Six months had passed since I began living with Kami.
Under his guidance, my control over ki had improved dramatically. I could now suppress my energy to almost nothing — or flare it to full strength with ease. Judging by the density of my aura, my power level must have nearly doubled. I'd estimate around twenty-five hundred, even without a scouter.
Kami told me that if I wished to find my brother, I should visit a man named Master Roshi.
"An eccentric old hermit," he said, "but one of the greatest martial artists alive."
That description turned out to be true — and perhaps an understatement.
Roshi lived on a tiny island with a talking turtle for company. His power level wasn't high, but his technique was razor-sharp. When he demonstrated his Kamehameha, I couldn't help but smirk. The sheer refinement of the attack was… beautiful. Unlike the simple blasts we Saiyans use, the Kamehameha focused ki into a tight sphere before releasing it. The result? Twice the destructive power of a normal attack — though it drained far more energy.
I copied the technique after seeing it only once, which left Roshi wide-eyed and speechless.
From there, I began adapting it — experimenting with a one-handed Kamehameha and even a finger-sized version that was weaker but insanely fast. The versatility was impressive. I even started to incorporate it into my own fighting style.
Training with Roshi was surprisingly fun, even if I had to wear one of his ridiculous turtle uniforms.
One morning, as I was refining my ki control, Roshi's turtle companion returned, saying he owed his rescue to a young boy. Roshi leapt onto the turtle's shell, eager to thank the kid in person.
Something about that sparked a memory — could that child be him?
I followed from above, flying low over the waves.
When I arrived, the scene was… strange, even by Earth standards.
Roshi lay flat on his back, nose bleeding profusely — clearly from excitement rather than injury. A blue-haired girl stood nearby, smiling triumphantly as she held an orange crystal sphere. The turtle looked calm, confirming Roshi wasn't in danger.
And then I saw him.
The boy.
He looked just like Father — Bardock's eyes, Bardock's wild hair. The resemblance was uncanny.
Meanwhile, I resembled our mother more — except for the sheer amount of hair I'd inherited from Father.
As I descended, the boy's eyes widened. "Whoa… I've never met you before, mister, but you feel kind of familiar."
The blue-haired girl immediately smacked him on the head. "Idiot! She's not a mister — she's a woman! Can't you tell?!"
Goku — or Kakarot — rubbed his head, frowning. "But you said girls don't have tails… and she has one, so doesn't that mean—?"
The girl's face flushed crimson, either from anger or embarrassment. "You're the only boy with a tail I've ever met! How would you even know what that means!?"
Before their argument could spiral further, I stepped forward. "That's enough. I'm your sister, Kakarot. Or should I call you Goku, since that's the name she's using for you?"
He blinked, confused. "Wait… how do you know my name's Goku? And why did you call me Kakarot first?"
I smiled faintly — but a pang of worry tugged at my chest.
His energy was weak, barely stronger than when he was an infant. And from that look in his eyes, he either didn't remember who he was… or those memories were long gone.
Either way, the truth was clear — the boy standing before me wasn't the Saiyan warrior he was meant to be.