The sky was blooming gold when Onigiri pulled himself over the final edge.
The summit was... simple.
The wind whispered gently through the empty air, unbroken by trees or walls. It felt like the edge of the world—silent, timeless, waiting.
No gates. No divine choir. No blazing monument or secret scroll. Just a wide, flat stone platform surrounded by open air. Mist clung to the edges. In the center, a low incense holder burned with a slow, steady curl of smoke. A clay bowl sat beside it, filled with water so still it mirrored the sky.
And there, dozing peacefully on a plump purple cushion, was a cat.
White fur. Chubby cheeks. Staff resting beside him.
Onigiri blinked. Then stared. His arms dropped limply to his sides. His shoulders, still tight from the climb, remained square and tense.
"...You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, his voice dry.
The cat stirred, ears twitching. One eye cracked open, then the other. He yawned slowly, lazily, and stretched—just like any other cat.
"Well," the feline said with a gravelly voice and a smirk, "took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd grown fond of climbing."
Onigiri's mouth fell open.
The cat stood up, short and round, balancing easily on two feet. His staff tapped the stone as he walked toward Onigiri with deliberate slowness.
"Welcome to the top," the cat said. "Name's Korin. Guardian of this tower, keeper of the sacred spring, and—" he scratched his belly, "—your next headache."
Onigiri, still catching his breath, narrowed his eyes. "You're... Master Korin?"
Korin grinned. "Disappointed? You wouldn't be the first. Climbers usually arrive cocky or broken. You look like you're still trying to decide." Come on, let's see what kind of climber you really are."
He turned and waddled toward the incense burner, tail flicking. Onigiri followed, more confused than ever.
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Korin settled near the incense burner and motioned for Onigiri to sit across from him. "First thing's first," he said, settling into a lotus position with surprising grace, "why'd you climb this tower?"
Onigiri opened his mouth, then closed it. The climb had been physical. This... felt different. Like stepping into a test he didn't know he'd signed up for.
He hesitated, then sat, mirroring Korin's pose. "To learn how to control my power. To understand it."
Korin gave a slow nod, as if weighing the words. "Good answer. Common one. Usually it's either that or 'to get stronger.' But power without control just makes you dangerous—and boring."
He leaned forward slightly. "So tell me… what is ki?"
Onigiri opened his mouth, then paused. "Energy. Life force?"
"Close. Not wrong. But not useful."
Korin tapped the side of his head. "Energy is just a word until you know where it's going. Ki isn't a thing—it's a conversation between you and the world."
He then plucked up a pebble from beside the cushion and held it between his fingers. "Ki isn't just energy. It's intention. Pressure. Direction. It's what turns effort into meaning."
He flicked the pebble gently. It bounced once, then rolled to a stop perfectly balanced on the rim of the incense bowl.
"You've got strength. I felt it when you climbed. But your ki? It's like a wildfire with no wind—hot, but without shape."
Onigiri frowned. "So how do I fix that?"
"You don't fix it. You learn to listen to it."
For a moment, the air felt heavier. The breeze stopped. Korin's tone, though light, carried something underneath it—expectation.
He stood up and waddled over to a nearby pedestal. From it, he took a small wooden cup and filled it with water from the spring.
"Your first lesson," Korin said, handing it to Onigiri. "Hold this. Keep it steady. Don't spill a drop."
Onigiri raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
"For an hour."
"…You're kidding."
Korin only smiled. "Try it."
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Onigiri stared at the small wooden cup, then back at Korin. He had faced wild beasts, bandits, even a martial artist armed with experimental tech—and this was his next challenge?
What frustrated him more was that he'd done this before. Hachirō had made him balance a cup of water while walking across a narrow ridge in the mountains. He had managed it then. So why was this harder? He wasn't even moving.
Why is this harder? he thought, a flicker of irritation growing beneath the surface. I should be able to do this.
Still, he took the cup, settling into a cross-legged position again.
At first, it was easy. The cup was light. Balanced. He held it in both hands and stared into the surface of the water. It reflected his face—calm, unreadable, still flushed with effort from the climb.
Seconds passed. Then minutes. The silence stretched.
The breeze picked up slightly, licking at his arms. His elbows tensed. The water trembled.
Steady, he told himself.
But the longer he sat, the more his body began to speak. Not loudly, but insistently. A dull ache in his shoulders. A tightening in his forearms. A shift in his lower back. His heartbeat, slow but present, echoed in his ears.
A drop rolled to the edge of the cup. He adjusted.
Another drop spilled over.
Onigiri grit his teeth. No. Again.
He reset the cup and tried once more. He closed his eyes this time, breathing slow.
But the more he tried to "focus," the more his thoughts intruded.
What is this even proving? I've done harder things. This is ridiculous— A twitch in his thumb. Another drop spilled.
Korin watched in silence from across the platform.
After several more attempts, Onigiri sighed and set the cup down.
"I don't get it," he muttered. "This isn't training. This is... babysitting my own hands."
Korin chuckled. "Your body's fast. Your fists are sharp. But your spirit? Still rushing around like a dog chasing its tail."
He stood slowly, staff clicking against stone. "Balance isn't about stillness on the outside. It's about quiet on the inside. You've got too much noise, kid."
Onigiri glanced at the cup again.
He hated to admit it—but Korin was right.
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That night, after a sparse meal and a quiet evening beneath the stars, Korin gave him the cup again.
"Try again," the cat said simply.
Onigiri sat, the wooden cup in hand, moonlight dancing across the surface of the water.
Again, it began the same. Easy. Then difficult. Then maddening. His body itched to move, to act, to do something. The stillness gnawed at him.
He remembered the exercise with Hachirō again—walking that narrow ridge while balancing a cup just like this one. He'd succeeded. So why, when seated and calm, did this feel like failure?
Korin sat nearby, watching with one eye half-closed. Eventually, he spoke.
"You did this before, didn't you?"
Onigiri nodded slowly. "Yeah. My master had me do it. Walking, even."
Korin tilted his head. "So what's the difference?"
"I don't know," Onigiri muttered. "It was hard, sure. But this is different. It's like the longer I sit, the louder everything inside me gets."
Korin smirked. "Exactly. When you're walking, your body distracts the noise. When you're still, you hear it all. Your power, your instinct, your doubt—they start shouting when there's no action to drown them out."
He tapped his staff lightly. "Stillness doesn't mean nothing's happening. It means you're finally listening."
Onigiri stared at the cup again.
This time, when the water trembled, he didn't overcorrect. He just breathed.
A drop didn't fall.
Progress—not perfection.
And for the first time, he felt like he understood what Korin was trying to teach.
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Later, as the stars shifted overhead and the incense burned low, Onigiri sat alone with the cup in his hands. Korin had gone quiet, dozing nearby, but his words lingered.
Onigiri exhaled slowly. His mind tried to wander—thinking about training, about Bulma, about what came next—but he gently pulled it back.
He didn't even notice at first that he'd started feeling something.
Not just the cup. Not just the ache in his arms or the strain in his shoulders. But... something deeper.
A presence. Faint. Internal. Like a river that had always been flowing under the surface, just muffled by noise.
His breathing slowed. His heartbeat calmed.
And for the briefest moment—he felt it.
His energy.
Not in a burst. Not like a scream. But like a whisper responding to silence.
He blinked, startled—and the moment passed. The cup trembled again.
But he smiled.
It was enough.
From across the platform, Korin opened one eye. He didn't speak. But the curl of his whiskers suggested a grin.
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