Chapter 17 - The 36th sponsor of shaolin

West City Gazette, April 15, 750

The question of our times, by Hank Firecracker

[...] Since that fateful February night in which our city was attacked, we have learned to look at the world with new eyes. We have witnessed and received notice of prodigies; and a slow stream of information disclosed by the research division of Capsule Corporation has convinced even the most stubborn sceptics that there is indeed something more than tricks and able marketing to their claims. Superhumans do exist, and they walk among us. Sometimes, they do more.

I have received many letters from readers claiming that they had met such people. Most of the times, I have dismissed them as nonsense or pranks. However, this morning our newspaper received a slew of different accounts of the same episode: a bank where, during a robbery, the well-known former baseball player Yamcha [...] would have put down three criminals with little effort and, apparently, even caught bullets mid-air. You will find the story covered in depth in our news section; [...] suffice to say, there are enough witnesses for me to believe this happened for real.

The extraordinary soon becomes ordinary in our minds, given enough time to settle. Sometimes, even two mere months can be enough for that, making us accept things that until then we would have considered outrageous. And yet, with this adaptability comes a downside: that we risk losing perspective about how revolutionary a single change, a single moment can be. Make no mistake, I believe that right now we're going through a series of events that will redefine the very meaning of human existence. We, living in this city, find ourselves right at the epicentre of a revolution, with reason to be both proud and scared. But even in this dazzling, exhilarating atmosphere it is frustrating to know that we're still only mere spectators. The question, the one that we should all ask ourselves, and ask out loud, to those who can answer it, the only question that matters right now is: what, exactly, is Bulma Briefs doing?

"Can you please relax that strap a bit? I swear, my arm's gonna wither and fall off for lack of blood."

The experiment setup looked disturbingly like some sort of torture device. It was a reclining padded armchair, with needles and electrodes sticking out of it especially along the back area and in the neck support, and Bulma was tied to it arms and legs. An array of monitors and sensors controlled all possible variables of interest - from Bulma's own heart rate and EEG to every contraction of every single muscle in her body. Yamcha and Goku were helping her with the set up process, while her other subjects watched from afar, with some apprehension.

"Are you sure about going ahead with this?" asked Goku, while loosening up a bit the straps. "I think with some more meditation you could..."

Bulma rolled her eyes. "I've had it of meditation!"

"You tried it only for a couple of days." pointed out Goku.

"Yes, and it obviously doesn't work for me. All I could think of was how much faster it would have been to do it this way."

"You're not supposed to think anything." the boy said. "That's the point."

"Look, I just want to feel that sensation again!" she exclaimed. "It's the way forward for this project. I was there, I got it, I was sure I did! But it escapes me now, I don't know how. I just can't grasp it. This is the only way I can try."

Goku shook his head. What Bulma had described feeling during the last moments of her battle with Puar was certainly something he was familiar with - and combined with her observations on the scanner, he had little doubt she had managed to draw on her own ki for power and sharpness of senses, even if certainly she hadn't even come close to what he or another professional martial artist like Yamcha could do. But what one can do in a moment of stress and heightened attention due to deadly danger isn't easily reproduced in more normal conditions, and that was true even for him.

"I still think you could do it in a safer way." he concluded. "You just need to work harder on it."

"This is safe. Enough." said the girl. "And I'm Bulma Briefs, I don't work hard for things. I build machines that do them for me."

Goku stared at her. "Bulma, to build this machine you didn't sleep for the last two nights."

"Yes, but that work is fun. Now let's cut this discussion, I need to relax for the experiment."

Yamcha finished taking care of his side of the bindings that kept the girl in place on the chair and went to sit at the computer terminal that controlled the apparatus.

"So," he asked, "how does this work?"

"Well, those displays are monitoring my neural activity." explained Bulma. "From brain, to spinal cord, and peripheral nerves. The others, the ones that are basically flatlining for now, record my ki output. Now what you're supposed to do is stimulate artificially my nervous system with the signal that I programmed - which is a synthesis of the ones I recorded from you all during physical activity, minus or plus some individual differences..."

"I don't think I can do that." objected the boy. He was still looking for which of the three keyboards connected to the machine controlled the main screen.

"Bulma, do you want me to do it?" asked Goku.

"No, I want you next to me. For safety."

He frowned. "You said this was safe."

"It is. If you stay next to me. You see me jerk too much, keep my body in place. Yamcha, basically you just have to click that Activate button when the warning above it is green. The machine will zap me with a small electric discharge straight to my spinal cord which should stimulate artificially a release of my ki. Easy peasy, you don't need to think about the details."

"All right." the other nodded. He had just found both the button and the right keyboard. "The warning's yellow right now. What does it mean?"

"It means my muscles are too tensed up." explained Bulma. "Give me a second."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Then another. Slowly, the numbers tracking the contraction of her muscles went down, until finally the label on the screen changed colour.

"Green!" shouted Yamcha. "I'm going!"

There was a click, the lines on all the screens zigzagged wildly, and immediately after a crack and a scream.

"OUCH! MY ARM!"

Six hours, a race to the hospital, and a plaster later, a rather disgruntled Bulma without the use of her left hand was sitting on a sofa in the living room, facing her parents. Goku and Yamcha had tagged along as witnesses to the incident.

"So," said Dr. Briefs, "what have we learned today about doing science responsibly and safely?"

Bulma groaned and dumped her face into a pillow.

"Stubborn as ever." the man sighed. "And I would have thought that the incident two months ago would have been enough to teach you that lesson for good."

"It did teach me something." objected the girl. "That I shouldn't bet other people's lives on my mistakes. Hence, I took the risk myself. It was... calculated."

"Bulma, you broke your arm in three points under your own strength. That's impressive in its own way, but doesn't sound very calculated. What if the same happened to your spine? Or neck?"

"It couldn't have-"

Both her parents and Goku stared at her.

"Fine. It could." she admitted. "But you know how it is with things now. We need progress. Everyone is looking at us, everyone is expecting us to do something, and all we've been able to do is just show off a bit of what Goku and the others could do anyway."

The doctor patted her shoulder. "You know, the King isn't that demanding. And he certainly wouldn't endorse you risking your own life for that."

Bulma nodded. "I know. But it's not him I'm worried about. It's a matter of pride, I guess. But I'm also crazy scared of someone else getting at all this stuff first."

"Bulma," chimed in her mother, "I may not understand much of what you're doing, but if there's one thing I know is that you're very clever. If you're doing this, and you have a headstart, I'm sure no one will be able to catch up."

"Mom, I'm glad you think that of me," said the girl, with a faint smile, "but you just don't get it. It's not that simple."

Dr. Briefs shook his head. "I'm half torn on this. On one hand, your mother's right. Not just because you're really good, but you also have all our resources and some of the best study subjects you could hope for. On the other, I realise this is a very big prize. And now it's out in the open, so someone's gonna be interested. Armies, criminals. Other martial artists who may feel like they'll be defraudated of a key advantage."

"Oh, wow." exclaimed Bulma, alarmed. "I hadn't even thought of those yet!"

"But it's not by killing yourself that you will solve the problem. In fact, if you had just done that, you'd have left us in a terrible spot!"

"And gave us a horrible heartbreak!" said Panchy, elbowing her husband.

"That too obviously, sorry, I was talking a bit in the larger perspective." mumbled the man. "But I would hope you'd care for that as well, yes."

"Believe me, I'm in no hurry to die." the girl sighed. "In fact, finding a way to delay that as much as possible is part of the reason why I'm doing this. But I feel so besieged by potential dangers I perhaps mix a bit my priorities."

Goku stepped forward. "If it comes to it, you still have us. Me at least. Even without technology I'm sure I can well protect you."

"Hey, you have me too, no need to ask!" exclaimed Yamcha "In fact, I feel on a bit of a heroic streak these days."

Bulma eyed him sideways, with a smirk. "I've read. I wouldn't want to tell you what to do in your free time, but since your actions will impact our image in the eyes of the public, can you guarantee that you will restrain yourself to at least not doing anything illegal or dangerous?"

"Oh, the robbery was super easy. No danger at all, those guys were slow. And it's a citizen's arrest if I don't hurt them. Basically community service. It's doing wonders for my public image!"

Panchy clapped her hands, suddenly cheerful. "Oh, I know, Bulma! You should make him a costume!"

Dr. Briefs suddenly appeared distraught, as if he really wished he'd be on the other side of the Earth. Bulma rolled her eyes. "Mom, please."

"What? Honey, you love superhero costumes, right? I remember at your ninth birthday you..."

"Mom!" said Bulma, and it somehow managed to sound like a deadly threat.

"Hey, now I'm curious." said Yamcha. "What happened on your ninth birthday?"

The house was in as good a shape as a place besieged by an army of one hundred and fifty children could possibly be; that is, not very good at all. All the best efforts of the two adults in charge of the party (effectively, only Panchy) had been barely enough to protect the holy sanctum that was the Cake.

The Cake was a majestic, multilayered, multiflavoured triumph of haute patissérie. It was as tall as any one of the kids who were wildly scurrying around it, waiting for the moment when they could wolf down on a piece of it. That moment had not yet arrived because the main, most troublesome kid, the one this whole event was supposed to be about, was nowhere to be seen.

"Honey," asked Panchy, coming close to her husband, who observed the scene with all the satisfaction of someone who hadn't done absolutely anything to contribute to its realisation, "do you know where's Bulma?"

"Bulma?" he said "Oh, maybe she's playing around with my present."

"Honey, what did I say about not giving Bulma her presents beforehand?"

"I know." the man bowed his head, apologetic. "But she'd have so much fun with it, and I was wondering... what could she possibly do that's so bad with a wearable capsule set?"

"Fear not, people of this city!"

The voice had come from above. Everyone turned their head up, to see a little girl standing on top of a library, her blue hair waving in the draft that came in from an open skylight.

"The bringer of Justice!" she screamed, striking an elaborate pose.

"Bulma, please, come down, that's dangerous!" shouted Panchy.

The kid pushed a button on a device looking much like a wristwatch and jumped, above the table, disappearing among a cloud of smoke.

"TRANSFORMATION! CAPSULE KAMEN!"

The cream, sponge, and chocolate sprayed up to a range of five meters all around as a perfectly suited little superhero landed in the middle of the table.

"Nothing happened." hissed Bulma, and Yamcha felt like inquiring further would not be wise.

Dr. Briefs coughed and cleared his voice. "To go back to our original topic, I think we should consider what went wrong in Bulma's experiment, and how to fix it. Proceeding, this time, in a safer manner." he concluded, with a meaningful look at his daughter.

She thought about it a moment. "The experiment, I think, was not a complete failure." she said. "The readings should show this, but it really was ki that gave me the strength to break my own arm. The problem wasn't that the idea didn't work, it was a matter of control. I unleashed, if anything, too much ki. And by the way - I feel exhausted, even now."

"You based the signal on us, right?" asked Goku. "That means it was too strong, maybe. Like, asking for one hundred when you could only handle five."

"I had thought of it, and tried to compensate for that." explained Bulma. "But I suppose it wasn't enough. Truth is, the main references I had were you, Yamcha, Spike and Bandages. And even Spike, who's the weakest of you all, still counts as several dozens of times stronger than any regular human. There's a big gap in the middle, and extrapolating through it isn't easy. Unfortunately it's not as simple as tuning the intensity; shape comes into it too, apparently. It's been giving me a headache."

"So what you would need," suggested the doctor, "is a big data set of complete measurements performed on a vast pool of ki users of a varied range of strengths, in order to properly calibrate the stimulator to only free an amount of ki that the target body can withstand?"

His daughter nodded. Both she and her father fell into a long silence, each thinking about possible solutions.

"Lots of martial artists... this makes me think of a dream I had tonight!" exclaimed Yamcha, suddenly. "I participated in the Tenkaichi Tournament, and there were hundreds of other fighters! And somehow I beat them all and won!"

Both the scientists turned to look straight at him.

"What?" asked the boy, confused. "What did I say?"

Papaya Island, Southern Ocean

Two days later

The wind was gently whistling through the palm trees, the sun shone bright upon the land, the sea gently caressed the beach, and Brother Wei was partaking in that periodic ordeal that was handling the financial side of the biggest martial arts tournament in the world. It would have been gruelling work for the most expert of fundraisers; for a monk belonging to an order that usually subsisted on alms collected from nearby villages by one brother with a bowl and a bell it was the closest they could possibly imagine to Hell (which made it an excellent way to purge one's mind of sinful temptations). The long list of the sums local businesses and private citizens, thirty five altogether, had been willing to donate to the cause of celebrating the peak achievements of human body and mind in that traditional event with a century of history added up to a pretty hefty total - in fact, had it been for any other purpose, it would have been enough to send Wei's head spinning. But this was the Tenkaichi Tournament; between buying equipment, repairing the ring and paying for basic lodgings and logistics for hundreds of martial artists gathering from all over the world, that sum was still almost one zero short of the necessary total. Tickets would help, of course, but they could not be relied upon too much - viewership had in fact been steadily declining in the last editions.

The other way to gain some margin was of course to slice off money from the prizes. Sadly, that tended to be a bad move in the long run - the competitors needed to pay for their own travel expenses, and the less money they could make out of it, the less motivated they were to show up at all. Therefore, lowering the prizes had resulted in an overall loss of quality of the fighters. Brother Wei was bitterly sad about how low the martial arts seemed to have sunk - that they should be practiced for money, and not for the sake of the edification of one's mind and body. Yet that was the spirit of the times. The most disgraceful example was perhaps the brother of the Crane Master, one of the greatest of all time, who now scoured the world as a killer for hire. The tournament's prizes, in their own way, served the noble purpose of keeping the best away from such wretched ways of life.

But the tournament prizes were also damn expensive. With a sigh, Brother Wei took his pencil to their entry in the balance and erased it with a single stroke, replacing it with a much smaller number.

That's when he heard the ruckus.

"Brother Qiang," he called, a slight irritation in his voice, jutting out of his cell, "even outside of such critical times, it would be more becoming of us to not taint the quiet of our temple."

"I'm sorry, Brother Wei," apologised the other, agitated, "but it's not us. Someone has arrived and has demanded to see you."

"See me?" the monk raised his eyebrows. "Tell the visitor to have patience. I will meet them when it is the time."

"We have told her." Brother Qiang's voice softened into a whimper. "She didn't listen."

"Where's this accountant?" resounded an imperious, yet distinctly girlish voice, through the temple's halls. "I have a great proposition for them - one that will solve all his problems!"

Brother Wei considered those words. On one hand, this visitor seemed to be rude beyond belief, and way too ready to wreak havoc on the peace that everyone at the temple so carefully cultivated. On the other, even a glimmer of hope of deliverance from his current troubles was enough to grab his attention.

"Guide her to me." he decided, finally. "At least she'll be quiet and not disturb anyone else. I'll listen what she has to say and send her on her way."

Qiang bowed respectfully, then hurried to carry out the instructions. One moment later, a blue tornado stormed through the doors.

"I'm Bulma Briefs!" she announced, with a smile charming enough to undo a couple years worth of meditation to purge one's earthly passions. "And I've come to save you."

"Brother Wei. I don't know why you'd think I need saving." lied the monk, gesturing towards a low cushion for her to kneel in front of a small tea tray. "But please, accept my hospitality, and let me know what led you to this thought."

"Don't you now?" Bulma sat down, legs crossed, laying her plastered arm on one knee. "I read through the history of this little event you run here, the Tenkaichi Tournament. Very nice, but, I get the impression, going through a tough spot."

"Well..." Brother Wei gestured vaguely.

"Not many spectators any more."

"You could say..."

"Second rate contestants."

"That is a bit..."

"And of course, no sponsors."

"I wouldn't say that." replied Wei, annoyed, mostly by how fundamentally true every single thing she'd said was. "I was just going through our donors' list for this edition. Many generous people have helped us."

The girl smiled mischievously. "I'm sure of that. But is any of them as generous as me?"

The monk's eyes sparkled. "You intend to donate?"

"I intend to donate more than has ever been donated to all the previous editions, put together." she said. "But with a condition."

"We accept donations, not bribes." answered Wei, brusquely. "The fairness of the Tournament is not for sale."

"Oh, you misunderstand me. I, like you, am a patron of the martial arts. Though perhaps in a different way." Bulma dug into her shoulder bag and dragged out a small brochure titled Capsule Corporation: Beyond the Human Potential, handing it to Brother Wei. "See, what I'm looking for is fighters to observe and learn from. I am studying the martial arts... scientifically. What I was hoping for was that you could allow me to record data from the participants' performances, making it a condition for registration."

The monk quickly went through the brochure's content. He didn't get much of it, and he thought he needed to get someone with more experience than him in martial arts or science to evaluate it. Still, most of it seemed just full of awfully vague hints at prodigious discoveries to come. He wondered whether it wasn't all just a publicity stunt. "Seems interesting." he said. "But is that truly all you would expect of us? What would your donation amount to?"

"Money for the biggest prize ever, plus multiple prizes for lower tiers. We want to draw a lot of fighters of all sorts, even the weaker ones need to feel like they have a shot at winning something." she started, counting on her fingers. "Then of course we'll take care of the marketing campaign - no offense, but simply handing fliers here on the island and relying on master-to-pupil word of mouth doesn't cut it - and we'll provide machinery and equipment for the entire elimination round, not to mention travel expenses for all fighters who need them."

Brother Wei was thoughtful. "This way we'll be flooded by people of all sorts." he noted. "From masters to complete novices."

"Of course, that's the objective." explained the girl. "We need to abate all barriers to participation so that we can have a sample as diverse as possible. Once the eliminatories are over, you'll still have only eight fighters standing for the public fights. But they'll be picked from a much larger pool."

"I need to discuss this with the other brothers." said the monk. "But the conditions do not sound unreasonable. And you will not register any fighters yourself?"

"I never said that." replied Bulma.

Brother Wei frowned. "Surely, you don't expect any favouritism? As I said..."

"Fear not, brother." she chuckled. "It will all be perfectly regular. They don't need any help to win everything themselves."

"Everything? Do you have any idea of what..."

"Oh, believe me, I do." she got up and gave a small bow, handing her business card. "I'll take my leave now, and will wait for your call. Not just for the money - if you want this tournament to be a real show, we have that in spades."

And she stormed out, leaving in her wake a bamboozled shaolin temple.

Brother Wei looked at the business card, then the brochure, alternatively. He wasn't much sure what could this outsider, who clearly lacked any of the qualities that made a true martial artist successful, possibly appreciate of the art of fighting. He suspected she was just some frivolous billionnaire who had taken a passing interest in all things spiritual and was way out of her depth now, ready to drop everything and go on to the next fad in a couple of months.

Then again, those kind of people contributed a significant fraction to the overall income of temples like the one Brother Wei lived in. That, too, was the spirit of the times. He looked once again at the balance sheet of donations, tossed it in a drawer without much care and walked out, whistling a happy tune.

A different island, Southern Ocean

A few days later

With her kind of life, and her kind of career, Sherry had seen all sorts of things. Street smarts were not an optional in her line of work. And still, her current job might have been the weirdest she'd ever undertaken.

"Sherry, sweetheart, are you making dinner?" called a voice from outside the house.

"Yes, of course!" replied Sherry, popping three precooked meals into the microwave and slamming the door shut.

"Great! I'll wait for your delicious cuisine!" said the voice.

Sherry was not a maid, she was not a governess, and she was definitely not a cook. She would not have accepted a job as any of those things either, in principle - but this wasn't really either of them. Sure, she did a bit of everything in this house she'd been living in for the last months, but none of that was the main reason why she was being paid.

In fact, she was not entirely sure, yet, of why she was being paid. She only knew the job was cushy, stable, and reasonably well remunerated, and that was enough to make it vastly superior to almost anything she'd done in the last five years of her life. Given the conditions, she was well ready to perform some of her more usual duties as well, but that had never been requested. The old man had a thing which meant he mostly liked to look, apparently. He was one of those. Some other women would have found him creepy, but for Sherry, he was straight up vanilla. At the beginning he seemed to think he'd been doing it without her realising, which peeved her a bit. Even on the job, there were lines. But then they'd cleared things out. Now Sherry got a hour of proper privacy in the morning to clean herself up, and everything else was fair game. She'd still pretend not to know a thing, of course - that was the spice of it, for types like this guy. All part of the job.

As said before, extremely cushy. Sherry did not know what had taken her, to just go up and follow the weird bald kid who had come running to hire her, but it had been the best choice of her professional life.

"Master, I'm back! I finally finished!"

"Well, let's go have lunch then! I'm sure Sherry has prepared us something delicious."

The door to the kitchen slammed open, and in walked her customer and his pupil. The old man, even with sunglasses on, couldn't disguise the fact that he was totally ogling her. To be fair, Sherry had purposefully put on a rather modded version of an apron for the occasion, and was barely wearing anything under that. Never let it be said that she didn't give her customers their money's worth.

The bald kid simply kept his eyes low, red in his face with either effort or embarrassment, and sat at the table, ready to wolf down anything that got put in his plate. When the microwave rang, Sherry pulled out the trays and dumped their contents on three plates. The kid had started digging in before she could even warn that it was scorching hot. He didn't seem to mind.

"So, how did it go today, Krillin?" she asked with a smile, sitting down to eat her own share.

"Pwetty well." answered the kid, mouth half full. "I'm gwetting weally stwong."

"You should not let it go to your head, boy." admonished him his master. "The path of the martial arts is one that's always going upwards."

Krillin rolled his eyes. "Weww, duh. You'we stiww stwongew than me, mastew Muten." He swallowed the rest of the meal in a single gulp. Sherry was impressed and slightly scared. "But I'm the only pupil of the strongest there is. That makes me basically the second strongest by default!"

Muten chuckled, feigning modesty. "Strongest there is, well, who knows, who knows! But you're wrong to be so conceited. There's always someone stronger out there."

"Unless you're the strongest of all." pointed out Krillin. "Then there isn't."

"You know, he is right." agreed Sherry.

The old man shook his head. "Sherry, dearie, you're a sweetheart but maybe this isn't your field of expertise. Well, here's the thing. If you feel so ready to take on the world, boy, why don't you do it for real?"

Krillin's eyes lightened up. "You mean...?"

"The Tenkaichi Tournament is up and coming." Muten pulled a newspaper out of a pocket. "And this year it seems like they're doing some big changes. They're sponsored by Capsule Corporation, which means they'll have a lot of rich prizes. No better stage to prove that you're really the strongest."

"CAN I?" the kid jumped up in excitement. "Oh, I'm going to show 'em all! I promise I won't disappoint you, master! I will come back with the first prize!"

"I won't be bothered if you do." the old master chuckled. "But if you don't, that means I'm right, and you'll listen to my wise advice a bit more."

"Oh, sure! No problem master! It'll be SO GREAT! Gonnatrainnowbye!"

And in a whoosh of wind Krillin had disappeared outside, running across the island with the speed of a motorbike.

"Well, he's got enthusiasm, I'll give him that." commented Muten, leaning back and splaying the newspaper open.

"You really think he won't win? He is incredibly strong." said Sherry.

"He is, he sure is, but you know. It's a big world."

"And you?" the woman fluttered her eyelashes. "Are you strong? You never show it."

"Eh, a bit, quite a bit." Muten blushed so much his whole head looked like a beetroot. "Do you like strong men, Sherry?"

She didn't answer, cleared her voice, and stretched a hand. Muten looked puzzled, checked his watch, then dug a banknote out of his pocket and gave it to Sherry.

"Oh," she whispered, sliding the money in the front window of her apron, "I love them."

Pilaf's castle

The same day

Chichi was flying. Or, to be precise, the massive, four-propeller drone under her was flying, under Shu's control. Chichi was just along for the ride.

It was the best thing ever.

"Yuu-huu!" she screamed, delighted. "Higher! Faster!"

"I can't push it too far indoors, Princess." said Shu. "It's risky."

"Boo. You're a bore. You're boring." protested Chichi, with a pout.

"What is happening here?" Pilaf walked in, followed by the Ox King, stooping under a door too small for him. "We need to discuss important matters."

"Just a bit of fun for the Princess, Your Majesty." the dog waved. "Pay us no mind."

The drone with Chichi on board swooped in from above, nearly ripping off Pilaf's hat from his head, then pulled up again.

"Isn't that a bit... dangerous?" he asked, a bit shaken.

"Nah, Chichi can care for herself!" the Ox King laughed. "Ain't a small fall like this that can hurt her, I tell ya! Let her have fun."

"If you say so." Pilaf reached the throne, signalling to Shu that he'd better keep Chichi far from it, or else. After all, it wasn't danger to the brat that he was worried about.

"Now, on to our business." he said, dramatically tossing his mantle aside to sit on the throne. Even with all the added height, his head still was a good measure lower than the Ox King's, who was sitting on the floor in front of him. "You said you needed to talk about something."

"Yeah." the giant man nodded. "Money stuff."

"Oh." Pilaf's face fell. "That."

"We've gotta do somethin'. Yer funds are running out. And I didn't bring much from the ol' castle, which was on fire and all, so all my treasure's still in there..."

"Shu promised he'd find a way to recover it. Shu, how is the recovery project going?"

"Oh, excellently, Your Majesty!" the dog was huffing as he ran across the room, trying to recover control of the drone, that was now being steered around like a surfboard by a laughing Chichi who stood on top of it. "I just need a bit more funds to buy the necessary materials."

"Ya see?" the Ox King shook his head. "Him too. Those flying thingies don't pay for themselves, I tell ya."

"You have to spend money to make money." said Pilaf.

"That's all nice and good, but you gotta have money first. Thing is, I have an idea."

The man put his hand in a pocket and drew out a flier. It read Find out who's the Greatest Under The Heavens!, with a picture of a handsome man in a martial arts getup striking a cool pose.

"Ya see, the Tenkaichi Tournament's about to happen." explained the Ox King. "Biggest martial arts competition in the world. I lost once when I was a kid, but I was a wimp back then. Got much stronger since then. And this year the prizes are huge."

Pilaf nodded approvingly, reading through the flier. He seemed on board with the idea until his face contorted in a horrified expression as soon as he spotted a familiar logo in the corner of the flier. "SPONSORED BY CAPSULE CORPORATION?" he shrieked. "The company of... that girl?"

"Don't see it as a bad thing." said the other with a shrug. "Yer basically just taking her money."

"Oh, that's true." Pilaf chuckled. "We can rub it in her face if you manage to snatch the first prize. You know what, we're convinced. This sounds like a great idea. Shu!"

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"Put together the best training equipment you can find! The Ox King will have to get himself into full fighting shape in one month. And we need a plane to ride to Papaya Island..."

Somewhere beyond space and time

The same day (for what it's worth)

"Hiya, Baba! Long time no see."

"Greetings, Lord Enma. How do you do?"

"Not bad, not bad. Same old work. This finally the last time you'll pass by here? Should I get your file?"

"That'll be the day." the little, grizzled old witch, laughed dryly. "You will see me hang around for a while still. I came to meet with someone. If you'd be so kind to call them down for me."

"Just gimme a sec."

The immense office was, as usual, crowded with people. Not just the souls of the recently departed from all corners of the cosmos, but the demon clerks carrying around documents too. No matter how many times she got to see it - and she was pretty sure no other mortal had seen it as much as her - Baba the Sybil was always awed and impressed by it. More so, as age kept creeping on her (even if she always wore her years well, almost four hundred of them started taking their toll), the prospect of walking in there not of her own will felt increasingly daunting. Many thought that fear of death spanned by ignorance of it, but even in her knowledge, she just couldn't feel much more at ease with the idea.

Somewhere, up there, a button was pressed. A soul screamed for mercy in an incomprehensible tongue as it fell through the trapdoor, and even its screams eventually faded out. Only a slight stench of smoke and sulphur lingered in the air.

Baba sighed. She really ought to consider donating a bit more of her money to charity. Not too much, though.

"Busy day." complained King Enma, putting aside some papers. "A star went supernova in the South Galaxy. So, who is it that you want to meet?"

"Oh, you know, the old man. The guy I talked to the last time."

"Ah, him." the demon nodded and started browsing a folder. "Sure, it's no big deal. You already going to use him in your tournaments? Customers coming?"

"That's not happening." the witch frowned. "Those lazy good-for-nothing bums dumped me. Went to work for someone else who apparently paid better. Bah. So I don't have warriors to fight for me now, and I'm bored."

"Always told you you gotta pay your employees more." King Enma laughed and patted his records book. "It's all in here, you know? When your time comes..."

"Yeah, we'll see then." cut short the old woman.

"So what do you want the old guy for? You can't have him fight alone, can you?"

"Different reason. He had mentioned to me he wanted to meet a certain someone, while I need to find new ways of having fun since those idiots left me, and there's something that will work just fine for both of us. Plus, there's money to be made, which is never a bad thing."

"ALEPPE!" One of the clerks ran out of the crowd, dropping all his work, to bow deeply in front of King Enma and listen to his orders as he pointed to a picture in his records. "Go to Heaven, in the Blissful Valley of the Burning Phoenix, get me this guy. And tell him... what should he tell him, Baba?"

"That on Earth, the Tenkaichi Tournament is about to be held." said the witch. "And that this year, Son Goku will be in it."

Red Ribbon Headquarters

Still the same day

If you weren't part of his staff, to get an unscheduled meeting with Commander Red, you had to submit your request of an appointment days in advance. If the reason was deemed possibly worthy of his precious time, you would get a meeting with one of his attendants. They'd hear your piece and consider it. If it was actually assessed as important enough to warrant the Commander's attention, you'd get your ten minutes slot to talk to him at some unspecified point in the future. Before entering the office, for security, you also had to submit yourself to a full body check.

Either that, or you could be Dr. Gero, Chief of the Research Division of the Red Ribbon.

The old scientist blasted through the office's door and bolted to the Commander's desk, violently slamming something on it. The Commander was still recovering from the shock when three agents from his security staff came through the doors and pointed their guns at the intruder.

"At ease, everyone." said Staff Officer Black, who was standing at the Commander's side. He gestured to the guards that they could leave, then turned to Gero, frowning. "Doctor, there are protocols in place, and they are there for a reason. You can't just burst in here unannounced."

"Nonsense." grumbled the other. "You know it's me. And this is way too urgent."

"Let him be, Black." Red laughed. "We trust him. And after all, you know how it is, geniuses can get a bit eccentric."

The Staff Officer didn't say anything, but sent a last, disapproving glance at the scientist. "So what is so urgent," he asked, "that it warrants violating all rules and disrupt our Commander's schedule?"

"This is!" He lifted again the paper flier that he'd brought in and fanned it in Black's face. The officer winced and withdrew slightly. "Listen here - The competition to establish the strongest... wonderful prizes... a show the likes of which you've never seen..., and so on, and then, here! Sponsored by Capsule Corporation!"

Commander Red grabbed the flier and read through it casually. "The Tenkaichi Tournament. Seems fun." he said. "But what's urgent about it?"

"These people are doing the same research I am!" screamed Gero. "This Bulma Briefs, barely off her mother's tit and thinks she's some hot stuff. You've seen it in the West City incident already. Now this. They're just throwing money at the problem. You know what happens if they get the drop on me?"

Black frowned. "All our weapons become obsolete. All our tanks, artillery and tactics are worth nothing. We get pushed out of the game in one fell swoop. However, doctor, I thought your research focused more on cybernetics?"

"It is all one thing." Gero waved his hand dismissively. "You wouldn't get it. Metal, flesh, machines are still machines. Different roads lead to the same result. She's trying to make superhuman warriors. Same as me."

"Oh, come on." suddenly Commander Red sounded much more worried. "Surely you don't think some civilian could just beat us at our own game."

"There is a possibility, I suppose." said the Staff Officer, solemnly. "This had already been on my mind for a while. Capsule Corporation certainly has the resources. And while they've never worked on military technology, that is just a choice of theirs. They certainly could, if they wished to. Plus, this is simply unexplored territory for all of us."

"Exactly. So if you just increased my fundi-"

Dr. Gero's plea was cut short. "We can't compete with them on money." said Black. "But there are other ways. If we-"

"You know what," interrupted Red, "we should check this Tournament out."

The Staff Officer raised his eyebrows in slight surprise. "I was about to suggest it. Gathering intel is certainly-"

"Papaya Island is really nice this season!" the Commander grinned. "And this event looks like fun. I could use a vacation, for all my hard work!"

"Commander," Black frowned, "I believe we should take this very seriously. We should send someone from our intelligence division, and they should inconspicuously-"

"To hell with that! I've decided, we'll go ourselves." said the other. "It's all very easy. We just go in civvies, check out what's going on. It's probably all just a publicity stunt. But if it's not, well, we just need to get rid of this Bulma person, right?"

"This company has a direct connection to the King." explained Black. "That kind of action may have consequences."

"Then we'll just have to make it look like an accident when the time comes. Doctor, you want to tag along? As an expert consultant."

"Absolutely not, Commander." snapped back the old man. "My work is at a critical stage! I can't leave my lab for any reason."

"So, same as usual." Red chuckled. "Cheer up, Black! We're going to have ourselves some fun."

The officer sighed. "Do I have permission to at least organise an escort?"

"Yeah, sure, grab some men to come with us. They deserve some time off too! Oh, hear this: the Tournament takes place on the background of one of the most beautiful natural scenarios found in the tropical seas..."

Ptero tribe village

STILL the same day

Packing up wasn't a big job, since no one among the ptero tribe wore clothes, and Giran was no exception. Still, he was taking some time doing it. He owned few things, but would need to leave some behind anyway. He was weighing one of his old weapons, a stone-cut axe he'd used a lot back in his childhood years to cut trees and hunt, when the older pterodactyl walked in the hut.

"Hard choices?"

"Nah, dad." Giran shook his head and dropped the axe. "It's just stuff."

The old ptero walked to him and hugged him dearly. His tiny body almost disappeared among the massive arms of the son.

"I'm sorry." said the father. "Exile is a hard way to walk. Especially if not deserved."

The younger ptero let him go. "It was the only way for me to leave the village that wouldn't raise any suspicion." he muttered. "I'll see my job to the end."

"You must." said emphatically the other. "By any and all means. We can not let ourselves be dragged on the wrong side of this war again. It would be the end of our tribe. And... it is not right."

"Don't worry. I wouldn't want our little conspiracy to be in vain."

"Do you have any plans on where to go, yet?"

"I've had a dream." said Giran, while picking between two small leather bags that were meant to be tied around his waist. "An island, to the south. A gathering of warriors where I could find allies."

His father laughed. "Well, I'll be damned!" he said. "I thought you never believed in the spirits and their messages."

"I'm at the end of my wits here." grumbled the other. "Might as well give it a try."

"Then may the spirits guide you to faithful friends. That they may light the way in your darkest hour."

"I'd be more grateful if they could beat up my enemies for me. I can afford a torch." Giran extended an open hand towards his father. "Do you have it?"

"Of course." the old ptero dug into a bag he kept across his shoulder. Out of it he drew something, and passed it to Giran. With his immense hand, the son picked the object up between thumb and index finger alone.

"I've replaced it with a fake." explained the father. "No one will notice until the day comes, and then it will be too late."

"Great. That's all I need."

"I'll be going then. I wouldn't want to arouse suspicion. Goodbye, son." the old ptero nodded one last time, looking at the younger one with pride and sadness. Then he scurried away.

Giran dropped the small object in the leather bag. It fit snugly. It was a small, perfectly smooth stone ball.

"I'll be going too." he said to himself.

A small Red Ribbon base

...look, it was a very eventful day, okay?

Each push made the pulleys and cables creak, made some more sweat drop, and made her stronger. This was Mai's only thought as she worked her arms, laying on a bench under a training machine. The left arm was screaming pain with every muscle fiber. The right one did not have much to say any more - but the shoulder where metal joined with flesh did the speaking for it. Using it in training normally wouldn't have made much sense, but it helped her keep things balanced, and it helped her get used to it. Shoulder and chest muscles too had to readjust to the new, artificial limb, and she needed to learn how to limit its power to match the organic one. Otherwise it'd end up bearing all the brunt of every effort, and that wouldn't be good for the rest of her body.

"For being Violin, you play some monotonous music." quipped someone, entering the gym. Mai dropped the machine instantly and got up in an attempt at a salute. The violently burning shoulder prevented her from doing more than raising clumsily her hand.

"At ease." said Piano, smiling. "Violin, there's rehabilitation, then there's training, and then there's torture. I would draw the line at the second if I were in you."

"I'm just trying to get stronger." said the woman. "Worthier."

"All the more reason not to destroy your body, then, hm? Unless you love your new arm so much, you'd want to lose and replace the other too..."

Mai didn't say anything at that. The thought, she had to admit, had crossed her mind.

"What is it that you wanted to talk about, Colonel?" she asked.

"We're alone. Just Piano is fine." The old pterodactyl showed her a photograph. It was taken in the wilderness, probably with a zoom lens. It showed another pterodactyl like him, but young and massive, travelling naked and with minimal luggage. Instead of being green, his scales were cobalt blue. "I wanted to show you this guy."

Mai grabbed the picture and looked at it closer. "What about him?"

"He comes from a certain tribe." explained her superior. "One of which I, myself, was born, back in the time. A tribe that used to be loyal to our Master and whose loyalties are now... uncertain."

"Are they enemies?" she asked.

"Neutral, on paper." said Piano. "But you know how it is. This guy left the tribe earlier today. Very low key affair. Apparently, he was exiled, which would make for a perfectly reasonable excuse for him to go away without arousing suspicion."

"But you were suspicious." pointed out Mai. "Or there would not have been a sentinel guarding the place."

"My dear Violin, I am always suspicious. It's healthy."

"So what does he know? Can he do us any harm?"

Piano sat down on a stool, thoughtful. "We made contact some time ago, asking them to renew their fealty. They - very politely - declined. They didn't seem to be all on board, but promised they would stay out of it altogether. Good enough for us back then, we couldn't spare forces to punish them and risk blowing our cover. But the degree of enthusiasm across the tribe seemed very variable."

"You mean some might want to join us?" asked Mai.

"Yes. While some might be ready to oppose us more actively, which might be the case here. Before we lost contact, he was going southwards. Your next assignment is to find him, figure out what he's up to, and if necessary, eliminate him. You'll receive all the equipment and capsules that you need. Be warned: he's a warrior, and not one to be taken lightly."

This time, Mai managed a proper salute. "Thank you for your trust, sir."

"Oh, and another thing. I suspect he may have an item with him - an inert Dragon Ball. It goes without saying that you should retrieve it, as it would constitute an immense advantage when one year passes after their last use and the chase begins anew."

"Sure." the woman looked genuinely amazed. "Sir, with all due respect, that is... how do you know something like that? No radar can catch the Balls when they're inert, or so I thought. They're just supposed to be like normal rocks."

"You thought right. I know the same way I knew, more than one year ago, that the time had come to plan for bringing back our Master. The same way he always communicates with us." said the old ptero, with a thin smile. "I saw it in a dream."

I'm finally back! Sorry for the pause over Christmas, but while the holidays meant a lot of free time, they also meant a lot of other things to do. With this chapter we officially open the new arc, the Tenkaichi Tournament. It wouldn't be a good battle shounen story without a TOURNAMENT ARC. And as you may guess, this will also tie in a much larger story involving the Red Ribbon and the other forces that are moving behind the scenes...

One little curiosity: the episode about Bulma's ninth birthday was originally supposed to be included in the previous arc as part of a bigger subplot involving Yamcha doing some superhero stuff, but then got removed due to time concerns. I pushed it to this chapter because I loved it too much to abolish it altogether. Had it been used as planned, the chapter would have been titled 'I will make you a kamen'. And yes, the watch is a reference to the costume Bulma makes for Great Saiyaman in DBZ. If anyone wondered why did she already seem to know very well how to make something like that...

This chapter's title, on the other hand, is a reference to "The 36th Chamber of Shaolin", a great classic of Hong Kong kung fu movies. If you love the trope of extreme martial arts training sequences such as the one Goku and Krillin have with Muten in the original Dragon Ball, this is that trope extended to a whole movie's length, and you have to check it out.