Match 34 — Gast (T7) vs Piccolo (T1)
The crowd fell silent. Two Namekians entered the arena—each step deliberate, calm.
Gast stood like a mountain; arms crossed, expression unreadable. His aura was faint, but somehow the air around him shimmered from sheer density.
Piccolo, meanwhile, walked with hands behind his back, gaze locked forward—every inch the seasoned warrior he had become.
From the benches, murmurs rippled through the timelines.
"Two Namekians again…" Krillin muttered. "Feels like the universe knew this would happen."
Goku smirked slightly, whispering to Vegeta. "Watch him closely. He's planning something."
Vegeta crossed his arms. "Hmph. He's been hiding that power-up since the last fight. Let's see what he's been working on."
Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. Perfect. Time to test and improve it. This new form… let's see if it truly holds up against someone like him.
Gast's third eye opened faintly, his energy rippling. "I expect a lot from you, Piccolo of Timeline One."
Piccolo smirked faintly, antennae twitching. "I can say the same."
The announcer's voice echoed.
"Begin!"
For twelve long seconds, nothing happened.
Neither moved.
Both stood still, their ki locked in perfect silence—an invisible clash of wills, probing, testing. The spectators could barely breathe.
Then—Piccolo vanished.
Gast's eyes tracked upward. The sky above filled with streaks of light—beams of ki forming in symmetrical lines, orbiting him like a halo.
Piccolo's voice thundered from above. "You're not the only one who's been training for perfection!"
His aura exploded, body shimmering with a bright yellow-green light, his veins glowing faintly beneath the surface of his skin. It wasn't his "Super Namekian" form anymore—it was beyond that. More balanced, refined, a state between divinity and evolution.
Gast moved—but the moment his muscles twitched, every beam detonated.
A storm of concussive light swallowed the ring. The shockwaves rattled the barriers, even causing the Angels to raise their hands slightly to stabilize them.
Piccolo didn't hesitate. He extended two fingers, golden energy spiraling. "Special Beam Cannon!"
The beam tore through the dust and flame—two coiled strands of destruction drilling into the center of the explosion. The light turned orange, then red, and finally erupted outward in a deafening burst.
Piccolo slapped the air once—his ki creating a pressure wave that dispersed the smoke in an instant.
Nothing.
No body, no movement—just silence.
Then—Piccolo's eyes widened. Behind me—!
Gast's voice came, calm, almost playful. "Too slow."
Piccolo barely shifted before a clean kick connected with his ribs, sending him rocketing downward. He crashed, carving a trench across the ring floor.
But before Gast could descend, Piccolo was already gone.
The tiles he'd smashed into cracked open—empty.
Gast turned, blocking a punch to his jaw, countering with an elbow to Piccolo's arm. Both spun, striking, vanishing, reappearing.
The clash that followed was a masterclass in pure martial intellect.
Gast used minimal movement—each step and strike precise, flowing like water.
Piccolo responded with sharp angular movements, feints built from his own elastic physiology. Every limb stretch, every flick of his wrist, was timed to cut into the blind spots of Gast's style.
Gast parried a kick, spun low, and launched a double-palm thrust.
Piccolo caught it midair, but the shockwave forced him back, sliding across the ring until his heels cracked the tiles.
Gast followed immediately, his arm expanding like a whip, palm slicing through the air—but Piccolo bent backward, letting it pass millimeters from his chin.
Then Piccolo countered: both hands slammed to the ground, sending up a ring of rising spikes of ki, forming a trap circle. Gast jumped—but that was the plan.
Above, Piccolo's voice boomed: "You're open!"
He clapped both hands together, forming an enormous golden orb that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Gast crossed his arms to guard—but Piccolo split the orb into hundreds of smaller spheres, each one rotating rapidly.
"Hellstorm Burst!"
The sky rained explosions. Each blast was small, surgical—Piccolo wasn't wasting energy. Every hit was meant to test Gast's endurance, probe his defense patterns, map his reactions.
When the dust cleared, Gast stood amid a crater of glowing debris, breathing steady. His arms were scratched, his cloak torn—but his expression hadn't changed.
Gast smirked faintly. "So. That's your improvement. Efficient. Calculated."
Piccolo dropped down, expression unreadable. "And you're still standing. Good."
Gast raised his hands slightly, energy building in his palms. "Then let's take this up a level."
The tiles around him cracked under the sudden pressure of his ki. The calm aura he'd carried began to roar—deep emerald light, burning with sharp edges. His power didn't explode outward; it folded inward, becoming denser, more lethal.
Piccolo's pupils narrowed. "Alright then… let's see who the better Namekian really is."
They disappeared again.
The sound that followed wasn't like an explosion—it was like two thunderbolts colliding at point-blank range. Every clash after that was perfectly timed counterplay—Piccolo testing the limits of his refined form, Gast adapting with analytical precision.
Piccolo threw a feint elbow—Gast caught it, twisting his wrist to disarm him midair.
Piccolo retaliated with a stretching kick—Gast used a palm shock to cancel the extension mid-move.
Each exchange left a brief flash of light, then silence, then another detonation.
Krillin (T9) whispered, "I can't even see them anymore."
Goku grinned slightly. "That's because you're not supposed to.''
Vegeta nodded grudgingly. "And I hate to admit it, but these two… they're fighting on a different level of tatic."
Up above, Gast and Piccolo clashed again, both panting now, sweat running down their faces.
Gast tilted his head. "If this is your 'beyond,' then you're close. But not quite there."
Piccolo's lips curled into a grin. "Then maybe you should stop holding back too."
Gast's eyes flickered—just for a second.
And for the first time, he actually smiled. "Very well."
Their auras flared again—two Namekian titans, one golden-green, one emerald-deep.
When they charged this time, the shockwave ripped across the entire tournament arena, even making Vegito and Broly glance over briefly from the waiting area.
Both knew—this match wasn't about pride.
The arena trembled as the two Namekians continued their clash. Each collision of their fists cracked the air itself; every exchange was sharper, heavier, faster. But slowly—painfully—Piccolo began to fall behind.
Gast had stopped testing.
His movements became smaller, more efficient—like a master dissecting an opponent he already understood. Every counter came a split-second earlier. Every dodge became effortless. His composure didn't break, not even for an instant.
Piccolo swung with a wide arc, stretching his arm, trying to follow with a feint kick—but Gast slipped under it, pivoted, and drove an elbow right into Piccolo's side. The impact made the ground quake. Piccolo gritted his teeth, retaliated with a palm blast to create distance, but Gast was already there again, closing the gap as if teleportation were reflex.
"Your rhythm's faltering," Gast said quietly. His tone wasn't mocking—just stating fact.
Piccolo's breathing grew rough. "I noticed." He forced a smirk, but his stance trembled.
He launched forward again, using every trick he'd built through years of fighting stronger foes: feints, afterimages, sound disorientation, multi-form illusions. For a few brief moments, the sky filled with a dozen Piccolos weaving through light and shadow, circling the real Gast.
Gast closed his eyes. "So that's your answer."
The ground cracked as his aura pulsed outward. It wasn't a blast—it was a silent wave, a shift in density. The illusions shattered instantly, leaving the true Piccolo exposed. Before Piccolo could react, Gast flickered forward and struck—a sharp, clean punch to the jaw that launched him skyward.
Piccolo steadied himself midair, snarling. He countered with a double-spiral blast, one hand firing upward, the other sideways, trying to catch Gast in a cross.
Gast stepped through the energy. Literally—his form blurred, splitting for an instant before recombining in front of Piccolo. His fist connected with Piccolo's stomach.
The sound echoed like thunder.
Piccolo gasped, eyes wide, the wind torn from his lungs. He staggered, dropped to one knee, clutching his abdomen. His vision wavered. I can't… keep up.
Gast exhaled slowly, his aura igniting again. The emerald energy surrounding him doubled in volume—denser, heavier, no longer just ki but pressure. The air around him folded inward, shimmering as gravity itself seemed to twist.
Piccolo felt it first.
The oxygen vanished.
Every breath became agony.
"What… what is this…?" he wheezed, body trembling as the space around him compressed. It felt like being trapped in the core of a collapsing star. His knees buckled under invisible weight. The light of the arena warped around Gast's silhouette—he wasn't radiating power, he was bending it.
Gast's voice carried through the distortion, calm, almost regretful. "Piccolo your evolution still dances around control. You reach upward—but not inward."
He raised a hand and clenched it into a fist. The pressure around Piccolo intensified; the tiles beneath him shattered, unable to bear the compression. Piccolo dropped, blood running from his nose and mouth, his lungs screaming.
Then Gast appeared before him and drove a clean, brutal punch into his midsection. The blow was surgical—not meant to kill, but to end.
Piccolo's body folded around the impact, eyes rolling back. He hit the arena floor hard, cracking stone and steel. Dust rippled outward from the crater.
For a long moment, nothing moved.
Gast stood over him, breathing steady, aura fading back to calm silence. Then—something stirred.
Piccolo's fingers twitched. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright, trembling violently. He lifted his head to meet Gast's gaze—and for the first time, Gast's eyes widened slightly.
Piccolo was changing.
His body grew—muscles expanding, bones shifting. In seconds, his height tripled, quadrupled, until he towered twenty meters tall. His skin darkened slightly, the green tone now mixed with an orange hue, his veins glowing faintly gold beneath the surface. The arena lights bent around him, his roar echoing across the dimensions.
Krillin gasped. "He's—he's growing stronger!?"
Vegeta muttered under his breath, "He's forcing another transformation… damn fool."
Even Goku's expression turned serious. "That energy… it's burning him from the inside."
The power radiating from Piccolo was wild, primal—a desperate, final reach beyond his limits. The pressure from Gast still crushed against him, but now he resisted, step by step. His feet dug into the ground, cracking the tiles as he rose fully upright, glaring down at Gast with pure, defiant fury.
He roared—a sound that shook the entire barrier.
But then… something went wrong.
His aura flickered. His veins darkened. The glow in his eyes dimmed, then turned white—blank. The scream became hollow, fading into a choking gasp.
"Piccolo, stop!" Goku shouted from the sidelines, standing up instinctively.
It was too late.
Blood streamed from Piccolo's mouth and ears as the immense energy destabilized, his body trembling under its own output. He'd pushed too far. His breath stopped; the light in his eyes went out.
The giant form collapsed, crashing into the arena like a fallen mountain. The shockwave threw dust and debris across the ring. As the smoke cleared, Piccolo lay motionless, shrinking back to his normal size, his body still faintly glowing.
Gast lowered his hands, his expression grave—not proud, not boastful, simply respectful. He looked down at Piccolo and whispered, "You reached farther than I expected. Rest."
Daishinkan raised a hand. "The winner of this match—Gast, Timeline Seven."
The audience was silent for a moment. Then the applause came—scattered at first, then building. Even warriors from other timelines nodded quietly.
Future Gohan looked down, clenching his fists. "You did great, Piccolo…"
Vegito exhaled through his nose. "He's alive. He'll recover. But he hit his wall—and that's how real warriors grow."
Gast turned toward him, just for a moment, as if he'd heard.
The Namekian champion of Timeline Seven walked calmly back to his side of the arena, his aura completely faded—serene, as though nothing had happened.
And Piccolo, unconscious but breathing, lay on the opposite side—proof of how far even the strongest still had to climb.
The moment the fight was announced, the arena began buzzing. No one expected this matchup so soon—Future Trunks of Timeline 1, the warrior who'd carried the weight of a dead Earth on his back, versus the brutal Ruthless Kakarot of Timeline 5, a Saiyan stripped of restraint and driven only by the thrill of violence.
Future Gohan placed a firm hand on Trunks' shoulder before he entered the ring.
"Don't let him set the pace," Gohan said with a half-smile. "You're faster. Smarter. Hit first—hit hard."
Trunks grinned, his confidence steady. "You got it. I'll finish this before he even blinks."
When they met at the center, the contrast between them was striking. Trunks' calm, focused aura shimmered like a still flame, while Kakarot's presence was raw chaos—he rolled his shoulders with a wolfish grin, cracking his neck as his golden tail swayed behind him.
"Ready to die, princess?" Kakarot sneered, his voice laced with mockery and hunger for battle.
Trunks didn't answer. He simply closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. The crowd murmured—what was he doing?
Daishinkan raised his hand. "Begin."
What happened next was almost impossible to see.
A single spark of lightning flashed at Trunks' feet. His aura exploded upward in a perfect vertical column—no roar, no sound, just pure, refined control. His hair spiked higher, the strands flickering like molten silver under the arena lights. In an instant, Perfect Super Saiyan 2.
Kakarot's smirk didn't even have time to fade before Trunks was already gone.
A blur.
A sound like thunder cracking through the barrier.
Then—a fist connecting.
The impact shook the entire arena. A blinding white light enveloped everything, swallowing sight and sound in a wave that resembled a nuclear detonation.
When the light finally cleared—silence.
Trunks stood still, right arm extended, his fist smoking faintly from the hit. He hadn't even taken a step forward after landing it. His eyes were calm—focused—like someone who already knew the outcome before the first strike.
Across from him, Ruthless Kakarot lay face-down, unconscious, half-buried in the cracked arena tiles.
The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but stunned disbelief.
Timeline 5's warriors froze, eyes wide, as if their reality had just broken in front of them.
King Vegeta stepped forward from the bench, his voice cracking. "He—he knocked him out… in one hit!?"
Ruthless Vegeta clenched his fists, teeth grinding. "That… that's impossible. Kakarot doesn't lose to anyone like that!"
Bardock, usually composed, couldn't even speak—his scouter shattered mid-readout, unable to process the power difference.
Baby Vegito Black tilted his head, expression faintly amused. "Hmph. Looks like that version of Kakarot forgot how fragile he still is."
Meanwhile, the warriors of Timeline 1 and 2 were on their feet. Future Gohan had his arms crossed, but his smile said everything. "Told you, Trunks. Don't let them breathe."
Vegito gave a short, approving nod. "Perfect execution. Not a wasted ounce of energy."
Piccolo chuckled under his breath. "Straight to the point. Just like his mentor."
Even Bulma from Timeline 1 grinned, clapping her hands. "That's my boy! You show those Saiyan brutes what training actually looks like!"
Daishinkan, barely glancing at the motionless Kakarot, lifted his staff. "The winner—Future Trunks, Timeline One."
Trunks exhaled slowly, relaxing his fist. He turned and walked back toward his team without a word, his aura fading as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
Behind him, Kakarot remained on the ground, still unconscious. The healers approached quietly, hesitant to even touch him.
From the stands, King Vegeta finally found his voice, shouting, "Get up, you worthless Saiyan! How dare you shame your bloodline like this!"
But there was no response—just silence, and the faint sound of Trunks' boots against the arena floor as he rejoined his allies.
Future Gohan greeted him with a grin and a fist bump. "Guess you proved it."
Trunks smiled faintly. "Told you I wouldn't give him the chance."
And across the field, Timeline 5 could only stare—defeated not just by strength, but by discipline.
The legend of Ruthless Kakarot had ended in less than a second.