The sun had barely crested the edge of the horizon, casting long golden beams through the coastline skies near the Southern Capital. The private Capsule Corp property, nestled on a coastal hill within walking distance of the Tenkaichi Budokai grounds, was serene—waves crashed in the distance, and the early breeze smelled faintly of salt and dew. Even here, the air was charged with anticipation.
Onigiri stood in the quiet of his guest room, dressed and ready. The familiar weight of his inhibitor rings pressed against his wrists like silent promises. He flexed his fingers absently, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His posture was steady, calm—disciplined. But inside, his heart thrummed like a war drum.
Eleven months of training. Eleven months of adapting, learning, falling, and rising again.
Today wasn't just a tournament. Today, he stood before the world.
A soft knock came at the door.
"You awake?" Bulma's voice came through, casual but tinged with excitement.
"Yeah," he said, turning. "I'll be out in a sec."
In the kitchen, Yamcha was already mid-bite into a protein bar, his leg bouncing under the table.
"Sleep at all?" he asked around a mouthful.
"A bit," Onigiri replied, grabbing a drink from the fridge.
Bulma entered from the hallway, tying her hair back into a ponytail. "We've got fifteen minutes before we head over. Even though we're close, the streets are gonna be packed."
She moved like someone trying not to show she was anxious, fidgeting with her capsule case and adjusting her jacket twice in under a minute. Onigiri noticed but said nothing. He was doing the same, only on the inside.
"You ready to finally show the world what a freakishly strong alien looks like in front of a crowd?" Yamcha teased, flashing a grin.
Onigiri exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "Only if you're ready to get stage fright."
"Ha! Please. I was made for the spotlight."
The three stepped outside into the fresh sea air. A private Capsule Corp hover transport waited just beyond the driveway, its sleek design humming gently.
As they climbed in, Onigiri took one last look at the coastal villa—his home for the last few days leading up to the tournament. Something deep inside shifted.
"I'm not the same person who crash-landed here. That scared, confused stranger… he's gone. Now it's time the world sees what's left."
The transport glided over the tree-lined roads and past the growing crowds gathering near the tournament grounds. Through the window, the Tenkaichi Budokai arena came into view—massive, alive with motion, energy already swirling around it like a storm waiting to break.
Yamcha leaned toward the glass. "There it is. The world stage."
Bulma smiled, her nerves slowly giving way to pride.
Onigiri stared forward, silent.
Today… the world would finally see his answer.
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The hover transport touched down just beyond the main stadium gates, where security and camera drones buzzed overhead like flies drawn to power. Fans crowded behind barricades, waving flags and signs, cheering as martial artists from across the world arrived in waves.
Onigiri stepped out first, the warmth of the rising sun hitting his face. The arena loomed ahead—larger than life, built from polished white stone and adorned with banners bearing the kanji for "Heaven." The sheer scale of it dwarfed everything he'd seen in the last year.
Bulma and Yamcha followed close behind, Bulma shielding her eyes with a hand as she scanned the crowd. "They really went all out this year," she murmured. "Guess it's true what they say—nothing draws a crowd like the promise of a good fight."
Yamcha cracked his knuckles. "Then let's give 'em one."
The group made their way past the check-in booth and into the main courtyard. Onigiri's eyes wandered, noting the diversity of fighters: massive monks in crimson sashes, wiry nomads carrying quarterstaves, a masked beastman with clawed gloves, and an old man dozing under a parasol with suspiciously round sunglasses.
As they crossed the tiled plaza, a familiar voice called out.
"Bulma!"
Goku waved from near the central fountain, a wide grin splitting his face. He stood beside a shorter boy with a shaved head—Krillin—who seemed much less relaxed.
Bulma lit up. "Goku! You made it!"
She ran over and hugged him, then stepped back with a smile. "Good to see you again!"
Goku chuckled. "You too! I'm ready to go. Been training hard since yesterday."
Krillin gave a polite nod, clearly sizing up Onigiri and Yamcha.
Yamcha raised a brow. "So you're the new guy Roshi took in?"
Krillin smiled tightly. "And you're the desert bandit?"
Yamcha gave a sheepish grin. "Retired. Mostly."
Goku turned to Onigiri, the same spark from the day before still in his eyes. "You're here. I knew you'd make it."
Onigiri nodded. "We both did. Let's see how far we've come."
There was no hostility—just honest, respectful anticipation. A recognition between two warriors ready for the next test.
Before anyone could say more, a booming voice echoed across the courtyard.
"All participants, report to the preliminary hall for registration and bracket assignments!"
The crowd began to shift, fighters moving toward the wide archway at the far end of the plaza.
Bulma gave Onigiri a quick thumbs-up. "Go knock 'em dead."
Yamcha clapped his shoulder. "Time to show 'em what you've got."
As the group began to part ways, Onigiri glanced once more at the towering arena structure.
The storm had begun.
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The wide double doors of the preliminary hall creaked open, revealing a spacious, rectangular room lined with a dozen small battle rings—chalk circles painted neatly across the tile floor. The air was hot and electric, humming with excitement, nerves, and the occasional sharp clash of early warm-up scuffles.
Rows of fighters milled about—some stretching, others meditating or shadowboxing. Many glanced toward the new arrivals with interest, sizing them up silently. A few whispered when they saw Onigiri and Goku, their reputations already preceding them.
The registration clerk, a portly man with thick glasses, handed out numbered tags and directed each participant to their assigned ring.
"You'll each fight in single elimination. Win your match, you advance. Lose, you're out. You need to win three rounds to qualify for the Final Eight."
Onigiri fastened his tag to his belt and stepped toward his assigned ring. He rolled his shoulders once, then closed his eyes briefly, centering himself.
His first opponent was already waiting—a lean, middle-aged man with a bo staff and the faintest hint of arrogance in his stance.
"Hope you're more than just show, kid," the man muttered, twirling his staff.
Onigiri gave a polite nod. "I'll try not to disappoint."
The bell rang.
In an instant, the staff whipped through the air toward his ribs. Onigiri sidestepped with smooth efficiency and tapped his opponent in the chest with a flat palm. The man staggered back, winded, and collapsed.
"Winner: Number 54!"
Onigiri exhaled and stepped back, his face unreadable. Around him, the other matches played out—Yamcha's clean strikes overwhelming a cocky brawler, Goku giggling mid-fight as he leapt over an opponent's desperate kick, and Krillin countering with clever footwork.
In his second match, Onigiri faced a fighter who was faster—more experienced—but lacked power. The bout lasted longer, pushing Onigiri to use angled footwork and redirection techniques learned under Hachiro. He won with a clean sweep and a well-timed elbow.
By his third match, a quiet realization settled in: he wasn't just strong. He was becoming efficient.
His third opponent came in wild and reckless, all brute force and fury. Onigiri absorbed the first blow with a turned shoulder, then dropped the man with a spinning kick that cracked through the air like a whip.
"Winner: Number 54! Final Eight secured!"
The crowd around the edges of the room murmured in approval. Onigiri stood straight, breathing slow and steady. He looked down at his hands, flexing them once.
He was calm.
Not because the matches were easy— But because he knew who he was in the ring now.
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A few minutes later, an intercom buzzed overhead, cutting through the chatter and echoing across the preliminary hall.
"Attention all fighters! The Final Eight qualifiers are now posted outside the registration hall. Please proceed to view your matchups."
Onigiri joined the slow-moving tide of competitors as they made their way outside. The morning sun had risen higher now, casting longer shadows across the stadium courtyard. A large electronic board flickered to life beside the main arena gate, its surface displaying the match brackets in bold text.
Tenkaichi Budokai – Final Eight:
Goku
Yamcha
Jackie Chun
Nam
Giran
Bacterian
Krillin
Onigiri
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Who's that guy with the rings?" "He knocked out all three of his opponents in seconds." "I heard he trained under some hermit in the mountains..."
Onigiri stepped closer, studying the matchups. His first round was against Nam. He'd only heard a little about the calm, stoic martial artist from the East—disciplined, spiritual, and deceptively powerful. It wouldn't be an easy fight.
Nearby, Yamcha exhaled slowly, reading his own path to the semifinals.
"Guess this is where the real tournament begins," he said quietly.
Goku was already grinning ear to ear, practically bouncing. "I hope I get to fight you or Onigiri. Or both!"
Onigiri gave him a glance, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Let's see who earns it."
From the sidelines, Bulma watched the trio from a distance, arms crossed but smiling.
"They're really something," she whispered to herself. "This is going to be wild."
A voice crackled over the stadium loudspeakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Tomorrow, the Tenkaichi Budokai Final Eight will take the stage to determine the strongest under the heavens! You won't want to miss it!"
The crowd roared. Onigiri looked skyward, soaking in the roar of anticipation.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
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