Mordo stood in the corridor outside Smith's office, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. The dismissal burned like acid in his chest—not just the words, but the casualness of it. The complete lack of consideration for Kamar-Taj's mission, for Earth's safety, for everything Mordo had dedicated his life to protecting.
He stopped walking. Turned around.
No.
Earth's dimensional defenses were too important to be left to the whims of tournament luck. The Ancient One might accept that limitation, might see it as some cosmic test of worthiness, but Mordo understood practical reality.
If dimensional barriers weren't reinforced permanently, eventually something would breach them.
The Dragon Balls could prevent that catastrophe. One wish. That's all it would take.
And Smith Doyle was refusing out of... what? Pride? Greed? Some misguided notion of fairness?
Mordo turned and walked back to Smith's office, opening the door without knocking.
Smith looked up from his desk, eyebrows rising. "I thought I made myself clear—"
"You don't understand what's at stake." Mordo's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "The mystics of Kamar-Taj are the only reason people on Earth can live in peace. Without our protection, not just humanity but the entire planet would cease to exist."
He stepped forward, hands gesturing emphatically. "Dimensional demons don't care about tournament rules or earning wishes. They'll pour through any weakness in our defenses and consume everything. One Dragon Ball wish could prevent that permanently."
Smith's expression had gone cold. "I already answered—"
"Is it really so difficult?" Mordo interrupted, frustration bleeding into anger. "Just use the Dragon Balls to strengthen the defensive barriers. Stop extradimensional invasion at its source. You have the power to save billions of lives, and you're refusing because I didn't win some arbitrary competition?"
"The competition," Smith said quietly, dangerously, "is the only legitimate way to earn a wish. That's the rule. Everyone follows it."
"Rules?" Mordo's voice rose. "What about the greater good? What about responsibility? The Dragon Balls shouldn't be in the hands of someone who prioritizes personal vendettas over planetary survival!"
The words hung in the air like a physical challenge.
Smith stood slowly. When he spoke, his voice could have frozen steel. "If you genuinely believe I'm unworthy to control the Dragon Balls, then you should have won the tournament and claimed them for yourself. You didn't. That's on you."
"I'm offering you a chance to do the right thing—"
"You're demanding I break my own rules because you think your mission matters more than everyone else's." Smith's eyes blazed.
"Because dimensional defense protects everyone!" Mordo shouted. "It's not personal—it's universal!"
"So is grief. So is illness. So is loss." Smith walked around the desk, movements controlled but radiating leashed violence. "You don't get to decide which pain matters and which doesn't. That's exactly the arrogance I was talking about."
Mordo's jaw clenched. "I'm not leaving until you see reason."
"You're leaving now." Smith's tone allowed no argument. "And if you ever enter this facility uninvited again, you won't be walking out."
Something snapped in Mordo's chest—pride, frustration, the accumulated weight of being dismissed by someone he considered morally inferior.
His hand shot forward, fingers tracing geometric patterns in the air. Orange-gold light erupted, solidifying into a Tao Mandala shield. His other hand conjured a second shield, both humming with magical energy.
"You're making a mistake," Mordo said, combat stance ready. "If you won't listen to reason, perhaps you'll respond to—"
Smith moved.
One instant he was five feet away. The next, his fist crashed into Mordo's forward shield with the force of a freight train.
The Tao Mandala shattered like glass.
Mordo's eyes widened in shock. Those shields could deflect Thor's lightning, could withstand megawatt electrical discharges. They'd never broken from a physical blow before—
Smith's backhand caught Mordo across the face.
The world exploded into stars and pain. Mordo stumbled backward, tasting copper, his jaw screaming agony. Both cheeks felt like they'd been hit with hammers.
"You attacked me," Smith said flatly, "in my own headquarters, after being told to leave. That's not just disrespect—it's a declaration of hostility."
Mordo spat blood, conjuring his second set of shields. "You're a tyrant who—"
Smith's punch shattered the shields and connected with Mordo's mouth.
The sorcerer flew backward like a cannonball, his body crashing through the office wall with a thunderous impact. Drywall exploded. Support beams groaned. Mordo sailed fifteen feet through open air before hitting the exterior lawn with bone-jarring force.
He lay there for three seconds, world spinning, pain radiating from everywhere at once. His mouth felt wrong—liquid and broken. When he tried to move his tongue, teeth fragments shifted loose.
Broken. All of them.
Rage flooded through him, obliterating pain and reason. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was a master sorcerer, trained by the Ancient One herself. He shouldn't be lying on grass spitting blood and teeth while some—some—
Mordo slammed both palms against the ground.
The Mirror Dimension erupted around them.
Reality folded, twisting into the pocket realm where sorcerers fought without risking collateral damage to the physical world. The Fraternity's buildings replicated in crystalline perfection, geometry becoming fluid and malleable.
Smith stood in the office's ruined doorway, watching the transformation with mild interest.
"Mirror Dimension," he observed. "Smart. Fights here don't damage the real world."
Mordo rose to his feet, blood streaming down his chin, speaking with effort through his shattered mouth. "You're trapped. In here, reality bends to my will."
He gestured sharply. The building behind Smith folded like origami, massive walls of concrete and steel bending to crush him from all sides.
Smith didn't move.
His aura erupted.
The invisible pressure of twenty-two thousand combat power points manifested all at once—a tsunami of raw energy that made the air itself scream. The Mirror Dimension shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing through its crystalline structure.
Mordo stared in horror as his carefully constructed pocket reality began to disintegrate. "No—that's impossible—"
He poured more magic into maintaining the dimension, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. Every ounce of training, every reserve of mystical energy, channeled into keeping the Mirror Dimension stable.
The cracks slowed. Stopped spreading.
"Interesting," Smith said, genuinely surprised. "You're stronger than I expected. Most sorcerers would have lost their cool already."
Mordo gasped for air, the effort of maintaining the dimension against Smith's aura like holding back an avalanche with bare hands. "I... won't... yield..."
"Your problem," Smith said conversationally, raising two fingers, "is that you think magical training equals combat power. It doesn't."
He lifted his fingers in a sharp upward motion—the classic Saiyan gesture for overwhelming force.
His ki exploded outward in a concentrated burst.
The Mirror Dimension shattered like a dropped mirror, reality reasserting itself with a sound like breaking thunder. Fragments of the pocket realm dissolved into nothing, dumping both combatants back into physical space.
Mordo collapsed immediately, the backlash of his shattered dimension sending feedback through his nervous system. Every nerve ending screamed. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges.
The last thing he saw before consciousness fled was Smith Doyle walking toward him with cold, clinical precision.
Alarms blared throughout the Fraternity headquarters. Friday's synthetic voice echoed through corridors: "Security breach. Office Alpha compromised. All personnel respond."
Operatives materialized from multiple directions—Wesley and John from the training wing, Selene emerging from the medical facility, Fox abandoning financial reports to sprint toward the commotion.
Xu Wenwu arrived within thirty seconds, the Ten Rings floating in orbit around his forearms, ready for combat. His family followed at a distance, Ying Li held back by protective instincts from her children.
They found Smith standing in the ruins of his office wall, looking down at an unconscious, bloodied figure on the lawn below.
Smith reached down, grabbed Mordo by the front of his robes, and lifted the sorcerer's limp body with one hand.
"What happened?" Wenwu asked, scanning for additional threats.
Smith's expression was carved from ice. "Just cleaning up some trash."
He drew back his arm like an Olympic javelin thrower.
"I'm returning to sender now."
Smith hurled Mordo's body with precisely calculated force and trajectory. The unconscious sorcerer became a blur, rocketing across New York's skyline at supersonic speed, aimed directly at the Himalayas.
The Fraternity operatives watched the trajectory until Mordo disappeared into the distance, a crimson streak against the afternoon sky.
Xu Wenwu lowered his hands, the Ten Rings settling back into dormancy. "That seemed... excessive."
"He broke into my office. Twice." Smith's voice carried finality. "Demanded I override the tournament rules for his personal agenda. Then attacked me when I said no. He's lucky I'm only sending him home instead of putting him in the ground."
Fox appeared in the ruined doorway, tablet in hand, already coordinating repairs. "Friday's got full surveillance footage. The mage manifested weapons first—you acted in self-defense."
"Good." Smith turned back toward the building. "Get construction crews on that wall. I want it fixed."