Papaya Island, near South City.
What was usually a quiet resort island had become a roaring sea of people. A gigantic banner reading "World Martial Arts Tournament" snapped in the wind, and martial artists, fight fanatics, and curious tourists from every corner of the globe packed the island's center so tightly that the iconic circular arena was nearly swallowed whole.
The air was thick with the mingled smells of sweat, popcorn seasoning, and feverish anticipation. Faces glowed with excited flush; chatter, cheers, and vendors' cries blended into a boiling tide that sang of the glory of this once-every-four-years martial festival.
Near the crowded registration area, a little bald boy and a spiky-haired kid with a tail stood out like beacons.
Krillin tugged at the sleeve of his companion in an orange gi, a Power Pole strapped to his back. He wore a mix of confidence and eager restlessness.
"So that guy you mentioned—another one with a tail, named Vitli—he's really that strong? We went through hellish training under Master Roshi, you know!"
He clenched his fists and flexed the lean muscle he'd carved out. "I feel terrifyingly strong right now!"
Goku scratched the back of his head, big clear eyes clouded with uncertainty. "Uhh… I don't know about now. But a year ago he was super fast. I didn't even see him move before he had me pinned. My whole body couldn't move, and then I lost."
He remembered the helpless defeat, still a little dazed by it.
"Hah! Then you were just too weak back then!" Krillin's confidence exploded at that, hands on hips as he laughed. "But now it's different! We're Master Roshi's top students! After all that brutal training, I—Krillin the Great—am crazy strong! If that Vitli shows up, I'll knock his teeth out and leave him crying on the floor!"
He flashed a grin that screamed I'm unbeatable.
Goku nodded vaguely. His sense of strength was simple and direct, and he had a bad feeling that if Krillin really fought Vitli… Krillin would get absolutely wrecked.
Before Goku could say anything, a long, powerful hand with sharp knuckles slid in like a ghost from the side and pinched his chubby cheeks without warning—then cruelly pulled.
"Owwww—hey! That hurts!" Goku yelped, tears springing to his eyes as he tried uselessly to pry the grip off his face.
Krillin jumped, then looked over—
A tall, broad-shouldered black-haired young man in a sleek black battle suit had appeared beside them without a sound.
He was handsome, wearing a playful smirk, his gaze sizing up Goku and Krillin with lazy amusement. Behind him, a fluffy tail swayed casually, keeping some unhurried rhythm.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Well if it isn't little Goku," Vitli said, his voice exaggerated with mock surprise and heavy teasing. "Only a year and you've already become the famed Turtle Hermit's prized disciple? Wow… kowaii ne~~~"
He dragged out the last syllables, and his fingers tightened again.
"Let go, you jerk! Who the hell are you? Put Goku down!" Krillin rushed forward, furious, trying to pry Vitli's hand loose.
When Vitli didn't budge, Krillin panicked and actually opened his mouth—small white teeth flashing—like he was about to bite Vitli's wrist.
Vitli's brow twitched. He had no interest in bald-kid saliva. With a light flick, he shook Krillin off and released Goku's face.
Goku immediately clutched his reddened cheeks, puffing up in outrage and grievance. "Vitli! You idiot! That really hurt!"
"Vitli?" Krillin rubbed his numb arm, eyes widening at the name. He scanned the "ordinary-looking" man in front of him who somehow radiated pure danger.
"You're that Vitli?"
"If there's no other Vitli around…" Vitli dusted his hands like he'd just brushed off a speck of lint. His mouth curled into a wild little grin, and he looked down at Krillin with casual contempt. "Yep. Just a plain old Saiyan, that's all."
Krillin's competitive instinct flared. He swallowed a sliver of unease, crossed his arms, and forced his chest out, nostrils (well… nose holes) pointed at Vitli.
"Hmph! Don't act all mysterious. I don't care who you are—if you're entering this tournament, then listen up! If you end up facing me or Goku on the ring…"
He paused, voice sharpening. "We won't hold back! Don't come crying when you get your butt kicked—I warned you!"
He tried to hide his nerves behind tough talk.
Vitli stared at the little bald guy bravely puffing himself up, and almost laughed outright. Barely holding it in, he nodded solemnly, tone dripping with the kind of fake seriousness you use on toddlers.
"Mm-hmm. Sure, sure. Got it. Thanks for the warning. I'll definitely… be careful."
The drawn-out words were pure mockery.
Just then, a clear, bright girl's voice cut through the noise around them:
"Vitli! How'd you wander all the way over here? I've been looking everywhere!"
Bulma squeezed through the crowd, wallet in hand, a light sheen of sweat on her pretty forehead. She wore a stylish casual outfit today, and her short blue hair made her look even livelier.
The moment she saw Vitli, she naturally linked her arm through his and leaned close, openly affectionate.
"Huh? Goku?" Only then did she notice the two kids. Her face lit up. "You're joining the tournament too?"
"Bulma!" Goku beamed, instantly forgetting the pain. "Krillin and I came with Grandpa Roshi! But he said he was gonna go look at the scenery, and then he just disappeared."
"Master Roshi, that old pervert, is here too?" Bulma's expression hardened, eyes narrowing with a chilly edge.
But when she looked at the two little guys, her usual sparkle returned at once. She waved them over enthusiastically. "Perfect! I've already booked the best hotel on the island. Lunch time's almost here—come on, come on, let's eat together! My treat!"
She patted her bulging wallet like a proud sponsor.
"Really? Yes!!" Goku's eyes went star-bright at the word food, practically drooling.
Krillin watched Bulma cling to Vitli like a kitten. Standing together, they looked annoyingly perfect, and Vitli wore that effortless, unbothered calm. Something sour welled up in Krillin's chest.
He pouted and muttered under his breath, thinking nobody could hear: "Hmph… real martial artists should put the Way first. Getting distracted by women… only slows down your punches…"
Even he felt how ridiculous that sounded as he said it. And besides—his "whisper" might as well have been a megaphone to Vitli's Saiyan ears.
Vitli raised a brow, a mischievous gleam flickering in his eyes.
Oh? Little bald guy acting all noble? Fine. I'll remember that. One day I'll make sure you get exactly what you're asking for right now.
At noon, inside the luxury restaurant Bulma had reserved, a scene unfolded that every waiter and chef would remember for the rest of their lives.
Vitli demonstrated what a Saiyan stomach really meant.
He ate at lightning speed—his movements weren't frantic, but the efficiency was terrifying. Food didn't disappear into him so much as get swallowed by a black hole. Mountains of steak, whole roast chickens, hill-sized fried rice, streams of soup and desserts… vanished without pause.
In the kitchen, chefs were spinning ladles until they smoked. Waiters ran until their legs went weak. And still, the plates before Vitli piled higher and higher at a horrifying rate.
Krillin stared, jaw slack, chopsticks dropping onto the table.
Goku could eat a lot, sure—but next to this guy, he was a kitten beside a tiger.
Bulma looked exactly like someone who'd seen this movie before. She nibbled her salad politely while dotingly wiping Vitli's mouth now and then, and barking commands to the staff.
"Two more whole roast suckling pigs! Yes, whole! And five more seafood risottos—hurry up!"
After a "feast of legends" (mostly thanks to Vitli and Goku), the four of them—or rather, the two bottomless pits and their chaperones—returned to the tournament grounds.
The preliminary drawing was about to begin.
Numbers rolled across the giant electronic board.
Vitli casually reached in and drew a lot. He glanced at it—Number Seven.
He stuffed it into his pocket without a care, eyes drifting over the tense, hard-breathing competitors around him. His mouth curled faintly.
None of these small fry interested him.
He'd come for two reasons: first, to see young Goku and Krillin—future Z-fighters—in their early glory; and second…
Well. To show off a little.
Yeah, showing off was totally just a side hobby. A tiny, harmless pleasure.
That afternoon, the preliminaries raged across multiple side rings.
Vitli was assigned to Group C.
He leaned against a pillar beside the ring, arms crossed, eyes half-closed, looking like he was dozing through the thunderous cheers and cracking fists. The chaos around him might as well have belonged to another world.
Only when a burly man known as "King Chappa of the Eight-Arm Fist" stepped onto a nearby stage did Vitli lazily lift an eyelid.
Chappa roared and began flailing his arms so fast that a blur of fist-shadows filled the air. Honestly… it wasn't slow. It even looked intimidating.
Vitli let out a soft, dismissive snort, and closed his eyes again.
To him, that "speed" was a slow-motion replay—full of holes, boring to the bone.
Time passed.
Finally, the referee's booming voice rang out:
"Group C, Match Seven! Contestant Number Seven, Vitli, versus Contestant Number Eleven—XX!"
Vitli opened his eyes at last. Under Bulma's eager gaze, and Goku and Krillin's curious looks, he strolled onto the ring.
His opponent was a compact, sharp-eyed fighter who looked seasoned and deadly, settling into a tight defensive stance.
The referee announced like clockwork: "Begin!"
XX growled and pushed off hard, rushing forward like a leopard. His right fist drove straight for Vitli's face, cutting the air with a savage whistle.
He poured his whole body into it—fast, vicious, certain he could shatter time and space itself.
But the instant his knuckles were about to graze Vitli's nose…
Vitli moved.
He didn't even shift his feet. He merely lifted his right hand casually, like he was swatting away a gnat, and flicked it through the air.
WHOOOM—!!!
No explosive collision. Just a terrifying, invisible blast of palm-wind detonating in front of him.
The air seemed to compress and tear apart.
XX's ferocity shattered into pure horror. It felt like he'd slammed into a speeding train head-on. A force beyond resisting smashed into his chest.
"Ugh—AAAH!"
A short, broken scream—and his whole body spun into the air, hurled off the ring like a kite with its string cut. He shot out in a high arc, then thudded into the sand more than ten meters away, kicking up dust as he went limp on the spot.
The entire Group C area fell dead silent.
Cheers and chatter were strangled in an instant, as if an invisible hand had clamped the crowd's throat.
People gaped at the black-haired young man on the ring who hadn't even stirred his clothes.
What just happened?
He waved once… and a man flew away?
Was that some kind of sorcery?!
The referee was stunned too, freezing for a full beat before raising his hand with a stutter.
"Uh… Contestant N-Number Seven, Vitli… w-wins!"
Silence snapped into an even bigger uproar.
"Holy—what was that?!"
"He didn't even touch him!"
"XX made the top eight last year! And he just got… erased?!"
"Monster! That guy's a monster!"
In the crowd, Goku and Krillin looked like their souls had left their bodies.
Goku grabbed Krillin's arm and shook him wildly, eyes blazing. "Krillin! Did you see that?! So—so awesome! Just like last year! No, he's even stronger now!"
Krillin stood there blankly, mumbling. "Th-that's gotta be a joke… He just waved… How are we supposed to fight that?"
Every boast he'd made earlier turned to ash in his mouth.
Hidden among the competitors, Master Roshi—disguised as a fighter—lifted his sunglasses. His old eyes were heavy with shock and tension.
He'd seen it more clearly than anyone.
That wasn't an ordinary gust of wind. It was a condensed shockwave born from a refined use of ki. And the control was precise to a frightening degree—powerful enough to launch a man off the ring, yet measured so it wasn't lethal.
That level of mastery… that depth of strength…
It was unfathomable.
Who is this Vitli? Roshi thought grimly. Since when did the martial world produce someone like him?
His worldview had just taken a direct hit.
After that earth-shattering palm, the rest of the preliminaries—Goku and Krillin's easy wins included—felt almost dull.
Vitli didn't bother watching. He left early with Bulma, choosing to enjoy their time together instead.
Papaya Island's night and sea breeze were far more interesting than watching rookies punch air.
A night of joy, a night of dance.
The next morning, sunlight washed over Papaya Island again.
With the chaos of the previous day settled, the air now throbbed with even sharper tension and expectation.
The main event of the World Martial Arts Tournament—the official bracket—was about to begin before a roaring crowd.
The grand arena was packed beyond capacity. Waves of sound rose and fell like surf.
In the contestants' waiting area, eight fighters who'd survived the preliminaries were already in position.
Goku and Krillin were bouncing on their feet, nervous and excited, pumping each other up. The other fighters prepared solemnly, eyes fierce with battle intent.
Only Vitli lounged as lazily as ever, looking more like a tourist on vacation than a man chasing glory. He studied the feverish stands with mild curiosity.
Bulma sat in the front row, waving like crazy and yelling at the top of her lungs.
"Vitli! Go for it! You have to win! Show them how strong you are!"
Vitli turned, smiled at her—comforting, confident, absolute.
Silly girl. I almost wish I had a chance to lose once.
At that moment, the announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, lighting the final fuse:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Fighters and fans from around the world! Thank you for waiting!"
"The Twenty-First World Martial Arts Tournament!!!"
"Now—let the official matches begin!!!"
A sharp gong rang out, crisp as thunder. The whole island seemed to tremble.
Every eye locked onto the arena—the symbol of power and honor.
And so, the tournament began, its curtain raised by a Saiyan from the far reaches of the stars, stepping onto the stage of Earth's greatest martial spectacle.