So This Is

The cave was damp. Droplets seeping from the ceiling struck the uneven bluestone floor, producing a steady, hollow drip-drip sound.

Chen He stepped over the scattered gravel and walked inside. The scrape of his soles against the ground was infinitely amplified in the enclosed space. He tugged at his slightly tight collar.

The green dot on the radar had almost overlapped with the red dot representing himself.

Behind a pile of dead vines, from a stone crevice covered in mud and dust, a faint, warm orange-yellow glow shone out. Chen He walked over, brushed aside the withered branches, and pried out the round, icy-cold ball with his hand.

It was the Three-Star Dragon Ball.

Three red stars were sealed within its crystal-clear surface, reflecting a hazy halo in the cave's dim light. Chen He wiped away the dirt with his rough fingertips and placed it together with the Four-Star Dragon Ball in his pocket.

The two Dragon Balls lightly bumped together in his pocket, making a crisp, quiet chime.

Chen He did not linger. He turned and left the cave, and the night wind blowing across the wasteland carried the dry scent of sand and dust, perking him up a little.

Meanwhile, in the underground laboratory of Capsule Corporation in West City.

BOOM!!

Goku sprawled facedown on the specially reinforced floor again, looking rather miserable. Several tiny vents on the surface of his silver-gray gravity vest hissed as they released white smoke—the heat expelled by its internal core components under extreme load.

"Goku! Get up already! If you smash through my floor, my dad's definitely going to cut my allowance tomorrow!"

Bulma clutched an enormous wrench and shouted frantically at the orange-clad figure on the floor. Yet the worry in her eyes behind her goggles was impossible to hide. This was already the fourth day. Aside from meals and necessary sleep, Goku had spent nearly all his time in this laboratory.

Fifteen times gravity was practically a living coffin that could snap Goku's bones at any moment.

"Ha... haha... sorry, Bulma."

Goku laboriously braced himself with both hands. The muscles in his arms were stretched taut from the extreme blood flow, and a fine layer of bloody sweat even seeped through his skin.

He could feel every breath and every beat of his heart constantly adapting to this gravity.

The pain nearly left him unable to breathe, but with it came an unprecedented sense of fulfillment.

"Chen He... fights against something like this every day." Goku gritted his teeth as he slowly straightened his knees, panting heavily. A light too brilliant to look at danced in his clear eyes. "No wonder... no wonder when he throws a punch, he can even smash the air apart."

Goku raised his right hand and, dragged down by fifteen times gravity, slowly and heavily pushed out a palm strike.

There was no gust of wind, no burst of force. Yet the instant his palm reached its limit, the thick air around him seemed to tremble slightly. Goku smiled weakly and raised a hand to wipe the salty sweat running into his eyes. He knew he was still far behind that black-haired figure, but at least he had stepped onto the same path.

Meanwhile, in an ordinary little bar in West City.

Several empty beer bottles sat on a table by the window. Krillin rested his chin in his hand, staring absentmindedly at the bustling nighttime streets outside. West City's neon lights were dazzlingly bright—almost painfully so.

"Yamcha, are you really planning to go back to the desert?" Krillin turned to look at his companion seated across from him.

Yamcha had changed into a neat set of casual clothes today. The bandages on his face had been removed, leaving only a faint red mark. He lifted his glass, took a swallow of bitter beer, and laughed self-mockingly. "If I'm not going back to the desert, where else can I go? Stay in West City and live the good life?"

He shook his head. In his eyes was the clarity and relief of someone who had taken a brutal beating. "You saw the match today. I used to think I was pretty good. I was always hoping to win a championship at the martial arts tournament and show Bulma what I could do. But now... Chen He and Goku aren't even in the same world as us. If I keep drifting through life like this, in a few years I probably won't even be able to see the backs of those two kids anymore."

Krillin silently tightened his grip on his glass. He understood what Yamcha meant. Watching a companion charge headlong into the abyss and risk his life while being able to do nothing but stand on the shore was more painful than taking a punch.

"I'm planning to go back to Orin Temple too, or maybe find Master Roshi and continue training." Krillin lowered his head. His voice was somewhat muffled, but his gaze gradually became firm. "Even if I can't become the strongest in the world, at least... the next time those two monsters run into trouble, we fellow disciples can't just stand around watching."

Yamcha froze for a moment, then burst into laughter and reached over to rub Krillin's bald head. "That's right! Drink up, drink up! First thing tomorrow morning, I'm packing my bags and heading back to the desert!"

The two young martial artists whose pride had been crushed to pieces at the tournament reclaimed their fighting spirit in the clumsiest way possible, in a bar far from home.

The night deepened.

At the edge of the northwestern wasteland, beside a gas station lit by a faint light.

Chen He sat on a somewhat battered bench, the Dragon Radar in his hand giving off a pale green glow in the darkness. On its screen, the coordinates of the next Dragon Ball had been fixed at a secret stronghold occupied by the remaining forces of the Liberation Army.

He rolled the two Dragon Balls around in his hand, feeling their cold, weighty texture.

He had more or less figured out the Red Ribbon Army situation. Bulma and Goku had also remained in West City. The entire course of events on Earth was sliding in a direction he could no longer completely control.

"Five more to go."

Chen He put away the radar and rose to his feet, walking toward the boundless wilderness. The setting sun stretched his shadow long behind him, and his feet left a trail of evenly spaced prints across the sandy ground.