The wind carried the scent of ozone and destruction.
He descended from the sky like a falling shadow, his long black hair trailing behind him in streams of absolute darkness. The park below was empty now—the civilians had fled during his confrontation with the Cold family, their survival instincts finally overriding their curiosity.
Good. He preferred solitude.
His bare feet touched the grass without sound, the blades bending away from him as if afraid to make contact. The ground beneath him groaned softly, compressed by the passive weight of his Aura even when he wasn't actively projecting it.
He found a spot beneath an ancient oak tree, its branches spreading wide overhead like a natural canopy. The shadows here were deep, welcoming, almost alive in the way they seemed to reach toward him.
Fitting, he thought with distant amusement. Darkness calling to darkness.
He sat down cross-legged, assuming the same meditative position he had used at the landing site. His hands rested on his knees, palms facing upward. His crimson eyes slowly closed.
And he began to cultivate once more.
The process was becoming easier with each attempt. Where before he had to consciously push his Aura outward, now it seemed to expand naturally, responding to his intent with minimal effort. The dark energy flowed from his core like water from an endless spring, filling the space around him with that characteristic pressure.
The shadows beneath the oak tree deepened. The grass within ten meters of his position began to wither, not from malice but from the sheer density of spiritual energy saturating the area. Small insects that wandered too close simply stopped moving, their tiny forms unable to withstand even passive exposure to his power.
He noted these effects with clinical detachment. My Aura is becoming more potent. The ambient radiation is increasing. I'll need to be careful around civilians if I don't want to accidentally kill them.
Not that he particularly cared about civilian casualties. The emotional dampener saw to that. But unnecessary deaths would draw attention, create complications, potentially interfere with his cultivation.
Better to be cautious.
Minutes passed. His power continued to grow, that slow but inexorable accumulation of energy that made this form so perfect for farming. Each breath drew in the ambient Ki of the world around him; each exhale pushed out refined darkness that was denser, heavier, more potent than before.
He could feel the Z-Fighters approaching. Six distinct energy signatures, moving at high speed, their power levels spiking with anxiety and confusion. They had felt his battle with Frieza and Cold. They had felt the tyrants' energy signatures vanish.
They were coming to investigate.
Let them come, he thought. I have nothing to hide. And nothing to explain.
Vegeta arrived first, because of course he did.
The Saiyan Prince dropped from the sky like a meteor, landing thirty meters from the oak tree with enough force to crack the earth. His dark eyes swept the scene—the withered grass, the deepened shadows, the impossible figure seated in meditation—and his face twisted into a familiar scowl.
"You," he spat. "What did you do?"
He didn't bother opening his eyes. "I killed them."
"Killed—" Vegeta's voice caught in his throat. "Frieza? And King Cold? You killed them both?"
"Yes."
The Prince stood frozen, processing this information. In another life, in another timeline, he might have reacted with joy at the news of Frieza's death. But this wasn't his victory. This wasn't his revenge. Some unknown creature had stolen his chance to prove himself against the tyrant who had destroyed his world.
"How?" Vegeta finally managed. "Frieza's power level exceeded one hundred and fifty million. Cold was even stronger. How could you possibly—"
"I was stronger. They died. That's all there is to it."
Piccolo landed next, followed quickly by Gohan, Krillin, Tien, and Yamcha. Each of them stared at the dark figure with varying expressions of shock, disbelief, and wary respect.
"It's true," Piccolo said quietly, his antennae twitching as he scanned the area. "I can't sense Frieza or Cold anywhere. Their energy signatures are completely gone."
"Gone?" Krillin's voice was barely a whisper. "Like... gone gone? Not just suppressed?"
"Gone. Erased. As if they never existed."
Silence fell over the group. The implications were staggering. Two of the most powerful beings in the universe, tyrants who had terrorized galaxies for generations, eliminated in moments by a creature none of them had ever seen before.
"This doesn't make sense," Tien said, his three eyes narrowing. "Where did you come from? How do you have this much power? Why haven't we ever heard of you before?"
He finally opened his eyes, those deep crimson orbs fixing on the gathered warriors with unsettling intensity.
"You ask too many questions."
"We have a right to know!" Yamcha stepped forward, his fear momentarily overcome by frustration. "You show up out of nowhere, kill the biggest threat we've ever faced, and now you're just sitting there like nothing happened? What are you planning? What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? That's bullshit! Everyone wants something!"
"Then I am no one."
The response seemed to physically deflate Yamcha's anger, leaving him sputtering in confusion. The others exchanged uncertain glances, none of them sure how to proceed.
Gohan, surprisingly, was the one who stepped forward again. The young half-Saiyan approached cautiously, stopping at the edge of the withered grass that marked the boundary of the dark figure's Aura.
"You saved a lot of people," Gohan said quietly. "That city Frieza was about to destroy—millions of people live there. They would have died if you hadn't stopped him."
He considered the boy's words. Saved. An interesting interpretation. He hadn't been trying to save anyone. He had simply wanted to test his power, to see what he was capable of.
But the result was the same, wasn't it? Lives had been preserved. Evil had been destroyed. From an outside perspective, he had acted heroically.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
"I didn't do it for them," he said honestly. "I did it for myself."
"That's okay." Gohan smiled—a small, genuine smile that seemed utterly out of place in the current situation. "My dad says that motivation doesn't matter as much as action. You did a good thing, even if you didn't mean to."
"Your father sounds naive."
"Maybe. But he's usually right."
He studied the boy for a long moment. There was something about Son Gohan that defied easy categorization. Innocence and power, gentleness and hidden ferocity, all wrapped up in a package that looked like an ordinary child.
He'll be stronger than all of them someday, he thought. Stronger than Goku, stronger than Vegeta, stronger than anyone in this universe. If he can ever learn to access that potential consistently.
"You said before that you know who we are," Piccolo interjected, his voice carrying an edge of suspicion. "You knew Gohan's name, his parentage, his hidden power. How?"
"I know many things."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll receive."
Piccolo's eyes narrowed, his Ki flickering with irritation. But he held himself back, recognizing the futility of pressing the issue. Whatever this creature was, wherever it had come from, it clearly had no intention of explaining itself.
Vegeta, however, was less willing to let things go.
"You," the Prince growled, stalking closer despite the oppressive weight of the dark Aura. "You stole my revenge. Frieza destroyed my planet, my people, my entire race. He made me a slave, forced me to do his bidding for decades. Killing him was supposed to be MY right. MY destiny."
He looked up at the furious Saiyan with empty eyes.
"Then you should have been faster."
Vegeta's power exploded outward, his aura blazing gold as he unconsciously pushed toward Super Saiyan. "You arrogant—I'll show you what a true warrior can do! I'll—"
"Vegeta, stop!"
Piccolo's warning came too late. The Saiyan Prince had already launched himself forward, fist cocked back for a devastating blow.
He didn't move.
Vegeta's punch connected with his face—or rather, it should have. Instead, the Saiyan's fist stopped an inch from his cheek, halted by an invisible wall of pressure that no amount of force could penetrate.
"What—" Vegeta's eyes went wide. "What is this?!"
"My Aura," he said calmly. "It protects me automatically. Your attack couldn't reach me even if I allowed it."
He made a slight gesture with one finger.
Vegeta was hurled backward as if struck by a giant's fist, his body carving a trench through the park before finally coming to rest against a demolished fountain. The Prince lay there, gasping, his armor cracked and his pride shattered.
"Don't do that again."
The warning was delivered without emotion, without anger, without any inflection at all. It was simply a statement of fact, as certain as gravity or death.
The other Z-Fighters had frozen in place, none of them daring to move. They had seen Vegeta—Vegeta, who had terrorized Earth, who had fought Frieza, who was one of the strongest warriors in the universe—tossed aside like a ragdoll without his opponent even standing up.
This creature was beyond them. Beyond all of them.
"Okay," Krillin said weakly. "Okay. So. Um. You're really strong. We get that. No one else is going to attack you. Right, guys? RIGHT?"
Frantic nods from Tien and Yamcha. A resigned sigh from Piccolo. A look of fascination rather than fear from Gohan.
And from Vegeta, slowly climbing to his feet with murder in his eyes but wisdom in his restraint, a grudging acknowledgment of reality.
"Fine," the Prince spat, wiping blood from his lip. "You're stronger than me. For now. But that won't last forever. One day, I'll surpass you. And then we'll see who throws who."
"I look forward to it."
The words were empty, devoid of anticipation or concern. He didn't care about Vegeta's ambitions. He didn't care about any of them, really. They were characters in a story he had once watched from the outside—now brought to life, yes, but still somehow distant. Unreal.
The emotional dampener was a double-edged sword. It protected him from the psychological trauma of his situation, from the horror of killing and the weight of his new existence. But it also cut him off from genuine connection, from the ability to truly care about anything or anyone.
He was alone.
And he was fine with that.
They stood in awkward silence for several minutes, the Z-Fighters unsure what to do with themselves and the dark figure having returned to his meditation. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Then Piccolo's head snapped up, his expression shifting to one of surprise.
"There's another power level approaching. It's... significant. Not as strong as his—" he nodded toward the meditating figure "—but far beyond anything else on this planet."
The others felt it too. A new energy signature, racing toward their location at incredible speed. It felt strange, somehow—familiar in its Saiyan characteristics but different in ways none of them could quite articulate.
"It's not Goku," Gohan said, confusion evident in his voice. "It feels like a Saiyan, but it's not Dad. Who else could it be?"
"Impossible," Vegeta muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. "There are no other Saiyans. Just myself, Kakarot, and the boy."
The new power level grew closer, closer, until a streak of light appeared in the sky above the park. It descended rapidly, resolving into a humanoid figure that touched down with controlled grace.
And the Z-Fighters stared.
It was a young man—late teens, perhaps early twenties—with lavender hair and cold blue eyes. He wore a Capsule Corporation jacket over dark clothing, with a sword strapped across his back. His features were angular, aristocratic, with a certain nobility that seemed oddly familiar.
But it was the energy radiating from him that truly caught their attention. Saiyan Ki, unmistakable in its characteristics, but somehow different from either Vegeta or Goku's signature. Cleaner, perhaps. More controlled.
And underlying it all, the potential for something greater. Something golden.
"Who are you?" Piccolo demanded, stepping forward. "Where did you come from?"
The young man's eyes swept the assembled group, cataloging faces and power levels with obvious experience. His gaze lingered on Vegeta for a moment—a strange expression crossing his features, quickly suppressed—before moving on.
Then he saw the dark figure beneath the oak tree.
"What... the..." The young man's composure cracked, genuine shock replacing his careful neutrality. "What is that? I don't—I've never sensed energy like that before. It's not Ki, it's not magic, it's something else entirely."
He opened his eyes.
Crimson met blue across the distance of the park. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Future Trunks, he thought with distant recognition. The time traveler. Son of Vegeta and Bulma. He came back to warn the Z-Fighters about the Androids and to deliver the heart virus medicine to Goku.
But Frieza and Cold are already dead. His mission is half-complete before it even began.
"You're late," he said.
Trunks blinked. "What?"
"Frieza and King Cold. They're dead. I killed them approximately fifteen minutes ago."
The young Saiyan's jaw dropped. "You... but that's impossible. I came back specifically to—I trained for years to—how can they already be dead?"
"I was faster."
Trunks stood frozen, his entire worldview clearly crumbling around him. He had traveled through time, risked paradox and disaster, prepared for a battle that would test his limits—only to find it already finished by a creature he had never seen or heard of in any timeline.
"This doesn't make sense," he said finally. "You weren't in the history I know. None of this was supposed to happen. The timeline—"
"Has changed. Obviously."
He rose smoothly to his feet, causing several of the Z-Fighters to take involuntary steps backward. His full height was imposing—taller than any of them except Piccolo, lean and wrapped in shadows that seemed to cling to his form like living things.
"You're Trunks," he said. It wasn't a question.
The young Saiyan's hand went to his sword. "How do you know my name?"
"I know many things. You're from the future. A timeline where the Androids created by Dr. Gero destroyed everything. You came back to warn Goku about the heart virus that will kill him and to give the Z-Fighters a chance against the coming threat."
Trunks' face went pale. "That's—how could you possibly—"
"As I said. I know many things."
The Z-Fighters were staring now, their attention split between the dark figure and the apparent time traveler. The implications of this conversation were staggering.
"Wait, wait, wait," Krillin interjected, holding up his hands. "Time travel? Androids? Heart virus? Can someone please explain what's going on?"
Trunks hesitated, clearly unsure whether to trust this group with information about the future. But the dark figure had already revealed the core details, and there was no putting that genie back in the bottle.
"In my timeline," Trunks said slowly, "two Androids created by Dr. Gero—the scientist who founded the Red Ribbon Army—appeared three years from now. They were... unstoppable. They killed everyone. Goku, Vegeta, Piccolo, all of them. I'm the only fighter left."
"Goku dies of a heart virus six months before the Androids appear," the dark figure added. "Without him, the rest of you fall one by one."
"That's why I brought medicine." Trunks reached into his jacket, pulling out a small vial filled with purple liquid. "This will cure the disease. Goku has to take it when the symptoms first appear."
Vegeta had been listening with growing incredulity. Now he stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Trunks with an intensity that bordered on obsessive.
"You," the Prince said. "Your energy. It feels Saiyan, but different. And your features—" His eyes narrowed. "Who are your parents?"
Trunks visibly flinched. "I... that's not important right now."
"It is to me. Tell me."
The young man squared his shoulders, meeting Vegeta's gaze with a mixture of defiance and something that looked almost like longing.
"My mother is Bulma Briefs. My father is... you."
Silence.
Absolute, complete, deafening silence.
Vegeta's face went through a remarkable series of expressions—shock, denial, confusion, horror, and something that might have been pride, all flickering past in rapid succession.
"Me?" he finally managed. "I have a... with that woman... we..."
"In my timeline, yes. You died when I was still an infant. I never really knew you."
Vegeta stared at his apparent future son for a long moment. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his back rigid with tension.
"He'll need time to process that," Piccolo observed dryly.
"I know." Trunks' voice was quiet, tinged with old pain. "I shouldn't have told him. The future might change, and then I might never be born. But I couldn't—when he asked—"
"Enough." The dark figure's flat voice cut through the emotional moment. "The timeline has already changed significantly. Frieza and Cold died at my hands, not yours. Goku will arrive to find his vengeance already taken. These alterations will cascade, affecting everything that follows."
Trunks nodded reluctantly. "You're right. I don't know what this means for the future. My history might already be invalid."
"It was always going to be. Time travel creates branches, not loops. The moment you arrived in this time period, you created a new timeline independent of your original one."
"How do you know that?" Piccolo demanded. "How do you know anything about time travel?"
He considered the question. How to explain that he had watched countless episodes of Dragon Ball, that he knew the mechanics of their universe better than some of its own inhabitants, that he was a literal outsider looking in?
He couldn't. And he wouldn't.
"I simply know," he said. "Accept it or don't. It changes nothing."
Piccolo's frustration was palpable, but he held his tongue. There was no point in arguing with a being who could crush them all without effort.
Gohan, ever the peacemaker, tried to redirect the conversation. "Um, we still don't know your name. You know all of ours, but you haven't told us what to call you."
He paused, considering.
In his previous life, he had been nobody special. Just a fan with no remarkable qualities or achievements. He had no name that meant anything, no identity worth preserving.
But now he was something different. Something powerful. Something that existed beyond the normal rules of this or any universe.
He was the Final Getsuga Tensho made permanent. The ultimate technique of Kurosaki Ichigo, the form that transcended Shinigami, Hollow, and human. The black moon that consumed all light.
"Mugetsu," he said. "Call me Mugetsu."
The name hung in the air, foreign and powerful.
"Mugetsu," Gohan repeated, testing the syllables. "What does it mean?"
"Moonless sky," he replied. "The darkness when no moon shines."
It was fitting, he thought. He was a void—an absence of light, of emotion, of purpose. He had no destiny to fulfill, no grand role to play. He was simply here, existing, growing stronger.
A moonless sky, watching the stars below.
"Weird name," Krillin muttered, though not loudly enough to be confrontational.
"Perhaps." Mugetsu turned his attention back to Trunks. "You said Goku will arrive soon?"
The time traveler nodded, recovering some of his composure. "I calculated the exact time based on historical records. He should appear within the next—"
A column of light erupted in the center of the park.
Everyone spun toward it, defensive stances forming instinctively. The light was blinding, intense, pouring from a single point in space as if reality itself was being torn open.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Standing where the light had been was a man. Tall, muscular, with wild black hair that defied gravity and a cheerful expression that seemed utterly out of place given the circumstances. He wore a strange outfit—gray and black, with geometric patterns that suggested alien origin—and carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who had faced death a thousand times and smiled through every encounter.
"Hey, everyone!" Son Goku waved, that trademark grin spreading across his face. "Sorry I'm late! I felt some crazy power levels on my way here and—" He stopped, finally registering the tension in the air. "Uh, what'd I miss?"
No one moved. No one spoke.
Goku's expression shifted from confusion to concern. "Seriously, guys, you're freaking me out. Where's Frieza? I sensed him earlier, but now he's just... gone."
"He's dead," Piccolo said flatly. "Him and his father both."
"Dead? But who—"
The Saiyan's eyes finally fell on Mugetsu.
The effect was immediate. Goku's cheerful demeanor vanished, replaced by something sharp and focused and intensely analytical. His body shifted subtly, weight redistributing into a combat-ready stance that spoke of decades of training.
"That power," Goku breathed. "I've never felt anything like it. It's not Ki, but it's similar. Heavier. Darker." He looked at Mugetsu with an expression that combined wariness with undeniable excitement. "You're the one who killed Frieza?"
"Yes."
"How? Frieza's power level was insane. Even at full Super Saiyan, I could barely beat him. And his dad was supposed to be even stronger."
"I was stronger still."
Goku studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, that grin returned—though it was different now. Sharper. More predatory.
"Man, that's incredible! I can't wait to spar with you! It's been so long since I faced someone who might actually push me, and your power feels like—"
"No."
The single word stopped Goku mid-sentence.
"No?" The Saiyan blinked. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean I have no interest in fighting you. Not now. Perhaps not ever."
The confusion on Goku's face was almost comical. For a being whose entire existence revolved around combat and self-improvement, the concept of someone refusing a challenge was apparently incomprehensible.
"But... but why? Don't you want to test yourself? See how strong you really are?"
"I already know how strong I am. I killed Frieza and King Cold without effort. What would fighting you prove?"
"That's—I—" Goku sputtered, genuinely at a loss for words. "But fighting is fun! It's how you grow! It's how you find your limits and push past them!"
Mugetsu considered this. In a way, Goku wasn't wrong. Combat was indeed an excellent method for growth—the Zenkai boosts that Saiyans experienced after near-death battles were proof of that.
But he had a better method. His Aura farming required no opponent, no risk, no expenditure of effort. He simply had to exist in this form, cultivating his power through meditation and will alone.
Fighting was inefficient.
"I have other methods," he said. "Your approach to training holds no appeal for me."
Goku looked genuinely crestfallen, like a child denied a promised treat. "Aw, come on! Just one quick spar? Nothing serious, just—"
"Goku." Piccolo's voice cut through the Saiyan's pleading. "Let it go. He's not interested. And frankly, I'm not sure you'd survive if he changed his mind."
"What? But I'm a Super Saiyan now! I can—"
"You felt his power. We all did. Whatever he is, he's beyond anything we've ever encountered. Even you."
Goku fell silent, his expression shifting from disappointment to reluctant acceptance. He didn't like it—that much was obvious—but even his battle-hungry nature recognized when pressing the issue would be pointless.
"Fine," he said finally. "But if you ever change your mind, the offer's always open. I'd love to see what you can do."
Mugetsu didn't bother responding. He had already returned to his meditative position, eyes closed, Aura expanding outward in rhythmic waves.
The Z-Fighters watched him for a moment, unsure what to do with themselves. Then Goku seemed to remember something, his attention snapping to Trunks.
"Hey, who's this guy? His power feels Saiyan, but I don't recognize him."
And so the explanations began again—time travel, Androids, heart virus, future catastrophe. Mugetsu listened with half an ear, more focused on his cultivation than the conversation happening around him.
This is strange, he thought as his power continued to accumulate. Being here, among them. I know their stories, their fates, their greatest triumphs and failures. I know how this saga ends, and the next one, and the one after that.
But I'm not here to change things. Not really. I have no stake in whether they live or die, succeed or fail. I'm just... here. Observing. Growing.
An audience of one, sitting in the middle of the stage.
An hour passed.
The Z-Fighters had gathered in a loose circle, discussing the implications of Trunks' warnings and trying to formulate some kind of plan. Goku had received the heart virus medicine with typical nonchalance, more interested in the promise of strong opponents than the threat to his own life.
Vegeta had returned at some point, hovering at the edge of the group with his arms crossed and his expression thunderous. He refused to look at Trunks directly, but his attention kept drifting toward the young man despite his best efforts.
Mugetsu sat apart from them all, deep in meditation, his Aura pulsing like a black heartbeat.
And then something changed.
He felt it first in his core—a shift, a deepening, an unlocking of something that had been waiting just beneath the surface. His darkness moved differently now, responding to his will with greater fluidity and precision.
He opened his eyes.
What was that?
Experimentally, he reached into the ocean of power inside him. It felt the same in many ways—vast, endless, impossibly deep—but there was something new now. A current, perhaps. A direction.
He focused on that current, following it with his consciousness. It led him to a part of himself he hadn't explored before—a place where his power condensed into something almost solid.
Creation, he realized. I can create things with my darkness.
The knowledge arrived without fanfare, as certain as breathing. His Aura wasn't just energy—it was substance. Matter and anti-matter and everything in between. If he focused, if he shaped it correctly, he could give it permanent form.
He raised his right hand, palm facing upward.
The shadows around him stirred.
Darkness gathered above his palm, coalescing from the ambient gloom like water flowing toward a drain. It spun, compressed, shaped itself according to his will—and his will, in this moment, reached for something familiar.
A sword.
Not just any sword. The sword that had defined Ichigo Kurosaki for most of his journey. The first Bankai—Tensa Zangetsu. That elegant black blade with the chain at its hilt, compact and deadly and utterly iconic.
The darkness solidified.
Mugetsu looked at the weapon now resting in his hand. It was perfect—a flawless replica, indistinguishable from the original. The blade absorbed light rather than reflecting it, seeming to cut a wound in reality itself.
And it felt right. As if it had always been a part of him, waiting to be summoned.
One sword, he thought. But why stop there?
He raised his left hand.
More darkness gathered, spinning into a second shape. This one was different—larger, cruder, wrapped in bandages that seemed to unravel and rewrap themselves constantly. The original Zangetsu, the massive cleaver-like blade that Ichigo had wielded before achieving Bankai.
It materialized in his grip, heavy and solid and thrumming with potential.
Mugetsu stood there, a sword in each hand, examining his new creations. The Tensa Zangetsu was sleek and fast, designed for precision and speed. The original Zangetsu was raw power given form, meant for overwhelming force.
Together, they represented something complete. Two aspects of the same weapon, the same soul, the same darkness.
Dual wielding, he thought with distant amusement. How very anime of me.
The Z-Fighters had noticed.
"What the hell?" Krillin yelped, scrambling backward. "Where did those swords come from?"
Mugetsu didn't answer. He was too busy testing his new weapons, cutting the air with experimental swings. The blades moved like extensions of his own body, responding to thought rather than muscle.
"He created them," Piccolo said, his voice tight. "Out of nothing. Out of his own energy."
"Is that even possible?" Tien demanded. "Can Ki do that?"
"That's not Ki. I don't know what it is. But whatever it is, it can apparently generate matter from pure energy."
Goku watched with undisguised fascination, his earlier disappointment at being denied a fight apparently forgotten. "Those swords feel weird. Like they're alive somehow. Are they... talking to you?"
Mugetsu paused his practice, considering the question. The swords didn't speak, not in any conventional sense. But there was a resonance between them and his consciousness—a feedback loop of intention and response.
"No," he said finally. "They're extensions of my will, nothing more."
"Extensions of your will," Vegeta repeated mockingly. "And you just happened to will them into the shape of swords? Not energy blasts, not armor, but swords?"
"These forms hold meaning to me."
"What kind of meaning?"
Mugetsu looked at the blades—the Tensa Zangetsu black and elegant, the original Zangetsu massive and primal. Memories flickered through his mind: countless hours watching Bleach, analyzing fight scenes, debating power levels with other fans.
Ichigo's swords, he thought. The weapons of a Soul Reaper who transcended all boundaries. In a way, they represent exactly what I've become—a being who exists outside normal rules, wielding power that shouldn't exist.
"Old ones," he said finally. "From a life that no longer matters."
It wasn't technically a lie. His old life as an ordinary human truly didn't matter anymore. And the swords were indeed connected to memories from that existence, even if those memories were of fiction rather than reality.
Vegeta looked ready to press further, but Goku interrupted with his usual obliviousness to social tension.
"So can you fight with those? I mean, I know you said you're not interested in sparring, but if you're going to swing swords around anyway, maybe—"
"Goku." Piccolo's voice carried a warning. "Drop it."
"But—"
"I said drop it."
The Saiyan subsided with a pout, though his eyes kept drifting to the black blades with obvious longing.
Mugetsu gave the swords a final experimental swing—Tensa Zangetsu singing through the air with a sound like tearing silk, the original Zangetsu leaving trails of shadow in its wake—then dismissed them both.
They dissolved into darkness, absorbed back into his Aura as if they had never existed.
"Hey!" Goku protested. "I wanted to see more of those!"
"You'll have other opportunities. Perhaps."
He sat back down, resuming his meditative position. The brief experiment had confirmed his theory—he could create objects from his darkness, giving tangible form to his power. The swords were just the beginning.
What else can I create? he wondered. Weapons, certainly. But what about armor? Constructs? Entire structures?
The possibilities are... interesting.
For the first time since his arrival in this world, something approaching anticipation stirred in his chest. Not excitement, not joy—the dampener wouldn't allow that—but a subtle quickening of interest.
He had eternity to explore his abilities. Eternity to grow stronger, to test his limits, to discover what he was truly capable of.
And if that exploration happened to break this world's narrative along the way...
Well.
The entity had asked him to be interesting.
The sun had fully set now, the park shrouded in natural darkness that seemed to deepen around Mugetsu's position. The Z-Fighters had moved to a more comfortable distance, setting up a makeshift camp as they continued to discuss plans for the coming Android threat.
Trunks was explaining the timeline in more detail—the exact date of the Androids' appearance, the location, the power levels he had observed in his own era. Goku listened with unusual seriousness, apparently taking the threat of his own death to heart.
Mugetsu observed it all with detachment, his consciousness split between external awareness and internal cultivation. His power continued to grow, each moment adding to the vast reserves he already possessed.
Three years, he thought. That's how long until the Androids appear. Three years of growth, of experimentation, of pushing my limits.
By then, I should be... formidable.
He was already formidable, of course. His casual destruction of Frieza and King Cold had proven that. But there were greater threats on the horizon—the Androids, Cell, eventually Buu. Each one represented an escalation, a new peak of power that this universe could produce.
He intended to be ready for all of them.
Not because he cared about saving the world, or protecting the innocent, or any of the noble motivations that drove the Z-Fighters. But because each battle represented an opportunity. A test. A chance to see how far his power could truly go.
And in the end, wasn't that why the entity had sent him here? To experience, to grow, to be interesting?
Mugetsu closed his eyes, his Aura expanding outward in slow, rhythmic waves.
The darkness deepened around him.
And somewhere in the cosmic void, an entity that existed beyond comprehension smiled in anticipation.
The game was just beginning.
To be continued...
Author's Note:
And there we have it! Mugetsu has officially introduced himself to the Z-Fighters, met Future Trunks and Goku, and discovered he can create weapons from his darkness. The twin swords—Tensa Zangetsu and the original Zangetsu—are now part of his arsenal.
Next chapter: The three-year time skip begins, and Mugetsu's Aura farming reaches new heights. How will his presence affect the training of the other fighters? What new abilities will he develop? And what happens when the Androids finally appear to face a world that has changed beyond recognition?
Stay tuned!