The sun had barely crested over the West City skyline when the reinforced doors of Capsule Corp's training room hissed open. Inside, the air was already thick with motion. Onigiri moved in steady rhythm across the padded floor, barefoot, his cloak draped neatly on a bench nearby. Each movement was deliberate—fists snapping forward, breath slow and controlled. Not a single bead of sweat marked his skin.
This place was different from Korin's tower. No wind-whispers. No silence. Just steel and sweat—and somehow, it suited him now.
A row of heavy metal dummies lined the far end of the chamber, some already dented from repeated strikes. Onigiri paused, pivoted sharply, and drove a palm into the chest of the next dummy. The machine's internal gyros squealed before it buckled backward with a hiss of compressed air.
Yamcha leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a towel around his neck and duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
"Do you even sleep, or are you solar-powered too?"
Onigiri didn't break form, finishing the motion before offering a calm glance over his shoulder. "I slept. I just woke up earlier."
Yamcha dropped his bag with a sigh. "Of course you did."
In the corner, behind a clear wall of reinforced glass, Bulma sat perched in front of a multi-screen console, sipping coffee. She didn't look up right away—she was mid-note, muttering about kinetic force readouts and sparring patterns. Her hair was tied up, safety goggles still pushed up on her head from the night before.
She glanced up at the sound of Yamcha's voice. "Only a few weeks left 'til the tournament," she said through the intercom. "You two better stop flirting and start fighting."
Yamcha shot her a look. "We're not flirting."
"Could've fooled me," she muttered, and went back to tapping notes onto the vitals readout.
Yamcha rolled his shoulders and stepped onto the mat, beginning his stretches. Onigiri stepped aside to give him space, his expression unreadable but patient.
Despite the teasing, there was a subtle rhythm to their routine now—spar, recover, repeat. The awkward tension of their first meeting had long since given way to something more like structure. Like purpose.
The walls were scarred with scorch marks and impact dents, a testament to past tests—and future challenges.
And this morning, that purpose was clear: the 21st Tenkaichi Budokai wasn't just on the horizon. It was coming like a freight train.
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Yamcha stepped into position across from Onigiri, his stance wide and grounded. Onigiri mirrored him, hands relaxed, breath slow. No countdown, no signal—they simply moved.
Yamcha struck first, his fist lashing out in a tight hook aimed for Onigiri's temple. Onigiri slid to the side and countered with a palm strike, stopping just before contact. Yamcha twisted away and came in again, faster.
They traded blows, movement sharpening with each pass. Yamcha was aggressive, his style scrappy but reactive. Onigiri was smooth and methodical, but it was clear he wasn't outclassing Yamcha—just outmaneuvering him by a thin edge. With the inhibitor rings limiting his output, the gap between them felt surprisingly narrow.
"You're still holding back," Yamcha muttered between punches.
"I'm testing your timing," Onigiri replied.
Yamcha grinned, then ducked low and drove a knee forward. Onigiri caught it with his forearm, pivoted, and pushed Yamcha off balance. Yamcha rolled back to his feet, breathing heavier, but smiling wider.
"You're not the same guy from the lawn," Onigiri said, resetting his stance.
"And you're still annoyingly calm," Yamcha shot back.
They went again—this time faster and harder. Yamcha began adapting, reading the pauses in Onigiri's rhythm. He feinted high, then drove low with a spinning sweep, catching Onigiri off guard and nearly forcing a stumble. Onigiri recovered quickly, but his eyes narrowed—he hadn't expected Yamcha to close the distance so quickly. A spinning heel kick grazed Onigiri's shoulder. Yamcha saw the brief flicker of surprise on his opponent's face.
"You actually hit me," Onigiri said, blinking.
"Damn right I did."
They clashed again, and this time Onigiri pushed a little harder—still restrained by the rings, but committing more of his speed and precision. For every edge Yamcha gained, Onigiri responded with sharper counters. It was no longer just training—it was a real test. His strikes were precise and quick, just enough to keep Yamcha dancing but not breaking.
Yamcha ducked under a punch and swept at Onigiri's legs. Onigiri jumped, flipped mid-air, and landed behind him.
"You've improved," Onigiri said. "Significantly."
Yamcha was panting now, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his chin. "You're not even tired yet? What are you made of—steel?"
Onigiri only gave a small shrug, saying nothing.
Yamcha laughed through his breathlessness and flopped onto the mat. "Fine. Call that round yours. But next one's mine."
Onigiri rolled his shoulder, the grazed spot from Yamcha's heel kick still tingling faintly. "You're faster than before. More calculated."
"Gotta be," Yamcha said, still catching his breath. "You've got that spooky stillness thing going on. Hard to read."
They rose again—no rest this time.
The second round began with a flash of movement. Yamcha struck with a flurry of jabs, each one aiming to bait a counter. Onigiri shifted his weight, weaving between the strikes. Then he launched a low punch to Yamcha's gut—Yamcha twisted just in time, catching the impact on his side.
Yamcha grunted, but didn't fall. He retaliated with a rising uppercut that clipped Onigiri's jaw. Not hard enough to daze him—but enough to prove a point.
They circled. The pace accelerated.
Yamcha ducked a kick and rolled forward, coming up with a two-handed push that forced Onigiri back a step. Onigiri reacted with a sliding kick of his own, one that skimmed across Yamcha's shins and staggered him.
The tempo of the match shifted again—no longer teacher and student, but peers exchanging lessons in instinct and control.
They clashed once more—fist to forearm, foot to side, elbow to shoulder.
Finally, both stepped back at the same time, breathing steady—Yamcha's labored, Onigiri's composed.
A slow smile broke across Yamcha's face. "Alright… maybe you're not invincible. But damn, you're tough."
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Behind the glass, Bulma remained seated, her coffee now cold and forgotten. She had been watching them the whole time, her eyes tracking every blow, every pause. The sparring had ended, but her mind kept replaying it—specifically Onigiri. The way he moved. The way he smiled. The way he listened.
He'd changed. That much was obvious. Not just stronger—sharper, more focused. But also… calmer. Softer in ways that made her chest tighten, and she hated that she didn't quite understand why.
She leaned back in her chair, pulling her goggles off and tossing them on the desk beside her. "Stupid space boy," she muttered.
But she was smiling.
Something in her gut whispered that she was beginning to like having him around. Not just because he could throw a punch through titanium, or because he looked great doing it—but because when he was near, the world felt a little less chaotic.
It was a ridiculous thought. And yet, as she sat there, watching him laugh with Yamcha through the soundproof glass, she didn't push it away.
"Maybe he really is back," she whispered to herself, then turned her chair to start typing again.
Still smiling.
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Yamcha dropped onto the bench near the wall, reaching for a bottle of water and pouring half of it over his head before taking a drink. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to steady his breathing.
Onigiri, by contrast, stood quietly with his hands behind his back, observing the scuff marks they'd left on the floor. A faint sheen of exertion glistened on his arms, but his breathing remained calm—controlled.
"Seriously," Yamcha said between breaths, "you're not even winded? That's not human, man."
Onigiri gave a noncommittal shrug, then offered a small, dry smile. "I've always had good stamina."
Yamcha chuckled. "Yeah? Well, I've got good stubbornness."
He took another swig from the bottle, then tilted his head toward the ceiling. "You know… I used to fight because I had something to prove. Thought strength was the only thing that mattered."
Onigiri didn't speak, but he listened—quiet, attentive.
"Now, though?" Yamcha continued. "It's not just about power. It's about not being left behind. Everyone's moving forward. I don't wanna be the guy watching from the sidelines."
Onigiri nodded slowly. "You won't be. Not if you keep training like this."
Yamcha looked at him, a mixture of amusement and appreciation in his eyes. "Heh. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"It was."
They sat in silence for a moment, the rhythmic hum of Capsule Corp's systems filling the air.
Yamcha leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "Bulma's been talking a lot about you lately, you know."
Onigiri glanced over. "She has?"
"Yeah. Said you've changed. Said you're calmer. Stronger. That you don't scare her anymore."
Onigiri's expression softened, just barely. "I never meant to scare her."
Yamcha raised a brow. "Well, maybe don't crash through her company's reinforced training equipment next time you wake up from a cryo-nap."
Onigiri chuckled—a rare, quiet sound. "Fair point."
The light mood lingered for a few seconds before Yamcha sat forward again, eyes more serious.
"Whatever happens at the tournament," he said, "promise me one thing."
Onigiri tilted his head slightly. "What?"
Yamcha held out a fist. "Give it your all. No holding back. Not for anyone."
Onigiri looked at the offered fist, then bumped it with his own. "Deal."
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Later that day, the training room had been reset. The floor had been swept clean of dust and sweat, and new equipment had been wheeled in. In the center of the chamber stood a sleek, compact console with rotating arms, sensors, and emitters—the kind of gadgetry only Bulma could whip up in a single afternoon.
Bulma stood beside it, tablet in hand, eyes gleaming with pride.
"I call it the Gravity Adaptive Response Module," she announced. "Or GARM. Sounds cool, right?"
Yamcha raised an eyebrow. "Sounds dangerous."
"Good. Then it's working." She tapped a few keys and the console lit up with diagnostic lights.
She turned to Onigiri next, holding up a familiar pair of black bands. "These are the upgraded inhibitor rings. Adjustable weight scaling—manually or wirelessly controlled. They adapt in real time based on kinetic feedback."
Onigiri accepted them, slipping them on and flexing his wrists. "They feel lighter."
"They're not," Bulma replied smugly. "You're just stronger."
Yamcha stepped beside him, eyes on the new GARM unit. "So… how hard is this thing supposed to hit?"
"Well," Bulma said, grinning, "it was programmed to match Onigiri's last full-force readings."
Yamcha went pale. "Wait, what—?"
The GARM whirred to life before anyone could finish a thought. Its limbs extended with mechanical grace, glowing red along its joints. A pulse rippled through the floor as it locked onto them.
Onigiri and Yamcha shared a glance, then dropped into ready stances.
The drone struck first—fast. Its arm blurred forward in a piston jab aimed at Yamcha's head. He ducked just in time while Onigiri countered with a rising elbow, deflecting the blow wide.
Yamcha shot forward with a flurry of kicks. Onigiri slipped behind the drone and grabbed its shoulder arm, swinging it off-balance. The drone reoriented immediately, spinning with unexpected agility.
"It's learning," Onigiri muttered.
"Great!" Yamcha shouted as he narrowly dodged a follow-up strike. "It thinks we're the lesson plan!"
Their coordination tightened. Yamcha began using Onigiri as a pivot point, springing off his stance to angle attacks. Onigiri, in turn, used Yamcha's momentum as distraction, threading precision strikes between the drone's guard.
One attack came in fast—too fast. The drone rotated and fired a concussive pulse. Onigiri caught it with his forearm and skidded back several feet, boots gouging into the mat.
Bulma's eyes widened. "That should've knocked out a power cell."
Onigiri shook off the impact, eyes focused. "These upgrades are… efficient."
"Told you," Bulma muttered, quickly typing a command to cycle the drone's aggression down by 10%. But she didn't press it right away.
They kept moving. What started as training became something more—reactive footwork, pivoted guards, tandem attacks, mirrored dodges. The two fighters weren't just adapting to the drone. They were adapting to each other.
Yamcha landed a spinning roundhouse that sent the drone staggering for half a second. Onigiri followed up with a palm strike to the core, forcing the machine back even farther.
Bulma leaned forward, breath caught halfway between awe and amusement.
They weren't just fighting.
They were synchronizing.
Evolving.
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After the drone powered down and the room fell quiet, Bulma shut the system off and stepped out from behind the glass. Onigiri and Yamcha were toweling off, catching their breath after the final flurry of motion.
"Not bad," she said, folding her arms with a smirk. "You two make a pretty good team when you're not trying to out-alpha each other."
Yamcha rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."
Onigiri offered a small nod. "That drone was impressive. It responded faster than before."
"I upgraded its predictive protocols," Bulma replied. "But honestly, you two pushed it beyond what I thought the frame could handle."
Her smirk faded as she swiped across her tablet. A soft beep echoed through the room as a city grid came into view. Red blinking icons dotted the borders of West City.
"The Red Ribbon Army's been quiet. Too quiet. I've been intercepting encrypted signals and burst chatter—they're mobilizing, but not here. Nothing around West City."
Yamcha frowned. "That sounds like a good thing to me."
Bulma shook her head, her tone flatter than before. "That's what scares me. They always have a reason to mess with Capsule Corp. But now? It's like we've dropped off their radar completely."
She paused, then looked at Onigiri. "They're focused on something else. And whatever it is… it's big."
Onigiri crossed his arms, eyes narrowing on the map. "Could be a diversion. Or worse—preparation."
"Exactly," Bulma said. "We don't know where they'll hit. But wherever it is, I have a bad feeling it's going to make noise."
A tense silence followed.
Yamcha finally stood, slinging his towel over his shoulder and breaking the mood with a crooked grin. "Guess that means we've gotta be ready for anything."
Bulma gave a small smile in return, but her eyes stayed locked on the screen.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Because this time… they're not coming for West City."
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