The island was quiet in the early morning haze.
Not just peaceful—but truly, deeply quiet. The kind of silence that settles behind the eyes and lingers in the chest.
Onigiri stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean, a breeze tugging gently at his clothes. The sea shimmered with golden light, and the wind carried the scent of salt and fresh grass. Behind him, the trees rustled softly, as if whispering farewell.
He looked back once toward the grove where he'd spent months training with Hachirō—and before that, where Bulma had first dragged him around, trying to get him to act like a human being.
It already felt like a different life.
A part of him wanted to stay. Not because he feared leaving, but because for the first time, this place had become something more than just shelter. It had become a memory. A beginning.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Are you ready?" Hachirō asked, his tone as even as ever.
Onigiri nodded, straightening. "Where are we going?"
Hachirō smiled faintly and extended a hand.
In his palm rested a small ceramic cup, filled to the brim with clear water.
"Walk with this," he said. "To where we are going. Do not spill it."
Onigiri blinked. "Seriously?"
Hachirō began walking without another word, his hands behind his back.
Grumbling under his breath, Onigiri took the cup and followed.
He didn't realize it then—but this was the beginning of a much harder journey than any punch he'd ever taken.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun had climbed higher by the time they'd left the coastline behind. Forest paths narrowed into overgrown trails, and uneven rocks jutted up like jagged teeth through the dirt. Birds called overhead, and the occasional rustle in the bushes kept Onigiri alert—but not for danger.
He was focused entirely on the little ceramic cup in his hands.
It trembled with every step.
A single drop slid over the rim as his foot caught on a hidden root.
"Tch!"
He stopped, exhaled through his nose, and tried again—this time slower. The second time, it was a slanting decline that got him. The cup rippled, and his fingers tensed. One wrong breath and it would tip.
Another drop gone.
"Why are we even doing this?" he muttered.
Hachirō didn't stop walking. "You are learning."
"I already know how to walk."
"Do you?" Hachirō asked over his shoulder.
Onigiri clenched his jaw and pushed forward.
For miles they walked, and for miles Onigiri battled the weightless burden in his hands. His legs didn't burn. His arms didn't ache. But his patience did.
The third time he spilled, he growled, "This is pointless."
This stupid cup felt like his whole life—brimming, shaking, always one step from spilling over.
Hachirō finally stopped and turned. "If you cannot control your energy while walking, how will you control it while fighting?"
"I'm not even using energy," Onigiri snapped.
"You're using all of it," Hachirō said, calm as ever. "Just to stay still. It is harder to do nothing than to swing wildly.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
By midday, they arrived at a quiet riverside clearing. The water flowed gently over smooth stones, the sound like a constant hush—inviting, but unignorable.
Hachirō sat down without a word, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. Onigiri looked around, still gripping the cup, now half-full.
"Sit," Hachirō said.
Onigiri hesitated, then plopped down beside him. His legs were stiff, his back sore from tension—not fatigue.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now," Hachirō replied, "you breathe."
They sat in silence.
The minutes crawled. Onigiri shifted. A bird chirped overhead. A leaf fluttered down and landed on the surface of the river, floating peacefully. His legs itched. His thoughts darted. He wanted to move. To speak. To fidget. But something in Hachirō's stillness made him feel like doing so would shatter something delicate. Every little sound felt like a distraction.
"How long are we doing this?" he finally whispered.
"Until the water stops moving inside you," Hachirō said.
Onigiri closed his eyes. His breath began to match the rhythm of the river, the way it curved around stone and root. He didn't control it. He just followed it.
He didn't find peace. Not yet. But for a moment, the noise in his head softened.
When he opened his eyes again, Hachirō was watching him with a knowing smile.
"That," the old man said, "was stillness. Not silence. Remember the difference."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
That evening, they reached the base of a mountain shrouded in twilight mist. The path twisted upward through ancient stone steps, worn down by time and travelers long forgotten. Onigiri trailed behind, the only sound his quiet steps and the shifting gravel beneath them. The fatigue in his legs was dull but present.
The shrine at the summit was humble—half-swallowed by vines and framed by crooked wooden beams. Faint carvings lined the doorway—worn symbols that looked like waves, leaves, and breath. The teachings of a time long past. Lanterns sat dark and empty on rusted hooks. Yet the air around it felt reverent, sacred in its quiet way.
Hachirō came to a stop before the steps. "This is where I trained when I was younger than you," he said. "And where I first learned to stop being angry at the world."
Onigiri set the cup down beside the steps. It held barely a mouthful of water now—but somehow, it felt heavier than when he started. It was almost empty now—just a few drops remaining.
He sat down cross-legged on the worn stone landing beside his master. They didn't speak. The wind passed gently between them, and the mountain carried the scent of moss and cedar.
For the first time, Onigiri didn't feel the need to fill the silence.
As stars began to emerge above the shrine's roof, he spotted a torn flyer caught against one of the support beams. Curious, he rose and pulled it free.
The edges were curled and weather-worn, but the words were still legible:
"Tenkaichi Budokai – World's Greatest Martial Arts Tournament"
Date: May 7th, Age 750
Location: Southern Capital
He stared at it for a long moment. He didn't know why… but it felt important.
He folded it carefully and tucked it into his shirt.
"My body's calm," he said quietly. "But my mind still wants to run."
Hachirō didn't open his eyes. "Then start by walking it, one thought at a time."
Onigiri didn't respond.
Not tonight. Tonight, he was learning to be still.