Other World, Celestial Realm – A Certain Region
King Kai observed Yamiru, who was currently learning from a group of halo-adorned aliens, when the burly South Kai suddenly appeared beside him.
"Well, well… King Kai, is this your— Wait, what?" South Kai, hands clasped behind his back, had been ready to mock, but then he noticed something odd. Yamiru's head was conspicuously lacking a heavenly halo. He adjusted his sunglasses in disbelief. "This guy's alive, isn't he? Since when do living people hang out in the Celestial Realm?"
King Kai chuckled. "Feel free to file a complaint with King Yemma."
"Hmph!" South Kai snorted. After watching for a moment, he couldn't resist adding, "Are those Metamorans? What's this living guy doing, learning their dance moves? King Kai, since when do you recruit performers? Heh heh…"
'What a mouth!' King Kai fumed internally. 'If only you knew this 'performer' is acquainted with the Dragon God himself—you'd piss your pants!'
'Hell, even I nearly did!'
Meanwhile, Yamiru gradually slowed his movements, wiping imaginary sweat with a grin. "Whew… finally got it."
After thanking the two haloed Metamorans, he heard King Kai call out, "Hey! Yamiru! Care to show off a little?"
Turning, Yamiru spotted the stout King Kai—standing several heads shorter beside South Kai—mouthing "Help me shut this guy up!"
"Sure," Yamiru replied cheerfully. "What'd you have in mind, Lord Kai?"
"How about weighted training?" King Kai suggested, waving a hand. Whoosh— Heavy black iron weights materialized around Yamiru's limbs. Unfazed, Yamiru kept his hands planted on his hips.
South Kai burst out laughing. "That's it? Pathetic! One of my disciples can move normally even with ten-ton weights! Ha!"
King Kai smirked. "Oh? There's a martial arts tournament coming up on Earth—Yamiru and plenty of other strong fighters will be there. Why not let your pride and joy join? See how they stack up."
South Kai puffed out his chest. "Fine! He'll win easily!"
"How… confident," King Kai said, antennae twitching mischievously. "But ah—have you noticed Yamiru's feet?"
South Kai glanced down. The ground beneath Yamiru's nonchalant stance was cracked to hell.
King Kai grinned. "Each of those weights is ten tons, by the way."
"T-Ten tons each? Don't screw with me!" South Kai sputtered.
"Lord Kai! Is this good enough?" Yamiru called, raising an arm effortlessly.
King Kai waved him off, taunting South Kai, "If you don't believe me, you try adding more weight!"
"Tch! Fine!" South Kai wiped sweat, bluffing hard. "How much?"
King Kai yelled, "Yamiru! How about fifty tons per limb?"
"Fifty, huh…" Yamiru mused.
South Kai thrust a finger at him. "That's two hundred tons total, in case you can't math!"
"Whatever," Yamiru said, swinging his arms like the weights were feathers. "I've got dinner waiting."
"Cocky bastard…" South Kai grumbled, conjuring the extra weight onto Yamiru's limbs.
BOOM! The ground cratered further—yet Yamiru just cracked his neck and jumped in place a few times. "Hah! Now that's a workout!" Within seconds, his movements became fluid again, as if unburdened.
Then he launched into a blistering kata—fists and feet a blur, lighter than air. South Kai's jaw dropped. 'Did my spell fail?!'
"Oh, right," King Kai said, antennae wiggling smugly. "What was your disciple's name again?"
South Kai coughed. "Ahem! He's, uh… far too busy for mortal tournaments! Yeah!"
---
"Why'd you ruin my cake?!"
"You made me drop it!"
"Now you're gonna eat every last crumb!"
The city streets were in chaos. Police officers stared, dumbfounded, as the once-captive black-haired boy—now incensed over his trampled strawberry shortcake—flipped the towering thug onto his back with one hand. He scooped up the mangled dessert from the pavement and force-fed it to the sputtering criminal.
The thug writhed, humiliated, as dirt-caked cake was shoved down his throat. He strained against the boy's grip, veins bulging, face purpling—but couldn't budge an inch.
"Hey! Brat! The hell d'you think you're doing?!"
The other thugs finally snapped out of their shock. One raised his submachine gun and unloaded—rat-tat-tat-tat!—bullets peppering the boy's back without regard for his pinned comrade.
Smoke curled from the barrel. The boy stood unharmed, surrounded by spent shells and flattened bullets.
He dusted off his hands and turned.
The thugs paled. 'Bulletproof?!'
But Denim, having vented his rage, was already back to his usual lethargic self. He scratched his head, eyeing the terrified gang.
'Too much effort to fight these losers…'
"Hey, Gohan," he called skyward, "wanna clean up?"
Only then did everyone notice the other boy hovering above them—lavender hair whipping in the wind.
Before they could react, Gohan blurred through the crowd. A split second later, he stood beside Denim as the thugs collapsed, foaming at the mouth.
The cops stood frozen, guns dangling.
"Ugh, you're hopeless," Gohan grumbled.
Denim patted his stomach, grinning. "Why waste energy on them? Eating's way better training anyway…"
"Lucky jerk," Gohan muttered, secretly envious.
Laughing, the two ignored the mess and soared into the sky. Below, a sea of camera flashes erupted—phones capturing their departure, whispers buzzing with names from nine years ago:
"Son Goku… Piccolo… Sato Yamiru…"
---
Street Corner, Under a Lamppost
A pair of icy-eyed figures observed the commotion.
The black-haired man smirked. "Seems he wasn't as omniscient as claimed. Earth's nothing like his reports."
The blonde woman in a denim jacket coolly adjusted her gloves. "Then we proceed with the alternate plan."
Their gazes lifted, tracking Gohan and Denim' fading silhouettes.
---
High Above the City
"So, Gohan, we heading back?" Denim flew backward, hands behind his head.
Gohan's smartwatch buzzed. He squinted at the caller ID—Mom—as wind roared past.