Standing there in her pajamas and cap was Arale Norimaki, smiling as if she hadn't just ruined his life six times that day.
"Uh… yeah," he muttered. "Just going to the bathroom. You should get some sleep."
Arale tilted her head. "Nope! Senbei said if you sneak out, I gotta bonk you on the head!" She raised her hand.
"Wait, no-!"
BAM! BOP!
Everything went black. He woke up soaked in freezing water.
Senbei's voice rang out, "Oi, breakfast! Then my lab. Chop-chop!"
Alaric screamed like a banshee. "Nooo~~~!"
Arale clapped her hands. "Yay! Screaming is fun!"
He had seen her punch the moon once. Twice, actually. And that time she accidentally split the Earth in half, only for Senbei to quietly rewind time with his conveniently unnamed time machine.
The world never knew how close it came to ending. But Alaric knew.
In the lab, he sat pale-faced, twitching as he held a giant wire in each hand. Senbei adjusted his cracked goggles and grinned.
"Y'know, with this much ki, you're better than any power plant. If your body could handle it, you might even outdo those monkey-tailed aliens everyone's raving about."
That stung, especially since Alaric was now tough enough to survive 30 times Earth's gravity. Not through natural talent. Not from a Saiyan bloodline.
Just three years of back-breaking experiments, ridiculous inventions, and sheer stubbornness.
Senbei slapped a massive blue button. "Let's try turning you into a rocket today."
"No, wait-"
BOOM.
That was a Tuesday.
Eventually, the three years passed. Alaric left Penguin Village stronger, traumatized, but undeniably better prepared.
His backpack was full of Norimaki-style black-tech, most of it questionably safe. He chose not to fly, no shortcuts. He'd walk Earth this time, step by step.
One day, high atop an unnamed mountain, Alaric reached a serene, cloud-covered retreat hidden above the world. A modest gate stood before him. Hanging above it was a wooden plaque with two large kanji: 武道, Martial Way.
Alaric smiled.
Though Alaric was strong, he didn't share Goku's fiery warrior spirit, the hunger for victory, the thrill of battle, and the drive to push beyond limits. Along his journey, Alaric had seen many dojos and martial artists.
While he thought many of them were weaker than himself, he couldn't help but admire their unbreakable willpower. Alaric had taken shortcuts in his training, focusing mainly on physical strength, and had never faced true life-or-death battles.
So even though he was now technically more powerful than Goku, he still wasn't a match for him. He respected martial artists but never felt the need to become one himself.
"Young friend, come have a chat with an old man," a weathered voice called from behind him as Alaric struck a flashy pose for some photos.
Turning around, he immediately recognized the elderly man dressed in a white martial arts uniform, Master Mutaito, the legendary teacher of Master Roshi, and the one who sealed King Piccolo long ago.
"Master Mutaito…!" Alaric gasped, eyes wide.
"Kids these days have no manners," Mutaito said with a smirk, his head glowing faintly, a clear sign he was a spirit. "I'm not on vacation, so no need to stare like I'm a ghost."
"S-Sorry! I just never thought I'd meet you! It's an honor," Alaric replied, bowing deeply.
"No worries," Mutaito replied. "I appeared because your ki carries the signature of a disciple from my school."
Ki itself had no specific attribute, but over time and through repeated use, subtle differences emerged. After practicing the Kamehameha countless times, Alaric's ki had developed those unique traits, making it easy for experts to recognize.
"My name is Alaric, a disciple of Master Mutaito," he said proudly.
"Seems I've taken many students over the centuries. Three hundred years have passed in the blink of an eye," the master sighed, then assumed a fighting stance. "Come, show me what you've learned."
Alaric wiped the sweat from his brow. Martial artists loved to fight, that was clear, but it was hard to refuse a challenge from such a respected elder, even a ghostly one. "Alright," he agreed.
He settled into a starting stance. Alaric had learned that when martial artists greet you with fighting spirit, the best reply was martial arts itself.
"This is a style I've developed through my journey," he said, voice steady. "If I may, I'd like to exchange fists and learn from you."
Though Alaric's was still rough around the edges, his sheer power and unique understanding of combat impressed the master.
"Not bad at all. To think someone so young could come up with a form like this. Mutaito's disciples really are something," Mutaito praised repeatedly, his excitement clear.
As they sparred, Alaric held back most of his power, but not out of arrogance. It was respect.
Master Mutaito's presence, though ghostly, radiated a calm, immovable strength. Each of his movements was precise, effortless, a result of centuries of martial understanding etched into every motion.
Their feet glided over the mist-covered stone, silent except for the occasional thrum of a palm strike meeting a forearm, or a gust of wind splitting off from a particularly sharp exchange. Alaric's movement, once rough, began to align with Mutaito's rhythm. Each exchange refined his stance, tightened his footwork, shaped his ki control.
Suddenly, Mutaito's fingers flicked forward in a blur, pressure point strike! Alaric ducked just in time, the air above his shoulder slicing apart. He retaliated with a low sweeping kick, but the old master leapt gently above it, floating as if weightless, robes fluttering like a crane in the wind.
"Impressive reaction," Mutaito said calmly. Then he vanished.
Alaric's eyes widened. "Wha, ?"
BAM!
A palm strike to his shoulder threw him off balance. Another to his back sent him skidding across the platform.
Alaric flipped mid-slide and pushed back with a burst of ki, the ground cracking beneath him. His eyes burned with fire now.
He charged, fists flowing like water, redirecting and adapting with every clash. Mutaito met him with open-hand counters, soft but devastating, stopping Alaric's momentum again and again. The old master flowed like the wind.
Then came Alaric's breakthrough.
He shifted his stance, breathing deep, and unleashed a spiral movement that pushed ki through his legs, torso, and arms like a tidal surge.
His hands moved in arcs, drawing energy in and expelling it out through his strikes. A powerful palm thrust struck Mutaito dead-on.
But the old man didn't budge. His feet had rooted, his spirit unmoved.
Mutaito smiled. "Good. Very good. Your form is still young, but your ki flows well. You've begun to understand what it means to fight without aggression."
With a swift motion, he responded, not with an attack, but by dispersing Alaric's momentum with a single touch. The boy's energy unraveled harmlessly into the air.
"Hahaha!" Mutaito laughed heartily, floating back and lowering his hands. "This is refreshing! The afterlife's been far too quiet. I haven't enjoyed a fight like this in ages."
Panting, Alaric stepped back, sweat running down his jaw. He dropped to one knee and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master Mutaito… for your guidance."