Back on Earth, amidst the groaning wreckage of Bulma's yacht adrift in the twilight ocean, Goku landed heavily beside Vegeta and Piccolo. The crimson fur across his shoulders seemed thicker, wilder, after the adrenaline surge. Bulma was frantically barking orders at her salvage crew, her voice tight with stress. "Alright," Goku muttered, more to himself than anyone else, rubbing the thick fur along his forearm. He closed his eyes tightly, concentrating. He pictured his familiar blue gi, the lighter weight, the simpler energy flow – Base Form. His brow furrowed beneath the wild black mane. *Come on... Settle down.* He willed the primal fire coiled within his core to recede, urging the dense crimson fur to soften, the tail to shrink. A faint flicker of golden-red aura sputtered around him... then flared violently crimson again, thicker than before. His claws dug reflexively into the hot metal deck beneath him. Nothing happened. He remained powerfully, undeniably Super Saiyan 4. A frustrated snarl escaped his gritted teeth. Why couldn't he *let go*?
Vegeta watched Kakarot's strained attempts, contempt warring with horrified fascination. His own tail twitched instinctively behind him, feeling the phantom echo of that raw crimson power Goku couldn't suppress. "Cease your pathetic struggle, Kakarot," Vegeta spat, crossing his arms tightly. His eyes scanned the thick fur, the lashing tail, the predatory stillness underlying Goku's forced calm. "The beast doesn't *want* to cage itself. Can't you feel it?" His voice dripped with scorn, but beneath it lurked a tremor of understanding. The sheer *heft* of that form, the way it anchored Goku to the earth and air simultaneously – it wasn't just strength; it was becoming his natural state. Goku glanced down at his furred hands, flexing fingers tipped with sharp claws. He remembered the effortless speed defying Hakai, the pure instinct guiding his blows, the sheer *joy* in the fight. The memory triggered another wave of crimson energy rippling visibly across his skin. He felt... complete. Like wearing Base Form now would be slipping into ill-fitting, suffocating clothes. A deep, primal sigh escaped him, his tail coiling and uncoiling restlessly.
Piccolo stepped closer, his green face etched with deep concern. His Namekian senses screamed of instability – the power wasn't controlled; it was dormant, fused with Goku's very being like tectonic plates shifting beneath calm sea. "Goku," he began gravely, "This form... it's consuming you. Not just powering you." Panic flickered briefly in Goku's golden-red eyes. For the first time, a sliver of genuine unease pierced the primal satisfaction. He tried again – a desperate mental shove against the crimson tide. He focused on Goten, on Chi-Chi's cooking, on peaceful mornings fishing. The images felt distant, faded behind the vibrant memory of shattering Beerus's Hakai. His fur bristled, shimmering crimson light bleeding from his pores like heat haze. He groaned, a low, resonant sound more beast than man. It wasn't forgetting *how*... it was forgetting *why*. Why be less? Why cage the storm? The primal essence woven into his Saiyan blood rejected the notion of weakness utterly. He was *more* now. Why would he ever choose to be less? The realization settled over him like heavy fur – a terrifying, exhilarating permanence. He opened his eyes, gazing out at the churning sea reflecting the bruised twilight sky, his tail lashing against the wrecked deck with a rhythmic, grounding thump. This... was him now. For better or worse.
Bulma finally stormed over, ignoring Vegeta's warning growl. Her sharp eyes scanned Goku's strained posture, the way his claws dug into metal, the restless tail. "Okay, Fuzzball," she snapped, tapping her cracked tablet despite her trembling fingers. "Power nap isn't working. What did that dusty old coot *say*?" Goku blinked, the familiar nickname cutting through the primal haze. *Old Kai.* The memory surfaced like driftwood – the suffocating library, the agonizing tail regrowth, the frantic instructions shouted over Beerus's thunderous approach... "Anchor..." Goku murmured thickly. The word tasted strange in his deep voice. "The tail... anchors the mind. Lets the Beast *serve*..." He trailed off, understanding dawning painfully slow. He had anchored his rage against Beerus. But anchoring against *himself*? Against his own desire to shed power? That required a different kind of focus. A purpose beyond battle. He looked at his furred fist. To control SSJ4... he needed a reason to *not* be SSJ4. A reason stronger than comfort. Stronger than habit. A reason rooted deep in peace, not war. His golden-red eyes flickered uncertainly towards Bulma, then Vegeta's scowl, then Piccolo's intense gaze. *Protect*. Not just fight... protect *everything*. Even the quiet moments. Even himself. He inhaled deeply, scenting salt, ozone, and the faint tang of Bulma's spilled perfume.
Goku closed his eyes. Not to push the power down, but to find the anchor point *within* the storm. He pictured Chi-Chi's worried frown when he came home battered, Goten's wide-eyed awe, Pan's future laughter. He felt the thick fur rippling across his shoulders, the immense power humming in his veins, the predatory alertness – and instead of rejecting it, he *acknowledged* it. This was his strength. But it wasn't *all* he was. He visualized the crimson energy not as a wildfire to extinguish, but as a wild river flowing through him. He didn't dam it; he simply... stepped onto the bank. The anchor point wasn't Base Form; it was his heart. His *need* to hold his son without claws. His promise to return home whole. Slowly, agonizingly, the roaring crimson tide began to recede *inward*. It didn't vanish; it condensed, stabilized, settling deep within his core like molten rock cooling. The thick crimson fur shimmered, thinning and softening into familiar black hair. The sharp claws retracted into blunt nails. The lashing tail shrunk rapidly, coiling tight against his spine before vanishing completely. Golden-red faded from his eyes, replaced by deep, familiar onyx. He swayed slightly, landing barefoot on the cold, wet deck plating in his tattered orange gi pants, feeling strangely... small. Hollowed. Vulnerable. He looked down at his human-seeming hands and exhaled a shaky breath. The raw power was still there, vast and deep... but contained. *Controlled*.
He flexed his fingers, testing the familiar, lighter feel. A wave of profound exhaustion hit him – the toll of sustaining the primal form and the immense mental effort to relinquish it. Yet, beneath the fatigue, a fierce understanding crystallized. Base Form felt safe, known... but fragile. Like wearing tissue paper after plate armor. SSJ4 wasn't just a transformation; it was the unleashed truth of his Saiyan heritage, the Oozaru's fury tempered by mortal will. He *needed* it. Not just for gods like Beerus, but to truly safeguard everything precious. To protect peace, he had to embody its opposite – the controlled storm. He looked up at Vegeta, whose scowl had deepened into something unreadable, a flicker of dawning comprehension warring with envy. "Vegeta," Goku said, his voice rough but clear. "It's like... breathing underwater. You gotta learn how." He cracked a weary grin, meeting Piccolo's relieved nod and Bulma's stunned silence. "Training starts tomorrow. Whis is right... gotta master it *properly*. The Beast stays... but I hold the leash." His gaze drifted towards the stars where Beerus vanished. The challenge wasn't just power anymore... it was balance. And he'd only just begun.
***
Far above Earth's atmosphere, nestled within the swirling currents of temporal energy near the Time Nest's entrance, Xeno Trunks leaned against the ornate railing. His Majin companion floated nearby, chewing bubblegum obliviously. Through Chronoa's observation portal, Trunks had witnessed Goku's struggle against Beerus – the crimson fur, the terrifying power, the desperate grasp for control. He'd seen the impossible scar inflicted on Whis, the divine panic it ignited. He'd watched Goku collapse back into Base Form, not through weakness, but through a terrifyingly potent act of will. The raw, untamed energy radiating from SSJ4 had sent shivers down Trunks's spine; it felt like staring into the heart of an ancient predator finally unleashed from eons of slumber. For a moment, genuine fear gripped him – fear for Goku, for Earth, for the stability of countless timelines. This was power unlike any recorded, a variable Chronoa hadn't foreseen. He'd gripped his sword hilt instinctively, ready to intervene.
Trunks watched Goku's exhausted smile, the way he met Vegeta's challenging gaze not with arrogance, but with weary determination. He saw Piccolo's solemn nod of understanding, Bulma's fierce pragmatism already shifting towards analysis. He saw the *control*. The anchor point wasn't just found; it was forged in desperation and love for his world. The primal power remained, vast and deep beneath the surface – a sleeping dragon, not a rampaging beast. Trunks remembered Whis's hologram: 'Brutal. Unpredictable. Few survived.' Yet Goku had survived Old Kai's brutal ritual and Beerus's wrath. He hadn't just survived; he'd bent the form to his *need* – not conquest, but protection. The fear subsided, replaced by profound respect. This wasn't a timeline spiraling into chaos; this was a Saiyan evolving beyond prophecy, mastering a path abandoned for its savagery. Trunks released his grip on the sword, his shoulders relaxing. His tense vigil dissolved.
He chuckled softly, a sound of immense relief mixed with awe. "Well," he muttered, glancing at his Majin friend who blew a huge pink bubble. "Looks like Future Dad was right again. Worrying about Goku-san... it's pointless." He pushed off the railing, turning his back on the portal showing Earth peacefully fading into twilight. "He doesn't just overcome impossibilities," Trunks continued, striding confidently towards the Time Nest's glowing interior. "He *redefines* them." Chronoa floated nearby, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she sensed his conclusion. The Supreme Kai of Time had watched the same events, understanding far more than Trunks. She saw the echoes Whis identified – the ancient Saiyan potential finally ignited correctly. This wasn't an aberration; it was a culmination. A flicker of excitement danced in Chronoa's eyes. This timeline... it promised fascinating deviations.
Trunks entered the Time Nest proper, the ambient hum of temporal machinery a familiar comfort. The lingering concern for his own timeline destabilized by Goku's wild power evaporated. If Goku could anchor SSJ4 to protect quiet moments, could wield that primal fire without burning himself or others... then the future was safer than he'd feared. Beerus's scar on Whis was a warning shot across the cosmos, true. But Goku's final act – choosing vulnerability to preserve normality – was the answer. He activated a console, pulling up routine patrol schedules for other eras. "Nothing to worry about," he confirmed aloud, his voice firm and decisive. His Majin companion hovered closer, humming a cheerful tune. Trunks smiled, the tension fully gone. Goku-san had things under control. The Beast was leashed. For now. His focus shifted back to the endless flow of time, confident that Earth's strangest protector was, as always, exceeding even the wildest expectations. The next challenge awaited somewhere in the river of history, but Goku's path was clear. And Trunks wouldn't waste another moment doubting him. The Time Patroller resumed his duty, Earth's twilight fading from his thoughts like a distant, resolved anomaly.