First was the trainer.
"So I'm guessing whoever I choose will actually be here to train me?" James asked, his emerald eyes narrowing with interest as he glanced at the long list still hovering faintly in the air.
Jarvis nodded with a smile far too wide to be innocent, clasping his hands behind his back like a schoolteacher waiting for a clever student to answer. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, clearly itching for the upgrade—James could feel it.
"Yes. For ten years, their guidance will be fully covered as part of your S-rank system," Jarvis said, his voice sliding into a more official tone. "They'll even receive some basic gear—training mats, weighted clothing, maybe a few weapons—whatever matches their preferred method."
He flicked his wrist, and for a moment, shimmering icons of dumbbells, scrolls, and even a rusted katana blinked into view before fading again.
"After those ten years," he continued, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "any continued mentorship will require berries. Also—note this part carefully—they're here to build up the fundamentals. The base layers. Core fitness, coordination, reflexes, balance, that kind of thing. Basic martial arts, nothing fancy."
He tapped his temple.
"Advanced stuff? If they know any—and some of them definitely do—you'll need to pay to unlock it."
James exhaled slowly, thinking it through. It was a solid offer… but only if he picked the right teacher.
James stood with arms crossed, staring up at the list floating midair—each name suspended like an entry in a selection menu, glowing faintly against the sterile white light that bathed the room. The illumination had a soft edge, casting no shadows, making the text feel etched into the very air. His emerald eyes narrowed as they traced each name, brow furrowed. He scratched the back of his head, fingers brushing through his short red hair, already feeling a headache press behind his temples.
"Okay…" he murmured. "I've seen… some of these."
Jarvis, who had taken to pacing in a slow circle with exaggerated flair, kept mouthing choose me while pointing at himself with both index fingers. He threw in a wink every few steps, clearly enjoying the theatrics. When James glanced his way, Jarvis froze mid-step and gave him an eager thumbs-up. "Need help deciding?" he offered, voice bright.
James didn't bother responding. He kept his gaze on the list.
He wasn't exactly an expert on anime. In his old life, he'd mostly stuck to whatever was trending—big-name titles, lots of fights, dramatic arcs. The kind that blew up on forums and flooded reaction videos. Weak-to-strong power fantasies. Those had been his thing—especially the ones he'd watched with Shawn. They had binged One Punch Man, Naruto, Dragon Ball Super, Bleach, Mob Psycho, My Hero Academia—the stuff that climbed charts and kept the fight scenes coming. Emotional arcs were fine, but philosophy and slow-burn shows? They skipped those. He hadn't exactly dug deep. Just enough to stay up-to-date and enjoy time with his son.
His eyes paused on Saitama.
Bald head. Dead eyes. That red cape and the stupidly simple routine—push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and a run. Every day. No exceptions. And somehow he was absurdly strong. James tilted his head slightly. It almost felt like a prank. The guy was a gag character, right? Could someone like that even teach anything?
He moved on. That one was entertaining but had "bad idea" written all over it.
Genkai. He squinted. Old lady. Tough love. Loud. Something about spirit energy and tournaments. He vaguely remembered her being terrifying. Still, she got results. But would that kind of training even work here? Does spirit energy exist in this world?
Jiraiya drew a grin that faded quickly. War hero. Strategic mind. Definitely knew how to train. But… the other stuff. Peeking in bathhouses. Writing dirty novels. James rubbed his temple. Hard pass on potential charges.
Kensei Ma. Now this one made him slow down. Old-school martial artist. Repetition, breath control, discipline. The kind of guy who trained bones, not just muscles. James imagined himself running drills in silence, getting every detail right. There was something appealing about that.
Goku made him smile—hard not to. The guy was pure chaos and fun. Blowing up planets and befriending enemies. James loved watching him. But teaching? Goku didn't really teach. In Dragon Ball, strength came from near-death experiences, crazy fights, and pushing past limits in ways that made no real-world sense. Goku was a battle maniac who got stronger by accident half the time. Sure, it worked in his universe, but James wasn't a Saiyan. He wasn't going to power up from getting his ribs broken. Still… if someone wanted to learn through being punched into a mountain? Goku was probably perfect for that.
Then Izumi Curtis. He straightened a bit. She was small, but terrifying. Survivalist. Ruthless. Starved her students on purpose. He could already imagine being three feet tall and doing push-ups in a snowstorm while she screamed at him in boots. Still… there was a method behind it. It just came at a high cost.
Ichigo? James blinked and moved on. That guy barely trained. His power jumps felt like someone else was writing the rules. Random upgrades. No consistency. Hard to learn from chaos.
Mob. Now that was a strange one. James stared at the name for a long moment. The kid looked gentle. Shy, even. But under the surface? Power beyond reason. Still… James couldn't remember how Mob got strong. Or if he even trained. Might be like trying to learn from lightning—impressive, but unteachable.
He sighed and rolled his shoulders to shake the tension. There were still more names below. Still time to pick. But even with all the choices laid out like a buffet, James already felt the weight of the decision settling in.
Ten years of training. This wasn't about coolness or popularity. It was about what would actually work.
He kept reading.
Then there was Might Guy.
"Loud as hell, but effort-first… huh." That one stuck with him. Relentless discipline. Push beyond limits. Something about that idea clicked. James pictured himself sprinting laps with weights strapped to his ankles, being shouted at to believe in youth. The energy was a lot—but maybe that kind of raw drive could break his limits.
Yusuke. A brawler. No structure. James winced. That was a no-go. He could almost see the guy grinning while throwing a punch mid-lesson. Fun to watch—but James wasn't twelve anymore. He needed more than instinct.
Kakashi. Calm, calculated, strategic. Definitely appealing. Especially if James wanted to grow with control, not just strength. He remembered Kakashi teaching teamwork, reading people, planning moves ahead. That had real value. Especially in a world as unpredictable as this one.
Meliodas. James squinted. He always found that guy confusing. Super strong, yeah—but he didn't explain anything. Just smiled and wrecked stuff. Kinda like Goku, but smaller and weirder. There was too much mystery there. James needed clarity, not riddles.
Eren. Rage and chaos, mostly. James stepped away from that one immediately. He didn't need a therapy case with a temper problem. The last thing he wanted was to start every day yelling about freedom and death.
Last was Bang. Clean strikes. Disciplined movement. Quiet confidence. James nodded to himself. "Okay. Respect." He imagined crisp, practiced moves repeated until they were etched into muscle. A slow build—but a reliable one.
He turned back to the list.
Bang. Kakashi. Kensei Ma. Might Guy. Those four stuck in his mind. Each offered something different, but all shared one thing: discipline. Focus. Method. He wanted power, but not just for the sake of it. He wanted understanding.
He tapped his foot, weighing the options, the faint hum of the white room buzzing gently around him.
"Alright…" he said aloud. "Let's think this through."
James rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over the list again. Something started nagging at him.
"Hold up… why isn't there anyone here who can teach Haki?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the floating names like he'd missed something obvious.
Jarvis, now reclining sideways in a beach chair that definitely hadn't been there a minute ago, lifted his sunglasses with one finger and raised a brow. "Because that costs berries," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You want Haki? Gotta pay up. SS or SSS-ranked training systems would've had those options. This one? You're working off the S-rank freebie list—top-tier anime fighters."
James frowned. That actually tracked. Still, a heads-up wouldn't have hurt.
He looked back at the names he'd narrowed down—Bang, Kakashi, Kensei Ma, Might Guy. All solid picks. Disciplined, experienced. But two of them used chakra. Would that even translate here?
Before he could voice the question, Jarvis cut in like he'd been waiting for it. "Don't worry. You're building your foundation—basic martial skills, physical conditioning, tactical awareness."
James gave a slow nod. Reassuring, sure—but he was still watching closely.
Jarvis gave a lazy wave, his other hand wrapped around a coconut drink with a tiny umbrella poking out. "You also dodged a few train wrecks. Trust me, some of those guys? Hilarious to watch, awful to learn from."
James's gaze slid back to Saitama.
Strong didn't even begin to cover it. But his training method? That ridiculous routine—100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, 100 squats, and a 10K run every single day. It was a gag. Literally. The entire anime was a joke about how he got strong for no reason.
He remembered watching it with Shawn, both of them cracking up over the absurdity.
"Yeah…" James muttered. "Probably not someone who knows how to explain anything."
Jarvis just smiled behind his shades, toes wiggling in the sand beneath his conjured chair, sipping his drink like this was the easiest gig in the world.
James studied the list again, this time with more focus. He wasn't just looking for someone strong—he was building a base. A real foundation. Martial arts that lasted. Training that hit every angle. Strength, speed, flexibility, cardio, balance, coordination, agility, endurance, power, and reaction time—he ran the ten cores of fitness through his mind like a checklist. One teacher. One shot to build it right.
He stopped at Bang.
The old man was calm, focused, and lethal. His Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist had structure—fluid but grounded, built on precision, economy of motion, and sharp discipline. Beneath that calm presence, Bang carried a second style: Exploding Heart Release Fist. It was pure offense—sharp, brutal, and overwhelming. Together, the two styles covered footwork, breathing, power generation, striking mechanics, and timing. A full-body martial system with proven depth.
Bang had the temperament of a teacher—he'd run a dojo, after all. James scratched his cheek, wondering how Bang's techniques would transfer into this world. Did they rely on energy? Internal force? Could that be built from scratch here?
He shifted his eyes to Might Guy.
Guy radiated intensity. Everything about him screamed motion—drills, sweat, discipline, and willpower. His regimen pushed the body to the edge and expected it to keep going. Speed ladders. Weighted vests. Reaction drills. Hill sprints on his hands. Plyometrics between meals.
Guy had stood at the top of a world where people bent nature with ninjutsu—using nothing but fists. The Eight Gates only opened once your body hit its ceiling and still wanted more. James could respect that. The spandex? Strange. But the mindset—positivity, focus, zero excuses—that was gold. Sometimes limits weren't physical. They were mental.
Next was Kensei Ma.
Traditional. Measured. Generational wisdom passed down through sweat and correction. Kensei's method wasn't flashy—it was all breathing, posture, tension, and stance. His lessons carved strength from the inside out. Hours holding poses, days of repeating small adjustments. The kind of progress that built slower but stuck harder.
James rubbed his chin. The womanizing? That might tag along. Still, he couldn't deny the discipline behind Kensei's training. It had weight.
Finally, Kakashi.
James had always respected him. Cool under pressure. Sharp eyes. Quick mind. A fighter who observed before striking and never wasted a move. He could teach awareness, timing, spacing—things that made a difference before fists even met.
But when it came to raw foundation, James doubted Kakashi would hit every corner the way Guy could. Still… mentally? Strategically? Kakashi was top tier. If anyone could sharpen instincts and clarity under pressure, it was him.
James folded his arms and exhaled slowly.
All four could build him into something solid. Bang had the most complete striking system. Guy brought unmatched conditioning and effort. Kensei offered internal structure. Kakashi layered it with awareness and adaptability.
He didn't need all of them. Just one.
But whichever he chose, that teacher would lay the ground floor for everything that came next.
"The green beast," he muttered.
His finger moved almost on instinct, hovering a second before pressing the name.
Might Guy.
Explosive effort. Iron discipline. A body forged through movement and pain and laughter. The man had reached the top of a world filled with chakra and jutsu—with nothing but fists, grit, and the kind of training that broke limits.
James felt the decision settle in his chest like a stone. Heavy, but solid.
This was who would build him.
Jarvis smiled, and for a brief moment, his unnaturally blue eyes dimmed—but only slightly. They still looked just a little too bright, too oceanic, like they'd swallowed the sea.
"Alright," Jarvis said, stretching his neck, "hold on a minute…"
He closed his eyes.
James tilted his head, watching him. Was he… communicating? Meditating? Syncing?
One minute passed. Then five. Ten.
James gave up watching Jarvis and looked up instead. The sky above was bright and gentle, maybe seventy-five degrees with a soft breeze. This place—whatever it was—felt real. The clouds drifted lazily across the open blue, casting long shadows on the smooth, grass-covered plain. If he wasn't waiting on a supposedly legendary teacher, he could've dozed off.
Then—suddenly—there was a soft rumble, and a wheelchair rolled into view with a steady hum.
James blinked.
The man seated in it was unmistakable.
Might Guy's body was massive with muscle, even seated. His chest looked like it had been carved from granite, thick through the torso and shoulders, with arms corded in clean, sinewy definition. Veins ran faintly beneath skin that glowed with vitality, the tone a sun-browned olive. His green jumpsuit clung tightly to his frame, stretched taut over his broad chest and thighs. The red leg warmers were still there—faded but clean—neatly wrapped around powerful calves.
His face was unmistakable: sharp jawline, exaggerated features, high cheekbones, and that thick, absolutely unmissable bowl-cut haircut that framed his face like a helmet. Two black caterpillar eyebrows arched high above bright, expressive eyes that always looked like they were on the verge of tears—either from joy or intensity. There was a ruggedness to him now. Faint lines creased his forehead and under his eyes, telling of years lived at full force.
Even in a wheelchair, the man radiated strength. Like a dam holding back a flood.
His gaze swept calmly across the space until it locked onto James. Then it shifted to Jarvis.
"Is this him?" Might Guy asked. His voice was rich and bold—every syllable carried the weight of total sincerity.
"Yep," Jarvis said, eyes still shut. "You train him. If he hits apex? You get healed. Returned right to the moment you left—minus the injuries. It'll be like you never left your world. But remember—only foundational training for free. Anything advanced? Locked behind berries."
James's jaw shifted. So this wasn't just some construct. This was Might Guy. The real one. Which meant…
His eyes studied him again—massive hands resting on the wheels, knuckles thick and worn. His legs, one thinner than the other now, sat still under the green cloth, but everything else about him was alive. Focused. Charged with purpose. The Leaf Village symbol still gleamed from the steel forehead protector wrapped over his brow.
Then, as if reading James's mind, Jarvis snapped his fingers.
There was a shimmer—like heat rising from the ground—and the change was instant.
Guy stood tall.
The wheelchair vanished. His injured leg was whole again. His stance reset into that signature heroic posture: feet planted wide, chest puffed, fists clenched, and back ramrod straight. The transformation brought a new fire to his eyes—a sharp glint of youth and power unburdened by pain.
"This…" he shouted, voice cracking the air, "this is youth!!"
James blinked slowly.
Well, shit. He might've picked the loudest guy possible. But looking at the energy pouring off him, the way his whole body looked built for motion and mastery, it also felt like he'd made the right call.