Time didn’t just pass—it flew like it was trying to get away from me.

  One minute I was five, figuring out how not to vaporize my own pants with ki sparks, and the next thing I knew, I was ten years old, standing a full head taller, pushing through the sixth grade with the body of a mini martial artist, and a brain packed full of knowledge that no ten-year-old should have.

  Though to be fair, it wasn’t entirely fair. Most of what I was “learning” in school—math, science, grammar—I’d already learned in my past life. I just never told anyone. It didn’t feel necessary. I wasn’t trying to win some weird reincarnation bingo. All that mattered now was this life. These people.

  And this power.

  By now, I could form a proper energy sphere in my palm. Not huge, but solid. Stable. Warm and humming with potential.

  But I didn’t make it in the standard ki-ball way Granny expected.

  No—my energy manifested in a spiraling sphere, condensed and spinning in the center of my palm. Not because it was more effective, but because I remembered a certain jutsu from a different universe. One with a blonde ninja and a terrible sense of stealth.

  I had essentially recreated a Rasengan using ki.

  Never told Granny. Never expined the shape. She assumed I invented it. Called it “intuitive” and “creative” and even grunted something vaguely like praise.

  "You made it spin and compress at the same time," she muttered, eyeing it while stirring soup. "Not bad. You're shaping your ki like it's part of your body. Most people just throw it like a rock. You're using it."

  I beamed. “It came to me in a dream.”

  ‘Specifically, a dream involving anime binge-watching and mountain-sized frogs, but close enough.’

  Despite all my progress, I still trained every day. Still wore the shell. The same turtle shell Granny gave me five years ago—though now it was heavier, re-forged with extra weight modules and what she called “rotational friction enhancers.”

  I called it what it was: a portable torture chamber strapped to my back.

  I never got to be comfortable. That was her rule.

  "You want to survive in this world, monkey boy? Don’t get soft. You’re not a prodigy. You’re a low-css freak doing things right. Big difference."

  And she was right.

  I’d gotten stronger. A lot stronger.

  Proof? I had it tucked away, retrieved from the ruins of my escape pod, the one thing I’d never shown anyone:

  A Saiyan power scouter.

  It was cracked and old, but functional. Saiyans were issued them at birth—standard tech. I’d hidden mine beneath my sleeping pod before crawling inside and unching myself into survival. For years, it had been stashed in a box under my bed, but now that I was ten, I started using it.

  For motivation.

  I powered it up st week and tested myself for the first time.

  Power Level: 81.

  I stared at the number for a long time.

  Granny, the martial storm herself, had a level of 62. Carl and Sasha? In the 10–12 range. Most people? Probably below that. No one on Earth, besides maybe a few weirdos hiding in mountains, had numbers that high.

  It made me feel… not proud. Just focused.

  ‘Keep going. Don’t sck. Be ready. He’ll show up in two years.’

  Because I knew what was coming.

  I remembered what Goku looked like when he showed up for his first World Martial Arts Tournament—barefoot, undersized, but strong enough to throw grown men through walls. I didn’t want to fight him. But I had to be strong enough to stand on the same pnet without instantly combusting.

  Oh, and the tail? Yeah, still a problem.

  It kept growing back.

  So, every six months, I asked Granny to cut it off again. Clean. Fast. Minimal bleeding, maximum control.

  It hurt every time. But it was necessary.

  “Don’t tell Carl or Sasha,” I’d mutter through clenched teeth as the bde sliced. “They’ll worry.”

  Granny would just grumble, “Tch. You and your self-surgery drama. It’s just a tail.”

  Yeah. A tail that turns me into a skyscraper-sized rage monster with zero pants.

  Best to keep that particur biological quirk in check.

  School was still a circus. My reputation as “that kid with the turtle shell” had long since solidified.

  But surprisingly, I wasn’t the only one.

  There was another kid—same grade.

  Always walked with a slight strut, like the shell was fashion and not 50 kilograms of doom. Blonde hair slicked back. Tied his shoes too neatly. Called people “peasants” unironically.

  A good student. Smart. Even better at math than me, which pissed me off in ways I couldn’t expin. He didn’t snort or cry like the rest of the css—he lectured the teacher.

  I didn’t hate him. But I kept my distance. Something about him screamed narcissist, and I didn’t need that energy in my life.

  Not when I had to train with a woman who weaponized rice paddles.

  Home was different now, too.

  Carl and Sasha still worked full time, but two years ago, Sasha got pregnant. I remember the day she told Carl. The house practically exploded with joy and panic. Granny didn't show much emotion, but she made sure the porch was swept for a week straight.

  And st year, their daughter was born.

  They named her Rei.

  And Rei, for some unholy reason, had decided that I was her favorite toy.

  I mean it. The moment she id eyes on me, she smiled like she’d just seen a plushy with a heartbeat and wrapped her tiny fingers around my gi sleeve.

  And I—ten-year-old martial artist, interstelr alien, low-css Saiyan brother of Broly—became a mumbling pile of emotional soup every time she crawled near me.

  She gurgled?

  I handed her my lunch.

  She cried?

  I let her chew on my tail stub.

  She sneezed?

  I blessed her like I was a priest.

  No one needed to say it out loud—I’d gone soft for the baby.

  Granny ughed exactly once when she caught me letting Rei tug on my ear while I practiced ki focusing.

  “Look at that. You do have a maternal instinct. Must’ve been a nurse in your past life.”

  I didn’t correct her. Mostly because I was too busy trying to get Rei’s drool off my forehead.

  And then came dinner.

  Granny cooked. Sasha wrangled Rei. Carl flipped through channels on the TV, trying to find something rexing that wasn’t a space opera or giant robot showdown.

  But that night—oh, that night—the news interrupted everything.

  A loud, familiar announcer voice bsted from the TV.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN!”

  A bright screen appeared. Fmes. Fists. Dramatic poses.

  “THE 19TH WORLD MARTIAL ARTS TOURNAMENT IS HERE!”

  The whole room froze.

  Carl dropped his chopsticks.

  Sasha turned to look at me.

  Granny kept chewing like nothing was happening, but her left eyebrow twitched.

  The voice continued: “All fighters aged ten and up are eligible to register! Sign-up window open for three weeks only! Are you ready to show the world your strength?!”

  Kalbi.exe has stopped responding.

  I turned my head. Slowly.

  Granny didn’t say a word. Just gave a tiny nod and went back to eating.

  I stared at my rice.

  ‘That’s it. I’m cooked. I’ve been slow-roasted for five years, and now she’s gonna serve me at the tournament buffet.’

  Carl coughed. “So… tournament, huh?”

  “Apparently,” I muttered.

  “You gonna enter?”

  “I’m not gonna get the choice, Carl.”

  Granny finally spoke, quiet but sharp as ever. “You've been training for this since you showed up in that pod. If you back out now, I’ll make you wear two shells and a tail-weight.”

  I didn’t respond. Just kept eating.

  Sasha chuckled. “Well, he’s got the gi, the attitude, and the power. Might as well let the world see it.”

  I sighed and took another bite.

  ‘Two years. Two years before Goku shows up. If I make a name for myself now… he might actually notice me ter. Which could either be a dream come true, or a horrifying death sentence.’

  I chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘Yeah. I’m entering. But only if the weird pigtail girl doesn’t. I draw the line at being hunted by baby carnivores.’