Jackie Chun VS Yamcha

The other semifinal match featured Jackie Chun against Yamcha.

The process held little suspense.

Yamcha went all out from the start—having learned his lesson from being instantly defeated by Son Goku last time, he opened with the full version of the Wolf Fang Fist. His entire body transformed into countless afterimages, lunging at Jackie Chun from all directions. The sound of his fists whistled like a pack of wolves howling in unison, and his speed was so great that the audience's naked eyes saw only a dozen white trails weaving into a web across the ring.

But Jackie Chun simply stood there.

His footwork was neither hurried nor slow; every sidestep and every retreat was perfectly timed, just enough to let Yamcha's strikes graze past him. Every move of the Wolf Fang Fist struck only air, failing to even brush the hem of his clothes. It wasn't a matter of speed crushing technique—Jackie Chun's movements were not fast, and the audience could clearly see every action the old man took, yet Yamcha simply could not land a hit.

Son Goku watched the match from the entrance of the resting area with his arms crossed, his gaze tracking every one of Jackie Chun's movements. His pupils contracted slightly.

His movements are at least half as slow as they were eight months ago, his stride length is intentionally shortened, and he isn't even throwing a punch—he is relying entirely on prediction and footwork to neutralize the attacks. He sees exactly what Yamcha's next move is, from what angle it comes, and how much force is behind it—he sees it all in advance. This isn't speed; it's experience. Decades of martial arts experience condensed into instinct; one look at an opponent's shoulder is enough to know where the fist will come from.

On the stage, Jackie Chun even let out a yawn.

Seeing this, Yamcha was consumed by rage. His attacks became fiercer and faster, but the more he fought, the more disorganized he became. His breathing grew ragged, and the rhythm of his footwork was thrown off. Then, Jackie Chun made his move—just one. A light push, like nudging a door left slightly ajar, with just enough force to make Yamcha stumble two steps—but those two steps carried him right over the boundary of the ring.

The referee froze for a second before blowing his whistle.

"Contestant Jackie Chun wins! He advances to the finals!"

Yamcha stood on the mat outside the boundary, looking down at where his feet had landed, then back at the hunched old man on the stage. A flicker of confusion crossed his eyes—then, that confusion turned into shock.

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

He abruptly swallowed the words on the tip of his tongue, his expression becoming exceptionally complex. There was the embarrassment of being eliminated by Master Roshi using a fake name, the frustration of having trained for eight months only to fail to force him to throw a single punch, and a sense of speechlessness following a sudden realization. He took one long look at that gaudy back, gave a bitter smile, jumped off the mat, bowed to Jackie Chun's back, and turned to leave.

The host's booming voice echoed throughout the arena: "The final matchup is set! Contestant Son Goku—versus—Contestant Jackie Chun! The finals will begin in half an hour!"

The audience erupted into deafening cheers. Many stood up to clap frantically, while others had already begun pulling out change to place bets on the spot.

A burly man with a thick beard slapped his armrest and shouted, "I'm betting on that kid! His fists had light on them just now!" A bespectacled young man next to him calmly retorted, "That old man Jackie Chun didn't even break a sweat, can't you see that?"

The air across the entire Papaya Island was ignited by this fighting spirit.

In the contestants' lounge, the silence stood in stark contrast to the clamor outside.

Son Goku sat cross-legged on a bench, eyes closed. His breathing was steady and deep, each inhalation and exhalation helping to stabilize the ki within him. He was still wearing the Tenfold Gravity Inner Armor, but after eight months of adaptation, he could now maintain normal movement in this state—in fact, he hadn't even tested how fast he would be if he took the armor off.

His opponent in the finals was Master Mutten.

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

During these eight months of training, I have never forced him to use his full strength. Every time we sparred, he stopped at the point of contact, using the fewest movements possible to neutralize my attacks, never taking the initiative to strike. But I know—what is hidden beneath that disguise.

Master Roshi did not earn his reputation for nothing. He was a man who had truly spent decades honing his martial arts to the human limit. His Kamehameha could level an entire mountain, his Thunder Shock Surprise could suppress Goku in his Great Ape form, and his aura when he was serious could make the entire ring tremble. Most importantly, his combat experience, psychological warfare, and understanding of the very word "martial arts" were far beyond what he himself possessed right now. Even if his physical condition had been eroded by time, the essence of martial arts was not in the muscles—it was in the bones, in the ki, and in the day-after-day of tireless practice over those decades.

"So..."

Son Goku opened his eyes, the sunlight from outside the window reflecting in his dark, bright pupils.

He stood up, stretching his wrists and ankles as he walked toward the contestant tunnel.

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

"Ladies and gentlemen—the finals of the 21st World Martial Arts Tournament, begin now!"

The host practically roared the words, the sound from the microphone amplified enough to drown out the noise of the thousands of people in the arena.

On the ring, the two stood facing each other.

On one side was the spiky-haired boy in a blue martial arts uniform, twelve years old, yet possessing a composure far beyond his years on his still-childish face. On the other side was an "old man" in a ridiculous orange suit, with a hunched back, sparse white hair, and those two mustaches that looked fake no matter how one viewed them.

But Son Goku could feel it—beneath that comical disguise, a surge of ki was slowly awakening. That ki was not as flamboyant as Yamcha's, nor as eager as Krillin's. It was quiet and steady, like a volcano that had been silent for thousands of years suddenly emitting its first wisp of smoke. The air on the ring began to grow heavy, like the stillness before a storm.

"Young man," Jackie Chun spoke. This time, he didn't use that affected old man's voice, but his own true tone—slow, deep, and carrying the weight of time. His back was slowly straightening, and with every inch it straightened, his aura climbed a notch. "You are quite good."

He took off his sun hat and tossed it off the stage. Then, he tore off the two fake mustaches.

The arena was in an uproar.

"Th-that old man—he changed!" "Wait, does he look younger?" "It's not that he's younger, his back is straight!" "No, look at his eyes—" A buzz of discussion rose from the audience as more and more people noticed the change occurring in the old man. It wasn't his appearance; it was his aura. This old man suddenly made people feel—extremely dangerous.

"However, the path of martial arts is still long." Jackie Chun—no, Master Roshi—said in a deep voice. He slowly pulled open the lapels of his orange suit, revealing the dark green training gi worn tightly against his body underneath.

"So—please, enlighten me."

Son Goku assumed a fighting stance, arms positioned one in front and one behind, knees slightly bent, center of gravity lowered. His tail swayed slowly behind him, coming to a stop at the angle most conducive to balance.

"I will give it my all—please, teach me!"