skater. He glided over the ice track, the friction of the world melting away. He moved fast—faster than a car on the highway.
But it wasn't enough.
"Purse snatcher! Three blocks down!" Hawks' voice echoed from a headset Aokiji had been given.
Aokiji banked hard, creating a curved ramp of ice to launch himself over a crowded intersection, landing smoothly on the other side. He accelerated toward the alleyway.
By the time he arrived, the purse snatcher was already tied up entirely in red feathers, hanging upside down from a lamppost, sobbing. Hawks was sitting on a nearby bench, signing an autograph for a blushing civilian.
"Too slow, Frost," Hawks chimed through the earpiece. "Traffic accident on the overpass! Let's go!"
Aokiji gritted his teeth. Focus. Stop thinking about the thermal volume of the ice. Think about the kinetic propulsion.
He abandoned the wasteful ice-skating track. Instead, he forced ambient moisture directly beneath the heavy soles of his boots and flash-froze it in micro-seconds. The rapid, violent expansion of the water molecules turning into solid ice created localized, high-pressure kinetic bursts. He wasn't sliding anymore; he was detonating the ground beneath his feet, utilizing the explosive thrust of thermal expansion to propel his body forward in jagged, unpredictable ricochets, skipping across the asphalt like a bullet deflecting off armor.
He ricocheted off the side of a building, launching himself onto the overpass.
He arrived panting, steam venting furiously from his collar.
The overturned truck had already been stabilized by dozens of Hawks' detached feathers. The driver was sitting safely on the curb, drinking a bottle of water Hawks had given him.
Hawks hovered above the scene, looking down at the breathless U.A. student.
"You're exhausting yourself," Hawks observed, floating down to land lightly on the hood of a police cruiser. "You're fighting gravity, friction, and your own quirk. Look at your boots."
Aokiji looked down. The heavy combat boots were coated in a thick, jagged layer of unnecessary frost.
"You're bleeding energy," Hawks explained, his golden eyes analytical. "You used to have so much power you didn't care about efficiency. You just flooded the area with cold. But now? Your tank is small. Every ounce of cold you waste on the street is an ounce you don't have for the villain."
Hawks walked over, tapping Aokiji's chest with a feather.
"I don't want you to be an iceberg anymore, kid," Hawks said, his smile fading into the serious gaze of a top-tier Pro. "I want you to be a snowflake. Light. Effortless. Unpredictable. And sharp."
Aokiji wiped a bead of sweat from his chin. His lungs burned, the phantom ache from Kamino pulsing rhythmically. He looked at the Pro Hero, realizing exactly why he had accepted this specific internship.
Hawks wasn't going to teach him how to be powerful.
Hawks was going to teach him how to be lethal.
"Alright," Aokiji breathed out, his posture straightening. The localized frost on his boots instantly sublimated, vanishing into thin air as he pulled the wasted energy back. He narrowed his eyes, locking onto the winged hero. "Let's go again."
Hawks grinned, a genuine thrill flashing in his eyes. He spread his massive crimson wings, the wind instantly picking up around them.
"That's the spirit, Frost. Try not to blink."
Hawks shot into the sky, a blur of red against the clouds.
Aokiji exhaled, letting the world fall quiet around him. He crouched, finding the perfect balance, and launched himself into the concrete canyon, chasing the fastest man in the sky.
.
.