Through the scorching smoke and settling debris, a single figure stood unmoved. Jiren extended one hand, his aura forming an invisible barrier that deflected the residual energy from Majin Buu's self-destruction. Behind him, the remaining Pride Troopers of Universe Eleven clustered together, protected by their strongest warrior's overwhelming power.
In another corner of the arena, Toppo lowered his muscular arms. He'd tanked the explosion head-on, his body completely unscathed—but his expression blazed with righteous fury.
As a self-proclaimed Champion of Justice, how could he tolerate such barbaric tactics? Transforming people into chocolate and eating them? It was madness. Depravity. His priorities shifted instantly—Broly could wait. The pink abomination needed to be stopped now.
Toppo began marching toward Majin Buu with single-minded determination.
On the opposite side of the battlefield, movement caught everyone's attention. The white-haired warrior from Universe Twelve—who'd remained relatively inactive until now—suddenly exploded into action. He swept through the dazed fighters still recovering from Buu's explosion, eliminating them with ruthless efficiency. One by one, warriors from Universe Ten tumbled off the arena's edge, unable to mount any defense.
The final member of Universe Ten fell into darkness.
"Ooh! Another one's gone!" Grand Zeno clapped his hands with childlike excitement, then raised one small hand. With a casual swipe, Universe Ten's section of the stands simply... ceased.
The Grand Priest's voice echoed across the World of Void with crystalline clarity: "All contestants from Universe Ten have been eliminated. Universe Ten is disqualified."
The surviving universes felt a complex mixture of relief and dread. One less competitor meant better odds—but also a reminder of what awaited failure.
Then someone noticed something far more troubling.
Every participating universe had lost fighters. Universe Four was down to just two invisible warriors. Universe Eight and Universe Three had each lost half their rosters. Dr. Rota from Universe Six had been eliminated by Piccolo earlier. Universe Eleven had lost several Pride Troopers. Even Universe Twelve had suffered four eliminations, Universe Two had only three remain, and Universe Five was down one fighter.
But Universe Seven?
Ten fighters remaining. Zero eliminations.
The realization sent chills through the spectator stands. It wasn't just that Universe Seven's fighters were strong—though they clearly were. What made them truly terrifying was their versatility.
They seemed to operate independently, like loose sand, yet they coordinated perfectly when it mattered. Android 17's protective shields had blocked countless attacks. Tarble's Instant Transmission had saved allies from the brink of elimination. Piccolo's tactical support and Tapion's healing kept the team at peak performance.
Near the arena's edge, Piccolo and Gohan stood together, their partnership honed through years of training. They moved with the intuitive synchronization of master and student, covering each other's blind spots without needing to speak.
"Uncle Piccolo," Gohan said, concern coloring his tone, "Buu really went overboard with that explosion. Are you hurt?"
"Please." Piccolo casually tore off his damaged arm—the limb hung by threads of green tissue, blood dripping from the wound. He tossed it aside like garbage. "This is nothing."
A new arm sprouted from his shoulder, growing at visible speed until perfectly formed. Piccolo flexed his new fingers experimentally.
"Less than half the competition remains," he observed, scanning the battlefield with sharp eyes. "And everyone left is a real threat. We need to press our advantage now, before they can reorganize."
"Right..." Gohan nodded, then his head snapped to the side. His ears had caught something—
"Gohan, MOVE!" Piccolo's warning came a heartbeat too late.
They'd been careless. Standing at the arena's edge after Buu's explosion—when the area had seemed clear—was a tactical error. But where had the attack come from? When Piccolo finally registered the disturbance, his reaction was already half a second behind.
An invisible force slammed into Gohan's side. The half-Saiyan stumbled backward, his heels hitting empty air as he tipped toward the void—
Piccolo's arm shot out like a whip, elongating impossibly. He grabbed Gohan's gi and yanked him back to safety, while simultaneously bringing his other hand down in a brutal chop aimed at the space beside them.
WHOOSH.
His arm cut through empty air—but something dodged at the last instant. Piccolo could feel it.
Then his attacker froze mid-evasion.
Piccolo's hand shifted, fingers spreading as he aimed at a specific point in seemingly empty space. His eyes narrowed with cold satisfaction.
An invisible force locked around the hidden fighter, paralyzing them completely.
"You probably didn't realize," Piccolo said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge, "that you make a slight noise when you move. Cloth rustling. Breath patterns. And you haven't properly suppressed your ki—it's faint, but detectable." His smile turned vicious. "Plus, you're covered in dust from Buu's explosion. I can see your outline perfectly."
His leg swept out in a devastating arc, extended like a whip. The kick connected with something solid—Gamisalas, the invisible warrior—and launched him off the arena.
But immediately, another attack surged from behind. Piccolo sensed it instantly, his Namekian instincts screaming warning. He spun and lashed out—
His fist connected first, catching his attacker in the lower abdomen before their strike could land. The impact sent his opponent flying backward, but Piccolo was the one who tumbled toward the edge.
What?! His mind raced. How had they attacked faster than his perception registered?
No time to analyze. Piccolo's arms extended, fingers digging into the arena floor just before he fell. He pulled himself back up with practiced ease, immediately grabbing Gohan and retreating toward the center of the battlefield. The edge was compromised—staying there was suicide.
As they ran, Piccolo's sharp ears caught a new sound. Something small. Rhythmic. Bouncing off rocks.
His eyes lit up with understanding. He skidded to a halt and thrust out his hand. "STOP!"
The Binding Technique locked onto an impossibly tiny target. Damom froze in mid-bounce, trapped by psychic force.
"So that's the trick," Piccolo muttered, holding the minuscule fighter suspended in his invisible grip. "I thought it was something more impressive."
Damom struggled against the binding, but his size—his greatest advantage—became a fatal weakness. He simply didn't have the physical strength to break free from Namekian psychic techniques.
"Pathetic." Piccolo's tone dripped with contempt. He hurled Damom toward the void with a casual flick of his wrist.
"NO! NOOOO!" Quitela leaped to his feet in the stands, eyes bulging with horror. "NOT HIM! HE'S OUR LAST—"
The rat-like God of Destruction's protests meant nothing. Damom plummeted into darkness, his insect body far too small and weak to resist elimination. His strength had been leagues below Piccolo's—the gap simply too wide to overcome.
Simultaneously, golden lights flashed in Universe Two's spectator section. Warriors materialized one after another until exactly ten had appeared—a complete roster.
The sniper duo—Harmira and Prum—had finally been exposed. Majin Buu's massive explosion had revealed their hiding spots, and Universe Eleven's Pride Troopers had wasted no time kicking them off the stage.
The cooperation against the Super Saiyans crumbled. Universe Two and Universe Four—both completely eliminated.
The Grand Priest clasped his hands behind his back, his perpetually serene expression unchanged. "All contestants from Universe Two and Universe Four have been eliminated. Both universes are disqualified."
Grand Zeno's tablet screen shifted. His tiny fingers moved across the interface, darkening the avatars representing both universes. Then those small hands rose—wielding authority beyond comprehension.
"Bye-bye!"
"NO! I REFUSE!" Quitela's roar was raw and desperate. For one terrifying moment, Beerus thought the rat deity might actually attack the Omni-King—a suicidal impulse born of absolute despair.
But in the span between heartbeats, both universes simply vanished.
Not destroyed. Not transported. Erased from existence.
The void where they'd sat remained—empty and accusatory.
Eight universes still competed: First, Third, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Eleventh, and Twelfth.
And Universe Seven still hadn't lost a single fighter.
The other Gods of Destruction exchanged troubled glances. This dominance wasn't just impressive—it was unprecedented. Terrifying.
The Grand Priest's voice drew everyone's attention once more. "Competitors, please be advised: less than one-third of the allocated time remains."
One-third?!
Every warrior's eyes shot to the pillars at the arena's edge. The massive columns had sunk dramatically into the ground, marking time's passage. Without anyone realizing, the tournament had already consumed two-thirds of its duration.
The realization struck like lightning. The endgame was approaching.
Universe Seven's continued perfection—no eliminations, full roster intact—sent shockwaves through the divine observers. How was such dominance even possible?
The remaining universes steeled themselves for the final phase.
Universe Eleven's Pride Troopers locked onto Goku and Vegeta—the two strongest Saiyans would be their primary targets. Dr. Paparoni of Universe Three continued charging his ultimate technique, mechanical parts assembling around him. The white-haired warrior from Universe Twelve clashed with Universe Eight's fighters in a brutal exchange.
Toppo engaged Majin Buu in fierce combat. The pink demon had absorbed numerous fighters, his strength noticeably increased—though he still fought at a disadvantage against Toppo's overwhelming power and righteous fury. Yet Buu refused to fall. More importantly, he'd secretly separated a portion of his body mass, a pink blob waiting in hiding for the perfect moment to absorb Toppo himself.
And Hit—the legendary assassin from Universe Six—phased in and out of dimensional walls like a ghost. Space itself cracked wherever he struck, reality bending to his Time-Skip techniques.
Masters from across the multiverse revealed their true capabilities, pushing the Tournament of Power toward its climactic conclusion.