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The car moved through morning Tokyo while TNO read the third contract since the beginning of the trip.
Only yesterday, documents like these had consumed hours and left behind nothing but isolated figures and irritation. Now the terminology no longer resembled a foreign language. TNO knew where to look for the order of obligations, voting rights, collateral, hidden costs, and the consequences of withdrawal.
High Spec was no longer active.
The temporary copy had lasted several hours and decayed during the night. The world immediately returned to its former speed. Once again, TNO had to examine facts in sequence, hold chains together through deliberate effort, and discard weak possibilities himself.
The first few minutes had brought dizziness.
The next several hours—something close to religious ecstasy.
TNO had always wondered what would happen if the Quirk that transformed an ordinary animal into one of the greatest minds in the country were given to a human. Nezu had begun with instincts and a brain nature had never intended to understand economics, law, or politics.
TNO began as a human.
The result had been divine.
So divine that an unpleasantly tempting thought had slipped into the back of his mind: next time, do not settle for a copy. Take the mutation from the principal forever.
TNO did not pretend, even to himself, that the idea would never occur to him. High Spec was too good. The kind of Quirk that made a conqueror calculate the distance to his target and consider who might intervene in time.
But Nezu stood at the heart of UA, behind its teachers, heroes, and the power of an entire state. Attempting to steal his Quirk now would not be conquest. It would be an unusually inventive form of suicide.
So the thought sank deeper.
It did not disappear.
It merely waited for the day it ceased to be impossible.
High Spec had not granted him ready-made knowledge. It placed neither languages nor textbooks inside his memory. It simply allowed him to absorb information with such efficiency that ordinary study now seemed like an attempt to fill a swimming pool with a spoon.
While the copy remained active, TNO studied corporate finance.
First the fundamentals, then holding structures, port concessions, subordinated loans, and shareholder agreements. After that, he moved on to English. Taiko's and Nomura's memories already contained school grammar, scattered vocabulary, medical terms, and phrases from foreign films. High Spec sorted through the debris, found the underlying patterns, and helped him fill the gaps using textbooks, recordings of negotiations, and the financial press.
When the enhancement vanished, TNO spent several more hours organizing the notes he had retained at ordinary human speed. The contrast was almost physically irritating. But everything he had understood and learned remained.
By morning, TNO could read English contracts without a dictionary.
He could speak without first composing every sentence in Japanese.
Even thinking in the new language proved easier than expected.
The miracles of human efficiency under a good enhancement were almost indecent.
TNO set the tablet aside and looked out the window.
Reflections of buildings, overpass supports, and signs not yet extinguished slid across the glass. The shadows of morning Tokyo flickered over his face, cutting his smile into alternating bands of light and darkness.
It openly amused him that he had taken far more from Nezu than the principal probably suspected. The guardianship arrangement had fallen through, but the opportunity to invest in UA, private accommodations near the academy, and protection from an overly persistent Aizawa were useful enough.
But High Spec had been the true reward.
A few hours had been enough to stop TNO from being blind to his own fortune. He had not become Okutami Senior and had no intention of pretending to be a shark of the corporate world. But now he understood which questions to ask, where hidden conditions were likely to be buried, and how to distinguish the natural complexity of a transaction from complexity created specifically to deceive him.
That was enough to manage without Kazuo.
It was not enough to dispose of him immediately.
First, TNO needed to understand what drove him. Why had the manager taken sick leave on the exact morning Rikiya appeared without warning? Coincidence remained plausible only until one considered how conveniently the illness had left an inexperienced heir alone with Detnerat's proposal.
The possibility of a connection between them was far more troubling than the absence itself.
They were driving to meet people whose names Kazuo had buried inside appendices to appendices.
Moriyama was still "ill."
For the second day.
His fever had supposedly fallen, but he remained unable to return to work. He replied to messages infrequently. Postponed telephone calls. His assistants claimed they lacked the authority to provide internal correspondence without his approval.
Before High Spec, TNO had seen suspicious cowardice.
Now he saw a system.
Kazuo was not merely absent. He controlled what information the heir could obtain without him.
Rikiya's proposal sat inside a separate folder, complete with explanations and annotations. The list of independent port owners lay in an old archive under a title unrelated to the reconstruction. The records of their conflicts with Detnerat were not marked as important. Their executives' contact information was absent from the shared directory, even though Okutami Senior had met with them for years.
Moriyama had not forbidden TNO from searching for an alternative.
He had arranged matters so that an inexperienced heir would never realize an alternative existed.
Under High Spec, TNO had realized it.
Six companies were listed on the tablet: small cargo operators, warehouse owners, a repair yard, two freight-forwarding firms, and a family business that serviced the port's tug fleet. Individually, each held too little to challenge the board.
Together, they owned almost fifteen percent of the port structure.
Not TNO.
Not yet.
None of the six had promised him shares, votes, or even a second meeting. But if he could unite them, those fifteen percent could stand beside Okutami's twenty-seven.
A potential forty-two percent.
At last, the port's entire ownership structure fit into a comprehensible hundred.
Thirty belonged to Detnerat.
Twenty-eight to the Tokyo administration, representing the state.
Twenty-seven to the Okutami fund.
Those twenty-seven percent were concentrated in Hosu's internal railway. The network connected the berths, warehouses, and terminals to the national rail system: private stations, depots, locomotives, and dozens of kilometers of track within the enormous port.
The remaining fifteen were fragmented among six independent companies.
The board of directors was not another owner and held no separate stake. It was the port company's governing body: shareholders elected its members, while the executive management signed contracts, assigned terminals, and handled daily operations. The grand title concealed something simple—the board could enforce decisions only as long as the owners' votes stood behind it.
Forty-two percent would not give TNO formal control.
But it would turn his alliance into the port's largest bloc, greater than either Detnerat or the state's stake alone. The Tokyo administration would then become the deciding party: together with TNO, it would command seventy percent; together with Rikiya, fifty-eight.
Neither TNO nor Rikiya would be able to control the port alone. But Rikiya would have to account for the fact that the six companies he had spent years trying to swallow one by one could now speak with a single voice.
Where TNO had previously seen only scattered firms, High Spec had forced him to hold every minor connection in his mind at once and assemble them into a nearly complete center of power.
— We have arrived, Nomura-sama, — the driver announced.
TNO closed the contract.
The idea behind this meeting belonged to him.
That alone disrupted Kazuo's plans.
If Moriyama had expected his absence to frighten the inexperienced heir into clinging more tightly to the only man capable of explaining events, he had achieved the opposite. From now on, TNO would manage his own assets.
Alone.
He had no intention of personally keeping the books, drafting every contract, or suddenly pretending to be an expert in every industry. Lawyers, analysts, and directors existed for that purpose. They would find information, prepare options, and explain the consequences.
But the final decision would no longer belong to Kazuo—or anyone else—merely because he confidently called himself a manager.
Perhaps TNO would have reached that conclusion even without Nezu's intelligence. He was not stupid. What he lacked was something else: spare attention. The port, the inheritance, guardianship, the police, Monica, and his own body all demanded decisions at once. Without High Spec, the right details might have remained in front of him for another week.
The port did not have a week.
2
Two days had passed since the tragedy.
The fire had only just been extinguished. The charred sectors still smelled of wet soot, fuel, and chemical foam. The damaged vessel remained at its berth: its list was visible even from a distance, part of its hull had been torn open, and the structures on deck were blackened by fire.
The outer cordon had been lifted that morning. Inside the port, however, red-and-white tape, police vehicles, and mobile barriers continued to divide the grounds into separate crime scenes.
Small prefabricated cabins had already been erected between the warehouses for the future repair crews. Engineers, foremen, and workers were supposed to live there once the restoration finally began.
Whenever that might be.
The decision itself had stalled somewhere between the government, the insurers, the operators, and the owners. The state demanded that the insurance companies honor their obligations. The insurers cited Trigger, the unfinished investigation, and disputed clauses in their policies. The operators demanded money from the owners of the infrastructure. The port management circulated estimates while carefully avoiding the question of who would cover the inevitable overruns.
Responsibility traveled in circles.
The money did not.
Even the most conservative estimates placed the cost of a complete restoration beyond Nomura's entire fortune if he attempted to finance it alone. He could sell every property, every company, every car, and everything else Okutami Senior had left him—and still end up owning an unfinished port with no liquid capital remaining.
TNO opened a new note on his tablet.
*Asset optimization.*
Why did he need several apartments for personal use, vacant houses, a country residence, and an underground collection of vehicles? The sports cars hardly ever left the garage. The motorcycles required maintenance. Every property demanded security, taxes, and repairs. None of it generated income. It existed only because Okutami Senior had once been rich enough not to count the expense.
TNO had not yet earned that luxury.
Especially now, when the port—his principal source of income—would not turn a profit for some time. During reconstruction, every empty house and idle car became not a symbol of wealth, but another entry in the expense column.
He would leave the apartment buildings, commercial property, and strategic holdings untouched. He would also keep whatever transport and housing he genuinely required for daily life, work, and security. Independent specialists would appraise everything else, and the assets would be sold gradually rather than dumped in a fire sale that would collapse their price.
According to the preliminary estimate, the unnecessary assets could release roughly eighty million dollars.
Not enough to save the port.
Enough to begin.
TNO added one final line:
*All proceeds are to be placed in a separate reconstruction reserve. No transfer to the general fund without an approved estimate.*
He had to be smarter about this.
Rikiya could afford to wait.
Detnerat owned a substantial share of the port, but it remained only one part of Rikiya's much larger fortune. After the disaster, the corporation had redirected its products through other logistics hubs. The longer routes, new contracts, and increased costs were a headache, but they did not stop Detnerat's core business.
TNO's position was different.
The internal railway formed the largest part of his inherited portfolio, and it had survived almost untouched. The tracks had not burned. The depot remained standing. The locomotives were operational. Okutami's own infrastructure did not require fifty million dollars in repairs.
But without functioning terminals, warehouses, and berths, there was nothing for those trains to carry.
Rikiya had still demanded that the owner of twenty-seven percent contribute a proportional amount to the general reconstruction fund. Formally, it was necessary to preserve a unified system. In practice, TNO was being asked to pay for damage to other people's property while his undamaged railway sat idle for lack of cargo.
Every day of inactivity bled the business around which Okutami Senior had built a considerable portion of his fortune.
So the heir had to seize the initiative.
The meeting had been arranged in an old administrative building beside the port's freight railway.
Not luxurious.
Practical.
The road passed the internal checkpoint. Workers in hard hats and reflective vests had gathered behind the fence. Some carried tool bags, as though they expected the police to change their minds at any moment and allow them back onto their shifts.
One officer ordered them to clear the passage. A foreman exhaled heavily, turned toward the crowd, and drew breath to tell everyone to go home.
TNO stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
The man flinched and turned with an irritated expression.
— Keep them here for another ten minutes, — TNO said.
— The police told us to clear the passage.
— I heard them. Give me ten minutes to speak with whoever made that decision. If nothing changes, send them home yourself.
The foreman studied the face that looked far too young for such confidence, then glanced at the government representative and the police escort vehicle.
— Ten minutes, — he agreed. — No more.
No one was being allowed through.
Farther out in the harbor, ships waited at anchor. For now, the operators were willing to lose time. One more day, perhaps two. After that, their captains would receive new orders, turn around, and head for other ports.
Lost revenue.
Lost contracts.
And hundreds of people who had nowhere else to work.
TNO asked the driver to stop.
The government representative stepped out with him and immediately understood what had caught his attention.
— The grounds are still under the control of the investigative team.
— All of them?
— Most of them.
— Find me whoever is responsible for the cordon.
A senior investigator arrived several minutes later. The exhausted man in a protective jacket clearly expected complaints about private property, threats from lawyers, or a demand to clear the port immediately.
TNO had considered every option.
He could accuse the police of unlawfully obstructing business on private property. He could threaten complaints, litigation, and damages for every hour of downtime.
The crude approach might even work.
It might also make the investigators answer every future request through the prosecutor's office and a stack of formal protocols. Starting a war with the people controlling access to his most important asset would be expensive.
— How much longer do you need? — TNO asked.
— If no one interferes, we should finish the main areas by the end of the day. The burned warehouse, the damaged vessel, and the places where bodies were recovered will take longer.
— Can Berth Four receive a ship?
The investigator looked at a colleague. The other man opened a diagram and traced a route across the screen.
— Forensics finished there during the night.
— And Berth Five?
— This morning. But access to both passes through the general crime scene.
— Then separate the areas you actually need. Keep the warehouse, the damaged vessel, and the remaining crime scenes behind the cordon. Release Berths Four and Five.
— Moving the perimeter will take time.
— Less time than investigating a formal complaint for obstructing business operations.
The investigator frowned.
TNO did not raise his voice.
— I am not asking you to let workers walk through evidence. I am asking you to release the areas where your work is already complete. The port must operate at least partially, or soon there will be nothing left to rebuild.
The man examined the diagram again.
— Give me ten minutes. None of your workers crosses the new perimeter.
— Agreed.
— If we discover anything new, the site closes again.
— If it is genuinely new, I will not argue.
They shook hands.
The investigative team began moving the barriers before TNO even entered the administrative building. They separated the route to the two surviving berths from the burned sector, moved a police vehicle out of the access lane, and opened the gate.
— Do you have a megaphone? — TNO asked.
The officer by the gate took a moment to realize the question was addressed to him. Then he removed the megaphone hanging from the fence and passed it over.
TNO pressed the switch. The speaker gave a brief howl that made every worker beyond the fence turn toward him.
— Foremen for Berths Four and Five, report to the gate! — His voice carried across the checkpoint. — Call your crews. We have work.
For several seconds, the crowd remained still.
Then several men pushed forward, shouting crew numbers and names as they moved.
— Only two berths are open for now, — TNO continued. — Do not cross the new perimeter, and do not interfere with the investigators. Coordinate everything else with the control room. If you move quickly, we can receive the first ship today.
That was when the workers believed him.
One approaching foreman suddenly slowed. His gaze moved over TNO's face, paused on the scar near his temple, and dropped to the purple-black skin of his hand.
— Nomura? — he asked uncertainly. — You pulled a man out of the fire in Sector Three.
The man beside him recognized TNO almost at the same time.
— That's him. The kid from the warehouse.
Not everyone had followed the names in the news. Several workers exchanged confused looks.
— What kid?
— The one who got people out and killed the villain, — someone in the crowd explained. — If it weren't for him, that thing would have torn through the rest of the port.
— He saved the port, you idiot. Half of us along with it.
The story traveled from one person to another faster than the foremen's orders. Those who had seen TNO during the evacuation recognized him for themselves. The rest were shown the dark hand and told in lowered voices what had happened. With every retelling, the villain grew larger, the fire more terrible, and TNO's victory more impossible.
Someone tossed a hard hat into the air. A cheer rolled through the crowd and quickly dissolved into the familiar noise of work. People collected their tools, called dispatchers, checked equipment, cursed, and smiled all at once.
— I thought we wouldn't be back for another two weeks.
— I was already looking for another job.
— Who made the police open the gate?
TNO heard fragments of conversation as he climbed the steps.
The port was not alive yet.
But two of its berths had been permitted to breathe again.
The administrative building contained gray concrete, worn steps, coffee machines, and photographs showing the port over the previous forty years. In one of them, Okutami Senior stood beside several people who had looked much younger then.
Their heirs and partners were waiting in the conference room.
Six executives.
No representatives of the port management company.
No one from Detnerat.
The conversation stopped when TNO entered.
Some of them had expected an injured schoolboy whose adult advisers would supply every answer. Instead, a young heir in a black shirt and tailored trousers walked into the room. He wore neither jacket nor tie, yet the clothes fit too precisely to look casual. Fastened cuffs, a clean silhouette, and heavy dark shoes gave him formality without the childish attempt to look older in someone else's suit.
The black fabric made the purple skin of his hand stand out sharply. The small scar at his temple and his composed bearing turned the restrained outfit into something close to a uniform. TNO lacked the physical mass of a Pro Hero or an adult industrialist, but he carried a different kind of weight: a harder, quieter confidence.
The brutal simplicity of the clothes suited his handsome, youthful face and gave him a peculiar charm. He looked formal enough to discuss money with—and dangerous enough that no one forgot who had killed the creature that devastated the port two days earlier.
Their gazes lingered on his face, his clothes, his dark hand, and the scar at his temple.
The youngest of the six stood first.
Rentaro Shibata was not yet thirty. He wore no tie, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows. Even seated, he could not remain still: his fingers tapped against a folder, then his eyes wandered toward the window and the motionless cranes outside. His father had left him the repair yard two years earlier, along with its debts, obsolete equipment, and an entire collection of advisers capable of explaining why nothing could ever be changed.
Shibata had barely kept the business afloat. Perhaps that was why he looked at the seventeen-year-old heir without the usual condescension.
— Nomura Okutami?
— Yes.
— Hiroshi's son?
TNO paused briefly.
— His heir.
That was enough.
The man bowed more deeply than business etiquette required.
— My cousin worked in Sector Three. He was among the people you brought out.
The woman who ran one of the forwarding companies spoke next.
— Two of our drivers were there as well. They said you personally directed them to the service exit.
— If you hadn't stopped that villain, we wouldn't be discussing reconstruction, — the warehouse owner added. — We would be counting even more dead.
TNO accepted their gratitude with a short nod.
Rikiya Yotsubashi had always been received here as the representative of a corporation.
TNO was received as Okutami Senior's heir—the young man who had remained inside the port while it burned and killed the threat while everyone else struggled to survive.
The difference existed before the first negotiation began.
Yotsubashi had approached these people for years from a position of wealth and power. He offered help that ended in absorption, then patiently waited for the next owner to become too poor to refuse him.
TNO had entered with a different kind of capital.
Trust.
An unusual asset for a creature accustomed to conquest. His humanity was warped, occasionally defective, and often surrendered to cold calculation.
But it existed.
At the port, TNO had not watched these people from the safety of an office.
He had bled beside them.
They served him tea, asked about his injuries, and offered condolences without rehearsed solemnity. No one pretended the tragedy and the money were separate matters.
The conversation did not begin with shares.
— Business has stopped, — Shibata said. — The ships are waiting offshore. They will wait a little longer. Some of them will leave tomorrow.
— Two of our clients have already requested route estimates through Yokohama, — the woman added. — If they sign contracts there, respect for Hosu will not bring them back.
— And we are the ones being asked to finance the reconstruction, — said the owner of the tug company. — The income stopped. The expenses did not.
— Then the surviving part of the port must operate, — TNO replied. — We cannot rebuild what was destroyed by forbidding the remaining businesses from earning money.
He pointed toward the window.
From the upper floor, they could see workers already moving toward Berths Four and Five. Port tractors were clearing abandoned equipment from the lanes. The control room had established contact with the first ship waiting offshore.
— The investigators have released two berths, — TNO continued. — They expect to finish the remaining safe areas by the end of the day. The sites of the fire and the fatalities will stay closed. Everything the investigation no longer needs must begin earning money again.
Several people approached the window.
They had come to discuss how to divide the cost of a dead port.
Instead, they watched it return to work for the first time in two days.
— Two berths will not pay for the reconstruction, — the tug operator reminded him. — The government is waiting for the insurers. The insurers are waiting for the investigation. The management company wants money from us.
— And all of you are waiting for someone else to volunteer as the victim, — TNO said.
Several people turned from the window.
— Gentlemen, let us dispense with the sophistry. You can spend another week explaining why someone else should pay, only to discover that there is nothing left to pay with. We need practical decisions. We need to work with what remains.
— And what do you propose? — Shibata asked.
TNO displayed a diagram of the berths.
— Four and Five are operating again. The damaged vessel comes next. Once forensics completes its examination and both the port authority and the engineers confirm that it can be moved safely, we tow it to the outer reserve berth.
— There is no cargo terminal there.
— Which is precisely why the vessel belongs there instead of occupying a berth capable of receiving cargo. That will free Berth Three. The investigators will release the remaining areas as their work concludes. This is a matter of time, not a reason to keep the entire port idle.
The woman from the forwarding company shook her head.
Until then, she had spoken sharply and only about business. Now exhaustion entered her voice—the same exhaustion that had hung over the entire table since they arrived. She was not truly arguing with TNO. She was merely saying aloud what everyone else had avoided.
— You can reopen berths. You cannot reopen trust. The port's reputation is ruined. Do you know what the market is saying? Hosu is unsafe. We can rebuild the terminals, hire workers, spend billions, and then watch every ship pass us by.
No one interrupted her.
Under normal circumstances, several of the people in that room would scarcely have agreed to meet. The two forwarding companies had poached clients from each other for years. The shipyard owner had sued the warehouse operator over damaged cargo. The tug company had raised its rates precisely when the cargo operators could least afford to refuse.
They were not friends.
The disaster had merely made their old feuds look small.
— After a fire, mass casualties, and a villain attack, the market has every right to call us unsafe, — TNO said.
The blunt answer silenced the room.
— But the fire did not change the map. Hosu still stands where sea routes connect to Tokyo's rail network, warehouses, and industry. Cargo can be redirected, but every additional kilometer, transfer, and replacement contract costs money.
He enlarged the transport map on the screen.
— Once the port is fully operational and demonstrably safe, the clients will return. First, the ones for whom alternate routes are most expensive. Then the others. Not because they love us, but because Hosu will become profitable again. Our geographical position did not burn down with the warehouse.
The woman studied the map.
The despair did not leave her expression.
But calculation appeared beside it.
— Safety cannot be proven with promises, — TNO continued. — We prove it with functioning systems, clear procedures, and the absence of a second disaster. First, we put the open sectors in order. Remove the signs of emergency work where they are no longer necessary. Inspect the equipment, security systems, and evacuation routes.
He looked from one owner to the next.
— Then we let the reporters in. Not near the bodies or the cordon. We bring them to the working berths. We show them ships, workers, and moving cargo. Let the market see that the port is not dead.
— The reporters will still show the fire, — one of the men objected.
— Of course. So we give them something stronger than the fire.
TNO touched the scar near his temple.
— I will give the interview as the person who was here during the attack and killed the villain. I will tell them the threat has been eliminated, the investigation continues, and the safe portion of the port is operating again. My reputation is excellent at the moment. It would be foolish not to use it.
The shipyard owner regarded him closely.
— You want to turn your own wounds into advertising.
— I want to use everything we have left. That includes me.
No one called him a seventeen-year-old boy.
An hour earlier, these people had looked at one another as competitors temporarily forced together by a common disaster. Now, whenever they asked a question, they increasingly directed it not toward one another, but toward Nomura.
The alliance did not exist yet. Their old grievances had not vanished, and no final document bore their signatures. But the direction of the conversation had already changed.
TNO had not come to preserve the old relationship between the owners.
He had come to reform it.
— Mr. Yotsubashi has already visited each of you, — TNO said when the conversation finally turned to ownership.
Several expressions hardened at once.
— He has been visiting us for years, — the warehouse owner replied.
— And every time, he leaves without a signature, — the woman added.
— Why?
Shibata gave a humorless laugh.
— Because he is not buying a share. He is buying the right to tell you, one day, that you cannot make a single decision without him.
They told TNO a story that had not appeared in Kazuo's files.
Detnerat had advanced through the port for years. Never through a single takeover large enough to attract a regulator's attention, but through a succession of small steps. A loan to a company that had lost an important client. The purchase of its debt. An observer's seat on the board. A new supply agreement tied to voting rights. Assistance to an owner who could not afford new equipment.
First, Rikiya saved them.
Then he explained the price of salvation.
Some companies had disappeared into Detnerat entirely. Others retained their names but lost the right to choose their own contractors, routes, and partners. Rikiya isolated the most stubborn owners from major contracts and waited for the next crisis.
Piece by piece.
One vulnerable company after another.
— The management company considers us relics, — one owner said. — Too small, too independent, too slow. But our people are the ones who repair the ships, unload the containers, and know which crane will fail before it ever appears in a report.
— And Rikiya wants to own all of that rather than tolerate you beside him, — TNO concluded.
— Hiroshi's son finally said it plainly.
The corner of TNO's mouth moved.
Now he understood why Yotsubashi had accepted his contribution to the reconstruction fund so calmly. Okutami's payment had done more than add money. It had increased the pressure on everyone outside the fund.
Rikiya did not care that TNO's railway had survived. The formula calculated contributions by ownership percentage, not by actual damage. By paying, the heir had financed repairs to other people's infrastructure and legitimized the very rule now being used against the smaller owners.
If even the holder of twenty-seven percent had agreed to contribute, the minor owners could be portrayed as irresponsible for refusing.
They would either pay sums disproportionate to the normal returns on their shares—or sell those shares to someone willing to pay in their place.
Rikiya had positioned himself to become that someone.
TNO had arrived first.
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