The sun had barely crested the hills surrounding West City, casting a soft orange glow over Capsule Corp's sprawling lawn. Morning dew still clung to the grass, and the air held that familiar crisp bite of spring. In the quiet beyond the main buildings, where the Briefs' garden met open fields, a lone figure stood barefoot on the soft earth.
Mori—now twelve years old—had grown.
His once-wild hair was a little longer, falling in soft jagged tufts around his face. His frame had filled out slightly, lean but stronger, the product of intense, self-driven training over the past two years. He stood shirtless, his loose black gi pants brushing his ankles as a light breeze stirred around him.
His blue-white eyes were narrowed in focus.
Ki surged silently in his body. It vibrated beneath his skin, begging to be shaped. For weeks now, he'd been trying to do more than just blast or shield. He wanted form. Style. A technique he could truly call his own.
"Alright," Mori muttered to himself, flexing his fingers. "No distractions. No sparring. Just figure it out."
He started with basic energy shaping.
A gentle orb of ki gathered between his hands. He could feel it pulsing—warm, pure, obedient. That was too easy. He tossed it into the sky and let it explode in silence, like a harmless firework.
"Not enough," he murmured. "Something new."
He crouched and raised one palm outward, thinking about slicing. Not punching. Not blowing things up. But cutting—sharp and clean.
With a sharp exhale, he extended two fingers and forced the energy to concentrate in a line. A thin, glowing streak of pale ki began to form in front of his hand like a blade.
It flickered. Shook. Dissolved.
"Tch."
He tried again. This time holding his breath. Focusing every drop of energy into the thought: cut.
The line formed again, more stable than before. It extended three feet from his fingers before cracking like glass and breaking apart with a soft pop.
Frustrated, Mori dropped to a seated position in the grass.
"Come on… even Goku could probably make something cool by now," he muttered, resting his chin on his knee. "All I've got are blasts and barriers."
He plucked a blade of grass, twirled it around his finger, then looked toward the Capsule Corp building in the distance. Even from here, he could hear faint laughter. Probably Bulma and her mom talking in the kitchen again.
Despite the setback, he smiled.
Being here—having a place like this—still felt strange sometimes. But it was his now. They were his people.
His family.
And he wasn't going to disappoint them.
He stood again, and this time, shaped his ki in a different way. Not a blade. Not a ball. A whip—something that moved with him. He flicked his wrist and forced the ki into a flexible strand, almost like a rope of light. It extended outward, lashing the air.
He grinned.
"Now we're getting somewhere."
The whip dissipated after a second, but he felt it—his energy had moved how he wanted it to.
"Okay," he said to himself, raising his arms and steadying his breathing. "Let's give it a name…"
He tilted his head. "Whip doesn't sound cool."
He tapped his chin, then muttered, "Ribbon Edge? …Nah. Sounds like something Mom would name a perfume."
After a few minutes of trial and error, he found a better name.
"Ki Lash," he said, testing the words. "Yeah. That sounds better."
He created the whip again. This time with a snap, it lashed a training post twenty feet away, leaving a faint scorch mark. Not strong, but it was a start.
He spent the next few hours refining it.
Summon. Lash. Dispel. Repeat.
By midday, his forehead was damp with sweat, his breaths a bit heavier. But his ki felt… different. Responsive. Like it was beginning to recognize his intent.
He paused for lunch, sitting on the grass and munching on one of the bento boxes Mrs. Briefs had packed for him that morning. It had smiley faces made out of pickles on the rice balls. He rolled his eyes at first—but kept eating.
Back on his feet, he turned his attention to something new.
Something big.
A move that could feel like a finishing blow, like the burst of power that surged when he fought Goku.
Mori exhaled slowly. That fight—it still felt like a blur. He couldn't remember how his power spiked like that. He hadn't unlocked that strength again, no matter how hard he tried. It only flickered in his dreams, echoing like a ghost of battle.
But he wasn't going to chase it anymore.
He was going to create something his own way.
He charged ki into both palms, focusing on containment and force. He layered energy over itself like stacking glass panes, compressing them tighter and tighter until a dense, glowing orb formed—hot pink at the core, blue at the edges.
"Don't explode. Don't explode," he whispered as he held the orb overhead, sweat beading at his temple.
The pressure grew. His arms trembled.
He flung the orb into the air and pointed both fingers at it.
"*Burst Flare!*"
It detonated like a flashbang—brilliant light and thunder, no heat or shockwave, but bright enough to make him shield his own eyes.
He blinked back the dazzle and grinned. "That was cool."
Was it strong? No. But it was something. A distraction move maybe. Something to blind or disorient.
Mori practiced the Burst Flare over and over. By the fourth try, he'd learned how to dial back the brightness and expand the flare's reach.
By late afternoon, he was a mess. His gi pants were smudged with dirt and grass, his chest damp with sweat. He walked back into the house, dragging his feet toward the kitchen.
Bulma was there, messing with a circuit board.
She looked up and snorted. "You look like you lost a fight with the lawn."
"Thanks," Mori mumbled, slumping into a seat.
She tossed him a towel and a cold bottle of juice. "Don't leave sweat trails on the floor."
He drank, wiped his face, and gave her a tired thumbs-up.
Dr. Briefs popped his head in. "Good session, son?"
Mori nodded. "Yeah. I made… two moves. Kinda."
"Oh?" Dr. Briefs asked, walking over. "Names?"
"Ki Lash and Burst Flare."
"Hmm," Dr. Briefs rubbed his chin. "Not bad. Has a nice ring to it. Want me to build a simulator to test them in different environments?"
Mori blinked. "…Actually, yeah. That sounds awesome."
"Great!" the old man walked off cheerfully, muttering about energy calibration and synthetic opponents.
That evening, Mori rested in his room. The moonlight filtered through his window, casting pale light across his floor.
He stared at the ceiling, arms behind his head.
He had a long way to go.
There were things inside him—things he didn't understand. Power that stirred when he was pushed to his limit. But he couldn't afford to wait around for it to show up again.
He would earn it.
Like a true fighter.
Just past midnight, he was outside again, shirtless, barefoot, and standing beneath the stars.
A low hum of ki surrounded him.
"Let's try that again," he whispered, his voice carried on the wind.
From the dark sky above, unseen and far away, something cold and ancient observed. Calculating. Watching.
But Mori—eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight—remained unaware.
This was his time to grow.
And he would not stop until he could stand alongside the strongest—not because of fate, but because he earned every step.
"Fate... such a fragile belief."