Goku paused, one foot already planted on the stone serpent's lower jaw, and turned back.
"Are you coming with us?"
Jordan shook his head, hands shoved casually in his pockets. "Didn't we work this out back at the Lookout? I'm just here as a tourist."
"But—" Goku's eyes widened as the logistical reality finally caught up to his battle-hungry brain. "Kami went back to the surface! You're stuck down here by yourself. How are you supposed to get back to Earth?"
Piccolo looked at Goku. Then he looked at the impossibly long path ahead. Then he looked back at Goku, wearing the deeply exhausted expression of a man who had already solved the math equation and found it physically painful to wait for the rest of the class to catch up.
"He teleports, you idiot," Piccolo stated flatly.
Goku processed this. His furrowed brow instantly smoothed out.
"Right! Of course!" He let out a loud, completely uncomplicated laugh. "I totally forgot—"
"Don't worry about it," Jordan said smoothly.
He had actually tested the theory the millisecond they stepped out of the dimensional portal. He had extended his Herrscher spatial authority and immediately found the exact electromagnetic resonance of Earth's coordinates sitting cleanly in the cosmic fabric—a bright, familiar beacon cutting through the amber fog. The underworld was just another dimension, and Jordan had skipped across dimensional boundaries before he even had breakfast today. This was well within established operational parameters.
"I checked my connection when we arrived," Jordan assured him. "I can lock onto Earth from anywhere down here. Getting back is a non-issue."
He looked at the two fighters.
Goku was practically vibrating with pent-up kinetic energy. Piccolo had already half-turned toward Snake Way, his heavy arms folded, the perfect portrait of a man who had politely tolerated this conversation once and had absolutely zero intention of doing it again.
"One year," Jordan said. He didn't raise his voice or make it dramatic—he didn't need to. "Make the absolute most of it."
Goku grinned, a fierce, feral light in his eyes. "Count on it."
Two concussive explosions of displaced air rang out in rapid sequence. White and purple ki violently flared as the two martial artists launched themselves onto Snake Way. In three seconds, they were moving at blinding speed. In five, they were shrinking silhouettes. In eight, they were entirely swallowed by the churning amber clouds, the ribbon-like path curving away into the void until there was absolutely nothing left to track.
The vast, yellow quiet of the underworld settled heavily back around Jordan.
He stood alone at the threshold of the stone serpent's gaping mouth for a moment, simply listening to the ringing absence of them.
Then, his Herrscher authority flared to life. The clean, mathematical spatial reach treated dimensional boundaries as mere addresses rather than physical walls.
The amber underworld violently tore itself apart, instantly replacing itself with a much bluer view.
Kami's back was turned to the sanctuary doors when Jordan materialized silently on the marble platform.
"Kami," Mr. Popo said. He spoke with the mild, unbothered alertness of a receptionist delivering a phone message rather than announcing a sudden spatial anomaly.
Kami spun around, his heavy robes flaring.
He stared at Jordan. Several distinct emotions warred across the ancient Namekian's face in rapid sequence: shock, profound relief, and the sudden, retroactive horror of realizing he had just abandoned a living mortal in the deepest pits of the afterlife without confirming an exit strategy.
"Jordan!" Kami gripped his wooden staff tightly, exhaling a shaky breath. "I was just about to—I nearly—"
"Everything went perfectly fine," Jordan said, flashing a polite, disarming smile. "I locked onto Earth's coordinates without any trouble at all. King Yemma's transit officials were surprisingly well-organized."
Kami slumped slightly, letting out a long sigh. Beside him, Mr. Popo quietly lowered the hand Kami had been about to use to trigger his divine teleportation. The attendant said absolutely nothing, his face an impenetrable mask of neutrality.
"Before I go," Jordan said, his tone shifting back to business, "there was one more thing I needed to ask you."
Down on Turtle Island, the Earth warriors took the sudden news of their upcoming relocation with wildly varying degrees of grace.
Krillin was immediately in favor, firing off a dozen rapid-fire questions about the training curriculum.
Yamcha was also nominally in favor, though he aggressively voiced several pressing concerns regarding how high-altitude wind shear would affect his hair.
Tien Shinhan offered absolutely no comment, immediately dropping into a deep stretching routine.
Chiaotzu simply nodded, fully prepared to go wherever Tien went.
Master Roshi was deeply, fundamentally suspicious of the phrase 'divine training grounds,' and loudly demanded to know if there would be any girls, or at the very least, if he was allowed to pack sunscreen.
The sea turtle wisely retreated back into the deep ocean. Jordan felt this was the most tactically sound decision of the afternoon.
Raditz sat entirely separated from the group. He was perched on a piece of driftwood at the far edge of the beach, staring out at the rolling waves and aggressively managing his volatile feelings about the glowing collar locked around his throat. He had accepted his humiliating circumstances; he was absolutely not required to enjoy them.
Jordan crunched across the sand and stopped beside him.
"You should come up with them," Jordan said casually.
Raditz didn't look away from the water. "I'm a proud Saiyan warrior."
"Yes. You are."
"And you want me to train with—" Raditz sneered, gesturing blindly over his shoulder, a single, sharp motion that dismissively encompassed Krillin, Yamcha, and Tien. "—them?"
"For now."
A heavy, hostile silence fell between them. The muscle in Raditz's jaw jumped violently.
"Consider the alternative," Jordan said smoothly, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, pragmatic register. "Think about what happens when Vegeta finally breaches the atmosphere, and he finds you standing on the wrong side of the battlefield."
That landed. Hard.
The frantic, terrified internal calculation was entirely visible in the sudden, rigid set of Raditz's broad shoulders. Vegeta had heard the transmission through the scouter. Vegeta definitively knew Raditz had been humiliated and defeated by low-level trash. Vegeta had already mathematically categorized his weaker brother into the mental column labeled 'Expendable Liability.' And that was before the Prince of all Saiyans arrived to find his disgraced subordinate willingly standing inside a local training compound, actively assisting the exact same miserable humans he had been sent to subjugate.
Vegeta's tactical response to a liability was never complicated. It usually involved a very bright flash of light and total molecular vaporization.
Jordan didn't need to elaborate any further.
Raditz stood up in silence. He stalked over to where the Earthlings were assembling, dropped onto the sand with his heavy arms tightly folded, and wore an expression that communicated absolutely nothing useful about his internal state of sheer panic.
Jordan grouped everyone tightly together. He spread his azure spatial authority outward, wrapping it securely around the motley crew.
Snap. A single, clean displacement. The salty beach violently tore itself apart, instantly replacing itself with the freezing, razor-thin air of Kami's Lookout. The churning ocean was gone; the sky above them was vast, deep blue, and blindingly sharp.
Several of the martial artists stumbled wildly, fighting the sudden lack of oxygen. Tien did not. Chiaotzu simply floated.
Kami, already waiting by the sanctuary doors, immediately began the formal orientation with the rigid, efficient grace of a god who had agreed to run a boot camp and wanted to get it over with.
Jordan watched from the edge of the plaza until the lecture was clearly underway, then vanished.
West City sat sprawling across a massive coastal plain, projecting the aggressive, neon confidence of a metropolis that had decided the future was already here, and had meticulously arranged its zoning laws accordingly.
Towering skyscrapers were forged from synthetic materials that shifted colors depending on how the afternoon light hit them. Sleek, elevated rail lines threaded seamlessly between the glass towers at altitudes that, in any normal city, would have strictly been reserved for observation decks. Maglev cars blurred past in dedicated aerial lanes at terrifying speeds that would have required massive regulatory overhauls anywhere Jordan had previously lived. Flying vehicles weren't ubiquitous, but they were common enough that pedestrians on the sidewalks didn't even bother to look up as they screamed overhead.
Jordan stood on a bustling street corner for a moment, hands in his pockets, just taking it all in.
Capsule Corporation literally built this entire city, he realized. Or, at the very least, they fund enough of the municipal infrastructure that the difference is entirely semantic.
The restaurant he eventually selected featured an exterior that communicated its exorbitant price range through subtle material choices rather than flashy neon signs. It had a pristine, unpolished stone facade and a deliberately understated heavy oak door. It was the exact sort of quiet, aggressive wealth that clearly broadcasted: We are not trying to attract everyone. We are only trying to attract the right people.
He had the black titanium card Bulma had handed him. It communicated the exact same message, just in a slightly more financial register.
The welcome from the maître d' was warm, immediate, and highly accommodating.
Jordan slid into a plush booth, opened the leather-bound menu, and had a very brief, serious internal consultation with his biology regarding exactly what the new SSR Saiyan bloodline card had done to his baseline caloric requirements. Effect 6 had been highly specific: Appetite is approximately thirty times the standard human baseline. That was an incredibly useful tactical guideline to establish before you walked into a Michelin-starred restaurant carrying a functionally unlimited corporate credit card.
He flagged down the waiter. He casually ordered a massive, twenty-person set menu, explicitly added several heavy a la carte dishes, and calmly watched the man's face perform a frantic, terrified internal calculation before his polished professional courtesy violently reasserted itself.
"Sir, forgive me, but for a party of one, this volume of food is—"
"I have a very healthy appetite," Jordan interrupted pleasantly, handing the menus back. "Please let the kitchen know there is absolutely no rush. Take your time."
The waiter retreated toward the kitchen, looking vaguely haunted.
Jordan leaned back against the leather upholstery and settled in for the wait.
F-boy materialized silently in the plush chair directly across from him. The Stand pulled the chair out and sat down with the kind of deliberate, immaculate propriety that strongly suggested it possessed strong, corporate opinions about the aesthetics of arriving already seated.
F-boy reached a gloved hand into the inner pocket of its tailored purple jacket and produced three glowing cards. It laid them out sequentially on the pristine white tablecloth in a flawless, casino-grade fan.
Gold, deep purple, and standard white. SSR, SR, and N-rank.
Jordan looked down at the spread.
Two identical figures, both standing nearly two meters tall, both impossibly broad-shouldered, both immaculately dressed, quietly arranging glowing, reality-bending cards on a restaurant table. F-boy's expression was locked into the specific, dead-eyed professional neutrality of an executive conducting highly legitimate, off-the-books business. Jordan's expression was the calm, calculated gaze of a man reviewing incredibly lucrative legal documents.
If we were both holding lit cigars right now, Jordan thought with a smirk, we would look exactly like the establishing shot of a high-budget Yakuza film.
He picked up the first, white-bordered card.
[Fantasy Card: Ki] Type: Ability Card • Rarity: N
Effect 1 (Aura Perception): Sense the localized life energy of living beings and physically manifested spirits. Read the relative combat power, geographical location, and emotional state of targets within range.Effect 2 (Precision Control): Control the internal flow and output intensity of biological ki. Conceal or aggressively release it at will. Condense it into concentrated energy for devastating long-range attacks (blasts, beams, and waves).
He set it down and picked up the purple card.
[Fantasy Card: Namekian — Regeneration] Type: Ability Card • Rarity: SR
Effect 1 (Limb Restoration): The biological birthright of a Warrior-caste Namekian. Provided the brain remains entirely intact, severed or violently destroyed limbs can be instantly regenerated via a massive, concentrated expenditure of ki. Regeneration speed scales linearly with available energy reserves.Effect 2 (Accelerated Healing): Ki aggressively routed to a physical wound dramatically shortens biological recovery time. Fatalities are averted; weeks of recovery are condensed into hours.
He set it down. And picked up the gold.
[Fantasy Card: Namekian — Dragon Clan Magic] Type: Ability Card • Rarity: SR
Effect 1 (Material Creation): Kami's divine inheritance. Consume internal energy to spontaneously manifest physical matter. Any inanimate object fundamentally understood by the user can be created from nothing, granting total control over its mass, density, structural composition, and physical form.Effect 2 (Telepathy): Establish a direct, secure mental uplink with another sentient being. Exchange complex thoughts and verbal communication across vast planetary distances through a localized spiritual tether.
Jordan laid all three cards out in a neat row and stared at them.
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