The preliminaries for the World Martial Arts Tournament were held across four arenas simultaneously. Participants were divided into two groups per arena and paired off to fight one-on-one, with each arena producing two victors.
Four arenas, eight finalists.
Only those who made it to the top eight would qualify to fight in the outdoor arena, under the gaze of spectators and tourists alike.
Yamiru drew number 23, placing him in the twelfth match on Arena One.
Glancing at the schedule on the wall, he realized that to qualify, he would need to defeat four opponents consecutively.
"Four, huh..."
Yamiru pursed his lips. Ever since coming ashore, he'd been mindful of conserving his energy.
He didn't know how professional martial artists or fighters managed their stamina, but aside from the initial walk to the tournament venue with the old man, he had made a conscious effort to keep his movements slow and deliberate.
Even his breathing followed a controlled, unhurried rhythm, with each breath drawn out and steady.
With no master to guide him, Yamiru had always relied on his own intuition to figure things out.
However, he didn't dare to experiment recklessly. If he developed bad habits now, correcting them later would be a Herculean task. Worse, if he eventually found a teacher, they might take one look at his flawed techniques and amateurish form, decide he wasn't worth the trouble, and reject him outright. Who could he complain to then?
Because of this, Yamiru trained cautiously after his arrival in this world—a cautiousness born entirely of his own reasoning.
He had no other choice. As always, no one was there to tell him what to do.
What was right? What was wrong? Was it necessary for an earthling like him to train in martial arts? And even if it was, did Yamiru himself have the talent for it? Would self-training lead to injuries or hidden health problems? He had no answers. After all, he didn't have some cheat-like system to pave the way for him—no quests to follow, no guaranteed path to level up.
When he first crossed over, he didn't even have anyone to talk to. The loneliness was crushing. He missed his family, his parents, the simple joy of playing League of Legends, and the taste of instant noodles.
He thought about his old life constantly—how his brother's wedding was just around the corner, and how he, the designated groomsman, now found himself alone in the wilderness of Dragon Ball's Earth, lying on a creaky little bed in a ramshackle house on the outskirts of South City, using his head to thump the wall in frustration.
The despair was suffocating.
What made it worse was that, despite his overwhelming sadness, there was no one to comfort him, no one to offer even a single kind word. The emptiness only deepened.
And then there was his new, seemingly enhanced body—a +10 boost to his physical capabilities. But it only added to his confusion. How was he supposed to train this superhuman physique?
Back in his previous life, he was an average guy through and through—twenty years of schooling, a few years of work, and not a single gym session to his name. He had never so much as touched a dumbbell. How could he possibly know the first thing about building strength in this new world?
This isn't writing a novel or drawing a manga where you can use your imagination and boast all you want. Doing hundreds of push-ups daily for a few years and suddenly becoming invincible might work in fiction, but this was Yamiru's reality. He couldn't afford to mess around with his body.
Besides, Yamcha didn't start training seriously until much later. The guy, who was the same age as Bulma, couldn't beat a fresh-out-of-the-mountains Son Goku but still managed to become a disciple of Master Roshi. Since Yamiru's body had reverted to that of a ten-year-old after the transmigration, there was no need to rush.
After much deliberation, Yamiru decided the safest training method was long-distance running.
Running was foolproof. Running couldn't be wrong, right?
Even Master Roshi's training involved delivering milk on foot.
\---
Yamiru leaned against the wall, closing his eyes in contemplation.
He allowed his body to relax naturally, trying to dissipate as much fatigue as possible.
Although he still had half a senzu bean left, he was reluctant to eat it.
The chances of advancing were slim anyway, so why waste it? He might as well treat this as weighted training—it was a form of cultivation in its own right.
A voice announcing the next match brought him back to reality:
"Arena One, next match, participants 23 and 24, please step onto the stage."
Yamiru opened his eyes.
"Not bad. I should be at about 60 or 70 percent strength."
In an instant, his pitch-black pupils turned golden, glowing brightly and radiantly clear.
"So, the day has finally come… though I didn't expect it to arrive so soon. I don't know any martial arts, yet here I am, standing on the stage of the World Martial Arts Tournament. Heh…"
Pushing himself off the wall, he didn't hesitate any longer and strode confidently toward the arena.
"Come to think of it, this is actually pretty fun!"
With a powerful leap, he jumped straight onto the stage, over half a meter high.
On the opposite side, Marda, the muscular man in a tank top, had been watching Yamiru since the first match. The kid had secluded himself in a corner, resting, and seemed utterly indifferent to the other participants.
Yamiru's behavior struck Marda as odd. He wasn't paying any attention to the matches around him, nor did he treat anyone present as rivals. Marda had seen this type before—people who didn't bother studying their opponents. In his experience, they were either true experts or complete fools.
Yamiru was neither an expert nor a fool. He simply wanted to conserve energy and rest as much as possible.
"Kid, after today's match, I'm taking Mark and heading back," Marda said as he adjusted his belt and shifted on his toes with the poise of a boxer. Smirking, he added, "But you still have a chance. Agree to train with me, and you could become a professional fighter."
Yamiru couldn't be bothered to reply, pretending not to hear him.
Below the stage, a tall man with curly black hair, dark skin, and a red mark on his forehead stood with his arms crossed, glancing disdainfully at Marda.
A space had cleared around this man; most of the other participants recognized him. He was the champion of the previous World Martial Arts Tournament—and the one before that as well. It was said that as long as he participated, the title of "World's Strongest" was guaranteed to be his. Unless the legendary God of Martial Arts reappeared, King Chappa was indisputably the most formidable martial artist.
Choppa King ignored the others, his gaze fixed on Yamiru in the ring. He thought to himself, "This kid… His body's already so exhausted, yet he still dares to fight?"
"Begin!"
The monk from the Martial Temple announced the start of the match before jumping down to act as the referee from outside the ring.
"Are you sure you're not considering it?" Marda asked as he moved around the ring.
His steps were nimble, circling his opponent. Occasionally, he'd lunge forward suddenly, attempting to startle Yamiru and wear down his focus and vigilance.
"..."
Yamiru remained silent. He hated answering questions he'd already declined.
With his Golden Veil active, his primary focus was on Marda's expressions and upper body movements. However, he also kept track of Marda's footwork with his peripheral vision. Yamiru felt that his observational skills were heightened in this state, though he wasn't sure if it was just a placebo effect. Regardless, he mimicked Marda's movements, using this opportunity to learn the basics of combat footwork.
"Phew." Marda threw a feint, testing Yamiru's reaction.
Yamiru fell for it. Instinctively dodging to the side, he quickly realized Marda's first punch was a fake. The real attack came from the other hand, aiming straight for his chest and abdomen.
Fortunately, Yamiru's heightened observation helped him react in time. He blocked the punch with both palms, deflecting the blow.
The two pushed off each other, briefly creating distance.
"I need to end this with one decisive strike and conserve energy," Yamiru thought, continuing to circle with Marda.
The longer the fight dragged on, the more coordinated Yamiru's movements became. Through live observation, he quickly adapted his footwork and body positioning.
At this moment, his mind was completely clear. No stray thoughts distracted him; his focus was pure and singular:"What will my opponent do next? Will he throw a punch? A kick? Or another feint?"
Suddenly, Yamiru's Golden Veil flashed brightly. He caught a momentary lapse in Marda's coordination—a gap between his gaze, upper body movement, and footwork.
Yamiru didn't waste time wondering whether this was the mythical "opening" that martial artists spoke of. He simply acted.
Like a shark chasing prey, Yamiru exploded forward with all his strength. His feet propelled him as though powered by springs, and in an instant, he closed the gap. Using his height advantage, he drove a straight punch into Marda's abdomen.
"What?!" Marda's eyes bulged as he clutched his stomach in pain.
Yamiru took a step back, watching as his opponent fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen in agony.
Relieved, Yamiru exhaled deeply. Winning his first fight as a transmigrator was a massive relief. Losing right away in his first World Martial Arts Tournament would have been devastating.
Suddenly, he thought to himself, "Fighting in the ring… This is really fun!"