Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.

I thought it would be fun to explore the canon of the Dragon Ball F Universe. The story will follow the basic flow of Dragon Ball Z, but obviously there will be many differences. Some changes are made by the AI, some by me, but I think it helps to give this world its own feel besides the basic premise of it being a female-only world. I hope some of you will enjoy these stories, I’ll release them when I can!

The turquoise waters of the southern sea lapped gently against the pilings of a small, pink island house. Painted on the front in bold red letters were the words: KAME HOUSE. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of salt, seaweed, and the faint, ever-present musk of old turtle shells.

“I’m telling you, Krillin, she was a complete dog!” Bulma Briefs ranted, slamming her pink-tipped fingernails down on the wooden table for emphasis. She was a vision of stylish fury, her cerulean hair perfectly coiffed despite her long flight, her designer jumpsuit looking wildly out of place in the cluttered shack. “I found the texts! ‘Hey Yamcha, nice home run last night’ from some second-rate batter from the Musutafu Monarchs! With a winky face! A winky face!”

Across from her, Krillin, her bald head gleaming under the ceiling light, winced in sympathy. She rubbed the back of her neck, her simple orange gi a stark contrast to Bulma’s outfit. “Jeez, Bulma. I’m sorry. I always thought you two were solid.”

“So did I!” Bulma wailed, throwing her hands up. “We were talking about moving in together! And then I find out she’s sliding into other girls’ DMs the second I’m back in the lab for more than twelve hours! Ugh!”

From her cushion in the corner, the wizened Master Roshi—an old woman with long white hair, sunglasses, and a tropical shirt—nodded sagely, though her eyes were firmly locked on the centerfold of a Swimsuit Illustrated magazine. “A tale as old as time, my dear. The heart wants what it wants, and sometimes what it wants is a complete lack of impulse control. More iced tea, Turtle?” The large turtle by her side blinked slowly.

The conversation was interrupted by a shadow passing over the window. A moment later, the front door creaked open.

The woman who stood there was not the boisterous, spiky-haired warrior they had all been half-expecting. It was Chi-Chi. She was clean, her dark hair brushed and tied back, and she wore a simple, dark travel dress. But the change was only surface deep. Her eyes, once bright with fierce love and occasional frustration, were shadowed wells of grief, ringed with the faint purple of sleepless nights. She held herself with a brittle rigidity, as if the slightest touch would shatter her into a million pieces.

“Chi-Chi!” Krillin exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “We were wondering when you and Goku would show up! Where is she? And where’s Gohan?”

Bulma’s romantic woes were instantly forgotten. “Yeah, did you guys get our messages? Krillin and Roshi felt some crazy energy spikes coming from Mount Paozu a few days ago. It was insane! We tried calling…”

Chi-Chi’s composure cracked. A single, silent tear traced a path down her cheek before she could stop it. She took a shaky breath, her hands clenching at her sides. “Goku… Goku’s gone.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and final.

“Gone?” Roshi repeated, finally looking up from her magazine, her sunglasses sliding down her nose. “What do you mean, gone? That girl has more lives than a cat.”

“She’s dead,” Chi-Chi whispered, the words tasting like ash. “She sacrificed herself to save me from… from her sister. An alien named Raditz.” The story poured out of her then, in halting, painful fragments—the arrival of the terrifying warrior, the brutal fight, the horrifying violation with the futa bean, Gohan’s explosive but fleeting power, the desperate alliance with Piccolo, and finally, Goku throwing herself into the path of a self-destruction that would have vaporized them all.

By the time she finished, Krillin was openly weeping, and Bulma had a hand clamped over her mouth, her face pale. Roshi had removed her sunglasses, her old eyes wide with shock and sorrow.

“And Gohan…” Chi-Chi continued, her voice trembling. “Piccolo took her. She said… she said more of them are coming. In a year. She said Gohan’s power was the only hope we have. She promised to keep her safe, but… she just took her.” She looked down at the floor, her shoulders slumping. “I used Goku’s Nimbus to get here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

The cheerful, sun-drenched Kame House was now a tomb of silence, the weight of the coming apocalypse and the ghost of a beloved friend settling over them all. The fight for Earth had begun, and they had already suffered their first, catastrophic loss.

The silence that followed Chi-Chi’s declaration was thick with grief, but it was a grief that quickly began to curdle into a hard, determined resolve. The shock was a luxury they could no longer afford.

“So, Goku was an alien all along,” Roshi mused, looking out the window. “That sure does explain a lot. Her grandma Gohan told me once a story… about finding a wild, impossible young girl in the woods. She raised her as best she could, until one day… she hit her head. After that, she was always a happy child.”

“So she was sent here to Earth to destroy it, but forgot?” Krillin asked, drying her tears with her wristbands. “That sounds just like Goku.”

“A year,” Roshi said, her voice losing its usual lecherous quaver and becoming the stern, commanding tone of the Turtle Hermit. She stood up, her old bones creaking. “We have one year to prepare for an invasion by warriors who make Raditz look like a playground bully. We cannot waste a second.”

She turned to Krillin. “You must gather the others. All the strongest fighters we know. Yamcha, Tien Shinhan, Chiaotzu. Even that gluttonous mountain woman, Yajirobe, if you can find her. Tell them the fate of the world depends on it. No excuses.”

Krillin nodded, her face set in a grim line. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was being steadily smothered by a rising sense of duty. “Where do we meet? Where can we possibly train for something like this?”

“Kami’s Lookout,” Roshi stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It exists in a realm beyond normal space and time. A year of training there could feel like a decade of growth. Ms. Popo will be your instructor. She is… formidable. It’s the same training Goku received, how she grew so much stronger so quickly.”

Bulma, who had been quietly processing the sheer, sci-fi scale of the threat, snapped her fingers. “Right. My job’s clear. I’ll use the Dragon Radar to gather the Dragon Balls. We’re getting Goku back. We’re going to need every single one of us, and she’s our best shot.” The heartbreak over Yamcha was now a distant, trivial annoyance in the face of planetary annihilation.

It was then that Chi-Chi spoke again, her voice quiet but laced with an iron will they had never heard from her before. “I’m going with you. To the Lookout. I’m going to train.”

All eyes turned to her. Krillin looked surprised. “Chi-Chi, with all due respect… this isn’t like the World Martial Arts Tournament. These are aliens. They’ll kill you.”

“They already tried!” Chi-Chi’s voice rose, sharp and raw. “They beat my wife, they… they violated us both, and they killed her right in front of me while I could do nothing but watch! They took my daughter!” Her fists were clenched so tightly her nails were drawing blood from her palms. “I am not going to sit at home and knit while my little girl is out there training for a war. I am the daughter of the Ox-Queen. I was raised with the Fist of the Fire. I may not have Goku’s power, but I have a mother’s rage. I will not be helpless ever again. I will get strong enough to stand beside my daughter, and I will help her protect this world that her other mother died for.”

There was no arguing with the fire in her eyes. It was the same fierce, protective love that had always defined her, now forged in the crucible of trauma and loss into a weapon of pure determination.

Roshi gave a slow, respectful nod. “The fire of a mother is a power all its own. Very well, Chi-Chi. You will join them. The path will be harder for you, starting from behind, but your spirit may carry you further than any technique.”

The plan was set. The cozy, chaotic safety of Kame House was now a war room. Krillin would become a herald, racing across the world to summon the last, best hope of Earth’s martial artists. Bulma would become a treasure hunter, seeking the orbs that could defy death itself. And Chi-Chi would become a warrior, her heart a locket containing a picture of her wife and the echoing cry of her stolen child, ready to transform her grief into a fighting force that would shake the very heavens. The long, desperate year of preparation had begun.

—–

The barren, windswept badlands where Piccolo had chosen to make her camp offered no comfort, no distraction. It was a place of rock, dust, and a relentless, baking sun—a perfect forge for a weapon. But the raw material was proving… problematic.

For hours, the only sounds had been the whistle of the wind and the incessant, high-pitched wailing of the child. Gohan sat huddled in a small crevice, her face buried in her knees, her small body shaking with sobs that seemed to have no end. “I want my Mama… I want my Mom… I want to go h-home…”

Piccolo stood a dozen yards away, her arms crossed, her pointed ears twitching with every fresh sob. Her patience, never a vast resource, had been eroded to a thin, brittle shell. “Cease that infernal noise,” she growled, her voice like grinding stones. “Tears are a luxury for the weak. Your weakness got one of your mothers killed and left the other broken. Do you wish to be weak when the ones who did that return?”

Gohan only cried harder, the words seeming to amplify her misery. “You’re m-mean! I hate you! I just want my family!”

A muscle in Piccolo’s jaw twitched. This was impossible. How could this sniveling, terrified creature possibly house the cataclysmic power that had shattered Raditz’s armor? The memory of that fiery aura was seared into her mind, a stark contrast to the pathetic child before her now.

“You have a power inside you, brat,” Piccolo tried again, forcing her voice into a semblance of explanation. “A latent energy that could shake the foundations of this world. It is the only reason you are still alive. The only reason I am wasting my time with you. But you are too young, too soft to understand. That power is useless if you cannot control it. If you cannot call upon it.”

Gohan looked up, her large, dark eyes swimming with tears. “I don’t have any power! I’m just a kid! I want to go home and read my books!”

That was the final straw. Explanation had failed. Reason had failed. There was only one language a Saiyan—even a half-breed one—would understand instinctively: the language of survival.

“Fine,” Piccolo snarled, her eyes narrowing to dark slits. “You want a demonstration? You want to see why you can’t go home? Then let’s make this simple.”

In a flash of movement too fast for Gohan to follow, Piccolo closed the distance, grabbed the back of the girl’s clothes, and with a powerful heave, hurled her through the air. Gohan’s wail turned into a scream of pure, unadulterated terror as she sailed, a tiny, flailing doll, toward the sheer face of a massive, granite mountain a mile away.

Piccolo watched, her expression cold and analytical. This was a gamble. She was either about to witness the birth of a savior, or she was about to paint the mountain with the last of Son Goku’s bloodline.

Gohan screamed, the world a dizzying blur of blue sky and brown rock. The mountain rushed up to meet her, an unyielding wall of death. The terror was absolute, a white-hot brand that seared through every neuron, erasing all thought, all memory, all hope. It was the same primal, cornered-animal fear she had felt when Raditz had held her mother down. The same helplessness she had felt watching her other mother die.

Something inside her snapped.

It was not a conscious decision. It was a circuit overloading, a dam breaking. A golden-white aura, incandescent and wild, erupted from her small body not as a controlled flare, but as a violent, outward explosion. Her hair stood on end, crackling with raw energy. Her eyes glowed with a feral white light, pupils vanishing. A raw, wordless roar of pure fury tore from her throat, a sound that held no trace of the child she was.

A sphere of chaotic, blinding energy bloomed in front of her, born of instinct and terror. It wasn’t a Kamehameha or a Masenko. It was a raw, untamed blast of ki, a tantrum thrown by a godling. It lanced forward, a spear of pure destruction.

The beam struck the mountainside.

There was no explosion of rock and dust. There was erasure. A massive, imposing mountain, hundreds of feet across, simply ceased to exist, vaporized into nothingness. The beam continued on, fading off in the distance, leaving an empty field where solid granite had been a second before.

The golden aura vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Gohan, her energy spent, dropped like a stone, landing in a heap of soft sand where the mountain once stood. She lay still, her hair back to normal, her small chest rising and falling in the shallow breaths of unconsciousness.

Piccolo stood frozen, her arms still crossed, her eyes wide with a shock so profound it felt like a physical blow. The wind whistled through the new vacant space, the only sound in the sudden, deafening silence. She had seen the power before, a flicker. But this… this was a declaration. This was a storm.

She looked from the unconscious child to the impossible, gaping wound in the earth. A slow, grim smile touched her lips. It was not a smile of warmth, but of savage, triumphant realization.

“The seed is there,” she murmured to the empty air, her voice a low thrum of awe and grim satisfaction. “Now, like a warrior’s cock… time to make it grow.”

—–

The transition from the searing pain of oblivion to the cool, ethereal silence of the afterlife was less a journey and more a sudden change of channels. One moment, Goku was nothing but agony and the scent of her own burning flesh; the next, she was standing on a soft, cloud-like surface, a vast, star-dusted void stretching out in every direction. The pain was gone, replaced by a strange, weightless clarity.

“Welcome back, Son Goku,” a calm, familiar voice said.

She turned to see Kami, the Guardian of Earth, her green skin and white robes seeming to glow with their own inner light. Beside her floated the wizened, cackling form of Fortuneteller Baba, perched on her crystal ball.

“Kami! Baba!” Goku grinned, her usual exuberance bubbling up, seemingly unphased by her recent death. “So this is the afterlife? It’s a lot roomier than I thought!”

“It has its perks,” Baba croaked, her wicked eye twinkling. “Now, no time for gawking. We have an appointment with the big woman herself. Can’t keep the Queen waiting.”

They floated forward, arriving before a massive, ornate desk that seemed to be carved from a single piece of obsidian. Behind it sat a giant of a woman, easily twenty feet tall, with vibrant red skin, a fierce, handsome face, and an impressive mane of black hair piled into an elaborate updo. She wore regal, dark judge’s robes, but they did little to conceal her immense, powerful physique. This was Queen Yemma, the absolute arbiter of the dead.

She was currently stamping a scroll with such force that the cloud-floor trembled. “Next!” her voice boomed, a sound that felt like it could rearrange your soul.

Kami floated forward, bowing respectfully. “Queen Yemma. I present Son Goku, a hero of Earth. We humbly request permission for her to travel the Serpentine Highway to seek training with Queen Kai.”

Yemma’s dark, imposing eyes shifted down to Goku, looking her over with a critical, appraising gaze. “Hmph. Another one. You’re smaller than you looked in the files.” She opened a massive ledger, her finger—the size of Goku’s entire torso—traced down a page. “Son Goku… died via self-sacrifice, absorbing a Saiyan ki overload to protect her wife. Commendable. Points for style.” She closed the book with a definitive thud.

Goku, completely unfazed by the giant woman’s presence, beamed up at her. “Wow, you’re huge! And super strong, I can tell! Hey, by the way, did my sister come through here? Raditz? Tall, lots of hair, really mean?”

Yemma’s lips curled into a sharp, predatory smile. “The Saiyan mongrel? Oh, she came through. Arrogant to the last, demanding preferential treatment, threatening to conquer the afterlife.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “I put her in her place. Personally. Bent her over my desk and reminded her who makes the rules here with my big red futa cock. She won’t be causing any more trouble. She’s been processed straight to Hell.”

Goku’s eyes went wide, not with horror, but with pure, unadulterated admiration. “Whoa! No way! You’re amazing! Can you train me? I wanna learn how to do that!”

A faint, pink blush colored Yemma’s crimson cheeks. She cleared her throat, a sound like boulders grinding together. “I… appreciate the offer of a sparring partner, but my duties are—”

Kami quickly floated up to Goku’s side, whispering urgently in her ear. “Goku, no. Queen Kai is stronger. Infinitely stronger. She can teach you techniques that will make Yemma’s power look like a child’s in comparison.”

Yemma’s eyes narrowed, having overheard every word. She let out a low, displeased grumble that made the desk vibrate. “…Fine. My… esteemed colleague… in the far reaches of the afterlife is indeed a more suitable instructor for one of your… potential.” She sounded as if the words were physically painful to admit. She snatched a stamp and slammed it onto a form, the sound like a clap of thunder. “Permission granted. The Serpentine Highway is that way. One million miles. Don’t get lost.” She pointed a massive finger toward a distant, winding path that seemed to be made of coiled, shimmering light, stretching off into the infinite starfield. “And whatever you do… don’t fall off.”

“Thanks, your majesty!” Goku chirped, giving a cheerful wave before turning to sprint toward the path, her spirit already buzzing with the prospect of a new challenge.

As Goku bounded away, Baba floated closer to Kami. “I’ll head back and let my sister know the plan,” she whispered. “We’ll hold off on the resurrection wish. Let the girl get her training first. A year for us is nothing to the dead. She might just come back stronger than any of us can imagine.”

Kami nodded, watching Goku’s tiny, determined figure grow smaller. The fate of the living world now rested on a dead woman’s ability to run a million miles and convince a cosmic entity of unparalleled power to become her teacher. It was, Kami thought with a sigh that was equal parts dread and hope, a very Goku-like plan.

—–

Gohan awoke to a deep, bone-aching chill, the memory of a terrifying flight and a blinding light already fading into the murk of a dream. She shivered, pushing herself up from the cold, hard ground. Something was wrong. Her soft, comfortable clothes were gone. In their place was a rough, orange gi, the pants cinched tight with a blue belt. It reminded her of her mother, Goku—something uniquely, comfortingly her. The familiarity was a small, warm ember in the vast, cold wilderness.

The ember was snuffed out an instant later by a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the soles of her feet.

She was alone. Piccolo was nowhere to be seen. The only thing left for her was a single, sharp-edged sword plunged into the dirt beside where she’d slept. And standing at the edge of the clearing, its massive head low and its saber-teeth dripping saliva, was a tiger the size of a car. Its striped fur was the color of dried blood and shadow, and its yellow eyes were fixed on her with a simple, terrifying hunger.

A scream lodged in Gohan’s throat, coming out as a strangled squeak. She scrambled backward, her small hands fumbling for the sword. It was heavy, ungainly, the hilt cold and alien in her grip. She could barely lift it.

The sabre-tooth tiger lunged.

Instinct, not training, took over. Gohan didn’t swing the sword; she turned and ran, the heavy blade dragging behind her, clattering against rocks. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, her breath coming in ragged, panicked sobs. The thunder of the tiger’s paws pounded the earth behind her, gaining with every stride. She could smell its foul, meaty breath.

She didn’t see the cliff’s edge until it was too late.

With a final, desperate shriek, she flung herself over the side, tumbling through the air in a dizzying whirl of sky and rock. She landed hard in a thick, thorny bush that tore at her new gi and scratched her skin, but it broke her fall. She lay there, stunned and weeping, only for a shadow to blot out the sun. A massive pterodactyl, its leathery wings beating the air with a sound like cracking whips, dove for her, its cruel beak open wide.

Gohan rolled, the beak snapping shut on empty air where her head had been a second before. She scrambled out of the bush and ran again, a tiny, orange-clad blur of pure terror. The wilderness was a gauntlet of teeth and claws. She fled from the pterodactyl, only to stumble into the territory of a pack of snarling, wolf-like creatures with glowing red eyes. She tripped over a root and slid down a muddy embankment, landing at the feet of a Tyrannosaurus Rex whose single, thunderous step shook the very ground.

The T-Rex’s head, larger than her entire house, lowered. Its eye, a cold, black orb of reptilian intelligence, focused on her. It let out a roar that was not just sound, but a physical force that slammed into her, flattening the grass and making her ears pop. The smell was overwhelming—rotting meat and primordial swamp.

Terror became a living thing inside her, a cold serpent coiling around her spine. She dropped the sword, her hands flying to her ears as she screamed, a continuous, high-pitched note of absolute, soul-crushing fear. She turned and ran, the T-Rex’s footsteps crashing behind her, each one a localized earthquake. She was not fighting. She was not a warrior. She was prey, and the entire prehistoric world knew it.

High on a distant, jagged peak, Piccolo stood silhouetted against the setting sun, her cape whipping in the wind. She watched the tiny figure of Gohan flee for her life, falling, scrambling, screaming. Every flinch, every terrified sob that was carried on the wind was a hot brand of guilt searing her conscience. She could feel the phantom weight of her promise to Chi-Chi—you bring my daughter back to me alive—and it felt like a chain around her neck.

This was not keeping her safe. This was throwing her into the deep end of an ocean of nightmares.

But the memory of the vaporized mountain was stronger than the guilt. The image of that untamed power was seared behind her eyes. Safety was an illusion. The Saiyans coming would not offer a fair fight. They would offer only violation and death, just as Raditz had. Coddling this power, sheltering it, would be a death sentence for the child and for the entire planet.

“The world is not a kind place, little one,” Piccolo murmured to the wind, her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her green palms. “It is a crucible. Your fear is the fuel. Your survival… that will be the spark. I am sorry for this. But it is the only way.”

She watched as Gohan disappeared into a dense forest, the roar of the T-Rex still echoing through the valley, and prayed to any god that would listen to a demon that the spark would catch before the flame was extinguished forever.

—–

The air on Kami’s Lookout was thin, cool, and carried the scent of ancient incense and polished stone. It was a place outside of time, a floating island in the sky that felt more like a temple than a training ground. The group that stood assembled on the vast, white-tiled plaza, however, looked profoundly out of place.

Krillin, her bald head gleaming with nervous sweat, shifted her weight from foot to foot. Beside her, Yamcha fidgeted, her long braid swaying as she avoided looking directly at anyone, the recent breakup with Bulma a fresh, awkward wound. Tien Shinhan stood rigid, her three eyes scanning their surroundings with disciplined focus, while the diminutive Chiaotzu floated serenely at her shoulder. Yajirobe, looking deeply unhappy, had her arms crossed over her ample stomach, muttering about the distinct lack of food.

And then there was Chi-Chi. She stood a little apart from the others, her hands clenched at her sides. She wore a simple, dark blue gi, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her eyes, still shadowed with grief, now burned with a fierce, almost frightening determination. She was not here to prove herself to the others. She was here to forge herself into a weapon for her daughter.

Before them stood their instructor. Ms. Popo was a stout, powerful woman with dark skin and darker eyes, her head wrapped in a patterned turban. She regarded them with an expression of utter, unblinking placidity that was somehow more intimidating than any scowl.

“You are all weak,” she stated, her voice a calm, resonant monotone that carried across the plaza without effort. “Your ki is unfocused. Your spirits are cluttered with doubt, pride, and,” her eyes flicked to Yajirobe, “thoughts of lunch. You are not ready to fight a common street thug, let alone warriors from the stars.”

A wave of defensive muttering rippled through the group. Before it could escalate, a soft light descended upon the Lookout. Kami materialized beside Ms. Popo, her presence bringing a wave of serene authority.

“Popo speaks the truth you all feel in your hearts,” Kami said, her gaze sweeping over them, lingering for a moment on Chi-Chi’s resolute face. “But truth is the first step toward strength. You’ve all heard by now how Goku died. Raditz was a scout, a low-class warrior. The two Saiyans who follow her will be stronger, faster, and utterly without mercy. They will not fight with honor. They will seek to break you, body and soul. The training you are about to undergo will not be fair. It will push you to the absolute precipice of what you believe you can endure. Some of you may break.” Her eyes hardened. “But if you do not try, the entire world will break with you. Train them, Popo.”

Kami stepped back, retreating into her home behind them. Ms. Popo’s placid gaze returned to the assembled fighters.

“The foundation of all power is the body,” she intoned. “You will learn its limits by testing them against each other. Sparring. Now.”

She didn’t pair them up. She simply pointed a finger at the center of the plaza. “Fight. All of you. Last one standing earns a special reward.”

For a moment, there was only hesitant silence. Then, with a shared, grim understanding, they moved.

It was chaos. A chaotic, desperate scramble of clashing styles and raw, unfocused power. Krillin and Yamcha, former training partners, fell into a familiar, frantic exchange of kicks and punches. Tien moved with disciplined, economic grace, deflecting attacks from both Chiaotzu’s telekinetic shoves and Yajirobe’s wild, grunting swings with her massive sword.

And Chi-Chi… Chi-Chi fought like a woman possessed. She ignored technique, ignored strategy. She saw only the enemies who had taken her wife and stolen her child. She charged at Tien, her movements a raw, powerful expression of the Ox-Queen style, all brute force and furious, hacking chops. Tien easily sidestepped, delivering a sharp, precise strike to Chi-Chi’s shoulder that sent a jolt of numbing pain down her arm.

Chi-Chi cried out, more in frustration than pain, and spun, launching a wild kick at Yamcha, who had to leap backward to avoid it. She was the weakest one here, she knew it. Every blocked strike, every effortless dodge from the more experienced fighters was a confirmation. But the knowledge didn’t dampen her fire; it fed it. She got back up every time she was knocked down, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her eyes blazing with a refusal to accept her own weakness. She was not fighting to win the spar. She was fighting to prove to herself that she could still stand, that she could still swing her fists, that she was not the helpless victim she had been in that field.

Ms. Popo watched, her expression unchanging, but her sharp eyes missed nothing. She saw Krillin’s improving speed, Tien’s flawless form, Yamcha’s lingering hesitation. And she saw the raw, untamed, and utterly essential fire in the human woman who had no business being there, but who possessed the one thing that could not be taught: a reason to fight that went far beyond survival.

The chaotic melee on the Lookout’s pristine tiles had devolved from a free-for-all into a brutal, two-woman war of attrition. Yajirobe had been the first to fall, tripped by a perfectly timed low kick from Chiaotzu and then pinned by a telekinetic hold until she grunted her submission. Chiaotzu herself was soon after eliminated, her small body unable to withstand the raw, concussive force of a combined attack from Krillin and Yamcha, who had formed a temporary, shaky alliance.

That alliance shattered the moment Tien Shinhan, with her relentless, three-eyed precision, dropped Yamcha with a nerve strike to the thigh that left her leg temporarily paralyzed. Krillin, now alone, fought with a desperate, scrappy ingenuity, but Tien was a wall of disciplined power. A volley of Krillin’s afterimage feints was met with Tien’s Solar Flare, a blinding flash of light that left Krillin disoriented and vulnerable. A single, powerful blow to the sternum sent the smaller woman stumbling back, gasping for air, and she sank to her knees, tapping the floor in surrender.

Only Tien and Chi-Chi remained.

Chi-Chi was a mess. Her gi was torn, a bruise was already purpling on her cheek, and she favored one leg. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs, her body screaming for respite. But her eyes, fixed on Tien, held a fire that her exhausted body could no longer support.

“You have spirit, Chi-Chi,” Tien said, her voice calm, not even winded. “But this is over. Yield.”

“No,” Chi-Chi gritted out, launching herself forward in a final, desperate lunge.

Tien sidestepped the telegraphed attack with an almost lazy grace. Her hand chopped down on the back of Chi-Chi’s neck, not with enough force to seriously injure, but with perfect precision. Chi-Chi’s legs buckled, and she collapsed face-first onto the cool tiles, her body finally giving out. She lay there, trembling with exhaustion and the frustration of her own limits.

Silence returned to the Lookout, broken only by the heavy breathing of the defeated. Ms. Popo, who had observed the entire contest without a single change in her placid expression, glided forward. She held up a single, pale futa bean between her thumb and forefinger.

“The victor,” she announced, her monotone giving no hint of approval or disapproval. “Tien Shinhan. Your reward.”

Tien took the bean, her third eye narrowing slightly. She understood the purpose. This was not about pleasure; it was another layer of training, a lesson in dominance, control, and the intimate, terrifying power dynamics they would soon face. She met Ms. Popo’s gaze and gave a single, sharp nod. She popped the bean into her mouth and swallowed.

The transformation was swift and intense. A hot flush spread across Tien’s skin as a surge of potent energy coiled in her gut, a thick, generative heat that pulsed downward. A low, involuntary groan escaped her lips as she felt the familiar weight of her own anatomy shift and swell, the fabric of her gi trousers straining against the sudden, formidable erection that sprang forth, thick-veined and already glistening with a bead of arousal at its flushed, broad tip. It was a weapon of a different sort, one that demanded its own form of submission. She could tell that this was not a normal pump-and-dump futa bean cock, but one that would carry her through multiple orgasms.

Ms. Popo gestured to the line of defeated women. “Begin.”

Tien’s gaze swept over them. Her first act was to claim her most loyal companion. She turned to the floating, wide-eyed Chiaotzu, her expression softening by a fraction. This was not an act of aggression, but one of profound, possessive intimacy. She pulled the small psychic into a firm embrace, Chiaotzu’s delicate legs wrapping around her waist as Tien, with a single, smooth upward thrust, sheathed herself completely inside her. Chiaotzu let out a high, breathy gasp, her small hands clutching at Tien’s shoulders, her entire body trembling as Tien established a deep, rhythmic pace that was both claiming and reverent. Their connection, always psychic, was now devastatingly physical; Chiaotzu came with a silent, shuddering cry, her mind and body overwhelmed by the sensation of her master and partner moving within her, and Tien followed with a low, guttural groan, her release a hot, pulsing affirmation of their unbreakable bond before gently setting her down.

She moved on to Yamcha, who was still trying to rub feeling back into her leg. There was no tenderness, only a cool, purposeful efficiency. She pushed Yamcha onto her hands and knees, positioned herself behind her, and with a single, smooth, powerful thrust, buried herself to the hilt. Yamcha cried out, a sharp gasp that was part shock, part unexpected sensation. Tien set a relentless, pounding rhythm from the start, her hips a piston of controlled power. Each deep drive was a physical assertion of her victory, a claiming that was as much psychological as it was physical. Yamcha’s initial resistance melted into ragged moans, her body arching back to meet Tien’s thrusts as the intense, friction-filled pleasure overwhelmed her. Tien fucked her through a shuddering, vocal climax, her own release following soon after with a guttural grunt, a hot flood that left Yamcha collapsing onto the tiles, spent and trembling.

Without a word, Tien moved to Krillin. She turned the smaller woman onto her back, hooking her legs over her shoulders. The angle was even deeper, more intimate. Krillin’s eyes were wide, her protests dying in her throat as Tien filled her, the stretch a breathtaking fullness. Tien’s pace was just as demanding, her powerful thrusts jolting Krillin’s entire small frame. She leaned over her, her three eyes locked on Krillin’s face, watching every flicker of pleasure and surrender. Krillin came with a broken, keening wail, her nails scraping against the tiles, her body convulsing around Tien’s length. Tien followed, her own orgasm a controlled, searing pulse deep inside her former rival.

Next was Yajirobe. The large woman grumbled, but offered no real resistance as Tien bent her over, her ample stomach pressed against the floor. The coupling was raw and visceral, the wet, slapping sounds of their bodies echoing in the quiet air. Tien’s thrusts were jarring, meant to overwhelm Yajirobe’s considerable mass and stubbornness. It worked. Yajirobe’s grumbles turned into choked, surprised groans, then into a loud, guttural roar of release as she was thoroughly, decisively taken. Tien emptied into her with a final, deep grind, pulling out and leaving Yajirobe panting and defeated in a new, profoundly intimate way.

Finally, Tien stood over Chi-Chi, who was still struggling to push herself up from the floor. There was a different energy here. Not the cool dominance of the victor, but a spark of something resembling respect for the other woman’s unbreakable spirit. She didn’t manhandle her. Instead, she knelt, rolling Chi-Chi onto her back. Their eyes met. Chi-Chi’s were filled with a complex storm of exhaustion, lingering grief, and a defiant, simmering arousal stoked by the raw display she had just witnessed.

Tien entered her slowly, a single, inexorable inch at a time, allowing Chi-Chi’s body to adjust to the overwhelming girth. A broken sigh escaped Chi-Chi’s lips, her head falling back, her hands coming up to clutch at Tien’s powerful shoulders. This wasn’t a brutal claiming; it was a conquest of a different kind, a methodical unraveling. Tien established a deep, rolling rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, soul-scouring piston that seemed to reach the very core of Chi-Chi’ being. It was as if Tien was fucking the helplessness out of her, replacing the memory of violation with a new, powerful sensation of being filled, of being tested.

Chi-Chi’s resolve shattered. The tears that streamed down her temples now were not of sorrow, but of catharsis. A raw, ragged scream was torn from her throat as her climax seized her, a tidal wave of sensation that wiped her mind clean of everything but the feeling of Tien moving inside her, pushing her, forging her. Feeling Chi-Chi’s intense, clenching release, Tien’s own control finally broke. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that pressed their bodies together, she poured her own climax into Chi-Chi, a hot, claiming rush that seemed to go on forever.

As the last, shuddering aftershocks of release faded from Chi-Chi’s body, a profound silence fell over the Lookout, thick and heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and spent energy. The five women lay where they had fallen, their bodies glistening, chests heaving as they stared at the infinite blue sky above. The brutal spar and its even more intimate conclusion had stripped them bare, not just physically, but of their pride, their rivalries, and their individual fears. They were a single unit now, bound by shared exertion and a raw, undeniable understanding of the power dynamics they would face.

Ms. Popo glided to the center of their scattered forms, her dark eyes observing them with that same unnerving placidity.

“Good,” she stated, the single word carrying more weight than a thousand lectures. “You have felt the limits of your bodies. You have felt the weight of dominance and the vulnerability of submission. This is the reality of the battle to come. It will not be clean. It will not be fair. It will be a contest of flesh and spirit, of ki and will, fought with every tool at your disposal.”

She looked at each of them in turn—at Tien, still recovering her breath, the physical manifestation of her victory already receding; at Krillin and Yamcha, tangled together in a heap of exhausted limbs; at Yajirobe, who looked more thoughtful than resentful for the first time; and finally at Chi-Chi, whose tear-streaked face now held a look of grim, hardened resolve, the fire in her eyes banked but burning hotter than ever.

“For the next year, this will be your world,” Popo continued, her voice a low, resonant promise. “I will push you beyond anything you believe is possible. I will break down every wall you have built inside your minds. When the Saiyans descend from the stars, you will not be the fighters who came here today. You will be harder. You will be stronger. You will be ready.”

—–

And so, across the realms of the living and the dead, the threads of destiny were drawn taut.

On a barren, prehistoric stretch of Earth, a child named Gohan ran for her life, her screams a silent prayer for a strength she did not yet understand, while a green-skinned demon watched from a distance, her heart a conflicted knot of guilt and grim necessity.

Along a winding, million-mile path through the afterlife, a woman named Goku ran with a cheerful, determined grin, the memory of her family a fuel that burned brighter than any star, racing toward a teacher who held the secrets of the universe.

And high above the world, on a sacred Lookout floating in the clouds, a mother named Chi-Chi and her newfound comrades lay in the aftermath of their first, brutal lesson, their bodies aching, their spirits forged in a crucible of combat and intimacy, while their enigmatic instructor promised to remake them into warriors.

Three paths, forged in loss and desperation, all leading toward a single, terrifying horizon. The Saiyans were coming. And the clock was ticking.