"Echoes of Another World"
Two weeks had passed since Mugetsu's arrival in the Dragon Ball universe.
Two weeks of cultivation. Two weeks of domestic routine. Two weeks of Vegeta's increasingly desperate attempts to land a single blow.
And two weeks of questions.
The questions weren't external—the Z-Fighters had learned that pressing Mugetsu for information yielded nothing but flat stares and curt dismissals. No, these questions came from within. From the part of his consciousness that still remembered being human, that still retained the analytical mind of an anime fan who had spent countless hours dissecting fictional power systems.
What am I capable of?
The question haunted him during his cultivation sessions, during the family meals he didn't eat, during the long nights when the Son household slept and he sat alone with his thoughts.
He knew his power was vast. He had killed Frieza and Cold without effort, had shrugged off attacks from Super Saiyan Vegeta, had created constructs from pure darkness. But these were crude applications—instinctive expressions of ability rather than refined techniques.
In Bleach, Ichigo had possessed a vast arsenal of techniques. Getsuga Tensho, the signature attack that could cleave through virtually anything. Bankai, the ultimate expression of Zanpakuto power. And in the Final Getsuga Tensho form—Mugetsu itself—the single, devastating attack that had overwhelmed even the transcendent Aizen.
Can I replicate those techniques here?
Can I do more?
The questions demanded answers.
And so, on the fifteenth day of his new existence, Mugetsu left the Son household before dawn and flew to the most remote wasteland he could find.
The landscape was desolate beyond measure.
Ancient volcanic activity had scoured this region clean of life, leaving behind nothing but black stone and sulfurous vents. No plants grew here. No animals wandered. Even the sky seemed darker, as if the sun itself was reluctant to illuminate this forsaken place.
It was perfect.
Mugetsu landed on a flat obsidian platform, his bare feet absorbing the residual heat without discomfort. His Aura expanded outward, claiming the space around him as his domain.
First, he thought, the basics.
He raised his right hand, palm facing outward. In the anime, Ichigo had fired Getsuga Tensho by swinging his sword, releasing a crescent of concentrated spiritual energy. But Mugetsu wasn't wielding a sword at the moment, and his energy wasn't spiritual in the traditional sense.
Adapt. Improvise. The principle remains the same—concentrate energy, give it form, release.
He focused on his darkness, drawing it toward his palm. The shadows around him stirred, flowing inward like water toward a drain. They condensed in his hand, becoming denser and denser until the air itself seemed to groan under the pressure.
Getsuga...
The energy reached critical mass.
Tensho!
He thrust his palm forward.
A wave of pure darkness erupted from his hand—not a crescent like Ichigo's technique, but a beam. A column of absolute black that shot across the wasteland at impossible speed, carving through rock and stone and the very air itself.
The beam struck a distant mountain.
The mountain ceased to exist.
Not destroyed—erased. Reduced to nothing, its matter consumed by darkness that left only empty space behind. Where once had stood a peak perhaps three kilometers tall, now there was only a void, a gap in reality that slowly began to fill with displaced air.
Mugetsu lowered his hand, observing the result with clinical interest.
Significant power. The attack consumed approximately two percent of my current reserves. Sustainable for extended combat, though repeated use would eventually deplete me.
He made a mental note. Getsuga Tensho—or this version of it—was viable. But it was also wasteful, using more energy than necessary for the amount of destruction produced.
Refinement required. The technique should be sharper, more focused. A blade rather than a hammer.
He raised his hand again, concentrating more carefully this time. Instead of simply pushing darkness outward, he shaped it. Compressed it. Gave it an edge.
Getsuga Tensho.
The second attack was different. Smaller, thinner—a crescent of darkness that sang through the air with a sound like tearing silk. It struck another mountain range and passed through without slowing, emerging from the other side to continue into the distance.
The mountains it had touched split apart, their upper halves sliding away from their bases with geometric precision.
Better. Approximately point-five percent energy expenditure for comparable destructive effect. Efficiency improved by factor of four.
He continued experimenting, refining the technique with each iteration. The crescent became sharper, faster, more controlled. He learned to curve its trajectory, to split it into multiple projectiles, to delay its activation for strategic timing.
By the time an hour had passed, he had reduced the energy cost to point-one percent while increasing the cutting power exponentially.
Getsuga Tensho: optimized. Moving to secondary techniques.
Cero was next.
In Bleach, Cero was the signature attack of Hollows—a concentrated beam of spiritual energy fired from various points on the body. Ichigo, with his hybrid nature, had been capable of producing Cero in his more Hollow-influenced forms.
I am not a Hollow, Mugetsu thought. But I am not a Shinigami either. I am something new. Something that draws from both sources without being bound by either.
He raised one finger, pointing at a distant rock formation.
The darkness gathered at his fingertip, condensing into a sphere of absolute black. Unlike Getsuga Tensho, which was shaped and directed, Cero was meant to be overwhelming—pure destructive force without refinement.
He released it.
The beam that erupted from his finger was wider than Getsuga Tensho, more chaotic in its energy signature. It struck the rock formation and detonated, creating an explosion of darkness that consumed everything within a kilometer radius.
Significant area-of-effect capability. Higher energy cost—approximately three percent—but useful for multiple targets or fortified positions.
He fired several more Ceros, experimenting with intensity and spread. He discovered he could charge the technique for greater effect, holding the energy at his fingertip until it reached critical mass. He learned to fire rapid bursts, sacrificing power for speed.
And he discovered something unexpected.
When he charged a Cero beyond normal limits—pushing the energy density to its absolute maximum—the attack transformed. The black energy developed a red outline, crackling with power that felt fundamentally different from his standard darkness.
Gran Rey Cero, he realized. The technique of the Espada. Reserved for the most powerful Hollows.
He released it toward the horizon.
The resulting explosion was visible from orbit.
Mugetsu stood in the aftermath, his Aura absorbing the residual energy of his own attack. The landscape around him had been completely transformed—what was once a volcanic wasteland was now a crater of such immense proportions that it would probably be visible on maps.
Approximately fifteen percent energy expenditure. Devastating but costly. Reserve for extreme circumstances.
He made another mental note and moved on.
The morning stretched into afternoon as Mugetsu worked through his arsenal.
He tested Sonido—the Hollow equivalent of Flash Step—and found he could move at speeds that made teleportation seem unnecessary. Space itself seemed to compress around him, distances becoming meaningless as he flickered from point to point.
He tested Hierro—the iron skin of the Arrancar—and discovered his darkness could harden to a degree that made even his passive Aura defense seem fragile. In this state, he doubted anything in this universe could physically damage him.
He tested Pesquisa—the sensory technique—and found he could perceive energy signatures across continental distances. He could feel Goku training with Gohan in the mountains, could sense Vegeta's frustrated Ki fluctuations at Capsule Corporation, could even detect the faint signatures of ordinary humans going about their daily lives.
Each technique translated, adapted, transformed by the unique nature of his existence. He wasn't replicating Bleach abilities directly—he was creating new versions, filtered through his permanent Mugetsu state and expressed through the physics of the Dragon Ball universe.
I am becoming something unprecedented, he thought without particular emotion. A fusion of concepts that should be incompatible. Shinigami and Hollow and human, expressed through Ki-compatible energy in a world that operates on entirely different rules.
The entity chose well. This form has nearly unlimited potential for growth.
By late afternoon, he had exhausted his memories of Bleach techniques.
Every attack he could recall, every defensive ability, every movement technique—all tested, all adapted, all integrated into his growing arsenal. His power had actually increased during the process, the expenditure of energy somehow stimulating greater production.
Aura farming through combat application, he noted. Another avenue for growth. Less efficient than pure cultivation, but more engaging.
He sat down on the rim of the massive crater his experiments had created, legs dangling over the edge. The destruction around him was staggering—hundreds of square kilometers reduced to molten glass and empty voids.
I should probably avoid doing this near populated areas.
The thought came with a flicker of something that might have been concern. Not for the people themselves—the dampener ensured he couldn't truly care—but for the complications their deaths would cause.
Unnecessary attention. Explanations required. Chi-Chi's disappointment.
That last consideration caught him off guard. Why would Chi-Chi's disappointment matter? She was just a character—a person now, yes, but one he had no real connection to.
And yet the thought of facing her after causing mass casualties created a sensation he could only describe as... uncomfortable.
Strange, he thought. The dampener should prevent such reactions. Perhaps it's weakening over time?
Or perhaps he was changing. Adapting to his new existence in ways that went beyond power accumulation.
He filed the observation away for later analysis and rose to his feet. The sun was setting, painting the devastated landscape in shades of orange and red. He should return to the Son household before Chi-Chi organized a search party.
But before he could move, he felt something.
A presence.
Not Ki—he would have sensed that from across the world. Not spiritual pressure or Reiatsu or any form of energy he had encountered before. This was something else entirely. Something that existed outside the normal spectrum of perception.
Something familiar.
"Enjoying yourself?"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, pressing directly into his consciousness without passing through his ears. It carried the same quality as before—amused, ancient, utterly beyond human comprehension.
Mugetsu didn't flinch. "You're the one who sent me here."
"Guilty as charged." The presence seemed to coalesce, taking on a vague form in the air before him. Not a physical body—nothing so crude—but a suggestion of shape, a implication of existence. "I've been watching your progress with great interest. You've adapted remarkably well."
"I had little choice."
"There's always a choice. You could have gone mad. You could have rejected your new existence, retreated into catatonia, or simply willed yourself to cease existing. Many would have, faced with such complete displacement."
"The emotional dampener prevents such reactions."
"Does it?" The presence's amusement was palpable. "The dampener mutes your emotions, true. But it doesn't eliminate them. You can still feel—you simply feel less intensely, less overwhelmingly. The fact that you've maintained stability is a credit to your own resilience, not my gifts."
Mugetsu considered this. Was the entity correct? Had he been crediting the dampener for stability that was actually his own?
"Why are you here?" he asked, setting the question aside for later.
"To check on my investment. To observe your growth. And..." The presence shifted, becoming somehow more focused. "To offer another gift."
"Another gift. Like the form? The dampener?"
"Similar in nature, different in application. You've been testing your abilities today—exploring the limits of what you brought from your memories of that other story. But you've discovered something interesting, haven't you?"
Mugetsu's eyes narrowed. "I can adapt techniques. Translate them through my new existence into forms compatible with this world."
"Precisely. Your Getsuga Tensho is not Ichigo's Getsuga Tensho. Your Cero is not an Arrancar's Cero. They are something new—expressions of your unique nature, filtered through concepts you remember from fiction."
"What of it?"
"What if I told you that your memories are more complete than you realize? That buried in your subconscious are the details of countless techniques, from countless stories, all waiting to be unlocked?"
Mugetsu went still.
In his previous life, he had consumed anime and manga voraciously. Not just Bleach and Dragon Ball, but hundreds of other series. Naruto. One Piece. Hunter x Hunter. Fairy Tail. My Hero Academia. The list went on and on, an entire lifetime of fictional power systems absorbed through obsessive viewing.
"You're saying I can access those memories," he said slowly. "Adapt techniques from other series."
"I'm saying you already can. You simply haven't tried. Your mind defaults to Bleach because that's the source of your current form, but the limitations are self-imposed. With a little... assistance... you could unlock the full breadth of your accumulated knowledge."
"And you're offering that assistance."
"I am. Consider it an upgrade to your operating system." The presence's amusement deepened. "A patch that removes the artificial restrictions on your memory access. You'll still need to adapt each technique individually—the translation process remains necessary—but you'll have a much larger library to draw from."
Mugetsu considered the offer. On one hand, more abilities meant more versatility, more options, more power. On the other hand, accepting gifts from cosmic entities rarely came without strings attached.
"What do you want in return?"
"The same thing I wanted before. Entertainment. You've been interesting so far, but you're settling into routines. Cultivation, domestic life, sparring with warriors who can't challenge you. Where's the excitement? Where's the drama?"
"I'm not here to perform for you."
"Of course not. You're here to live. But living should be interesting, shouldn't it? Not just for me, but for yourself. You have access to power beyond imagination, exist in a world of legendary warriors and apocalyptic threats, and yet you spend your days meditating in a guest room."
"Growth requires patience."
"Growth requires challenge. And right now, you have none." The presence shifted again, becoming almost sympathetic. "I'm not asking you to change your nature. I'm offering you tools to make your existence more... varied. What you do with those tools is entirely your choice."
Mugetsu stared at the vague shape before him, weighing options with cold calculation.
The entity was manipulating him—that much was obvious. It wanted entertainment, and it was engineering circumstances to produce that entertainment. But manipulation wasn't inherently harmful. If the entity's goals aligned with his own development, there was no reason to refuse.
And the prospect of accessing techniques from dozens of different anime...
Kamui from Naruto. Haki from One Piece. Nen from Hunter x Hunter. The possibilities are staggering.
"Very well," he said. "I accept."
"Excellent."
The presence surged forward, and Mugetsu felt something change in the depths of his mind. It wasn't painful—nothing so crude as that—but it was profoundly disorienting. Memories he hadn't accessed in years suddenly became crystal clear. Techniques he had half-forgotten emerged in perfect detail. The accumulated knowledge of a lifetime of anime consumption organized itself into accessible categories.
It was like having a library installed directly in his brain.
"There. The restrictions are lifted. You can now access any technique you remember with sufficient clarity to attempt adaptation." The presence began to fade, its attention apparently wandering. "Use this gift wisely. Or unwisely. Either way, I'll be watching."
"Wait."
The fading paused.
"Why me?" Mugetsu asked. "Out of all the souls that die, all the fans who could have been chosen, why did you select me?"
"Because you were there. Because you were unremarkable. Because your lack of significance made you perfect—a blank canvas upon which any story could be painted." The presence's amusement returned, tinged with something almost affectionate. "But mostly? Because I was bored, and you seemed like you might be interesting."
"That's not a satisfying answer."
"Life rarely provides satisfying answers. Get used to it."
And then the presence was gone, leaving Mugetsu alone in the crater of his own creation with a mind full of unlocked memories.
He spent the next hour testing his new capabilities.
First, something simple. Something he remembered clearly from countless viewings.
Rasengan.
The technique was pure shape manipulation—rotating chakra compressed into a sphere. Mugetsu had no chakra, but he had darkness. He raised his palm and focused, spinning his energy in multiple directions simultaneously.
A sphere of absolute black formed above his hand, humming with contained power. It wasn't quite the Rasengan—no blue glow, no visible rotation—but the principle was the same.
He thrust it into the crater wall.
The resulting explosion carved a tunnel deep into the earth, the spinning darkness drilling through rock like paper.
Adaptation successful. Energy cost approximately point-three percent. Combat viable.
He moved on.
Shadow Clone Jutsu.
This was trickier. The original technique split the user's chakra to create independent copies, each with a portion of the original's power. Mugetsu's darkness didn't work quite the same way—it was an extension of his will rather than a divisible resource.
But he could create constructs. And constructs could take any shape he could visualize.
He focused, pushing his darkness outward in a specific pattern. The shadows around him thickened, coalesced, and took form.
A figure emerged from the darkness—identical to Mugetsu in every way, from the long black hair to the crimson eyes to the bandages wrapped around his lower body. It stood motionless, awaiting commands.
"Move," Mugetsu ordered.
The clone raised its hand, mimicking his gesture perfectly.
"Speak."
"I am Mugetsu," the clone said, its voice identical to his own. "I am a construct of darkness given temporary form."
"Attack that rock."
The clone raised its palm and fired a beam of darkness that obliterated the target without hesitation.
Interesting. The clone can use my techniques, though at reduced power—approximately twenty percent of my current capability. Multiple clones should be possible, though the power division would compound.
He created two more clones, then five, then ten. Each was weaker than the last, but all remained capable of independent action and technique use. At maximum, he estimated he could produce approximately fifty clones before the power division made them ineffective.
Useful for distraction, reconnaissance, or overwhelming numbers. Less useful for genuine combat against strong opponents.
He dismissed the clones, their darkness flowing back into his Aura, and moved on to more ambitious techniques.
Kamui.
The Mangekyou Sharingan's signature space-time ninjutsu—the ability to send objects and oneself to a pocket dimension, to become intangible by shifting parts of the body between realms.
This should be impossible. He had no Sharingan, no access to the dimension that Kamui connected to. The technique's foundation simply didn't exist in this universe.
And yet...
He focused on the concept rather than the mechanics. What was Kamui, really? Not a specific dojutsu technique, but a manipulation of space—shifting matter between dimensions, making objects pass through solid barriers.
His darkness could already warp space to some degree. Sonido compressed distance. His Aura exerted pressure on reality itself. Could he push that further?
He concentrated, visualizing a spiral of darkness that twisted space rather than simply moving through it. The air before him began to distort, bending in ways that hurt to look at.
A hole opened in reality.
It wasn't Kamui's signature spiral—it was a tear, a rent in the fabric of existence that revealed absolute nothingness beyond. The darkness inside wasn't his darkness—it was something else, something older, something that predated the universe itself.
Mugetsu reached toward the tear, and his hand passed through without resistance. He felt no sensation, no temperature, no pressure. His arm simply ceased to exist within normal space, reappearing inside the void between worlds.
A pocket dimension, he realized. Or access to one. I've created a pathway to somewhere outside normal reality.
He withdrew his arm—still intact, still functional—and allowed the tear to close. The implications were staggering. If he could open pathways to other dimensions, could he use them for travel? For storage? For combat applications?
More testing required. But the proof of concept is established—I can manipulate space-time to some degree.
The sun had fully set by the time he finished his experiments.
His list of newly adapted techniques was extensive: Rasengan, Shadow Clone, a crude version of dimensional manipulation, several Nen techniques from Hunter x Hunter (including a basic Zetsu that completely suppressed his Aura), and even a rough approximation of Haki from One Piece.
Each technique had required adaptation, translation through his unique existence into forms compatible with both his power source and the local physics. Not all attempts had succeeded—some concepts were too foreign, too dependent on specific power systems to translate effectively.
But enough had worked to confirm the entity's gift was genuine.
I am no longer limited to Bleach techniques, Mugetsu thought as he flew toward the Son household. I have access to abilities from dozens of different series, each one expandable and refinable with practice.
The entity was right. I have been settling into routines. Perhaps it's time to push myself more aggressively.
The thought carried more weight than it should have. Was he actually feeling... motivated? Excited, even?
The dampener was definitely weakening. Or perhaps his emotions were simply becoming too strong for it to fully suppress.
Either way, adaptation continues. I am changing, just as my techniques change. The question is what I will become.
He landed in the Son family's front yard just as Chi-Chi emerged from the house, frying pan in hand.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!"
"Training."
"Training until SUNSET? Without telling anyone? Do you have any idea how worried we were?!"
"You were worried about me?"
The question gave Chi-Chi pause. Her expression shifted from anger to something more complex—frustration, yes, but also genuine concern.
"Of course we were worried! You're part of this family now, whether you like it or not. Family looks out for each other!"
"I... see."
He didn't see. Not really. But something about Chi-Chi's words created that flicker again—that spark of emotion the dampener couldn't quite suppress.
Strange, he thought. I should not be capable of valuing their concern. And yet...
"I will inform you of my location in the future," he said, the words feeling awkward on his tongue.
Chi-Chi stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, her expression softened.
"Good. Now get inside. Dinner's getting cold, and Goku's already eaten half of it."
"I don't eat."
"Then sit at the table and pretend! That's what family does!"
She turned and marched back into the house, leaving Mugetsu standing in the yard with thoughts he couldn't fully process.
Family, he thought. She called me family.
How strange. How unexpected.
How... not entirely unpleasant.
He entered the house.
The next morning brought Vegeta.
Again.
The Saiyan Prince landed in the Son family's front yard at dawn, his Aura already blazing with aggressive intent. Chi-Chi emerged with her frying pan before he could even knock.
"IT'S SIX IN THE MORNING!"
"I don't care, woman! I'm here for the creature!"
"HIS NAME IS MUGETSU AND YOU WILL USE IT!"
"I'LL CALL HIM WHATEVER I—"
Mugetsu emerged from the house, cutting off the argument with his mere presence. The darkness around him seemed to deepen, shadows stretching toward him like supplicants.
"Vegeta," he said flatly. "You're here again."
"Obviously! I've been training all night. I've achieved a new level of power. This time—"
"This time will be exactly like all the previous times. You will attack. I will block. You will exhaust yourself. I will remain untouched."
Vegeta's face twisted with fury. "You don't know that! You haven't seen what I can do now!"
"I don't need to see it. The fundamental gap between us hasn't changed. No amount of training will close it in a single night."
"THEN WHY DO I KEEP COMING BACK?!"
The question erupted from Vegeta with more desperation than anger. His fists were clenched, his body trembling with barely contained emotion. The proud Prince of Saiyans looked almost... lost.
Mugetsu studied him with new interest.
Why does he keep coming back? The question was genuinely puzzling. Any rational being would have accepted the disparity by now. Vegeta had been defeated repeatedly, humiliated without exception. There was no tactical advantage to continued challenges.
And yet he returned. Every day, without fail.
Is he a masochist?
The thought emerged unbidden, and Mugetsu found himself actually considering it. Vegeta seemed to derive some perverse satisfaction from these encounters, despite—or perhaps because of—their inevitable outcomes.
"Vegeta," Mugetsu said slowly, "do you... enjoy this?"
"Enjoy it?! I hate it! I hate you! I hate that you exist, that you're stronger than me, that I can't even make you take me seriously!"
"And yet you return."
"BECAUSE I HAVE TO! Because if I give up, if I accept that there's a gap I can never close, then what's the point of anything?! I'm the Prince of Saiyans! I'm supposed to be the strongest! If I can't even challenge you, how can I call myself a warrior?!"
Mugetsu considered this outburst.
In another life, he might have dismissed Vegeta's fixation as mere pride—the irrational clinging to status that defined so much of the Prince's character. But now, standing before the raw desperation in those dark eyes, he saw something else.
This isn't about pride, he realized. Not entirely. This is about purpose. Vegeta has defined his entire existence around being the strongest. Without that goal, he has nothing.
I have become an existential threat simply by existing.
The realization stirred something in Mugetsu—not quite sympathy, not with the dampener in place, but a cold recognition of shared circumstance. He too was searching for purpose in a world where he didn't truly belong.
"Very well," he said.
Vegeta blinked. "What?"
"I will spar with you. Genuinely spar, not simply deflect your attacks. But I have conditions."
Hope flickered in the Prince's eyes, quickly suppressed beneath habitual arrogance. "Name them."
"First: you will train more efficiently. Your current methods rely too heavily on brute force. I will provide guidance."
Vegeta's face twisted with conflicted emotions. Accepting training advice from an opponent was anathema to his pride—but the prospect of actually landing a hit was too tempting to refuse.
"...fine. What else?"
"Second: you will stop calling Chi-Chi 'woman.' Her name is Chi-Chi. You will use it."
"What?! What does that have to do with—"
"Those are my conditions. Accept them or leave."
The standoff stretched for several seconds. Vegeta's pride warred visibly with his desperation, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he struggled with the decision.
Finally, grudgingly, he nodded.
"Agreed. But this training better be worth it."
"It will be. Follow me."
Mugetsu rose into the air, heading toward the wasteland. Behind him, he heard Chi-Chi's surprised voice:
"Did... did he just stand up for me?"
He didn't look back.
The wasteland bore the scars of yesterday's experiments—craters and canyons and empty voids where matter had simply ceased to exist. Vegeta surveyed the devastation with widening eyes.
"You did all this?"
"Yes. I was testing my capabilities."
"In a single day?"
"In a few hours."
Vegeta was silent for a long moment, processing the implications. Then, surprisingly, he laughed.
"Of course you did. Why am I even surprised anymore?"
"Because you haven't fully accepted reality yet. Part of you still believes you can surpass me through raw power. You cannot."
"Then what do you suggest? That I give up?"
"No. I suggest you pursue a different kind of strength." Mugetsu landed on a stable rock formation, his bare feet finding purchase on the uneven surface. "You are obsessed with power levels—with quantifiable measurements of strength. But power levels are not the only determinant of combat effectiveness."
Vegeta landed across from him, arms crossed skeptically. "Explain."
"In my previous existence, I encountered countless examples of weaker beings defeating stronger ones through superior technique, strategy, or ability. Power is a foundation, not a ceiling."
"Pretty words. But in practice, overwhelming force trumps everything."
"Does it? Then explain how Goku defeated Frieza."
The question caught Vegeta off guard. "What do you mean? Kakarot achieved Super Saiyan. His power level—"
"Was lower than Frieza's at full power. Significantly lower. Frieza's maximum exceeded Goku's by a considerable margin. And yet Goku won. How?"
Vegeta's brow furrowed. He clearly hadn't considered this before, too focused on his own inferiority to analyze the mechanics of Goku's victory.
"Frieza was... exhausted. He had been fighting at full power for too long—"
"Exactly. Stamina. Endurance. The ability to maintain peak performance over extended periods. Frieza sacrificed these for raw power and lost because of it." Mugetsu began circling Vegeta slowly, his movements predatory. "You make the same mistake. Your Super Saiyan form burns through energy at an unsustainable rate. You focus on explosive attacks rather than efficient ones. You have no techniques beyond 'hit harder.'"
"I have plenty of techniques! Galick Gun, Final Flash, Big Bang Attack—"
"All variations on the same theme. Concentrate energy, fire beam. There is no subtlety, no adaptation, no tactical flexibility."
"And I suppose you have those things?"
"I do. Would you like a demonstration?"
Vegeta's eyes narrowed. "Is this where you humiliate me again?"
"No. This is where I show you what real combat looks like. Observe."
Mugetsu raised one hand, creating five shadow clones that materialized around Vegeta in a loose circle. Each clone was weaker than the original—perhaps matching Vegeta's base form rather than his Super Saiyan state—but they were still formidable.
"These constructs have approximately your power level," Mugetsu explained. "They will attack you simultaneously. Your goal is to defeat all five while sustaining minimal damage."
Vegeta looked around at the clones, calculation replacing skepticism. "Five against one? I can transform and destroy them in seconds."
"Then do so. But remember—efficiency is the goal. Every point of energy you waste is a point that could be used against a stronger opponent later."
"This is absurd. In real combat, you destroy your enemies as quickly as possible."
"In real combat, your enemies are rarely so accommodating as to attack alone. The Androids you'll face in three years—there are two of them, aren't there? What happens when you exhaust yourself defeating one, only to face the second at full strength?"
The logic was undeniable. Vegeta's expression shifted as he absorbed the tactical implications.
"...fine. Let's see what your constructs can do."
The clones attacked.
The fight was brutal.
Vegeta had skill—more than Mugetsu had expected, honestly. His movements were refined by decades of combat, his instincts honed to razor sharpness. He dodged the first wave of attacks with dancer's grace, counterattacking with precise strikes that shattered one clone immediately.
But the remaining four adapted.
They coordinated their assaults, attacking from multiple angles simultaneously. When Vegeta focused on one, another struck from behind. When he tried to create distance, they closed it instantly. They fought like a single organism with four bodies.
Vegeta was forced to transform.
Golden light exploded from his body as Super Saiyan rage took over. He moved faster now, hit harder, his power overwhelming the clones' individual capabilities. Another construct fell, then a third.
But he was burning energy like water through a sieve. Mugetsu could see it—the strain in his movements, the slight lag in his reactions as fatigue began to set in.
The final two clones pressed their advantage. They didn't try to match his power—they focused on evasion, on attrition, on forcing him to waste attacks on empty air. His frustrated roars echoed across the wasteland as beam after beam missed its target.
Finally, exhausted and desperate, Vegeta unleashed a massive energy blast that obliterated both remaining clones. The attack was overkill—far more power than necessary—but it ended the fight.
Vegeta collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. His Super Saiyan form flickered and died, leaving him in his base state with barely enough energy to stand.
"That," Mugetsu said calmly, "is why efficiency matters."
"Shut... up..."
"You won. Congratulations. But at what cost? If I attacked you now—at full strength—you would be dead before you could blink. And the Androids will not give you recovery time."
Vegeta said nothing, too exhausted to argue. But his eyes—those dark, calculating eyes—showed understanding dawning.
"How?" he finally managed. "How do I fight without... wasting so much?"
"You learn. You practice. You develop techniques that accomplish goals with minimal expenditure." Mugetsu created another clone—just one this time, matching Vegeta's depleted state. "Again. But this time, focus on ending the fight quickly without transforming."
"Without—that's impossible. In my base form—"
"Is still formidable. You've simply never learned to use it properly because Super Saiyan is a crutch." Mugetsu gestured at the waiting clone. "Prove me wrong."
Vegeta stared at the construct, exhaustion warring with stubborn pride.
Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.
"Fine. Let's go."
They trained for hours.
Mugetsu pushed Vegeta relentlessly, forcing him to fight without transforming, to find efficiency where he had previously relied on power. The Prince resisted at first—old habits died hard—but gradually, incrementally, he began to adapt.
His movements became tighter, more economical. His attacks found targets with greater frequency. His energy expenditure dropped as he learned to fight smart instead of fight hard.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Vegeta was defeating single clones in seconds without transforming—something that would have been impossible mere hours ago.
"Enough," Mugetsu said, dismissing the current construct. "You've made progress."
Vegeta stood amid the battlefield, chest heaving but eyes bright with something that might have been satisfaction. "This... this is what you meant. Technique over raw power."
"Partly. There's more to learn, but the foundation is established."
"And you'll teach me more?"
"If you continue to show progress." Mugetsu turned to leave. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."
He flew away before Vegeta could respond, leaving the Prince standing alone in the wasteland with new understanding dawning in his warrior's heart.
The Son household was in chaos when Mugetsu returned.
Not the destructive kind of chaos—the domestic kind. Gohan was racing around the living room, gathering textbooks and papers. Chi-Chi was shouting instructions from the kitchen. And Goku was attempting to help while simultaneously raiding the refrigerator.
"What happened?" Mugetsu asked, landing in the doorway.
"Gohan has a big test tomorrow!" Chi-Chi called out. "He forgot to study because SOMEONE took him fishing yesterday!"
"But Chi-Chi, the fish were really biting—"
"I DON'T CARE ABOUT FISH, GOKU!"
Mugetsu observed the scene with distant fascination. This was normal life for them—the constant balancing act between martial arts training and academic achievement, between saving the world and maintaining domestic harmony.
It was utterly foreign to his previous existence.
"I could help," he found himself saying. "With the studying."
Everyone froze.
"You?" Gohan looked up from his scattered papers. "You know about mathematics and science and history?"
"I retain knowledge from my previous existence. Including academic subjects."
Chi-Chi emerged from the kitchen, her expression shifting from surprise to careful hope. "You would really help? You're not just saying that?"
"I have nothing better to do until my next training session. And ensuring Gohan's academic success appears to be important to you."
"It IS important! Education is the foundation of—never mind. Yes. Please help."
Mugetsu sat down at the table, gathering Gohan's scattered materials with mechanical efficiency. His enhanced mind processed the textbook contents in moments—elementary level mathematics, basic sciences, simple historical facts.
"This is trivial," he observed. "Gohan, begin with the mathematics section. I will assess your current understanding and identify gaps."
"Um... okay?"
The impromptu tutoring session began, with Mugetsu drilling the young half-Saiyan on concepts and formulas while Chi-Chi hovered nearby in a state of confused gratitude. Goku watched the whole thing with his characteristic grin.
"See, Chi-Chi? I told you Mugetsu was nice."
"He's not nice, Goku. He's... efficient."
"Same thing!"
"It is absolutely not the same thing."
But there was warmth in Chi-Chi's voice that hadn't been there before. And when she brought Mugetsu a cup of tea he wouldn't drink, she placed it beside him with something approaching fondness.
Family, Mugetsu thought again, the concept slowly becoming less foreign. This is what family means. Not blood or obligation, but choice. The decision to care for people who have no claim on you.
I did not choose this. And yet...
He looked at Gohan, bent over his textbook with intense concentration. At Chi-Chi, bustling around the kitchen with nervous energy. At Goku, eating everything in sight while simultaneously offering moral support.
...I do not entirely regret it.
The thought startled him. Regret implied emotional investment. Emotional investment implied the dampener was failing.
But as the evening wore on and Gohan's test preparation continued, Mugetsu found he didn't mind.
The game was changing.
And for the first time since his death and resurrection, he was curious about where it would lead.
To be continued...
Author's Note:
Chapter 4 complete! Mugetsu has tested his powers extensively, discovering he can adapt techniques from multiple anime series thanks to the entity's gift. He's also begun training Vegeta in actual combat efficiency, and is slowly integrating into the Son family despite his emotional dampener.
The question of whether Vegeta is a masochist remains unanswered, but at least he's learning something useful now!
Next chapter: The three-year time skip continues, and we see how Mugetsu's influence has changed the trajectory of everyone's training. The Androids approach, and a world that has diverged significantly from the original timeline prepares for a threat that may or may not still exist as expected.
Also: more techniques from other anime series get adapted, because why not?
Stay tuned!