Training Through Competition

Eight months later.

The morning sea breeze carried a salty, fishy smell as it swept over Kame House's dilapidated roof. Waves slapped against the reefs along the shore, making a steady whooshing sound.

"Ha!"

"Hey!"

Two youthful shouts rang out almost simultaneously. A tall figure and a short one darted past each other on the beach in front of Kame House. The dull thuds of their fists and feet colliding came in a rapid barrage like pounding drums, making the air hum.

Krillin—the little bald monk—flipped twice in midair and landed steadily. His feet scraped two long tracks in the sand. Fine beads of sweat had already formed on his forehead, sliding down his smooth scalp. He stared at the spiky-haired boy opposite him, who was panting just as hard but grinning brightly, and felt a complicated emotion well up inside him.

This guy... he's gotten stronger again.

We eat the same food, do the same training, and sleep for the same amount of time every day. I get up at four every morning to practice my punches, and he gets up at four too. I sneak out at night to meditate and train my ki on the reefs, and he sits on the rocks beside me. I add five hundred punches to my training, and he adds six hundred. I eat five bowls of rice, and he eats six...

And the thing is, he doesn't even seem tired! Every time I think I'm about to catch up, we spar the next day and the gap's even bigger!

"Krillin! Again!" Son Goku grinned, showing a row of gleaming white teeth. His tail swished excitedly behind him, tracing arcs in the sand.

"Bring it on! Who's afraid of you?"

Krillin gritted his teeth, pushed off the ground, and shot forward like a spring. His punches were at least a full tier trickier than they had been eight months ago—his left fist was a feint, his right a real strike, and a knee followed close behind. The three-hit combo flowed seamlessly.

But Son Goku's body shifted ever so slightly, and he slipped through the gaps between the three attacks. His movements weren't flashy, but they were terrifyingly precise—the Saiyan battle instinct guiding him, muscle memory tempered by countless hours under ten times Earth's gravity.

What Krillin didn't notice was the faint golden pattern glowing beneath Son Goku's blue gi, on the black weighted undersuit he wore. The gravity setting was ten times normal.

Every step, every punch was like battling an invisible pressure at the bottom of the ocean. His bones gave off faint pops under the crushing weight, audible only to him. His muscle fibers grew stronger through a constant cycle of tearing and healing, and his heart beat like a heavy drum. Sweat beaded on his forehead three times as fast as usual, running down his cheeks and into the collar of his gi.

Still not enough.

Son Goku silently felt the surging power inside him.

The foresight of a time traveler was like a searchlight illuminating the dark timeline ahead. He knew that in a few years, a Saiyan named Raditz would arrive on Earth. Raditz was his own flesh-and-blood older brother—and the first powerful foe to make him taste death.

Raditz. Vegeta. Nappa. Frieza. Cell. Majin Buu.

Those names loomed over him like a series of ever-higher mountains.

I should be a lot stronger than Goku was at this point in the original story, right?

He quickly estimated his strength. In the original story, Goku's power level during the Raditz Saga was around 416. After eight months of this keep-up-with-the-competition training—Turtle School exercises under ten times gravity, nonstop sparring with Krillin, and the accelerated growth of his prematurely awakened Saiyan blood—his power level had probably approached, or even surpassed, the 500 mark.

Five hundred. At this point in time, there shouldn't be a stronger fighter on Earth.

And thanks to the pressure of his own obsessive training, Krillin was also much stronger than in the original story. He could now last a hundred moves against Master Roshi without losing.

But even 500 isn't enough... I still wouldn't be able to beat anyone who matters!

And on a cosmic scale, 500 wasn't even a fraction of what he needed. Frieza's 530,000—that number alone was enough to make his scalp tingle. And that was nothing compared to Perfect Cell, Majin Buu's terrifying ability to regenerate, or God of Destruction Beerus, a being on an entirely different plane of existence.

"Get stronger. I have to get stronger."

"Goku! What are you spacing out for?"

Krillin's fist was already closing in on his face. The wind from the punch grazed Son Goku's cheek, lifting a few strands of black hair.

His body moved before his mind could catch up—a reflex forged by taking hundreds or even thousands of punches every day for the past eight months. He tilted his head, and Krillin's knuckles skimmed past his ear. The scorching wind of the punch made his eardrum ring. In the same instant, he swung a backhand chop at the back of Krillin's neck. It wasn't especially fast, but its angle was flawless.

"Thud!"

Krillin barely managed to block the strike, crossing his forearms beside his neck. But the force was far beyond what he'd expected—like being hit head-on by a charging bull. He staggered back three steps, his heels carving two deep furrows in the sand. His arms went numb and ached as if someone had beaten him with a stick.

"Th-that's a lot of power!" Krillin's eyes widened. He shook out his numb arms. "Goku, have you been sneaking in extra training again?"

Son Goku tilted his head, looking innocent. "No, I've just been training like usual."

"Like usual, my ass!"

Krillin raged inwardly. This kid's idea of "training like usual" included, but wasn't limited to: getting up at four in the morning to run fifty kilometers with weights; completing Master Roshi's hellish training regimen during the day; adding a thousand punches after dinner; and meditating to train his ki for an hour before bed. Last week, Krillin had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Passing Son Goku's room, he'd found the kid doing sit-ups in his sleep—eyes shut, breathing steady, definitely asleep, but his abs kept moving up and down without stopping. There was no way to explain that kind of training with the word "usual"!

"Ah—what a racket!"

The wooden door was kicked open, and Master Roshi shuffled out, leaning on his cane. One button on his Hawaiian shirt was fastened wrong, and his sunglasses sat crookedly on his nose. He'd clearly just been woken up.

"You two little brats! Making all that racket first thing in the morning—can't an old man sleep in? Don't you know I was up until two last night watching an aerobics show?"

Krillin and Son Goku stopped at the same time and stood obediently at attention.

Master Roshi yawned and pushed up his sunglasses. Then he walked over to them unhurriedly. The gaze behind his glasses lingered on Krillin for a moment before slowly shifting to Son Goku. His expression barely changed, but he watched Son Goku noticeably longer.

There's something off about this kid...

Master Roshi had taught the Turtle School for decades and trained countless students. He knew every one of their growth curves by heart—no matter how quickly they improved, there was always a limit. It was like pouring water into a cup: the opening was only so wide, and no matter how fast the water flowed, there was only so much it could hold.

But Son Goku was different. He wasn't a cup at all. He was a well. No matter how much water you poured in, you couldn't fill him.

What kind of body does this kid have?

"Goku," Master Roshi began slowly, some of the sleepiness fading from his voice. "Your progress over these eight months... to be honest, it's beyond anything I've seen in all my decades of teaching."

Son Goku's heart tightened slightly.

Damn, has he figured it out?

It was only a matter of time before Master Roshi started questioning his progress. Saiyans grew at an abnormally fast rate. Any martial artist who had seriously trained students would notice something was wrong. But he couldn't tell him the truth. How would he explain it? I'm an alien, and my race naturally grows stronger the more we fight? Master Roshi would probably think he'd trained himself stupid.

"But," Master Roshi continued, his expression hidden by his sunglasses, though the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, "you can't win a World Martial Arts Tournament with strength alone. You need power, speed, technique, experience, and the right mindset. You can't afford to lack any of them."

He craned his neck toward the two of them, his sunglasses slipping to the tip of his nose and revealing a pair of sharp eyes. "When you're facing someone weaker than you, don't underestimate them. When you're facing someone far stronger, don't be afraid. The truly impressive fighter isn't the strongest one—it's the last one still standing in the ring."

He paused, picked at his ear with his little finger, and blew on it. "So—how ready are you two?"

"Anytime!" Son Goku puffed out his chest, his eyes burning with fierce excitement. It wasn't a child's passing impulse, but a longing that had settled in over eight years and grown clearer with time.

Krillin clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "This time... I'm going to beat Goku! At least I'll land ten punches—no, five!"

Master Roshi looked at Krillin, then at Son Goku, and suddenly threw his head back and laughed. His white beard bobbed with excitement, and his laughter carried far over the sea. "Good! That's the spirit! Krillin's got spirit! Goku's got spirit too! In that case—"

He reached behind his shell and fumbled around for a while, then pulled out two crumpled sheets of paper.

"The 21st World Martial Arts Tournament starts in one month!"

Son Goku held out both hands and took the thin registration form. The sea breeze made it tremble slightly. He pressed a fingertip against the page, feeling something flow from the paper through his finger and into his veins.

The World Martial Arts Tournament.

He'd watched it countless times in the anime and knew every opponent and matchup by heart. But watching from the sidelines and standing in the ring in person, with thousands of people cheering, were two different things.

"It's finally here."

He took a deep breath, carefully folded the registration form, and tucked it inside his gi. His heart thumped in his chest—not from nerves, but from the excitement of being about to step up to the starting line.