The calendar of the Orin Temple was not marked by days of the week, but by the turning of the seasons and the cycle of the moon. For Haruki, however, time was a relentless countdown. His five-year mark was on the horizon, a milestone that felt both impossibly far away and terrifyingly close. The subtle fear he once carried had hardened into a quiet, unwavering discipline. He had accepted that the temple's teachings, while grounded in a profound, spiritual truth, were ultimately insufficient for the threats that loomed in his future. He had to become a warrior, not just a monk, and that required a new, brutal kind of training.
His secret regimen began with the simplest things. During the morning mountain runs, he started picking up a few small, smooth river stones and holding them in his hands, clenching them tight. They were light enough not to slow him down noticeably, but they added a faint, constant strain to his forearms. As his arms grew accustomed to the weight, he would find larger, rougher stones. Soon, he had a collection of ten small, heavy rocks that he would hide in his gi pockets. The extra weight was nothing to an adult, but to his small, five-year-old body, it was a constant, draining challenge. The fabric of his gi felt heavier, his feet seemed to pound into the earth with a little more force, and every movement, from a simple walk to a sparring session, required an extra degree of effort.
He took to performing his katas with his eyes closed. In a world where he had to fight against a terrifying timeline, he felt it was crucial to hone his senses beyond sight. His body remembered the moves, but his mind had to guide him through the muscle memory without a visual cue. He would stand in the empty dojo after the others had gone to sleep, the moonlight filtering through the windows, a small, solitary figure moving through the ancient forms in absolute darkness. He would stumble, his balance would waver, and he would often fall, but he would simply get back up and try again. He wasn't just practicing a fighting style; he was practicing trust in his own body, in his own discipline, a quiet act of faith in a future he was building himself.
His dedication did not go unnoticed, though its true purpose remained hidden. Krillin, his closest friend, would often find him meditating long after the other children had retired to the dormitories.
"You're going to be the best student here, you know," Krillin said one evening, his small voice filled with a mix of awe and worry. He sat down beside Haruki, a small lantern casting a warm, flickering light on the wooden floor. "You train so much. Don't you ever get tired?"
Haruki slowly opened his eyes, the remnants of his concentration still lingering in their depths. "I do," he admitted quietly. "But I can't stop. We're going to be fighting for a lot more than just a tournament someday."
Krillin's brow furrowed, his innocent mind unable to fully grasp the gravity in Haruki's words. "What do you mean? Like, a tournament that lasts for weeks?"
Haruki forced a smile. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't tell Krillin about the Saiyans, about the Namek Saga, about the endless chain of battles that would define their future. The knowledge felt like a poison in his veins, isolating him from the very person he was trying to protect. "Something like that," he said vaguely. "So we have to be ready."
Krillin nodded, still confused, but his innate trust in his friend was absolute. He looked at Haruki's gi, noticing how the pockets seemed to sag. He reached out and felt the weight of the rocks. "What are these for?"
"Extra weight," Haruki explained. "To make me stronger."
Krillin stared at the small, heavy stones. He had never heard of such a training method. It seemed so strange, so illogical to his simple, pure-hearted way of thinking. The monks trained by pushing their bodies to the limit, but this... this was something else. This was a form of self-inflicted punishment. But then, Krillin looked at the unwavering intensity in Haruki's eyes, and he understood. Haruki wasn't just training to be a fighter; he was training to survive. He was driven by a fear that Krillin could not comprehend, but that he could see reflected in every one of his friend's quiet, serious movements.
A new boy, older and much stronger than either Haruki or Krillin, arrived at the temple. He was a teenager with a lean, muscular frame and an arrogant swagger. His name was Kenji, and he was the son of a wealthy family who had sent him to the temple to master his temper.
Kenji seemed to possess a natural talent for martial arts. He could effortlessly split logs with a single, focused strike. During sparring matches, his movements were fluid and powerful, and he would often send the younger students, even those a few years his senior, sprawling with a simple block. His arrival was a humbling experience for the rest of the students, and a sobering reality check for Haruki.
One day, Kenji was tasked with moving a massive pile of boulders from one side of the courtyard to the other. The rocks were too big for a single person to lift, so the task was to break them into smaller pieces with their bare hands. It was a test of strength and focus.
The other students would take turns, swinging their fists and feet at the unmoving stones, groaning with effort and pain. Haruki watched, his mind racing. He knew this was a test of something more than just brute strength. In his past life, he had seen videos of martial arts masters breaking concrete blocks. It was about focusing your energy, your ki, into a single point. He hadn't mastered ki yet, but he had a theory.
He watched as Kenji stepped up to a boulder. Kenji didn't waste any movement. He didn't use his whole body in a powerful, winding motion. He simply stood there, his face serene, his hand poised. Then, with a single, controlled chop, he struck the boulder. The sound was not a thud, but a crisp, sharp crack, and a large chunk of the stone broke off. There was a faint, almost imperceptible green glow on his hand as he pulled it away. It was ki. It was the first time Haruki had seen it in person. The sight sent a thrill of fear and excitement through him. He was not just in a world of physical strength; he was in a world of spiritual energy. He had a long, long way to go.
That night, Haruki couldn't sleep. He lay on his thin mat, his mind replaying the sight of Kenji's effortless strike. The green glow, the focused power, the utter lack of effort. He had felt a spark of that power, but he had no idea how to access it, let alone control it. His body was his vessel, his mind was his engine, but he was still a ship without a rudder. He got up quietly, slipped on his gi with the weighted rocks still in the pockets, and crept outside. He sat by the water well, the cool night air doing little to soothe his racing thoughts. He was a small, fragile human in a world of gods, and the gap between them felt wider than ever. He was trying to climb a mountain, but he didn't even know where the trail began.
He sat there for a long time, listening to the quiet murmur of the wind, the distant hoot of an owl. And then, he felt it. A flicker of that faint warmth in his gut. It was a desperate, almost imperceptible feeling, but it was there. He focused on it, pushing everything else out of his mind. The fear, the envy, the doubt. He poured all of his quiet, stubborn desperation into that single, tiny spark. He felt it grow, just for a moment, a thrum of energy, a whisper of power. It wasn't enough to break a stone or even move a pebble. But it was there. It was his. And it was enough.
He sat there until the first hint of dawn, his mind still, his body exhausted, and his spirit a little bit stronger. He knew what he had to do. He couldn't be like Kenji. He couldn't force his power into existence. But he could nurture it. He could tend to that tiny, fragile spark, and he could make it grow. He was not just a boy training to be strong; he was a gardener, and his soul was the soil.