Third-Person POV – Tournament Grounds, Registration Pavilion

  The sun beamed down on the stone-tiled pza outside the World Martial Arts Tournament arena, casting long shadows across the white walls and towering red archways. Banners fluttered on every pilr, golden kanji dancing on red cloth with the words:

  “The 19th Tenkaichi Budōkai — Let the Strongest Rise!”

  The crowd had yet to gather in full. Fighters from every corner of the globe were trickling in—barefoot warriors, grizzled hermits, weirdos in fur coats, even one guy wearing a mask shaped like a tiger. The line for registration wasn’t long, but the atmosphere already buzzed with anticipation.

  Among the attendees, a white-haired woman strode across the pza, steps firm, expression unreadable, the slit in her long gi swaying as she walked. Beside her was a younger man in his te twenties, adjusting his gsses and gncing around nervously.

  “Mom,” Carl said under his breath, “are you sure it’s alright to register him without telling him?”

  Hima Roux, aka Granny, didn’t stop walking. “Of course it’s alright. It’s expected. Kid’s trained for this since he dropped in a diaper.”

  Carl muttered, “Still feels sneaky…”

  “He’ll thank me ter. Or curse me. Either way, he’s entering.”

  They approached the registration table, where a staff member in a red vest handed them a clipboard and a form.

  “Name of the participant?”

  Granny snatched the pen and wrote in bold strokes:Kalbi RouxAge: 10Affiliation: Roux Dojo

  The staff member blinked. “You’re registering your child?”

  “He’s ten,” Granny said ftly. “That’s the rule. He’s stronger than he looks.”

  Carl just sighed and filled in the identification details.

  “Uniform?” the clerk asked. “Custom?”

  Granny nodded. “Made it myself. Capsule Corp added tech. It's all pre-approved and meets tournament specs. Zero enhancements.”

  The man stamped the form, gave them a slip, and waved them on. “Next!”

  They turned away—and nearly bumped into a short, bald man with thick sungsses and a very familiar turtle shell strapped to his back.

  “Oh, would you look at that,” he said with a sly grin. “Hima Roux. Haven’t seen you since you decked that musclehead from the Snake Temple at the 8th Budōkai.”

  Granny’s eyebrow arched. “So you’re still alive, you old pervert.”

  Master Roshi chuckled. “And you’re still terrifying. Thought that mountain hermit life would’ve mellowed you.”

  “I was mellow until you opened your mouth.”

  The two stared at each other for a moment.

  Then, simultaneously, they both broke into a raspy ugh.

  “Hohohohoho!”

  “HAHAHAHA!”

  Carl, standing just behind them, blinked and adjusted his gsses. ‘So… this is the infamous Turtle Hermit she warned me about. He’s shorter than I imagined. Somehow creepier, too.’

  “I heard you’ve been training a new kid,” Roshi said, adjusting his shades. “He any good?”

  Granny smirked. “Weird as hell. Soft around babies. Spends too much time thinking. But yeah. He’s strong. Has a spine. And a brain.”

  “Rare combo these days.” Roshi nodded sagely. “Ever since Gohan passed… I haven’t seen much spark in the new generation.”

  “You got any students now?”

  “Eh, not really,” Roshi shrugged. “Ox-King's daughter is cute, but not really martial material yet. World’s too noisy for old-school teaching.”

  Granny grunted. “Then come watch my boy. He’ll either impress you or cause a scene. Either way, you’ll remember him.”

  Roshi grinned wider. “Then I’ll be front row, Hima.”

  They exchanged a brief nod—one that carried decades of old sparring sessions, bruised ribs, and mutual respect.

  Meanwhile – At Home, Kalbi’s POV

  I was on the floor, bancing Rei on my knees while she tried to chew on my knuckles. Her baby teeth were scary. Like tiny white daggers. But I endured them like a warrior. A very squeaky, squealing warrior.

  “Rei, stop trying to eat my fingers. You’re not a bear cub.”

  She gurgled and hugged my arm instead.

  ‘I am helpless against this child. This small, soft tyrant.’

  Sasha peeked around the corner from the kitchen with a secretive grin. “Hey, Kalbi. Can you come into the living room for a second?”

  I handed Rei a soft toy, stood up with suspicion already rising in my spine.

  “What did I break that I don’t remember breaking?”

  Sasha smiled wider. “Just come here.”

  I walked in—then stopped.

  There, standing proudly on the couch like it was a dispy altar, was a full martial arts uniform. Clean, sharp lines. White vest, sleeveless with bck buttons down the middle. The Roux Dojo symbol stitched over the heart. A bck waistband was coiled on the couch cushion, next to jet-bck trousers detailed with two clean white thread stripes down each side.

  It was perfect. Banced. Crisp. Cool.

  Also next to it?

  A small white envelope.

  I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a tournament registration slip.

  My name printed in all caps:

  KALBI ROUX – Participant #0719

  “…Oh, you guys suck,” I said, stunned.

  Carl stepped in behind me, trying to act casual. “Granny thought it was time.”

  “I was pying peekaboo, Carl. I was having a peaceful day.”

  Sasha put a hand on my shoulder. “And now you’re going to represent our family at the Tenkaichi Budōkai. Congratutions.”

  I held up the slip. “Without even asking me?”

  “She said you’d say yes anyway.”

  ‘…Yeah, I would have, but that’s not the point!’

  Still, I looked at the uniform again, and something clicked in my chest. The symbol. The style. The ck of weighted gear. It wasn’t just a gi. It was… freedom.

  “It doesn’t have weights,” I said quietly.

  Carl nodded. “Capsule Corp tech helped stitch it with reinforced thread, but no enhancement modules. You’ve been training in that shell for five years. Granny said it’s time to feel your actual strength.”

  I grinned slowly.

  ‘No turtle shell…’

  I reached down and pulled off the cursed burden I’d carried for half a decade. My back nearly floated upward like it had been held down by an anvil. My body felt light. Springy. Alien. But alive.

  “Oh man. I’m going to punch so many things now.”

  Later that Evening – Backyard, Gi Fitted, Turtle Shell Gone

  I stood in the middle of our dirt training yard, wearing my new uniform. It felt right. The breeze on my arms. The slight sway of the sash. The stripes on my pants catching the fading sunlight.

  Granny stood across from me, cracking her knuckles.

  “Let’s see what you can do without the shell.”

  “I’m going to fly.”

  “You’re going to fall on your face.”

  And we fought.

  Light on my feet, fast in my strikes—I moved. My muscles, no longer fighting the shell, breathed. Every movement felt cleaner, sharper, like I’d been swimming with bricks for years and someone finally drained the pool.

  I reinforced my arms with ki and deflected her palm strike. Rolled, countered, nded a sweeping kick.

  She smiled.

  Not a smirk. A real, small smile.

  “You might be ready.”

  That night, we all sat together for dinner. Rei was asleep in Carl’s arms, Sasha humming in the kitchen, Granny slicing tofu like it offended her.

  The TV was on low, still pying tournament ads.

  I looked at my pte. Then at the registration form sitting by the table.

  And for once, I didn’t feel like a background character in someone else’s story.

  This time, it was my turn.

  I grinned and dug into my food.

  ‘Let’s see what the world’s got waiting for me.’