Three days of silence, a planet-wide shockwave… and the moment he finally returns, she explodes.
The instant Vitelli completed his Super Saiyan transformation, an indescribable aura—like an invisible tsunami—detonated outward from the Lookout above Korin Tower and swept across the entire Earth.
It was vast.
Savage.
Heavy with destruction.
—
Out on the sea, at Kame House, Master Roshi had his rear in the air in the most disgracefully shameless posture imaginable, his wrinkled face nearly pressed against the television as he watched a replay of the latest "World Aerobics Championship" with spiritual devotion.
Then it hit.
A violent pressure slammed down on him like a mountain.
"WH—?!"
Roshi's body jerked back uncontrollably and he fell flat with a hard thump, landing painfully on his backside. His sunglasses slid crooked across his nose.
"Owww—!"
He groaned, scrambling for a moment before he managed to get upright. The lecherous glow on his face vanished instantly, replaced by naked shock.
He rushed to the window and stared toward Korin Tower, his old eyes wide, cold sweat soaking through the back of his flowered shirt.
"Th-That aura… Vitelli's?!" he whispered, voice trembling. "How… how can it be this terrifying?!"
Compared to this, what Vitelli had shown at the Tenkaichi Budokai wasn't even a spark next to the sun.
At that moment, Krillin shoved the door open, beaming, a bulging wallet in hand.
"Master Roshi! My work training is done! The boss said I carried bricks fast and did a great job—he paid me triple!"
He froze when he saw Roshi's pale face and awkward posture.
"Uh… Master? What happened? Did you throw your back out again?"
Roshi forced his breathing to slow, swallowing the panic still clawing at his throat. He shook his head, expression complicated.
"N-No… I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "Just… old bones. Not as steady as they used to be."
He took the wallet, managing a strained smile.
"Well done, Krillin. Lunch is in the fridge—Launch left you food. Heat it up yourself."
Krillin left, still confused.
Roshi returned to the window, staring into the calm sky that now felt like a lie.
His fingers tightened on the sill, turning pale.
"So that punch…" he murmured. "It wasn't even close to your limit."
His eyes narrowed with a kind of stunned dread.
"Vitelli… what exactly are you?"
—
Somewhere in a villa tied to the Crane School…
Master Shen held a wineglass with practiced elegance, maintaining the posture of a grand master before Tien and Chiaotzu.
Then his wrist jerked.
Red wine splashed across an expensive carpet.
His face drained white. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered.
"M-Master?" Tien asked, startled.
He felt it too—an aura so crushing it made his soul tremble. His expression hardened.
Master Shen's lips quivered. He swallowed with difficulty, terror pooling in his eyes as he looked at his disciple.
"T-Tien… that aura…" he whispered. "It's too horrible. Next… next Tenkaichi Budokai… maybe we… maybe we shouldn't enter."
For the first time, doubt cracked his ambition. Whoever carried that pressure was beyond anything human effort could oppose.
Tien clenched his fists. The oppression made breathing feel heavy—but the pride of the Crane School and his fixation on surpassing the Turtle School burned brighter.
He snapped his head up, eyes shining with stubborn fire.
"I'm sorry, Master," he said firmly. "I still want to enter. I'll prove the Crane School is stronger than the Turtle School—no matter who the opponent is."
His voice had the weight of a vow.
Master Shen stared at that fire for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slowly, and nodded.
"Fine… if your heart is set…" he said, voice turning sharp with desperate ruthlessness. "Then you will take the championship—at any cost."
"Yes, Master." Tien answered low, his presence sharpening like a drawn blade.
Beside him, Chiaotzu looked up at Tien's profile, eyes sparkling with admiration.
"T-Tien… so cool…" he whispered to himself.
—
Near Korin Tower, deep in a forest…
Goku was locked in a brutal fight against the self-proclaimed world's greatest assassin: Mercenary Tao.
Tao's attacks were precise and vicious, every strike designed to maim or kill. Goku danced and struggled, forced to rely on instinct and rapidly improving technique.
Then—right as Goku found an opening and prepared to counter—
That aura slammed into his senses like a hammer.
Goku froze mid-motion.
"A perfect opening," Tao hissed, eyes flashing.
"Dodon Ray!"
His killing beam fired straight for Goku's vital point.
At the last instant, Goku snapped back to himself and raised the Power Pole to block.
Thump!
The impact drove him backward several steps, arm numb from the force.
He steadied his stance, blinking as Tao grinned in satisfaction.
But confusion churned in Goku's mind.
"That feeling just now…" he wondered. "Was that Vitelli? Weird… why did I feel Vitelli?"
Goku still hadn't truly learned how to sense ki.
But if fate had any consistency at all, his opportunity was already racing toward him.
—
On the Lookout plaza, the golden radiance finally began to withdraw.
Vitelli hovered in the air, still staring at his hands, gold aura crawling around his fingers, his body flooded by an ocean of power—dozens of times greater than his normal state.
But as the initial euphoria faded, something darker surfaced beneath it.
A violent impulse.
A savage hunger that didn't feel entirely like his own.
As if a bloodthirsty beast had been awakened in his chest—urging him to destroy, to fight, to tear something apart just to prove he could.
His aura flickered.
Pressure rolled outward in heavy waves, slamming into the Lookout's protective barrier and making it hum with a low, strained vibration.
"No…" Vitelli muttered, frowning. "I can't control it yet. The leakage is too severe."
He knew if he returned to the surface like this, his mere presence could become a disaster.
He dropped to the cracked plaza and sat cross-legged.
His hair remained gold, but his green eyes were suddenly calm—focused.
He closed them and forced his mind to settle, trying to pull the raging power inward, to quiet the violence rising in his heart.
Kami, supported by Mr. Popo, staggered closer.
Kami's ancient eyes locked onto Vitelli's form—gold flame, green gaze, the cold, crushing pressure—and the wrinkled old face tightened with shock so deep it bordered on disbelief.
"This power…" Kami murmured. "How… how can it be this overwhelming? What… what is he?"
Vitelli fought for control, but the brutality clung to him like bone-deep residue, refusing to vanish.
Then a calm voice spoke beside him.
"Your heart is too noisy."
Vitelli's green eyes snapped open.
Mr. Popo stood in front of him.
Expressionless. Unmoved. As if the earth-shaking transformation hadn't mattered.
Popo ignored Vitelli's stare and continued in the same flat tone.
"You have already tried to 'feel nature.' But it is not enough. Your mind is not truly clear. You carry too many stray thoughts."
He paused, as if listening to Vitelli's internal flow.
"Your ki is vast—but it is like a wild horse. It has not become one with you. When your growth reached a bottleneck, you did not slow down and refine your foundation. You chased a new form instead."
Popo's gaze remained blank, but his words cut clean.
"Your base is unstable. Like a structure built on sand."
Vitelli went still.
For a moment, he couldn't even speak.
This was Mr. Popo—someone the original story treated like a silent background figure.
And yet…
He'd just dissected Vitelli's problem with frightening accuracy.
Vitelli's eyes narrowed, scrutiny sharpening.
"…Who are you, really?"
"I am Mr. Popo," Popo replied simply. "Kami's servant."
Vitelli's mind immediately answered in irritation: Yeah, sure.
But he didn't press.
Because the truth was, Popo's words hit him like a bucket of cold water.
Vitelli had been obsessed with numbers—power levels, gravity, strain—always pushing forward.
He had neglected something else.
Control.
Integration.
Stability.
He inhaled slowly and let the noise in his thoughts fall away.
Instead of trying to force the power down like a lid on boiling water, he stopped fighting it.
He sought harmony.
He imagined his mind as a still lake, reflecting the sky without distortion. Let the gold energy pass like wind over the surface—present, but not stirring waves.
Gradually, something changed.
He felt the high-altitude air.
The flowing sea of clouds.
The spin of the blue planet beneath him.
He wasn't a weapon holding power.
He was part of a larger whole.
And in that strange state—almost like dissolving into nature itself—the violent gold aura softened, drew inward, and faded like a tide retreating.
The golden hair drained back into black.
His ki became quiet—so quiet it felt even more hidden than before the transformation.
Vitelli sat there without moving.
And without realizing it…
Three days passed.
—
In West City, at the Brief estate, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different from the Lookout's calm.
It was thick with anxiety.
Bulma paced the living room like a trapped storm, her steps sharp, restless. Her beautiful blue eyes were bloodshot, dark shadows carved beneath them.
Three days.
Three full days.
No message.
No return.
No trace.
"Vitelli, you idiot…!" she snapped, voice cracking. "You absolute jerk! Where did you go?! What happened to you?!"
She grabbed an empty cup from the table, ready to throw it—
Then froze.
Because it was a cup they'd bought together.
With a shuddering breath, she slammed it back down instead, the clatter echoing like a gunshot in the room.
She had used every resource Capsule Corporation could deploy.
Drones by the dozens—then hundreds—spreading out like locusts, scanning thousands of kilometers centered around Korin Tower.
Television and radio stations ran missing-person alerts on loop, the reward so high it bordered on insanity.
The internet was flooded with notices.
Every report came back the same.
No match.
No sign.
Bulma snatched up her phone again, fingers trembling as she opened the latest drone sweep results.
The words on the screen stabbed her:
NO MATCH FOUND.
Her vision blurred. Her throat tightened.
"Vitelli…" she whispered, voice breaking.
She stumbled backward and sank onto the sofa, eyes shining with tears she'd been refusing to let fall.
"Where are you…? Don't do this to me…"
Beside her, Mrs. Brief poured perfectly warmed tea with calm, elegant precision, as if the room wasn't filled with panic.
She watched Bulma's misery and sighed softly.
"Oh, my Bulma," she said gently. "Don't worry so much. Vitelli is incredibly strong. He won that tournament without effort—what could possibly happen to him? He must have found something that kept him away for a while."
She lifted her cup, blew lightly, and smiled with the serene confidence of a woman who had seen too much drama to be shocked by any of it.
"Give it a little time… and he'll probably just 'whoosh' right back in."
Bulma looked up, tears trembling on her lashes.
"How can you say that, Mom?! It's been three days! We've searched everywhere and there's nothing—how could he just suddenly come—"
"I'm back, Bulma!"
The familiar voice dropped into the room from above like a miracle.
A blur of motion—then a soft landing.
Vitelli stood on the living room carpet as if he'd simply stepped out for a walk.
Bulma froze.
Her eyes widened so far it looked unreal. Her brain refused to accept what she was seeing.
Then the dam broke.
"VITELLI!!!"
The scream tore through the living room—half rage, half relief, half heartbreak.
Bulma launched off the couch like a spring, crossing the distance in a single leap and slamming into his chest with all the force of three days of terror.
Vitelli rocked back slightly—but his arms snapped around her instantly, catching her as if he'd been waiting for exactly this.
Bulma clung to him like an octopus, burying her face into his shirt, shoulders shaking violently as everything she'd held in finally spilled out.
"You idiot…! You bastard…!" she sobbed, words tumbling over each other. "Where the hell were you for three days?! I thought… I thought you were… I thought you didn't want me anymore…!"
Her fists hammered weakly against his back, useless and frantic.
Tears soaked into his chest, warm and relentless.
Vitelli's heart twisted hard enough to hurt.
He tightened his hold, pulling her closer, chin resting gently on the crown of her head.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice thick with guilt. "I'm sorry, Bulma… I didn't mean to scare you."
He stroked her back with slow, steady pressure, letting her shake against him.
"I went to the Lookout to train… to try to master a new kind of power," he explained softly. "I didn't realize I fell into a special state. It felt like a short time… and then I opened my eyes and three days were gone."
His arms tightened again.
"Really… I'm sorry. I should've told you. I should've come back sooner."
Bulma didn't answer with words.
She just held him tighter, trembling, breathing in the proof that he was real.
Beside them, Mrs. Brief took a delicate sip of tea—perfectly cooled now—and watched the scene with the satisfied expression of someone enjoying peak entertainment.
"My, my," she said with quiet delight, eyes shining. "This is even better than the primetime dramas."
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