Chapter 3: Palm and Fist, Stone and Wind
Six months passed since the 21st Tenkaichi Budokai.
I spent them not resting, but forging. In silence, in storms, with Pitou at my side, I honed every inch of myself into a weapon not just of power—but of purpose.
We made our base in the mountains far beyond South City. There, in the high air, my Nen and Ki began to harmonize like twin currents from different rivers. Where one surged, the other filled. Where one lacked form, the other provided.
Pitou grew restless without battles, but not idle. She sparred with the precision of a dancer, balancing raw force with unpredictable angles. And in between, she watched—studying birds, wild wolves, and the movement of wind through trees. Nature itself was her opponent.
For me, nature was my teacher.
By the second month, I developed the "Stone Pulse"—a grounded stance that absorbed force through the soles and redistributed it through redirected palm strikes. Like Aikido, but layered with Nen-enhanced resonance.
By the third, I began sensing Ki more fully. I could see the flow in trees, feel it in distant streams, and hear it in the thunder of storms. My control was far from Roshi's, but I was now a practitioner of two systems—neither mastered, but both understood.
The Z Fighters sought me out.
Krillin visited first, bringing rice balls and curiosity.
"Everyone's getting stronger," he said. "Tien's doing those gravity-weight routines. Yamcha's training with the bandits again. And Goku—he's just getting faster. I swear he's not human."
I raised a brow. "Neither am I."
Krillin laughed. Then blinked. "Wait—what?"
I only smiled.
We sparred often, each match lasting longer as he learned to read my tempo. Pitou sat nearby, tail flicking, eyes narrowed.
"He fights with his fear," she said once, crouching nearby. "That makes him clever. But he hides it behind laughter."
Krillin chuckled when she said it, but later, as we sat by the fire, he stared into the flames and whispered, "She's right."
To ease his thoughts, I cooked.
Using the skills granted by the Soma template, I crafted grilled pork belly, basted in garlic-miso glaze, the kind that clings to the lips and warms the chest. I served it with spiced rice, topped with crispy scallions and a drizzle of soy-citrus foam.
Krillin took a single bite, eyes widening. He sat still for a long moment, then muttered, "You could win another tournament with this."
Pitou purred as she licked a glazed rib clean. "He made a cake once that knocked out a bear. True story."
Yamcha showed up three days later. "Heard Krillin couldn't shut up about your new fighting style. And your food. I brought an appetite."
He brought jokes and bravado, but underneath that, he watched me carefully, as a wolf does before deciding whether to bare its teeth.
We fought along the mountain cliffs. His Wolf Fang Fist danced with my Hundred Breath Rotation. The wind howled, the stone cracked. His form was fast, but his balance exposed him.
He tumbled, panting, then lay on the ground laughing. "Okay. Not stealing that move. Yet."
Afterward, we shared a meal. I prepared smoked trout glazed in citrus ponzu, served over rice cooked in dashi broth. A light side of tamagoyaki—sweet, spongy, layered egg perfection.
Yamcha wept openly. "I'm not even ashamed. This is… this is magic."
Pitou leaned in and whispered, "He moaned. That means you win."
Tien came at dusk. No fanfare. Just presence.
We sparred in silence for hours—no Ki, no fancy moves. Just fists, movement, pressure. Pitou tracked our strikes aloud, her commentary becoming a rhythm that pushed us forward.
When the match ended, we collapsed by the fire, breaths ragged. Pitou ladled broth into our bowls—her own recipe, dense with mushrooms and spice.
Tien took a cautious sip. Then coughed.
"It tastes like being chased by a tiger. But in a good way."
Pitou beamed. "Finally, someone gets it."
We stayed up late, sharing stories. Tien spoke little, but when he did, it was with weight.
"You've changed," he said. "More than just strength."
I nodded. "I'm still changing."
When the 22nd Tenkaichi Budokai was announced, I was ready.
We traveled on foot, Pitou ranging ahead, sometimes returning with curious questions about local cuisine. At the sign-in station, the others spotted us.
"Chappa!" Goku shouted. "You're back!"
"Didn't think you'd miss this," Krillin said, grinning.
"I brought something better than fists this time," I said.
Pitou dropped beside me from a tree. "He means food."
That night we camped outside the city. Everyone was there—Goku, Krillin, Yamcha, Tien, Chiaotzu, and Pitou.
I made a full spread—chicken skewers lacquered in honey-teriyaki glaze, mushroom and burdock root rice, sweet black sesame buns for dessert. Pitou helped stir and taste.
They ate in silence for the first few minutes, which said more than words.
"This rice," Tien muttered, "makes me feel like I trained for it."
Krillin nodded. "I think I love you, Chappa. Is that weird?"
Pitou purred. "Only if you propose before dessert."
Goku cleared six bowls. "I'm gonna fight better after this. I know it."
Chiaotzu, with his tiny voice, whispered, "I taste the mountain air in it…"
I smiled. This was training, too. Breaking bread. Sharing strength.
The tournament began.
My first opponent: Lion Fang. A towering beast-man, his Ki wild, his form brutal.
He charged, fangs bared.
I stepped into his space, placed a palm to his chest.
"Pulse Palm."
One hit. Down.
The crowd gasped. Pitou yawned.
Krillin's match was tougher. His opponent used deception and reach. But Krillin had found a new center. His movements flowed, his mind clear. A spinning heel kick ended it.
Pitou clapped. "Good balance. Less screaming next time."
Yamcha faced a grappler. He danced, dodged, and landed clean strikes. His Wolf Fang Fist had evolved—faster, smarter.
Tien watched quietly, arms crossed.
Goku? His aura alone made his opponent pass out.
"Guess I overdid it," he mumbled.
My next match was against Niru of the Wind Blade School. A graceful swordsman with razor-thin Ki blades.
He bowed. "An honor."
I bowed back. "Let's make it worth the memory."
His attacks came like wind through leaves—sharp, invisible. But I stepped with pulse rhythm, redirecting the flow.
He spun, blades sweeping wide. I pivoted above him using Pulse Step, then struck.
One clean palm.
He fell gently.
"You… walk a different path," he whispered.
I helped him up. "And it leads forward."
So it continued.
With every fight, every meal, every laugh and bruise and shared bowl, I wove myself into this world—not as an outsider, but as a force within it.
The tournament was far from over.
And I had only just begun.
To be continued...