The world was still when Onigiri opened his eyes. The first rays of dawn had only just begun to creep through the windows of his Capsule Corp room, casting faint golden lines across the floor and illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. For a few moments, he remained in bed, eyes open, breathing slow and steady. The silence wasn't oppressive—it was sacred.
He rose, quietly, muscles moving with practiced ease, and padded barefoot to the sliding doors that led to the balcony. The air outside was cool and crisp, brushing across his skin like a whisper. Below, West City slept in the embrace of twilight. A soft morning mist clung to the rooftops, and the rising sun painted the sky in streaks of orange and violet.
It had been nearly eleven months.
Eleven months since he'd opened his eyes in a world he didn't understand. Eleven months since he crushed a steel table with a child's confusion and met the gaze of the brilliant, sharp-tongued girl who would change his life. Eleven months of questions without answers, training without context, battles fought not just in the world—but within himself.
He leaned against the railing, arms folded, gazing at the distant horizon. The city stirred slowly—distant hums of hovercars, the flicker of lights in tall buildings, early risers beginning their day. But all of that felt far away.
In his mind's eye, memories flickered like still frames:
Hachiro's voice, calm and unwavering. "Stillness is strength, even in motion."
Korin's smirk as he flicked a tail just out of reach. "Wisdom's earned, not given."
Yamcha, panting after a spar, cracking a grin. "You make being tough look easy, you know that?"
And then—Bulma.
She had been his anchor from the very beginning. When he knew nothing, she had given him space, food, tools… trust. She scolded him, patched him up, laughed with him, and never once treated him like a weapon.
A strange warmth filled his chest. Gratitude. Admiration. Something else he didn't yet have the words for.
He exhaled slowly.
The wind stirred again, and for a moment, it felt like the world itself held its breath.
Tomorrow was the Tenkaichi Budokai.
Tomorrow, he would step into an arena not just to fight—but to be seen. Truly seen.
By others. By the world. By himself.
He turned back toward the room. The light inside had shifted now, painting the walls in a soft amber glow. He moved toward the nightstand where his inhibitor rings lay neatly beside a folded towel.
He slid one onto each wrist, the weight familiar and grounding.
No more running from the unknown. No more wondering if he belonged.
Tomorrow, he would find out.
Tomorrow… he would fight to see who he truly was.
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The training room at Capsule Corp was already humming with soft lighting and low mechanical buzz when Onigiri stepped in. He found Yamcha there ahead of him, stretching his arms behind his head with a wide grin on his face.
"Took you long enough," Yamcha said. "I figured you'd be brooding out on the balcony for a bit longer."
Onigiri smirked. "I wasn't brooding. I was reflecting."
"Same thing, spaceman," Yamcha replied, rolling his shoulders. "Come on. One last spar before the big day."
The two squared off in the center of the reinforced training floor. No warm-up needed—they both knew each other well by now. Yamcha moved first, a low sweep aiming to unbalance. Onigiri hopped over it cleanly, countering with a fast jab that Yamcha just barely parried.
The match picked up speed quickly. Yamcha's moves had grown sharper over the months, more precise. He used clever footwork, faint pressure points, and fast recovery techniques—hallmarks of someone who had trained under real discipline. His strikes were confident, his eyes alert.
Onigiri held back, his inhibitor rings still on, but his movements were fluid and measured. He responded with calm counters and disciplined power, never overpowering, only adjusting. Still, Yamcha managed to graze him with a solid palm strike to the ribs.
"Nice," Onigiri muttered, impressed.
"Didn't think I'd land that, huh?" Yamcha teased, breathing a little heavier.
Onigiri's eyes narrowed—not in irritation, but in respect. He stepped forward and increased his tempo. Yamcha met him with grit but faltered just enough to take a light sweep to the ankle and tumble onto his back.
He lay there a moment, laughing, then reached up.
"That's game," Onigiri said, offering his hand.
Yamcha took it and pulled himself up. "Still holding back, though."
"I have to," Onigiri replied. "If I cut loose before tomorrow, there might not be a training room left."
They both chuckled as they walked toward the water dispenser, the air around them lighter than before.
"That the last spar before the tournament?" Yamcha asked, grabbing two bottles.
Onigiri took one and nodded. "Yeah. I want to stay sharp but rested."
Yamcha took a swig and looked at him. "Y'know… I used to think no one could match me. Then I met you—and Goku. You two flipped my whole perspective. I'm still not sure how you do half the stuff you do, but… thanks."
"For what?" Onigiri asked, taking a sip.
"For making me want to be better," Yamcha said simply.
Onigiri gave a small smile. "You already are."
Yamcha grinned. "Well, just know I'm rooting for you. But I still plan on going all out. Might even beat you if you keep those rings on."
Onigiri raised an eyebrow. "You can try."
They clinked their water bottles together in mock cheers.
Whatever tomorrow held, today was a reminder that strength wasn't just about power—it was about trust, respect, and the people who helped you become who you were.
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The aroma of sizzling eggs and fresh toast wafted through the corridors of Capsule Corp. Onigiri walked into the kitchen, towel around his neck, just in time to see Bulma placing a plate on the table, her back to him. She wore a lab coat over her casual clothes, a clear sign she'd already been working this morning.
"Perfect timing," she said without turning. "Food's hot. Sit."
He obeyed, though he studied her movements more than the food. There was a stiffness to the way she moved—focused, but distracted. Her mind was somewhere else.
"You've been quiet today," he said between bites.
She paused, then shrugged. "Just a lot on my mind. You're about to step onto the world's stage. Big deal, you know?"
"It's just a tournament," he said casually.
Bulma turned to face him fully, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "Onigiri. You could punch a hole through solid steel. This is the first time people other than us will see what you can do. That's not 'just a tournament.'"
He lowered his gaze for a moment, nodding. "I'll be careful."
She sighed, then walked over to the table and set down a small metal case. "I made a few adjustments to your rings. Just maintenance this time. I wanted to make sure everything's calibrated perfectly before you go all out tomorrow."
He blinked, then nodded. "Thanks."
She sat across from him and slid the case a little closer. "You've come a long way. Just don't forget you've got people rooting for you."
Onigiri glanced at her. "Are you nervous?"
Bulma snorted. "For you? Always."
He smirked. "Guess that makes two of us."
Her expression softened, and for a moment, the silence between them wasn't awkward—it was comforting. They sat there for a bit longer, side by side, finishing breakfast without rushing.
Outside, the sun rose higher, and the warmth of the day began to press gently against the windows.
The world was moving forward, and they were ready to meet it.
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West City's southern plaza, usually calm, had transformed into a sprawling ocean of energy and anticipation. Colorful banners bearing the Tenkaichi Budokai symbol fluttered from poles, and the buzz of voices and camera drones filled the air. Martial artists from all walks of life milled about—some in pristine gis, others in patched-up robes or extravagant costumes. The scent of grilled meat from food stalls mixed with the acrid tang of sweat and oiled leather.
Onigiri walked beside Bulma and Yamcha, his hood pulled low. Yamcha soaked in the atmosphere with a cocky grin, occasionally striking poses or tossing playful jabs into the air for amused spectators.
"Feels weird," Onigiri said, eyes scanning the chaotic crowd.
"Being here?" Bulma asked.
"Yeah. Being surrounded by people who've trained for years… I've barely had one."
"You've trained harder in a year than most of these people have in their lives," Bulma said, bumping his shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short."
Yamcha muttered, "Still have bruises that disagree with that."
As they neared the registration tent, Onigiri's gaze drifted across the crowd. He saw broad-shouldered monks, grizzled veterans with scarred knuckles, and even a group of beastmen warriors—tall, animal-headed fighters chatting in low growls.
Then, a boy.
Small. Wild hair. Staff slung over his back. Eyes like polished amber.
Bulma's voice broke the hum around them. "Wait—Goku!?"
The boy turned, grinning ear to ear. "Bulma!"
She rushed to greet him, wrapping him in a brief hug. "You actually made it!"
"Yeah! Master Roshi said it'd be fun," Goku said, scratching his head.
Yamcha blinked. "This little guy's Goku?"
"Don't underestimate him," Bulma said, grinning. "He might surprise you."
She turned to Onigiri. "Onigiri, meet Goku. Goku, this is Onigiri—he's been training, too."
The two locked eyes. Goku's gaze was open and curious, but intense.
"You're strong," Goku said bluntly.
Onigiri extended his hand. "So are you."
They shook hands—and for a heartbeat, something shifted. Not power. Not threat. Just a strange… familiarity. As if some distant echo inside both boys stirred at once.
"I hope we get to fight," Goku said.
Onigiri smiled. "I have a feeling we will."
Bulma watched them, lips pressed into a soft smile, eyes flickering with pride and worry.
"C'mon," she said. "Let's get you guys registered before someone steals your spot."
As they walked forward, the crowd buzzed louder—laughter, cheering, boasts. Yamcha kept one eye on Goku, muttering, "I swear if he's stronger than me again..."
Onigiri, for the first time, didn't feel like the stranger from the stars.
He felt like a warrior.
He felt like he belonged.
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The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting golden streaks across the tournament grounds. Most of the crowd had dispersed—fighters returning to their quarters, spectators heading home, vendors packing up their stalls. A strange stillness lingered in the air, like the final breath before a storm.
Onigiri stood alone near the edge of the arena's observation deck, looking down at the main ring below. The wide platform of stone gleamed in the fading light, every groove and crack bathed in warm hues.
He leaned on the railing, arms crossed, the weight of the coming day pressing against his back.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to himself, "I stand in front of the world."
Footsteps approached from behind—soft, but unmistakable.
"You disappeared on us," Bulma said, stepping up beside him. She didn't speak with annoyance, only curiosity.
"Needed air," he replied, not looking away from the arena. "It's strange. I've fought stronger opponents during training. Been pushed to my limits. But this… this feels different."
"It's because people will be watching," Bulma said, voice gentler now. "Not just to see if you win—but to see what kind of person you are."
He was silent for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Yeah. That's what scares me."
Bulma smiled faintly, then nudged his shoulder. "Hey, just don't break the arena. That's my only request."
Onigiri cracked a smile. "No promises."
They stood in silence for a long while, the wind brushing past them like an old friend.
Finally, Bulma turned to leave. "Get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
He watched her walk away, her figure slowly swallowed by shadow.
When she was gone, Onigiri looked back toward the arena.
"Tomorrow," he said again, this time with steel in his voice, "I fight to see who I really am."
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