Across the opposite side of the arena, Gast stood. His eyes locked onto Piccolo's. The two Namekians stared across the distance, the tension so sharp it was nearly physical. No words were spoken. None were needed.
Gast's aura flickered just slightly, a deep crimson-green glow that pressed against the space between them. Piccolo didn't flare his ki in return — he didn't need to. His presence alone answered. It was like the air between them compressed, an invisible collision of wills.
The spectators went quiet as they noticed. Even Vegeta tilted his head, smirking.
"Heh. Looks like the real fight between the Namekians hasn't even started yet."
Vegito's smirk faded into something closer to respect. "Gast is strong. But Piccolo isn't Just some namekian, he would BEAT most fighters of this tourney aswell."
Gast finally turned away, breaking the stare, but the weight of that unspoken promise hung heavy.
---
In the Timeline 2 seats, the energy was far different.
Goten sat slumped forward, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. His jaw trembled as he watched Piccolo return. "They all won… Uub, Gohan, Piccolo.. And us? We're the only ones who lost."
Trunks sat beside him, his expression tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't answer right away. He stared at his palms instead, remembering the sting of their loss, the embarrassment of defeat while their friends surpassed every expectation. Finally, his voice came out low.
"He's right. We were supposed to be the future too. But compared to them… we're just kids."
Krillin overheard, his brow softening. He leaned closer, speaking gently. "Hey. Don't sell yourselves short. You two fought hard. Loss isn't weakness — it's fuel. Every single one of us has been crushed before. What matters is whether you stand up again."
But Goten shook his head, frustrated. "That's easy for you to say. Everyone keeps winning. We're just… the weak links."
Piccolo landed near them then, his steps calm but deliberate. He looked down at the two boys, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You think defeat makes you worthless?"
They froze, staring up at him. Piccolo's tone cut like steel.
"You learn more from one loss than ten victories. You think I didn't lose? I've been broken, beaten, humiliated. And I came back stronger. If you two can't handle that… then you'll never grow beyond of being childs."
Trunks swallowed hard, his face tightening. Goten looked down, ashamed but burning.
Then Piccolo's voice softened slightly. "But if you use this… if you burn it into yourselves… then the next time you step into that ring, no one will stand in your way. Not even me."
The boys looked at him in silence, their frustration shifting into something else — a spark, quiet but alive.
Piccolo turned away, cape swaying as he walked back toward his place among the warriors.
Goten whispered under his breath. "Next time… we won't lose."
Trunks nodded, his jaw set. "Yeah. Next time, we prove it."
Vegito Still looked at Both with some anger.
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"Match Nineteen… Tien of Timeline Two versus Yamcha of Timeline Nine."
The crowd stirred, an unusual hush following. Two humans — no Saiyan blood, no alien lineage, no divine fusion — stepping into the center of a tournament that had already shattered planets with single strikes.
But those who truly understood combat leaned forward. Goku. Vegeta. Even Piccolo's narrow eyes sharpened. They felt it. The discipline. The pressure that came not from overwhelming ki, but from absolute refinement.
Tien walked in with his usual solemn focus, chest bare, every muscle drawn tight like tempered steel. His third eye gleamed faintly, already measuring, already calculating. He carried himself not as an underdog — but as a warrior who had stripped away weakness piece by piece.
Across from him, Yamcha rolled his shoulders, his aura purring beneath his skin. Gone was the carefree grin that once masked insecurity. His expression was sharp, wolf-like. His steps were silent, deliberate, predatory. His hair fluttered in the still air, his eyes narrowed to amber slits.
The Grand Priest raised his staff."Begin."
They didn't lunge recklessly. Instead, both shifted into stances that screamed years of human martial discipline.
Tien dropped low, horse stance solid as stone, left palm across his rib, ki pulsing like a compressed spring.Tri-Lotus Pressure.
Yamcha crouched catlike, left shoulder forward, fingers twitching with sparks of ki. His aura whispered like a wolf's growl.Howling Crescent Ambush.
The audience leaned in. This was not the sloppy brawling of weaker days. This was art.
Tien's Opening
Tien's eyes narrowed. In a flash, he struck — two fingertip jabs, each carrying micro-bursts of ki. They kissed Yamcha's throat and sternum, forcing him to snap his guard up instinctively.
Tien flowed like water. His palm snapped up in a high thrust, slamming toward Yamcha's ear. Yamcha twisted, barely grazing the strike, only for Tien to pivot under his guard.
The third eye glowed — and a phantom limb of shimmering ki lashed out, hooking Yamcha's shoulders. His real arms hammered forward: triple ridge-palms, each detonating with controlled ki bursts against Yamcha's solar plexus. BAM! BAM! BAM!
The phantom limb clamped, holding Yamcha in place.
Tien spun — knee driving into ribs, CRACK, followed by a sweeping crescent kick that lifted Yamcha upward, spinning him like a doll off-axis.
The crowd gasped. Tien hadn't wasted a single motion.
Yamcha's Reversal
But Yamcha snarled mid-spin, his wolfish instincts erupting. His hand slapped his chest with a thunderous clap — the Howl Feint. The sound cracked like a whip, a false rhythm to bait Tien's follow-up.
Tien's third eye flared, catching the trick — but Yamcha was already slipping right, body folding low. His hands slashed in rapid succession, angled like claws. Clawline Slash. Open-hand strikes ripped across Tien's ribs, ki blades flaring from his fingertips. Each cut sparked, carving through the thin layers of Tien's ki guard.
Tien grunted, ribs burning. Yamcha seized the recoil — Wolf-Grip Throw. He caught Tien's wrist, twisted, and in a blur of movement flipped him over his shoulder. The arena cracked as Tien slammed hard into the tiles.
The crowd roared. Humans fighting like gods.
Tien rolled back to his feet, lips pressed into a line. Yamcha's smirk widened. They both knew — base form exchanges were only the beginning.
Their auras ignited in unison, red flames sparking off their skin.
Kaioken. Times Two.
The air quaked. Tiles cracked beneath their feet. The crowd gasped as their power tripled in density, but their movements remained sharp, precise.
Exchange
Tien blurred forward, his hand spearing into a knife strike. Yamcha intercepted with his forearm, sparks flying. Their fists clashed, each strike louder than thunder. A knee snapped, blocked by a shin. A palm thrust ricocheted against a forearm. The arena floor cratered beneath them with every exchange.
Tien swept low, phantom limb snapping out again — Yamcha ducked, spinning into a back kick that caught Tien across the jaw. Tien reeled but countered instantly, a whip-crack elbow slamming into Yamcha's collarbone.
They separated, breathing heavy, red auras still steady.
Krillin's eyes widened from the stands. "They're… moving like Saiyans. No… sharper. Every move is calculated."
Piccolo grunted. "This is human martial arts."
Yamcha's smirk faded, lips curling into a snarl. He bent low, aura surging brighter.
Kaioken. Times Four.
Tien mirrored him, third eye blazing, his aura doubling in thickness.
The crowd was nearly blown back by the sheer weight of the surge.
The Wolf Hunts
Yamcha lunged, claws of ki extending from his fingers. His strikes blurred — slashing arcs that carved trenches through the tiles. Tien backpedaled, parrying with precise hand traps, each deflection sparking like lightning.
But Yamcha's pressure was overwhelming. He roared, spinning low into a crescent sweep, then chaining upward into a vertical claw strike that scraped across Tien's chest, tearing flesh. Blood sprayed.
Yamcha howled, ki erupting. He slammed both palms down, a wave of wolf-shaped ki erupting beneath Tien's feet, detonating. The explosion threw Tien skyward.
The Lotus Endures
Tien roared, aura flaring. Midair, he crossed his arms, the phantom limb snapping outward again, catching himself against the shockwave. He spun, redirecting momentum, then shot downward like a missile.
His knee slammed into Yamcha's shoulder with a crunch, staggering him. Tien followed — triple palm thrusts again, but this time each was wrapped in Kaioken flames. Yamcha's chest convulsed under the barrage, coughing blood.
But he caught Tien's wrist mid-strike, snarling through the pain. "Not enough!"
He twisted, shoulder-throwing Tien again — but this time into a wall of his own ki, detonating the moment Tien hit it.
Smoke cleared. Both fighters staggered back, bloodied but grinning. The crowd had fallen into stunned silence.
They weren't gods. They weren't Saiyans. But in this arena, they looked like titans.
In unison, they shouted.
"Kaioken… times TEN!"
Their auras flared like volcanic eruptions. The tiles beneath them shattered, spiderweb cracks racing outward. The very sky above the arena darkened under the pressure of two human warriors pushing their limits.
They lunged — fists colliding midair with a shockwave that deafened the crowd. Yamcha's claw strikes blurred into afterimages, carving red arcs. Tien's phantom limb erupted fully, a spectral arm battering Yamcha's guard as real strikes pummeled from every angle.
Every blow landed like meteors. Every counter sparked like lightning. They tore across the arena, cratering tiles, their movements too fast for untrained eyes.
In unison, their voices ripped across the arena:
"Kaioken… TIMES TWENTY!"
Their auras detonated like twin stars. Red lightning danced off Yamcha's wolfish aura, while Tien's aura compressed, tighter, hotter, like a white-hot furnace rimmed in crimson. The audience shielded their faces as waves of pressure rolled outward.
Even Vegeta's lips parted slightly. "Hnh… twentyfold? For humans? They'll rip their bodies apart at this pace."
Vegito shook his head. "And yet look at them. They're holding it."
Tien's body vanished in a single step. Yamcha's eyes widened — he barely saw the blur before a double-palm slam crashed into his chest.
The strike wasn't just force. Ki funneled through Tien's palms, pinning Yamcha midair as though invisible spikes held him in suspension. His ribs screamed, his body froze.
Tien's roar echoed as he followed up.
Lotus Rain.
Twelve palm strikes, alternating left-right, faster than the crowd could count. Each blow detonated with concussive ki, tiny shockwaves fracturing Yamcha's defenses, hammering past aura, snapping through guard. BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! Twelve strikes in the span of a heartbeat.
Yamcha coughed blood mid-air, body shuddering with every impact. The concussive pings echoed like a war drum across the arena.
At the apex of the assault, Tien's third eye gleamed. He drew his right palm back — a needle-thin, laser-sharp blade of ki condensed to a brilliant white.
Piercing Third Eye.
Tien thrust forward, the blade spearing through Yamcha's sternum. Blood misted. His left palm fanned outward — a burst detonated, blasting Yamcha spiraling downward in a corkscrew, crashing into the ground hard enough to crater half the arena.
The crowd erupted. Gasps, shouts, disbelief.
Krillin whispered, almost reverent. "Tien…"
Tien didn't pause. He stepped into a narrow stance, breath slow, eyes burning.
Iron Crescent & Thousand-Fold Echo.
He slammed his palm low — Echo Palm. A shockwave rippled across the cracked arena floor, destabilizing footing, probing Yamcha's stance as he struggled to rise.
Tien blitzed forward, three-step rhythm: feint fist left, crushing elbow right, spinning heel aiming for temple. Yamcha caught the elbow, but the heel snapped into his guard, driving him back.
Tien's ki shimmered — two phantom arms erupted, solid this time. Multi-Form Bind. Now four arms seized Yamcha — upper arms locking wrists, lower gripping waist.
"Got you," Tien growled.
He vaulted, both legs sweeping into a Crescent Hook-Kick, rotating Yamcha's spine with such force that sparks of paralysis flickered through him. Yamcha's eyes widened as nerves screamed.
Then came the drumroll. Thousand-Fold Echo.
Tien's palms hammered rapid staccato ki pulses into Yamcha's body, each pulse a tiny sonic detonation. Brrr-r-r-r-r-r-rm! Pain amplified, microfractures racing through energy flow. Yamcha's guard dropped instinctively, body convulsing under the rhythmic barrage.
Tien spun low, pivoting beneath Yamcha, palm slamming into his back. Counter-Pivot Strike. Ki exploded, flinging Yamcha overhead.
Before Yamcha hit ground, Tien stamped — Ground-Shatter Finale. A rising palm blasted the arena floor. Shockwaves rippled upward, slamming into Yamcha mid-descent, crushing him into the earth so hard the arena fractured outward in concentric rings.
Silence followed.
Vegeta smirked. "Hmph. That's Tien for you. the guy has some discipline."
Yamcha's Retaliation — Sky Fang Barrage
But the dust shifted. Bloodied, ribs fractured, Yamcha pushed up with trembling arms. His grin returned — wolfish, feral.
"You think you've got me cornered, Tien? Think again!"
His aura flared silver-red, a lupine howl echoing unnaturally across the void. He launched upward in a corkscrew spin, body spiraling like a drill.
Sky Fang Barrage.
Five strikes in descent — knees, palms, elbows — each trailing jagged ki fangs that raked across Tien's chest, arms, shoulders. Every blow cut, every fang left burning trails of pain that refused to fade.
Tien grunted, body convulsing under the barrage, blood spraying from fresh wounds.
Yamcha twisted midair, gathering crescent energy around his foot. A sharp ki ring condensed, pulsing silver.
Moonlit Snap.
With a vicious whip of his leg, Yamcha snapped the crescent downward. It struck Tien's chest like a branding iron — explosion detonating, stunning him, hurling him into the ground with explosive recoil.
The audience gasped. Even Gohan leaned forward. "That looked like a Saiyan-level strike…"
Yamcha landed smoothly, stance wide, eyes scanning.
Desert Wolf Trap.
He blurred forward — Sandstep Step-In. A calf smash into Tien's leg, staggering him. Then Crossing Blades — forearm strikes, knuckles glowing with ki ridges, slamming into ribs and disrupting breath. Tien wheezed, blood flying.
Yamcha grabbed chin and ribs simultaneously. Jaw Hook & Wolf Hook. With a twist, he spun Tien onto his back, smashing him down.
In a roll, Yamcha planted palms, springing into acrobatic flips. Each landing hammered a chopping palm into Tien's collarbone — Rolling Chain-Claw. Guard cracked.
Then came the finale. Yamcha's aura spiraled, wolf howls echoing. Lupine Dervish. Nine-hit flurry, ending in a brutal backfist that launched Tien like a missile into the arena wall. Stone shattered.
Yamcha stood panting, blood dripping, but his grin gleamed with defiance.
Celestial Triad Absolute vs. Wolf Moon Cataclysm
Both warriors staggered, battered nearly beyond recognition. And yet both smiled — warriors' smiles.
Tien straightened, planting both feet. His third eye opened fully, radiating light. He summoned not phantom limbs, but full-bodied clones — two duplicates stepping into reality, fully tangible. Three Tiens in unison.
Celestial Triad Absolute.
The three circled Yamcha, palms weaving. Ki braided in luminous strands, forming a crucible sphere that compressed around him. Time itself seemed to slow — colors drained, only the braids glowing.
The Tiens slammed palms together. The crucible imploded into a single beam — the Triad Lance, searing white-black, ripping forward to annihilate Yamcha.
But Yamcha's howl answered. His aura erupted silver, moonlight cascading.
Wolf Moon Cataclysm.
Spectral wolves materialized, encircling him. Their tethers pulsed, constricting, compressing him into a luminous core. At the crescendo, Yamcha slashed downward, unleashing the Moon Cleaver, a silver crescent of ki that cut through the compressing force.
The two techniques collided. White-black Triad Lance met silver crescent wolf cleaver.