The announcer's voice cracked like thunder across the arena, rolling up through the light and the noise and the held breath of thousands. "Prepare yourselves! The Tournament of Timelines… begins now!"
Silence clung to that sentence for a heartbeat. Then Beerus and Whis climbed into the air, weightless and unhurried, their figures lit by the golden wash of the battlefield. The light seemed to cling to them, outlining the lean ease of the Destroyer and the serene poise of his angel. But the air trembled with more than their presence. The walls of energy that fenced off each timeline shimmered, and shadows moved within. One by one, they stepped out of the partitions—pairs upon pairs until there were twelve—each a mirror, each an echo, each unmistakably themselves and yet not.
They didn't look like copies so much as variations on a melody. The familiar pair—Prime Beerus with the teal-and-gold sash resting like a promise of royalty, Prime Whis in his lucid white trimmed with soft silver—floated with the calm of old rulers who have seen too many endings to flinch at another. Beerus hid steel in laziness; Whis, patience sharpened by a thin blade of humor.
Next drifted a Beerus with a crimson lens for an eye, the metal gleaming where flesh once was. Wires stitched into muscle. His Whis wore a coat that hummed with data, glyphs and graphs flickering across the fabric as if the cloth itself could think. The Inventor and the Neon Sage: destruction as design, prophecy as algorithm.
A clatter of steel announced another—a medieval warlord whose armor bore clawed flourishes and the history of conquered halls. His Whis followed like a storm in robes, arcane symbols drifting as though the embroidery might wake and speak; the crystalline staff crowned with a floating orb that never fell. Oath and iron, law and spell.
Steam hissed somewhere above as goggles flashed: the Tinkerer with brass set into bone and gauntlets that breathed in short, impatient bursts. His counterpart moved with a clock's certainty, robe interlaced with brass filigree that clicked in tiny, measured beats. These two looked at the battlefield and saw blueprints.
Salt and laughter arrived with the creak of leather: a pirate in a jeweled tricorn, coat patched by a life that refused to be neat. Beside him flowed a Whis whose robe moved like tidewater, staff crowned by a pearl that seemed to hold moonlight. Fate, he might say, was a current; plunder, the choice to swim or drown.
A red kimono cut the air like a vow. The samurai lifted a hand to the lacquered sheath at his hip, calm coiling there. His Whis stood in simple hakama, scroll case shifting softly against his back with each breath—teacher and wanderer; riddle and blade.
Somewhere vines rustled. Feathers and beads and paint in careful lines marked a Beerus who smelled faintly of rain. The Whis at his shoulder wore the forest like a blessing, leaf and light woven into a robe that made him difficult to separate from the green. Flowers budded at the head of his staff, opening toward the arena's starlight. Protector and keeper, thunder and root.
Metal screamed against metal as another pair descended: a gladiator with spikes crowning his shoulders and a helmet stamped with his own insignia—showman and executioner in one. The Whis beside him carried a whistle as if order itself needed to be worn; the Arena Overseer who could stop a massacre with a single note and start it again with a nod.
Dust swirled around boots and a battered duster. Twin revolvers tapped his hips in time with his stride. The Outlaw's eyes were the color of empty roads. His Whis wrapped himself in wind-bleached cloth and silence, an obsidian shard glinting at the end of his staff; a nomad who measured distance in stories.
Then came a pair in robes stitched with constellations—hands dusted in light as though he had just finished shaping a galaxy with his fingers. Behind him, threads of brilliance danced around Whis's hands and crossed each other like lines on a loom. Architect and Weaver: creation as craft, destiny as fabric.
Laughter—too bright, a little cracked—split the quiet as a lab coat flapped open, chemical stains painting a history of experiments that should not have worked and sometimes did. The Whis beside him juggled glass like a street magician, writing between catches and never missing a throw. Variables. Hypotheses. A recipe for calamity.
Last came the soldier. Scars ran across Beerus's face like old rivers, ending at a black patch he did not bother to hide. He didn't strut or smile; he existed the way a knife does—in case. His Whis carried a medical kit at his side and a softer gravity than the others, as though he knew the uses of both morphine and mercy.
The arena answered them all, as if it had been built for this chorus of gods. Platforms drifted in slow orbits through a void that never settled on one color—violet, then cobalt, then gold, all of it breathing. Stars pricked the ceiling of forever and shed a cold illumination across the stones. Far below, as though the world had a pulse, fissures opened and closed, lines of pure energy thudding with a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat. Around it hovered screens so large they made mountains look modest—brackets empty for now, scores waiting, live feeds casting combat from angles that couldn't exist. The light of them washed over faces in the stands and gave everyone a borrowed glow.
Barriers of humming energy divided spectators from fighters, soft to the eye and implacable to the touch. Families and friends pressed close, hands laced through gaps that didn't exist. Chi-Chi's jaw was set so stubbornly it might have cut stone. Videl leaned forward with the posture of someone who refuses to blink at danger. Pan bounced on her toes because she was young and not built for stillness. Bulma whispered to Future Bulma and both women nodded as if they had arrived at the same solution from different starting points. Mr. Satan clutched his lucky charm with two hands and a prayer he would deny later.
On the floor, the warriors of Timeline One looked up and tried to measure twelve gods at once, and—because they were who they were—failed and didn't mind. Goku grinned the way sunrises do. "Wow, look at all those Beeruses! They're so cool!"
Vegeta's arms folded themselves. "Hmph. Most of them are weaklings compared to our Beerus, Probably..." It sounded like an insult; it wasn't.
Future Gohan's jaw squared. He didn't speak loudly, but the words carried anyway. "We have to win—for everyone who can't fight anymore."
Piccolo traced the lines of the platforms with narrowed eyes, cataloging edges and distances, exits and traps. "Every detail matters. We'll need to adapt quickly."
Uub's fingers tightened until bone creaked. "I won't let anyone down."
Future Trunks touched the hilt at his shoulder without looking, like a ritual and a promise. "Let's show them!"
Present Gohan pushed his glasses higher and drew a breath as if he meant to learn the entire arena by heart. "This is it. No turning back."
The announcer floated forward again, all vowels and spectacle. His smile had too many teeth for comfort. "This tournament is a fight for your lives, for your universe, for your timeline." Words blossomed into symbols on the nearest screen: empty bracket lines waiting like open doors. "We draw the bracket randomly." A vast wall blinked awake, columns labeled, slots pulsing with the number zero. "When I draw, for example, '2 vs 9,' it means Timeline Two faces Timeline Nine. Then we pick a random fighter from each. If your timeline has only one warrior, well—fate loves efficiency."
He spread his hands. The screens dutifully followed, throwing up a cascade of small-print rules that dissolved into a single, brutal thesis. "There are no rules. Kill if you must. Any weapon is legal. The prize? Your timeline survives. And you may bring back one other timeline of your choice, so the two of you fight as allies in future tournaments." A pause, an indulgent glance toward the angels and their masters. "You'll also receive training from your God of Destruction and Angel. Consider it… a scholarship."
A hush swept the stands—hope and dread sharing a chair.
Somewhere above, the twelve pairs settled into a loose ring, gods regarding gods with the cool interest of predators meeting in a meadow. The Prime pair hovered at the center, steady as a clock. Around them spun the others: steam and steel; tide and scroll; thorn and blossom; dust and thread; laughter and morphine. Their shadows crossed and braided on the shifting platforms until the battlefield looked woven rather than built.
A sphere the size of a house rose from beneath the main dais, facets whirling. Inside it, numbers flickered like trapped fireflies. The announcer laid his palm against the glass and the machine obeyed. Digits tumbled. Gasps chased them.
The first match clicked into being.
Murmurs broke, running ahead of fear. On the platform where Timeline One waited, the air tightened, the way it does before lightning. They had arrived at the same moment from a hundred different pasts, and now the future narrowed to a single step forward. Goku bounced once. Vegeta didn't. Piccolo folded his arms for exactly two seconds, then unfolded them again. Uub exhaled. Future Gohan lifted his chin. Trunks's fingers found the sword a second time. Present Gohan's breath steadied.
The stage was ready. The stakes were everything. And as the first name burned itself onto the bracket, the warriors of Timeline One moved—into the light, into the noise, into the unknown.
Spectators leaned forward, a sea of faces taut with excitement. The spotlight swept across the battleground until it found them—two figures who stood in stillness before the storm.
NAIL (TIMELINE 7) VS TIEN (TIMELINE 9)!! The First Fight of The Tournament.
On one side, Nail, the calm sentinel of Timeline Seven, his stance steady as stone, his aura cloaked in the quiet wisdom of Namek. On the other, Tien Shinhan of Timeline Nine, the human who had honed himself into something more than mortal, every muscle coiled with discipline and will. They were different as fire and river, but the same confidence burned behind their eyes.
As the distance between them seemed to narrow with every breath, Nail's voice carried across the arena—low, steady, a ripple of calm against the charged silence.
"You've trained hard. Your ki burns brightly… but will it be enough?"
Tien smirked, the glow of his third eye unwavering, his voice sharp with defiance.
"I didn't get this far by doubting myself. Let's see if all that Namekian meditation helps you keep up."
The crowd erupted, sensing the tension harden into rivalry. Serenity against resolve. Balance against ambition.
Without warning, the two vanished-Nail's fist like a hammer aimed for Tien's chest. The human twisted at the last instant, his counterkick snapping through the air. The blow landed clean, but Nail absorbed it without so much as a wince, his body shrugging off the strike as though it were a breeze brushing past stone.
He's strong, Tien thought, landing lightly. Stronger than I expected. But strength isn't everything.
He snapped his hand forward, fingers glowing.
"Dodon Ray Barrage!"
Golden beams flared from his fingertips, lancing across the arena in rapid succession. The audience gasped as each shot curved with deadly precision toward Nail. But the Namekian only lifted his palm. A shimmering barrier of green light blossomed, each beam shattering harmlessly against it.
"Impressive precision," Nail said calmly. "But you'll need more than tricks to break through my defenses."
Tien grinned. "Tricks? Oh, we're just getting started."
Tien blurred forward, his fists a storm of motion. Strikes rained down with punishing speed, testing every inch of Nail's reflexes. The Namekian yielded ground but barely flinched, every wound knitting back together almost as soon as it appeared.
Frustration flared, but Tien did not falter. Instead, he leapt back, spread his stance, and roared.
"Kaioken… times three hundred!"
The crowd gasped. His aura ignited in crimson flame, muscles straining under impossible power. The sheer force of it cracked the platforms beneath his feet. Even Nail blinked, caught off guard.
"Such reckless power," Nail said, though his guarded stance betrayed his concern. "Impressive… but unsustainable."
Tien didn't bother replying. He launched forward, crimson light trailing behind him. His blows struck with enough force to splinter stone, each one pushing Nail further back, until the Namekian's body finally shuddered under the strain.
Then Nail exhaled slowly, his aura deepening to an emerald blaze.
"Enough games."
He thrust his hands forward, and a tidal wave of green energy exploded outward, catching Tien and hurling him across the arena. The impact scarred the platform, leaving glowing fissures in its wake.
Both men slowed, breaths heavy, eyes locked. For a long moment they stood there, neither willing to surrender, both defined by the very limits they sought to break.
Tien wiped sweat from his brow, his voice ragged but steady.
"Your regeneration is annoying… but it won't save you forever."
Nail's answer was calm, resolute.
"And your Kaioken is remarkable. But how long can you wield it before it consumes you?"
The words hung between them, more than strategy. It was philosophy: Tien, the human who clawed past nature's boundaries through will alone. Nail, the Namekian rooted in balance and endurance, drawing strength from harmony within.
They moved at the same instant. Nail's fingers locked into a spiral as he gathered light.
"Special Beam Cannon!"
The attack roared into being, a corkscrew of pink and gold tearing the air.
Tien's body glowed crimson once more as he crossed his arms, channeling the last of his strength.
"Tri-Beam Hurricane!"
The beams collided. The world turned white. The arena shook as if the void itself had cried out. Energy surged in every direction, a storm of light swallowing the fighters whole.
When the dust cleared, the arena was cracked and scarred, smoke rising in ragged streams. Both warriors knelt, panting, their bodies trembling. But Nail's attack had buckled under the weight of Tien's desperation-fueled Tri-Beam. By inches, by heartbeats, the human had prevailed.
Winner: Tien (Timeline 9)
Nail pushed himself upright, swaying but smiling. "Well fought, Tien. You've earned my respect… and my defeat."
Tien bowed, weary but proud. "Thank you, Nail. That was… exhilarating."
"YEEEAAAH!"Launch was on her feet before Tien even cleared the rubble, hair snapping from blonde to blue in her frenzy. "That's my man up there! Did ya SEE that? Kaioken three-hundred, baby!" She fired imaginary finger-guns at the stunned alien spectators, daring anyone to doubt humanity now.
Krillin couldn't stop grinning. He slapped Yamcha on the back so hard the latter nearly toppled. "What'd I tell ya?! Humans don't quit!""Damn right," Yamcha puffed, though his heart still raced. Kaioken ×300… how the hell did he even survive that strain? Out loud, he smirked. "Guess I'm next to make 'em sweat, huh?"
Master Roshi chuckled low, his grin shadowed by something sharper—pride with an edge of awe. "Heh. Always knew that boy had the guts… but that? That was beyond guts." His dark shades hid the glint in his eyes. Tien… you've broken the ceiling.
Even Chiaotzu, trembling in his tiny boots, managed a smile so wide it hurt. "You did it," he whispered like a prayer. "You really did it…"
Across the ring, Nail staggered toward his bench, battle-worn but unbowed. His face betrayed nothing—not shame, not rage—only a tempered calm. But the air around his teammates told another story.
Slug's lips peeled back in a snarl. "Beaten. By a human." The word cracked like a curse. "This is an insult to—""Enough." Gast's voice cut through like a blade sliding from its sheath—soft, yet slicing. His eyes, pools of emerald steel, lingered on Tien's fading crimson aura. "That… was no ordinary human."
Dende glanced between them, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. "He risked everything… burned himself near to death just for that win." His voice trembled with something like admiration. "Does that… does that make them stronger than us?"Slug spat into the void. "Never."
But Gast didn't answer. His mind was a storm of calculations, dissecting every movement, every surge of ki. Three hundred times his base power. No divine spark. No fusion. No Namekian regeneration. Pure will.Slowly, he folded his arms, his voice low but carrying. "Underestimate them again… and it will be your undoing."
Nail sank to one knee before him, head bowed. "I fought with all I had," he said, voice stripped bare of pride or excuse. "And still… I fell." When he raised his gaze, it burned—not with humiliation, but with something fiercer. "Next time, I will not."
The crowd roared, not just for the victor but for the battle itself—for the way both fighters had poured their souls into it.
Back in his corner, Nail received a firm nod from Piccolo, quiet approval that spoke louder than applause. Goku, unable to contain himself, cheered like a boy at a festival.
On the other side, Krillin nearly tackled Tien in excitement. "Kaioken times three hundred? That's insane! You really showed 'em!"
Tien gave a tired laugh, shaking his head. "If I hadn't used it, Nail would've crushed me. He's no pushover."
Watching from the sidelines, Future Gohan folded his arms, eyes thoughtful.
"That fight proved something," he murmured. "No matter how strong you are, strategy and heart can turn the tide."
But out of nowhere.
Every fighter stilled. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.
The energy barriers that had stood like monoliths around each timeline began to shimmer. Their glow, once steady and strong, flickered as though something vast and unseen had drawn a breath. Sparks licked the edges of the walls. Cracks of light spidered across their surfaces, soft at first and then vicious, clawing outward until the barriers pulsed like glass on the brink of shattering.
Murmurs swept the stands. Whispers climbed into panic. Even the screens froze mid-repair, static crawling across their faces. And then the voice came—strained, stammering where once it had boomed like a god.
"T-This…" The announcer's throat clicked audibly against the mic. "This has been—a last-minute decision."
The words stumbled into the stunned silence. He swallowed hard, eyes darting as if the truth were too large to hold. "Each… timeline can now see the others. I—I don't have much information yet on why…" His hand wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a gleam that caught the light. "…but the decision was made by the Gods of Destruction themselves. The Beeruses."
Gasps broke like waves. The name alone shifted the weight in the air.
"And so," the announcer said, voice trembling as he forced the words out, "it… goes down."
As if on cue, the barriers gave their death cry—a sound like mountains splintering under oceans—and collapsed in a cascade of brilliance. The partitions fell, dissolving into streams of raw energy that bled into the void, leaving nothing but open sky between timelines.
For the first time, every warrior looked up—and saw.