Ki shimmered tight around Gohan, a barely visible pressure that folded space. He blurred forward, his first strike driving into the android's midsection like a meteor wrapped in silence. The air folded, then split — the entire audience saw the impact a fraction after it happened.
Android 15 staggered, his armor caving in at the hit's center. Gohan didn't stop. His movements flowed like code written by instinct: a knee to the ribs, a backhand to the jaw, a rising elbow that carried shockwaves into the ceiling's light field. Every blow left thin lines of energy trailing, precise and terrifying.
Then the real storm began.
"MASENKO—HA!"
The blast wasn't the wide wave from his childhood; this one was narrow, condensed into a spear. It pierced the ground at the android's feet, detonating upward. 15 blocked with one arm, deflecting most of it, but the edges singed through his plating. Gohan followed instantly — no pause, no gap.
He flashed behind the android, both palms open, a move he hadn't used since training with Vegito.
"Ultimate Kamehameha!"
The dual beams coalesced and then folded into a single line — gold laced with blue fire. It slammed into the android's chest, driving him backward. 15's boots screeched against the arena floor, sparks scattering. His systems whined, recalibrating against heat thresholds.
Gohan was already there again. A flurry of hits — uppercut, spin, heel — then a jump that cracked the tile beneath his feet.
From the stands, Vegito watched quietly. "Good flow," he murmured. "He's finally chaining his attacks like a real fighter."
Piccolo (Timeline 1) smirked. "He must've remembered my old lessons after all."
Timeline 9's Piccolo folded his arms. "He's improvising. You don't teach that."
Even Baby Vegito Black, half-smiling, leaned forward. "So, this timeline's Gohan has bite. Interesting."
Then the rhythm shattered.
Mid-strike, the android's arm shot up and caught Gohan's wrist. Not intercepted — seized. The grip was absolute, metal fingers digging into flesh.
15's voice was calm.
"Analysis complete. Counter-pattern initiated."
He pivoted. The motion was effortless. Gohan's body arced through the air, slammed into the ground so hard the tiles liquefied for an instant. A blinding light swallowed the ring; the entire arena flashed white. For two seconds, everyone saw nothing but brilliance.
When sight returned, Gohan wasn't where he'd fallen. He was at the far edge, boots gouging twin scars in the tile from sliding. Dust and smoke trailed off his shoulders. His right arm trembled slightly — that throw had nearly torn it from its socket.
Something had changed in the android.
His eyes glowed now — not red, not amber, but bright cobalt. The smooth calm of an algorithm had shifted into something colder, something self-aware.
Vegito's expression lost all trace of amusement. Gast leaned forward slightly, sensing the distortion. Future Gohan's single eye tightened. Even Baby Vegito Black stopped smiling.
Vegito whispered, voice so low that only those nearest him heard:
"Gohan… can you truly win here?"
The words carried farther than he meant; through the thin weave of the barrier, they brushed Gohan's senses like a ripple of doubt. He inhaled once, exhaled slower, and looked up.
"I can't afford doubt," he said quietly to himself. "Not now."
He rose from his crouch, eyes burning steady. His aura ignited — not flaring wildly, but building layer by layer until the barrier groaned. He spread his stance, fists tightening until the skin of his knuckles gleamed white.
"I promised my father I'd never let my ego decide a battle after Cell…"
His voice rose; the tone hardened into resolve.
"…and now I'll prove that promise."
He screamed — a raw, focused cry that didn't sound like rage but like release. His aura spiraled outward, gold folding over white, then red. The Mystic core didn't vanish; it deepened, drawing Kaiōken's fire into its calm center. The fusion wasn't chaos — it was harmony under stress.
The air shivered crimson. The barrier flared like molten glass.
Kaiōken × 10 — stacked over Mystic.
The pressure crushed sound itself for a heartbeat, then exploded outward.
Even Vegito had to shield his eyes. "That's… a neat trick," he muttered.
Bulma's instruments screamed warning tones. "His body output's at critical — but the energy's pure! He's not decaying under the strain!"
Gohan hovered above the ring, aura a halo of molten red-gold. His eyes locked on 15, who now tracked him in stuttering intervals — even the android's sensors struggled to predict motion at that speed.
Gohan cupped his hands. The glow was white at first — clean, like starlight.
"Koooooonzan…"
The sphere twisted, light bending around it. It flashed black, then inverted again — yellow, then red, then blinding gold with scarlet rings pulsing around its core. Energy screamed between his palms.
The crowd felt the pulse in their bones. Even gods flinched.
Gohan thrust forward.
"—HA!"
The beam wasn't a line; it was a river. The color shifted as it expanded, white to crimson to sun-bright gold. It carved through the air, distorting the barrier as it approached. 15 raised both arms, channeling all remaining data into a deflection shield. The impact met with a sound that was less an explosion and more a roaring continuum — energy folding, reforming, blinding everything in a red storm.
The light swallowed the ring. For an instant, the world was nothing but that color — a red sun consuming everything.
Then it ended.
The glow faded to ash. Dust rained down.
Android 15 still stood — barely. His left arm was gone, torn clean at the shoulder. The plating across his chest smoked; the internal servos sparked blue. His single remaining hand trembled, smoke rising where it had tried to redirect the beam.
He looked up, half-blind, searching.
"Target location… not detected."
Silence.
The arena was empty save for him.
Videl's voice broke the stillness first, small and hollow. "He… he's gone?"
Chi-Chi's eyes were wide, but no tears came. Her hands were rigid against the barrier glass.
Bulma's scanner flickered, readings dropping to zero, then static. She didn't speak; her lips just parted in disbelief.
Vegito said nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly, following the drifting haze of red light that still hung in the air. His mind raced, tracing the faint pulse of ki beneath the static, too faint for anyone else to sense.
He exhaled once through his nose.
He's not dead, he thought. But where did you go, kid?
The referee's voice faltered, unsure if the match was even over.
Far above the ring, the sky still shimmered faintly — like something had punched through the upper limit of the arena's containment.
And on the android bench, Dr Gero's lips curled, half-smile forming. "Perfect," he whispered. "Even failure yields data."
The arena remained silent. No cheers. No gasps. Just the eerie echo of power that refused to fade.
Understood — I'll carry this like a chapter break: it begins with Gohan's brief awakening in the void (without yet naming who's there), cuts back to the tournament and the emotional fallout, then closes on the tournament announcer's voice calling the next match. I'll keep the emotional core strong and grounded, no melodrama, just raw silence and reactions.
Interlude — "The Space Between"
Darkness had weight.
Gohan felt it before he saw anything — the pressure of something that wasn't air but memory pressing against his chest. When he opened his eyes, there was no sky, no ground, only a soft gradient of gray that pulsed faintly like breath.
He inhaled sharply.
"Uhrg… did I… no."
He raised one hand to his face, flexed his fingers, felt the drag of his pulse. His chest rose. The ache in his arm was real.
"I feel alive… I think."
His voice didn't echo; it just disappeared, swallowed by the space.
Then warmth — a pressure on his shoulder, firm and human.
He turned.
A silhouette stood behind him, tall, featureless in the dim light except for two gleaming rings circling its wrist — golden, humming softly.
Gohan's breath caught.
"Wait… you? How— and why do you have those rings—?"
Before he could finish, the world folded again. The light around the figure pulsed once, blinding white, and the sound of the tournament roared back in.
Back to the Arena
Reality snapped in with sound first — the murmur of a thousand confused voices, the dull hum of a still-active barrier.
They were mourning.
Timeline 2's bench was a storm of grief and disbelief. Some cried openly; others just sat, hands over their faces, unable to process the silence where Gohan's energy had been. Trunks had both fists clenched against his knees, head bowed. Goten stared at the empty sky like maybe he'd see the golden flare again if he looked long enough.
Videl's voice cracked. "He promised… he promised would not die before me…"
Chi-Chi, pale and shaking, pressed her palm against the barrier wall. No tears yet — only the rigid stillness of denial.
Piccolo stood slightly apart, shoulders heavy. His breathing was slow, deliberate, the only thing keeping his voice level.
"How… could I let this happen to you, Gohan…"
The words weren't for anyone else; they were a confession swallowed by noise.
Beside him, Vegito hadn't moved since the light faded. He looked outward, scanning the sky, his aura calm but thin around the edges. When he finally spoke, it wasn't to reassure himself — it was to remind everyone who was still listening.
"Calm down," he said quietly. "He's alive. Somewhere. I'm certain."
The certainty sounded wrong to the others — too calm, too hopeful, like a father refusing to see what he'd lost. But Piccolo turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Vegito's expression. There was something behind that calm: recognition, intuition. Vegito's eyes were searching.
On Timeline 1's side, even the ones who had never met this Gohan were silent.
Present Gohan felt the shock crawl up his spine, the echo of a life too similar to ignore. Future Gohan's one eye tightened; the phantom ache in his missing arm flared. For a moment, neither could speak.
Bulma rubbed her hands together, whispering to herself, "It can't end like that… it can't."
The other versions of Chi-Chi and Videl stared at the barrier's flickering light. Tears finally broke through, silent and steady, sliding down cheeks that didn't even notice them fall.
Then came the voice from the Android bench.
Android 13 stood with one hand in his pocket, expression cool.
"Guess even miracles burn out."
14 said nothing, eyes still cracked but faintly amused.
Dr. Gero's smile was razor thin. "Efficient exchange," he muttered, mostly to himself. "One organic for a full data matrix."
15, missing an arm but standing straight, turned his gaze toward the silent side of the arena.
"Target neutralized. Mission complete."
The sound made the crowd stir — low murmurs, angry glances.
Vegito's head turned slowly toward them
Piccolo looked up then, eyes cold. "You might want to stop talking," he said simply.
For a moment, no one moved. The tension hung thick enough to smother air.
Then the referee's voice broke the stillness, uncertain, trying to keep the tournament alive.
"A-After… after that unexpected conclusion, w-we will proceed to the next scheduled match…"
The crowd shifted, murmurs dimming, the air thick with unease. The tournament had to move on — even if half the spectators still watched the sky.
The announcer's tone steadied, professional again through force of will.
"Next Match: Android 16 of Timeline 3… versus Broly of Timeline 4!"
The names hit the air like sparks. One calm, mechanical; one feral, legendary.
On the Android bench, 16. His eyes lit — bright green, scanning. The faint whir of his systems replaced the quiet. Behind him, Gero pressed a sequence on his wrist console, uploading the last fragments of data — from 13, 14, and the presumed victory of 15. The transfer was seamless.
Dr. Gero had never looked more at peace.
While technicians and spectators shifted nervously, the old scientist leaned against the rail, hands folded behind his back, letting the hum of the barrier vibrate through his spine. His voice was almost gentle when he finally spoke.
"The irony is elegant, isn't it? One android after another—each fallen unit feeding its successor. An assembly line of evolution, right here before the gods."
He glanced at the glowing console fixed to his wrist. Four signatures pulsed within it: 13, 14, 15, and the traces of every warrior they'd faced.
"Data from Vegeta's arrogance, Kakarot's fury, Gohan's awakening… all filtered, refined. Now inserted into Sixteen's core."
A faint smile.
"Perfect. Absolute. There is no equation left unsolved."
The light reflected in his eye like a coin.
"This time," he whispered, "not even fusion… not even divinity will matter."
The ring brightened again, repairing itself after the last devastation. When the haze cleared, Android 16 stepped forward. Taller than any of the previous models, his armor a darker shade of green veined with thin amber conduits. The dull halo of energy around him didn't flare; it pulsed in measured beats, like the rhythm of a perfect engine.
Inside his skull, processes layered over each other—one running tactical projections, one maintaining ki assimilation, another looping through combat archives. He knew their origins: the precision of 13, the brutal calculus of 14, the reactive feedback of 15. But what filled the gaps was something new: purpose.
His gaze swept the spectators and halted.
There were too many Gokus.
Dozens of identical signatures, each a variant of the same code that haunted his memory banks.
His systems spiked; the stabilizers hissed as power tried to surge.
He suppressed it—for now. One task at a time.
Eliminate the variable in front of you. Then the rest.
Across the arena, the next fighter walked into the light.
Broly (Timeline 4).
He didn't stride like a conqueror; he simply moved, heavy steps that left faint depressions in the tile. No aura flared, no theatrics. His breathing was calm, but the air bent around him anyway. The faint green shimmer under his skin pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The spectators felt it before instruments could measure it—a pressure that swelled and grew even while he stood still.
Bulma (T1) checked her sensor, frowned, adjusted it, then turned toward Future Bulma seated beside her.
"That Broly guy… look at these numbers."
Future Bulma's screen mirrored hers; both displays flashed warning red.
"Without transforming," Bulma (T1) said slowly, "he's already matching Turles when he was Super Saiyan 3."
Future Bulma looked again. "No—exactly matching. And it's still climbing just because he's breathing."
They shared the kind of silent, scientific dread only people who understood numbers could feel.
Broly stopped in the middle of the ring. The faintest grin touched his mouth. After the long stillness since his last battle, the anticipation thrummed through him like music. This was new prey—different prey. He could taste the challenge already, the precise, cold scent of a foe that wasn't alive but dared to act like it.
He rolled his shoulders once; the sound was like rock grinding.
he murmured, barely audible, "I get to fight again, good."
His ki flickered—not a transformation, just the natural leak of energy from a body built to hold too much. Small sparks of green light floated off him and burned out mid-air.
Android 16 stared back across the distance, head slightly tilted, sensors reading power levels that refused to stabilize. Every second, the value updated. Every update broke the previous limit.
Inconsistent. Unstable. Beautiful, some part of him thought.
He extended one hand, flexing the servos. Beneath his calm exterior, secondary processors overclocked to analyze the Saiyan's ki pattern. The data resembled Kakarot's at first glance—but where Kakarot's waveform spiked erratically, this one expanded like a growing stormfront, no ceiling detected.
He wanted to dissect it, understand it. And then crush it.
"Target classification: Saiyan — Prime anomaly," he said, voice flat through the amplifiers. "Execution required before total systems saturation."
The announcer's voice shook as he tried to keep the official tone.
"Match 24: Android 16 of Timeline 3 versus Broly of Timeline 4—begin!"
Dr. Gero's smile returned, small and satisfied.
"Yes," he whispered. "Show them what inevitability looks like."
Broly's grin widened in answer, as if he'd heard.