The First Step

Ji Ming lay in bed for a full three days.

For a transmigrator, those three days felt longer than three years. His mind raced nonstop, repeatedly mapping out the future timeline and calculating the key points of every major battle. Yet his body could only lie there like a rag doll. Even turning over required Chi-Chi's help.

On the morning of the fourth day, Ji Ming was finally able to get out of bed.

The moment his feet touched the floor, his calves began trembling. A four-year-old child's body was already weak and soft, and with his severe injuries barely healed, he was panting like a bellows after just a few steps. Still, he gritted his teeth and slowly made his way to the door.

He pushed it open.

Morning sunlight washed over him, carrying the scent of grass and earth. Mount Paozu was unnaturally quiet at dawn, with only a few birds calling in the distance.

Ji Ming stood in the doorway and took a deep breath.

Alive.

He raised a hand, looked at his tiny palm, then looked toward the distant mountain. Mount Paozu was round and plump, like a steamed bun. It was not especially tall, but for him right now, climbing it would be about the same as climbing Everest.

"Alright." He breathed out the word and lifted his foot toward the foot of the mountain.

One step. One step. Then another.

Every step sent a dull ache through his broken ribs. Sweat began beading on Ji Ming's forehead, but his gaze never wavered. In his previous life, he had been an ordinary person, the kind who would even slack off and walk half a lap during an eight-hundred-meter fitness test. But things were different now. Saiyan blood flowed through this body, and within it lived the soul of a madman.

He began to run.

Calling it running was generous; he was barely faster than walking. His two short legs stumbled unevenly over the muddy ground, and he nearly tripped several times. His breathing went from steady to ragged, his chest feeling as though it were bound tight by rubber bands. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped from his cheeks into the dirt, leaving tiny wet marks that seeped away before the sun could even dry them.

He ran for roughly three hundred meters.

His lungs burned as if they were on fire.

Stop. Pant. Run again.

He did not know how long he had been running. He only knew that the sun had climbed from the eastern treetops to halfway across the sky. When he finally crossed the finish line he had set for himself—a bluish stone that looked somewhat distinctive—his entire body collapsed onto the grass at the foot of the mountain. He lay flat on his back, chest heaving violently, mouth wide open as he sucked in air like a fish washed ashore.

"Hey, that slow?"

A voice suddenly came from beside him.

Ji Ming did not turn around. He had already died once before transmigrating, and his response system had been replaced by an almost numb vigilance. He merely slowly turned his head toward the voice.

Son Goku leaned against a tree, wearing his signature orange training gi on his upper body. His arms were folded across his chest, and he tilted his head as he looked at his son, like he was watching a kitten that had just learned to walk.

"You run really slow." Son Goku scratched his chin, a strange confusion in his eyes, as though he were observing a newly discovered species. "With your battle power, you shouldn't be running this slowly."

Ji Ming did not answer.

He silently complained to himself, Why don't you try going for a run on the fourth day after breaking three ribs and cracking your leg bone? But he did not say it aloud, because he caught the faint trace of probing hidden deep in Son Goku's eyes.

This seemingly simple-minded Saiyan was not simple-minded when it came to fighting.

Son Goku truly was confused. What had happened three days ago had completely thrown him off—his four-year-old son had suddenly erupted with astonishing battle power, scared Raditz away with just a few words, and even Piccolo had said, "There's something wrong with your son." Yet this little guy lying on the grass and panting like a dog looked like an ordinary child no matter how he looked at him.

Had that explosive battle power that day been some accidental mutation? Or was he deliberately suppressing his actual strength now?

"Your battle power and your body don't quite match." Son Goku crouched down and tilted his head. "That's really strange."

Ji Ming propped up his upper body and spat out the bits of grass in his mouth.

"Dad."

"Yeah?"

"Do you not know how to teach people?"

Son Goku's mouth opened, then closed.

He had been left speechless by the retort.

Ji Ming knew what kind of father Son Goku was. In his eyes, there was only fighting, food, and friends. He even got his own son's name wrong despite him already being four years old. In the original story, Son Gohan had also been useless when he first appeared. Only after Piccolo took him away, threw him into the wilderness to train, and spent a year building his foundation did he officially take the stage in the battle on Planet Vegeta.

Expect Son Goku to make him a training plan?

He might as well expect Frieza to become a vegetarian.

But Son Goku did not get angry. He just scratched his head and chuckled twice.

"Piccolo told me to tell you that once you're better, you should go find him."

Ji Ming paused.

"Piccolo?"

"Yeah. He said there's something about you that he needs to figure out." Son Goku's expression became a little more serious. "Also, that guy said some things I only half understood. Something about... one year from now."

Ji Ming fell silent.

Piccolo had already begun to act. This Namekian's vigilance was even higher than he had expected. The seed planted by that conversation was beginning to sprout—Piccolo was waiting for his injuries to heal so he could verify that prophecy about "two Saiyans arriving one year from now."

That was fine.

He had been planning to start training as soon as possible anyway.

Mount Paozu's peaceful morning did not last even two minutes before Chi-Chi's furious roar tore it apart.

"SON GOHAN—!!"

Ji Ming's entire body stiffened.

He slowly turned his head and saw Chi-Chi charging out of the house like a tornado, her apron still tied on, her hair a mess, her face a picture of volcanic fury. Son Goku instinctively took a step back. This Super Saiyan who could blow up a planet with one punch now looked like a mouse cornered by a cat.

"How did you get out here?!" Chi-Chi rushed up, scooped him into her arms, and checked him over from head to toe. "Your injuries haven't healed yet! How could you run around?! What if you fell?! What if that alien came back?!"

Held in her arms, Ji Ming didn't know what to do with his hands or feet.

This feeling was far too unfamiliar. Being cared about like this, worried over like this. In his previous life, even when he had a 104-degree fever, he had gone to the hospital for an IV drip by himself. No one would ever yell at him like this.

"Mom, I'm fine."

"Fine, my foot! Do you know how many times Mommy nearly passed out when she saw you covered in blood—"

Chi-Chi's eyes reddened again. She clenched her teeth, desperately holding back tears because she didn't want to cry in front of her son. Even Son Goku fell silent for a moment at that heartbroken expression. His usual foolish grin faded, and his gaze held a trace of complicated scrutiny.

Ji Ming reached out and touched the back of Chi-Chi's hand.

It was a tiny gesture. In his previous life, he had never taken the initiative to touch anyone.

Chi-Chi froze for a moment, then hugged him even tighter.

"Mom..." Ji Ming's voice came out muffled against her apron. "I want to become stronger."

Chi-Chi's body stiffened.

"Stronger for what?! You're only four! Why do you need to become stronger?! Are you thinking of fighting again?!"

"I don't want to make you worry anymore." Ji Ming slowly raised his face and looked straight into her eyes. "If I can become really, really strong—stronger than anyone—then no one will be able to hurt me, and you won't have to worry anymore."

That baby face was far too deceptive. When a four-year-old said something like that, it carried even more weight than an adult's promise.

Chi-Chi looked at him, opened her mouth, but couldn't say a word.

And Son Goku, standing not far away, had a change in his eyes the instant he heard those words.

He was no longer looking at a "four-year-old whose personality had suddenly become strange," but at—a real warrior.

The resolve hidden in those words was not something a child could understand.

That afternoon, as the sun began to sink westward, Ji Ming pulled Son Goku to the clearing behind the house.

"Didn't you say you didn't know how to teach people?"

"Did I say that?"

"You did. This morning."

"Ah... I think I did." Son Goku scratched his head sheepishly. "But you really can't blame me for that. Grandpa Roshi taught me the same way back then. He just had me do chores and run, and I had to figure out all the basic fist-and-kick techniques myself, so I don't know how to teach systematically."

Ji Ming took a deep breath. He had already expected that answer.

"Then let's do this. You don't need to think about how to teach me. Just listen to what I have in mind."

Son Goku paused. "What do you have in mind?"

"Starting tomorrow—" Ji Ming raised one finger, his tone as firm as an old coach who had already drawn up a twenty-year training regimen. "I want you to supervise me while I do a few things. Run through the mountains with weights, fifty kilometers every day. A thousand push-ups, a thousand sit-ups, a thousand pull-ups, and a thousand squats. Once in the morning and once at night."

Son Goku's eyes lit up. "I tried training like that when I was little. It really does build a solid foundation."

"Also, I noticed something strange." Ji Ming pressed a hand to his chest. "After a Saiyan's body recovers, it becomes stronger than before. So I'm planning to have you periodically hit me with small ki blasts—just a little—injure me again, let me recover, blast me again, and repeat. I'll use that to speed up the growth of my base combat power."

Before Son Goku could answer, a voice came from above the woods at the edge of the clearing.

"You haven't even started training, and you're already insane."

Piccolo stood there with his arms crossed, a faint sneer at the corner of his mouth. His severed arm had already grown back. The Namekian regeneration ability truly lived up to its reputation.

Piccolo tapped off a branch with the tip of his foot, and a dark figure lightly landed in front of the two of them.

"Trading injuries for combat power—no one has ever done that before. But it might work."

He stared at Son Gohan's face, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints in the sunset. He had heard everything just now. A four-year-old had proposed a training method that not even the god of martial arts had considered. It only strengthened his earlier judgment. This child's soul came from somewhere that knew the future.

"Piccolo." Son Goku tilted his head. "Why are you here?"

Piccolo did not answer. Instead, he continued looking at Son Gohan, his tone taking on an edge of interrogation.

"In your eyes, will the two Saiyans I'm supposed to face a year from now still come?"

He meant Vegeta and Nappa. Ji Ming met his gaze without the slightest hint of evasion.

"They will. Raditz escaped with his tail between his legs this time, but he'll come back sooner or later. Those two Saiyans won't simply ignore the latest information about the Dragon Balls, either. They may not grow stronger at the same rate as in the original timeline, but the pressure..."

"Will only be greater, not less."

Piccolo silently mulled it over for several seconds.

"Good. Then let me see how much your training method can amount to."

With that, he took off the weighted cape and turban that had remained intact even when his arm was severed—two terrifyingly heavy pieces of equipment—and threw them onto the ground with a heavy, muffled thud.

"Put them on and run. I'll come tomorrow to time you."

He was actually... giving the protagonist equipment. Ji Ming looked down at the weights, and the corners of his mouth rose on their own.

Piccolo turned to leave, but suddenly stopped.

"Kid."

Ji Ming looked up.

Piccolo's back looked especially tall against the sunset, the play of light and shadow stretching his figure into a silent mountain.

"If the future you spoke of really contains something capable of destroying the entire universe in one go—then you'd better make me faster."

As his voice faded, he leapt into the air and vanished into the clouds in the blink of an eye.

Son Goku looked in the direction Piccolo had disappeared, scratching his head in disbelief. "Someone who could destroy the whole universe... Why did he make it sound like such a thing really exists?"

Ji Ming said nothing.

He silently counted them in his mind.

Vegeta. Frieza. Cell. Majin Buu. Zamasu. Beerus. Grand Priest. Zeno.

That was enough.

He picked up the weights from the ground and silently straightened up.

The next day.

Before dawn had fully broken, the first damp rays of morning light spilled over Mount Paozu. Ji Ming put on the orange training outfit Chi-Chi had sewn through the night—he had ultimately been stuffed back into Son Gohan's most iconic look. With the weighted cape he had gotten from Piccolo strapped to his back, he stood on the dirt slope outside the door and took a deep breath.

Then he started running.

This time, he was not shuffling along half-dead like yesterday. He ran at a slow but steady pace. Chi-Chi stood in the doorway, watching her son's retreating back with tears shimmering in her eyes. Several times, she wanted to say something, but swallowed the words. Then she turned and went into the kitchen to double the amount of rice.

After five kilometers of weighted running, Ji Ming's mind entered a strange state. Every muscle was burning, and his breathing had become pure pain, yet his mind was unusually clear.

He began sorting through the knowledge from his past life.

The principle behind the Kamehameha—

Gather all the ki in the body at a single point, compress it into a high-density energy sphere, then release it. The core lay in "gathering" and "releasing." The former required sustained physical strength as a foundation, while the latter depended on mental focus.

The amount of ki in his current body was nowhere near enough. He was four years old; the limit was right there. The burst from the day before yesterday had only been a one-time emotional ignition, not his normal state.

But he had a theoretical shortcut.

A Saiyan's combat power would skyrocket after recovering from a near-death state. In the original story, after Goku returned from Namek, his combat power had soared from nine thousand to three million, all because he had been beaten to the brink of death again and again before eating Senzu Beans. This was the Saiyans' most crucial cheat.

He had no Senzu Beans now, nor did he want Chi-Chi to worry. So he could only take it bit by bit—first raise himself to a level where he could withstand intensified training, then gradually increase the severity of his "near-death recoveries."

When he finished forty kilometers, Ji Ming collapsed to the ground.

He was not faking it.

His brain was starved of oxygen, his vision had gone dark, and every bone in his body was protesting. He lay face-down on the ground, the taste of saliva mixed with dirt in his mouth. The weighted cape pinned him to the mud like a broken brick smashed into the earth.

Through his blurred vision, he saw a pair of orange training shoes appear in front of him.

Son Goku squatted down, tilting his head as he looked at his son, who was nearly dead.

"How is it? Can you still stand?"

Ji Ming did not answer. Because he suddenly noticed that a hazy white layer was beginning to emerge around the edge of his body.

It was very faint.

Almost transparent.

But it was definitely glowing.

A thin, trembling white radiance flowed faintly along his arms and torso, outlining his body with a barely perceptible halo.

Ki.

In his very first proper training session, he had actually released his ki outside his body.

Son Goku saw it too. A trace of surprise finally appeared on his face, and the hand he had been about to use to help his son stopped halfway. Even his breathing slowed, as though he feared that too much movement might blow away that weak glow.

Ji Ming stared at the thin aura around his arm. His lips moved a few times, and his voice was lighter than the last embers of a dying fire.

"Hit me."

"Now."

Son Goku froze for a moment, his expression turning complicated. As he looked at his son lying on the ground, barely able to breathe, the concern of a father collided head-on with the instincts of a warrior. This was not a child throwing a tantrum. He was serious. But if Goku struck too hard, the consequences would be unthinkable.

"Your body—"

"Do it. Hit me."

Ji Ming repeated himself. His breath was weak, but his tone left no room for negotiation.

He had to gamble. Gamble that this newly awakened layer of ki could help him withstand the first real impact, and that his recovery would bring a qualitative leap. If he always waited until he was "fully healed" before acting, he would never maximize the Saiyan evolution curve.

Son Goku fell silent for a moment, then raised his right hand. His fingertips hovered in midair, aimed at his son's small back. The fist that had defeated Tien Shinhan at the World Martial Arts Tournament suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

In the end, the warrior's face replaced the father's.

The ki blast was tiny, no bigger than a thumb. Son Goku deliberately suppressed its power to a level that was almost impossible to measure. With a release of his hand, the faint ki blast slowly flew toward Ji Ming's back.

Puff—

A dull thud rang out. Ji Ming's body was blasted into the air before crashing heavily back down. A patch of his new training outfit was scorched black at the back, and his skin beneath was reddened from the burn. The pain nearly made him bite through his teeth.

But he did not pass out.

That thin layer of white light absorbed part of the impact. The remaining force still made his entire back feel as if it had been smashed by a board studded with nails, the pain piercing straight into his bones, but it landed precisely within the range of "seriously injured but conscious."

This was exactly what he wanted.

Ji Ming lay face-down in the mud, feeling that familiar near-death weakness. Every muscle in his back was protesting, every nerve cursing him for being insane.

In the midst of the agony, he closed his eyes and laughed.

The Saiyan bloodline had begun to awaken.