Deep in the universe, on the Realm of the God of Destruction, time seemed to flow slower than anywhere else.
The air itself was saturated with energy so pure it felt like every breath was a gentle massage for the lungs. The Oracle Fish floated lazily inside its tank, which hovered above a patch of grass like it belonged there. For once, it was enjoying real peace and quiet.
It was also chewing—very smugly—on a stash of snacks it had hidden away specifically so Whis wouldn't "accidentally" find them.
"Whis actually went out?" the Oracle Fish muttered happily, mouth moving as it munched. "That's rare…"
It swished its fins in satisfaction.
"Every time I hide something tasty, he somehow finds it anyway! Whis, you big bully… Hmph!"
A warm, teasing voice suddenly whispered right next to it, like a ghost leaning into its ear.
"Oh my… Oracle Fish-san. So this is how you talk about me when I'm gone?"
"PFF—!!"
The Oracle Fish nearly spat its snacks out.
It stiffened, turned its head with painful slowness—
…and saw Whis standing there with his signature gentle smile, purple eyes locked precisely on the snack bag the fish hadn't managed to hide in time.
The Oracle Fish's fins froze.
Then it let out an exhausted, utterly human sigh—the kind that meant fine, you win.
It slowly pulled out another, nicer-looking pack of pastries from… somewhere… and offered it with trembling fins.
"Here… Take it. But don't hold a grudge, okay? This is my last one!"
Before Whis could even reply, the fish whipped its tail—
SWISH!
—and vanished into nothingness.
So fast that even Vitelli, standing behind Whis, didn't catch how it moved.
"Hohoho~" Whis chuckled, effortlessly catching the offered pastries and tucking them away as if this was normal.
Only then did he turn to Vitelli, who was staring in genuine admiration.
"Such quick reflexes," Whis said lightly. "Even the creatures here are impressive."
Vitelli nodded, honestly impressed. "No kidding… Even a fish on the God of Destruction's world is built different."
Whis cleared his throat, shifting into something closer to a teacher's tone.
"Now then, Vitelli-san. Welcome—properly—to the Realm of the God of Destruction. This will be your main training ground for the foreseeable future."
He tapped his staff once.
"So… are you ready?"
"Of course."
Vitelli's eyes sharpened. His muscles tightened automatically. His aura stirred under his skin, eager and restless.
He expected something grand. A test like myth. Lightning, revelation—some god-level trial.
Instead, Whis's smile bent slightly at the corners.
The crystal at the top of his staff flickered, ever so faintly.
HUM—
A pressure beyond reason slammed into Vitelli without warning.
It wasn't like gravity pressing from the outside.
It felt like his own body had been rewritten.
As if every cell, every bone, every drop of blood had become impossibly heavy—multiplied beyond measure.
"Ghk—!"
Vitelli's breath was ripped out of him. His legs buckled.
BOOM.
He hit the ground face-first, crushed into the grass like a nail driven into earth.
He couldn't lift a finger.
His bones groaned. His blood felt like it was thickening into stone. Even breathing was an ordeal.
His white aura snuffed out instantly—like a candle in a storm.
This wasn't Bulma's gravity chamber.
This was humiliation on a cosmic scale.
Whis's voice remained calm and gentle, as if he'd just adjusted the room temperature.
"Don't worry. This is only the most basic adaptation training."
He sipped the air like he was enjoying the atmosphere.
"It isn't a fixed multiplier, you see. It automatically 'customizes' itself based on what your body can endure at its current limit."
He tapped his staff again.
A plain gray stone—about the size of a large washbasin—appeared on the grass directly in front of Vitelli's face.
"I want you to adapt to this state… and then lift that stone freely and move it around."
Whis gestured to it as if assigning homework.
"You may begin."
And just like that, he turned away, produced an elegant tea set from nowhere, and sat at a stone table, calmly brewing tea—watching Vitelli the way someone watched a play.
"Wh… Whis…!"
Vitelli forced the words through clenched teeth. Sweat poured off him in streams, soaking his combat suit, pooling into the grass beneath his face.
"What… what gravity is this?! I can't even… move…!"
Whis didn't even look up from the teapot.
"Gravity? Hmm… I don't know."
He spoke cheerfully.
"As I said, it's customized. Don't worry about the details. The outcome is what matters, Vitelli-san. Hohoho~"
Vitelli wanted to scream.
But he didn't have the oxygen for it.
He tried to gather even a fraction of power, to move a hand—just a hand—toward the stone.
Nothing.
Not even a millimeter.
That rock might as well have been a mountain.
So Vitelli stopped fighting the stone.
And chose the dumbest method.
The simplest method.
The method that had built everything he was.
Push-ups.
He clenched his jaw until it hurt, forcing every last scrap of control into his arms and core.
"H—Hah…!"
With a strangled, brutal exhale, he managed to lift his chest a few centimeters off the grass.
His arms shook violently.
He almost collapsed immediately.
But he didn't quit.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Every rise felt like tearing his body apart. Every drop back down made his insides churn.
Sweat gathered into a small puddle beneath him.
Whis took a sip of tea and watched, pleased.
"Vitelli-san is quite clever," he remarked warmly. "You found the correct direction very quickly."
Vitelli, face-down and gasping, nearly choked in outrage.
He turned his head slightly, giving Whis the most miserable, offended glare he could manage.
"Wh… Whis… I'm not… three years old… Don't… praise me like that… It sounds… sarcastic…"
"Ah?" Whis blinked, then smiled with sincere innocence. "But I mean it."
He set down the cup, amused.
"You know… long ago, when I first began training Beerus-sama…"
Whis's eyes softened with nostalgic humor.
"He spent three entire days trying to 'defeat' the stone I produced."
Vitelli's mind immediately pictured it.
Beerus—furious, hissing, blasting a rock endlessly—getting nowhere.
Whis continued pleasantly.
"He tried everything. Even attempted to destroy it. He only exhausted himself. The stone never moved."
Whis tapped the air lightly with his staff, as if punctuating the lesson.
"Only when he collapsed did he finally understand… when your foundation isn't solid, trying to forcibly remove the obstacle is foolish. You must strengthen yourself until the obstacle becomes irrelevant."
Vitelli didn't answer.
He just lowered his head again.
And poured himself into the grind—shutting out everything but movement, breath, survival.
Once.
Twice.
A thousand.
Ten thousand.
Time lost meaning.
Only sweat and breath existed.
Earth — West City, Briefs Residence
On the first day without Vitelli, Bulma missed him.
On the second day, she missed him more.
By the time it became "the day after the day she stopped counting," she sat alone in a wicker chair in the backyard, staring at a small round table where her tea had long gone cold.
Her eyes were unfocused, fixed on the corner of the yard—on the first-generation gravity chamber her father had built years ago.
Its metal shell was scuffed, faded, stained with time. In the sunset, it still glinted faintly.
Bulma's mind built the same scene again and again:
That heavy door sliding open with a soft hiss—
Vitelli stepping out fresh from a shower, towel over one shoulder, rubbing his wet spiky hair, grinning at her with that lazy, slightly wicked look—
She shook her head hard, forcing the fantasy away.
"Idiot…" she murmured, not sure if she meant him or herself.
"You've only been gone a short time… you can't just come back immediately."
Logic told her he was training in a place beyond Earth.
Her heart didn't care.
Then—
Hiss—
The gravity chamber door actually opened.
Bulma's heart stuttered.
She shot to her feet, eyes wide, staring at the doorway as a rush of hope nearly made her shout his name—
But it wasn't Vitelli.
It was Dr. Brief.
Blue hair wild, huge wrench in hand, walking out like nothing happened.
Bulma's face froze.
"…Dad?"
Her hope shattered into frustration and confusion at once.
"What are you doing in there?"
Dr. Brief pushed up his glasses, wandered over, grabbed her cold tea, and chugged it down like he'd just crossed a desert.
"Aaah…" he sighed. "I'm too old for this."
He pointed the wrench at the chamber.
"Since the new gravity room got wrecked… I'm upgrading this old one. I'll see if I can push the maximum higher. Otherwise, when Vitelli comes back and finds nothing to train with, he'll start complaining again."
Bulma remembered—fully—how their newer chamber had been destroyed… along with half the estate.
A complicated emotion surged up.
Then something lit behind her eyes.
She straightened so suddenly it looked like someone flipped a switch.
"Don't upgrade the old one, Dad."
Dr. Brief blinked.
Bulma's voice was sharp, decisive, alive.
"The design philosophy is outdated. The upper limit is too low. Energy efficiency is terrible."
Her words started accelerating as her mind caught fire.
"I'm redesigning it. A brand-new gravity chamber. Stronger. Higher maximum gravity. Stable output. Real-time vitals monitoring. Emergency limit protection systems—everything!"
She was already seeing it, already building it in her head.
Dr. Brief stared at her, then smiled in quiet approval. That genius spark—he knew it well.
"Alright," he said calmly. "Tell me what materials you need."
He sighed inwardly, thinking of his other daughter—Tights—off in space collecting "research" for novels.
And then, inevitably, his mind drifted to the same question every parent eventually asked:
When is that boy going to propose?
Bulma, meanwhile, had already launched herself toward her lab like a storm.
Screens lit up.
Equations cascaded.
Blueprints formed.
Energy models layered into full structures.
She disappeared into work so completely that time didn't touch her.
And for a while…
Neither did the loneliness.
Three Months Later
It felt like a blink.
Vitelli had been gone for three months.
The 22nd World Martial Arts Tournament arrived on schedule at Papaya Island.
With Vitelli absent, the tournament returned to what it was meant to be: the peak of humanity, not a god walking among mortals.
Bulma was invited.
Goku and the others messaged.
But watching it alone, without Vitelli beside her, felt… empty.
So she watched from home via live broadcast, curled up in comfort, pretending it didn't matter.
The matches were thrilling. Masters and prodigies clashed.
The Crane School—Tien and Chiaotzu—showed terrifying growth.
Krillin had improved sharply too.
But in the end, the champion was inevitable:
Son Goku.
The boy who had been sneaking into the Briefs' estate to use gravity training.
Tien fought him in the finals with everything he had—even unleashing the Neo Tri-Beam—
But Goku's speed, strength, and Kamehameha overcame him.
Tien lost… and accepted it.
The crowd roared.
The world moved on.
And yet beneath that calm surface, something ancient began to stir.
One Month After the Tournament — A Desolate Beach
Far from cities, far from eyes, on a lonely stretch of sand…
Emperor Pilaf, Mai, and Shu stood around a battered old rice cooker, its surface covered with faded sealing talismans.
Mai's face was pale.
"Pilaf-sama… please think carefully! That's the container that sealed King Piccolo! Those talismans cannot be removed! If he escapes—"
Shu argued back, fired up.
"This is our chance! If we release him, we can negotiate! With his power, taking over the world becomes easy! Then we bargain! It's genius!"
Mai stomped.
"You're playing with fire!"
Shu snapped.
"You're stopping Pilaf-sama's destiny!"
"Enough!!!" Pilaf shrieked, veins bulging.
He threw his hands out—
And his fingertip caught the edge of a talisman.
RIP.
The talisman peeled away.
BZZZZ—!!!
The rice cooker shook violently.
Purple light exploded from the seams.
A wave of evil energy surged over the beach like a nightmare given form.
Mai screamed, grabbed Pilaf and Shu, and ran—
But the blast caught them instantly.
BOOOOM!!
They were launched into the sky like three screaming meteors and vanished over the horizon.
Smoke drifted.
The purple energy settled.
And at the center of the wreckage stood an elderly green demon—wrinkled, grim, and smiling with madness.
King Piccolo.
He stared at his hands, then at the sky.
Then the joy and hatred erupted out of him.
"Wahahahahahaha!!!"
His laughter shook the air.
"I'M FREE! I'M FINALLY FREE!"
He threw his arms wide.
"Mutaito! You old corpse! You thought a seal could kill me?!"
He looked upward, as if accusing the heavens.
"And you—coward! The coward who refused to die with me!"
His aura surged like a storm.
"Tremble, world! Soon this Earth will kneel! I will make you suffer more than I suffered for hundreds of years!"
The Lookout — Above the Clouds
On the Lookout, far above Korin Tower, the aged Guardian stood at the edge with his staff, gaze distant.
He watched everything.
The escape.
The laughter.
The darkness rising.
His face didn't show fear.
It didn't show anger.
Only calm.
Almost… relief.
"So it's come," the Guardian whispered. "Sooner than I expected."
He turned slowly to Mr. Popo, who stood behind him like a silent shadow.
"Popo," the Guardian said, voice steady. "When I die… the position of Guardian will go to Vitelli."
Mr. Popo's face—usually unreadable—shifted. Real emotion flashed: worry… and something like grief.
"Guardian—!"
But the Guardian raised a hand gently, stopping him.
"No. Don't speak."
His eyes were deep, unwavering.
"This is fate. King Piccolo and I are two halves of one mistake. His existence is my sin."
He closed his eyes.
"Only my death can end him completely. A seal is only a delay. This day was always coming."
Then he opened his eyes again, and a hint of concern crossed them.
Lately, he'd tried repeatedly to sense Vitelli's presence…
And found nothing.
That terrifying power had vanished from Earth entirely.
Did he leave? Or go somewhere even I cannot perceive?
If Vitelli refused the role… then the plan—
"Popo," the Guardian said firmly. "Go to West City. To Bulma Brief."
"Ask where Vitelli is. Whether he's still on Earth—or where he went."
His voice tightened, just slightly.
"And deliver my message: he must come to the Lookout. It concerns Earth… and the future of Bulma's family."
Mr. Popo bowed deeply.
"Yes, Guardian."
And he left at once—boarding his flying carpet and diving down through the clouds toward West City.
Back on the God of Destruction's World
Vitelli was mid-training with Whis.
Calling it "sparring" was generous.
It was really survival—an extreme dodge drill.
Whis moved like a phantom, staff tapping and sweeping from impossible angles, sealing every escape route with lazy precision.
Vitelli had his aura fully suppressed, body a streak of motion, dodging through the staff's afterimages by instinct.
Then—
"AH-CHOO!"
Vitelli sneezed.
A tiny moment of distraction.
A microscopic opening in his rhythm.
Whis's voice chimed with amused delight.
"Oh hoho~ You let your guard down, Vitelli-san."
TAP!
The staff cracked lightly on Vitelli's head.
Vitelli saw stars, staggered, and grabbed his skull with a hiss.
"Ow—!"
He glared at Whis, pained and furious.
"Whis! That was cheap! No honor! Attacking a young man mid-sneeze!"
Whis covered his mouth, laughing softly.
"My, my… Vitelli-san is getting more and more entertaining."
He tilted his head.
"No wonder Bulma-sama likes you so much."
Vitelli instantly exploded.
"Don't you mention Bulma! You absolute thief!"
He pointed angrily.
"Last week we finally went back to Earth and brought a mountain of food. You said you'd 'keep it safe' so we could share it later. And when I came out of training—nothing! Not even a wrapper! You ate it all!"
Whis looked—very briefly—embarrassed.
Then he recovered instantly, serene as ever.
"Now, now. Don't fixate on details."
He smiled politely.
"I train you. I guide you. I teach you the path toward divine technique."
He spread his hand.
"Taking a small fee for storage and teaching… seems perfectly fair, doesn't it?"
Vitelli's eye twitched.
"…That's robbery."
He sighed, realizing arguing with an angel was hopeless.
"Fine. Take it all. I'll live on senzu beans. Now shut up and keep training—"
Whis didn't move.
Instead, he turned his head slightly, as if listening to something far away.
"Ah… that may be difficult," Whis murmured.
Vitelli frowned. "What?"
Whis raised his staff.
The crystal orb glowed—
—and projected a screen of light into the air.
Bulma's face appeared.
She looked like she was in her lab—screens and machinery behind her.
Vitelli blinked hard.
"…Bulma?"
Her voice came through quickly.
"Whis! Get Vitelli on! Something urgent is happening!"
Whis smiled knowingly and handed the staff to Vitelli like this was normal.
"You may talk. Hohoho~"
Vitelli grabbed it, heart tightening.
"Bulma! What's wrong? What happened?"
Bulma shifted aside.
And standing next to her—short, round, and unmistakable—
was Mr. Popo.
Vitelli's eyes widened.
"…Mr. Popo?"
He stared at the projection, fully stunned now.
"What are you doing there? What happened? Why are you looking for me?"
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