A fresh wave of fury washed over him as the realization hit: no support gear. The custom-designed Strafe Panzers, engineered to refine his aerial maneuverability and channel his blasts with pinpoint accuracy, were gone. His Grenadier Bracers, vital for storing larger quantities of his nitroglycerin-like sweat and enabling more potent, focused explosions, were also absent. He was stripped down to his raw power, a frustrating limitation when he was accustomed to the tactical advantages his equipment provided. His hands clenched reflexively, the phantom weight of his bracers a palpable absence. The thought of trudging half a kilometer on foot, even in his current state of simmering rage, felt like an insult.
"Fuck this walking shit," he snarled, the words a low growl in his throat. Patience was a virtue he'd never bothered to cultivate. If the distance was an obstacle, he'd overcome it with the only currency he truly valued: overwhelming power. The need for a job, a way to sustain himself in this alien landscape, was a grudging, pragmatic thought that surfaced through the red mist of his anger. He wouldn't starve, wouldn't be dependent. He'd dominate this new environment, just like he'd planned to dominate the hero world back home. But first, Magnolia.
He planted his feet, a wider stance, his body coiling with anticipated force. The familiar tingle began in his palms, a precursor to the volatile energy he commanded. His nitroglycerin-like sweat, a product of his unique physiology, beaded on his skin, potent and ready. He didn't need his bracers for this.
"Explosive Speed: Turbo Cluster!" The name of the technique, one he'd honed through countless brutal training sessions, ripped from his lips, more a declaration of intent than a mere utterance.
The world erupted behind him. A series of rapid, concussive blasts, each one a tightly controlled detonation, propelled him forward and upward with a violent shove. The heat was intense, washing over his back even through the fabric of his uniform, a familiar, almost comforting inferno. The ground vanished beneath him with dizzying speed. Air screamed past his ears, whipping his spiky ash-blond hair around his face. His muscles tensed, absorbing the G-forces, his body a rigid projectile guided by precise, instinctual adjustments of his palms, each subtle shift in angle and explosive output dictating his trajectory.
From above, the rolling hills flattened into a patchwork of greens and browns, the strange, vibrant trees of the forest shrinking into a textured carpet. The rutted road he'd been standing on became a thin, insignificant ribbon snaking through the landscape. The half-kilometer that had seemed an irritating crawl on foot was devoured in seconds. His crimson eyes, narrowed against the wind shear, scanned the horizon.
There. A smudge of buildings, rooftops clustered together, a chaotic but discernible settlement nestled in a wide valley, bisected by a glittering river. Magnolia. It looked… rustic. Old. Nothing like the sprawling, technologically advanced cities he was used to. Wooden structures, stone, a distinct lack of towering skyscrapers or the gleam of modern materials. A faint plume of smoke curled into the air from a chimney, a surprisingly domestic detail in this otherwise alien vista.
His flight path was a direct, aggressive line, heedless of any potential observers below. Let them stare. Let them wonder. He was Katsuki Bakugo, and he arrived on his own terms. As he neared the outskirts, he began to decelerate, a series of smaller, controlled explosions buffering his momentum, the concussive force rippling the air around him. He could make out more details now: narrow, winding streets, a central plaza of some sort, the varied architecture hinting at a place that had grown organically, rather than being meticulously planned. It had a… lived-in feel, almost ramshackle in places, yet undeniably bustling. He could hear the faint, distant murmur of voices, the clang of metal, the general hum of a town going about its business.
He aimed for a relatively clear space near what looked like the edge of the town, an open patch of ground where his landing wouldn't flatten some unsuspecting vendor's stall or, worse, some idiot civilian. The final descent was sharp, a controlled drop punctuated by a last, ground-shuddering blast from his palms that kicked up a cloud of dust and dry leaves. He landed with a solid thud, bending his knees to absorb the impact, the ground vibrating faintly beneath his boots.
He straightened, brushing a stray fleck of soot from his cheek, his expression a mask of defiant impatience. The air here was thick with new smells: woodsmoke, cooked food, livestock, and an underlying, indefinable scent that might have been… magic? The thought was a fleeting, dismissive flicker. Magic was for fairy tales and weaklings who couldn't rely on their own damn strength.
The sudden arrival, heralded by a series of explosions and a dust cloud, had not gone unnoticed. Heads were turning. From the narrow alleyways and shop doorways, curious, and in some cases, alarmed faces were appearing, their gazes fixed on the newcomer who had literally dropped out of the sky. Good. Let them look. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to find answers, to find a way back, and if that failed, to carve out a place for himself through sheer, unadulterated force of will. His crimson eyes swept over the town, taking in the strange attire, the curious architecture, the palpable sense of a world utterly different from his own. The rage still simmered, a constant heat beneath the surface, but now it was tinged with a grim, predatory focus. Magnolia. He was here. Now what?