The sky blushed with the earliest light of dawn as Onigiri stood once again at the top of Korin Tower. A full month had passed since the day Korin first tossed him the wooden cup—since the start of the final phase of his training. Every sunrise since then had begun the same way: incense curling through the air, silence between master and student, and the weight of unspoken lessons settling on the wind.
His arms bore light bruises from countless attempts, but his breath was calm. His stance was steady. The soreness in his muscles had become familiar—like the ache of growth.
The incense smoke curled upward now, dancing like the memory of every breath he'd taken since that challenge began.
He faced Korin in silence, the familiar wooden cup balanced in the cat's tail. There were no words exchanged. They didn't need any.
Korin tossed the cup.
Onigiri didn't move—not at first. He breathed in, deep and unshaken, and listened.
The cup arced upward in lazy defiance of gravity, its curve a gentle whisper against the sky. Wind shifted. Fingers twitched. Time slowed.
Then—without thought or effort—Onigiri stepped forward and raised his hand.
The cup landed softly in his palm.
It didn't feel triumphant. It felt... quiet. Earned. Complete.
Korin blinked, tail still raised.
"You caught it," he said, voice quieter than usual.
Onigiri exhaled, lowering the cup. "Yeah."
Korin walked up and gently pushed the cup back toward him. "Now let it go."
Onigiri opened his hand. The cup fell—bounced once on the stone—and rolled to a stop near the incense burner.
They both looked at it for a moment, unmoving. The incense continued to burn. The wind rustled the edge of Onigiri's gi.
"Good," Korin finally said. "Then you're ready."
He turned away, slowly walking back to his perch. Onigiri didn't follow yet. He just stood there, staring at the cup.
A smile crept onto his face.
Not because he had won.
But because, for the first time, he understood what it meant to be still and strong at the same time.
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The sun had risen a little higher by the time Korin returned. He approached without his usual teasing air, staff tucked under one arm, and sat beside Onigiri at the tower's edge.
"You've done well," he said, his voice unusually calm.
Onigiri glanced at him, but said nothing. The silence between them was comfortable now—earned.
Korin tapped his staff lightly against the stone. "Before you go, I've got one more question for you. One last test."
Onigiri turned his head. "Alright."
Korin looked out over the horizon. "Why do we train?"
The question hung there for a long moment, suspended in the same stillness that had filled Onigiri's hands when he caught the cup.
He didn't answer right away. He didn't rush it.
Finally, he said, "To understand ourselves. So we can choose how we move."
Korin's whiskers twitched. A pleased hum rumbled in his throat. "That's better than most answers I've heard."
He stood slowly, raising his staff high. The sky responded. Clouds churned above, parting to reveal a dense golden mist swirling above the tower like a slumbering dragon.
From it, a piece broke free—a glowing thread of cloud that drifted downward in a spiral.
It hovered before Onigiri, gentle as a breeze, brilliant as sunlight.
"This here's a piece of the Nimbus," Korin said. "Fluffy, fast, and choosy. Only the pure of heart ride it."
Onigiri blinked. "And you're giving it to me?"
Korin smirked. "It came on its own. I just asked nicely."
The Nimbus floated closer. Onigiri reached out—and as his fingers touched it, the cloud solidified beneath him.
It didn't sink. It didn't toss him off. It simply held him.
Korin leaned on his staff, nodding. "Looks like it agrees with you."
Onigiri settled atop it slowly, still in quiet awe.
"Thank you," he said.
Korin turned away, tail flicking. "Don't thank me. Just don't fall off. And don't forget: power's not just in fists—it's in what you choose to hold back."
The cloud began to rise slowly, circling above the tower.
Onigiri looked down once more, eyes reflecting the long journey ahead.
Then, he stepped off the cloud, his feet landing softly back on the stone.
He walked to the edge of the tower and looked down at the winding pole leading to the earth far below. The sky was bright now, the morning fully bloomed.
With a deep breath, Onigiri took hold of the pole and began his descent—calm, focused, and changed.
He didn't look back.
It wasn't about reaching the top anymore.
It was about what he would do now that he had.
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Onigiri's descent was not like his climb.
He remembered the first time he had arrived at the base of Korin Tower—heart pounding, unsure, the pole seeming to stretch into forever. His arms had burned, and his thoughts had raced with every pull upward. He'd climbed like someone with something to prove.
Now, each movement downward was steady. Controlled. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't worried. He could feel the wind brushing past him, hear the rhythm of his breath, and sense the strength coiled within him—not just physical, but something more refined.
His time at the top had shaped him. Not just in skill, but in spirit.
He was no longer climbing to escape who he was.
He was descending as someone who had chosen who to become.
Far below the tower, nestled among the trees at the jungle's edge, a subtle hum filled the air. Hidden beneath a veil of foliage, a small metallic orb hovered silently, its glassy lens reflecting the tower above.
Inside a makeshift mobile outpost nearby, screens flickered to life. A figure in a red-trimmed black uniform leaned forward, adjusting the knobs with practiced precision. The emblem of the Red Ribbon Army gleamed on his shoulder.
"Subject descending the tower," he muttered into a comm-link. "Target matches initial profile. Confirmed visual on unknown aerial object—possibly a cloud-based transport."
The voice on the other end crackled. "Maintain surveillance. Do not engage."
The officer nodded. "Understood. Beginning phase two."
The screen zoomed in on Onigiri as he descended calmly, unaware of the eyes watching from below.
The Red Ribbon Army had found him.
And they were very, very interested.
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Back in West City, golden light spilled through the wide-paneled windows of Capsule Corp's private garage. Inside, the air buzzed with the faint hum of electricity and the scent of warm metal. Bulma hunched over a cluttered workbench, a soldering tool clutched in one gloved hand and precision goggles perched across her eyes.
Tiny sparks leapt from the circuit board as she made her final connection. She paused, pulled the goggles up, and frowned at the flickering signal on the monitor beside her.
"Still not syncing right... Tch."
She slumped back into her stool, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face with a frustrated sigh. Her gaze wandered to a shelf lined with half-finished devices, but her eyes settled on a dusty dome-shaped prototype: her early version of the Dragon Radar.
"Still glitching... even after that whole trip," she muttered. "Stupid radar. Version 2.0 better not short out in a volcano this time."
The words trailed off. Her fingers tapped the edge of the workbench absently. She'd seen amazing things lately—giant fish, strange boys, talking animals—but her thoughts drifted somewhere else. To someone else.
She stood, walking across the garage to the open balcony. The city stretched beneath her, warm and alive. A breeze stirred her hair, cool against her skin.
"I wonder what you're doing now, Onigiri," she said under her breath. "Hope you haven't blown up a mountain or something."
A faint smile touched her lips. She folded her arms, staring into the sky.
"He better not be forgetting about me."
The smile faltered slightly, softening into something more thoughtful.
"Come back soon, dummy. I've got a lot to show you."
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High above the clouds, Korin sat alone once more at the edge of his tower. The wind rustled the white fur along his arms as he sipped from a chipped porcelain cup, the rising sun painting warm gold across the tower's stones. His legs swung lightly over the side.
The incense had long since burned out. The scent lingered, but the stillness it signified remained.
He watched the space where Onigiri had stood just hours ago.
"Most don't make it this far," he murmured. "And the ones that do... usually don't leave lighter than they came."
He set the cup down beside him and leaned on his staff.
"Boy's still rough around the edges. Got a spark though. Like the others before him—but different. He doesn't just want strength."
Korin's eyes narrowed faintly as he gazed toward the horizon.
"He wants meaning. Purpose. That's more dangerous... and more powerful."
A silence passed between the sky and the cat.
"Let's hope the world's ready for him."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a folded slip of parchment—faintly aged, with a crest burned into its corner: a single, stylized eye surrounded by rays. The edges were worn soft, the ink faded but precise—well-read, well-remembered.
Korin studied it for a moment before tucking it away again.
"Not yet," he said softly. "But maybe soon. When he's ready… he'll have to reach a place few ever do—not just higher, but holier."
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