Morning sunlight spilled across the smooth arena platform, flaring into dazzling glare. The stands were a sea of people, already drowned in frenzied roars; the air was thick with gunpowder-like excitement.
After two days of brutal elimination rounds, the final top four had been decided!
"Ladies! Gentlemen! Martial artists! Thank you for waiting!"
The host's impassioned voice boomed through the loudspeakers and shook the entire venue. "The World Martial Arts Tournament—its ultimate showdown—begins NOW!!"
"First match! Entering first is the man who displayed overwhelming dominance in the preliminaries, crushing opponent after opponent—VITTLI!!!"
Accompanied by applause that wasn't especially fervent, and a buzz of curious chatter, Vittli strode calmly onto the platform. He still wore his black combat suit, his expression lazy, as if he'd only come for a morning jog.
He stopped at center stage, gazing levelly toward the entrance.
"And his opponent is the veteran who advanced to the semifinals through superb technique and rich experience—'Eight-Handed Fist' KING CHAPPA!!!"
"KING CHAPPA! KING CHAPPA! KING CHAPPA!"
Chappa's appearance set his supporters aflame with wild cheers. The burly titan—thick-muscled and brimming with confidence—waved to the crowd while marching up the platform like a conquering general.
He deliberately rolled his shoulders and arms, his developed muscles swelling like coiled dragons under his skin. He spread the opening stance of the Eight-Handed Fist; dense afterimages of fists seemed to bloom in front of him, whipping up a storm of wind and another wave of thunderous applause.
He planted himself across from Vittli. Seeing the other man's sleepy, indifferent look only made him more contemptuous. He snorted, nose flaring.
"Hmph! Kid! Don't think that just because you used some underhanded trick I've never seen before to luck your way through a few wins yesterday, you can act tough in front of King Chappa! You're unlucky to meet me. Those little parlor tricks of yours are NOTHING before the true secrets of the Eight-Handed Fist!"
He lifted his chin, eyes full of disdain, as if victory were already in his hands.
Vittli couldn't even be bothered to raise his eyelids. He had zero interest in nourishing pre-match trash talk. He didn't even change his posture—only lifted his right hand casually, fingers curling into a loose fist.
The instant the referee's "Begin!" finished echoing—
Vittli moved.
No charging, no shouting, not even a clear exertion of force.
He simply—naturally, like swatting away a fly—threw a carefree punch forward.
BOOM—!!!
A dull explosion that made hearts seize up. The very air seemed to detonate. A white ring-shaped shockwave burst from his knuckles, visible to the naked eye.
A second ago, Chappa had still been roaring in arrogance. Now his smug face froze, replaced by sheer horror in a heartbeat. He didn't even see the fist arrive—only felt an indescribable, mountain-crushing force slam into his chest.
"GUH—AAAAH!!!"
A shriek, warped by agony, ripped across the air. Chappa's massive body was smashed head-on like he'd been hit by a full-speed heavy truck. In the blink of an eye he became a distorted cannonball, screaming as he tore through the sky at a speed far beyond sound—shot straight out of the arena.
He was so fast a white streak trailed behind him.
In one or two seconds, the scream and his blurry silhouette vanished beyond the horizon. All that remained was a faint, dissolving white contrail in the sky, and a deathly silence across the stadium.
The fans who had been screaming Chappa's name were frozen mid-cheer, smiles locked on their faces, mouths open wide enough to fit an egg. Ten thousand spectators stared at the platform, mute. You could hear nothing but wind—and the faint hiss of waves against the shore in the distance.
"Wow! A shooting star!" Krillin was the first to break the silence. He excitedly pointed toward where Chappa disappeared, clasped his hands, and shut his eyes in pious devotion. "Please let me get rich overnight!"
Goku reflexively copied him. "Please let me have meat every day…"
The sight of two little kids wishing on a "falling star" beside the platform looked absurdly out of place against the stunned, silent arena.
The referee's hand trembled around the microphone. He swallowed hard, forcing down the quiver in his voice. "Wi… winner… is… Vittli!" His words came out dry, like every syllable cost him blood.
This time there was no cheering, no applause. Only countless horrified stares, as if a monster stood on stage—eyes locked on the black-haired young man who slowly drew back his fist as though he'd merely brushed dust from his sleeve.
One punch. Just one. A semifinalist had been swatted away like garbage and disappeared into the sky. What kind of strength was this?! It had already blown past anything they could imagine within "martial arts."
That afternoon, the semifinal bracket was announced:
Match 1: Vittli vs. Cheng Long (Master Roshi)
Match 2: Son Goku vs. Krillin
The fights paused. Vittli was about to leave with Bulma for a long-overdue lunch when Bulma tugged his sleeve and pointed at Goku and Krillin not far away—both rubbing their bellies and staring longingly at snack stalls.
"Let's bring them along, okay? Krillin said they didn't bring much money to the tournament. And the food the tournament provides… probably isn't enough for Goku."
Vittli glanced at the two brats—especially Krillin's forced composure while his stomach betrayed him with loud growls. Thinking they might fight together someday, Vittli shrugged. "Sure."
"Whoa! Thank you, Bulma! Vittli!"
Goku immediately whooped at the idea of a big meal, dragging along a shy, embarrassed Krillin.
Bulma picked a luxurious seafood restaurant. The result was, naturally, another meal disaster that made the manager and chefs question reality.
Vittli and Goku were like two high-efficiency food grinders. Wherever they went, plates emptied in seconds. Lobsters, king crab, oysters, towers of sushi and sashimi… vanished nonstop into the two bottomless stomachs.
Krillin had learned his lesson. He seized a huge platter of his favorites early, retreated to a corner, and fought his own quiet battle. Watching those two "inhuman" eating speeds rewired his idea of what "big appetite" meant.
Under the restaurant owner's eyes—equal parts heartbroken and flattering—Vittli set down the last giant crab shell, contentedly picking his teeth. Goku copied him, patting his round belly with blissful humming.
Bulma swiped her card with casual elegance. The long string of digits made Krillin's eyes bulge as he screamed in his heart: Being rich is so nice! I'm gonna be rich someday!
Soon, the semifinal matches began.
The main arena carried a heavier air than the morning. Two winners would be decided now, and from them, today's champion.
Semifinal 1: Son Goku vs. Krillin!
The two small figures launched into a fierce duel on the vast platform. Their bodies were nimble, their punches and kicks lightning-fast, trading blows in dizzying rhythm. The solid foundation Master Roshi had drilled into them, and the fruits of a year's brutal training, were displayed in full.
The audience was enraptured, roaring for these two children whose strength far exceeded their years.
"Go, Goku!"
"Krillin! Don't lose!"
Master Roshi, disguised as "Cheng Long," mixed into the crowd, watching his disciples with eyes full of pride. Then he saw Goku suddenly seize a fleeting opening, hop backward to gain distance—
Goku's hands drew together at his waist in a stance Roshi knew better than anything… yet never imagined he'd see here.
"Th-that is—!" Roshi's pupils contracted violently behind his sunglasses. "Kamehameha?! Impossible! I haven't taught them that yet! Unless… Fire Mountain back then?!"
He remembered using it once to extinguish the flames. Could this kid have learned it by watching a single time?!
"Kaaa… meee… haa…"
Goku's young but powerful voice rang out as a blue sphere rapidly condensed between his palms, pulsing with shocking energy.
Krillin, thrown off by Goku's retreat, froze for a split second. He recognized the stance—recognized the overwhelming pressure—and his little face went pale. This was their master's ultimate technique! A tidal wave of danger crashed down on him. Dodge? Too late. Block? With what?!
"…MEEE… HAAA…!!!"
"KAMEHAMEHA—!!!"
A blazing blue beam roared out like a dragon tearing through the air. It crossed the platform instantly and smashed into Krillin before he could react.
"GAAH—!!"
He barely managed a short, mangled cry before his body was blasted skyward like a kite with its string cut. He flew in a high arc and slammed hard into the ground outside the ring with a thunderous crash, head lolling as he passed out cold. Dust billowed up from the crater.
The referee finally snapped out of his stun and raised his hand. "O-out of bounds! Winner of this match—SON GOKU!!"
"Yay! I won!" Goku jumped in place, grinning from ear to ear.
"WOOOAAAH!!"
The stands erupted in astonished cheers, offering the loudest applause yet for that spectacular, terrifying strike.
After a short break, the host's voice rang out again, electrified:
"Next! The second semifinal you've all been waiting for! The mysterious and mighty Vittli versus the experienced, deeply hidden master Cheng Long!!"
Vittli and Master Roshi (Cheng Long) stepped onto the platform together.
Roshi had already removed his sunglasses, revealing his aged face and a gaze sharp as a blade. His expression was grave, his focus absolute. The morning's scene was still burned into his mind—this young man's pressure exceeded even what Roshi had felt facing King Piccolo in the past.
"Match—BEGIN!" the referee shouted.
Vittli didn't treat Roshi like he had Chappa. This was a god of martial arts; he owed him respect.
He took a simple fighting stance and said in a low voice, "Come at me, Mr. Cheng Long."
At the same time, he willed his ki down, forcibly suppressing his aura to roughly Roshi's level. But his body's raw strength, reflexes, and neural speed—the fundamentals—couldn't be lowered so easily.
Roshi inhaled deeply. He knew probing was pointless. With a sharp shout, he kicked off the floor—
His body vanished.
Fast. Ghostlike. To ordinary spectators, he was only a blur rushing Vittli.
Roshi appeared at Vittli's flank in an instant, whipping a full-power roundhouse into Vittli's ribs with a shrieking wind-cutting sound—an angle vicious and precise.
But to Vittli's eyes, that lightning strike was slow motion.
He didn't even need to think. His body flowed on instinct; he simply tilted aside with minimal movement. Roshi's leg swept past his clothes, stirring Vittli's hair.
Roshi missed—and didn't hesitate. Fists, palms, fingers, and kicks poured out like a storm, each attack steeped in martial wisdom, feints woven into truth, angles devilish.
The platform became a blur of bodies and gale-force punches.
Yet the more Roshi attacked, the colder his heart became.
No matter how intricate the technique, how brutal the speed, Vittli evaded at the last instant with a tiny, almost prophetic motion. Vittli didn't even step away. His movements were smooth, rhythmic, like a dance. Roshi's blows that could split boulders sometimes landed when Vittli didn't bother dodging—
And vanishing into his body like stones into the sea, not even swaying him.
…Sigh. Vittli felt a huge wave of disappointment. He had hoped to suppress his power and experience a truly even clash of pure technique with the grandmaster.
Reality was cruel. Even with his aura suppressed, his instincts and control of tempo alone made him untouchable. Roshi's attacks were riddled with openings. This wasn't a fight—it was one-sided play. When Vittli tried to stop dodging, Roshi's strength still couldn't even scratch him.
Roshi's shock was beyond words. His back was drenched in sweat. He had unleashed everything he had—every hidden card, every lifetime of craft—but his opponent was an unmoving mountain. Those casual dodges slipped perfectly between his rhythms, and the way Vittli remained motionless under impact proved a physique so deep it was terrifying.
What is this monster…? How strong is he really?!
Roshi jumped back, creating distance. A ruthless resolve flashed in his eyes. He tore off his training top, exposing a lean body packed with terrifying power. He thrust his hands upward—
Crackling electricity gathered around him, loud as fireworks. Blue arcs danced and snapped, turning his face into something grim and godlike.
"Kid! Watch out for this next one!!"
Roshi roared, beard bristling. "THUNDER SHOCK SURPRISE!!!"
BOOOOM—!!!
A massive net of violent blue lightning exploded from his palms, laced with destructive force and thunderous roar. It swept down over Vittli like a sky-falling cage, blinding the audience into shutting their eyes.
"Vittli!" Bulma cried, her heart clenched.
On the platform, Vittli let out another clear, helpless sigh.
Just before the lightning swallowed him, he moved. No flourish. No wind-up. He simply lifted his right hand and flicked it lightly toward the electric web.
Snap—!!!
A crisp sound, like glass shattering. The vast lightning net collapsed in an instant, bursting like a soap bubble. Stray currents hissed and sputtered in panic, then vanished into nothingness as if the move had never existed.
The entire stadium fell silent again.
Roshi stood with his arms still extended, eyes blank, almost petrified.
His all-out strike… was gone?
Vittli slowly raised his head, looking at Roshi's stunned face. His gaze was calm and flat, but it carried a chill that sank into Roshi's bones.
"I'll… get a bit serious too," Vittli said quietly. "Be careful. Don't die."
Before the words fully faded, Vittli disappeared.
Roshi's vision flashed white. An indescribable pressure, like the whole world collapsing on top of him, swallowed him in death's breath. He couldn't react. Time stretched into an eternity.
In Roshi's widening pupils, he saw—
His childhood self, training with the Crane Hermit under Master Mutaito, sweat running down a pure, naïve face.
King Piccolo's despairing shadow. Mutaito's final, burning resolve as he used the Evil Containment Wave…
Climbing Korin Tower, exhausted, seeing Korin offer him a senzu bean…
The thrill of firing his first Kamehameha…
The embarrassment of nosebleeds over swimsuit girls…
The joy of teaching little Goku and Krillin…
Three hundred years of life flashed by like a carousel, crisp and cruel.
…This is… a near-death vision?!
BOOOOM—!!!!
A deafening blast snapped him back.
He felt no pain.
He threw his eyes open—
Vittli's fist was stopped less than an inch before his nose.
The terrifying punch wind hadn't dissipated; it became an invisible blade surging upward, ripping the air and spearing the heavens.
SSSSHHH-LA—!!!
The thick clouds above were split clean apart, like an axe cleaving the sky. A huge vacuum corridor—dozens of meters wide—tore across the firmament. Sunlight poured through the wound, casting a holy pillar onto the platform.
It looked like the sky had been punched open.
"WAAAAH—!!!!!!!!!"
After a heartbeat of stunned quiet, the island exploded into screams. Every spectator stood up, faces twisted in awe and disbelief, staring at that scar in the heavens.
Was this human power?! This was a miracle.
Roshi stood frozen, sweat pouring down like a waterfall. He stared at the fist inches away. Then at the torn sky.
In that instant, he'd truly reviewed his whole life. If this kid hadn't held back…
He might never see another pretty girl again.
Vittli drew back his fist. He looked utterly bored now, as if all spirit had drained away. Without another glance at the shaken Roshi, he turned to the referee's stand.
"I forfeit."
"HUH?!"
Bulma, Goku, Krillin, Roshi, the host—every single person in the stadium—was stunned. People thought they'd misheard.
"Vittli… Vittli says he forfeits…! Vittli has chosen to… forfeit?!"
The host's excitement cracked into disbelief. "Vittli! Are you sure?! You were holding an absolute advantage!"
Vittli didn't respond. He turned and looked beyond the crowd, locking eyes with little Goku below. Something complex and expectant flickered in his gaze.
"Work hard, Goku," he said, a rare seriousness slipping into his voice. "You need to get strong—fast."
Then he stopped looking at anyone. He walked off the platform and took Bulma's hand. Bulma didn't ask why. She didn't ask where he was going. She only squeezed his palm tightly, lifted her face, and smiled with gentle certainty.
"Mm. Let's go."
Feeling her warmth and trust, Vittli nodded. Hand in hand, they ignored the chaos behind them and the feverish, baffled gaze of the crowd, strolling toward the quiet blue shore at the edge of the island.
Sunlight draped their bodies in long shadows.
Behind them, the host finally snapped out of it, trying to salvage the atmosphere:
"Uh… since Vittli has forfeited, the winner of this semifinal is… Cheng Long!! Next, the grand final of this World Martial Arts Tournament—Son Goku versus Cheng Long! The true Number One Under Heaven is about to be decided!!"