All Present

Papaya Island.

This was the sacred ground for martial artists worldwide, and the grand tournament held once every three years would kick off tomorrow.

Though the competition was still a day away, the island was already packed to the brim.

Colorful umbrellas bloomed like poisonous mushrooms along the streets, cramming the narrow pathways into an impassable mess.

Fighting enthusiasts, vendors, and martial artists hungry for overnight fame from all corners of the globe had heated up the very air itself.

The registration booth was set up at the entrance of the Martial Arts Temple. Rainwater dripped from the temple's eaves, splashing against the bluestone slabs.

"Next!"

The staffer, a middle-aged man in glasses, tapped the desk impatiently. "Name?"

"Chaba King."

A burly man with dark skin, clad in a yellow training gi, declared proudly, flexing his biceps for show.

"I made it to the top eight last time."

"Yeah, yeah, fill out the form. Don't block the line."

The staffer didn't even look up, clearly used to blowhards like this.

At the back of the line, a stir broke out.

A massive red parasol shielded the old man in Sunglasses from the rain.

Master Roshi wore his signature orange Hawaiian shirt, hands clasped behind his back, wearing an inscrutable expression.

But if you ignored his eyes—which kept sneaking glances at the legs of passing women—he really did have the air of a grandmaster.

"Master Roshi, it's way too crowded here."

The speaker was Krillin.

He wasn't holding an umbrella.

Raindrops hit his bald head and slid off smoothly without a single drop sticking.

He wore an orange-red Turtle School Gi, with a black Tight Tank Top underneath.

The Krillin of now was different from three days ago.

His gaze was calmer, almost... vacant.

That was the side effect of deepening his Saitama template fusion—a lack of interest in most things.

"The more people, the more fun."

Master Roshi chuckled, wiping the corner of his mouth.

"And who knows, we might run into some pretty female martial artists."

"That's the real essence of the Martial Arts Tournament!"

Yamcha, bringing up the rear, had a dark look on his face as he lugged heavy bags of luggage.

As the one with the lowest "Battle Power" and the most "lovelorn," he'd been forced into the role of pack mule.

"Damn it... why do I have to do this grunt work?!"

Yamcha gritted his teeth.

"That traitor Puar ran off to hang out with that perverted pig Oolong!"

"Stop complaining—this is weight training."

Krillin glanced back at him, munching on a freshly bought Hot Dog.

"Want some? This place has great mustard, only five bucks. Good deal."

Yamcha was about to refuse, but his stomach betrayed him with a growl.

"Leave me half!!"

Just then, a powerful aura suddenly descended.

The noisy crowd around them seemed to part under an invisible hand, falling silent in an instant.

Three figures emerged from the curtain of rain.

The leader was a three-eyed man, tall and broad, each step echoing dully on the puddled ground.

A small figure floated beside him, followed by a blonde woman.

Crane School.

"Well, if it isn't the Turtle School people."

Tien Shinhan stopped, his cold gaze sweeping over the group before settling on Krillin.

He sensed no flow of ki from Krillin at all.

He seemed like an ordinary passerby—even weaker than one, almost like a plant.

But that only put Tien on alert.

Yamcha set down his luggage and stepped forward, trying to salvage some dignity.

"This time, the championship is definitely ours—the Turtle School."

Tien Shinhan didn't even glance at Yamcha. He stared straight at Krillin.

"Where's Goku? Didn't he come?"

"Goku? He should be here soon."

Krillin swallowed the last bite of his hot dog and tossed the stick cleanly into a trash can ten meters away.

"But the way you are now, you might not even be able to beat me."

Krillin said it sincerely, with no hint of provocation.

He was stating a fact, as flatly as saying, "It rained today."

But to Tien Shinhan's ears, it was the greatest insult.

"Hmph. Big talk."

A vein bulged on Tien Shinhan's forehead.

"I hope your fists on the arena are half as tough as your mouth."

The atmosphere crackled with tension, sparks practically snapping in the air.

Just then, a lively voice came crashing down from above.

"Hey... everyone!!!"

They all looked up.

A dark figure plummeted from the clouds at breakneck speed, showing no sign of slowing, and slammed straight into the ground.

"BOOM!"

Mud and water splattered everywhere.

A huge crater was gouged into the earth, and the people nearby scattered in panic.

As the dust cleared, a young man stood at the bottom of the pit, completely soaked, without an umbrella.

He was grinning from ear to ear, his signature spiky hair making his identity unmistakable.

His gi, clearly a size too small, was stretched tight over his body, showing off solid muscle lines.

"Goku?!"

Everyone froze.

Bulma—who had just rushed over from the hotel, Capsule Case in hand—covered her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.

"Oh my god, is that Goku? He got so tall... and... he's kind of handsome?"