From that day forward, Trunks threw himself into the chamber of crushing weight.
Two hundred times Earth's gravity pressed against his young body, threatening to snap his bones with every step. Even walking from one side of the room to the other felt like dragging mountains behind him. Sweat poured from his brow in rivers, soaking his shirt, stinging his eyes, until the fabric clung to him like a second skin.
But he endured.
Bulma had told him this was the limit—for now. With resources dwindling, her focus wasn't on expanding the chamber's capacity like in another timeline. All of her brilliance, all of her sleepless nights, were bent toward one fragile hope: the time machine. To escape this hell, or maybe to rewrite it. The gravity chamber was, at best, a relic she'd maintained for Gohan's sake.
So two hundred times gravity would have to be enough.
And Trunks accepted that. For now, it was his battlefield.
(Gohan POV)
Gohan watched from the control panel as days bled into nights. The boy was relentless.
Even though he had abundant ki, his body itself was not strong enough to be on par with it.
Much like Gohan himself when he was young.
At first, Trunks had nearly collapsed after just a handful of pushups, his arms trembling violently, his face red as the crushing force pinned him to the floor. But he refused to stop. He clawed his way up again, gasping, cursing under his breath, until one became ten. Then twenty.
Within a week, he was performing sit-ups, squats, and even handstand pushups, his body slowly adapting, carving itself against the merciless weight.
Something had changed in him.
This wasn't the same boy who used to tug at his sleeve, begging to fight the Androids, blind to what that really meant. The reckless child had been stripped away, replaced by someone quieter, steadier. His lavender hair dripped with sweat, his eyes sharp with focus.
And Gohan couldn't understand what had sparked it. But he was grateful.
This is what I need, he thought grimly, crossing his arms as he watched the boy grind through another set. I need someone who won't break. Someone I can count on when the time comes.
The truth gnawed at him—his own strength was still far from enough. He could fight the Androids, yes, but never defeat them. Each battle left him more scarred, more haunted. And yet, looking at Trunks now, sensing his growing ki… Gohan felt a flicker of hope he thought long dead.
The boy's energy was already formidable, nearly rivaling his father's when he had faced Frieza on Namek. At thirteen. That kind of potential was terrifying.
He's my student now. My last hope for this dying world.
For the first time in years, Gohan made a decision. He would train Trunks with everything he had. No more holding back.
(Trunks POV)
By the end of the week, his body felt like it had been broken down and rebuilt a hundred times. His muscles screamed, his lungs burned, and yet his mind… his mind felt clearer than it ever had before.
The old Trunks—the canon Trunks—had taken years to reach this point. But with his memories, his system, and his desperation, he was pushing harder, faster. Every ache, every bead of sweat was proof that he was clawing his way closer to survival.
When Gohan finally called him out of the chamber, relief washed over him like cool water. The air outside was almost too light, too easy to breathe. He felt like he might float away.
But the reprieve was brief. Gohan stood with arms folded, his face stern. "Enough conditioning for now. It's time we focus on something else."
"Ki control?" Trunks guessed.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Gohan's mouth. "You've been paying attention."
***
They moved outside, away from Capsule Corp's polished walls, into the cracked concrete yard where weeds had forced their way through broken tiles. The sky above was the same dull gray it always was, clouds heavy with ash that never seemed to fall.
There, Gohan began the lessons.
Trunks already knew the basics—how to sense ki, how to feel its warmth coiling inside him. But Gohan made him refine it. Step by step, he drilled him, from focusing inward to stretching outward.
"Not just your own," Gohan explained, his tone patient yet sharp. "The world breathes with ki. The wind, the trees, the people around you. You need to feel it all, and then you need to decide whether you want to shine like a beacon or disappear into silence."
He taught Trunks how to suppress his presence, how to flare it, how to shape it into blasts of energy and push it beneath his feet to fly.
Hours passed like this, sweat once again dripping from the boy's brow. But unlike the gravity chamber, this was different. Ki didn't fight him. It welcomed him.
It was then Trunks realized the weight of his new talent—Child of Ki. The energy around him responded almost eagerly, flowing into his hands, swirling at his command. What others bled years to master, he grasped in a single night.
By sundown, he had done it all—sensing, suppressing, flying, firing blasts into the barren sky.
Gohan had frozen, staring at him in disbelief.
(Gohan POV)
"This… this shouldn't be possible."
He tried to mask his shock, but the proud smile betrayed him. Trunks stood before him, chest heaving, sweat and dirt streaking his face, but his ki control was sharper than many adults he'd trained beside.
Piccolo himself had drilled these lessons into him with harsh discipline, and even then it had taken years. Yet Trunks had learned in hours.
Gohan felt something stir in his chest—something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time.
Pride.
"This boy…" he whispered under his breath. "He might really do it."
(Trunks POV)
When Gohan finally spoke, his voice carried a weight Trunks didn't miss.
"You've earned something."
Trunks blinked. "Earned…?"
"Follow me."
Without another word, Gohan rose into the air. Trunks flared his ki and followed, the two streaks of light cutting across the dead horizon.
They flew over ruined highways and collapsed skyscrapers, the bones of a world long gone. No cars moved, no birds sang. The silence was thick, broken only by the wind in their ears.
At last, they descended into an abandoned stretch of land, where the remnants of buildings jutted like jagged teeth from the earth.
Gohan landed, his boots crunching on broken stone. His expression had shifted—calm, but serious, like a man preparing to pass on a sacred burden.
"There's a technique," he said slowly, "that my teacher taught me. He gave his life for me, and for this world. It's not something I pass lightly. But you… you've earned it."
Trunks's breath caught. He knew what was coming, but hearing it in this timeline, in this voice, sent a chill through him.
Gohan's dark eyes met his. "I'm going to teach you the Special Beam Cannon."