One week passed in the blink of an eye.
The meeting room at Fraternity headquarters hummed with quiet energy. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, casting geometric shadows across the polished table where Smith's most trusted operatives sat waiting.
Smith Doyle stood at the head of the table, his hands resting on the back of his chair. "All Dragon Ball holders have been identified. Your task is to deliver tournament invitations, confirm their wish intentions, and determine how many spectator tickets they'll require."
He picked up the first file folder, the manila paper crisp between his fingers. "John Wick and Gunsmith, you're handling Thor Odinson."
John accepted the folder with a slight nod. Inside was everything they'd need—Thor's current location, biographical information, and a copy of the Dragon Radar for verification.
Smith continued down the list, distributing assignments with military precision. "Selene and Michael, you have Xu Wenwu."
The vampire elder took her folder without comment, though Michael's expression showed a flicker of concern. Dealing with a thousand-year-old warlord who exceeded Scouter limits would require careful diplomacy.
"Alexei and Mr. X, you're going to Kamar-Taj. Karl Mordo."
Alexei cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the quiet room. Mr. X simply inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"Wesley and Cross, you have T'Challa."
Father and son exchanged glances. That would be a long trip.
"Bulma and Melina, you're handling Tony Stark."
Bulma groaned theatrically. "Great. I get to listen to him brag about his armor upgrades for an hour."
A few chuckles rippled around the table.
"And Fox and I will deliver to Thena," Smith finished.
Mr. X frowned, leaning forward. "GOD, delivering invitations isn't something that requires your personal attention. Any of us could handle this Eternal."
Murmurs of agreement ran through the group. Several others who hadn't received assignments looked ready to volunteer. Even Bulma and Fox seemed surprised they'd been included—surely there were others who could take their places.
Smith considered the objection for a moment. "Thena's situation is unique," he said carefully. "Her condition makes this delivery more delicate than the others. I'll handle it personally."
He didn't elaborate on Mahd Wy'ry—the Eternal madness that could turn Thena into an indiscriminate killing machine without warning. Even Korin, with his centuries of wisdom, might not survive an episode if he were the one making contact. Better to handle it himself. He could defend against her attacks if necessary, and there was also the matter of observing Fox and Thena side by side.
The resemblance between them was uncanny. Seeing them together would be... interesting.
"Since different locations require different travel times, reconvene here in five days," Smith instructed, passing out the remaining folders. "Questions?"
Silence answered him.
"Good. Get moving."
Chairs scraped against the floor as the operatives filed out, folders tucked under arms, already discussing logistics and travel arrangements. Within minutes, the meeting room stood empty except for Smith.
But he didn't head for the exit. Instead, he walked to the window and looked up.
Korin Tower rose three thousand meters into the sky, a gleaming white pillar that pierced the clouds. Even from the ground floor, its height was dizzying.
Smith lifted into the air, ki flowing through his body as naturally as breathing. The ground fell away beneath him as he rose, the tower's surface rushing past in a blur of white stone and ornate carvings. Wind whipped at his clothes, carrying the scent of high altitude—thin and clean and cold.
He reached the top in seconds, landing softly on the tower's platform.
"Korin!"
The cat sage sat near the edge of the platform, his wooden staff resting across his lap. His white fur ruffled in the breeze, whiskers twitching as he turned to face his visitor.
"Ah, Smith Doyle," Korin said, his voice carrying the warm rasp of age and wisdom. "What brings you up here?"
Smith approached, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's been a year since we planted the Senzu Bean. How's the cultivation progressing?"
Korin's expression brightened—or as much as a cat's expression could brighten. He rose to his feet with surprising grace for someone who appeared so elderly, staff clicking against stone.
"Under my care, the Senzu Bean plant has already produced its first harvest," Korin announced with unmistakable pride. "Four beans total. I've kept one for you as emergency reserve, and replanted the other three as seeds."
The sage reached into a small pouch at his side and withdrew a single bean. It was small, roughly the size of a large kidney bean, with a distinctive green color that seemed to glow faintly in the sunlight.
Smith accepted it carefully, as if handling something infinitely precious. Which, in a way, he was. One Senzu Bean could heal nearly any injury short of death. Restore stamina completely. Cure poison. In the right circumstances, it was worth more than gold.
"Thank you, Master Korin. I'll leave the cultivation in your hands."
Korin nodded, his whiskers bobbing. "Each harvest, I'll keep a portion for storage and replant the rest. The numbers will compound over time. Exponential growth."
"Perfect," Smith said. He tucked the Senzu Bean into a reinforced capsule designed specifically for its protection. No point in having a magical healing bean if it got crushed in his pocket during a fight.
This single bean was equivalent to an extra life. He wouldn't waste it on casual injuries or use it for the near-death training methods Goku had employed in the original timeline. Not yet. Not until Korin's stockpile grew large enough to support that kind of training regimen.
But someday? When they had dozens or hundreds of Senzu Beans?
Then the real power-leveling could begin.
Smith offered a respectful bow—Korin deserved that much—and stepped off the edge of the platform.
He fell for several seconds before engaging his ki, converting the drop into controlled flight. The world spread out below him as he descended—Fraternity headquarters, the surrounding city, the distant ocean gleaming like hammered silver in the afternoon sun.
One Senzu Bean secured. Tournament invitations being delivered.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
Somewhere in rural Tanzania, in a small city that bore Wakanda's name but held none of its true nature, T'Challa sat in a modest hotel room with his sister.
Shuri's laptop occupied most of the desk, multiple browser windows open, her fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced efficiency. She'd been researching for hours, compiling data, cross-referencing sources.
Finally, she sat back with a frustrated sigh.
"We didn't find any information about a Dragon Ball tournament on the internet," she announced. "Nothing. No news articles, no social media posts, no leaked footage. It's like it doesn't exist publicly."
She pulled up a different window, showing various Dragon Ball listings on dark web marketplaces. "But there's plenty of information about Dragon Balls themselves. Purchase offers around one hundred million dollars each. Lots of fakes being sold for much less."
T'Challa leaned over her shoulder, studying the screen. "One hundred million per ball. Seven balls total. That's seven hundred million dollars in potential value."
Shuri chewed her lower lip, thinking. "That price bothers me. If these Dragon Balls truly grant any wish, one hundred million is absurdly low. It's not even one-seventh of what a wish should be worth."
"Which suggests?" T'Challa prompted.
"Two possibilities," Shuri said, holding up fingers as she counted. "First, the wish-granting power is real, but most people don't know about it or don't believe it. So the market undervalues them."
"And second?"
"The organizers are running some kind of elaborate game. They collect the Dragon Balls, hold a tournament, and the winner gets a wish granted through the organizers' resources and connections rather than through supernatural power." She gestured at the screen. "A wealthy organization with access to extraordinary individuals could grant many wishes through conventional means. Resurrections, healings, wealth, power—all achievable with enough money and the right contacts."
T'Challa nodded slowly. "So if it's a true dragon with mystical power, participation has genuine value. If it's an elaborate mortal game, we're wasting our time."
"Exactly." Shuri closed the laptop. "But how do we verify which it is? Do we just wait here hoping someone finds us?"
T'Challa shrugged, a gesture he'd picked up during his brief time outside Wakanda. "We don't have many options. I was actually worried that returning to true Wakanda might make it impossible for the organizers to locate me. At least here, we're accessible."
"The Baymax robot and Universal Capsule products I ordered should arrive tomorrow," he continued. "We'll stay here for a while. Let you examine the technology. If the tournament invitation arrives, we'll deal with it then."
Shuri's expression brightened immediately. Finally, a chance to study the innovations that were revolutionizing the outside world.
Wesley and Cross stepped off the plane into the humid African heat.
The airport in rural Wakanda was small, barely more than a landing strip with a single terminal building. The air smelled of red dust and distant rain, heavy with moisture that made Wesley's shirt stick to his back within minutes.
Cross pulled out the Dragon Radar, its screen glowing softly in the shade of the terminal overhang. The single blip representing T'Challa's Dragon Ball pulsed steadily, unmoved from its position.
"Still there," Cross confirmed, tucking the device back into his jacket. "No change."
Wesley wiped sweat from his forehead, squinting at the landscape beyond the airport. Rolling hills dotted with acacia trees. Distant mountains hazy with heat shimmer. It looked nothing like New York.
"This place is incredibly remote," Wesley observed. He checked his phone—barely one bar of signal. "I didn't expect one of the Dragon Ball holders to be this far from civilization."
Cross adjusted his bag on his shoulder, already scanning the area for potential threats out of habit. "Distance has advantages. Fewer people means fewer complications. Though it makes our job more challenging."
"At least Smith trusted us with this delivery," Wesley said. "Given how selective he is about assigning tasks to family members, I was half expecting him to send someone else."
Cross gave his son a sideways look. "The boss judges people by their capabilities and loyalty, not by their background. T'Challa is a Dragon Ball holder, same as the Asgardian god or the master sorcerer. Everyone gets their invitation."
"Fair point," Wesley conceded. He pulled out his phone, bringing up the limited intelligence file on T'Challa. "Prince of Wakanda. Trained warrior. Enhanced abilities from some kind of ceremonial herb." He scrolled down. "Not much else. Wakanda keeps itself pretty isolated."
"Which means we go in careful," Cross said. "Unknown capabilities, unknown allegiances, unknown backup. Standard protocol."
Wesley nodded. They'd delivered invitations to dangerous people before. This was just another job.
Though he had to admit, the heat was going to make it a miserable one.
"Let's find our contact and get this done," Cross said, already walking toward the terminal exit. "The sooner we deliver this invitation, the sooner we can get back to air conditioning."
Wesley followed, the Dragon Radar's pulse steady in his mind like a second heartbeat, guiding them toward their target.
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