"No need to waste time fighting through the crowd—my time is far too valuable."
Yamcha sat calmly in the helicopter as the mountaintop came into view.
He had no interest in jostling with the others. If there was a more efficient way to get there, why not use it? Old Master Bangu had declared that anyone who arrived at the dojo before nightfall could become his disciple—but he never specified how they had to arrive. Riding in a vehicle was still a method; if you could fly, that counted too. That was the meaning of "What Isn't Forbidden Is Allowed."
Thanks to his exploits in the JOJO world, Yamcha had vaulted into the ranks of the wealthy—and that wouldn't change just because he'd arrived in another world.
Though currencies differed from world to world, one thing always stayed in demand wherever you went—not worthless cubic zirconia, but real gold. Born only in the supernovae of neutron stars, it was always a hard currency. Yamcha's stash of gold would let him spend freely anywhere—and if he ever ran out, he could trade for more.
Traveling the multiverse, money was never a concern.
Yet his near‑"cheat" arrival stoked the crowd's competitive fires.
Those stuck at the bottom of the mountain suddenly loosened their ranks.
"Is that allowed too? Then I'd better work harder! I won't lose at perseverance!" Bitter Bug clenched his fists and swore inwardly as he watched the helicopter recede. A flame seemed to burn behind him—that was the fire of determination!
In that moment, Bitter Bug felt possessed by the hero of a shōnen manga, every nerve alight with power. "I must succeed in becoming a disciple—I must transform myself!"
He raised both arms and roared at the sky, as if unleashing his inner cosmos.
The next instant, he was swallowed by the human tide.
"Not the protagonist? Then please stop your shouting."
"Rich guy?" A silver‑haired youth wiped his nose and sneered at the departing helicopter. With uncanny speed he weaved through the milling horde, overtaking almost everyone to claim a spot just behind the first wave that followed the helicopter.
"It's thanks to years of odd jobs!" he panted.
"I, Hungry Wolf, won't lose to you!"
"The top spot is mine!"
Yamcha looked down at the silver blur racing uphill and mused, "The people of this world really are strong." From his observations, the average human here surpassed those of the Dragon Ball world—just a little training could push someone into martial‑artist class.
Soon to be formed, the Hero Association would rank strength in S, A, B, and C tiers. Even a basic C‑rank hero was supposed to have at least five times the strength of a normal person—on par with Captain America, at least in theory (though Cap's always been a tough match).
Though the Dragon Ball world's humans weren't the protagonists, they'd never had such baseline power.
Above the roar of the crowd, the helicopter's departure ignited everyone's fighting spirit, and all surged forward. Hungry Wolf visibly closed in on the chopper's wake.
"Quite an impressive physique… back when I was a desert bandit, I was only this good," Yamcha admitted with genuine respect.
He turned to the pilot. "Full speed. Leave these paupers behind."
Using all one's power is the greatest respect for an opponent—though in this case, it wasn't Yamcha himself exerting it.
"Yes, sir."
The pilot obediently cranked the throttle up another notch, and in an instant the chopper pulled so far ahead that no one on the ground could hope to catch it.
At last the helicopter neared the dojo. Yamcha told the pilot to set down fifty meters from the gate. No matter what the old master had said, landing directly above the dojo would have been too brazen.
"Screech."
As Yamcha stepped onto the ground, the dojo's doors creaked open. From within emerged an unassuming silver‑haired elder, dressed simply and perhaps fifty or sixty years old, hands clasped behind his back as he stooped forward and strolled out.
From a distance he looked like any ordinary neighborhood grandpa—but beneath that thin robe lay explosive musculature, and his silent steps betrayed a genuine martial‑arts master.
This man was no mere teacher: he was a true martial artist of legend—Master Bangu, Grandmaster of the Flowing Rock‑Shattering Fist, an authority in the martial‑arts world and soon to be the Hero Association's third‑ranked S‑class hero.
Bangu raised his head to regard Yamcha, who met his gaze. They said the eyes were the windows to the soul—and for warriors, a single glance could reveal another's power.
As their eyes locked, Yamcha felt a mighty gust of ki slam into him, the elder's gaze like a sword piercing his core. Yamcha almost lost control of his feet, forgot to breathe—the very sensation of being at the eye of a great storm, at any moment to be capsized.
Before the old master had even fully emerged, Yamcha's bodyguards aboard the helicopter had already collapsed to the ground.
One look—just one look—and it was terrifying.
Just as Yamcha thought he could not endure it, the wave of ki vanished as suddenly as it had struck, and the swordlike glare softened into the kindly look of a silver‑haired grandfather. If not for the sweat soaking his palms, Yamcha would have thought he'd imagined the entire thing.
Old Master Bangu scrutinized Yamcha from head to toe, stroked his chin, and in a slow but firm voice said, "I've wondered what style the first arrival would take."
"With diligence, step by step from the staircase… or by less honorable means?"
He glanced at the winding staircase the others were using, then back at the helicopter. "But borrowing the power of technology—flying instead of walking—your choice truly surprised me."
(End of Chapter)