Naruhata. Three hours later.
The underground trafficking network had regrouped. A new meeting was underway beneath an abandoned subway line. Ten armed men. Two metahuman guards with offensive quirks. One buyer.
Masato landed in the middle of them like a phantom.
They didn't even hear him.
Thanks to Pulse Suppression, there was no warning. No noise. No footsteps.
One by one, they dropped—disarmed, paralyzed, knocked unconscious in a blur of movement.
He activated Void Step, warping behind the metahuman with a granite skin quirk.
Phantom Blaze ignited in his palm.
The man screamed as the flame phased through his body and burned his nervous system from the inside out.
Masato didn't flinch.
When it was over, the entire room was silent.
He walked past them, eyes scanning the crates. One was labeled "Child Cargo – A-13."
His eyes narrowed.
> "Garaki," he said into the comm, "they were trafficking kids."
"Yes, unfortunate. But necessary data points. Think of it as cutting rot from a limb. You're doing good work."
Masato stared at his reflection in a shard of glass.
He didn't feel good.
He felt empty.
But stronger.
Faster.
Like a ghost of vengeance.
---
The scene shifted—someone had been watching him.
Up above, hidden behind a building's radio tower, Mirio stood with a binocular lens.
His jaw was tight.
"He's stronger than last time…"
He turned and pulled out his phone.
"Sir. It's Lemillion. We've got a serious problem."