The Fraternity headquarters conference room hummed with quiet energy as Smith Doyle reviewed the compiled wish list. Seven participants. Seven wishes. Each one revealing something fundamental about the person who'd made it.
Thor Odinson: Resurrect Loki Odinson
Xu Wenwu: Resurrect Ying Li
Karl Mordo: Strengthen Earth's dimensional defenses
T'Challa: End discrimination against African peoples
Thena: Cure Mahd Wy'ry
Tony Stark: Undecided
Smith's finger traced down the list, pausing at T'Challa's wish. Ambitious. Selfless. The kind of wish that would require Shenron to alter human consciousness on a global scale—something well within the dragon's power, but with implications that rippled far beyond the immediate request.
Interesting, Smith thought. A prince who could wish for anything chooses to lift up his people.
Karl Mordo's wish made Smith smile slightly. The sorcerer wanted to eliminate dimensional threats entirely—something even Shenron couldn't achieve. But strengthening the Sanctums' defenses or fortifying Earth's dimensional fabric? That was manageable. The Ancient One had chosen her student well.
Thor's wish drew a more complex reaction. The god of thunder wanted to resurrect his brother, unaware that Loki hadn't actually died. By now, Loki had likely been recovered by Thanos, already being positioned for the invasion that would bring the Chitauri to Earth.
Should I tell him? Smith wondered, then dismissed the thought. Thor would learn the truth soon enough. And the tournament would give him something to focus on besides his grief.
Xu Wenwu sought resurrection of his wife.
Tony still undecided, but knowing him Smith knows that Tony will not wish anything that will threaten the world.
Thena wanted freedom from the madness that had plagued her for centuries.
All valid. All achievable.
Smith looked up at the assembled operatives. "All wishes are acceptable. We can proceed with the tournament."
He stood, drawing their attention. "However, I'm changing the format. No battle royale this time. We'll move directly to one-on-one elimination matches."
Murmurs ran through the room.
"Each gold coin represents a life in the tournament," Smith continued. "Winners claim their opponent's coin. Losers forfeit theirs. The participant who accumulates all seven coins wins the championship and earns the right to make their wish."
Fox leaned forward, understanding the implications. "That means even Tony, with two coins, has to win five consecutive matches."
"Exactly," Smith confirmed. "No shortcuts this time. Pure combat skill determines the victor."
Wesley nodded approvingly. "Should make for better fights. Last tournament's battle royale created too much chaos."
"We'll inform participants of the rule change during transport," Cross added.
Smith's gaze shifted to Eddie Brock, who'd been called in for this meeting specifically. The journalist-turned-communications-director sat straighter under the attention.
"Eddie, you'll be hosting the tournament. I'll provide detailed information on each participant—their backgrounds, capabilities, fighting styles. Your job is to make the matches engaging for the spectators."
Eddie's eyes widened, excitement warring with nervousness. "You want me to host? In front of gods and immortals and—"
"You've interviewed me many times before I finally agreed," Smith said with the ghost of a smile. "You have the persistence and the voice for it. Just remember—these competitors can level buildings. Keep the commentary respectful."
"I won't let you down, boss."
"I'll serve as referee," Smith announced to the room. "To ensure participant safety and fair matches."
"Medical facilities?" Melina asked.
"Treatment pods and Wax Baths will be available," Smith confirmed. "Serious injuries can be healed between rounds. No one dies in my tournament."
He looked around the table, meeting each person's eyes. "Prepare to retrieve the participants and their spectators. Transport them to the island. The tournament begins in twelve hours."
The room erupted with synchronized responses. "Yes, boss!"
Chairs scraped as the operatives filed out, already mentally reviewing their assignments. Within minutes, aircraft engines roared to life across the Fraternity compound, vertical takeoff systems engaging as modified planes lifted into the sky.
The second Dragon Ball tournament was about to begin.
The Pacific island that hosted the tournament had transformed in the year since the last competition.
Smith stood in the center of the reconstructed arena, Bulma beside him with a tablet displaying construction schematics and system diagnostics. The afternoon sun beat down on metal that gleamed like a mirror.
"Gold-titanium alloy," Smith said, tapping his foot against the arena floor. The sound rang clear and solid. "Same material as Tony's Mark III armor."
The entire fighting surface was constructed from it—a single seamless platform fifty meters in diameter, elevated three meters above ground level. The previous brick construction had been pulverized during the finals of the last tournament. This would withstand significantly more punishment.
"I wanted to use secondary adamantium," Smith continued, "but the military's prices are prohibitive. And Wakanda's vibranium supply isn't exactly available for commercial purchase."
Bulma snorted. "Even with this alloy, most of the competitors won't be able to damage it. We're talking about material that can take tank rounds."
"Most," Smith agreed. "But not all. Thor could probably dent it with Mjolnir. Xu Wenwu's rings might leave marks. And I'd rather not test what Thena's energy weapons could do to it."
He turned, surveying the arena's surroundings. The changes extended far beyond the fighting platform.
"Walk me through the spectator setup," Smith requested.
Bulma gestured toward the tiered seating that surrounded the arena in a wide semicircle. "Standard capacity is five hundred. But we're not relying on direct line of sight alone." She pointed upward, where nearly invisible projectors were mounted on tall poles. "Virtual projection technology. Everyone in the audience gets a holographic screen directly overhead showing real-time footage from multiple angles."
"Camera system?" Smith asked.
"Hummingbird drones." Bulma pulled up a schematic on her tablet, showing tiny robotic cameras no larger than actual hummingbirds. "Ten thousand times optical zoom. AI-controlled positioning for optimal angles. They'll capture every strike, every technique, every facial expression."
Smith nodded approvingly. "And for the enhanced spectators who won't settle for screens?"
"Reinforced viewing platform directly adjacent to the arena." Bulma pointed to a raised section with premium seating. "They can watch from twenty meters away with zero risk of collateral damage."
It was the kind of setup that cost tens of millions to construct, but the Fraternity's recent revenue from Scouter sales made it negligible.
"Medical facilities?" Smith asked, already knowing the answer but wanting confirmation.
Bulma led him to a white building behind the arena—clinical, sterile, purpose-built. Inside, three egg-shaped pods sat in a row, their surfaces gleaming with the same technology as the original Medical Pod.
"Based on the unit you left at headquarters," Bulma explained, running her hand along one pod's surface. "These are simplified versions—about forty percent of the original's healing capability. But for tournament injuries? More than sufficient."
Smith examined the pods with interest. Bulma had reverse-engineered alien technology to create something that could heal broken bones in hours, close deep lacerations in minutes, and stabilize even catastrophic injuries long enough for more comprehensive treatment.
"Dr. Helen Cho's Cradle of Life won't exist for years," Smith mused. "And when it does, this will still be superior for trauma."
"We could commercialize them," Bulma suggested. "Hospitals would pay millions per unit."
"After the tournament," Smith decided. "Let's not create too many waves at once. The Scouters already have every government on Earth trying to figure out our supply chain."
Bulma grinned. "Fair enough."
Smith walked back out into the sunlight, surveying the completed arena complex. Everything was ready. The stage was set.
"With these facilities, the competitors can fight at full strength," he said quietly. "No holding back for fear of permanent injury. No restraint. Just pure combat."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Bulma asked.
"Extremely." Smith's smile was sharp. "That's the point."
The Ten Rings compound bustled with activity as Selene and Michael descended from the sky.
The modified passenger aircraft—one of Bulma's recent projects—touched down with barely a whisper, its vertical takeoff and landing system a masterpiece of engineering that made S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Airbus look clumsy by comparison. The craft was sleeker, faster, and equipped with technology that wouldn't exist in the civilian market for another decade.
Selene emerged from the hatch, her presence immediately drawing the attention of every Ten Rings warrior in the courtyard. Michael followed, his hybrid nature making him nearly as imposing.
Xu Wenwu stood waiting, ten people arranged behind him in precise formation.
"Xu Wenwu," Selene announced, her voice carrying across the courtyard. "As holder of the Dragon Ball, you are officially notified that the tournament begins today. We're here to transport you and your spectators to the competition venue."
"As a participant, you may bring up to ten spectators."
Xu Wenwu's expression remained controlled, but joy flickered in his ancient eyes. Finally. After a thousand years of searching, fighting, studying every resurrection method across two dozen cultures, the moment had arrived.
Behind him stood his chosen witnesses: Shang-Chi and Xialing, his children who'd brought him news of the Dragon Balls. Eight of his most capable commanders, including the Death Dealer who'd served him for decades. These were the people who would witness his wife's return.
"We're ready," Xu Wenwu said simply.
He turned to address his gathered warriors. Hundreds had assembled in the courtyard—men and women who'd sworn loyalty to the Ten Rings, who'd fought in conflicts across the globe, who'd followed him through centuries of endless war.
"Today begins the battle that will bring her back!" Xu Wenwu's voice rang out, amplified by the ancient rings on his arms. "Today, we reclaim what was stolen from us!"
The warriors responded with a thunderous chant, fists raised. "Resurrection! Resurrection! Resurrection!"
The sound echoed off the mountain peaks, a war cry that spoke of absolute conviction.
Xu Wenwu allowed himself a small smile. He would not fail. His children had participated in the last tournament and been eliminated. He would not repeat their mistakes. He had lived a thousand years, mastered combat styles from every continent, wielded weapons of cosmic power.
This tournament would end with only one outcome: Ying Li returning to his arms.
He gestured to his chosen spectators. They filed onto the aircraft in disciplined silence, taking seats designed for comfort during the long flight to the Pacific.
Xu Wenwu boarded last, pausing at the hatch to look back at his compound—the fortress he'd built, the empire he'd maintained, all of it meaningless without the woman who'd given him purpose.
Soon, he promised silently. Very soon.
The hatch sealed. Engines hummed to life. The aircraft lifted vertically with perfect smoothness, rotated in mid-air, and accelerated toward the horizon.
Behind them, the Ten Rings warriors continued their chant until the aircraft disappeared into the clouds.