Papaya Island—once an uninhabited speck of land—had, due to its favorable geography, been developed into a bustling city.
Normally, this island would be a quiet place. But today, it was packed from end to end with people.
Voices rose in a constant buzz—vendors shouting, crowds cheering, and laughter echoing from every corner.
The air was alive with excitement.
The reason?
A grand event held once every three years was about to begin.
From across the world, martial artists had traveled countless miles to gather here, for one purpose—
to compete in the legendary tournament known as the World Martial Arts Tournament.
The event was hosted by an anonymous wealthy patron, whose sole goal was to determine who truly was the strongest under heaven.
Anyone who believed themselves a master could enter—there were no restrictions on age, gender, or even species.
As a result, the tournament attracted the greatest fighters from every corner of the globe—an assembly of true elites.
Every champion crowned here was a warrior among warriors—the best of their era.
What made the scene even more extraordinary was the variety of people on the island.
Among the bustling crowds weren't just ordinary humans, but also tiger-headed, lion-headed, lizard-headed, and even dinosaur-headed humanoids.
Some beings even had wings and fluttered through the sky overhead.
Yet no one seemed surprised by this diversity.
Humans and beastfolk walked together, arms slung over each other's shoulders, laughing and chatting.
It was a strangely harmonious sight.
"Can't believe it's been three years already since the last one,"
a small bald man said as he finished filling out his registration form at the booth.
"This time, I'm definitely taking the championship. I've worked way too hard for this day!"
"Krillin, don't forget—your opponent this time includes me,"
a young man with shaggy hair said with a grin, patting Krillin's shoulder.
"That championship's mine."
"Even if we're fellow students, Yamcha, I won't hold back!" Krillin shot back, eyes gleaming with competitive fire.
"Hah, it's good that you youngsters have spirit and drive," said an elderly man wearing sunglasses.
"But don't forget—there's also Goku. I'd wager he hasn't wasted a single day in these three years. His strength must've soared again."
"And remember, besides Goku, there are countless other formidable fighters here. Some may be your equals—others may even surpass you. There's always someone stronger, always another sky above your sky. The path of martial arts has no end."
The old man lectured patiently, though his two disciples had heard it countless times before.
"Yes, Master Roshi," Krillin and Yamcha replied respectfully in unison.
Though their master could be unreliable—and more than a little perverted—his words about martial arts were never without wisdom.
The elderly man was known as Master Roshi, though the world more often called him by another name: the Turtle Hermit.
A century ago, he had been recognized as the strongest martial artist alive—the "God of Martial Arts."
He was the founder of the Turtle School and the creator of the famous Kamehameha technique.
In other words, a living legend.
"By the way, where's Goku?" Roshi finally asked after lecturing his two disciples.
"No idea," Krillin said, glancing around the crowd. "Can't see him anywhere."
"That blockhead didn't forget the date again, did he?" said a beautiful young woman standing beside them.
Her name was Bulma.
If it were anyone else, the idea would sound ridiculous—but with Goku, it was entirely plausible.
Roshi approached the registration booth and asked the attendant politely,
"Excuse me, has a boy named Son Goku signed up yet?"
"Please wait just a moment, sir."
The staffer quickly flipped through the registration sheets, cross-referencing the names.
Although the World Martial Arts Tournament was open to everyone with no restrictions—and thousands came from around the world—
the number of actual participants wasn't as enormous as it looked.
Not every martial artist was eager to fight; many simply came to watch or to seek inspiration for their own training.
And beyond the martial artists, most of the island's visitors were ordinary fans and spectators drawn by the excitement.
"You mean the boy who was runner-up in the last tournament?" the staffer finally said.
"He hasn't signed up yet."
"Still not here?" Roshi muttered, glancing at the clock. "Only fifteen minutes left before registration closes."
"What the heck is Goku doing?" Krillin grumbled. "Don't tell me he really forgot! I was so looking forward to fighting him again!"
As everyone fretted over Goku's absence, Roshi leaned quietly toward the staffer.
"Please… add the name Cheng Long to the list."
The staffer's eyes widened.
"Cheng Long? The reigning champion of the last tournament—wait, are you—?"
"Shh!" Roshi quickly hushed him, glancing around nervously to make sure his students weren't listening.
Removing his sunglasses, he whispered,
"You must keep this absolutely secret."
"Only ten minutes left! What's that idiot Goku doing?!" Bulma cried, pacing in frustration.
"Should we just have Puar transform into him and sign up instead?"
Puar—the small blue cat-like creature floating beside Yamcha—was a shapeshifting beastman and, evidently, their emergency plan.
"That's actually a great idea," Yamcha agreed. Everyone nodded in unison.
"Master Roshi, where did you go just now?" Krillin asked, noticing his teacher returning.
"Ahahaha, I, uh… went to the restroom," Roshi said awkwardly.
"You sure do poop a lot," muttered the nearby sea turtle.
"Well, well, if it isn't Master Roshi,"
came a snide, mocking voice from the side.
The speaker was an old man wearing a green martial arts uniform and a white crane-shaped hat. Like Roshi, he wore sunglasses—though of a different style.
"What a coincidence," he said with a smirk.
Though his words were polite, the tone was dripping with sarcasm—so much so that even passersby could sense the animosity.
"Oh? If it isn't Master Crane," Roshi replied evenly. His tone wasn't friendly, but neither was it hostile—until his next sentence.
"Surprised you're still alive."
"Hmph! Still the same as ever—ugly and foul-mouthed," Crane retorted, his voice sharp with disdain.
"What's with the hat? Trying to hide that shiny bald head of yours?"
"You're one to talk!" Roshi shot back without missing a beat. "What's there to brag about with a receding hairline?"
The two masters locked eyes, sparks flying in the air between them.
Just then, a new voice broke through the tension.
"Excuse me—pardon me—coming through."
A young man with blond hair pushed his way through the crowd, slipping right
between the two old masters and stepping up to the registration desk.
"Could you please sign me up?" he said casually. "I'd like to enter this year's tournament."
"The name's Uzumaki Naruto."
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