The air was still that morning. Crisp, cool, and silent—like the mountain itself was holding its breath. Onigiri moved through his kata by the edge of the stream, the water flowing steady beside him. Each motion carved the air with precision, his breath in sync with the rhythm of the world.
No trembling. No surges of power breaking loose. Just movement. Purposeful. Controlled.
Hachirō watched from the shade of a cedar, arms folded, silent as ever.
When the sequence ended, Onigiri let his hands fall to his sides. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
"You don't need me anymore, do you?" Hachirō asked.
The words were soft, almost casual, but they hit like a gong.
Onigiri exhaled slowly. "Maybe not," he said. "But I'll miss having you here."
A pause. Then the sound of footsteps crunching dry needles.
Hachirō came to stand beside him and reached into his sleeve. From it, he pulled a folded strip of white cloth—old, but clean and well-kept.
"My master gave me this the day I stopped being a student," he said, handing it over. "Used to wear it around my wrist whenever I trained. Kept me grounded." He hesitated, then added, "Figured it ought to go to someone who might actually use it."
Onigiri accepted it with both hands and a bowed head. He ran his thumb across the fabric—coarse at the edges, soft at the center. Like something used, treasured. A gift not lightly given. Something in his chest pulled tight.
"There's a tower," Hachirō continued. "Far north. So tall it disappears into the sky. Locals call it sacred. Say there's a creature up there—one who's lived a hundred lifetimes and can teach you things no man can."
He gave a faint smirk. "If you want to command your spirit… climb it."
No goodbyes. No big speeches. Hachirō simply turned and wandered back toward the fire, his teacup waiting.
Onigiri stood alone for a moment longer, then tied the cloth around his wrist and turned toward the rising sun. He took a few steps, then paused—glancing back one last time. Hachirō didn't look up from his tea. But somehow, Onigiri knew he was watching.
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The path wound downward first—through thinning pines and sun-splashed moss, along ridges where hawks circled above like slow-moving stars. Onigiri walked in silence, his pack slung over one shoulder, the white cloth tied firmly at his wrist. It fluttered with each step, soft and constant like a breath.
For the first hour, he kept expecting to hear footsteps behind him. A quiet cough. A snarky comment. Hachirō's voice in that dry, even tone. But there was nothing.
He spoke aloud once, catching himself.
"Guess I'm really on my own now."
He almost laughed at the sound of his own voice. It felt foreign in the stillness, too loud in a world that no longer offered answers. For a moment, he missed Bulma's chatter. Hachirō's quiet nods. Even the sound of another breath nearby.
The wind was the only reply.
By midday, he passed a stream and paused to refill his canteen. He caught his reflection in the water—sharper jawline, more defined shoulders. He barely recognized the boy who had awakened on a Capsule Corp table months ago.
Still, something gnawed at the edge of his awareness. Not fear. Not loneliness. Just… quiet. A quiet that felt vast. Like walking through the space between stars.
The path began to narrow, hemmed in by tall grasses swaying with the breeze. A moment of wind lifted the trees into a slow, whispering hush—as if the forest itself was holding a secret.
He walked until the sun began to dip behind the trees. When he finally looked up and saw the tip of something stretching into the clouds far off in the distance, it took his breath. Not just a tower—a trial.
He smiled faintly, adjusted his pack, and kept walking.
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The village nestled at the base of the towering column like a forgotten memory. Modest homes with sloped wooden roofs leaned into the hills, and smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys as dusk settled in. Children chased each other through dusty paths, and old men sat in silence outside tea shops, watching the horizon like it might shift.
When Onigiri arrived, the mood shifted—not with hostility, but with quiet expectation. Whispers traveled faster than footsteps.
"He's here," someone murmured.
An elder approached—a woman with silver-streaked hair and steady eyes. "The one the cat spoke of," she said. "We were told you'd come."
Others watched him carefully. Not afraid, but wary.
"He said you'd be strong," a younger man added. "But the tower… it doesn't just test strength. It tests everything."
Onigiri offered a respectful bow. "I'm not here for glory. Only to learn."
That earned a nod. Still, a few eyes lingered with unease.
He spent some time gathering supplies: dried fruit, fresh water, wrappings for the climb. The villagers didn't interfere. But no one offered encouragement either.
As night fell, he made camp just outside the village, at the foot of the tower. The monolith loomed overhead—its surface smooth and ancient, reaching into clouds that pulsed with moonlight.
He sat in silence, barely shifting, as the fire's warmth flickered across his face.
And for the first time in a long while—he felt still.
Tomorrow, he would climb—upward, alone, toward the unknown.
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