Chichi
The thunderous applause following Jackie Chun’s victory barely registered in Chichi’s mind as she analyzed the preceding battle. Krillin had surprised her; his technique had evolved far beyond what she’d expected from the opponent she’d dealt with.
The way he’d adapted his movements mid-fight, compensating for Jackie Chun’s superior speed with clever feints and misdirection, spoke volumes of his growth.
Even with the Greenlight Serum flowing through her veins, he would have posed a considerable challenge to her.
Just what kind of training have you undergone…?
A familiar tingling sensation crawled across her knuckles, and she glanced down to watch the faint bruises from earlier fade to nothing. The constant regeneration had become almost comforting, like a warm current running beneath her skin. Sometimes she caught herself wondering if this was how a river felt— endless, flowing, unstoppable.
Her gaze drifted to Jackie Chun as he helped Krillin to his feet.
The elaborate wig couldn’t fool her— she’d spent enough time around Master Roshi to recognize his distinctive energy.
The disguise puzzled her, but she respected whatever reason the old master had for maintaining this charade. Besides, she had more pressing matters to focus on.
“Hey.” Ten’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He stood beside her, carrying himself with the quiet confidence that always drew her to him. “You’re going to do great out there.”
Chichi felt her throat tighten. This man— this remarkable man— had done more than save her life. When the Greenlight Serum had threatened to consume her mind with rage and bloodlust, Ten had been there, teaching her to channel that aggression, to master it rather than let it master her.
She pulled him into a tight hug, careful to moderate her enhanced strength. Not that I need to; Ten’s stronger than me, anyway.
“Thank you.” She whispered, her gratitude directed at so much more than just his encouragement. When she pulled back, his understanding smile told her he knew exactly what she meant.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our next competitors! In the right corner, the master of the legendary Dragon Style, Batara! And on the left, Chichi, another newcomer to the world of martial arts!”
Chichi walked onto the fighting platform, the stone cool beneath her feet. Across from her, Batara cut an impressive figure; though he was old, he was also tall and lean, with the fluid grace of a lifetime martial artist.
His eyes carried the sharp focus of a predator, already analyzing her stance, her movement, searching for weaknesses.
“Having seen her interact with Ten of South City, I think we can safely assume that she is perhaps a rival of his?” The announcer said, and the crowd grew more excited at the proclamation. “One thing’s for sure; we’re in for another good match!”
The crowd roared as the two fighters faced off.
“You are a friend of Ten, yes?” Batara stated, dropping into a loose ready position. “He bested me once before. I’ve trained every day since then, perfecting my art, hoping for a chance at redemption.”
“He’s mentioned you in the past.” Chichi replied, settling into her own stance. She felt her enhanced blood respond to her rising excitement, warming her muscles, sharpening her senses. “Said you were one of the most technical fighters he’d faced.”
A smile touched Batara’s lips.
“Technical, yes. But now?” His body shifted subtly, and Chichi recognized the beginning forms of the Dragon Style. “Now I am something more.”
“FIGHT!” The announcer’s voice cracked across the arena like a whip.
Neither fighter moved immediately. They circled each other slowly, two apex predators measuring the distance between them.
Chichi felt the familiar battle between chaos and discipline begin in her mind— the urge to charge forward, to overwhelm with pure force, wrestled against her trained instincts to wait, to read, to understand.
It was the serum’s influence; King Piccolo’s energy, though incorporated in her system, was still a force to be reckoned with even at the best of days.
In her peripheral vision, she caught Ten leaning forward against the competitor’s area railing, his expression focused but confident.
She’d show him that his faith in her wasn’t misplaced. She’d show everyone that she wasn’t a monster.
The clash, when it came, was explosive.
Batara moved first, closing the distance with deceptive speed. His initial strike— a straightforward punch aimed at her solar plexus— carried enough force to send most fighters reeling. Chichi recognized the move as one of misdirection, the power serving to distract from the true threat.
She chose to take the hit.
The impact drove her back half a step, but the pain was already fading, her enhanced body adapting and healing even as Batara’s secondary strike— the real attack— snaked toward a pressure point near her shoulder.
Chichi twisted away at the last moment, denying him the precise contact he needed. His eyes widened fractionally at her resilience.
“Impressive defense.” He commented, flowing into his next combination. “Most fighters are too focused on the pain to spot the follow-up.”
Chichi responded with a flurry of her own strikes, each one carrying the carefully controlled strength she’d developed through countless hours of training with Ten, Mr. Popo and Kami.
“Your attack wasn’t as mysterious as you think it is.” She replied, forcing Batara to give ground. Power surged in her veins with each movement, urging her to hit harder, move faster, overwhelm her opponent with sheer force.
She ignored its calls for blood, however.
The tournament platform rang with the sound of their exchange, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd. Batara’s techniques were beautiful in their efficiency— no wasted movement, each strike flowing into the next like water. But Chichi matched him blow for blow, her enhanced reflexes allowing her to read the subtle tells in his form.
A glancing blow caught her ribs, and she felt the familiar warmth of accelerated healing spread across her side. The pain was already gone by the time she countered with a sweep kick, forcing Batara to jump back.
She pressed her advantage, closing in with a combination that Ten had helped her develop— a series of strikes designed to look wild and aggressive while maintaining perfect control.
“Very intriguing.” Batara observed during a brief respite, both fighters taking measure of each other again. “Your style… it’s beyond traditional techniques— though it is almost reminiscent of the Turtle school.”
“Good eye.”
The crowd’s excitement was palpable now. Above the general roar, Chichi heard the announcer’s enthusiastic commentary. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re witnessing an incredible display of skill and endurance! Batara’s legendary Dragon Style seems to have met its match in the young fighter Chichi’s innovative technique!”
She allowed herself a small smile, remembering Ten’s words during their training.
“Control isn’t about suppression.” He had told her. “It’s about channeling power with purpose.”
The serum pulsed through her system, but she remained focused, centered.
Batara’s next attack came without warning— a complex sequence of strikes that seemed to attack from all angles at once. This was the true Dragon Style, she realized, watching the pattern emerge.
The direct attacks had indeed been a cover, but not just for the pressure point techniques. The real danger lay in how each strike limited an opponent’s options, gradually forcing them into a position where they had no choice but to expose a critical vulnerability.
Chichi, however, had something Batara hadn’t counted on.
As his fingers struck a pressure point on her left arm, she felt the familiar numbness spread— and then almost immediately begin to recede as her enhanced healing countered the effect. The look of surprise on his face was almost worth the momentary discomfort.
Now. She thought. It’s my turn to show what I can really do.
The heat spread through her limbs, ready to be unleashed. She settled into a stance that blended her father’s traditional form with her smaller size and enhanced capabilities, gathering herself for the next phase of the fight.
Across from her, Batara’s expression shifted from surprise to intense focus as he realized this battle would require more than his usual strategies.
“So, my move didn’t work…?”
The crowd’s cheering faded into background noise as both fighters prepared for the real test to begin. In the competitor’s area, Ten smiled, his confident smile never wavering.
Batara’s response, however, was sudden and devastating.
Fast!
His movements became a blur, a shift in speed so drastic that it left Chichi struggling to react. His first strike slipped past her raised guard like a shadow, a lightning-fast jab that connected with the base of her neck. The sharp impact sent an electric wave of numbness cascading down her right arm, her fingers trembling as if detached from her control. Chichi staggered back, trying to reset her stance, but he was already closing the gap.
The second blow came in low, a punishing kick that slammed into her outer thigh with pinpoint accuracy. Pain radiated up her leg as her knee wobbled under the force, threatening to collapse entirely. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay upright, but her balance faltered.
His relentless assault continued. A sharp strike to her solar plexus forced the air from her lungs in a ragged gasp, while another vicious jab to her ribs made her spine arch involuntarily. He pivoted smoothly, delivering a final open-palmed blow just above her hip, a nerve cluster that sent sharp tingles down her side and nearly locked her leg.
In the span of seconds, he had mapped her vulnerabilities, his strikes a cruel constellation of pain that left her nervous system teetering on the brink of shutdown. Her breaths came shallow and uneven as her body screamed in protest, yet her mind remained defiant, searching for any opening to retaliate.
“Your endurance is remarkable.” Batara said, his voice carrying a new edge of intensity as he took a step back. “But even the strongest body has its limits.”
Chichi stumbled, fighting to maintain her balance as her limbs refused to respond properly. The familiar heat of the Greenlight Serum surged through her system, combating the paralysis, but it wasn’t fast enough.
The crowd’s roar and the announcer’s excited ramblings seemed distant as she focused inward, remembering another moment of crisis.
oooo
“Your enhancements aren’t just raw power, Chichi.” Ten had told her during one particularly difficult training session. They sat in the early morning light, her body still trembling from another episode of uncontrolled rage. “It’s adapting to you, just as you’re adapting to it. The key is to work with it, not against it.”
“But it feels like drowning.” She whispered. “Like being pulled under by something dark and angry.”
Ten’s hand had found hers, small but steady. “Then treat it like water. You don’t fight a current— you swim with it, direct it, use its force to take you where you need to go and when that’s done…”
His eyes shined. “You ride the wave.”
oooo
The memory crystallized into clarity as another series of strikes connected. This time, Chichi didn’t resist the numbness. Instead, she let it flow through her, feeling her body’s response intensify.
The pressure points Batara had struck began to tingle, then burn as accelerated healing fought against the paralysis.
“Impossible.” Batara muttered, watching as she straightened up, movement returning to her supposedly disabled limbs. “Those strikes should have—”
Seeing an opening, Batara stopped speaking and stepped in, his fingers rigid as he thrust toward her forehead with lethal precision.
Time seemed to slow as Chichi watched the strike approach— the same arm she couldn’t feel moments ago suddenly blazed with renewed strength. She twisted her shoulder, letting her forearm snap up in a precise parry that deflected his strike millimeters from her skin.
Before Batara could recover, Chichi’s other hand crashed into his ribs like a battering ram. The impact sent shockwaves through his body, and as he instinctively curled inward, her follow-up strike found his chin. Her knuckles connected with a sharp crack, snapping his head back and sending him staggering three steps backward, his usual grace momentarily abandoned.
Chichi didn’t let up. She charged forward, her enhanced muscles coiling before exploding into a tackle that caught him square in the midsection. The momentum sent them both tumbling, but she controlled the chaos, pushing off him at the last second to gain height. She soared above his prone form, twisting in mid-air before driving her heel downward like a meteor.
Batara rolled desperately to the side, and Chichi’s kick pulverized the spot where he had laid. The platform didn’t just crack— it nearly cratered, spider-web fractures racing outward from the impact point. But she was already moving, using the momentum of her landing to spin into a devastating roundhouse kick. The arc of her leg cut through the air with such force it seemed to whistle.
The kick caught Batara as he struggled to regain his footing. He managed to get his guard up, but the raw power behind the strike still lifted him off his feet, sending him sliding dangerously close to the arena’s edge. Only a desperate grasp at the platform’s surface kept him from plummeting into defeat.
“Is this the end!?” The announcer cried as the crowd continued to cheer. “No! Batara is still in it!”
With a pained grunt, he launched himself back into the fray, his movement a study in calculated fury. His hands flickered like striking snakes— two fingers to her shoulder, three to her collarbone, palm-heel to her sternum.
Chichi felt her left arm go dead, then her right shoulder seized. A strike to her hip sent shooting pain down her leg, followed by a sequence of rapid-fire jabs that seemed to ignite every nerve ending in her torso. But with each debilitating hit, her body responded with a surge of healing energy, like waves crashing against a shore.
The numbness in her arm dissolved into pins and needles before returning to full strength. The paralysis in her leg melted away just in time for her to dodge his follow-up strike.
Yet each healing surge came with a price. The serum coursing through her veins roared with increasing violence, turning her calculated defenses into barely contained aggression. Her vision began to blur at the edges, reality taking on a crimson tint. When she countered his next combination, her usually precise strikes carried a savage edge— her elbow strike nearly taking his head off instead of forcing him to retreat.
Batara adapted instantly, reading the shift in her fighting style like a master reading an ancient text. His techniques flowed into longer, more complex chains. A three-point strike to her shoulder was followed immediately by a palm thrust to her solar plexus, then a sweeping kick to destabilize her stance.
Before her healing factor could fully counteract one pressure point strike, he had already disabled three more, creating a cascade of effects that threatened to overwhelm even her enhanced recovery.
His hands moved in intricate patterns, each new combination building on the last. Strike, strike, feint, strike— a litany of attacks designed to keep crucial pressure points disabled just long enough to create openings for the next sequence. The platform became their canvas as they moved across it, their deadly dance leaving scuff marks and fractured stone in their wake.
The crowd fell into a hushed tension, sensing the battle’s approaching crescendo. Even the announcer’s typically enthusiastic commentary became subdued, weighted with the gravity of what they were witnessing.
In the competitor’s area, Ten gripped the railing, his knuckles white but his expression unchanged— that same unwavering faith in her ability to maintain control.
Chichi felt herself approaching a tipping point. The serum’s heat had become an inferno, threatening to consume her technique, her training, everything but the primal urge to overwhelm her opponent. Even now, however, she didn’t want to give into it.
As Batara initiated another combination, his fingers targeting the complex network of pressure points along her torso, Chichi saw her opening. She exploded forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.
Her sudden acceleration caught him mid-pattern, forcing him to abandon his attack sequence. His hands shifted instantly into the Dragon Style’s defensive forms— fingers splayed, palms rotating in tight spirals to deflect incoming strikes.
She led with a feint to his left side before pivoting sharply, her right elbow screaming toward his temple. Batara barely managed to get his forearm up to block, the impact sending tremors through his arm. Before he could counter, she was already flowing into her next move, her knee rising toward his midsection as her hands sought his wrists, trying to disrupt his precise finger techniques.
“Your pressure points.” He grunted, dropping his center of gravity to avoid her knee strike. His back foot slid across the platform as he redirected her momentum, hands moving in desperate defensive patterns. A rapid sequence of blocks turned into counter-strikes, his fingers still seeking vulnerable points even as he gave ground. “They’re still regenerating faster than I can disable them?”
Each of his blocks created spider-web cracks in the platform, the sheer force of her enhanced strikes threatening to shatter his guard. His legendary precision was pushed to its absolute limit— any slight miscalculation would result in a devastating hit landing clean.
“Not as easy as you thought, was it?” Chichi replied, her voice carrying a controlled steadiness that belied the molecular furnace burning through her system. She transitioned seamlessly from the knee strike into a spinning back kick, using the rotation to disguise a follow-up reverse elbow strike.
Batara’s response showcased why he was considered a living legend of the Dragon Style. As her elbow curved toward his temple, he shifted just slightly inside her guard, his forearm sliding along hers to redirect the force of her strike. In the same fluid motion, his other hand shot forward, fingers rigid, striking a precise point on her shoulder that disrupted her balance mid-rotation.
Off-center and suddenly vulnerable, Chichi couldn’t defend against what came next. Batara’s hands became a blur, all ten fingers striking the same pressure point just below her collarbone with machine-gun speed. One, two, three— each strike landing with brutal intent, taking her breath away. Four, five, six— the impacts reverberating through her chest. Seven, eight, nine, ten— the rapid-fire assault overwhelmed her healing factor through sheer concentrated trauma.
“Every technique has its breaking point.” He declared as her right arm went completely limp, the cluster of strikes finally overwhelming her regenerative capabilities. Before she could compensate, Batara spun low, his leg sweeping out in a devastating roundhouse kick that connected with her ribs. The impact lifted her clear off the platform, sending her tumbling across its surface.
She hit the ground hard, her vision swimming as the combined effects of the pressure point assault and the powerful kick left her in a daze. The world seemed to spin around her as she struggled to push herself up with her one functioning arm, her normally lightning-quick reflexes reduced to sluggish attempts at movement.
“You still stand.” He acknowledged her effort before shaking his head and rushing her again. “No matter.”
Chichi managed to regain her footing just as Batara pressed his advantage. His assault was relentless— a high strike to her temple flowed into a palm thrust toward her sternum, followed by two finger strikes targeting nerve clusters in her shoulders. She caught the first hit on her forearm, deflected the second with her palm, but the finger strikes slipped through her guard, sending jolts of numbness down her remaining good arm.
Her counter was explosive— even with her numbed limbs, she managed to snap her head forward, catching Batara with a surprise headbutt that made him stumble. Taking advantage of his momentary disorientation, she drove her knee into his ribs, feeling something crack beneath the impact. Batara absorbed the pain, turning his backward momentum into a spinning elbow strike that caught her across the jaw.
The exchange devolved into a brutal close-quarters battle. Batara’s fingers found pressure point after pressure point— throat, shoulder, kidney, spine— each precise strike sending waves of paralyzing numbness through her body. Her healing factor fought back, burning away the effects as quickly as it could manage under the circumstances. The violent energy surging through her system intensified with each recovery, making her techniques increasingly wild.
She managed to catch one of his wrists, using his own momentum to throw him over her hip. Batara rolled with the throw but not before her enhanced strength wrenched his shoulder to its limit. He came up favoring his right side, but his eyes showed no pain— only calculated determination.
His next combination was devastating: three rapid strikes to her solar plexus, a sweep to destabilize her stance, and a series of hits that seemed to ignite every nerve ending from her neck to her lower back.
The serum roared through her system, once again healing the damage but pushing her closer to the edge. Her vision began to blur, reality taking on a deep crimson tint. Her next block was too forceful, too desperate, leaving her wide open for Batara’s follow-up strikes. Each new hit was like a hammer against her consciousness, the line between disciplined technique and feral rage growing dangerously thin.
“Don’t let it control you.” Ten’s words echoed in her mind. “There is no control— only acceptance.“
Something clicked at that moment. The red haze in her vision didn’t recede; rather, it sharpened, bringing every detail into crystal clarity. Time seemed to slow as she read the subtle shifts in Batara’s stance, anticipating his next combination before he launched it.
The crowd gasped as she caught one of his strikes mid-movement, her hand closing around his wrist with perfect timing. Her fingers found purchase exactly where his tendons met bone, nullifying the power of his strike completely.
“Impossible.” Batara breathed. “That arm shouldn’t even be moving.”
Chichi didn’t reply. Instead, she used her grip on his wrist to pull him forward, simultaneously driving her knee up toward his solar plexus. As he twisted to avoid the knee, she transitioned the movement into a spinning elbow strike that caught him across the temple.
Before he could recover his balance, she was already flowing into her next combination— a palm strike to his chest followed by a roundhouse kick that connected with his ribs.
When Batara managed to block the followup straight punch, she was already dropping low, her leg sweeping out in an arc that forced him to jump. The moment he left the ground, she exploded upward, her fist driving into his guard with such force that the air around them cracked with a sound like thunder.
Batara attempted to counter, but Chichi’s movements had become impossible to predict. She slipped past his fingers like smoke, retaliating with strikes that combined her enhanced strength with perfect technique. A three-hit combination to his chest forced him back. When he tried to redirect her momentum, she changed levels instantly, driving her shoulder into his midsection before transitioning into an overhead throw that sent him crashing into the platform.
Chichi landed as the man struggled to get up and charged her.
“The Dragon Style relies on reading your opponent’s vulnerabilities.” She said, deflecting another desperate counterattack. “But what happens when those vulnerabilities are ignored?”
Batara’s expression shifted from determination to something approaching awe as he realized the full implications of what he faced. His next series of strikes, a masterful combination of pressure point attacks, met not just resistance but comprehension. Chichi moved through his technique as if she’d known it all her life, her enhanced body responding with impossible speed and acuity.
The tournament arena fell silent save for the sound of their exchange, every spectator held rapt by the display before them. The end, when it came, was both inevitable and spectacular. Batara launched a dazzling attack, his fingers alight with Ki— a lightning-fast sequence of strikes designed to disable every major pressure point simultaneously. It was perfect in its execution, Chichi realized: a testament to years of dedication and mastery.
Still, it was not enough.
Chichi moved through his attack pattern as if in a dance, her own blazing fingers countering each strike before it could take full effect.
“Your Dragon Style is truly remarkable.” She said, voice carrying across the hushed arena. “But you’re fighting a dragon with different scales.”
She launched forward with apparent aggression, her initial movement suggesting a barrage of strikes. Her shoulders twisted sharply, hips coiling with enough force to telegraph a high attack. Batara’s enhanced combat sense read the incoming combination perfectly. His hands moved to intercept what decades of experience told him would be a strike to his midsection.
A classic misdirection.
However, the apparent misdirection was itself a feint— as Batara’s guard rose to protect his midsection, Chichi’s real attack was already in motion. Her weight shifted ever-so-slightly, her entire body uncoiling like a spring. Every muscle, every tendon, every enhancement from the serum aligned in perfect harmony as she drove her fist toward his face.
With wide eyes, Batara managed to raise his arms just in time, but the hastily thrown guard was broken in an instant.
The strike connected. A visible shockwave rippled through Batara’s body, his eyes widening as the force lifted him clear off his feet. The crack of displaced air echoed across the stadium like a thunderclap, his body describing a perfect arc through the air.
Time seemed to slow as Batara flew backward, his expression shifting from surprise to understanding. Even as his body sailed past the platform’s edge, there was a hint of respect in his eyes— recognition that he had witnessed the birth of something unprecedented in martial arts.
He landed outside the ring with the grace of a true master, rolling to disperse the impact. When he rose to one knee, his face showed no anger or disappointment, only thoughtful appreciation for the simple technique that had defeated him.
“Winner by ring-out: Chichi!” The announcer’s voice shattered the stunned silence that had fallen over the arena. “I cannot believe what I just saw!”
The crowd erupted in response, their cheers building into a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.
Chichi felt the serum’s fire begin to bank, its work done. Her entire body roared with pain as the last of Batara’s pressure point strikes faded away, her healing factor going on overdrive. With difficulty, she walked to the edge of the platform where her opponent was getting to his feet.
“The Dragon Style.” Batara said, rubbing his chest. “Is built on the principle that every fighter has vulnerabilities that can be exploited. But you… you’ve transcended that limitation. A superhuman in every right.”
She offered him a respectful bow, cringing inwardly at the words which made her feel like even more of a monster than she already was. “Not transcended. Adapted. Just as you adapted your style after losing to Ten, I’ve learned to work with what I’ve become rather than against it.”
A small smile crossed his face as he returned the bow. “Then I look forward to adapting further. Perhaps next time, the outcome will be different.”
As the crowd continued their applause, Chichi made her way back to the competitor’s area. Ten met her with that unwavering smile of his, the one that had helped guide her through her darkest moments with the serum.
“You did it.” He said simply, pulling her into a quick hug.
“Thanks to you.” She replied, though she winced.
“Oh!” He disengaged with an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Chichi said, shaking her head. “I will be fine in a few. Thank you for your guidance, Ten.”
“Don’t thank me. You did all the hard work, you know.” Ten countered, but his pride was evident. “Though I have to admit, watching you decrypt his style in real-time was pretty impressive. I kind of just barreled right through him, last time. He’s improved a lot.“
Chichi laughed, feeling lighter than she had in months.
King Piccolo’s influence still lingered in the back of her mind, but now it felt more like an unruly partner than a burden. She watched as the tournament staff began repairing the damaged platform for the next match, knowing she had proved something important today— not just to Batara or the crowd, but to herself.
“Hey Ten.” She said out of the blue. “Want to grab something to eat while we watch the next match? All that healing really is working up an appetite.”
Ten looked at her. They both knew that she technically didn’t need to eat anymore. He smiled and nodded. “Of course. I’m a little peckish myself.”
“Can I come!? I’m starting to get hungry, too.” Goku piped up as well, and the two let out scoffs. That boy was always hungry.
“Sure.” Ten said before looking at the others. “Want to come?”
“I think I’ll pass. Not feeling very hungry.” “No, but maybe later? I still have a fight to get to.” Krillin and Yamcha said respectively.
As they made their way to the concession stand, Chichi could hear the announcer building excitement for the upcoming fight between General Blue and Giran while the workers diligently effected repairs.
oooo
The tantalizing aroma of grilled skewers wafted through the tournament grounds as Ten, Goku and Chichi sat at a small table near the concession stand, their trays almost empty now— well, Ten and Chichi’s, at any rate. Goku, on the other hand, was busy ordering another course.
The excitement of the matches so far had been infectious, but an underlying tension lingered— one that only those with knowledge of what was to come truly understood.
Chichi stabbed her fork into the last piece of roasted meat, her enhanced senses catching the faint metallic scent of General Blue before she saw him. Her hand froze mid-motion, her eyes narrowing as the smirking officer passed by. He moved with a casual swagger, the kind of confidence that came from knowing you had an ace up your sleeve.
Or, in his case, coursing through your veins.
“You feel it too, don’t you.” Ten muttered, his voice low. His fork hovered above his plate, forgotten. “He really has changed.”
Chichi nodded, her gaze fixed on Blue’s retreating form. Gone was the crisp military uniform Ten had described to her.
He wore navy-blue combat pants and a white muscle shirt, his lean, athletic build on full display. His blonde hair was meticulously combed, and his piercing blue eyes seemed sharper, colder, and flecked with all-too-familiar hints of green. Even from this distance, there was an aura about him— a subtle, almost imperceptible hum of power that made the air feel heavier.
“It’s the serum.” She said finally, her voice tinged with unease. “They’ve done more to him. Maybe even more than me.”
“The serum?” Goku asked in between bites, but the two didn’t acknowledge him, just yet.
Blue turned his head slightly, as if sensing their attention, and offered a faint, mocking smile before continuing toward the ring. Ten and Chichi exchanged a glance, their shared concern unspoken but understood.
“Yes, Goku.” Chichi said quietly, turning to the boy and pointing at her green eyes. “The things that the Red Ribbon Army did to make me stronger— he has it, too.”
Goku silently processed the information for a few seconds before a smile crossed his face. Was he… excited?
What an intriguing boy… She thought.
Chichi mentally shook her head. She didn’t have the time to wonder about such things.
Ten was already up and moving. He paused to look at the two. “Coming?”
Goku and Chichi nodded before following, the former throwing his food an apologetic glance.
Reaching the fighter’s box, they realized the tension was palpable among the other fighters as well. Jackie Chun’s sharp eyes tracked Blue’s movements, his normally jovial demeanor replaced with quiet scrutiny. Krillin whispered to himself, finding the man’s gait unsettling in a way he couldn’t put into words. Even Yamcha, typically quick with a cocky remark, watched in silence.
As Blue stepped into the ring, the announcer’s booming voice broke the uneasy quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, our next match is sure to be a thrilling display of strength and skill! In the left corner, a warrior who’s no stranger to battle— the ferocious fighter from the Giras race, Giran!”
The crowd erupted into cheers as Giran entered the ring, his massive, dinosaur-like frame drawing gasps of admiration. Light purple skin gleamed under the arena lights, and his proportionately small wings twitched in anticipation. He raised a clawed hand in acknowledgment, his sharp fangs bared in a confident grin.
“And in the right corner.” The announcer continued. “A man whose strength is matched only by his good looks! Having distinguished himself in the preliminary rounds— this is Contestant Blue!”
The applause was more raucous, surprising Chichi and the others. After a moment, they realized what this was; a group of women had already formed, cheering the man on with whistles and catcalls.
Chichi shook her head; shallow people always confused her.
Blue for his part, bowed with exaggerated politeness, a smug smile playing on his lips as he scanned the crowd.
Giran snorted, the sound loud enough to carry across the ring.
“They sent a pretty boy to fight me?” He jeered, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “This’ll be over quick.”
Blue’s smile widened, but he said nothing. Instead, he rolled his shoulders with deliberate slowness, as if Giran’s words hadn’t even registered. The announcer stepped back, raising his arms dramatically. “Fighters ready? Begin!”
The crowd roared, but in the competitors’ area, a tense silence fell.
Blue and Giran began circling each other, the stark contrast between them impossible to ignore. Giran’s bulky frame exuded raw power, every step causing the ground to tremble slightly. Blue, by contrast, moved with feline grace, his posture relaxed, almost disarmingly casual. Yet there was something about the way he held himself— the calculated stillness of a predator ready to strike— that set every trained fighter’s nerves on edge.
Giran’s grin widened as he raised a massive fist, his confidence unshaken.
“Hope you’re ready to kiss the dirt, pretty boy.” He taunted, emphasizing the last words with a sneer.
Blue tilted his head, his smile never wavering.
“By all means.” He replied coolly, gesturing for Giran to make the first move. “Show me what you can do.”
Giran’s grin stretched wider as he planted his feet, his hulking frame tensing like a coiled spring. Without warning, he lunged forward, his massive fist tearing through the air with a ferocious roar. The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices blending into a cacophony of excitement.
Blue didn’t move. His posture remained unnervingly relaxed, his arms at his sides, his head tilted ever so slightly as if he were bored. The punch connected squarely with his chest, the impact echoing through the arena like a thunderclap. Dust and debris kicked up from the force, obscuring the ring in a swirling cloud.
“Did you see that?” One spectator gasped. “That’s gotta be it— no way anyone walks away from that!”
“Yeah! He’s gotta be dead!”
But as the dust settled, the gasps turned to stunned silence. Blue stood exactly where he had been, entirely unscathed. His white muscle shirt remained spotless, not a single hair out of place.
A moment passed before Giran stumbled backwards, crying out in pain.
“Impossible.” Giran muttered, his confident grin faltering. He shook out his fist, his eyes wide as he took a half-step back. “What the hell are you made of?”
Blue’s lips curved into a small, chilling smile.
“You hit harder than most.” He said calmly, his voice carrying effortlessly over the stunned crowd. “But brute strength without true aim is just wasted energy.”
Giran growled, frustration coloring his features.
“I’ll show you wasted energy!” He roared, charging forward again, his claws slashing in wide arcs. Each strike was a blur of motion, a testament to the raw power and ferocity of the Giras race.
This time, Blue moved. To the untrained eye, it was almost imperceptible— a slight shift of his weight, a subtle sidestep— but to the skilled fighters watching from the competitors’ area, it was an art form.
“He’s not just dodging.” Chichi murmured, her grip tightening on the railing. “He’s studying him.”
“Studying him for what?” Krillin asked, though the answer was already forming in everyone’s mind. Blue’s every step, every dodge, was designed to expose weaknesses, to break down Giran’s rhythm.
In the ring, Giran’s attacks grew sloppier, his frustration mounting with every missed strike.
“Hold still, damn it!” He bellowed, lunging with all his might. This time, his claws came close enough to brush against Blue’s shirt, but it was a futile effort. Blue’s hand shot up, catching Giran’s wrist mid-swing.
The crowd gasped. Blue’s grip seemed almost casual, his fingers barely exerting any pressure, yet Giran’s momentum came to an abrupt halt. For a moment, the two fighters locked eyes, the predator and the prey. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Blue twisted Giran’s arm, forcing the larger fighter to stumble forward.
“Pathetic.” Blue said, his tone dripping with disdain. Before Giran could recover, Blue’s elbow shot forward, striking the dinosaur-like fighter squarely in the gut. The sound of the impact was visceral, a wet, crunching noise that made even the most seasoned fighters wince.
Giran’s eyes bulged, his breath escaping in a strangled gasp as he doubled over. Blue didn’t let him fall. His hand found Giran’s shoulder, holding him upright with ease.
“Let me show you how a real fighter uses their energy.” Blue said, his voice low enough that only those closest could hear. And then he moved.
Blue moved with a speed that defied most people’s comprehension. To the spectators, it was a blur of motion— a streak of white and blue moving in place. However, to the trained eyes of the fighters watching from the sidelines, it was a masterclass in cruelty.
Blue’s elbow struck Giran’s ribs with another sickening crunch, the force of the blow reverberating through the arena. Before the dinosaur-like fighter could react, Blue spun, his heel slamming into Giran’s knee with pinpoint accuracy. The joint buckled, and Giran let out a roar of pain, his massive frame collapsing to one knee.
The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and horrified gasps. For most, the fight was moving too quickly to follow. All they saw was Giran’s towering form being dismantled piece by piece, his once-overwhelming presence reduced to a struggling mass of pain and desperation.
“This isn’t a fight.” Chichi whispered, her hands gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. “It’s a dissection.”
Blue didn’t relent. He targeted Giran’s wings next, delivering a series of rapid punches that left the fragile appendages hanging limply at his sides. The once-proud fighter’s attempts to retaliate were feeble at best, his swings wild and uncoordinated.
“Stay down.” Blue said coldly, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the crowd. “You’ll only embarrass yourself further.”
Giran snarled, forcing himself upright despite his battered body. His claws raked the air in a desperate attempt to catch Blue off guard, but the general sidestepped effortlessly, his expression unreadable.
“Fine.” Blue said, his tone almost bored. “Have it your way.”
He surged forward, his fist connecting with Giran’s abdomen in a strike so fast that it seemed as if the air itself had been punched away. Giran doubled over, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the force of the blow lifted him off his feet. Blue stepped back, letting the hulking fighter crash to the ground with a thud that shook the ring.
“He’s…” Ten’s voice trailed off, his usual confidence replaced with disbelief. “He’s not just been enhanced. He’s different. The Blue I knew would not do something like this— he’d have completed his mission unless it was personal, and this couldn’t possibly be…”
Blue stood over Giran’s crumpled form, his breathing steady and unlabored. His sharp eyes scanned the ring, as though ensuring his opponent wouldn’t be getting back up. When he was satisfied, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, his posture as composed as ever.
But Giran wasn’t done. With a roar that was equal parts fury and desperation, he forced himself to his feet, his battered body trembling with the effort. Blood dripped from his mouth as he spread his damaged wings, his once-bright eyes now burning with unyielding determination.
“You think… you’ve won?” He rasped, his voice a guttural growl. “I’ll show you… what a Giras is made of!”
Blue stopped mid-step, turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder.
“Still fighting?” He mused, almost to himself. “Impressive. Pointless, but impressive.”
He turned back to face Giran fully, his cold smile returning. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, a mix of encouragement for the tenacious fighter and awe at the sheer brutality of the match. In the competitors’ area, even the most seasoned fighters watched with a mix of respect and dread. They knew what was coming.
Blue moved again, faster this time. To the crowd, it was as if Giran simply collapsed, his legs buckling beneath him. But the fighters saw it all— a series of precise strikes targeting the base of Giran’s spine, his already-damaged knee, and the fragile joint of his wing.
The dinosaur-like fighter hit the ground hard, his body sprawled awkwardly across the ring. This time, he didn’t move.
Blue stood over him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate care, he crouched down, his voice low enough that only Giran could hear.
“Strength without strategy is nothing.” He said, his tone devoid of malice. “Remember that if you wake up.”
The announcer’s voice broke the tense silence. “Winner by knockout… General Blue!”
The arena was silent for a moment after the announcer declared General Blue the winner, the weight of the match’s brutality sinking into the audience like a heavy fog. The silence remained, making the announcer gulp in nervousness.
In the competitors’ area, Chichi let out a slow, measured breath. Her grip on the railing loosened, but her knuckles were still pale from the tension.
“That wasn’t a fight.” She said, her voice quiet but steady. “It was an execution.”
Ten nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “He wasn’t just trying to win. He wanted to send a message.”
“And we got it loud and clear.” Chichi replied, her eyes fixed on Blue as he stepped off the ring platform.
The general walked with his usual composed demeanor, not a single hair out of place despite the intensity of the match. His sharp blue eyes scanned the crowd, his expression calm and detached. As he passed the medical team rushing toward Giran, he didn’t spare them a glance.
The medics moved quickly, their urgent movements contrasting sharply with Blue’s unhurried stride. They reached Giran’s crumpled form and began assessing his injuries. One of them shook his head grimly as they worked to stabilize the dinosaur-like fighter, carefully placing him on a stretcher— or at least, they tried to.
“He’s too heavy!” One of the medics declared in displeasure and worry. “We can’t move him!”
“Allow me.” Jackie Chun’s voice came from beside one of the workers, startling the group. He moved to lift the large dinosaur atop his back. “Not ideal, but it won’t aggravate his injuries.”
Giran’s wings hung limply, and his labored breathing filled the uneasy silence that had settled over the arena. Jackie looked towards the stunned medics and smiled. “Lead the way, won’t you?”
“R-right!”
Watching them go, Ten frowned.
“He’ll recover.” Chichi said, her voice taking on an edge as she continued. “But it’s going to take time. Blue knew exactly how to hurt him the most without strictly breaking the rules.”
“It’s more than that.” Ten said, his voice low. “He’s not just enhanced. The serum— it’s changed his personality. He’s always been efficient and even somewhat vicious in his fighting style, but this is to a level I’ve never seen before.”
“That’s just terrifying, Ten.” Krillin said, gulping. “And you’re going to fight that?”
“No.” Yamcha said, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’m going to fight that.”
He paused for a minute before scratching the back of his head. “Well, if I beat Silver, anyway.”
The announcer’s voice crackled back to life, doing his best to restore the tournament’s energy. “Let’s hear it for our fighters, ladies and gentlemen! What an incredible display of skill and determination!”
The crowd cheered, though the enthusiasm felt forced, as if they were trying to shake off the unease that had settled over the arena.
Chichi couldn’t blame them. When the Red Ribbon and Piccolo made their move, it would be much worse than this.
This is only a taste of what’s to come.
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