The salty, warm sea breeze rustled the towering coconut trees.
The twenty-third World Martial Arts Tournament, delayed by a full year, officially began.
Thanks to Capsule Corporation's exclusive sponsorship and its ultra-dense, pressure-resistant construction materials, the martial arts temple and central arena had been rebuilt into something resembling a steel fortress.
The enormous circular stands, capable of seating one hundred thousand spectators, were packed to capacity. Martial artists and fanatical enthusiasts from across the globe surged into the venue like a tide.
Thousands of kilometers away.
Bulma held Son Gohan, who was dressed in a custom-made little martial arts uniform, and looked helplessly at her husband.
"You're really planning to dress like that for the tournament?" Bulma sighed. "You look completely out of place with everyone else dressed like that on the street."
Before her stood a mysterious figure clad in a loose black robe patterned with red clouds, his face hidden behind an orange spiral mask with a single eyehole.
"Don't worry, Bulma. Afei is a refined man who knows how to adapt to local customs."
From beneath the mask came Son Goku's slightly hoarse voice, altered through a throat microphone.
He reached out and pinched little Gohan's chubby cheek, making the child giggle.
"I should get going. Take the private plane to the box and wait for me."
Son Goku straightened up and was just about to use Instant Transmission when he stopped.
He slowly turned around and raised his head, silently gazing at the azure sky.
The breeze lifted the hem of his black robe. Beneath the mask, the corner of his lips curved into a calm, composed smile, tinged with anticipation.
"Looks like the after-show entertainment once this tournament ends will have quite some weight to it." Goku murmured softly, words only he himself could understand.