That back… he knew it better than almost any other.
Though older and thinner than in his memories, the iconic turtle shell and flamboyant Hawaiian shirt were unmistakable.
Popo stopped and spoke to the seated figure.
"Master Roshi, he has arrived."
The figure stirred, slowly turning around.
A long white beard hung down to his chest. Though his face beneath the sunglasses was deeply wrinkled, the aura of a martial arts master still radiated from him, unchanged by time.
He looked at Yamcha—behind the sunglasses, his gaze seemed equal parts surprised and nostalgic.
"You… are Yamcha?"
His voice was old, but still full of vigor.
Yamcha felt as if he were dreaming.
Master Roshi.
It really was Master Roshi.
He was still alive. He was actually here.
The god of martial arts—who stood at the very beginning of Dragon Ball's history, who trained Goku and Krillin, who ushered in an entire era—had somehow survived into this bleak, hopeless future.
A rush of emotion surged through Yamcha, so intense it drowned out all reason.
All the fear, despair, and exhaustion he'd carried up until now vanished the moment he saw that familiar face.
It was like a lone traveler walking endlessly through darkness, suddenly finding the light of a lighthouse.
"Ma… Master Roshi!"
Yamcha's voice trembled. He wanted to say more, but his throat tightened, blocking every word.
He could only stare at this living legend before him, and his eyes instantly grew red.
...
Master Roshi looked at the young man before him—so overwhelmed he was nearly in tears.
Roshi's own expression was complicated.
"It really is you, Yamcha."
He stood up, leaning on the wooden staff he had carried for countless decades, and slowly walked closer.
"Korin said a dead man climbed Korin Tower. I wondered who it could be… I didn't expect it to be you."
His gaze swept over Yamcha's body and finally landed on the familiar scar on his face.
"Back then, during the fight against the Androids, you had already…"
Master Roshi didn't finish the word died.
Yamcha took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
This wasn't the moment for excitement.
He put on an expression filled with confusion and pain, shaking his head.
"I… I don't know. When I woke up, I was buried in a dirt pit… and my tombstone was right next to me."
As he spoke, he carefully watched their reactions.
Popo remained expressionless as always, impossible to read.
Master Roshi furrowed his white eyebrows, leaning on his staff as he circled Yamcha twice—as if examining some rare creature.
"Strange… truly strange…" Roshi muttered. "You definitely have the aura of someone who died and was resurrected. Very similar to when Goku and the others were revived by the Dragon Balls."
"But… Earth's Dragon Balls became useless long ago after Kami and Piccolo died."
His gaze sharpened.
"So how did you come back to life?"
That was a question Yamcha himself wanted answered.
"I really don't know."
Yamcha looked at Master Roshi earnestly. "I only remember dying… being blown up by a very short guy… and after that, everything is blank."
"The next time I woke up, I was crawling out of a grave."
He deliberately referred to his death by the Saibaman—something that would make his story sound more believable.
Sure enough, Master Roshi nodded. "Yes, we all remember that. But then the Androids appeared, and you fought alongside everyone… and then…"
"Androids?"
Yamcha showed a perfectly timed look of confusion.
"My… my memory is very fragmented."
"I have a lot of scattered images, but none of them connect. I only remember ruins… and a terrible explosion."
He had to present himself as a "resurrected survivor with damaged memory and a weakened body."
Only then could he stay here and receive the help he needed.
"I see… dying once has left even your memories incomplete," Master Roshi sighed, a hint of sympathy in his eyes.
"It's not just my memory…" Yamcha's expression tightened with pain.
He clenched his fists, then let them loosen helplessly. "More importantly, I feel like… the power in my body is gone."
"Your power vanished?" Master Roshi raised an eyebrow.
"Yes!" Yamcha's tone was anxious and frustrated. "I remember being very strong before. I knew a technique called the 'Wolf Fang Fist,' and I could control the 'ki' in my body… but now, I can't fully control it like I used to!"
He lifted his hand, palm up, straining as if trying to gather even a flicker of ki—but nothing appeared.
Of course, it was all an act.
He could easily form a ki blast now, but he had to play the part of someone crippled.
"I… I've forgotten how to fight."
Yamcha's voice carried a trace of despair.
He looked straight at Master Roshi, his eyes filled with pleading.
"Master Roshi, I remember you! I remember you're the greatest martial artist in the world!
You trained disciples like Goku!"
"Please… help me!"
With a thud, he dropped to his knees in front of Master Roshi.
"Please… teach me how to fight again! I want to regain my strength! I don't want to be useless… hiding from place to place just to stay alive!"
The sudden kneeling stunned Master Roshi completely.
He had never imagined that the once rebellious desert bandit would kneel before him like this.
Beside them, an almost imperceptible glimmer flashed across Mr. Popo's dark, beady eyes.
Master Roshi fell silent.
He looked at Yamcha—kneeling, shoulders trembling slightly—while the expression on his aged face shifted again and again.
Yamcha's heart was pounding.
He was gambling on Master Roshi's heart as a martial artist—one that valued potential.
And he was gambling on Roshi's sense of responsibility toward the younger generation.
"Get up first."
After a long while, Master Roshi finally spoke.
Yamcha felt a surge of relief—there was hope!
He stood up immediately, but kept his head lowered, as if awaiting judgment.
Master Roshi leaned on his staff, walked toward the edge of the temple, turned his back to Yamcha, and gazed down at the sea of clouds.
"This world has no hope left."
His voice held deep fatigue and sorrow.
"Goku died of a heart virus. Vegeta, Piccolo, Krillin… everyone is gone... Only Trunks remains, fighting a hopeless battle."
"We're only hiding here… dragging out a miserable existence. Even if you regain your former strength, what good will it do?"
"Your past power couldn't even withstand a single attack from the Androids."
Master Roshi's words were like a bucket of ice water poured over Yamcha's heart.
"I know!" Yamcha lifted his head and shouted, a fierce light igniting in his eyes.
"I know I wasn't strong before! I know I might never be able to defeat the Androids! But—!"
His voice burned with frustration and rage.
"But I don't want to sit here doing nothing, just waiting for death! Trunks is still fighting, Bulma is still trying to find a way…"
"I, Yamcha, am also one of the Z Fighters!"
"Even if I have to die, I want to die like a warrior—charging forward!"
"And not like a dog, hiding in this safe place and hoping for scraps!"
The words were half an act—yet half the raw truth in his heart.
He never wanted to experience the humiliation of being toyed with by Android 18 again… or fleeing in terror like before.
High above on the Lookout, Master Roshi kept his back to him, silent for a long time.
Yamcha's heart felt as if it were hanging by a thread.
Everything depended on this moment.
Finally, Master Roshi turned around. Behind the sunglasses, his gaze seemed to pierce straight into Yamcha's soul.
"Good."
Just one word.
"Beginning tomorrow, I will personally guide you in 'restorative' training."