Xu Wenwu's warning hung in the air between them, heavy with certainty and threat. Tony's tactical analysis confirmed what his instincts had already concluded—the stratosphere gambit could only work once. Xu Wenwu would watch the sky now. Would never commit all ten rings simultaneously. Would adapt and counter any similar strategy.
The Seraph satellite's kamikaze option remained theoretically viable, but the probability of success had dropped below acceptable thresholds.
Tony's faceplate retracted with a soft hiss, revealing his face to the arena and its thousands of spectators. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and exhaustion carved lines around his eyes that made him look a decade older.
"Since you're a man of devotion and loyalty," Tony said, his voice carrying clearly despite its weariness, "I concede this match."
Xu Wenwu's eyes widened fractionally. Surprise flickered across features that had remained impassive for a thousand years.
Before Xu Wenwu could respond, Tony continued. "And the next three matches as well. No point dragging this out when we both know how it ends."
He turned toward Smith Doyle, who stood at the arena's edge in his referee capacity. "Just so we're clear—that's four consecutive concessions. This match, plus the three I'd need to lose anyway."
Then Tony pivoted back to face Xu Wenwu directly. The armor's servos whined softly as he met the ancient warrior's gaze without flinching.
"Protect your wife this time," Tony said, and something genuine entered his tone—not mockery or bitterness, but honest advice. "Don't let yourself have regrets. Guard her well."
He paused, then added quietly, "You might not get another chance to make a wish to the dragon. Ever. So make this one count."
Without waiting for a response, Tony turned and walked toward the spectator section where Pepper and Happy waited. His back remained straight despite exhaustion, posture projecting confidence even in defeat.
He left Xu Wenwu standing alone on the arena floor, staring at the armored figure's retreating form.
Something tightened in Xu Wenwu's chest—an unfamiliar sensation after so many centuries. Respect? Gratitude? He'd expected Tony to fight until literally incapable of continuing. To rage against inevitable defeat through pride or stubbornness.
Instead, the man had recognized reality, accepted it with grace, and offered genuine well-wishes for Xu Wenwu's reunion with Ying Li.
After resurrection, Xu Wenwu would need to protect her absolutely. No risks. No dangers. No situations where he might need the Dragon Balls again. Tony was right about that—there might never be another opportunity like this.
Xu Wenwu clasped his fists together and bowed slightly in Tony's direction, the gesture carrying weight from a thousand years of tradition. "Thank you, Stark."
The crowd erupted.
Applause thundered across the venue, genuine and enthusiastic. Tony's unrestrained acceptance of defeat—his refusal to drag things out through pointless pride—had earned respect from spectators who'd watched gods and immortals compete.
In the Asgardian section, Thor slumped in his seat with theatrical despair. "Why didn't I get this opportunity? I truly envy Tony and Xu Wenwu's fortune."
His tone carried genuine frustration. Resurrecting Loki was no less important than resurrecting a spouse. Both were beloved family members lost too soon. Why should one succeed where the other failed?
Jane Foster's hand found his, squeezing gently. No words—just presence and sympathy.
Throughout the spectator sections, the more tactically minded observers had already reached Tony's same conclusion. Several nodded with understanding—the man had nothing left. Concession avoided the humiliation of four consecutive defeats while maintaining dignity.
In the Eternals' section, Thena's arms crossed as she watched Tony reach his supporters. Her expression showed grudging approval. "Clever. He recognized the inevitable and extracted himself with grace intact."
Smith Doyle's voice cut through the applause and speculation. "Because contestant Tony Stark has conceded defeat, the winner of this match is Xu Wenwu!"
He paused, letting the announcement settle, then continued with increased volume. "Furthermore, Tony Stark has withdrawn from the remaining three matches. Therefore, this year's Dragon Ball tournament champion is—Xu Wenwu of the Ten Rings!"
The declaration carried finality and authority. The competition was over. Victory decided.
"All contestants and spectators—excluding Xu Wenwu and his accompanying guests—will be escorted from the island shortly by Fraternity staff. Please proceed to the designated aircraft in an orderly fashion."
Disappointment rippled through the crowd. No one would witness the actual wish? The summoning of the Dragon happened privately?
But Smith's reasoning was sound, even if the spectators didn't know it. These were Earth's Dragon Balls—anyone could make a wish in any language, and Shenron would grant it. Too many variables. Too much risk of interference or theft. The Namekian Dragon Balls required wishes spoken in the Namekian language, providing natural encryption. But Earth's set? Vulnerable to anyone who could speak.
Better to clear the area entirely. Champion and close associates only.
The exodus began with surprising efficiency. Fraternity operatives guided groups toward waiting aircraft, their movements professional and courteous. Within minutes, the island's population began its dramatic decline.
Twenty minutes later, the tournament grounds stood nearly empty.
Xu Wenwu remained on the arena floor beside Smith Doyle. His children—Xialing and Shang-Chi—stood nearby, their expressions mixing anticipation with nervousness. The Death Dealer and a handful of senior Ten Rings commanders maintained respectful distance, witnesses to their master's greatest triumph.
A Baymax robot approached with careful steps, its soft form carrying a velvet-lined tray. Seven Dragon Balls rested in perfect arrangement, each one glowing faintly with internal light. The star patterns within caught and reflected the afternoon sun.
Smith's expression was serious, almost formal. "Xu Wenwu, I need to confirm your wish one final time."
His tone carried weight that suggested this was more than mere procedure. "You intend to resurrect your deceased wife, Ying Li. Is this correct?"
Xu Wenwu's breathing had become audibly heavier. His eyes remained locked on those seven spheres—objects of myth and legend, now sitting an arm's length away. After a thousand years of searching, researching, pursuing every possible method...
Victory. Finally.
"Yes," Xu Wenwu said, his voice thick with barely controlled emotion. "My wish is to resurrect my wife, Ying Li."
Smith nodded slowly. "Confirm that you will not change or modify this wish at the moment of speaking it to Shenron."
"No changes," Xu Wenwu replied immediately. "No modifications. Resurrect Ying Li. Nothing else matters."
Smith prepared to proceed, but Xu Wenwu suddenly spoke again, urgency entering his tone.
"Mr. Smith, I want you to know—I'm willing to pay any price to resurrect my wife."
The words came in a rush, as if he'd been holding them back and could contain them no longer. "If you require me to join the Fraternity like Selene did during the previous tournament, I accept. Whatever terms you demand, I'll meet them. Just... let me bring her back."
Understanding crystallized in Xu Wenwu's mind. Smith's repeated confirmations weren't just procedure—they were negotiation. Establishing terms. The Dragon Ball wish came with strings attached, obligations that needed acknowledgment.
He might as well state his position clearly. "The Ten Rings organization, my resources, my personal service—all of it is available if necessary. I'll destroy armies or build kingdoms, whatever serves the Fraternity's interests. As long as Ying Li returns."
His millennium of accumulated wealth and power meant nothing compared to one woman's life.
A few meters away, Xialing's lip curled with cynical understanding. Of course there's a price. Nothing this powerful comes free. The whole tournament is just recruitment with extra steps.
Shang-Chi showed no surprise at his father's declaration. He'd watched Xu Wenwu systematically eliminate everyone involved in Ying Li's death when Shang-Chi was barely ten years old. His father would absolutely trade everything—power, prestige, independence—for his mother's resurrection.
The Death Dealer and other Ten Rings commanders exchanged glances but remained silent. They had no authority to question their master's choices. Whatever Xu Wenwu decided, they would follow.
Smith Doyle blinked, his expression shifting through surprise toward something that might have been amusement.
What is Wenwu talking about?
The man thought joining the Fraternity was payment for the Dragon Ball wish? That Smith was recruiting through coercion?
Smith had never considered trying to recruit Xu Wenwu. The man led his own organization—ancient, powerful, and operating with complete independence. Plus the whole "thousand years old with cosmic artifacts" thing created certain management challenges.
But if Xu Wenwu was volunteering...
Well. Only a fool refused free assets of this caliber.
Smith's expression settled into careful neutrality. "Wenwu, I need to emphasize something crucial—joining the Fraternity has absolutely nothing to do with the Dragon Ball wish."
Xu Wenwu's eyes lit up with comprehension. Of course. Smith wanted plausible deniability. Wanted Xu Wenwu to offer freely rather than under duress. Smart political maneuvering for someone so young.
"Yes, absolutely," Xu Wenwu said quickly. "I'm joining the Fraternity voluntarily. This has no connection whatsoever to making a wish. Completely separate decisions."
Before Smith could respond, Xu Wenwu grasped both of Smith's hands in his own, his grip firm and earnest. The gesture would have been overly familiar in most contexts, but desperate sincerity overrode normal boundaries.
"I've admired the Fraternity's work for years," Xu Wenwu said, words tumbling out with practiced smoothness. "When I first learned of your mission, I was deeply interested, but continental separation prevented cooperation. Now, seeing how the organization has evolved, how you handle threats to innocent lives with such decisive action..."
His expression radiated genuine conviction. "Your stance against evil resonates with everything I believe. From this moment forward, I, Xu Wenwu, stand opposed to all wickedness and cruelty!"
Smith's mouth twitched. The corner of his lips curved upward despite his best efforts to maintain professional composure. This was like watching someone negotiate against themselves, offering better and better terms without any prompting.
It was beautiful. Absurd, but beautiful.
"Very well, Xu Wenwu," Smith said, extracting his hands with gentle but firm pressure. "I sense your sincerity. I accept your application to join the Fraternity. We'll discuss specific arrangements and responsibilities after you make your wish."
He gestured toward the Dragon Balls, redirecting focus. "For now, let's proceed with the summoning."
Xu Wenwu's smile widened further. Perfect. Exactly as expected. Young leader, easy to read, wanted me to volunteer rather than demand payment.
He'd played this game a thousand times across a thousand years. Read people. Given them what they wanted to hear. Achieved his objectives through superior social intelligence.
Smith Doyle had never stood a chance.
Smith Doyle, reading Xu Wenwu's energy signature and facial expressions with perfect clarity: He thinks he manipulated me. That's adorable.
Smith knelt beside the seven Dragon Balls, arranging them in a perfect circle on the arena's restored surface. Each sphere pulsed with internal light, responding to proximity with increased luminescence.
Xu Wenwu, Xialing, Shang-Chi, the Death Dealer, and the handful of witnesses stepped back, giving the summoning space.
Smith raised both hands toward the sky, his voice carrying power that transcended mere volume.
"Come forth, Shenron!"
The response was immediate and overwhelming.
Golden light erupted from all seven Dragon Balls simultaneously, seven pillars of radiance that shot skyward like reverse lightning. The beams merged at some impossible height, forming a single column of pure luminous power that pierced the clouds.
The sky began to change.
Clear blue darkened to twilight, then to full night. Stars appeared overhead despite the afternoon hour. Darkness spread from the tournament island in all directions—across the Pacific Ocean, over continental landmasses, covering the entire Earth in supernatural shadow.
But the darkness stopped at Earth's atmosphere. Didn't extend into space. Didn't affect the moon or distant planets. This was Earth's Dragon, and its power remained bound to its sphere of influence.
The golden pillar of light transformed.
Green scales materialized from nothing, forming along the column's length. A serpentine body took shape—massive beyond comprehension, coiling through the sky like a living tornado. The head emerged last—draconic, ancient, terrible and magnificent in equal measure.
Shenron had awakened.
The dragon's eyes opened, glowing with internal fire. Its voice resonated across the island, deep and commanding, speaking in tones that bypassed ears and vibrated directly in the chest.
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