From Blueprints to Kamehamehas

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The sun hung lazily over the horizon, casting a warm glow on the verdant landscape. Nestled between rolling hills and a sparkling river, Mutaito’s dojo stood like a jewel of serenity and discipline. The clean, polished wooden floors of the training hall reflected the glistening bodies of students practicing in rhythmic unison. The sound of fists cutting through the air echoed with precision, each movement performed under the watchful eye of their master.

Behind the dojo, however, was a sight that would cause most ordinary people to double-take. A boy, no older than eighteen, clung to a vertical cliff face, a massive boulder strapped to his legs like a bizarre stone anklet. Sweat dripped from his brow as his fingers dug into the rock, pulling himself higher with each strained breath.

This boy was Roshi, and he was not exactly what you’d expect from someone destined to become a legendary martial artist. Well, not yet.

“Ah, this is nothing,” Roshi grunted, pulling himself another few inches up the cliff, his muscles screaming in protest. The boulder tied to his legs had to be at least 100 kilograms. It wasn’t enough to break him, but it sure was enough to make him regret waking up this morning.

It hadn’t always been like this. Fifteen years ago, Roshi wasn’t Roshi. He had been Ethan, a regular engineer who, after an unfortunate brush with fate, found himself reborn as a baby in a world he thought was fictional—the Dragon Ball universe. Of all the people to become, he had to end up as the guy who’d one day be known for being a perverted old man.

When Ethan first realized his situation, he had been optimistic. "This’ll be easy," he’d thought, armed with knowledge of the Dragon Ball story. After all, he knew all about the Dragon Balls, the Kamehameha, and even the looming threat of King Piccolo. He’d imagined a life of smooth sailing, where he could breeze through training and emerge as an unstoppable martial arts genius with zero effort. But as the years passed, reality came crashing down on him like a ton of bricks.

It turns out, just knowing the plot doesn’t make you strong. Training, hard work, and sheer willpower still mattered. Original Roshi had earned his power through endless dedication. And Ethan—now Roshi—was just a regular guy. He wasn’t a martial arts genius, nor did he have some secret hack to becoming powerful.

Nope, no cheat codes here. Just good old-fashioned sweat and pain.

Roshi smirked as he reached the top of the cliff, pulling himself over the edge and unstrapping the stone from his legs. His muscles burned, but the pain was familiar, almost comforting. He looked out over the horizon, taking in the beauty of the world around him. The world of Dragon Ball was a sight to behold, even more vivid and breathtaking than he’d ever imagined while watching the series.

Still, a nagging thought crept into his mind. King Piccolo. Roshi knew that in a few years, the demon king would rise and lay waste to the world. Was he ready? He had been training as hard as he could, but that didn’t mean much. The original Roshi was leagues ahead of where Ethan had ever been in his previous life. Sure, he was pushing himself, but so had the real Roshi. In fact, there wasn’t much Ethan could do that the original hadn’t already tried.

Hard work, no shortcuts, he reminded himself. But I’ve still got time.

Roshi dusted off his hands and started the walk back to the dojo. He didn’t feel like sprinting today. He needed to save his energy for tomorrow’s sparring match with Shen. Now, Shen was good—a natural martial artist with talent Roshi admired. But deep down, Roshi knew he had pushed himself just a little harder, trained a little longer.

I should be stronger than him, Roshi thought as he strolled through the grassy fields, the breeze cool against his sweat-soaked skin. But not by much. Shen’s no pushover.

As he reached the courtyard, the students were still deep in their training, the air filled with the rhythmic sounds of punches and kicks. Roshi waved to a few familiar faces before slipping into the small home he shared with his family.

Inside, his mother was setting the table for dinner. She smiled as he walked in, her eyes soft with warmth. “You’ve been working hard today, I see.”

“Yeah,” Roshi grinned, “Nothing like dragging a rock up a cliff to build up an appetite.”

His father, a local landlord with a strong frame and a hearty laugh, patted Roshi on the back as he passed. “That’s the spirit! Nothing worthwhile comes easy, my boy.”

At the table, Roshi’s older sister, Urenai, was already sitting with her legs crossed, sipping tea. She was two years older than him, but she acted like she had the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes. “Training’s one thing, little brother,” she said, her voice sharp as always, “but don’t forget there’s more to life than brute strength. You’ll need more than muscles to win tomorrow’s match.”

“I know, I know,” Roshi said, rolling his eyes. “It’s all in the mind, right?”

“Exactly,” Urenai smirked, but Roshi could see the faintest glimmer of pride in her eyes.

Dinner passed quickly, with the usual banter and teasing. As the moon climbed into the night sky, Roshi found himself lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Tomorrow’s match against Shen loomed large in his mind. They had fought before, of course, but something about this one felt… different.

Am I really ready? He had pushed himself to the limit over the years, but Shen was no slouch. The thought of losing gnawed at him. But what was really at stake? Bragging rights? A little honor? Or maybe it was the realization that the road to being the strongest didn’t come easy, even in a world where he knew the future.

Roshi turned over, closing his eyes. Tomorrow would be the test.