Three Years Later

Just as he was speaking.

On the other sofa, Tien Shinhan, who had been unconscious for a long time, finally twitched his eyelids a few times, let out a low groan, slowly opened his three eyes, and looked around in confusion.

"Brother Tian! Brother Tian! You're finally awake!" Chiaotzu let out a long sigh of relief, quickly leaned in, and called out with concern.

"My head feels heavy... like it's filled with lead..." Tien Shinhan struggled to sit up, rubbed his still-throbbing temples, and looked at Master Roshi, who was pretending to admire the scenery, his tone tinged with helplessness and confusion. "Master Roshi, what exactly did you spray on me earlier? That stuff was way too strong, wasn't it?"

"Hehe, it's fine, it's fine. Just some good stuff to help you sleep and calm your nerves. No harm to your body. It's fine, it's fine..." Master Roshi chuckled awkwardly, rubbing his hands together.

"By the way, what about King Piccolo?" Tien Shinhan shook his head, trying to piece together the fragments of information he'd heard before passing out and in his half-asleep state, and asked curiously. "My head was a bit fuzzy earlier, and I didn't catch it clearly... Chiaotzu seemed to tell me... that Broly defeated King Piccolo?"

As he spoke, Tien Shinhan's three eyes all fixed on Broly, filled with disbelief.

"That's right, Brother Tian, absolutely true! Broly defeated him!" Chiaotzu nodded vigorously, his small face full of certainty.

Seeing a chance to show off, Master Roshi perked up immediately. He cleared his throat and, with renewed enthusiasm and spittle flying, recounted the story of how Broly had heroically defeated King Piccolo, embellishing it even more dramatically and legendarily.

Tien Shinhan listened, his third eye going wide, his mouth slightly open, the shock on his face growing deeper and deeper.

"Hehe, actually, I never told you all," Master Roshi said at the end, puffing out his chest with pride, stroking his beard, and striking the pose of a reclusive master, announcing with self-satisfaction, "Broly is the deepest hidden and strongest disciple of my Turtle School! A super powerhouse behind the scenes! The ace I, Master Roshi, secretly trained!"

Broly, listening nearby, just grinned and kept munching on his apple. Of course, he wasn't about to call out the old man's obvious boasting.

After all, in Broly's simple mind, this old guy, though sometimes unreliable, had treated him pretty well.

He gave him food and a place to stay, so letting him take the title of top disciple was no big deal.

"Broly... so... so he's really that strong?" Tien Shinhan marveled, his gaze toward Broly shifting completely—from indifference to a burning curiosity and a faint, indescribable fighting spirit.

"And Tien, you don't know this yet," Krillin chimed in excitedly from behind, "Goku's already gone with Kami to train at the Lookout! Before he left, he said with full confidence that once he finishes training, he'll definitely surpass Broly!"

"Kami?" Tien Shinhan was stunned again, feeling like the information overload was leaving him a bit dazed.

"Alright, you young folks, all of you train hard!" Master Roshi looked at these promising juniors before him, grinned, and encouraged them. "Use these three years to improve yourselves. By the next World Martial Arts Tournament, you can settle things in the ring! That'll be the real show!"

"Broly, you're already this strong now!" Krillin gently nudged Broly's hard ribs with his elbow and asked with a smile, "You'll join the next World Martial Arts Tournament, right? Let everyone see your true power!"

"No." Broly didn't even think about it, still wearing that lazy expression, and refused decisively.

"Huh? You're not joining?" Yamcha was startled at first, then a barely noticeable flicker of relief crossed his face.

Good, he's not joining...

I don't think I can surpass this monster-level guy in just three years.

If Broly doesn't join, I might get a better placing in the tournament.

"Yeah, I'm not joining," Broly shook his head, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I have zero interest in fighting or competitions. I'd rather spend that time eating a few good meals and getting some solid sleep."

Master Roshi, listening nearby, quietly wiped the non-existent cold sweat from his forehead again.

You say you're not interested in fighting...

When you fought King Piccolo, I clearly saw your movements were sharp and clean, and there wasn't a hint of reluctance in your eyes—just a bit of... ease and casualness?

This kid, I just can't figure him out!

While the atmosphere at Master Roshi's House was light and everyone was discussing the future.

Deep in a remote, desolate, and uninhabited primeval jungle somewhere on Earth.

Here, ancient trees towered, vines twisted, the light was dim, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and vegetation.

A small, green figure sat cross-legged on a moss-covered boulder, eyes tightly shut.

He bore a face almost identical to King Piccolo's, only more youthful.

It was the newly born Piccolo!

Suddenly, Piccolo's eyes snapped open. In those crimson pupils, a tangible, bone-deep hatred blazed forth instantly!

Piccolo clenched his teeth, his small fists creaking from the pressure.

"Broly!!!" Little Piccolo's voice was low and hoarse, filled with endless venom and murderous intent, echoing through the silent jungle depths. "You killed my father! You destroyed his ambition! This blood debt, I, Piccolo, swear here and now! I will make you pay blood for blood! I will become stronger than you! And then, in front of everyone, I'll tear you apart with my own hands!!"

Age 756.

Time flowed on, fleeting like a white horse passing through a crack. Three years of peace and individual training slipped by quietly.

The 23rd World Martial Arts Tournament, in this cool rainy season, began on schedule.

For Broly, these three years had been nothing but a happy cycle of eating and sleeping, repeated countless times.

On top of that, Broly had picked up a new hobby over the three years.

Playing video games!

Broly hadn't deliberately pursued power, but the blood of the legendary Super Saiyan within him, through days of rest and recuperation, had continued to surge and grow naturally, like still waters running deep.

Broly felt his strength had increased significantly again—a thick, majestic growth rooted in the very essence of life.

As for exactly how much he'd improved, Broly's number-insensitive brain couldn't quite figure it out.

Anyway, it felt way, way stronger than before!

Like a small stream turning into a great river—still calm on the surface, but holding far more terrifying power beneath.

On the day of the tournament.

The sky was overcast, like a layer of gray gauze draped overhead. A fine, drizzling rain fell silently, soaking the earth, bringing a chill, and making the ancient architecture of the Martial Arts Temple seem even more solemn.