"Potential," Whis murmured, the word resonating in the sudden silence, bypassing ears to vibrate directly within Kyoto's skull. It wasn't admiration. It was clinical assessment. Like identifying a rare, volatile isotope. "Extreme potential. Buried beneath…" His gaze flickered, infinitesimally, towards the capsule where Fasha slept, then to the crumpled form of Gine. "...suboptimal priorities." He tilted his head, staff tapping a silent rhythm against the obsidian. "The Goddess Seraphina's interference is… regrettable. Her understanding of 'omnipotence' is fundamentally flawed. It implies infinite capacity. You possess… possibility. A seed." His voice remained melodious, utterly calm, yet Kyoto felt dissected. "A seed requires cultivation. Discipline. Focus." A pause, heavy as a dying star. "Which you demonstrably lack."
Kyoto strained against the invisible bonds, Saiyan defiance roaring. He wanted to yell about cosmic mix-ups, idiot goddesses, unfair assessments—but he didn't even feel like trying at this point. Instead, he managed a choked whisper. "Where... where can this 'seed' even take me?"
Whis's staff moved faster than Kyoto could perceive—a blur of polished silver that tapped his forehead with the gentleness of a falling feather. The impact didn't hurt. It detonated. Kyoto's vision shattered into fractal patterns, reality peeling away like cheap wallpaper. Then—silence. Absolute, crushing silence. Followed by a roar that wasn't sound, but pressure—a tidal wave of power crushing his ribs, vibrating his teeth. He stood in an arena of shattered obsidian under a bruised-purple sky. His body... different. Thicker. Wild. Purple fur bristled across his forearms, his chest, rippling with raw energy. A dark violet aura, thick as tar, clung to him, dripping corrosive sparks that hissed where they struck the ground. Power thrummed in his veins—not Ki, but something colder, hungrier. Hakai. Destruction given form. Across the arena, a hulking opponent charged, all armored plates and spiked fists, roaring a challenge that vibrated the very air. Kyoto didn't think. Didn't strategize. He simply punched. His fist, wreathed in swirling violet annihilation, met the charging brute's chestplate. There was no impact sound—just a wet, visceral pop, like a rotten fruit bursting under a hydraulic press. The armored form didn't fly backward; it simply... ceased. Disintegrated from the point of contact outward into swirling, dark-purple motes that vanished before hitting the ground. Utter, silent erasure. The crowd—faceless shadows in the stands—erupted in a soundless wave of awe. Kyoto grinned, tasting ozone and cosmic dust. This. This was power. Not for bitches. For ending things.
Kyoto gasped, staggering back on Beerus's obsidian platform as the vision dissolved. The sterile air felt thin, insubstantial. He clutched his head, phantom echoes of Hakai energy still prickling under his skin. The purple fur, the crushing aura, the effortless unmaking—it hadn't felt like potential. It felt like destiny. Like breathing. He looked down at his hands—normal Saiyan hands, calloused but mundane. A hysterical laugh bubbled up. "Holy shit," he breathed, voice raw. "That... that was me?" He whipped his head towards Whis, eyes blazing with newfound hunger, the humiliation of moments ago incinerated. "Train me. Now. Whatever it takes. Discipline? Focus? Done. Just... make me that." He jabbed a finger towards the empty space where his future-self had erased existence. "How long? Weeks? Months?" The desperation was back, but sharpened, focused—a blade honed on the image of his own god-fisted annihilation.
Inside the capsule, Fasha groaned. Her eyelids fluttered open, sticky with sleep. She blinked at the sterile white ceiling, disoriented. The lingering scent of ozone and something faintly floral—like alien honeysuckle—filled her nostrils. Her tail twitched irritably. Where...? Beerus's Planet. The idiot Earth-Saiyan. Kyoto. She shoved herself upright, muscles protesting. Her pink tank top was twisted uncomfortably around her ribs, and the memory of Kyoto leaning over her, his gaze hot and possessive, flashed through her mind. She snarled. "Creepy bastard." Swinging her legs off the bed, her bare feet hit the cool capsule floor. She spotted her discarded armor piled near the hatch but ignored it. Questions burned hotter than modesty. That blue stick-figure who froze Kyoto solid—Whis. What was he? And what had Kyoto done to deserve... whatever this was? She palmed the hatch open, squinting against the perpetual twilight glow.
Kyoto was pacing near the platform's edge, gesturing wildly at Whis, who stood impassive as a mountain carved from serenity. "...so the Hakai, right? Is that like... step one? Or do I gotta master Ki blasts first? Because honestly, blasting seems kinda quaint now..." He trailed off as Fasha stepped out. Her bare feet slapped softly on the obsidian. She wore only the tank top and panties, her powerful legs gleaming in the nebula-light, tail lashing like an irritated cat's. Her dark eyes swept over Kyoto, then locked onto Whis with wary intensity. Kyoto froze mid-pace, momentarily distracted. The raw power fantasy clashed violently with the visceral reality of Fasha awake, disheveled, and radiating dangerous curiosity.
"Hey," Fasha said, her voice rough with sleep but edged with steel. She crossed her arms, emphasizing the defined muscle in her biceps. She ignored Kyoto completely, her gaze fixed on the angelic attendant. "You. Whis." She jerked her chin towards him. "What's the deal with this place? And him?" She flicked a dismissive thumb at Kyoto. "He babbles about gods and training, but smells like cheap adrenaline and desperation. Why's a cosmic butler wasting time on a monkey who can't even spark a decent Ki flare?" Her eyes narrowed, sharp as broken glass. "And what exactly," she added, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr, "did he do to get dumped on a god's doorstep?" She took a step closer to Whis, utterly fearless, her Saiyan instincts recognizing immense power but utterly rejecting subservience. The air crackled with her blunt challenge. Kyoto watched, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. Finally, he thought. Someone asking the right questions.
Whis's staff tapped once—a soft chime that resonated through Kyoto's bones like a tuning fork. "Clarity," Whis murmured, his melodic voice devoid of irritation. He tilted his head slightly towards Fasha. "This planet belongs to Lord Beerus, the God of Destruction. I am his attendant and instructor. Regarding Kyoto..." His lavender eyes slid towards the Saiyan teen. "He was deposited here through... divine clerical error. A goddess misinterpreted his request for overwhelming power as a grant of omnipotent potential." A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him. "He possesses latent Saiyan aptitude, amplified by this misinterpretation, making him a... unique specimen. Raw, untamed, and fixated," Whis paused, his gaze lingering on Kyoto's smirk, "on biologically improbable reproductive conquests." Kyoto's grin faltered slightly. Whis turned back to Fasha. "My time is invested because potential, however misguided or biologically improbable, requires cultivation. Even slag can be refined." He gestured gracefully towards the vast nebula. "The universe operates on balance. Unchecked potential becomes instability. Training imposes structure."