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 barren wasteland had become a brutal, unforgiving teacher. The memory of the impatient but gentle robot, C-6, who had offered her shelter and kindness only to be crushed by a rockslide, was a fresh scar on Gohan’s heart. The brief, joyful friendship with the Apatosaurus had ended even more horrifically, its trusting, calming voice silenced in a single, bloody chomp from the Tyrannosaurus Rex that now stalked these lands. Each loss carved away a little more of her childhood, replacing it with the cold, hard understanding that in this world, vulnerability was a death sentence.

Piccolo watched from her high perch, her steely eyes missing nothing. She saw the change in the girl’s posture. The aimless, terrified running had been refined into a desperate, focused scramble for survival. Gohan no longer just wept; she now scanned the horizons, her small body tense, her ears straining for the snap of a twig or the telltale rumble of a predator’s growl. She had learned the first and most crucial lesson: constant, paralyzing fear. It was a foundation of pure misery, but it was a foundation upon which something stronger could be built.

One evening, as a blood-red sun dipped below the jagged peaks, Gohan sat huddled in a shallow cave, her arms wrapped around her knees. She wasn’t crying. She was just staring into the growing darkness, the ghost of her dinosaur friend’s final squeal echoing in her mind.

Piccolo landed silently at the cave’s entrance, her large form blocking out the last of the light. “The weak die,” she stated, her voice flat and devoid of comfort. “The strong survive. You have finally stopped begging for a world that does not exist here. Your tears have dried. Good. Now your real training can begin.”

Gohan looked up, her large eyes reflecting the dim twilight. The spark of defiance that had been buried under layers of terror was now a tiny, steady flame. She gave a single, sharp nod. She was done being prey. She didn’t know how to be a predator yet, but the will to learn, born from loss and honed by fear, was finally there. Piccolo saw it, and for the first time, she felt a flicker of something akin to hope. The seed of power had been watered with tragedy; now, it was time to make it grow.

—–

The sun beat down on the cracked, dusty floor of the canyon Piccolo had chosen as their training ground. The air was still and heavy, the only sound the scuff of Gohan’s small feet and the sharp, rhythmic thwips of her desperate attacks.

“Faster!” Piccolo’s voice was a whip-crack, devoid of patience. She stood perfectly still, a towering statue of green muscle and white cape, her arms crossed over her chest.

Gohan lunged, a clumsy, telegraphed punch aimed at Piccolo’s midsection. It was a move born of pure instinct, with no form, no ki control, no power behind it. Piccolo didn’t even bother to block. She simply shifted her weight a fraction of an inch, and Gohan’s fist whistled harmlessly past her, the momentum sending the girl stumbling forward.

“Pathetic,” Piccolo stated. “You leave your entire right side exposed. An opponent would have shattered your ribs.”

Gritting her teeth, Gohan spun, launching a wild, spinning kick. Piccolo’s hand moved in a blur, catching Gohan’s ankle in a grip like iron. She held the girl suspended upside down for a moment, her expression one of profound disdain.

“Unbalanced. Sloppy. You fight with the grace of a wounded animal.” She released her grip, and Gohan fell to the dirt in a heap, coughing up dust.

For hours it went on. Lunge, miss. Kick, get caught. Charge, get effortlessly sidestepped. Gohan’s new resolve was being systematically dismantled by the sheer, insurmountable gap in their skill. Her knuckles were scraped raw, her gi was filthy, and frustration was beginning to boil over, threatening to dissolve back into tears. She was trying, pouring every ounce of her will into each attack, but it was like trying to chop down a mountain with a feather.

Piccolo watched her push herself back to her feet for the hundredth time, her small body trembling with exhaustion. The raw power that had vaporized the mountain was a locked vault, and the child didn’t possess the first clue to the combination. But she was still trying. That was something. It was a foundation, however cracked and uneven, upon which something could eventually be built. The first, most brutal lesson—that will alone was not enough—was being carved into her very bones.

—–

The air on Kami’s Lookout was no longer just thin and sacred; it was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the ozone-tang of unleashed ki. A month of Ms. Popo’s relentless regimen had transformed the group of disparate fighters into a hardened, cohesive unit, their bodies honed and their spirits stripped of pride through a cycle of brutal sparring and even more intimate, dominance-establishing couplings.

Chi-Chi was no longer the weakest link. The fire of a mother’s rage had been tempered into a disciplined, ferocious strength. Her Ox-Queen style, once wild and telegraphed, was now sharp and efficient. She moved with a powerful grace, her kicks capable of shattering stone tiles, her blocks solid and unyielding. She had learned to channel her ki, not for flashy beams, but to reinforce her muscles, to hit harder and move faster. In the sexual trials, she had shed the last of her hesitation, meeting her partners—often the relentlessly precise Tien or the surprisingly tenacious Krillin—with a fierce, competitive energy that left them as breathless and satisfied as she was.

Krillin’s technical skill had been sharpened to a razor’s edge. She was a whirlwind of feints and rapid-fire strikes, her small size an advantage as she darted between her larger opponents’ legs. Her Kamehameha, once a struggling beam, could now punch through a solid foot of granite. Her fucking was a reflection of her fighting style—quick, clever, and devastatingly effective, finding weaknesses and exploiting them with a playful, knowing grin.

Yamcha had overcome her post-breakup slump, the Wolf Fang Fist rediscovering its feral bite. Her spirit was no longer fractured, and it showed in the confident, flowing power of her movements and the hungry, reclaiming thrusts she delivered during her turns at dominance, often taking out her lingering frustrations on a grumbling, but ultimately compliant, Yajirobe.

Tien and Chiaotzu operated as a single, terrifying entity. Tien’s three-eyed perception allowed her to anticipate every move, while Chiaotzu’s telekinesis created openings that Tien exploited with surgical precision. Their sexual dynamic was one of profound, psychic intimacy; when Tien took Chiaotzu, it was a silent, intense communion, a claiming that was as much about their shared mind as it was their joined bodies. When the roles were reversed, it was a worshipful, reverent act that left both of them trembling with a connection that transcended the physical.

Even Yajirobe had been forged into something more than a glutton. Her raw, brute strength was now focused, her sloppy swings with her massive sword replaced with powerful, economy-of-motion chops that could cleave a boulder in two. She still complained, but she fought and fucked with a grudging, formidable power, her climaxes often announced with a loud, guttural roar that echoed across the Lookout.

They were all slick with sweat, their gis torn and stained, their bodies intertwined in a complex web of exertion and release after a particularly grueling free-for-all spar that had, as always, culminated in a sweaty, groaning pile of tangled limbs and shared satisfaction, with Tien once again emerging as the victor, her cock still slick and proud as she stood over the panting forms of her comrades.

It was then that Ms. Popo glided forward, her dark eyes observing them with that same unnerving placidity.

“You have improved,” she stated, the single concession feeling like a monumental victory. “Your bodies are harder. Your ki flows with purpose. But power without control is a storm without direction. It is time to train your senses, your reaction, your very soul.”

She turned and gestured toward the dark, yawning entrance to the palace that formed the heart of the Lookout. “Inside, there is a chamber that has not been used in centuries. The Pendulum Room. It does not test your strength. It reveals your weakness. You will enter together. You will face what you find there. Survive it, and you will emerge changed.”

A collective shiver, one that had nothing to do with the cool air, ran through the group. The Pendulum Room. The name itself sounded like a judgment. The familiar trials of combat and sex were one thing; the unknown horrors of a forgotten chamber were another entirely.

Ms. Popo led them through the silent, echoing halls of the palace, their footsteps the only sound in the ancient stillness. They passed rooms filled with forgotten artifacts and libraries of scrolls written in dead languages, until they reached a heavy, ornately carved door she had never shown them before. With a push that seemed to require no effort, it swung inward on silent hinges.

The room within was circular and vast. The walls were not stone, but a mosaic of countless clock faces of every conceivable size and design, from simple sundials to complex astrolabes, all ticking in a soft, dissonant chorus. The air hummed with latent, temporal energy. In the center of the room, a massive, brass pendulum as thick as a tree trunk swung back and forth with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Its sharp, weighted tip sliced through the air just above a shallow, glowing rune etched into the floor.

“This is the Pendulum Room,” Ms. Popo intoned, her voice barely a whisper yet carrying through the rhythmic ticking. “It will not move your body through time. It will send your consciousness back along the threads of history, to witness, to learn, and to confront. The Saiyans you face today are not a future threat. They are a ghost of the past, a memory of what their race was at its peak, one hundred years before the cataclysm that nearly wiped them out. You will face them as a team. Learn what you are truly up against.”

She gestured for them to stand within the rune, directly in the path of the swinging pendulum. As the heavy brass weight passed over them, a wave of vertigo seized them, not a physical sensation, but a wrenching of their very souls. The world of clocks dissolved into a screaming vortex of light and sound.

—–

Their senses slammed back into a new reality with the force of a physical blow. They stood on cracked asphalt, the air thick with the smell of ozone, smoke, and spilled blood. They were in the ruins of a vast, futuristic city, its skyscrapers skeletal husks against a bruised purple sky. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant crackle of fires.

And then they saw them.

Two figures stood amidst the rubble, their auras a visible, malevolent crimson. The first was a towering woman, easily six and a half feet tall, with a powerful, statuesque build. A wild, untamed mane of dark hair fell to her waist, and her eyes held a cold, predatory amusement. This was Shorty.

The second was her opposite in almost every way. She was short, compact, and built like a brawler, her muscles coiled with explosive power. A vicious, jagged scar ran from her forehead, over her right eye—which was a milky, blind white—and down her cheek, pulling her lip into a permanent, cruel sneer. This was Scarface.

Shorty’s voice cut through the ruin, a low, condescending purr. “Well, well. Look what the time-winds blew in. A pack of primitives from a backwater world. Are you the best this planet has to offer? How… disappointing.”

Scarface cracked her knuckles, a sound like grinding stones. Her good eye, a piercing and hateful, scanned over them, lingering on Chi-Chi with a particular, hungry interest. “Don’t matter. More sport for us. I call dibs on the one who looks like she actually knows how to fight.” She pointed a thick finger directly at Chi-Chi. “The rest of you, try to make it interesting before you die.”

A ripple of raw, competitive indignation went through the Earth women. Tien’s third eye narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. Krillin’s hands balled into fists, her pride stung. Even Yamcha let out a low growl, the Wolf Fang Fist itching to prove its worth.

“She’s not the only one who knows how to fight!” Krillin yelled, her voice tight with fury.

They didn’t wait for a signal. They attacked as one, a coordinated wave of power and fury born from a month of hellish training. Krillin and Yamcha flanked Scarface, a pincer movement of a Kamehameha and a Wolf Fang Fury. Tien soared overhead, her arms crossed, unleashing a volley of Dodon Rays aimed with three-eyed precision. Chiaotzu, floating behind them, focused her psychic power, trying to lock down the Saiyans’ limbs.

It was a beautiful, devastating assault. And it was utterly useless.

Scarface didn’t even bother to dodge the energy blasts. She simply raised an arm, letting them detonate against her skin with a series of harmless pops. She backhanded Yamcha’s flurry of strikes aside, the impact sending a visible shockwave through the air that threw Yamcha into a collapsed wall. She then grabbed Krillin by the face mid-lunge, her fingers digging into the smaller woman’s scalp, and slammed her into the ground with a crater-forming impact that knocked the wind from her lungs.

High above, Tien’s eyes widened in disbelief. Shorty had simply vanished from her targeting reticle. A hand clamped down on her shoulder from behind.

“Cute light show,” Shorty’s voice purred in her ear. Before Tien could react, a knee drove into her lower back with the force of a meteor strike. She cried out, her body going limp as she was thrown down to crash beside the dazed Krillin.

Chiaotzu’s telekinetic grip shattered like glass the moment it touched Shorty’s mind. The tall Saiyan merely glanced in her direction, and the psychic recoil sent Chiaotzu spiraling unconscious to the ground.

The entire, coordinated assault had lasted less than three seconds. Yajirobe, who had been hesitantly raising her sword, slowly lowered it, her face pale.

Scarface’s scarred lip curled into that permanent sneer as she turned her one good eye back to Chi-Chi, who stood her ground, her body thrumming with ki but her heart hammering in her chest.

“See?” Scarface said, taking a slow, menacing step forward. “I have a good eye for these things. You’re the only one with any real fire. The rest are just kindling.” She cracked her neck. “Now, let’s see if that fire is worth a damn.”

Chi-Chi’s battle cry was a raw, furious thing, torn from the depths of her soul. She launched herself forward, a blur of orange and blue, the Fist of the Fire unleashed with a power and precision that would have made her mother weep with pride. Her fist, reinforced with every ounce of ki she could muster, slammed into Scarface’s guard.

The impact was like punching a mountain. Scarface didn’t even flinch, her scarred face splitting into a wider, more sadistic grin. “Not bad, primitive! You’ve got some heat in you!”

A fist, moving faster than sight, caught Chi-Chi in the ribs. The crack was audible, a sickening sound that stole her breath and sent white-hot agony lancing through her side. She staggered, but before she could recover, Shorty was behind her. A casual, almost lazy chop to the back of her neck sent Chi-Chi crashing to her knees, her vision swimming.

She tried to rise, to summon one last defiant burst of energy, but a boot planted itself in the center of her back, shoving her face-first into the rubble-strewn asphalt. She was pinned, utterly and humiliatingly defeated. Around her, her friends groaned in their own states of disarray, powerless to help.

“A spirited effort,” Shorty purred, looking down at her with cold amusement. “But ultimately meaningless.” She reached into a pouch on her belt, pulling out two familiar, pale beans. She tossed one to Scarface, who caught it with a grunt of approval.

“Nothing like a good fight to work up an appetite,” Scarface said, her one good eye gleaming with vile anticipation. She popped the futa bean into her mouth and swallowed.

The transformation was immediate and grotesquely impressive. A surge of raw, generative power visibly coursed through their powerful frames. Scarface’s compact body tensed, a low, guttural groan escaping her lips as a thick, heavily veined cock of a deep, angry red sprang forth from between her thighs, already fully erect and weeping. It was a weapon of pure aggression, as brutal and unforgiving as its owner.

Shorty’s transformation was no less formidable, though it carried an air of cruel elegance. Her own cock emerged with a smooth, terrifying grace, its impressive length and girth a testament to her towering stature and controlled power.

“Now,” Shorty said, her voice a low, menacing thrum as she stalked toward the prone form of Tien, “let’s show these primitives what true Saiyan dominance feels like. Let’s see how their precious fighting spirit holds up when they’re screaming our names.”

Scarface laughed, a harsh, barking sound as she turned her hungry gaze toward Chi-Chi, still pinned beneath her boot. “I’m starting with the fiery one. I’m gonna enjoy breaking that spirit of yours from the inside out.”

Shorty’s approach was not a charge; it was a predator’s stalk, a slow, deliberate closing of distance that made the air itself feel heavy with dread. Tien, pushing herself up on trembling arms, met the Saiyan’s gaze with all three eyes, her expression a mask of defiant resolve even as her body screamed in protest from the earlier blow. This only seemed to amuse Shorty further.

“Such spirit,” the tall Saiyan murmured, her voice a silken threat. “I do so enjoy a challenge.” She didn’t strike her. Instead, she knelt, her powerful thighs bracketing Tien’s hips, and grabbed the front of her gi, tearing it open with a sound like a gunshot. Her free hand, large and impossibly strong, closed around both of Tien’s wrists, pinning them to the rubble above her head with effortless force. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

With her other hand, she guided the broad, dark head of her cock to Tien’s entrance. There was no preparation, no gentleness, only the slow, inexorable pressure of an unstoppable force. Tien gritted her teeth, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as she was forced to accommodate the immense girth, her body stretching painfully around the invading thickness. Shorty watched her face, drinking in every flicker of pain and strained control, her own breath beginning to quicken.

Then she began to move. Her thrusts were not the frantic, pounding rhythm of a brute, but deep, measured, and devastatingly precise pistons. Each drive buried her to the hilt, a deliberate, soul-scouring invasion that seemed to reach the very core of Tien’s being. Tien’s body jolted with every impact, her back arching off the broken asphalt, her knuckles white where they were pinned. She refused to cry out, but ragged, punched-out grunts were forced from her lungs with every powerful stroke. Shorty leaned down, her dark hair a curtain around them, her lips close to Tien’s ear.

“That’s it,” she purred, her hips maintaining their relentless, grinding rhythm. “Fight it. Clench around me. Your resistance only makes my victory sweeter.” She could feel Tien’s internal muscles spasming, a futile attempt to expel the invader that only served to massage her length, pushing her closer to the edge. Tien’s defiance was a potent aphrodisiac, and Shorty’s thrusts became harder, deeper, her own composure beginning to fray as she chased the pleasure coiling tight in her gut.

A few yards away, Scarface kept her boot planted firmly on Chi-Chi’s back, relishing the feel of the woman’s struggles growing weaker. “Had enough yet, firecracker?” she taunted, grinding her heel down. When Chi-Chi only responded with a guttural curse, Scarface chuckled. “Didn’t think so.”

She released the pressure, but before Chi-Chi could even think to scramble away, Scarface’s hands were on her, flipping her onto her back with brutal efficiency. The stocky Saiyan loomed over her, her scarred face a nightmare mask of lust, her thick, veiny cock standing proudly between them, its flushed tip glistening mere inches from Chi-Chi’s face.

“Gonna make you swallow that pride of yours,” Scarface grunted. She didn’t ask; she took. Grabbing a handful of Chi-Chi’s hair, she forced the woman’s head forward, guiding her cock between her lips. Chi-Chi gagged immediately, the sheer size and aggressive taste of the Saiyan overwhelming her. Tears of strain and humiliation sprang to her eyes as Scarface began to fuck her face with short, brutal thrusts, the head of her cock hitting the back of Chi-Chi’s throat with each jarring movement.

While she used Chi-Chi’s mouth, her other hand tore away the remains of her gi trousers, exposing her to the ruined city air. Her fingers, calloused and rough, delved between Chi-Chi’s legs, not to prepare, but to claim, pushing inside her with a ruthless invasion that mirrored the one in her mouth. Chi-Chi’s body was a symphony of violation, filled and used at both ends, her muffled cries and gags a lewd soundtrack to her own defilement. Scarface set a punishing, jackhammer pace, her hips pistoning into Chi-Chi’s face while her fingers worked her pussy, a dual assault designed to shatter her will completely. The Saiyan’s grunts grew louder, more bestial, as she felt her climax building, a tidal wave of pleasure fed by the absolute domination of the woman beneath her.

Meanwhile, Shorty’s climax was a thing of controlled, devastating power. Feeling Tien’s formidable will finally crumble, her body convulsing around her in a series of helpless, involuntary spasms, she drove home one last, deep, grinding thrust and held it. A low, resonant groan rumbled in her chest as she emptied herself, a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever, filling the three-eyed warrior with her Saiyan seed. She held herself there for a long moment, savoring the feel of Tien’s utter submission, before pulling out with a wet, slick sound, leaving the warrior trembling and gasping in a puddle of her own sweat and the Saiyan’s cum.

Her dark eyes, still burning with predatory hunger, scanned the other defeated forms. They landed on Yamcha, who was trying to push herself up from the rubble. A cruel smile touched Shorty’s lips. “The one with the fang technique. You looked so fierce, for a moment.” She was on her in a flash, turning her over and mounting her from behind with the same brutal efficiency. Yamcha cried out, the sound a mixture of pain and shock as she was filled in an instant. Shorty’s pace was relentless, a punishing rhythm that had Yamcha’s cries turning into ragged moans within minutes, her body betraying her as it was pushed towards a shameful, overwhelming climax under the Saiyan’s masterful, cruel thrusts.

Across the ruin, Scarface was reaching her own peak. The sensation of Chi-Chi’s throat constricting around her cock, the tight, hot clutch of her pussy around her fingers, was too much. With a final, brutal slam of her hips that choked off Chi-Chi’s air entirely, Scarface came, a guttural roar tearing from her lungs as she flooded the woman’s throat with her release. She pulled out, a thick strand of cum and saliva connecting her tip to Chi-Chi’s bruised lips, and watched as the Ox-Queen’s daughter collapsed, coughing and gasping.

“Still got some fire, huh?” Scarface grunted, her one good eye gleaming. She wasn’t done. She turned her attention to Krillin, who was still dazed from her impact with the ground. “Let’s see if the little one is as tough as her friends.” She hauled Krillin up, bending her over a chunk of broken pillar, and entered her in one smooth, brutal motion. Krillin’s high-pitched cry was cut short as Scarface set a frantic, pounding pace, her compact body delivering shocking force with every thrust. Krillin, overwhelmed by the raw power and the lingering effects of her head injury, quickly succumbed, her body going limp as waves of forced pleasure wracked her small frame, her own climax ripped from her before Scarface poured a second, searing load deep inside her.

The two Saiyans moved through the defeated Earth women like a plague, claiming them one after another. Chiaotzu was taken with a swift, almost dismissive efficiency by Shorty, the psychic’s small body offering little resistance. Yajirobe put up more of a physical fight, grunting and struggling as Scarface wrestled her into position, but even her considerable strength was nothing against the Saiyan’s power, and she was soon reduced to loud, guttural groans as she was thoroughly and decisively fucked into submission.

When it was over, the ruined city was silent save for the ragged breathing of the six Earth women. They lay broken, used, and glistening with sweat and Saiyan seed, the proof of their absolute defeat leaking from their battered bodies. Shorty and Scarface stood over them, their temporary cocks receding, looks of smug satisfaction on their faces.

“Remember this feeling, primitives,” Shorty said, her voice cold and clear in the aftermath. “This is the gap between our species.”

The vision began to fray at the edges, the ruined city dissolving back into the ticking, clock-filled room on the Lookout. The six women collapsed back onto the floor of the Pendulum Room, their bodies whole and unviolated, but their spirits scarred by the visceral, humiliating memory of a defeat that felt more real than any training session. They had learned what they were up against. And the lesson had been carved into them with brutal, sexual clarity.

The transition from the visceral, sweat-slicked reality of the ruined city back to the silent, ticking chamber was a psychic whiplash that left them all gasping on the polished floor. The phantom ache of violation and the taste of alien seed were gone, but the memory was seared into their minds, a phantom limb of shame and fury. One moment, they were pinned and being claimed by the ancient Saiyans; the next, they were back in their own bodies, the transition so abrupt it felt like a physical blow. They lay there, trembling, struggling to reconcile the brutal memory with their physical wholeness.

Kami and Ms. Popo stood by the door, their expressions unreadable.

Krillin was the first to break the stunned silence, her voice a trembling whisper. “They were… they were so strong. And you said… you said those two coming are even stronger?

Ms. Popo’s placid gaze swept over them, taking in their shell-shocked expressions, the way their hands unconsciously clenched.

Ms. Popo glided forward. “What you faced was a memory of the Saiyan race’s peak. A shadow of their former glory.” Her voice was as calm and even as ever, but the words were a bucket of ice water.

“The two you encountered in the temporal echo were low-class warriors of their era,” she stated, the words falling like stones. “Even combined, they wouldn’t equal to Raditz, the one who killed Goku. The two who are coming possess power that makes Raditz seem like a child in comparison.”

She let the silence hang, allowing the full weight of the revelation to settle upon them like a shroud.

Krillin buried her face in her hands, a sob shaking her small frame. “We trained so hard… and we were still nothing to them.”

“A cold, hard lesson,” Kami added, her own face grim. “But a necessary one. You now understand the true scale of the abyss you must cross. The path ahead is longer, and steeper, than you believed.”

Chi-Chi pushed herself to her feet. Her legs trembled, not from the phantom memory of Scarface’s weight, but from a rage so pure it felt like a physical force. She looked at her friends—at Krillin’s despair, at Yamcha’s shattered pride, at Tien’s cold fury, at the utter defeat in all their eyes.

“Get up.”

Her voice was low, but it cut through the chamber’s oppressive silence like a knife. All eyes turned to her.

“I said, get up!” she repeated, her voice rising, cracking with the strain of her own remembered violation. “So they beat us. So they used us. So what?” She took a step forward, her fists clenched so tightly her nails drew blood. “Raditz did the same thing to me. In the dirt, in front of my wife, in front of my daughter. She beat Goku, she… she took everything from me.” A single, hot tear of pure, undiluted fury traced a path through the grime on her cheek, but her gaze never wavered. “And I am still here.”

She swept her arm, encompassing the room, the Lookout, the entire world below. “They think that’s how they break us. They think showing us their power, fucking us into the ground, will make us give up.” A fierce, almost feral smile touched her lips. “They don’t know who they’re dealing with. They don’t know what it means to be a mother who’s had her child stolen. They don’t know what it means to be a wife who watched her partner die. They think pain and shame are weapons. They’re not. They’re fuel.”

She walked over to Krillin, placing a hand on her shoulder. The touch was firm, grounding. “We are not those women in that vision. We are the ones who survived it. We are the ones who will get stronger because of it. Every time they try to break us, they just forge us into something harder.”

She looked at each of them in turn, her eyes blazing with a conviction that began to burn away their own despair. “So we train. We train until our bodies scream. We train until we forget what it feels like not to be in pain. And when those Saiyan bitches finally get here, we’re going to show them what happens when you try to extinguish a wildfire. You just make it burn hotter.”

A new energy, raw and defiant, began to crackle in the room. Krillin wiped her eyes, her own jaw setting with determination. Yamcha pushed herself up, a new, grim light in her eyes. Tien gave a single, sharp nod, her three eyes narrowing with renewed focus. Yajirobe just grunted while Chaiotzu gave a little cheer.

The lesson of the Pendulum Room had been learned. Not one of despair, but of resolve. The path was longer than they thought, but they would walk it. Together. And they would be ready.

—–

The T-rex’s roar of challenge died in its throat, replaced by a shrill, confused shriek of pain. Gohan moved not with the frantic terror of prey, but with the cold, focused intent of a predator. She didn’t flail or run. She sidestepped the massive, bone-crushing jaws with a fluid grace Piccolo had drilled into her for weeks, her small body a blur. As the dinosaur over-extended, she leaped, her sword chopping down in a perfect arc.

It wasn’t a killing blow. It was a message.

A three-foot section of the T-rex’s thick, muscular tail was cleanly severed, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The beast stumbled, bellowing in agony and confusion, its tiny brain unable to process the tiny creature that had just maimed it. Gohan landed lightly, picking up the massive hunk of meat as if it were a log for the fireplace. She looked at the retreating, wounded dinosaur, then at the meat in her arms, a grim, satisfied set to her jaw.

From her perch, Piccolo allowed a rare, thin smile to touch her lips. The child was no longer just surviving. She was learning to conquer. The seed of power was not just growing; it was beginning to sprout thorns. There was still an immeasurable distance to travel, but the path was now clear, and the girl was finally, truly, walking it.

—–

The winding coils of the Serpentine Highway stretched into eternity, but Goku ran with a renewed, seemingly boundless energy, the power of the Fruit of Might coursing through her veins. The endless sprint was no longer a grueling marathon but an exhilarating test of her new limits. Then, in the vast, star-dusted emptiness, something new appeared—a structure.

It was a small, whimsical palace, looking utterly out of place on the cosmic path. It was painted in cheerful, bright colors, with a pagoda-style roof and a single, welcoming light in the window. Goku skidded to a halt, her head tilting in curiosity. A million miles of nothing, and then… this?

“Whoa!” she breathed, a wide grin spreading across her face. “This must be it! This has gotta be Queen Kai’s place! It’s so… fancy!”

She bounded toward the odd little palace, completely unaware that the real training, and the real master she sought, still lay millions of miles further down the impossible road. Her journey was far from over, but a new, unexpected chapter was about to begin.