Chapter 7: A Quiet Storm Gathers
The dawn before the finals didn't break so much as it breathed—a hush across the landscape, long shadows spilling from tree roots and tent poles, the kind of silence that whispers before something great takes shape. I sat cross-legged by the fire pit, eyes half-lidded, breath slow and deep.
Not meditating. Not exactly.
Just… listening.
The air was heavy with expectation, not anxiety. Beneath that silence was motion. Beneath motion, intent. And beneath that?
Readiness.
"You're not even twitching," Krillin said from behind me. "That's spooky."
I opened my eyes and gave him a glance. "Stillness is movement that's learned patience."
He blinked. "Y'know, I keep expecting you to say something normal one of these days."
"That was normal."
He laughed, shaking his head and dropping a small basket of roasted chestnuts at my side. "Well, normal or not, you'd better eat. Finals aren't won on an empty stomach."
I accepted the gift with a nod. "Thank you."
Pitou was already awake, dangling from a low tree branch by her knees, her tail swinging rhythmically. "He's being extra cryptic this morning," she said. "That means he's nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're humming."
I paused.
Damn.
She dropped to the ground beside me with that unnatural grace only she could manage. "It's not fear," she added. "You're excited."
"I don't deny that."
"Good," she said, resting her head on my shoulder. "Because he is too."
She didn't need to say who.
I already felt him.
Son Goku's energy was unmistakable—like sunlight trying to punch through stone. Pure, rising, always just on the edge of understanding itself.
The others stirred slowly. Yamcha emerged from his tent shirtless, stretching his back until something popped. Chiaotzu floated by with a piece of melon on a stick. Tien stood at the clearing's edge, arms folded, watching me—not studying, not suspicious—just observing. Measuring.
"Are you going to hold back?" he asked after a time.
"No."
"Good. Because Goku won't."
We gathered for breakfast as a group, like we had every morning since the tournament began. The food was simple again—steamed buns with pickled mustard greens and a broth made from dried anchovy and scallion. Everyone ate slowly, methodically.
There was reverence in the meal.
Not for me.
Not even for the fight.
But for what had brought us here.
Yamcha broke the silence with a grin. "You two should put on a show. I wanna hear people screaming about this one for years."
Krillin elbowed him. "Don't jinx it!"
"I'm not jinxing. I'm hyping. It's different."
Goku laughed softly, then looked up at me. "Hey, Chappa."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not going easy."
I met his gaze. "Thanks for making me need to consider it."
Tien blinked. "He was going easy?"
"No," I corrected. "I considered it. For a moment. A long time ago."
Goku rubbed the back of his head. "I don't really get all your fancy words, but I get the feeling you respect me."
"I do."
He grinned. "Then I'll show you why."
The tension didn't return—not like nerves or fear. It just settled, like an extra layer to the day's air. The way a tree leans slightly just before a storm.
We walked together to the arena, not as opponents, but as parts of a whole experience. The crowd's noise grew as we approached—waves of anticipation breaking over one another. Vendors hawked grilled squid, souvenir towels, King Chappa headbands, Goku dolls with spiky yarn hair.
I felt none of it.
Only the earth.
Only the breath.
The ring stood pristine again, repaired overnight by crews that worked while the rest of the world dreamed. It glinted under the sun like something sacred.
We waited in the shaded area behind the stage as the announcer revved up the crowd.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! TODAY'S GRAND FINAL… KING CHAPPA, THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM, VERSUS THE BOY WHO RISES, SON GOKU!"
Pitou leaned close. "Win or lose, you better make it beautiful."
I smiled faintly. "That's the only way I know."
"Then go."
As I stepped into the ring, I didn't feel power rise in me like a fire or a tide.
It was subtler than that.
More like pressure building behind a dam—silent, invisible… inevitable.
Goku faced me, arms loose at his sides, eyes clear and sharp. The crowd cheered, but it was distant. Faint.
The announcer's voice became a murmur in the background.
All that existed was this moment.
Goku exhaled. "Ready?"
I didn't nod.
I simply moved.
He reacted instantly—barely dodging the first palm strike that swept past his cheek like a whisper of death. He launched into a low kick, fluid and fast, but I shifted my weight, absorbing the impact into my stance.
He spun away and came back in with a jab.
I caught it.
"Good," I said.
Then I twisted.
He flipped backward to free himself, using the momentum to arc over me with a knee aimed at the back of my head. I ducked, swept his other foot, but he vanished mid-fall—Ki propulsion. Clever.
He reappeared to my right.
"HAH!"
A quick burst of energy from his palm—not a full Kamehameha, just a pulse meant to blind.
I waved it aside with a palm fan motion.
"You're learning to lie," I said, approvingly.
He didn't answer. He grinned and rushed in again.
The crowd screamed.
We exchanged thirty strikes in the next ten seconds. My palms found his guard. His feet tested my stance. My weight shifted just enough to keep him from finding center.
Then, I let him in.
He struck my ribs.
Dead on.
A dull thunk of real impact.
The crowd gasped.
So did Krillin.
But I didn't move.
Because I had chosen that moment.
I used the force of his strike to coil—like water rebounding inside a pot—and then redirected the energy outward.
"Fifth Gate Pulse."
My palm hit him in the shoulder—not hard, but deep. It sent him skidding backward, spinning once before he righted himself.
He grinned through the sweat.
"Ohhh yeah," he said. "This is gonna be fun."
I felt the grin forming on my own face.
So this was the boy who would one day shake the heavens.
Not yet. Not even close.
But the roots were deep.
And this fight?
This was the first bloom.
To be continued…