"Your bickering," Whis stated, his voice resonating with sonorous clarity that vibrated Kyoto's ribs, "is inefficient. Like keytars attempting symphony." He gestured with his half-eaten jaggery towards Kyoto. "You achieved liftoff. Crudely. Uncontrolled. But you ignited Ki." His staff tapped the obsidian. A ripple spread outwards, flattening the lingering aggression. "That spark, however feeble, signifies viability. Potential ceases being theoretical." He turned to Fasha, his gaze piercing. "Your instruction, while... abrasive, proved marginally effective. Therefore..."
Whis vanished the prism. Both Saiyans instinctively braced. "Real training," he announced, the words settling with finality, "begins now." He didn't gesture. Didn't move. But the platform shifted. Obsidian flowed like liquid mercury, rising into jagged, waist-high pillars scattered across the expanse. Above, shimmering rings of violet light materialized, hovering at varying heights like ethereal targets.
"Kyoto," Whis commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Flight is stability, not propulsion. Achieve sustained hover here." He pointed to a spot directly before him. "Five seconds. Motionless. Your Ki spills like cheap wine—contain it. Fasha." She snapped to attention, wary. "Discharge a coherent Ki blast. Not a wild spray. A focused beam. Pierce the central ring." He indicated the highest, smallest ring. "Accuracy over power. Begin."
Kyoto swallowed, the taste of neutron dust oddly metallic in his memory. He planted his feet, seeking that molten wire in his gut. Push down. Steady. He felt the Ki flicker, unstable. Below, Fasha crouched, violet light gathering fiercely in her palms, her focus entirely on the distant ring, her earlier fury channeled into pure, volatile concentration. The air hummed. Not with argument, but with raw, unanaesthetised effort. Whis watched, serene, a globe-trotter observing ants build their hill.
"Potential," Whis murmured, the word slicing through Kyoto's struggle. His staff tapped the obsidian. "Kyoto. Your spark flares wildly—ambition without anchor. You chase extremes." Kyoto wobbled mid-air, sweat stinging his eyes. "You possess aptitude for both poles: the instinctive precision of Ultra Instinct... and the annihilating impulse of Hakai." Kyoto crashed down, knees buckling. Whis didn't blink. "But mastery requires balance. Not compromise. Integration. Feel the Ki flow. Not as a weapon, nor a shield. As breath. Steady it. Contain the spillage." Kyoto dragged himself up, gritting his teeth. Breath. Not fire. Breath.
Whis turned to Fasha. Her blast roared out—a searing violet torrent—but scattered wildly, vaporizing three pillars and missing the ring entirely. Smoke curled. "Destruction," Whis stated flatly. "Pure. Undiluted. Your Ki resonates with Hakai's essence—unmaking." Fasha glared, panting, frustration radiating. "But Hakai wielded without focus is mere demolition. Wasteful. Ugly." He gestured at the scorched obsidian. "Channel that fury. Narrow the beam. Precision is destruction refined." Fasha snarled, but nodded curtly, already gathering Ki again, her focus laser-sharp.
Finally, Whis's gaze settled on Gine. She stood near the capsule hatch, trembling slightly, her gentle eyes wide. "Gine," Whis said, his voice softening fractionally. "Your Ki is faint. Barely a whisper. But it flows... calmly. Steadily." He gestured towards the shimmering rings. "Ultra Instinct requires not force, but flow. Not aggression, but response. Your nature aligns with its core: serenity amidst chaos." He tilted his staff. A single, feather-light ring drifted down, hovering gently before her. "Reach for it. Not with your hands. With your awareness. Let your Ki... feel its path. Move with it. Not against."
Kyoto pushed off again, forcing his breathing slow, imagining Ki not as explosive fuel but as a steady current. Fasha's hands glowed violet, the energy tightly coiled now, humming with contained annihilation. Gine closed her eyes, her hand trembling as she reached out towards the floating ring, not physically, but with a quiet, focused intent Kyoto had never seen in a Saiyan. Three paths diverged on the obsidian platform under the indifferent stars: the frantic balancer, the focused destroyer, and the quiet listener. Whis stood at the center, the cosmic choreographer assigning roles in a dance only he could fully hear.
"Lord Beerus," Whis murmured, his voice cutting through the focused silence like a scalpel, "before his current slumber, spoke at length—through mouthfuls of Galactic Ambrosia Pudding—of a fascinating hypothesis." Kyoto wobbled mid-air, straining to hold position. Whis didn't glance his way. "He theorized a Saiyan deity. A 'Super Saiyan God.' Not merely ascended power, but divinity forged through ritualistic sacrifice and unity." Whis paused, plucking another invisible shard of neutron dust honeycomb. The crunch echoed. "An intriguing concept. Elegant, in its own volatile way." He finally looked at Kyoto, then Fasha, then Gine. "Now, fortuitously, I possess Saiyan subjects. Potential vessels."
Fasha snorted, lowering her hands as the violet Ki dissipated. "Bullshit," she declared, dusting her palms against her pink armor. "Planet Vegeta fairy tale. Grunts whisper it in the barracks after too much fermented root juice. Some legendary warrior bathed in the light of five righteous Saiyans?" She shook her head, spiky hair catching the nebula's light. "Total myth. Saiyans don't do righteous. We do conquest. We do destruction." She jabbed a thumb at Kyoto, hovering precariously. "Especially that one."
Kyoto clenched his jaw, trying not to fuck up his Ki flow. Five Saiyans? Teamwork? Sacrifice? Bullshit. Whis's fancy talk warred with the filthy hunger burning in his gut. He pictured Fasha—that pissed-off glare, her hips testing her armor's limits, the way she looked like she'd rip your throat out or ride you raw. Fuck Super Saiyan God, he thought, grinning like a psycho inside. Once I'm strong enough? Once nobody can touch me? I'm gonna wreck that pussy. Earth chicks dug his muscles and reckless vibe. Saiyan women? They'd want pure fucking power. Domination. Fasha was chaos in pink armor. He'd make her notice him the Saiyan way: by being a goddamn monster.
Whis remained serene. "Myths often stem from fundamental truths, Fasha. Beerus sensed the potential." His lavender gaze drifted to Gine, who flinched under the sudden attention. "And sacrifice need not be violent. Unity... resonates." He gestured towards the hovering rings. "Continue. Precision, Fasha. Flow, Gine. Stability, Kyoto."
Kyoto pushed harder, shoving Ki deep. Don't wobble, he chanted. Then get strong. Then... Fasha. He imagined it: flying easy, Ki blazing hotter than hers, that angry stare turning into respect, then... pure fucking lust. He knew the drill. Power made panties drop. He'd tap that Saiyan sex drive hard once he leveled up. Screw Whis's god crap. This was the prize.