Papaya Island, the resort island that had been boiling with excitement for the World Martial Arts Tournament, finally re-embraced its original tranquility as the last of the contestants and spectators departed.
The once-crowded streets and shoulder-to-shoulder beaches were now left with only the soothing rhythm of waves lapping the shore and the clear cries of seagulls.
The sun shone unhindered on the fine white sand, reflecting a dazzling light. The air was filled with the salty, fresh scent of the sea breeze, as if the previous fanatical event had been nothing but a fleeting dream.
Whitley and Bulma, however, did not leave with the crowd.
For them, the not-so-intense competition was over, but now was the perfect time to enjoy their private world.
Leaving the clamor behind, the two decided to stay a while longer on the now-peaceful island.
The sun was just right. On the fine sand, Whitley and Bulma were nestled together on a large beach chair, enjoying a rare moment of leisure.
In the morning, some tourists who had witnessed Whitley's astonishing performance at the tournament had excitedly run over to ask for photos.
Whitley was quite patient with them, always cooperating with a faint smile.
Bulma, watching from the side, not only didn't feel disturbed but felt a sense of pride—See, this is Bulma's man, handsome, right?!
Now, the tourists had finally dispersed. All that was left was the whisper of the waves and the occasional passing seagull. The world seemed to consist of only the two of them.
Whitley let out a long, contented sigh and drained the cold coconut wine in his hand, letting out a satisfied "Hah."
He adjusted his position, his hands naturally wrapping around Bulma's slender waist to pull her more comfortably into his arms, and then relaxed completely against the back of the chair.
The warm sun on his body, the gentle sea breeze caressing his skin with a hint of coolness, the murmur of the waves and the cry of the gulls in his ears, and the person he loved in his arms...
All of this made Whitley feel incredibly relaxed and comfortable, so much so that he was about to close his eyes and drift into a dream.
However, this tranquility did not last long.
"Whitley!"
A clear and energetic shout, like a pebble dropped into a calm lake, instantly shattered the peace.
Whitley opened his eyes with resignation, his gaze locking onto the source of the sound.
He saw Goku's perpetually innocent and smiling face approaching from a distance, running towards them with light, excited steps.
Whitley let out a long, silent sigh, his brow furrowed, a look of "here we go again" resignation on his face.
He muttered to himself, "Honestly, why is it so hard to have a quiet vacation? Someone always has to interrupt..."
Seeing Whitley's frustrated but unable-to-act-out expression, Bulma couldn't help but let out a "pfft" of laughter.
She reached out and gently ruffled Whitley's spiky black hair, as if placating a grumpy large cat.
"Alright, alright," her voice was filled with amusement, as if she were coaxing a child. "Goku's just a kid, and he's not a stranger. Why are you getting worked up over this with him? He's running in such a hurry, he must have something important."
Whitley shook his head, suppressing the annoyance of being disturbed. He sat up straight and looked at Goku, who had already run up to them. "What's up? Why did you come running over in such a rush? Do you need something?"
Goku came to a screeching halt, stopping steadily in front of them. His little chest was still heaving slightly, but his face was flushed with excitement. "Grandpa Roshi said he's treating us to a meal! I came specifically to find you guys!"
As he spoke, he even pointed in the direction he had come from.
Looking at the pure, innocent, and expectant smile on Goku's face, and especially considering that the keyword "meal" was enough to make him remember to run and notify him and Bulma, Whitley fell silent for a moment. The bit of unhappiness in his heart was instantly replaced by a subtle feeling of being touched.
He reached out and gently pinched Goku's chubby little cheek, his tone softening. "Thanks, Goku. It's nice of you to think of calling us when you heard about food."
Bulma also smiled and leaned over, ruffling Goku's messy hair and praising him, "That's right, that's right, Goku is such a good boy!"
"Hey, you two, stop touching my head!" Goku shook his head, trying to escape their "demonic claws" like a reluctant little animal, a hint of excitement on his face.
"Let's go! Grandpa Roshi is already waiting for us at the restaurant! If we're late, all the good food will be gone!" The mention of "restaurant" and "good food" made Goku's eyes light up astonishingly, and a string of saliva even uncontrollably hung from the corner of his mouth. His gluttonous look made Whitley and Bulma burst out laughing.
"Haha, alright! Let's go!" Whitley and Bulma exchanged a smile and quickly got up.
The two returned to their hotel, deftly changed out of their swimsuits into comfortable casual clothes, and then followed Goku, who was chanting "hurry, hurry" all the way, to a decently decorated restaurant on the island.
Pushing open the door to the private room, they saw Master Roshi, no longer in his "Jackie Chun" disguise, and his little bald disciple, Krillin, already seated inside.
The round table was filled with a wide variety of dishes, the aroma wafting through the air.
Clearly, Master Roshi had spared some expense.
"Grandpa Roshi, I brought Whitley and Bulma back! Can we eat now?"
The moment Goku entered the room, his eyes were locked on the feast on the table, his mouth watering so much it was about to flood. He couldn't wait to pull out a chair and sit down.
Master Roshi cleared his throat, sat up straight, assuming the posture of an elder, his face wearing a forced, benevolent smile.
"Ahem, well... everyone's here, very good! Before we start, I'd like to say a few words..."
However, before the "few" in his "few words" had completely left his mouth, Goku had already picked up his chopsticks and shouted with a vibrant voice, "Let's eat!"
Immediately after, he was seen burying his head and "attacking" the nearest dish with the force of a whirlwind, his cheeks instantly puffing out like a little hamster's.
Seeing Goku's complete disregard for him, his eyes only on the food, and Master Roshi's instantly stiffened, almost petrified figure, Bulma couldn't hold it in any longer. With a "pfft," a clear laugh echoed in the private room.
Krillin, next to them, reacted extremely quickly!
He was one of the "victims" who knew Goku's terrifying appetite all too well, and he had also witnessed Whitley's equally bottomless stomach.
Seeing that Goku had already started and Whitley was also sitting down with a glint in his eye, how could Krillin dare to hesitate?
Without a word, he immediately grabbed the largest plate in front of him and, with nimble hands, began to frantically pile it with various meats and what looked like the most expensive dishes. His movements were so fast they could be called well-trained!
He had only one thought in his mind: First come, first served! If I don't grab it now, this table of food probably won't last three minutes!
Master Roshi stared blankly at the chaotic start of the meal—Goku burying his head and eating fiercely, Whitley joining the fray with no less speed, Krillin turning into a "food porter" and hoarding frantically, and Bulma laughing her head off to the side.
The "speech" the old master had prepared was completely stillborn. He chuckled awkwardly a few times and, forgetting his elder's demeanor and his speech, quickly picked up his chopsticks and joined the "battle."
If he didn't grab some now, he might not even get a sip of soup! He had personally witnessed Goku's ridiculous appetite, and with the unfathomable Whitley added to the mix... the outcome of this meal seemed predictable.
"Waiter! Two more large plates of the fried rice over here! The biggest plates you have!" Bulma said, skillfully waving over a waiter as she watched the plates in front of Whitley empty rapidly.
"And the pork cutlet rice! Two more large servings of that too! The largest portions!" she added, her tone as casual as if she were ordering drinks.
Master Roshi watched as Bulma nonchalantly kept adding to the order, then looked at the mountain of food on the table disappearing at a visible rate. His expression gradually became one of disbelief, even a little bit of horror.
He couldn't help but put down his chopsticks, his voice trembling slightly. "That's... enough! Enough! Children! You should only eat until you're seventy percent full! You have to start taking care of your health from a young age! Don't force yourselves!"
However, the two main forces, Whitley and Goku, seemed to have entered a state of "one with the food."
They were completely focused, deaf to everything else. The chopsticks in their hands became afterimages, their goal clear—to eliminate all edible matter within their line of sight.
For them, there was only chewing and swallowing. Master Roshi's advice was automatically filtered out like background noise.
When the last piece of pork cutlet disappeared into Whitley's mouth and the last bit of fried rice was scraped clean by Goku, the massive "Clean Plate Campaign" finally came to an end.
When the waiter came over with the bill, the professional smile on his face seemed a little strained.
Master Roshi took the bill with an almost religious feeling, a mixture of anticipation and fear.
However, when his eyes swept over the conspicuous number at the bottom of the bill, he was struck by lightning. He shot up from his seat, his voice suddenly rising an octave, filled with a sharp disbelief:
"How... how much?!!! One... one million three hundred thousand?!!!"
His sunglasses almost slid off his nose. He pointed a trembling finger at the astronomical figure, his eyes wide as saucers. "Did you add an extra zero?!!"
The restaurant manager hurried over at the sound, his face plastered with a professional, impeccable, and apologetic smile. He bowed slightly, but his tone was very firm:
"I'm very sorry to have surprised you, sir. But your bill is indeed one million three hundred thousand. It has been checked repeatedly, and not a single digit is wrong." His attitude was respectful, but his stance was firm.
"But... but isn't this price a bit ridiculous?!"
Master Roshi waved his arms excitedly, trying to find a reasonable explanation.
"The World Martial Arts Tournament! That's a grand event that brings together the top masters from all over the world! The prize money for the champion is only five hundred thousand! Why does a single meal here cost one million three hundred thousand? Is... is that reasonable?! That's not reasonable, right!"
He tried to reason with him.
The manager's smile remained polite, but his eyes held a hint of "don't you have any self-awareness" contempt.
He didn't argue further. He just silently stepped aside with a "please look at the facts" gesture and pointed to the empty space behind Master Roshi's seat.
Master Roshi turned around, confused, following the manager's finger.
The next second, he was completely petrified.
Behind him, a mountain of huge empty plates and bowls was piled up, standing tall like a "mountain range" made of tableware!
The plates were of astonishing size, each one large enough to hold a whole table's worth of food for an ordinary family. The soup bowls were bottomless, now only showing greasy traces.
This "mountain of plates and bowls" silently told the story of the fierce and glorious battle that had just taken place. Its visual impact was far beyond any verbal explanation.
Master Roshi's mouth hung open. He looked at the "monument" that Goku and the others had personally created and felt a wave of dizziness.
He finally understood where the one million three hundred thousand had come from.
His lips trembled, and with the last glimmer of hope, he looked at the manager and asked in a dry voice, "Excuse... excuse me... can I... can I pay by washing dishes?" His tone was so humble it was almost a plea.
Seeing Master Roshi's "the-sky-is-falling" expression and the blank, innocent faces of Krillin and Goku, Bulma finally couldn't help but laugh out loud again.
She took a black card from her exquisite handbag and handed it to the manager, waving her hand with a flourish. "Alright, just put it on my card."
She turned to look at Master Roshi, who had a "survived-a-disaster" look on his face, and winked mischievously, teasing, "Master Roshi, you really 'spared no expense' this time. We appreciate the thought!"
Master Roshi's old face flushed. He hurriedly thanked Bulma while wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, muttering things like "I'll be more careful next time." His embarrassed and grateful appearance brought a comical end to the farce of the exorbitant dinner.
After saying goodbye to Master Roshi and the two little ones, Whitley and Bulma were finally free from all interruptions.
They spent three full days enjoying their own private world under the pure sun, on the soft sands, and in the clear waters of Papaya Island.
There was no tedious training, no third wheels. Only the sea breeze, the waves, the starlight, and each other's laughter.
Whitley had a rare chance to relax, and Bulma fully unleashed her girlish vivacity and sweetness.
However, the three happy days of vacation passed in a flash. When the aircraft for their return journey slowly landed on the spacious tarmac of the Capsule Corporation estate in West City, Whitley took a deep breath of the familiar air, a mixture of machine oil and flowers, and a long-forgotten restlessness began to surge in his blood.
He had been out for so many days. Except for the last three purely relaxing days on Papaya Island, the rest of the time had been mostly spent in competitions and sightseeing. His truly high-intensity training had almost come to a standstill.
Whitley felt a little uncomfortable all over, as if the gaps between his bones were filled with a "sore itch" brought on by idleness.
It was the discomfort of his power stagnating, the silent cry of his body's deep-seated craving for the challenge of his limits.
"Gravity room, oh gravity room!" Whitley roared silently in his heart, his eyes involuntarily drawn to the familiar, huge metal building in the depths of the estate. "Without you, how can I, Whitley, live!"
The joy of returning home was instantly replaced by an almost pilgrimage-like urgency.
The moment he stepped onto the lawn of the estate, Whitley could hardly contain himself.
He didn't even bother to say more than a few words to the welcoming Dr. and Mrs. Brief. He just hastily said to Bulma, "I'm heading over first," and his figure turned into a blurry gust of wind as he eagerly sped towards the gravity room.
That urgency, that focus, was as if a long-lost lover was waiting for him.
Bulma watched his rapidly receding back, half annoyed and half amused, and put her hands on her hips, pouting at the air. "Hey! Whitley! You jerk! Can't you even be bothered to say a proper 'goodbye'? You're such a blockhead when it comes to training! What a player!"
She deliberately used a disdainful tone when saying "player," but her eyes sparkled with understanding and indulgent laughter. Of course, she knew what the gravity room meant to him; it was almost a part of his obsessive pursuit of strength.
Shaking her head, the mock anger on Bulma's face was quickly replaced by another expression—that of a focused and excited genius scientist.
After the vacation, her battlefield had also returned!
"Hmph, blockhead, just you watch me!" she muttered to herself and, with light and determined steps, turned and walked towards her own state-of-the-art, high-tech research lab.
She had solemnly promised Whitley that she would develop a new generation of gravity rooms for him, with more advanced technology and a much higher gravity multiplier! This challenge also made her blood boil.
By the window, Mrs. Brief, holding a delicate teacup, took in her young daughter's pouting complaint, the tenderness in her eyes as she watched Whitley's back, and the energetic way she turned and ran towards her lab.
She couldn't help but smile and remark to Dr. Brief, who was also looking outside beside her, "Darling, look. Little Bulma and little Whitley, one chasing after power, the other chasing after technology. They're so full of life and purpose. They're really a perfect match, aren't they?"
Dr. Brief pushed up his glasses, looking at the faint, dull vibrations coming from the backyard, a sign that someone had already started their insane training, and then at the light that had just turned on in his daughter's lab. He nodded in deep agreement.
He took a sip of his red wine and said calmly, "Mm... full of vitality. Very good." The life of the estate quickly returned to its unique and vibrant track—the roar of the gravity room and the faint glow from the laboratory, intertwining to become the most familiar background noise of this home.
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