A Boring Martial Arts Tournament

Kapok City's dusk was stained by the sunset like a dried bloodstain.

Around the ruins of the tournament grounds, the medical team carried stretchers in and out. The creak of wheels rolling over rubble sounded especially piercing in the deathly silent arena. The spectators gradually filed out, many of them looking back as they walked. The excitement of watching a spectacle was gone from their eyes, replaced by the terror of having seen a ghost.

The final match never began as everyone had expected. After witnessing the battle just now, Krillin had approached the referee and withdrawn of his own accord. He knew perfectly well that, with his current strength, facing Chen He—a man whom even Goku, fighting with everything he had, could not budge in the slightest—would be meaningless. Besides, competing for the so-called "World's Number One" at a time like this had become something of an absurd joke before such heaven-defying power.

Chen He sat alone on a damaged bench in the competitors' area.

The fabric of his black training uniform had been shredded into strips, which the wind pressed against his body. His surface temperature had begun to drop, a sign of collapse from excessive physical exhaustion. The fiftyfold gravity load still bore down hard on his chest, and every heartbeat sent a dull, needle-pricking pain through his organs.

[...]

The system interface in his mind remained a cold, dark gray.

Chen He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with an icy palm, his gaze as cold as ice. He did not collect the sizable prize money, nor did he pay any attention to Bulma and the others watching from the stands. His mind was entirely occupied with sorting through his next steps.

"Almost got discovered..." That sentence was still an unsolvable knot.

"But... a power level of 40,000 is enough." Chen He's fingers lightly rubbed a round, cold, hard object inside his trouser pocket.

It was a Four-Star Dragon Ball he had casually pocketed while wiping out the Red Ribbon Army.

With no update to the system shop and no heaven-defying items available, the Dragon Balls—the most crucial artifact in the original story—were his only way out if he wanted to deal with the unknown crises ahead. Whether he used them to wish for immortality or uncover the truth behind the system's dormancy, he had to get ahead of everyone else and seize all seven Dragon Balls for himself.

"Chen He."

A weak but resolute call interrupted his thoughts.

Leaning against Krillin's shoulder, Goku was helped over step by step. His tight undershirt was in tatters, and a large patch of dark purple bruising covered his chest—the mark left by the frontal graze of the wind pressure from that punch. Yet Goku's eyes were frighteningly bright.

Chen He turned his head slightly and looked at him calmly.

Warily, Krillin lowered Goku onto the nearby bench, then instinctively took half a step back. Even now, he could smell the scorched odor coming from Chen He's body—the strange scent produced by sweat rubbing against the overheated gravity vest. To Krillin, Chen He might have looked weak right now, but that restrained "ki" of his still felt as heavy as an iron mountain ready to collapse at any moment.

"You really are... way too reckless." Goku strained to tug up the corner of his mouth, only to aggravate the injury in his chest and grimace in pain. Even so, he kept staring into Chen He's eyes. "I thought about it for a long time. Back on Mount Paozu, I thought that if I threw a thousand more punches every day and ran a few dozen more kilometers, I'd be able to catch up to you. But today, I realized you're betting your life against yourself."

Goku laughed at himself and lowered his eyes to his trembling palm. "Grandpa used to tell me that martial arts were meant to make you happier. But just now, I couldn't see anything in your eyes... Chen He, what are you so afraid of?"

Before the instinctive genius of the original story, any disguise was unnecessary. Goku did not understand systems, nor did he understand the crisis of planets exploding, but he could clearly sense the madness and pragmatism in Chen He that came from being driven into a corner. It was not the purity of someone pursuing the peak of martial arts. He was more like a madman desperately reinforcing a dam before a storm arrived.

Chen He looked away, slipped both hands into his pockets, took out a Senzu Bean he had exchanged through the system in the past, and slowly rose to his feet while bracing himself against his heavy knees.

"Catch."

Crack.

Another fissure split through the wooden boards beneath his feet.

"I'm not afraid." Chen He's voice was low and hoarse, without the slightest emotional fluctuation. "I'm just used to factoring every possible accident into the plan."

He did not explain much to Goku. Some things were simply incomprehensible madness in the eyes of Earth's martial artists at this point in time.

At the bend in the corridor, Yamcha, now dressed in clean casual clothes, silently leaned against the wall. He did not come over. He merely watched from afar as these two youths trampled all of Earth's martial arts beneath their feet. The sunset shone upon the bandages on his face, making his expression seem somewhat lonely and complicated.

He had once thought himself something of a genius, and he had come to this tournament determined to redeem himself. But after witnessing Chen He's absolute violence—the kind that shattered even the air as though it were a weapon—Yamcha suddenly felt a sense of release.

"So the world is this vast..." Yamcha exhaled a breath of stale air. Watching Chen He's back as he walked slowly away, each step incomparably heavy, the unwillingness in his heart completely transformed into awe toward the unknown. "Being born in the same era as monsters like them... I really don't know whether that's good luck or bad luck."

Outside the arena, Bulma had already driven over in a huge Capsule camper and was impatiently honking the horn.

"Goku! Krillin! Hurry up! It's getting dark! Master Roshi already reserved us a table at the restaurant!" Bulma stuck her head out and shouted, but the instant she saw Chen He emerge from the corridor, her voice abruptly caught in her throat. She instinctively pulled her head back into the vehicle.

The image of Chen He coldly wiping blood from his face amid the smoke and flames at the Red Ribbon Army headquarters that year was still a nightmare Bulma occasionally had.

Chen He did not head toward the lively camper. Instead, he turned around and walked in the opposite direction, toward the neon lights gradually flickering on across Kapok City. The fiftyfold extreme gravity was still madly draining his exhausted strength. Every step felt like dancing on a blade's edge, yet that tangible pain made him clearer-headed than ever.

The system had gone dormant, and the future plot could undergo devastating deviations because of his power level of 40,000.

But the fists in his hands were hard, and the Four-Star Dragon Ball in his pocket was cold.

"I need to get Bulma's Dragon Radar tonight." Chen He's figure gradually disappeared into the shadows at the end of the street, leaving only a trail of shallow cracks stamped into the bluestone pavement. This somewhat boring World Martial Arts Tournament was over.