In the next second, they saw Taro floating forward. Facing the slightly dimmer star before them, he assumed a stance—one that everyone present recognized. It was the same technique that had made a sensation at the last World Martial Arts Tournament.
Kamehameha.
Silent yet intense, a fierce white flame erupted from Taro's body. Even with the sun right in front of them, the onlookers inexplicably felt that his radiance was no less dazzling. The overwhelming white fire cast his figure into a near monochrome silhouette, obscuring even the glowing sphere gathered between his hands.
The king and his entourage instinctively held their breath. They had fully realized what Taro intended to do.
He was going to fire at the sun?!
In the next instant, a silent beam of light shot forth from the flames surrounding Taro, streaking across the vast, dark cosmos at an inconceivable speed—carving a perfectly straight, breathtakingly beautiful line through the void.
Then, the nightmare-like explosion occurred. The sight of the star's destruction obliterated any coherent thought from the minds of the king and his men.
They suddenly recalled Taro's words just moments before:
"You think Earth is the only place where martial arts developed? …Beyond Earth, there exist beings capable of destroying planets with their own power…"
"You think Earth is the only place to develop technology? …There are countless civilizations in the galaxy that have mastered interstellar travel…"
A suffocating sense of impending doom gripped their hearts.
And this was just the beginning. Taro later took them to various colonized alien planets, allowing them to witness extraterrestrial civilizations with their own eyes—civilizations capable of annihilating Earth. The king and his entourage moved from one shocking revelation to another. They had barely recovered from the overwhelming spectacle of Taro obliterating a star, only to be bombarded with even more mind-shattering sights. It was simply too much.
"So… Taro—no, Muten Roshi—what… what will become of Earth?" The king asked in a dazed, broken voice as they returned.
"Don't cause trouble."
That was all Taro said.
"Yes, yes, of course! We absolutely won't…" The ministers and high officials thought to themselves—who would even dare mess with you now? If you ever got in a bad mood and decided to do the same thing to Earth, it would all be over. Under the stern gazes of his aides, the king could only sigh helplessly.
"Alright, Tam, handle the rest with them. I'm heading back," Taro said casually, as if he had just gone out for a stroll. Without another word, he turned, took a single step, and vanished from sight.
---
At that moment, across the street from the small restaurant where Taro's family was having a meal stood a branch of the "Earth Martial Artists' Association" in Sayuan City—commonly referred to as the "Sayuan Martial Association".
Twelve years ago, with the government's enthusiastic support, martial arts associations had sprung up in cities across the world.
"So many people…" Ninn remarked as she fed her son. Only after making sure he was full did she turn her attention to her own meal. She glanced outside at the bustling entrance of the martial association, where streams of martial artists in training uniforms were coming and going.
Ninn had married outside the family, so her child naturally didn't bear the family name Mu. He had been given the name "Skope". However, Ninn's husband was a devoted admirer of Taro and had repeatedly expressed his wish for their child to have a name associated with the Mu family.
Ninn had no choice—she understood what her husband meant. He wanted the "Muten Roshi" himself to name their child.
Taro, though Ninn's biological grandfather, rarely spent time with his family. He and Hathaway preferred the solitude of their island home, seldom gathering with Tam, Ninn, and the others. Not that they lacked the means to meet frequently—Taro simply had a quiet, detached nature. As Hathaway often put it, he was naturally reserved and disliked large gatherings.
After Ninn started her own family, Taro and Hathaway spent even more time on their island.
Their children and grandchildren had their own lives to lead. After all, who had ever heard of someone in their forties, fifties, or sixties still clinging to their parents and grandparents all day? And Taro himself had no particular inclination to be constantly surrounded by his descendants—Hathaway was much the same.
"Let's call him Mu Gam,'" Taro said, still gazing out the window, naming his great-grandson without even turning around.
Ninn's husband was overjoyed, thanking him repeatedly before scooping up their son and showering him with kisses. Skope, still with food smeared around his mouth, was utterly baffled as he wiped the saliva from his cheeks…
Hathaway shook her head, noticing that her husband was still gazing out the window. However, it wasn't the usual casual glance at the scenery—there was something different about it. Following his line of sight, she too looked outside… and saw a young boy standing at the entrance of the martial arts association.
Despite the many people coming and going, Hathaway was certain that her husband's eyes were fixed on that particular child.
The boy was leaning on a crutch. He had only one leg.
---
Son Gohan lost his leg last year.
He had grown up listening to stories about martial artists. When he was younger, things at home were still decent—they had a television, and his favorite programs were always the broadcasts of martial arts tournaments.
Of all those tournaments, none was more important than the World Martial Arts Tournament.
And his most admired, most revered martial artist was the same as most people's—Master Taro. As a child, he would often watch highlight reels of Master Taro, his tiny hands and feet moving excitedly in imitation, his eyes filled with the dreams of a future warrior.
Then, tragedy struck.
His parents died in an accident, leaving him orphaned. He fell into despair for a time, but martial arts saved him. The owner of a small dojo took him in, allowing him to train for a while. Perhaps the dojo master lacked real skill, or maybe Gohan simply couldn't afford the tuition, so he was never taught too seriously. As a result, after several years, he still hadn't developed much ability.
But he was happy.
Training, practicing—this was his daily life, and for Gohan, it was enough. Every time he practiced, he felt as if he had returned to his childhood, standing in front of that small television, his parents by his side, his little feet bouncing on the sofa as he watched Master Taro on the screen, throwing punches and kicks with a bright, innocent grin.
Standing in front of the martial arts association's grand entrance, Gohan glanced at the sign before looking down at his missing leg. Even someone as resilient and optimistic as he was couldn't help but sigh with sorrow.
If he had a choice, he would rather have lost an arm than this leg.
If he had lost an arm, there might still be a future for him in martial arts. But missing a leg… even practicing a simple form had become almost impossible.
"Look, that kid's here again," someone at the entrance of the martial arts association pointed out.
In modern society, single-character surnames had become rare, so anyone who recognized Son Gohan remembered him. Besides, the sheer determination of this nine-year-old boy, his unwavering passion for martial arts, left a deep impression on all who practiced the art.
"It's a shame, though. He's crippled now," someone muttered in regret.
"I heard he always wanted to join our association, to fight for justice…"
"Yeah, and that's how he lost his leg."
Gohan lowered his head. He could vaguely hear the discussions happening at the entrance of the association. These words weren't spoken with malice, yet they still made him uncomfortable.
He glanced at his empty right pant leg once more, blinked a few times to shake off the feeling, then straightened himself, preparing to head home.
But as soon as he turned around, he found someone standing in his way.
"What's your name, child?"
Gohan looked up and saw an elderly man in front of him, someone who seemed vaguely familiar.