Three months slipped by like shadows across a ruined wasteland. Each day bled into the next, the sound of collapsing cities and distant screams becoming background noise in a world that had forgotten peace. But for Gohan and Trunks, time was not wasted. It was honed, sharpened into a blade.
The boy and his mentor had finally mastered it—Super Saiyan, not as a raging burst of fury, but as a calm, burning state of being. Grade 4. Full Power. The storm of golden energy no longer tore at their bodies like wildfire; it had become a second skin, a steady flame they could hold with precision. Their base forms, too, had grown—heavier, denser, each strike carrying the weight of months spent living inside that golden fire.
They both had blond hair, no auras. They looked like human.
This mastery came not without scars. Nights of collapsing from exhaustion, meals eaten in silence while Bulma worried over them.
As time passed thier bodies adapted, thier once glimmering aura faded, now the only indicator of them being Super Saiyans is their blond hair.
Now, the time for hiding was over.
That evening, the television hummed faintly in Bulma's dimly lit lab. Static danced on the edges of the screen before the image of a trembling news reporter filled the room. His voice quivered as he described yet another massacre. Behind him, the camera captured fire, broken towers, and the unmistakable laughter of monsters. Androids.
"They're doing it again…" Bulma muttered, her hands tightening around the plate she carried. She set it down on the table harder than she meant to.
Trunks sat beside her, silent, his golden hair faintly stirring with energy even in his calm state. Gohan was across from him, arms crossed, watching the screen with the quiet intensity of a man who had seen this scene too many times.
The reporter's voice cracked: "…and now, they've taken me hostage. If anyone—if anyone can hear this—"
On screen, Android 17 stepped into view. That smug, ageless face. He wrapped a hand around the reporter's collar, lifting him effortlessly into the air.
"Pathetic, isn't it?" Seventeen's voice carried through the speakers, casual, amused. "You humans… you still cling to hope like it matters." He tilted his head, eyes sharp as glass. "Let's test how much it does."
The image flickered, static swallowing half the feed.
Silence.
Bulma's breath hitched. "Gohan—Trunks—"
But they were already standing, their chairs scraping against the floor. The boy and his mentor locked eyes, no words needed. This was it.
"Mom," Trunks said softly, his voice steady. "We'll end this."
Bulma's throat tightened. She wanted to stop him, to tell him he was still just a boy, that he had a future he deserved to live. But when she looked at him, she no longer saw the reckless child who once begged to fight. She saw resolve. The reflection of Gohan's same fire burning in younger eyes.
"…Then come back," she whispered.
Without another word, Gohan and Trunks stepped out into the open night. Their auras flared simultaneously, gold igniting like twin suns. The ground beneath them cracked as they launched into the air, streaks of light tearing through the dark sky.
The ruined city came into view minutes later—smoke rising like funeral pyres, the stench of ash and blood thick in the air. Craters dotted the landscape like the aftermath of a meteor storm.
And there he was.
Android 17, standing atop a pile of rubble, the reporter dangling helplessly from his grip. Beside him, the pale, cold beauty of Android 18, her arms crossed, eyes sharp as daggers.
"Don't look away," Seventeen mocked the reporter, raising a hand glowing with lethal energy. "This'll be your final story."
But before the blast could leave his palm, a thunderclap split the air.
Trunks had moved.
Suppressing his ki until the very last instant, he launched himself forward like a bullet. The propulsion of his flight ripped the air apart, and at the last possible moment, he released everything in a violent burst. His boot connected with Seventeen's face, the impact detonating like a cannon.
Gohan saw his father in trunks at the moment, that kick reminded him of goku fighting freiza and landing the same kick.
The android was sent hurtling backward, crashing through buildings one after another. The city echoed with destruction: *Boom. Boom. Boom.* Each collision shook the ground as debris rained in clouds of dust and fire.
Trunks landed hard, knees bent, golden aura blazing around him like wildfire. His chest heaved, adrenaline flooding his veins. He had done it—he had struck first blood.
The reporter scrambled to his feet, fleeing as fast as he could.
Silence held for a moment. Then, the rubble shifted.
Seventeen emerged, brushing dust from his jacket with casual disdain. His lip was cut, a trickle of blood sliding down his chin. He touched it with two fingers, staring at the crimson like it was something alien. Then he smirked, eyes glinting with lethal amusement.
"Well now… that actually hurt."
He hopped lightly off the debris, landing beside his sister. The two of them regarded Gohan and Trunks with predator's eyes, silent and filled with amusement.
Gohan stepped forward, aura flaring higher, his golden hair shimmering under the ruined sky. His expression was stone, his body ready.
"This ends tonight," he said.
Android 18 tilted her head, lips curving into a cold smile. "Oh, how cute… hope."
The battlefield trembled under the weight of what was about to begin.