Jackie Chun vs. Yamcha

The other semifinal was Jackie Chun versus Yamcha.

There was little suspense about how it would go.

Yamcha went all out from the start. Having learned his lesson after Son Goku had taken him down in seconds last time, he opened with the complete version of the Wolf Fang Fist. He became a blur of afterimages, rushing at Jackie Chun from every direction. His fists howled like a pack of wolves, moving so fast that the spectators could only make out a dozen white streaks crisscrossing the ring.

But Jackie Chun just stood there.

His steps were unhurried. Every sidestep and retreat was perfectly timed, just enough to let Yamcha's fists graze past him. Every move in the Wolf Fang Fist struck nothing but air; Yamcha couldn't even touch the hem of his clothes. It wasn't a matter of overwhelming speed—Jackie Chun wasn't moving quickly, and the audience could clearly see every one of the old man's movements. Yet Yamcha still couldn't land a hit.

Son Goku watched from the entrance to the competitors' lounge, arms folded, his gaze following Jackie Chun's every move. His pupils narrowed slightly.

"He's moving at least half as fast as he did eight months ago, and he's deliberately shortening his steps. He isn't even throwing a punch—he's relying entirely on anticipation and footwork to deflect Yamcha's attacks. He knows what Yamcha will do next, which angle he'll come from, and how much force he'll use—all before Yamcha even moves. This isn't speed. It's experience. Decades of martial arts experience distilled into instinct. One look at his opponent's shoulder, and he knows where the punch is coming from."

Jackie Chun even yawned during the match.

Yamcha saw red. He attacked harder and faster, but his technique grew more and more erratic. His breathing grew ragged, and his rhythm fell apart. Then Jackie Chun finally moved—just once. A light push, as if nudging open a door that hadn't quite shut. It was just strong enough to make Yamcha stumble two steps—but those two steps took him beyond the edge of the ring.

The referee froze for a second, then blew his whistle.

"Jackie Chun wins! He advances to the final!"

Yamcha stood on the padded floor outside the ring. He looked down at where his feet had landed, then up at the old man hunched over in the ring. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes, then turned to shock.

"So that's how it is... Jackie Chun? Jackie... Master Mutten...!"

He abruptly swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue, his expression turning complicated. He felt awkward about being eliminated by Master Roshi under an assumed name, frustrated that even after eight months of training he hadn't managed to make the old man throw a single punch, and at a loss for words now that he finally understood. He took a long look at the old man's flamboyant back, gave a wry smile, then hopped down from the padding and bowed with his fists clasped toward Jackie Chun before turning to leave.

The host's booming voice rang across the stadium. "The final matchup is set! Son Goku versus Jackie Chun! The final begins in half an hour!"

A deafening roar of cheers burst from the stands. Many spectators leaped to their feet, clapping furiously, while others were already pulling out spare change to place their bets.

A bearded man slapped the armrest and shouted, "I'm betting on that kid! His fists were glowing just now!" A bespectacled young man beside him calmly countered, "That old Jackie Chun hasn't even broken a sweat. Can't you see?"

The whole island of Papaya seemed charged with the heat of battle.

Inside the competitors' lounge, the silence stood in stark contrast to the commotion outside.

Son Goku sat cross-legged on a bench, eyes closed. His breathing was steady and deep, and with every breath, the ki inside him grew more settled. He still wore the Tenfold Gravity Inner Armor, but after eight months of getting used to it, he could move normally in it. In fact, he hadn't even tested how fast he could move now without it.

His opponent in the final was Master Mutten.

The man known as the "God of Martial Arts."

Throughout eight months of training, I'd never once forced him to go all out. During every spar, he'd held back, deflecting my attacks with the fewest movements possible and never attacking first. But I knew what lay beneath that disguise.

Master Roshi was no fraud. He was someone who had spent decades refining his martial arts until he reached the limits of human potential. His Kamehameha could level an entire mountain, and his Thunder Shock Surprise could subdue Goku in his Great Ape form. When he got serious, his presence could make the whole ring tremble. More importantly, his combat experience, his psychological games, and his understanding of the very meaning of "martial arts" were far beyond what I could match right now. Even if age had eroded his physical abilities, the essence of martial arts wasn't in the muscles—it was in the bones, in the breath, and in the day-after-day practice that had never stopped for decades.

"So..."

Son Goku opened his eyes. Sunlight from the window shone in his dark, bright pupils.

He stood, loosening his wrists and ankles as he headed toward the competitors' entrance.

"Let's see if there's still a gap between me and the God of Martial Arts."

"Ladies and gentlemen—the final of the 21st World Martial Arts Tournament begins now!"

The host practically screamed the words into the microphone, his voice amplified until it drowned out the uproar of thousands of spectators.

The two contestants stood facing each other in the ring.

On one side was a spiky-haired boy in a blue martial arts uniform, twelve years old, with a face still untouched by maturity but a composure well beyond his years. On the other was an "old man" in a ridiculous orange suit, with a hunched back, sparse white hair, and a mustache that looked fake from every angle.

But Son Goku could sense it—a ki slowly stirring beneath that ridiculous disguise. It wasn't as showy as Yamcha's or as eager as Krillin's. It was quiet and steady, like a volcano that had lain dormant for thousands of years suddenly letting out its first wisp of smoke. The air in the ring grew heavy, like the stillness before a storm.

"Young man," Jackie Chun said. This time he dropped the affected old-man voice and spoke in his own: slow, deep, and weighty with age. His back gradually straightened, and with every inch, his presence grew stronger. "You're very good."

He took off his sun hat and tossed it down below the ring. Then he ripped off his fake mustache.

The crowd erupted.

"That old man—he's changed!" "Wait, did he get younger?" "He didn't get younger; he straightened his back!" "No, look at his eyes—" A buzz of discussion spread through the stands as more and more people noticed the change coming over the old man. It wasn't his appearance. It was his presence. All at once, the old man seemed... extremely dangerous.

"But the path of martial arts is still a long one." Jackie Chun—no, Master Roshi—spoke in a low voice. He slowly opened the front of his orange suit, revealing a dark green training uniform beneath it.

"So—show me what you've got."

Son Goku took up a fighting stance, one arm forward and the other back, knees slightly bent, his weight lowered. His tail swayed slowly behind him, then settled at the angle that gave him the best balance.

"I'll give it everything I've got—please teach me!"