Bond

The sea waves tirelessly crashed against this tiny, isolated island floating far offshore.

White foam shattered at the base of the pink wall, producing that reassuring, monotonous rhythm.

To Krillin, this air, mixed with the smell of seaweed and damp salt, felt far more familiar than the scent of high-octane gasoline and precision electronic components back in West City.

He jumped off the plane, his feet sinking into the soft sand. The grit slipping into his shoe seams confirmed it—he was back.

Pushing open Kame House's slightly chipped wooden door, the light inside was dimmer than outside.

A stale smell of tobacco hung in the air, the cheap kind Master Roshi always smoked.

That skinny old man in sunglasses, carrying a huge turtle shell on his back, sat cross-legged on a rattan chair.

His hand was clenched tightly around a red telephone receiver, his body leaning forward, as if locked in a life-or-death duel with whoever was on the other end.

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

Master Roshi's voice pitched high, spittle spraying onto the table.

His free hand drummed anxiously on the surface, making a rapid thump-thump-thump sound.

"What do you mean you can't reach him?"

"That... that kid named Goku—if he hasn't signed up, can't you bend the rules a little?"

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

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

"You should know that kid's got a one-track mind..."

Krillin didn't interrupt. He just leaned quietly against the doorframe, setting his backpack gently at his feet.

He watched Master Roshi.

This old man, revered by the world as the "God of Martial Arts," now looked like an ordinary empty-nester fretting because his grandson hadn't come home from school yet.

The sunglasses hid his eyes, but they couldn't hide the anxiety etched into the deep wrinkles on his forehead.

"Alright, alright! I'll get him there. Even if I have to tie him up with rope and drag him to the Arena! I'm hanging up!"

Click. The receiver slammed back onto the cradle.

Master Roshi let out a long sigh, deflating like a punctured ball into the rattan chair.

He took off his Sunglasses, revealing those usually squinting little eyes now full of exhaustion, and rubbed his brow.

"That idiot..."

The old man muttered under his breath.

"Gone so long, not even a single letter."

"Did the post office go out of business? Or did he eat the letter paper thinking it was a meat patty?"

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

Krillin chimed in at the right moment, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Master Roshi jerked his head up, the movement fast enough to stir the air.

When he saw the bald figure at the door, his wrinkled old face froze for a second, then the anxiety was instantly masked by his usual goofy facade.

"Oh, it's you."

Master Roshi put his Sunglasses back on and curled his lip.

"Thought you'd gotten hooked on the capitalist's sugar-coated bullets and weren't coming back to this dump of an island."

"How could I, my dear Master Roshi."

Krillin grinned as he walked over, grabbed a cold beer from the fridge, and handed it to the old man.

"No matter how good it is out there, it can't beat a single hair from this place!"

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

At the word "special," Master Roshi's Adam's apple bobbed noticeably.

But he still tried to maintain his masterly dignity, taking the beer and gulping it down.

"Hmph, guess you're not completely heartless."

They were silent for a moment.

The cries of seagulls outside the window rang out especially clear.

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

Krillin pulled up a chair and sat down, dropping the joking expression.

Master Roshi's hand, holding the beer can, paused.

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

The old man put up a tough front, but his gaze drifted out the window toward the vast sea.

"That kid's got thick skin and tough flesh—even bullets can't pierce him."

"I'm afraid he'll go out there and cause trouble—swallow some demon whole, or tear down someone's house—and I'll be the one stuck paying for it."

Krillin smiled but didn't call him out.

Years ago, he and Goku had barged into this old man's life.

Back then, Krillin was full of nothing but mischief, willing to do anything to get stronger.

And Goku was as pure as a blank sheet of paper—or rather, like a stubborn rock.

Together, they'd lugged dozens of kilograms of turtle shells through the early morning milk deliveries, tongues hanging out, exhausted as dogs.

They'd swum in shark-infested waters, and Goku always swam faster than him, even foolishly trying to catch a shark for lunch.

They'd dodged through forests thick with bees, getting stung so badly their heads swelled up until even their own mothers wouldn't recognize them.

Back then, Master Roshi always lounged under a sun umbrella, sipping juice and flipping through girlie magazines, looking perfectly carefree.

But Krillin also remembered, under the coconut shadows of Kame House, how that old man had kneaded the essence of staff techniques, the secrets of the Kamehameha, and even the honesty and grit of being a man, into their daily training, day after day.