Bonds

The waves tirelessly battered the tiny island standing alone in the open sea.

White spray shattered beneath the pink walls, making that reassuring, monotonous rhythm.

To Krillin, this air, tinged with the fishy smell of seaweed and damp salt, felt far more familiar than the air of West City, mixed with the scents of high-octane gasoline and precision electronics.

He jumped from the plane and landed with both feet in the soft sand. The sensation of grains slipping into the seams of his shoes convinced him—he was back.

When he pushed open the somewhat chipped wooden door of Kame House, the light inside was considerably dimmer than outside.

The air was thick with the stale smell of tobacco—the scent of the cheap cigarettes Master Roshi often smoked.

The skinny old man wearing sunglasses and carrying a huge turtle shell was sitting cross-legged in a wicker chair,

clutching a red telephone receiver tightly in one hand and leaning forward, as though he were engaged in a life-or-death battle with the person on the other end.

"I know! I know the deadline is in three days! I'm not senile!"

Master Roshi's voice rose sharply, spittle spraying across the tabletop.

His free hand tapped anxiously against the table, making a rapid "knock, knock, knock" sound.

"What do you mean, you still haven't gotten in touch with him?"

"That... that kid named Goku. If he hasn't signed up, can't you make an exception just this once?"

"Rules? Rules are dead, but people are alive!"

"What if he got lost in some remote mountain forest?"

"You should know that boy's as stubborn as a mule..."

Krillin did not interrupt. He simply leaned quietly against the doorframe and gently set his backpack beside his feet.

He watched Master Roshi.

The old man whom the world respectfully called the "God of Martial Arts" looked, at that moment, like an ordinary elderly shut-in anxiously pacing because his grandson had not yet come home from school.

His sunglasses hid his eyes, but they could not conceal the worry buried in the deep horizontal lines across his forehead.

"All right, all right! I'll bring him there. Even if I have to tie him up with a rope, I'll drag him to the Arena! I'm hanging up!"

With a sharp click, the receiver was slammed back onto its base.

Master Roshi let out a long breath, his entire body slumping into the wicker chair like a deflated balloon.

He removed his sunglasses, revealing the small eyes that were usually narrowed into slits but were now filled with exhaustion, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"That idiot..."

The old man muttered a curse under his breath.

"He's been gone for so long, and he hasn't even sent a letter."

"Has the post office gone bankrupt? Or did he eat the stationery, thinking it was a meat patty?"

"Maybe he just can't read and doesn't know how to write an address."

Krillin chimed in at just the right moment, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Master Roshi abruptly raised his head, the movement whipping up a gust of air.

When he saw the bald figure at the door, his wrinkled old face froze for a moment. Then his anxiety was instantly covered by his usual shameless act.

"Well, look who it is."

Master Roshi put his sunglasses back on and curled his lips.

"I thought you'd gotten addicted to the capitalists' sugar-coated bullets and had no intention of returning to this lousy island."

"How could I, my dear Master Roshi?"

Krillin chuckled as he walked over, expertly took a can of cold beer from the refrigerator, and handed it to the old man.

"No matter how nice it is outside, it can't compare to this place."

"Besides, if I didn't come back, who would buy you this month's bikini special edition?"

At the words "special edition," Master Roshi's Adam's apple visibly bobbed.

But he still did his best to maintain his dignity as a master, taking the beer and drinking a large gulp.

"Hmph. At least you've got some conscience, kid."

The two fell silent for a while.

The cries of the seagulls outside the window sounded unusually clear.

"Master, you're worried about Goku, aren't you?"

Krillin pulled over a chair and sat down, his joking expression fading.

Master Roshi's hand paused around the beer can.

"Worried? I'm not worried about that freak."

The old man stubbornly denied it, though his gaze drifted toward the endless sea outside.

"That kid's skin is tougher than leather. Bullets can't even pierce him."

"I'm worried he'll cause trouble out there—swallow some monster whole, or tear down somebody's house. Then I'll be the one who has to pay for it."

Krillin smiled but did not call him out.

Several years earlier, he and Goku had barged into the old man's life.

Back then, Krillin's head had been full of schemes, and he had stopped at nothing to become stronger.

Goku, meanwhile, was as pure as a blank sheet of paper—or perhaps more like an uncarved stone.

Together, they delivered milk before dawn while carrying turtle shells weighing dozens of kilograms, panting like dogs with their tongues hanging out.

They swam in shark-infested waters. Goku was always faster than him, and he would foolishly try to catch a shark for lunch.

They dodged through forests swarming with bees, ending up covered in huge welts until even their own mothers would not have recognized them.

Back then, Master Roshi was always lying beneath a beach umbrella, drinking juice and reading beauty magazines, looking perfectly carefree.

But Krillin also remembered the shade of the coconut palms at Kame House.

That old man had woven the essence of staff techniques, the secrets of the Kamehameha, and even the openness and resilience required of a person into their day-in, day-out training.