"Of course, no problem."
Rhode met Kami's eager gaze with a calm smile. "I only mention it because your appearance matches them perfectly. The Namekians are a peaceful race. They don't require food, sustaining themselves solely on water and sunlight. However, their world once suffered a cataclysm that pushed them to the brink of extinction. In their desperation, they sent out seeds into the cosmos—children aboard starships, hoping to preserve their lineage. It's likely you are one of those children."
He delivered the information succinctly, watching the pieces click into place for the guardian. Then, as if struck by an afterthought, Rhode tilted his head curiously. "Incidentally, I've heard rumors that Namekians possess the ability to create dragon balls—orbs that grant wishes. Master Roshi spoke of such artifacts on Earth. They must be your creation, correct?"
"That we can create such things..." Kami murmured, his hand unconsciously drifting toward the staff he carried. Rhode's words were not a question, but a confirmation. The dragon balls were his greatest secret and his burden; to hear them linked directly to his origins was profoundly validating.
"Indeed," Rhode affirmed with a nod.
But Aira, ever blunt, cut through the moment with a skeptical frown. "Wait, that doesn't add up. Namekians are known in the universe for their strength. Their average battle power is above a thousand, with adult warriors around three thousand. The combat-types can even exceed ten thousand!" She jabbed a finger toward Kami. "But his power level is barely over two hundred. Does becoming a 'god' put a cap on your power or something?"
Her words, though crass, hung in the air with the weight of truth. A flicker of profound regret—and resolve—passed through Kami's eyes. The potential she described was staggering, a life he might have lived. Yet, given the choice again between that raw power and the purer existence he had carved by expelling his evil half, he knew his decision would remain unchanged.
"Alright, Mr. Popo," Rhode interjected smoothly, steering the conversation back to its purpose. He had offered the information as payment; what Kami did with it was his own affair. "We are ready to begin our training now."
"Indeed." Kami collected himself, giving his attendant a solemn nod. "Mr. Popo, I entrust their guidance to you."
"As you wish, Lord Kami." Popo bowed, his demeanor once again an inscrutable pool of calm. He turned first to Rhode, his dark eyes seeming to see past the Saiyan's restrained aura. "Your control over your ki is already highly refined. Popo has little to teach you in that regard. Further advancement will come from your own introspection and discipline."
Rhode's eyes widened slightly. He sees it. He had worked meticulously to suppress his battle power to a mere four, a feat of immense control, but hitting absolute zero—complete ki erasure—remained elusive. That, he theorized, was the gateway to the divine realm, a state of returning to origin where a being's energy became imperceptible to mortal senses. It was the principle behind the Super Saiyan God. He wasn't in a hurry—his path was long, and godhood a distant peak—but Popo's immediate recognition of his current limit was deeply impressive.
Without waiting for a response, Popo shifted his gaze to Aira, who was still vibrating with indignation. His assessment of her was mercilessly direct.
"Your control over ki is poor. Your temperament is impatient. If you do not resolve these flaws, even if your raw power grows, you will never touch the highest realms of martial arts."
His voice held no malice, only the flat tone of fact, which somehow made it more infuriating to Aira. She glared back, fists clenched.
"Per Lord Kami's instruction," Popo continued, utterly ignoring her fiery stare, "Popo will guide your training henceforth. The focus will be twofold: first, to master the flow of your energy. Second, to temper your state of mind."
The real lessons, it seemed, were about to begin—and for Aira, they promised to be a special kind of ordeal.
Popo's monologue continued, delivered with the flat, affectless tone of a machine reciting a manual. He seemed utterly indifferent to the storm of indignation brewing in Aira's eyes. Rhode, seeing her temper reaching a boiling point, smoothly intervened.
"Aira, listen carefully. You do have many shortcomings," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Mr. Popo's power level may be lower, but his mastery over it is on a completely different plane. The last fight proved that. You should learn from him. After all," he added, his tone shifting to a pointed challenge, "you don't want to keep losing to me, do you?"
Aira's chest heaved with a sharp intake of breath, her pride stung. But that final question struck a deeper chord—a competitive fire that momentarily overrode her anger. "I don't need you to tell me what to do!" she snapped, though the defiance was now edged with a grudging acceptance.
"Good," Rhode replied, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips before he fell silent.
For the following days, the Lookout became a training ground. In truth, Popo's instruction was almost entirely for Aira's benefit. Rhode observed from the sidelines, a quiet scholar cross-referencing Popo's ancient wisdom with his own insights, refining his understanding to an ever-higher degree. After a single day, however, he found that the specific corrections and drills Popo prescribed for Aira no longer offered him new revelations. The theory was assimilated; what remained was the lifelong practice of perfecting its application.
With a nod of thanks to the taciturn Popo, Rhode took his leave, descending from the celestial marble toward the familiar territory of Korin Tower below. It was time to gather some necessary resources.
As he landed lightly upon the tower's platform, he found the guardian already waiting. The stout, white cat stood leaning on his staff, his whiskers twitching—he had clearly sensed Rhode's approach long before his arrival.
"Korin, hello. I'm Rhode."
Rhode offered a polite greeting, his eyes taking in the ancient feline with open curiosity. This being's battle power was negligible, but his age and accumulated wisdom were vast, a living repository of martial arts history.
"Alien," Korin's voice was steady, though a slight tremble undercut it. "What do you seek from me?"
Though Rhode had suppressed his outward ki to a mere four points—a feat of incredible control—Korin's sharp senses pierced the veil. He could feel the titanic, churning reservoir of power contained within the young Saiyan's form, a pressure that felt both infinite and inescapable. It was this perception, not the visible facade, that set every hair on Korin's body standing on end. His calm demeanor was a thin mask over an instinctive, primal tremor in the face of overwhelming might.
"Korin," Rhode said, his smile widening into something more knowing, almost playful. He took a slow step forward, allowing a sliver of that contained danger to seep into his gaze. "You seem a little tense. Don't be."
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