One of them was performing at sixty percent of his usual level, while the other was at a full one hundred and one percent.
Not to mention, there was a difference in their base strength.
A martial artist's own power is the foundation, but the Muten Tower is the ladder to the heavens!
"That's still not enough. I've heard that this year, there will be experts from the sixth, seventh, and even eighth floors of the Second-Level Tower participating. And in West City, where the competition is fiercest, there might even be experts from the Third-Level Tower!" Rosen said gravely.
"Third-Level Tower?!" Daren was startled, but then gave a bitter smile and sighed, "Well, of course. With the rewards for this year's tournament being so generous, those experts naturally won't want to miss out…"
"Young man, one's level in the Muten Tower isn't everything for a martial artist."
A gentle, steady voice of an old man rose from behind Rosen. His tone was as soothing as a spring breeze. But both Rosen and Daren were startled—neither had noticed the presence of this elderly man behind them. Even in a queue, they should've at least been aware of the people ahead and behind, yet they had completely missed him.
They turned to look. Sure enough, behind them stood an old man wearing an orange vest over black pants, with a small round cap on his head and a cat-faced mask covering his face. From the few white strands of beard beneath the mask and his aged voice, it was clear this man was quite elderly.
"Elder, are you here to participate in the tournament too? Our apologies…" Rosen, unable to turn fully, bowed respectfully.
Daren, standing in front of Rosen, followed suit. This was a basic courtesy junior martial artists paid to their elders. With the Martial Immortal tradition setting such an example, many martial arts schools had become stricter with disciple recruitment—especially regarding moral character. Among these, respecting elders was the most basic rule of all.
"Hehe, no, I'm just here to pick up a number for my little grandson." The cat-masked old man shook the registration slip in his hand, his kind voice filtering through the mask as if it were right beside them.
"Oh, then your grandson…" Daren looked around but didn't see any young martial artists with the old man, and was about to ask more when Rosen stopped him.
Rosen took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the cat-faced mask as he spoke steadily:
"The elder is right—one's realm in the Muten Tower isn't everything. There are many whose physical talent is poor but do well in the Tower, and many who progress slowly in the Tower yet advance rapidly in real-life cultivation…
"But in my opinion, if one hopes to become a grandmaster like the great Son Gohan, then both real strength and the Muken from the Tower are essential. Though the Muken isn't of much use before one masters ki, we mustn't forget—Master Son Gohan, being a direct disciple of the legendary Muten Roshi, not only possessed unmatched strength but also left behind an unbreakable record in the Muten Tower on the Virtual Earth Network. His name still hangs high on the eighteenth level of the Tower…"
"Hehe… well said, young man." That was all the masked old man replied, and he said no more, leaving Rosen feeling a bit disappointed.
Since the old man didn't continue speaking, Rosen and Daren returned to quietly waiting in line. While they had been chatting, the line had moved forward quite a bit.
"What's wrong?" Daren asked in a low voice.
"Didn't you notice? Even though that old man's wearing a mask, his voice sounds perfectly clear—as if the mask weren't there at all. That's something only someone with extremely advanced ki control can achieve. I thought maybe he was…" Rosen whispered, trailing off with a shake of his head, looking slightly regretful.
"Oh… oh!" Daren finally caught on and lightly punched his own palm.
Behind them, the cat-masked old man shook his head and strolled forward casually. After a while, Daren and Rosen finally finished the registration process and received their numbered badges. As they left the line, they gave a respectful nod to the old man and walked off.
"Hello, may I see your registration slip?" the staff member at the desk asked the cat-masked elder politely.
The old man handed it over.
The staff member took it and started typing on his ultra-thin laptop (it's worth noting that after the Virtual Earth Network was officially launched, the company behind it partnered with several telecoms to set up a global wireless network using the Virtual Earth workstations as hubs). As he typed, he read aloud:
"Hmm… Son… Goku… hehe, that name's quite similar to the great Son Gohan's… Number 2003505A, hmm… huh?!" He stared in surprise at the full registration details on the screen—the photo and age of the participant showed a child only eight years old?!
The cat-masked elder—none other than Son Gohan—noticed the staff's surprise and explained, "It's my grandson who's competing. He went to look for the bathroom, so I stood in line for him."
"Oh…" The staff nodded. There were still many people waiting in line behind Son Gohan, so despite his curiosity, he quickly said, "The old gentleman's grandson is so young and already joining the World Martial Arts Tournament—that's impressive! Best of luck!"
With a click-click, a small machine next to the laptop produced a circular number badge.
Son Gohan accepted the still-warm badge. On the front was the number 505A. He flipped it over to see the World Martial Arts Tournament logo, with a large stylized "武" ("martial") character as the background. The design was simple yet elegant.
"Hehe, not bad. I just want him to get a taste of the world." Son Gohan smiled and tucked the badge into his chest pocket before leaving the line.
From the registration area, Son Gohan made his way to the audience entrance, where the crowd was even more packed than in the contestants' area. Shouts and laughter filled the air—friends calling out to each other, beautifully dressed women, children chasing one another, half-beast people, ordinary citizens, martial artists—it was a lively, bustling scene.
He walked to a palm tree under which he had agreed to meet his grandson.
---
"Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom, bathroom…"
Outside the arena, a small tailed boy ran around clutching his belly. He wore a sleeveless blue tunic, loose light yellow trousers tied at the ankles, black-soled cloth shoes, a white belt, and matching wristbands—plain but tidy. His bright, innocent eyes darted around as he turned his head in every direction, searching desperately for this "bathroom" his grandfather had mentioned.