"BOOM!"
The cataclysmic roar was so sudden and absolute that for a split second, the professors and students felt as though their eardrums had been rendered useless. The sound was followed immediately by a violent pressure wave—a wall of displaced air so powerful that the smaller, frailer first-years were nearly swept off their feet.
As the dust and ionized air finally settled, everyone turned their eyes toward the horizon. The mountain peak, a landmark that had stood across the Black Lake for centuries, was gone. There was no rubble, no jagged remains—only a clean, smoking indentation where hundreds of tons of granite had once pierced the sky.
"That is my Ki Magic," Goku's voice rang out, clear and resonant through Dumbledore's Sonorus charm. He stood in the center of the scorched lawn, his small frame radiating a calm, terrifying authority. "I can do it. And so can you!"
"It's too powerful... it's unbelievable!"
The shock on the students' faces rapidly mutated into raw, unadulterated excitement. To a young wizard, magic was often a matter of flickering lights or floating feathers. This was something else—this was the power to reshape the world.
If learning a martial art meant winning a schoolyard scrap, interest might be mild. But if it meant possessing the power to challenge an army, or a mountain, no one could turn away.
The students who hadn't signed up were already pushing forward, desperate to find a way onto the roster.
"I hope this provides enough motivation," Dumbledore whispered to himself. He knew that without this display of god-like power, the sheer brutality of the training he and Goku had designed would have caused a mass exodus by mid-morning.
He needed a generation of wizards who didn't just wave sticks, but who possessed the iron will of the Turtle School. Voldemort's Death Eaters were formidable, but they were reliant on wands; if he could produce even a handful of "Ki Wizards," the balance of power would shift forever.
"All registered students, step forward!" Goku commanded. "Surrender your wands to the assistants, then form four divisions by House and year!"
The lawn became a sea of movement. Seven or eight hundred students organized themselves into neat rows. Even the older students—those aiming for elite Auror placements—stood tall, their eyes fixed on the boy professor.
Dumbledore flicked his wand in a series of complex, silent motions. "Vera Verto!"
In an instant, thousands of wooden crates filled with heavy glass milk bottles appeared before the students. The crates for the seventh-years were reinforced and twice as heavy as those placed before the eleven-year-olds.
"What is this for?" a Ravenclaw fourth-year asked, poking a bottle. "Is this breakfast?"
"This is your warm-up," Goku announced, hoisting a massive, gnarled tree trunk onto his own shoulders—the log Hagrid had prepared for him. "Before we start the real lesson, everyone is going to carry their milk crates and run one lap around the Black Lake. When you finish, you get breakfast. After breakfast, we start the actual training."
A heavy silence fell. The perimeter of the Black Lake was over ten miles long, winding through jagged rocks, thick mud, and steep slopes. Carrying a heavy crate of milk for that distance was a task that would make a professional athlete sweat, let alone a group of pampered English schoolchildren.
"Start running!" Goku didn't wait. He surged forward, the massive log balanced perfectly on his shoulders, his pace steady and relentless.
The students hesitated, glancing at Dumbledore. The Headmaster simply smiled and gestured toward the horizon. One by one, driven by the memory of the exploding mountain, they picked up their crates and began to jog.
Trailing behind them on a broomstick was Madam Pomfrey, her medical bag clanking with potions. The sight of the school nurse hovering like a vulture didn't inspire much confidence. 'Why would we need a healer for a run?' the students wondered.
They found out within the first mile.
"Where did these hills come from?" Ron gasped, his face already turning a vivid shade of beetroot.
The terrain around the lake had been subtly altered overnight. Ten-meter-high ridges with nearly vertical inclines now blocked the path. To get over them, the students had to scramble up the loose dirt, clutching their crates to their chests. One slip meant tumbling backward in a heap of broken glass and bruised limbs. Many did.
The hills were followed by the "Gully Zone"—a series of ten-meter-deep pits spanned only by narrow, slippery logs. The students had to balance their weight and their crates while crossing. Those who fell didn't die—Dumbledore had placed cushioning charms at the bottom—but broken ankles and snapped wrists became a common occurrence.
Madam Pomfrey was kept busy. She would swoop down, cast a lightning-fast Brackium Emendo or pour a Bone-Regenerating Potion down a student's throat, and then point firmly back toward the path. There was no going to the hospital wing. There was only the run.
"Balance is key! Use your core!" Goku shouted, effortlessly leaping across the pits with the massive log. He occasionally doubled back to haul a struggling student out of a hole, his energy seemingly infinite.
By the time they reached the "Sand Zone"—two miles of deep, scorching magical sand that pulled at their feet like quicksand—the collective spirit of Hogwarts was shattered.
"Professor Son, I can't... I quit!" a Slytherin boy wailed, collapsing into the dunes.
"This isn't magic! This is torture! It's irrational!"
"Please, let us just rest for five minutes..."
Nearly a hundred students sat down in the sand, refusing to move. Their muscles were screaming, and the dream of exploding mountains felt very far away.
Goku stopped and looked back. He remembered how Master Roshi had handled their laziness. He grinned—a small, mischievous look that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, you want to rest? I should have mentioned... the local residents are very protective of their territory."
He cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. "Aragog! Your snacks are here!"
The forest floor at the edge of the sand began to vibrate. From the dark eaves of the Forbidden Forest, hundreds of eight-legged shadows began to emerge. Click-clack, click-clack.
The Acromantulas, coached by Goku during his nightly sessions, swarmed toward the students with terrifying speed, their mandibles snapping and venom dripping.
"SCREAM!!!"
The exhaustion vanished in a heartbeat. The students who had been "unable to move" suddenly found a reservoir of hidden energy. Clutching their milk crates with white-knuckled grips, they bolted across the sand at speeds that would have shamed an Olympic sprinter.
The Demonic Training of the Turtle School had truly begun.
***
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