Riku woke up to pain.
Not the sharp, screaming kind from the fight—but the deep, stubborn ache that settled into his bones like it planned to stay. His shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and when he tried to sit up, his body reminded him exactly why that was a bad idea.
"Don't," Bulma said immediately.
He froze halfway up. "I wasn't—"
"You absolutely were," she cut in, not even looking at him as she adjusted something on the Dragon Radar. "You were about to tear your stitches and bleed on my stuff."
Riku slowly lay back down on the makeshift bedroll. "You're very observant."
"I'm very annoyed," she replied. "There's a difference."
Goku leaned over him from the other side, upside down, smiling far too brightly for someone who hadn't almost died yesterday. "You're awake! That's good. Roshi's island is way nicer when you're not unconscious."
"…We're already going?" Riku asked.
"Uh-huh!" Goku said. "You slept through the flight."
Riku stared at the sky. "I hate that sentence."
They reached the island by midday.
Calling it an island was generous. It was a rock with a house, a palm tree, and an old man wearing sunglasses who took one look at Riku, then immediately lost interest.
"This one's broken," Master Roshi said flatly. "Bring him back when he works."
Bulma bristled. "Excuse you?"
Riku pushed himself upright, wincing but managing it. "It's fine," he said quickly. "I am, technically, broken."
Roshi snorted. "At least he's honest."
The "training" began immediately.
Which was to say—there was no training.
Instead, Riku was handed crates. Heavy ones. Then heavier ones. Then crates that were absolutely heavier than they needed to be.
"Carry these to the back," Roshi said. "Then bring them back. Then do it again."
Riku blinked. "Is this… part of it?"
Roshi adjusted his sunglasses. "If you quit, it isn't."
Goku was already running laps around the island with a turtle on his back. Whistling.
Bulma watched from the porch, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Riku picked up the first crate.
His body protested instantly. The injury flared, his balance wobbled, and for a brief moment he considered setting it down and asking for a break.
Instead, he adjusted his breathing.
Slow in.
Slow out.
He felt that pressure again—not fear this time, but focus. He didn't push power outward. He pulled inward, tightening, stabilizing.
The crate stopped wobbling.
"Huh," he muttered, taking a step.
By the third trip, sweat was pouring down his face. By the fifth, his legs trembled visibly. Roshi didn't comment once.
Bulma did.
"You know," she said loudly, "most masters at least pretend to teach."
Roshi sipped his drink. "Most students pretend to learn."
Riku nearly laughed. Nearly.
By sunset, he collapsed flat on his back in the sand, chest heaving, arms refusing to move. Goku crouched beside him.
"You didn't quit," Goku said, impressed. "Most people quit."
Riku stared at the sky again. It was becoming a habit. "I considered it. Briefly."
Bulma knelt down next to him, offering water. "You're ridiculous."
"Consistently," he agreed.
Roshi finally spoke again as he headed inside. "Same thing tomorrow. Earlier."
Riku closed his eyes, exhausted.
No flashy techniques.
No sudden strength.
Just weight, pain, and repetition.
And somehow—
That felt right.
END OF CHAPTER
Author's Comment:
Thanks for reading! This arc leans into slice-of-life, comedy, and quiet growth. The "training" may look ridiculous now, but every small habit being built here will matter later. The grind just wears a smile for the moment 🐉😄