The sun hovered just above the skyline of West City as Onigiri descended from the sky, the Nimbus cloud drifting down like a feather on the wind. Below him, the sleek towers of Capsule Corp gleamed gold and silver in the light of late afternoon. People bustled through the city unaware of the figure above them, his cloak fluttering behind him, his eyes calm.
The moment the Nimbus touched down on the front lawn of Capsule Corp, Onigiri stepped off, the cloud lingering behind him for a moment before lazily floating upward again. He looked around slowly, letting the moment sink in.
Everything was so loud.
Even the wind here felt different—messier, more erratic, like it didn't know how to be still.
Cars honked. Birds chirped. People shouted in the distance. Compared to the wind-whispers and incense-silence of Korin Tower, this place felt alive and chaotic. The contrast hit him harder than expected.
But before he could knock on the front door, a voice called out across the lawn.
"Oi! You that freakishly strong alien Bulma's been talking about, aren't you?"
Onigiri turned to see a lean, long-haired teen in a desert-style outfit leaning against a nearby tree. His arms were crossed, but his smirk was anything but friendly.
"You've got some nerve just floating in like that," the stranger continued. "What, you think you're special?"
His smirk faltered for half a second, just enough to betray the spark of insecurity underneath.
Onigiri blinked. "I'm just here to see Bulma."
The teen pushed off the tree and started walking toward him. "Yeah? I'm sure she'd love to see you. She hasn't shut up about her 'mystery alien guest' since you disappeared."
Onigiri's brow twitched slightly. "Who are you?"
"Name's Yamcha." He tapped his chest with a thumb. "Desert Bandit. West City's top fighter. Or at least I would've been—if you hadn't been here first."
Onigiri didn't rise to the bait. A month ago, he might've. But now? The words just felt small. "I'm not here to take anything from you."
Yamcha grinned sharply. "That so? Then you won't mind a little test, will ya?"
Before Onigiri could answer, Yamcha lunged forward, foot skimming the grass, and threw a sharp jab toward his jaw.
Onigiri leaned back just enough for the punch to miss.
"Guess that's a yes," Yamcha said, smirking.
The spar began—not out of hatred, but out of pride. And beneath it, a quiet fear neither of them wanted to name.
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Yamcha struck first, quick and confident. With Onigiri's inhibitor rings still on, their physical abilities weren't too far apart—but where Yamcha was raw and reactive, Onigiri was calm and precise. His fists flew in tight arcs, combinations honed from years of scrapping in the desert. But Onigiri saw the openings before the punches even landed.
He weaved to the side, letting Yamcha's knuckles pass within inches of his face. Another jab came for his ribs—Onigiri caught it with an open palm and gently pushed Yamcha's arm away, like brushing a curtain aside.
"You're fast," Yamcha muttered, stepping back and resetting his stance. "But dodging won't win a real fight."
Onigiri didn't answer. He didn't need to. His feet remained firmly planted, his breathing calm.
Yamcha narrowed his eyes. He rushed forward again, feinting left before twisting into a rising kick. Onigiri ducked low, then pivoted behind him in a single fluid motion, placing a hand gently against Yamcha's back.
"I'm not your enemy," Onigiri said softly.
Yamcha growled, spinning out of reach and launching a flurry of blows. One of them clipped Onigiri's shoulder—his first real hit.
"Then stop acting like you're better than me!" Yamcha barked.
The moment hung for just a second. Onigiri's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but realization. There was something else beneath Yamcha's movements. A flicker, an instinct, something emotional tangled into each blow. Thanks to his training with Korin, Onigiri could almost feel Yamcha's intent—not with clarity, but like catching the echo of a thought in the wind. He wasn't just fighting Yamcha's fists. He was fighting Yamcha's pride.
The next few strikes landed—clean. Yamcha's fist struck Onigiri's ribs, and a kick clipped his thigh. Not devastating, but solid hits.
Onigiri blinked. That actually stung.
He exhaled and began fighting back—not with killing intent, but with precision. A deflection here, a counter-tap there. And to his surprise, Yamcha took those hits and stayed standing.
He was prideful. He was reckless. But he was also tougher than he looked.
Yamcha lunged with a wide swing, his stance overextended. Onigiri stepped in with perfect timing, placing a palm against his chest and redirecting the momentum. Yamcha lost his balance and crashed to the ground, tumbling into the grass but pushing himself up almost immediately. He wasn't broken—just winded. And clearly not ready to back down.
Yamcha scowled, brushing dirt off his pants as he squared back up, chest heaving. There was fire in his eyes, but also something else—respect, maybe, or recognition.
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Inside Capsule Corp's workshop, Bulma hunched over a mess of circuit boards and energy regulators, the smell of solder in the air and the rhythmic buzz of a diagnostic scanner ticking beside her. Her goggles were pushed halfway up her forehead, and a stylus rested between her lips.
"Come on, just one stable readout…" she muttered.
A crash. Loud and close. The entire table shook.
Bulma flinched, nearly burning her hand on the soldering iron. "What the hell…?"
Another impact—this one sharper, faster. Then voices. Male. Familiar.
She stood up sharply and rushed to the window.
Outside, in the front lawn, Yamcha was swinging wildly. Across from him, calm and collected as ever, was a figure she hadn't seen in months.
Her breath caught.
"Onigiri?!"
The stylus clattered to the floor as she threw off her goggles. Her heart was pounding now, equal parts panic and disbelief. She shoved open the workshop door and tore down the hallway.
As she burst through the front entrance, the heat of the late afternoon sun hit her—but it was the sight before her that stopped her cold.
Yamcha was panting, bruised but still throwing punches. Onigiri, though holding back, was clearly on another level. Even now, he wasn't countering with full force—just redirecting, dodging, letting Yamcha wear himself out.
And yet… there was no arrogance in it. No gloating. Just focus.
Bulma's chest tightened.
"STOP!" she screamed, sprinting toward them.
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Both fighters froze.
Onigiri took a slow breath and lowered his arms first. Yamcha glanced back, still bristling with adrenaline, but the sight of Bulma barreling toward them seemed to take the wind out of him.
She skidded to a halt between them, eyes blazing. "Are you both insane?! What the hell are you doing?!"
Yamcha opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a glare. "You're lucky you didn't break anything—or each other!"
"I was just keeping him in check," Yamcha muttered, brushing his bangs out of his face. "Didn't know he'd be some monk-warrior freak."
Onigiri started to speak—"Technically, I landed the first—"
Bulma cut him off with a glare so sharp it could've shattered glass.
He clamped his mouth shut. Message received.
Yamcha clenched his fists, his pride bruised but burning bright. He wasn't done—not yet. He looked between them. Then, with a scowl, he turned away. "Tch. Whatever. You and me—real sparring match. No holding back. I want to see what you've really got. Meet me in the Training Room in an hour."
He walked off without another word.
Bulma stood there for a second, watching him go, before turning back to Onigiri. Her voice softened.
"You okay?"
Onigiri nodded. "Yeah. I didn't want to seriously hurt him."
"I could tell," she said, managing a small, breathless smile. "But… you've changed."
He met her eyes, and something passed between them—unspoken, but understood.
The rings on his wrists hummed faintly, their weight ever-present—a silent reminder that he hadn't even scratched the surface.
Bulma reached for his wrist, then paused—just for a moment. "Come on," she said. "You've got a lot to catch me up on."
They walked toward the door together, the sound of the city humming behind them.
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The living room of Capsule Corp was as she'd left it—cool, clean, with soft hums of technology always just beneath the silence. Bulma walked ahead, tossing her gloves onto the table and pulling her hair back into a messy ponytail.
Onigiri stood quietly in the doorway, hands still at his sides. He scanned the room like it was familiar but distant, like something remembered in a dream.
"Sit," Bulma said, waving him to the couch. "I'll get something to drink. You like tea, right? Still?"
He nodded. "Still do."
When she returned with two mugs, she passed one to him, then flopped down beside him. The moment stretched between them.
"You're calmer now," she said after a sip. "More... centered. You weren't like that before."
"I wasn't," Onigiri said. "I didn't know how to be."
She looked over at him, her eyes studying him more carefully now. "What happened with your mentor? How was training?"
He hesitated, searching for the right words. "I completed my training after five months. My master taught me a lot—about myself, about stillness, and about restraint."
Bulma raised an eyebrow. "You finished? Already?"
"He said I'd learned what I needed from him. But before I left, he pointed me toward someone else—another teacher, someone named Korin. Said that if I wanted to understand my strength on a deeper level... that was where I needed to go."
Bulma tilted her head. "You're starting to sound like my dad when he's half-asleep."
That got a small laugh from him. "Sorry."
"Don't be. It's… kind of cool," she said, her voice quieter. "It suits you."
They sat like that a while longer, the tea warming their hands while unspoken things lingered between glances.
Finally, Bulma nudged his shoulder lightly. "Hey. Welcome back, space case," she teased—though her voice wavered just a bit.
He looked at her, then gave a small nod. "It's good to be back."
And for the first time since descending from the clouds, he felt like he was home.
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An hour later, Onigiri stepped into Capsule Corp's private training chamber. The walls were lined with reinforced alloys and energy-dampening panels—standard for a place that occasionally housed genius-level tech and volatile experiments.
Yamcha was already inside, shirt off, fists taped, stretching his arms as he glanced up at Onigiri's entrance.
"You showed," Yamcha said, rolling his shoulders. "Didn't think you would."
Onigiri nodded once, stepping onto the mat. "I said I would."
The two stood across from each other. Unlike before, the tension wasn't sharp. It simmered—an understanding had begun to form between them.
Yamcha cracked his neck. "This time, don't hold back. I wanna see what kind of freakish strength you've really got."
Onigiri lifted his hands into a stance—relaxed, but ready. "Fine. But the rings stay on."
Yamcha smirked. "Whatever. If I can't keep up, I'll deal."
The air grew still.
Then they moved.
The clash was immediate—no posturing, no testing strikes. Yamcha moved with sharper precision than before, but Onigiri's counters were faster now, his footwork more efficient. The sound of impacts rang through the chamber.
Blow for blow, block for block. This wasn't a clash of brute force—it was a test of conviction.
For the first time, Onigiri pushed—not out of frustration, not out of pride, but out of purpose.
And Yamcha? He rose to meet it.
Even as he was knocked down, he grinned through the pain. A flicker of jealousy still lingered—he hated being second best. But watching Onigiri fight, Yamcha began to understand that maybe this guy wasn't the arrogant showoff he thought he was. Maybe he was just... different. And stronger, yeah—but not just in muscle.
And they were both finally on that path.
Onigiri didn't respond. He didn't need to. For the first time, he felt like he'd earned someone's respect—not through fear, but through restraint.
As they caught their breath, Yamcha sat back against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked over at Onigiri with narrowed eyes.
"You know... I came here to see if Bulma was exaggerating. Talking you up like you were something out of a comic book."
Onigiri raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Yamcha gave a tired chuckle. "She wasn't."
There wasn't bitterness in his voice anymore—just honesty.
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