Chapter 4: Whispers Beneath the Ring
The morning after my fight with Niru dawned crisp and windless, the kind of silence that lets a warrior hear his own heartbeat. I rose before the others, drawing water from a nearby stream to prepare breakfast. Pitou, ever curious, crept up behind me and peered into the iron pot.
"Egg custard again?" she asked, nose twitching. "You should try burning something once in a while. For the surprise."
I stirred the base, letting the aroma of dashi and bonito flakes blend into the air. "And yet, you always lick the bowl clean."
She grinned but said nothing more, settling beside me with her tail curled around her knees. Together, we listened to the forest breathe.
Soon the others began to stir—Krillin first, hair still a mess from sleep, followed by Yamcha and Chiaotzu. Tien emerged last, shirtless, eyes focused and alert. Even Goku stayed curled up for a while, murmuring about food in his sleep.
"Rise and shine," I called. "Eat before you punch each other today."
Breakfast was chawanmushi—egg custard steamed with wild mushrooms, chicken, and a delicate soy broth—served alongside steamed rice with shredded salmon and green onions. Each bowl was balanced, precise, and warm.
"Holy crap," Yamcha muttered, halfway through his first serving. "I'd fight you just to keep eating like this."
"You already did," Pitou reminded him. "You lost."
Krillin laughed. "Does this count as pre-match doping?"
"It counts as remembering your stomach's part of your body," I replied. "Fuel it right."
Even Goku slowed down to chew. "You put miso in this one," he said thoughtfully. "But it's different than the last batch."
"A touch of red miso, yes. Balanced with mirin," I answered.
Tien didn't speak, but he did bow slightly after finishing, his silence louder than the others' compliments.
The third day of the tournament opened under a blazing sun. The stands were fuller now, word of strong contenders spreading through the city.
The quarterfinals were underway.
Pitou remained with the others in the shade, lounging like a queen on a rock wall as I entered the ring.
My next opponent: Baoju the Boulder. A massive man, body like a stone wall, with skin that shimmered faintly with reinforced Ki. He wore no shirt—just loose pants, bare feet, and a mouth twisted in a permanent scowl.
He didn't waste time.
"Don't blink," he growled, and came crashing down with both fists.
I sidestepped. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just precise.
His fists struck the ring with a boom that cracked tiles.
I moved behind him, open palm extended.
"Stone Pulse."
He turned fast—surprisingly fast for his size—and caught my wrist.
"Not bad," he said, lifting me.
Then he threw me.
The crowd gasped.
I twisted in the air, landed on one foot near the ring's edge.
That got my blood pumping.
He charged again, and this time, I stepped into his guard, pushing off his rising arm, my body parallel to the ground.
I struck.
Five palms—each targeting a different vital point—not to damage, but to shut down momentum.
He froze mid-charge.
Then collapsed to one knee.
I stepped back, letting him fall forward. He didn't rise.
The announcer's voice broke the tension. "Winner: King Chappa!"
Cheers erupted.
I bowed. Returned to my group.
Back in the rest area, the others waited.
Krillin clapped me on the shoulder. "That was sick. You didn't even use energy blasts!"
"I don't need them," I said. "Not yet."
Goku bounced on his toes. "You fight different than before. Stronger. More... quiet."
"It's not about noise," I said. "It's about focus."
Yamcha opened his mouth to comment, but Pitou beat him to it.
"His style is made for dismantling people," she said, tone dreamy. "It's lovely."
Tien nodded slowly. "He's teaching without teaching."
That afternoon, we trained together in a shaded clearing outside the stadium. It wasn't formal. Just movement.
Krillin mimicked my stances, asking questions.
"Why do you breathe out before you step in?"
"To settle the ribs," I explained. "The diaphragm tightens. Makes the core stable."
Yamcha watched, then joined in. "I always did it during. That explains a lot."
Pitou offered critiques that sounded playful but were dead accurate.
"Your left foot is lazy," she told Tien. "It drags half an inch in every turn."
Tien didn't argue. He adjusted.
Goku tried copying one of my palm strikes, only to trip and fall flat.
"Wah! What the heck?!"
I laughed. "Balance isn't brute force. It's trust in your own structure."
"I'm gonna get it," he promised.
"I know you will," I replied.
Dinner that night was quieter.
I made sweet potato stew with barley and herbs, served with sesame-coated rice balls and braised pork belly on skewers.
The others ate slowly, contemplatively.
"You always cook like we're on the edge of something," Krillin said.
"We are," I replied. "The edge of who we used to be."
Yamcha raised a skewer. "Here's to stepping over it."
We toasted with meat instead of drinks.
Even Pitou raised her rice ball.
That night, beneath the stars, I watched the wind stir the trees. Pitou curled against my side, purring softly.
"Do you think they'll be ready?" she asked.
"Maybe not," I said. "But they'll try. That's more than most."
She nodded. "You're warmer now."
"I'm learning."
The fire crackled. The world spun quietly. And in the distance, I heard the echo of tomorrow's battles waiting.
To be continued...