Papaya Island, which had boiled over with noise and passion for the tournament, finally returned to its original peace as the last fighters and spectators departed.
The once-crowded streets and beaches now held only the gentle rhythm of waves and the clear cries of seabirds. Sunlight splashed over soft white sand, bright and unfiltered, while the air was filled with salty, clean sea breeze—as if the frenzy had been only a short dream.
But Vittli and Bulma didn't leave with everyone else.
For them, the not-so-intense matches had ended, and the island was now perfect for private time.
They tossed the clamor behind them and decided to stay a while longer.
Under perfect sunlight, they snuggled together on a wide beach chair, savoring leisure.
That morning, tourists who'd witnessed Vittli's jaw-dropping performance kept rushing over for photos. Vittli, surprisingly, was patient, always cooperating with a faint smile.
Bulma didn't feel bothered at all—she felt proud. See? That's my man. Handsome, right?
Now, at last, the tourists had thinned out. Only the waves' whisper and occasional gulls remained, as if the world belonged to just the two of them.
Vittli sighed in comfort, downed his icy coconut cocktail, and let out a satisfied "Ha." He shifted, wrapping his arms around Bulma's slim waist and relaxing deep into the chair.
Warm sun, cool wind, quiet surf… the girl he loved in his arms—
He felt so at ease he was about to drift off.
Then—
"Vittli!"
A bright, lively shout splashed into their calm like a pebble into a lake.
Vittli opened his eyes with a long, helpless sigh and looked over.
Goku came sprinting toward them, face eternally sunny, steps light and eager.
Vittli frowned, his face saying here we go again, muttering inwardly: Seriously, can't I take a quiet vacation without someone barging in…?
Bulma saw his sulky look and burst into a laugh. She rubbed his spiky black hair like soothing a big grumpy cat.
"Alright, alright," she teased. "He's just a kid. He's not a stranger. Don't be petty. He's rushing over like this—he must need something."
Vittli sighed, pushed down his annoyance, and sat up. "What's up? Why the hurry?"
Goku skidded to a stop before them, chest heaving a little, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Grandpa Roshi said he's treating us to dinner! I came to get you guys!"
His hand pointed behind him.
Seeing Goku's pure, hopeful grin—especially the fact that he'd remembered to call them just because there was food—Vittli's irritation melted into a faint, unexpected warmth.
He pinched Goku's chubby cheek lightly. "Thanks, Goku. For a kid who hears 'food' and forgets everything, you still came to tell us."
Bulma laughed and ruffled Goku's messy hair. "Yeah! Goku is such a good boy."
"Hey, don't touch my head!" Goku shook like a stubborn puppy, half protesting, half delighted.
"Come on! Grandpa Roshi's already waiting at the restaurant! If we're late, the good stuff will be gone!"
At "restaurant" and "good stuff," Goku's eyes lit up like lanterns; drool nearly formed at the corner of his mouth, making Vittli and Bulma laugh again.
"Alright, alright, let's go."
They ran back to the hotel, changed into comfy casual clothes, and followed Goku—who kept chanting "Hurry, hurry"—to a nicely decorated restaurant on the island.
They opened the private room door. Inside sat Master Roshi, no longer disguised, and his little bald disciple Krillin. The round table was loaded with dishes, aromas surging up like a wave.
Roshi had clearly spent some money.
"Grandpa Roshi! I brought Vittli and Bulma!" Goku shouted the moment he saw the food. "Can we eat now?!"
Roshi cleared his throat, posture solemn, trying to look like a proper elder.
"Cough, cough… well, everyone's here. Good. Before we start, let me say a couple of words—"
Before the "couple" was even finished, Goku had already grabbed his chopsticks and yelled, "I'm digging in!"
Then he attacked the closest dish like a whirlwind, cheeks puffing out like a hamster.
Bulma couldn't stop herself. She burst into laughter.
Krillin reacted like a veteran of war. He knew Goku's terrifying appetite—and he'd seen Vittli's bottomless stomach too. The second Goku started and Vittli's eyes turned bright in hunger, Krillin didn't hesitate. He seized the largest plate in front of him and began loading it with meat and expensive dishes at lightning speed.
His only thought: Fast hands eat. Slow hands starve. If I don't grab now, this table won't survive three minutes.
Roshi stared at the chaos—Goku devouring, Vittli joining at equal speed, Krillin transforming into a food-hauling machine, Bulma laughing so hard her shoulders shook.
The "speech" he'd prepared died on the spot. He chuckled awkwardly, abandoned all dignity, and grabbed his chopsticks too.
Because if he didn't, he might not even get soup.
"Waiter! Two more giant plates of fried rice—biggest size!" Bulma called smoothly, watching Vittli's plate empty at a visible rate.
"And pork cutlet rice! Two more huge portions, max size!" she added, like she was ordering drinks.
Roshi's expression grew more and more horrified. He slammed his chopsticks down, voice quivering.
"T-that's enough! Enough, kids! Eat only to seventy percent full! Health starts young! Don't overdo it!"
But Vittli and Goku were in full food-fusion mode. Eyes empty, minds clear, chopsticks a blur, only one goal—eliminate all edible matter in sight.
To them, Roshi's admonition was background noise.
When the last pork cutlet vanished into Vittli's mouth, and Goku scraped the final grain of fried rice clean, the grand "Clean Plate Campaign" finally ended.
The waiter arrived with the bill. His professional smile looked… complicated.
Roshi took it with a near-religious mix of hope and dread.
Then he saw the final number.
He was struck by lightning.
He sprang up from his chair, voice shooting up eight octaves.
"W-WHAT?! How much?! 1.3 million?!"
His sunglasses nearly slid off his nose. He jabbed a shaking finger at the number. "Did you add an extra zero?!"
The manager hurried in, bowing with flawless, apologetic politeness.
"I'm very sorry for the shock, sir. But your total is indeed 1.3 million. We've double- and triple-checked it. Not a digit is wrong."
"Th-that's insane!" Roshi flailed. "This is the World Martial Arts Tournament! A gathering of top masters from all over! The champion prize is only 500,000! How can one meal here cost 1.3 million?! Is that reasonable?! It's not reasonable!!"
The manager didn't argue. His smile stayed fixed, but his eyes said do you even hear yourself? He simply stepped aside and gestured to the empty space behind Roshi.
Roshi turned.
And petrified completely.
Behind him was a mountain of empty plates and bowls—an enormous "dish range" stacked to the ceiling. Every plate was huge enough to hold a family-sized feast; every bowl deep enough for a pot of soup.
This silent monument shouted the truth louder than any words.
Roshi stood there, mouth open, swaying faintly.
So that was what 1.3 million looked like.
His lips trembled. He clung to one last shred of hope and looked at the manager.
"Um… can I… wash dishes to pay…?"
Bulma saw his devastated face, Krillin and Goku's innocent confusion, and laughed again. She took out a black card, handed it to the manager, and flicked her wrist.
"Put it on my card."
Then she turned to Roshi with a mischievous blink.
"Master Roshi, you really 'went all out' this time. We appreciate the sentiment!"
Roshi's old face turned red. He stammered thanks, wiping sweat and muttering about "being careful next time," looking both mortified and grateful as the farcical banquet ended on a perfect comedic note.
After saying goodbye to Roshi and the two kids, Vittli and Bulma were finally free of all interruptions.
For three full days, they enjoyed a completely private vacation on Papaya Island's clean sands and clear seas—no training, no distractions, only ocean wind, starlight, and each other's laughter.
But three days passed in a blink.
When their capsule aircraft landed back on the broad helipad of Capsule Corporation's estate in West City, Vittli inhaled the familiar air mixed with engine oil and flowers. A long-lost restlessness surged in his veins.
He hadn't trained hard in days. It made his whole body itch, like idleness had seeped into his bones.
Gravity room… gravity room! he howled inwardly, eyes drifting toward the huge metal structure deeper in the estate. How am I supposed to live without you?!
The joy of returning home was instantly replaced by an almost pilgrim-like urgency. The moment his boots hit the grass, Vittli could barely restrain himself.
He didn't even bother chatting with Dr. Brief and Mrs. Brief, only tossing Bulma a hurried "I'll go first," and then turning into a blur as he shot toward the gravity room.
Bulma watched him go, hands on hips, annoyed but amused.
"Hey! Vittli! You idiot! Can't you even say goodbye properly?! Training blockhead! Jerk!"
She said "jerk" in a deliberately scolding tone, but her eyes were full of indulgent laughter. She knew what the gravity room meant to him.
Bulma shook her head; the mock anger faded into a different glow—one of focused excitement.
Her battlefield was back too.
"Hmph. You blockhead—watch me," she muttered, then marched toward her high-tech lab.
She had promised to build a more advanced new gravity room with higher multipliers. The challenge thrilled her just as much.
By the window, Mrs. Brief sipped tea, watching her daughter's adorable complaints, her tender eyes, and then her driven stride into the lab.
She smiled at Dr. Brief beside her.
"Dear, look—our Bulma chases technology, and Vittli chases strength. They're both so spirited and goal-driven… they really do match, don't they?"
Dr. Brief adjusted his glasses, listening to the dull thuds of someone already training madly in the backyard, then glanced at the light blooming in Bulma's lab.
He nodded serenely, wine glass in hand. "Mm. Full of life. Nice."
The estate returned to its familiar rhythm—the gravity room's rumble and the lab's glow weaving into the home's steady background music.