Father and Daughter

After the Night Watchers observation station incident ended, Earth entered a rare period of peace. Talos's daughter was already fifteen. She had mastered the full set of Turtle Hermit School basic martial arts, and no one her age could match the precision of her ki sensing. Even Krillin said she was "steadier than her dad was back then." But she had never called Talos "Dad." It was not that she refused to acknowledge him; ever since she could remember, Talos had been patrolling between worlds, and the number of times he came home could be counted on one hand. She knew her father was doing something important, but the word "important" was too abstract for a child. All she knew was that whenever she learned a new move and wanted to show him, he was never there.

That morning, atop Mount Paozu, Talos stood on the old reef rock from seventeen years ago, watching his daughter finish the final form of the Turtle Hermit School basic martial arts midway down the mountain. He knew this form all too well—the closing stance of the Tiger-Subduing Palm, both hands slowly pressing down from before the chest, ki settling into the dantian, breath as steady as the tide. When Old Master Zhao had taught him beside the waterfall, it had taken him three full months to learn how to close the stance without stirring up even the slightest extra palm wind. His daughter had needed only one month. Not because her talent was greater, but because more people had taught her—Goku had taught her how to drive force into a straight punch, Krillin had taught her the tricks of ki sensing, Lazuli had practically worn out the Turtle Hermit School manuals before passing them on to her, and even Vegeta had tossed out a "Your lower stance isn't bad" after one sparring session before walking away.

Talos leaped down from the reef rock and landed before his daughter. She looked up at him without speaking, breathing lightly, tiny beads of sweat covering her forehead. Over these seventeen years, he had missed too many moments like this—her first punch, the first time she learned the Flight Technique, the first time she wove ki threads by herself. He had never asked her, "Are you angry with me?" because he knew the answer lay in the deliberate silence with which she ignored him every time he came home.

"The point where you exerted force in the third Crushing Fist sequence was off by an inch." Talos assumed the opening stance of the Turtle Hermit School basic martial arts. "The core of the Crushing Fist isn't arm strength. It's the dantian. Force comes from the dantian, and the arm merely channels it—an inch of deviation will drain at least thirty percent of your punching power."

His daughter froze for a moment, then assumed the same opening stance. Father and daughter sparred in the morning light. Talos's straight punches, Crushing Fists, chopping punches, rising punches, and cannon punches—every form was the original version Zhao Tiexin had taught him hands-on seventeen years ago. His fists were not fast, but each stopped steadily an inch beyond his daughter's defensive line. Precise to the millimeter, neither a fraction too much nor a fraction too little. This was harder than shattering Frieza's armor with Triple Kaioken. Control had never been a bonus that came with power; it was the ultimate restraint of gathering all one's strength at the very tips of one's fingers.

His daughter went from unfamiliarity to fluency, from being led along by her father's rhythm to actively keeping pace with it. During the fifth round, she suddenly said, "The force point in the third Crushing Fist sequence—I already knew it was wrong. But I didn't want to change it, because that was the version Uncle Goku taught me. The force he taught me to use comes from the arm, not the dantian."

Talos withdrew his fist. "His force point is in the arm because he uses arm strength for the Crushing Fist himself. His dantian force isn't stable—not because he doesn't understand it, but because his body is more accustomed to relying on instinct. So the students he teaches also learn to exert force according to his habits."

"I know it's wrong. But he taught me so seriously. I don't want him to think I wasn't listening to him."

Talos fell silent for a moment, then resumed his opening stance. "Then learn both versions. Goku's version of the Crushing Fist relies on arm strength and is suited for rapid chained attacks, but its force is unstable. The original Turtle Hermit School version relies on the dantian and is suited for breaking through a single point, but it takes longer to charge. Both versions have their strengths and weaknesses—you don't need to choose which one is 'right.' You only need to choose the right one when you need it."

His daughter looked at her father's opening stance, then lowered her gaze to her own fists. She had spent two months learning the original Crushing Fist, yet Goku's version had always felt more natural in her hands. But she had not dared tell anyone—she was afraid others would say she had learned it wrong, afraid Uncle Goku would think she had not taken his teaching seriously. Now her father was saying she could learn both, and use both. Suddenly, it felt as though something inside her had loosened.

"Keep practicing," Talos said.

The corners of his daughter's lips lifted slightly as she resumed her opening stance. It was the first time she had smiled in front of her father.

That evening, Talos and Lazuli sat side by side beside the old pine tree atop the mountain, which had been bent crooked by the Great Ape Form seventeen years ago before growing straight again. The setting sun dyed all of Mount Paozu gold and red. Down at the dojo, a new generation of Turtle Hermit School disciples was carrying out their evening training. Gohan led a group of even younger children running laps along the beach, their orange uniforms flickering in and out of the dusk.

"She smiled today," Lazuli said.

"The third time. The first was the day she learned the Flight Technique. The second was when Krillin said her ki sensing was more precise than his."

"You remembered how many times."

"I missed too much. The only thing I can make up for is remembering every time." Talos turned to Lazuli. "These seventeen years, I owe you and her too much."

"You don't owe us. Before every time you left, you would turn the Turtle Hermit School manual to its newest page and leave it by her pillow. She never says it, but she's worn every page to tatters." Lazuli lowered her head to look at the cracked S-1 wristband on her left wrist. Her voice remained cool, yet beneath that coolness was a tenderness only Talos could distinguish. "Yesterday, she asked me whether you had been like that when you were young—getting up before dawn every day to practice punching, refusing to stop no matter how much your master scolded you."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said yes. But he was even more foolish than you—he didn't practice to become stronger. He practiced so he could become strong sooner and go home."

Talos did not answer. He merely laid his hand gently over Lazuli's and looked at the orange figure still practicing at the foot of the mountain. In the distance, smoke rose lazily from Turtle Hermit House, while the scent of seafood porridge rode the sea breeze all the way to the mountaintop.