The discovery that he was in the Dragon Ball world brought with it a suffocating weight of fear, but it also hardened something within Haruki. The sheer audacity of his new reality—a child transmigrated into a cartoon universe—was so unbelievable that it forced him to choose: either cower in fear or face it head-on. He chose the latter. His goal for today, and every day after, was simple: be one-percent better than he was yesterday.
The Orin Temple's daily routine was a relentless grind. The training sessions were designed to build a foundation of strength and discipline, and for the other children, they were merely difficult. For Haruki, they were borderline impossible.
He still struggled with the morning push-ups. While the other kids, including Krillin, could knock out a set of fifty with practiced ease, Haruki's arms would tremble and give out after just ten. He'd collapse onto the cool stone, his small body soaked in sweat, lungs burning. But now, when he fell, he didn't just lie there in defeat. He'd pull himself back up, his face a mask of furious concentration, and attempt an eleventh. He'd fail, of course, but that extra effort, that refusal to stay down, was his small victory.
His greatest challenge was the "mountain run." It was a simple, uphill jog from the dojo to a small shrine at the summit. The path was uneven, filled with loose stones and tree roots, and the air thinned as they ascended.
The first time Haruki attempted it, his legs felt like lead weights before he'd even gone a hundred feet. He watched Krillin and the others disappear up the trail, their young bodies bounding with energy. Haruki pushed on alone, each step a conscious, painful effort. His chest burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, and he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs. It took him nearly an hour to reach the shrine, long after the others had finished and returned. The old monk who monitored the run simply nodded at him, his face betraying no judgment, only a quiet understanding.
But a week later, it only took him fifty-eight minutes. A month after that, fifty-five. The change was tiny, imperceptible to anyone else. A few seconds here, a minute there. To Haruki, each shaved second was a monumental triumph. He wasn't gaining muscle, not in any noticeable way. But his lungs were growing stronger, his legs a fraction more resilient, his resolve just a little bit harder.
His closest companion was Krillin. The boy's boundless optimism was a stark contrast to Haruki's quiet, serious demeanor, but their shared status as the two smallest children in the temple created a bond between them.
One afternoon, they sat by the well, tired from a day of training. Krillin, always a talker, recounted a story he'd heard from a passing traveler.
"They said they saw Master Roshi's island," Krillin said, his eyes wide with awe. "And they said the Kame House is so amazing, it's a real palace!"
Haruki listened, a faint knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. He knew of the Kame House. He knew of Master Roshi. He knew that one day, he and Krillin would leave this temple and seek out the legendary Turtle Hermit to train under him. The thought should have been exciting, but to Haruki, it was terrifying. It meant stepping out of the small, predictable world of the temple and into the unpredictable, dangerous world of the story he knew so well.
He looked at Krillin, his face bright with a hopeful future. Haruki could not share in that innocent excitement. He wasn't just training for a great adventure; he was training for survival. The training wasn't about getting a little stronger; it was about not dying a pointless, anonymous death. His journey was a race against a timeline he knew, against a destiny he refused to accept.
He pushed himself up from the ground. "Come on," he said to Krillin, his voice quiet but firm. "Let's try that kata again. We can't waste any time."
Krillin, surprised by his sudden urgency, simply nodded and got to his feet. Haruki knew he was still incredibly weak. He still couldn't lift the water bucket without straining, and his punches were still pathetic. But now, he was a little bit stronger than he was yesterday. And tomorrow, he would be stronger still.