Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

It felt like being invisible.

The white stretched endlessly in all directions — floor, sky, and air, - blurring the line where the horizon should be. There was no sun, no walls, and no shadow. Just the low, dry hum of silence. Directionless and featureless, it felt like he could trip up and never find his way back. A whole year in a day. That was the rule. One year of training, compressed into 24 hours outside. But no one said anything about the gravity. Or the quiet. Or the light so white it felt like falling into endless snow.

Trunks stood still and breathed as he took a step off the living quarters and onto the white vastness, but the breath didn’t feel real. The gravity was heavier here — not by much, but enough that it made his limbs feel slow and clumsy. It felt unnaturally hot. Sweat beaded along his hairline after only a few steps.

A whole year in this place - with him.

Vegeta hadn’t said a word since they entered. He’d walked off without hesitation, disappearing into the white void like it was nothing, his focus clearly on the training ahead. Trunks hadn’t followed - not yet. Something about the stillness held him back.

Trunks flexed his fingers, testing the weight of the gravity again. He’d get used to it. But the idea of spending a year like this — trapped in this suffocating place with Vegeta—made something knot tight in his chest. Vegeta had made it clear he didn’t want to train with him. Cold, dismissive, and impossible to please... He hated that a small part of him still hoped for something from Vegeta. A nod. A word. Anything. He knew better — Vegeta wasn’t the kind of man who gave anything freely. He had to remember why he came here. He couldn’t waste the time. He had come here to train. To grow stronger. To stop Cell and the Androids, and the dystopian future of his own time.

He could get through this; he had to. Still, the dread lingered—quiet, stubborn, and relentless. He squinted into the distance, trying to make out Vegeta’s shape in the white haze. It had only been minutes, maybe, but it already felt like hours.

“Are we going to train or not?” he called out, trying to keep his voice calm. His own voice bounced back to him across the white, sounding like someone else. Like a thought he couldn’t take back. There was no answer — not right away. Just more silence, thick and empty. Trunks exhaled and started walking.

Vegeta was like a ghost in the early days—only glimpsed in the living quarters, always silent in passing. Trunks built a routine to keep himself sane. Training, eating, sleeping. Again. Again. Time didn’t move here unless he pushed it forward; it dripped like syrup. He'd wake with no sense of how long he'd slept. The air pressure made every breath feel like work. The temperature varied greatly day to day, from bone chillingly cold to so hot he was sticky with sweat within seconds. Even in his ruined timeline, he was rarely alone like this—his mother’s voice, her presence, filled the quiet. But here, the stillness was vast and constant, broken only by his own echo. It scraped at his nerves. Perhaps this was why the next time he saw Vegeta he felt compelled to say,

“We should train together, it’ll be more effective.”

Vegeta barely spared him a glance, eyes cold and unreadable, before responding,

“I don’t train with weaklings.”

“I’m not weak,” Trunks shot back, voice tight. Vegeta looked at Trunks properly now, expression hard as stone.

“Not weak? Then you must just be a coward. I have no interest in babysitting you while I surpass the limits of a Super Saiyan.” And with that, Vegeta walked off.

As Vegeta disappeared into the endless white, Trunks clenched his fists as something inside him cracked—this was wasting time. He couldn’t let this opportunity slip away, not if his future could be prevented. He shot forward chasing after his father and shouted,

“You’re being selfish! This isn’t about your pride - it’s about stopping Cell! We’re running out of time. If we don’t get stronger we all die!”.

Vegeta ignored him completely. Anger rising, Trunks fired a blast of ki in Vegeta’s direction, more out of frustration than intent to harm. Vegeta’s eyes flicked to the incoming blast; he blocked it effortlessly. For a moment, Trunks panicked. Had he just made a huge mistake? But instead of lashing out, Vegeta’s gaze sharpened — not with anger, but with cold calculation.

“Too much output. Sloppy form. A proper blast should be more precise. You’re burning fuel like a novice.” Then he turned and walked away. Trunks stood stunned, his heart hammering. Why hadn’t Vegeta punished him? Had he really offered… constructive criticism?

The next day, the silence between them was heavier, but Trunks was ready. As Vegeta moved to disappear into the white expanse again, Trunks seized his moment. He steadied his breath, focused his ki, and launched a sharper, more controlled blast towards his father. Vegeta blocked it effortlessly, but this time he didn’t just deflect and walk away.

“Better,” Vegeta said, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Better?” Trunks asked, voice uncertain. “But… still not good?” Vegeta’s mouth twitched—almost a smirk.

“Not bad – for someone second-rate. But you still don’t have full control. You’re wasting energy” Trunks frowned, absorbing every word. But beneath the critique, there was something new—recognition. Vegeta wasn’t brushing him off. He was teaching him.

“Then show me how to fix it,” Trunks said quietly. Vegeta didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted into a stance, posture sharp and balanced, ready to receive another hit. Trunks correctly understood the message, and their first sparring match began.

And with that, the first wall between them began to crumble.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

He hadn’t expected this. Not really. Not after everything he’d been told. Not after everything he’d seen. Vegeta trained like a force of nature, that much hadn’t changed. But every time Vegeta blocked one of Trunks’ strikes and didn’t just turn away in disgust, every time he barked a correction instead of ignoring a mistake, it started to feel like he wasn’t just taking a beating—he was learning from it. Vegeta was still sharp and impatient, but he was there - training with him. That meant something, even if it didn’t feel like much.

They did still train separately too, but as time went on the balance was slowly tipping to more together. Maybe this wasn’t about him. Maybe Vegeta just needed a punching bag, a reminder of how far he’d come. But somewhere between the silence and the sweat and the static hum of raw energy, Trunks thought maybe Vegeta was trying. Not in a soft or kind way. More like a stubborn, grinding effort —but pushing through anyway. But that didn’t make it easy.

Training with Vegeta was brutal. Vegeta never held back—Trunks knew that from the first blow that knocked him breathless. His blows were like judgement – fast, unforgiving, demanding perfection or nothing. Each strike was a challenge wrapped in disdain. At first, Trunks staggered under the pressure, but relentless challenge brought progress. Within days, the dodge that once came a second too late now came on time. The blocks stopped rattling his bones. His counter-strikes began to sting.

Once, he even sent Vegeta skidding across the chamber. Vegeta shot him a look—half surprise, half threat—and came back with twice the force, as if to remind Trunks he was nothing more than a stepping stone. The gap was still there, but narrower. Real. Trunks didn’t win. Not yet. But he didn’t lose the way he used to. Somewhere in the blur of bruises and breathless clashes, Trunks stopped surviving and started fighting. It felt like more than sparring—like Vegeta was testing if he was even worth his time. The blows said it plainly—You are weak. You’re barely worth the time. But maybe, just maybe, you can change that.

As the weeks passed, a kind of rhythm took shape between them — unspoken, uneven, but real. Time moved strangely in the Chamber. No day or night cycle. Just weightless sky and relentless training. Days blurred into training, silence and restless sleep. The silence, once suffocating, began to feel like the default. Not comfortable — never that — but endurable. Sometimes they even ate together—though always with separately prepared meals—saying nothing, the scrape of utensils louder than either of them. Trunks started to notice patterns: the twitch in Vegeta’s fingers before an attack, the way he clicked his tongue when a move didn’t land right. Vegeta no longer ignored him outright. There were sometimes critiques now — terse, pointed corrections that left no room for questions, but it was mostly curt remarks that stung more than they helped. Occasionally, a nod that could’ve meant “decent” or “not embarrassing.”

In the quiet spaces between blows, meals, and solitude, something began to shift in Trunks. A kind of familiarity with the routine, maybe. Vegeta was still harsh, still distant, but he was there, and he was consistent. And that steadiness made space for questions Trunks hadn’t let himself ask before. About Saiyans. About his father. So one day, after a brutal session in intense heat left them both dripping with sweat and drained, Trunks broke the silence. He was tentative, but unable to hold back any longer,

“Can I ask you something?”

Vegeta didn’t answer right away. His scowl didn’t soften — not exactly. But the glare didn’t sharpen either. Trunks took that as permission. The silence stretched between them until Trunks cleared his throat, voice low but steady.

“I don’t know much about being Saiyan,” he said carefully.

There was a pause. Then a grunt — not agreement, but not dismissal. 

“Depends what you ask.” Vegeta didn’t look away.

Trunks blinked. He hadn’t expected that much. There was so much he wanted to ask, and not just about his heritage.

What burned in his mind wasn’t about Saiyans, not really — it was about that day when Android 20 had sent a blast towards the plane, with his mother and the baby version of himself still inside. Vegeta hadn’t even tried to save them.

Don’t you care about your family at all? Is that what being Saiyan means?

 But Trunks wasn’t stupid. That wasn’t the kind of question you asked Vegeta if you actually wanted an answer — or anything but silence. He scrambled for a safe question — not quite the one he really wanted to ask. That one would just get him silence or worse.

“What were Saiyans really like?” Trunks asked. Vegeta looked at him for a long moment. Not confused, not surprised. Just… measuring.

“Power,” he responded at last. “Fighting was everything. Power, pride, survival, winning. That’s what mattered.” His voice wasn’t angry, but it held weight. Like he was reciting a creed. “We were warriors.” Vegeta’s gaze hardened. He tilted his chin up, voice low and steady. “We conquered. Took what we wanted because we could.” Vegeta fixed him with a hard stare, as if daring him to react.

Trunks swallowed. The words hung heavy in the air — we took what we wanted because we could. There was no shame in the way Vegeta said it. No apology. Just a fact. It wasn’t exactly what Trunks had hoped to hear. But it was probably the truth.

“That sounds… pretty brutal.” He said carefully. Vegeta didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked vaguely amused.

“It was. And we were good at it.” A long silence passed. Then, a dry huff — not quite a laugh. “Don’t worry,” he said, with a smirk. “I haven’t slaughtered for profit in a while.” His gaze drifted toward the entrance to the chamber. “Earth has its uses.”

The bluntness of it landed harder than Trunks expected. Not an ounce of shame. Not even defiance. Just… fact. He didn’t know what disturbed him more – the honesty or the ease. Vegeta didn’t say more. And Trunks didn’t push. Not this time.

--

The days blurred, heavy with training and unspoken tension. Weeks passed. One day somewhere around the two-month mark they’d been sparring for what felt like hours. Vegeta moved like something was driving him forward, chasing a goal no one else could see. Exhausted, Trunks knelt down panting for a moment. Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, sharp and unforgiving.

“You may be just trash,” he said, voice flat and cold. The words hit Trunks like a physical blow — pure insult, with no mercy or warmth. His stomach clenched. No encouragement, no patience, just brutal dismissal. Then Vegeta stepped closer, the intensity in his voice lowering just slightly. “But you’re better than nothing I suppose.” Trunks swallowed, the sting fading just enough to leave behind a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name — a challenge, maybe. Or the smallest thread of hope. He knew it sounded like an insult — and maybe it was — but after all this time, Trunks understood Vegeta-speak well enough to know this was a backhanded acknowledgment. Not praise. Just recognition — blunt and backhanded, but real. “Even if I am a prodigy,” Vegeta continued, “if I were alone, I would probably have needed more time... to surpass Super Saiyan.”

Trunks stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.

“You don’t mean—?”

At this Vegeta powered up, revealing his new form. The light around him warped. In a single, forceful motion, his aura surged outward — less the steady flame of the standard Super Saiyan form, but a sharp-edged blaze. His hair stood more rigid, more defined. His muscles had thickened, his silhouette sharpened. Vegeta’s voice cut through the charged air:

“Look! This is a Super Saiyan who has transcended Super Saiyan… Super Vegeta!”

He held the form for a moment, letting the power ripple around him. Then, after a moment, he dropped the transformation, his breathing steady but heavy.

Trunks could still feel the weight of that power lingering. It was incredible — raw and controlled in a way he hadn’t known was possible. No one back home had ever reached it. His father looked untouchable. Vegeta’s voice softened just a little, but still clipped:

“It’s not enough yet. Kakarot’s still ahead.” But he didn’t sound defeated—just hungry for more. Trunks wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what, there had been a hint of appreciation in there delivered in a very gruff manner. There was pride in Vegeta’s words — not for himself, but maybe for what they’d done together. Somehow, Trunks had pushed him to this breakthrough. Trunks still didn’t really understand Vegeta, but this was a version of him that made sense. A fighter clawing his way towards something better. For the first time, Trunks admired Vegeta. Not as his father, but as a warrior. For now, that was something he could hold onto.

Chapter Text

Weeks went by, and Vegeta was still largely silent—except for cutting criticisms and the occasional nugget of actual useful feedback.
Trunks found himself wondering more about their kind. Where had they come from? Who had his father been, before Earth?

The last time he’d asked about Saiyans, it hadn’t gone too badly. Vegeta had answered without anger, at least. But the unspoken implications lingered—an echo of a savage past that no calm tone could soften. Still, part of him hoped to hear more, to catch a flicker of something more human beneath the mask of pride. He wanted to believe there was more to Vegeta than the brutal warrior. So one day, between sparring sessions and simmering tension, he decided to risk what felt like an acceptable question.

“What was it like? Planet Vegeta.”

Vegeta had glanced up from tightening the wraps around his wrists. His jaw set.

“It’s gone.” He said.

“I know that,” Trunks said quietly. “But I… I just want to know what it was like. The people. The way you lived.”

Vegeta scoffed.

“Why? You didn’t lose it.”

Trunks blinked.

“I’m the only Saiyan left in my world.” Explained Trunks.

Vegeta stood, energy rising like heat from stone, but the air itself had turned brittle—an unexpected chill creeping over the chamber walls that prickled at Trunks’ skin.

“You weren’t even born when it was destroyed.” Vegeta snapped.

Trunks raised his voice a little,

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.”

“You weren’t there. You don’t get to mourn something you never had.” Vegeta said sharply.

Trunks’ temper flared.

“You think it didn’t matter that I had no one who understood what I was? No one who could tell me where I came from?” He shouted. As wonderful a mentor as Gohan had been, he knew next to nothing about their Saiyan side. Vegeta really was the only person in the world who could give him any answers.

Vegeta said nothing. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes pulled taut, as cold and hard as the frozen air settling between them. Trunks continued,

“I know I didn’t lose what you did. But I still feel the absence — every day. And you’re the only one who can fill in what’s missing.”

A long pause. The air between them thick with things unsaid, the cold pressing in like a weight. Then Vegeta muttered, almost too low to hear:

“…I hadn’t considered that.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t even kindness. But for Vegeta, it was something close. Trunks looked at him, heart still pounding, and for a moment, he saw it: not just the pride, not just the anger—but the weight. The history. The grief. They didn’t speak again for a while. But something shifted. Not everything. Not enough. But maybe enough for now.

And still, he kept finding himself wanting to ask more. To understand. To reach for something – connection, maybe – that he was almost certain he’d never get. He knew it was being naïve. But he couldn’t seem to help it. The questions could wait until the moment felt right.

It had now been a few months since Vegeta’s breakthrough. Trunks still hadn’t caught up — but he felt like he was close. Trunks staggered back, panting, arms trembling from another failed exchange. He hadn't landed a solid blow all day — not that it mattered. Vegeta wasn’t even trying. He hated it more than the bruises. Vegeta stood effortlessly, arms folded, golden aura flickering in sharp arcs — bulked up, faster, stronger. His upgraded Super Saiyan form dwarfed Trunks in both speed and presence.

“You’re wasting my time,” Vegeta said coolly. “If you can’t push past this wall, go train somewhere else.”

Trunks clenched his fists. He’d heard that tone a hundred times before. Dismissive. Cold. Almost bored. 

“I’m trying,” Trunks growled, forcing himself upright. “You just won’t let me catch up.”

Vegeta's eyes narrowed.

“Try harder.”

The pressure hit again — Vegeta moved, faster than Trunks could see. A punch collided with his gut and launched him across the chamber, rolling through the dust. Everything in him screamed to stop, to yield, to rest. But something deeper screamed louder.

You’ll never get a real fight from him like this. He’ll never take you seriously if you don’t reach the next level too.

Trunks’ fingers dug into the floor. He pushed himself up. Anger sparked, then surged — frustration, exhaustion, shame burning in his veins like fuel. His aura flared, golden and fierce, and then—it grew. Muscles thickened, hair sharpened. Vegeta's eyes snapped up — and he uncrossed his arms. Trunks roared, and the power roared back — denser, louder, more there than ever before.

He’d done it — pushed past the transformation’s limit! Finally catching up.

Trunks barely had time to savour the transformation before Vegeta was on him — a blur of fists, sharper, faster, but now matchable. Trunks moved on instinct, blocking one strike, dodging the next, countering with a clean hit that forced Vegeta to skid back across the tile. They stood locked in place, golden and gasping, the charged air between them buzzing like thunder on pause. Vegeta gave a low, amused grunt.

“Took you long enough.”

Trunks blinked, thrown off guard by the absence of insult. Then Vegeta added,

“I was getting bored holding back.”

A twisted compliment — but it was a compliment. Trunks straightened, pride flickering behind his exhaustion.

“Guess that means you can stop going easy on me.”

 Vegeta’s smirk deepened — faint, cruel, but unmistakably approving. Trunks forced himself not to react. As much as he craved his father’s approval, he didn’t dare draw attention to it.

“We’ll see.” He was already back in his fighting stance. “Now let’s see what you can do. Again.”

Trunks followed, the ache in his muscles tempered by something rarer — satisfaction. Not just from the power — though that was real — but from matching him. Vegeta had seen him. Acknowledged him. Just for a moment. And that was enough to keep going.

Trunks charged again, fists blazing, and this time Vegeta met him without holding back, golden auras flaring brighter with each strike. For the first time since they’d entered this place, Trunks wasn’t being outclassed. His hits landed. His dodges worked. His ki blasts might even have been as powerful. He was fast enough to matter. Vegeta was really fighting him now.

He caught Vegeta with a solid elbow to the ribs—nothing major, but enough to draw a grunt. For a brief second, it felt like victory. Then Vegeta twisted to his left side, arms drawn back to charge a ki attack. His hands took an unusual position—both facing the same direction, with the left hand positioned behind the right to supercharge the blast. Trunks felt it before he saw it: a spike of energy, thick and sharp, condensing in Vegeta’s right palm with a crackle of purple light.

“Galick Gun!” Vegeta shouted, low and clear. Trunks hadn’t heard those words before. The name struck him — unfamiliar, fierce — just like the violet blast that followed. It tore through the air like a whip crack, faster than Trunks’ instincts could follow. He barely raised an arm before it slammed into him, pushing him back. When the smoke cleared, he was still on his feet. Shaking. Breathing hard. But standing.

Vegeta hadn’t moved.

“You lasted longer this time,” he said, voice sharp. “Not bad. But surviving in here isn’t the same as surviving a real fight.”

Trunks didn't flinch.
“I wasn't holding back.”

Vegeta stepped closer.
“No. You weren't.”
His tone was blunt, but not cruel. “That’s why you’re still standing.”

Trunks swallowed his frustration. He’d thought this transformation was the breakthrough—but maybe it was just the start. 

“I'll keep pushing myself harder.” He said with determination.
Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, sharp and cold, but there was a flicker of something almost approving beneath the surface.

"Good. Weakness is a luxury you can’t afford".

A few days passed in the quiet rhythm of the chamber—gruelling training, terse exchanges, and long stretches of silence. Pain throbbed in Trunks’ arms and legs, cold sweat slicked his brow, and still Vegeta watched without a flicker of mercy. The chamber was more than just a training ground—it was a test of endurance, of pride, of spirit. The air stayed sharp and cold, biting at his skin whenever he paused, the chill settling in his joints and making every motion feel just slightly more punishing. His father hadn’t let up for a moment—barking corrections, demanding more power, more precision, more everything. He seemed in a bad mood, like Trunks couldn’t do anything right.

“Again,” Vegeta ordered curtly, arms crossed.

His arms felt like lead. Every muscle ached. He was sick of this—sick of the cold, sick of the endless demands, sick of never being good enough. Trunks gritted his teeth, forced himself upright, and gave a limp, uneven salute — hand barely lifting, posture slouched with fatigue.

“Yes, sir. General Vegeta. Sir.” Trunks muttered, tired and sarcastic—because if Vegeta wanted to play drill sergeant, he could play along.

It wasn't quite mockery — more the kind of sarcasm that slipped out when he was too tired to care. Vegeta blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been contempt — or amusement.

“Tch. What was that? Some silly Earth sign?”

“It’s a salute. You know, military. Like when you give someone orders all day and expect them to jump.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes.

“Trust the Earthlings to choreograph obedience.”

Then, without fanfare, Vegeta raised two fingers—minimal, not to his forehead, not grand. Just enough. Just deliberate.

“That,” he said, “is a salute.”

Trunks blinked.

“My father showed me that once,” Vegeta said quietly. “Said it was used among real warriors. Equals. Before battle. Before parting. Not many bothered with it anymore.”

Trunks stared at him.
“Did you ever use it?”

Vegeta didn’t look at him when he replied.
“No. It’s a little old fashioned. And I never had equals.”

Then he dropped his hand, as if the gesture had cost him something to offer.
The silence that followed stretched, heavy and crystalline. The chill in the chamber suddenly felt deeper, as if drawn from some ancient place. Trunks caught a flicker of something almost human in Vegeta’s eyes — a memory, maybe, or regret — before he masked it again with a scowl. Then he went back into his fighting stance, as if nothing had happened.

Time passed, and the gesture of sharing this piece of Saiyan culture didn’t go unnoticed by Trunks. From then on, Trunks sometimes asked more carefully chosen questions — and sometimes, Vegeta answered. Brief, clipped replies about Saiyan customs or history. Never more than what was asked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind Trunks that beneath Vegeta’s hardened exterior, there might be a willingness to connect — narrow as a blade's edge, but real.

Chapter Text

The vast white expanse of the Chamber surrounded them in silence—an endless void as empty as the space between them, filled only by the sound of Vegeta’s relentless training. Vegeta was moving through his training routine with sharp, mechanical precision. Trunks stood quietly at the edge, watching the familiar intensity, feeling the weight of unspoken things between them. It wasn’t unusual for them to observe each other like this. Sometimes, Trunks thought he might learn something just by watching—how Vegeta moved, how he thought, what he valued.

But today, his thoughts weren’t on fighting techniques or power levels. He found himself wondering about something else – Vegeta’s obsession with defeating Goku. His mother had told him it was just rivalry, but it didn’t feel that simple. Goku was kind, loyal, and loved by pretty much everyone else. So why did Vegeta’s eyes darken whenever he thought of him? Why did it seem like something close to hatred lurked beneath the prince’s pride?

That question had been turning over in Trunks’ mind for days now, settling heavier with each training session. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer—but the silence between them had stretched long enough. After a moment, he finally found his voice—low, steady, and deliberate.

“Why are you so desperate to surpass Goku? It feels like there’s more to it than just competition. You seem to really hate him.”

Vegeta didn’t answer right away. His fists kept moving, striking the air with practiced precision. Trunks wondered if he’d gone too far.

Then, without warning, Vegeta stopped. He didn’t look at him. He let the silence stretch, like he was weighing the cost of saying too much.

“You really love asking questions, don’t you?” His jaw tightened as he answered, “Because I’m meant to be stronger than him. My father believed I was the Legendary Super Saiyan. I had more potential than any Saiyan born in generations. I surpassed his power level as a child.” Vegeta’s eyes darkened.

“He thought I’d be the one to bring down Frieza. But the planet was gone before I ever had the chance. Frieza destroyed it. Destroyed everything. When the time finally came... I stood against him—and he killed me like I was nothing.”

He scoffed, bitter. “And then Kakarot showed up. He was the Super Saiyan. He beat Frieza. You finished the job when he came here.”

“At least Frieza died by Saiyan hands. But it should’ve been mine.”

Trunks listened, struck by how much Vegeta had just given away without seeming to realize it. His shoulders, usually rigid with pride, sagged just a fraction—as if the memory pressed heavier than he expected.

“I have to be the strongest. It’s my legacy. My birth right. If I don’t…”

He trailed off, the words hanging unfinished—either from pain or stubborn pride, Trunks couldn’t tell.
Trunks watched him for a moment, the weight of the admission settling in. He’d heard more than his father had said. There was a kind of fracture in Vegeta’s voice—too brief to name, but impossible to miss. A new respect stirred in him, mingled with a quiet sadness. For the first time, he understood how much of Vegeta’s pride was a shield for pain.

He chose his words carefully in reply,

“I get it. Then we don’t stop. Not until we’re stronger. Together.”

Vegeta didn’t reply. His jaw tensed, eyes fixed on some distant point in the white void. The moment wavered— Vegeta turned, expression unreadable, as if the thought had taken him somewhere he couldn’t stay.

Then Trunks stepped forward and dropped into a fighting stance. He didn’t say anything else. Just waited. After a moment, Vegeta turned to face him, whatever flickered in his eyes vanished—buried beneath familiar focus and a quiet resolve. He raised his fists, ready to meet Trunks’ challenge.

When the chamber fell silent during sleeping hours—for there was no night and day cycle—Trunks would sometimes seize the chance for secret training sessions, when he was sure his father was resting. It was his secret—extra training, stolen moments to push himself beyond what Vegeta expected. He wanted to prove himself. To impress him. The air was cool around him, but his body burned as he struck again and again, each blow sharper, stronger. He was already exhausted from a day of training with Vegeta. Sweat slicked his skin, breath coming fast and shallow, but he refused to stop. He imagined Vegeta doing the same sometimes as he slept—pushing harder, faster, alone. A private challenge to stay ahead. Neither of them said it, but Trunks knew this shared obsession was a bond between them, unspoken and fierce. He’d checked before leaving the sleeping quarters, Vegeta was definitely asleep. He was desperate to train tonight. He was close to something, he could feel it.

As he trained, a sudden roar of ki surged from within— a wild, raw force. It felt like a deluge of power bursting inside his chest. His muscles bulged, skin tingling with pressure as his aura exploded around him. It was more than strength. It was weight. The power was staggering— more than anything he’d ever controlled. His heart was still racing, his limbs thrumming with it. A wild laugh almost escaped him. This was it! A higher grade of power! Something his father hadn’t reached. But the smile faded fast. He dropped back to his base form.

As the energy faded, his thoughts drifted to the long months behind them—the sparring, the terse silences, the grudging trust that had begun to form. His father had changed. Or maybe Trunks had just started to see him more clearly. He was pride and purpose and fury, a Saiyan shaped by a legacy that had been shattered before he could fulfil it. A man made of fire and pressure who never yielded. And somehow, across these brutal, quiet months, he’d let Trunks closer than Trunks ever thought he would. Vegeta had started to talk to him. Train with him. Trust him, maybe. Trunks didn’t want to lose that. He couldn’t show him this—not yet. He told himself it was strategy, that it was a smarter move to wait. Timing mattered. But beneath that excuse was something quieter, harder to admit: a fear of ruining what little ground they'd gained. If Vegeta saw this—if he knew—would it change the way he looked at him? Would it build the wall higher again? His father didn’t need to be surpassed again. Not after those words—“It should’ve been me.” But part of him already knew: he wasn’t ever going to show him this form. Not because he was afraid of what Vegeta would say, but because he wasn’t ready to risk what they’d built. What little they’d managed to become.

He’d come into this room to get stronger—strong enough to stop Cell. That part hadn’t changed. But somewhere in all the training and tension, something else had. He didn’t think his father was a monster anymore. There were still things unsaid. Questions left hanging in the space between them. But the distance didn’t feel impossible now. It felt like something he might almost be able to cross.

Building something between them had become one of his goals somewhere along the way. Vegeta was someone worth trying to understand—because that pride, the thing Trunks had once taken for cruelty, didn’t seem so hollow now. It was armour. Purpose. A way to survive everything he'd lost. Vegeta didn’t offer affection, but he didn’t lie. He didn’t quit. He never pretended to be less than he was. Trunks didn’t know if his father would ever truly see him as a son—not in a way he’d ever say aloud.

But maybe, just maybe, he could be someone Vegeta was proud of. And for now… that was enough.

He wasn’t done yet. There was one more thing he’d been working on in his secret training sessions —something more personal than brute strength. Something closer to a tribute.

He hadn’t seen it often, but the image stuck—Vegeta’s stance, the way the energy coiled before release. He remembered it clearly. The way Vegeta had stood: anchored, proud, as if the blast came not just from power, but from certainty. His hands moved into position — twisted to his side, left behind right, the same stance Vegeta had taken.

“Galick...” he muttered, charging the ki, feeling the form tremble.

The air rippled purple. For a moment it felt right — focused, precise. A real technique, not just brute force.

“...Gun!”

The blast surged forward — powerful, but unstable. Not clean like Vegeta’s. Not yet. Trunks lowered his hands. Even with all this strength, he still couldn’t match that control. He’d keep practicing. Until the blast was clean — and the distance between them, maybe, just a little smaller.

He didn’t know what the next days or weeks would bring. But he knew these months had changed something. Not just in his strength, but in how he saw his father—and maybe, in how his father saw him.

Chapter Text

Nearly a year had passed since they’d entered the chamber—a year defined by endless training and the unyielding pursuit of strength. Vegeta’s eyes tracked every movement as Trunks moved through the white void with sharp, deliberate precision. In the beginning, he’d been raw—reckless, even—a burst of untamed energy. Now, his strikes were measured. He moved with a predator’s focus Vegeta recognized instantly—relentless, instinctive. The same drive he’d honed since infancy. Resilient. He showed an unyielding defiance befitting of his bloodline. Potential. He’d underestimated the Earth-softened edges initially. Too polite. Too hesitant to embrace the brutal logic of their heritage. But the core was there. The elite blood showed. Trunks absorbed punishment without flinching and came back for more. He argued when it mattered. Trained without needing to be told. Learned from every mistake. Improved every time he got knocked down. He listened. Asked questions—grating sometimes, but sharp. Questions about tactics, history, lineage.  Vegeta answered when he felt like it, and Trunks absorbed it. There were little things—the set of his jaw in a fight, the way he frowned in thought—a reflection Vegeta couldn’t ignore. The way he broke problems down like they always had an answer reminded him of someone else. Someone he tried not to think about.

Trunks had withstood every harsh command, every biting remark. And each time he pushed through without complaint, Vegeta catalogued the reduced time between knockdown and counterattack, the diminishing flaws in his guard – signs his elite potential was finally being honed. His strength had grown fast. Faster than expected. There were moments, brief but undeniable, when a strike forced Vegeta to brace harder than he meant to. He hadn’t said anything. But he noticed.

Training with him had become more than routine—it kept Vegeta sharp. Pushed him further. Trunks wasn’t an equal. Not quite. But he wasn’t far off. And there was something—quietly satisfying—about shaping that power. Watching it sharpen under his guidance.

Vegeta didn’t dwell on the flicker of… assessment. At least that’s what he told himself. Sentiment was the enemy of strength.

He turned away just as a golden light erupted behind him 

CRACK-HISSSSS... 

The silence shattered. Trunks' ki blast tore across the void, power bleeding away like water splashed onto sand. 

Good. Still a little bit sloppy. But much better. 

The assessment came unbidden. Vegeta caught himself, arms tightening across his chest. 

Since when did he call anyone "good”? Like hell he’d meant to say that.

Trunks landed lightly, still holding the stance from the final movement — palm out, knees bent, eyes forward. His breathing was controlled. His ki stable. A faint shimmer still traced the air from the arc of the blast.

“Why hold back?” Trunks asked, breath controlled but curious. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to hit with everything you've got?”

Not just asking how—asking why. That was new.

“Hitting hard means nothing if it doesn’t land.”

He raised his hand. A small, fiercely bright ball of blue fire sparked to life in his palm. It didn’t roar; it hummed, tight and dangerous. Focused.

“Throw everything out at once, you miss, you’re wide open. Tired. Dead.” He flicked his wrist. The blast snapped forward, punching through the air with a sharp CRACK before vanishing. No grand explosion. Just power, clean and direct.

“That’s a waste. Control beats strength. You hold it. You aim it. You make it count.”

He saw Trunks absorb it — the logic behind the cruelty. The instinct. The need.

He was learning.

“You’re wasting less now,” Vegeta added, almost like an afterthought. “That last surge… you held it tighter. Good.”

There that word was again. It escaped before he could temper it. Blunt. Clean. No sneer. No insult.
Trunks blinked. His shoulders squared a little. Just a little. Like something had landed.
Vegeta turned away, too fast.
He’d meant “Still sloppy.” It came out good.
Unacceptable.

“Enough talk,” he snapped, voice sharp. “Do it again. Fifty more. Hold it tight. Make it count.”

He didn’t look back.

The silence behind him was heavier now. Not defiant. Not afraid.

Just… listening.

He buried the impulse to acknowledge what he’d just said.

Tactics. That’s all.

Vegeta felt the weight of the question before Trunks even said it.
“Family wasn’t very important to Saiyans, was it?”

The words were careful. Almost casual. But the edge beneath them was unmistakable. Not just a question about culture. A test. A probe. A reckoning.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“No,” he said at last. The word was flat, solid. Final. “Not really. We were raised for battle, not bonds.”

His gaze didn’t shift from an imperceptible point in the blank white void. The answer came easily. He’d said it before—believed it before. It was still true. Still simple. But it wasn’t enough. Because Trunks wasn’t really asking about Saiyans. He was asking about him. About that day. About the blast. About the way Vegeta had stood still as the woman and the infant were nearly obliterated—until Trunks (the one with him now) had saved them. Vegeta hadn’t flinched then. Didn’t flinch now. No panic. No instinct. No reflex. He hadn’t moved—because he hadn’t cared. Not in that moment.

And yet—
There had been a flicker of something else back then. Too faint to feel. Too dangerous to name. A knot he didn’t notice until long after.
Not quite concern. Not softness. But a pull. A tether his instincts tried to sever before it ever took hold.
He hadn’t moved—not because he cared too little, but because he’d spent a lifetime making sure he wouldn’t.
And the part that stayed with him—the part he couldn’t file away—was that the thought had come and gone so quickly, so quietly, he almost missed it:

Maybe it would be easier if they were dead.
No ties. No leverage. No weakness. No one left to betray, to grieve, to lose.

But now it lodged deep inside his chest, like a splinter he could neither ignore nor pull free.

Not because he regretted it. But because he might. And he didn’t know what to do with that. He exhaled through his teeth. His hands curled into fists.

Frieza hadn’t trained him to ignore pain. He’d trained him to ignore attachment. To see it as the enemy. A leash waiting to be yanked. Caring had consequences. To care was to make yourself breakable. That was the lesson. And Vegeta learned it well, even before his own planet was destroyed. So well that when the moment came, he hadn’t even thought of stepping in. Because he had become the man who didn’t flinch at death.

Hadn’t he?

Vegeta glanced at Trunks briefly—his son, his unexpected mirror. The boy’s calm strength, his quiet resolve. How different it was from the cold warrior Vegeta had been. Trunks fought like he had something to lose. Something that Vegeta had trained himself to deny.

“Where I come from,” he said, voice rough, “caring gets you killed.”

He didn’t say the other part. The part still raw in his throat:

And that’s what terrifies me most.

Trunks gave a slight nod. Not agreement—just understanding.

“I figured,” Trunks said quietly.
He turned back toward the void, and the silence settled between them.

They’d been in the chamber for a year now. The time limit in a lifetime was two, but they’d agreed on one—there was only enough food for that long anyway. They both knew Kakarot and his brat were waiting for their turn.  But Vegeta wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

Trunks brought it up over their evening rice and beans — most other food was depleted by now — quiet but direct.
“It’s been twelve months today,” he said. “Shouldn’t we go back soon?”

Vegeta didn't look at him. “Not yet. We’re close to something,” he said. “There’s more to unlock.”
It wasn’t a lie. He could feel it—the edge of something new, some next form just out of reach. That mattered. Of course it did.
But so did this. The silence. The rhythm. The boy.
He didn’t say that part. Didn’t even let himself say it in his own mind.
So instead: “We stay.”
It came out flat. Final. Too final.
He was unsure who he was convincing.

Trunks didn’t argue. Just nodded — like he was waiting for something only he could see.

Vegeta’s jaw clenched. The air felt dry in his throat. He didn’t want to leave yet. He told himself it was the breakthrough. More power. More time.

And there it was again. That strange tension behind his ribs. Discomfort, maybe. Or something worse. He dismissed it.

“We’ll train again in the morning,” he said, rising. “Prepare for it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Behind him, the silence lingered — not questioning, not protesting. Just there. Heavy, like the heat of the void itself.

Chapter Text

The hyperbolic time chamber was oppressively hot again; the air thick and heavy, sweat stinging their eyes — but neither heat nor fatigue could interrupt their training. They moved through it like it belonged to them, not master and student, but predators circling the same kill. No shouting. No corrections.

Vegeta threw a feint — fast, sharp — and Trunks leaned the right way before the blow landed. Not perfect, but intuitive. He was reading him. Feeling the patterns. Another strike, low this time. Trunks answered with a sweep of his own, not copying, but countering — an echo, not a mirror. His timing was improving. Power, too. Vegeta adjusted his stance, switched tempo. Trunks kept up. Not just reacting — anticipating. He ducked under a strike without flinching. Ki flared along his arms as he launched a short-range blast back that grazed Vegeta’s side. Trunks recovered fast, already shifting again to cover the blind spot he’d left open last time.

The flow held.

They circled, traded blows, pushed harder. No stumbling. No stupid questions. No wasted energy. He was holding his own. More than that.

They were in sync.

Vegeta didn’t say anything. Didn’t praise. Then broke the rhythm. A sharp pivot away, ki flaring to cut the connection. His eyes flickered, unsettled by how synchronized they’d become. He hated the closeness it implied.
“Enough. Your footwork stagnates.” He lied, “Train alone for a bit.” He retreated to the chamber’s edge.

Trunks kept training alone, as though he had something further to prove. Vegeta stood at a distance, arms folded. His eyes tracking Trunks in assessment.

Vegeta noted Trunks powering up again — predictable,  but relentless. Then, with a flicker of movement — a glance toward where Vegeta stood — he dropped into a stance Vegeta was very familiar with. Right arm twisted to the left side, left hand behind the right. The charge was tight, contained. Intentional. Vegeta’s brow twitched. No. A pulse of violet ki gathered in Trunks’ palms.

“Galick Gun!” Trunks roared.

The blast tore across the void — jagged and imperfect, but real, the air shimmering with the sudden flare of ki. Shaped. Controlled. Recognizable. Vegeta didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It landed — not the attack, but the fact of it. His move. The stance, the shout, the fire behind it. He’d never taught him the move, never shown it deliberately. Yet Trunks had pieced it together from scraps. Watching him. Practicing on his own, in secret — like he knew it wasn’t allowed but needed to do it anyway. Something twisted in Vegeta’s chest. Tight and hot and wrong.

No one had ever mimicked him before. No one dared. He stepped forward without thinking. His voice broke the air like a strike: “Again!”

Trunks turned. Blinking, unsure. Vegeta’s boots hit the ground with a thud.

“If you’re going to use my technique, you'd better prove you deserve it.”

Trunks hesitated — then braced. Good. Because that wasn’t a technique anymore. It was a challenge. Vegeta wasn’t going to ignore this, and he didn’t wait for the second charge. He was already moving. Trunks met him mid-air, ki flaring wildly. He blocked the first strike, staggered under the second, barely twisted away from the third. But he didn’t break. And when Vegeta paused—a fraction, testing—Trunks lunged, not with skill, but with raw, desperate power. Trunks was faster than he’d been last time. Sharper. He was adapting. Vegeta grinned — small and involuntary — as he forced the Trunks back with a flurry of strikes.

So he’d been holding back. No — not holding back. Growing. Quietly, when no one was looking. Just like… His fist missed Trunks’ chin by half an inch. Trunks slipped under it — unrefined, but instinctive — and answered with a burst of energy at close range. It singed Vegeta’s armour. The grin widened, just a little. Good. Let him fight. Let him earn it. Satisfaction—hot and fierce—flared in his gut. Not for Trunks, but for the power. His power. Trunks’ Galick Gun had been good. Too good. Vegeta had felt it — the focus, the shape of the energy. Not just mimicked, not stolen. Claimed.

The thought came unbidden, sharp as a blade’s edge:

Now this is a Saiyan heir.

The thought ignited something vicious in Vegeta’s blood.

Trunks rushed him again, raw power in his limbs, ki flaring high and ragged. Vegeta moved faster. No holding back now. Trunks entered that stance again - not the flawless one of moments before, desperate.

He’s exhausted. Good. Let him fail. Let him prove this was a stolen trick, not earned strength. 

“GALICK GUN—!” Trunks shouted.

Trunks’ blast tore toward him—weaker than the first, but still decent. Vegeta deflected it with a flick of wrist and his own surge of crimson ki. Then without thinking he acted. Palms up. Feet planted.

“No. This is how it’s done.” He didn’t even say the name. He was the name.

The blast that formed was bigger than it should have been. Brighter. Too much ki funnelled through muscle memory and instinct, pride and adrenaline stirred into something sharp and reckless. A lesson. A warning. He saw Trunks brace, arms crossed, already drawing power to counter or defend. But even before it hit, Vegeta felt it: the force was wrong. The pressure too high. It’d rip through him if it landed. And in that flicker — not a thought, just a reflex — he twisted his wrists. The beam veered, screaming past Trunks’ side with inches to spare.

He hadn’t meant to miss. Had he?

No. He Had. Not consciously, but his body had betrayed him before he had time to think. Scorched ozone turned brittle in the sudden cold. The shockwave knocked Trunks off his feet – just as the chambers heat snapped. When he stopped moving, he didn’t get up right away. Vegeta didn’t speak. He just stood there, one arm still half-raised, ki flickering faintly at his fingertips like a muscle memory he hadn’t commanded. Across the field, Trunks pushed himself up onto one knee, breathing ragged. His teeth were chattering, and breath was visible in the now freezing air. He shivered from the sudden cold as much as impact.

Trunks’ words froze in the air:

“M-maybe we take a break?” He offered, voice shivering – from the cold or because he knew something had gone wrong and didn’t want to name it? Vegeta barely heard him. The cold wasn’t in the air, it was in his veins.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.
It had been instinct—power answering power, like always.

The surge had been real — too much, too fast.
He’d pulled it at the last possible moment.
Not because he planned to.
Because something in him had flinched - a reflex deeper than strategy.

Because some pathetic corner of his mind had howled:

That’s my son.

The words pounded in his skull, louder than his own pulse. An invasion. Horror and something like shame knotted in his chest. The cold deepened, biting into his bones.

Not the chamber. Me. This ice... it’s in my blood now.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not like this. He was supposed to be training a warrior. Not a weakness.

The full realisation had set in now. He’d hesitated. Not as a warrior. As a father.

The horror wasn’t that Trunks might have been hurt. 

It was that he’d cared.

Revulsion, thick and acidic, flooded his gut.

Frieza’s ghost leered inside his skull—not with words, but with memory. How weakness was dissected. How attachments became leverage. The terror detonated. This wasn’t a bond. It was weakness. Infection. It made him look at Trunks and see... legacy. Something clean. Something he’d only poison.

Trunks pushed himself up unsteadily. Weakness. Or tactical assessment? Trunks didn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t speak. Just turned toward the distant glow of the living quarters, footsteps dragging like a wounded animal retreating to its den. 

The silence grated worse than any insult.

He knows.

The thought lashed Vegeta’s mind. 

He saw the hesitation. The pull. He knows.

Trunks’ retreated towards the living chambers.

Loathing, sharp and hot, swamped him.
This pull—this instinct to protect—was the worst kind of weakness.
A crack spreading under his ribs.

His fists clenched, bones grinding.
The warmth in his chest curdled into acid.
Pathetic. Weak. Unfit.

He had to burn it out. Cut it out.
Protect Trunks—from him.

He followed after Trunks. Stalking, energy coiling tight under his skin like a predator's snarl.

Trunks had reached the tiles at the edge of the living quarters now, no longer in the training space. He looked back, sensing the shift—hope or concern flickering in those stupid, trusting eyes.
Eyes that didn’t yet grasp how deep Vegetas failure ran.

"You dare make me—” Vegeta’s glare sharpened, but the rest of the sentence remained locked away, unspoken.

He raised a hand—not to strike, but to shatter. Raw ki, fuelled by pure, incandescent self-loathing and terror, erupted from his palm, the heat of the blast roaring like a furnace. A torrent of blue-white energy slammed into the tiles by Trunks’ feet.
*CRACK-BOOM!*

The blast cracked the silence wide open. The tiles didn’t just shatter; they exploded. Razor-sharp ceramic shrapnel sprayed outwards in a destructive halo. A deafening concussion echoed across the void. Debris rained down like judgment. A wall of noise and fire. Then – silence. Deafening. Just the faint tink-tink of falling fragments. A jagged scar, glowing faintly at the edges, now marred the once-pristine boundary. Vegeta stood amidst the settling chaos, chest heaving, eyes burning colder than the void. Dust coated his armour, but his gaze was fixed solely on Trunks – not on the destruction, not on the past, only on the living, breathing symbol of the terrifying weakness he had to kill.

"You learned nothing. My technique is wasted on a pathetic coward like you.”

And Vegeta saw it: the hurt in Trunks’ eyes. A wound reflected back at him. The part of himself he refused to show.

This has to happen. He was gutting the bond.

“You can mimic my power, but you'll never earn it. Get out of my sight. Your training is done.”

The pain in Trunks' face mirrored his own—and he hated it.

Hated himself for needing to hurt him.
Hated Trunks for making him capable of it.

Hated how hurting Trunks was hurting himself.

For a breath, the hurt hung between them like smoke.

Then Vegeta turned away. The silence behind him was deafening. Something precious had broken.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Looking back was for men who deserved what they left behind. He deserved only the cold. He clung to the pain. Physical, emotional—it was proof, burning deep beneath the surface like the chamber’s unyielding heat. Proof he was cauterizing the infection.

Let him hate me. Let him see the monster. It’s mercy.

He pictured Trunks’ face, stunned and hurt. Let it burn. Let it feed the furnace.

It would keep him warm in the dark. Where monsters belong.

Chapter Text

A quiet week passed after that missed Galick Gun. They really couldn’t stay much longer. It had been nearly 13 months now; their “year” in the chamber had already stretched past its limit. Time slipped strangely in this place—thin and sour, stretching endlessly but somehow always vanishing too fast. The food supplies were running low; even basic rice and beans were almost gone. The silence had begun to fray.

And Trunks…

Vegeta exhaled through his nose, sharply, like he could exorcise the thought just by breathing it out.

Trunks hadn’t trained at all this evening. His ki was low, settled in the back room. Asleep, probably. They hadn’t trained together since Vegeta had said they were done.

Trunks hadn’t pushed back. Hadn’t asked why. Other than the initial hurt look, he had just accepted it with that unreadable quiet he’d picked up lately. Too composed. Too understanding.

It had grated.

No— it had lingered.

Long enough that Vegeta still felt the shape of it, like a bruise forming beneath the skin. He floated alone, arms crossed in the still air, every muscle tense with the weight of something unfinished.

They needed to leave soon. That was the truth. But not yet. Not while he could still feel it. Something close. A wall thinning. A boundary weakening. Power just beyond reach. He hadn’t come this far to walk away empty-handed. Not after this year.

Certainly not with Trunks the only thing clinging to his mind.

That thought— that truth— twisted something in his chest.

He snarled under his breath and powered up, golden aura flaring with a sharp crack of pressure.

He didn’t want it.

Didn’t want this.

Didn’t want softness. Connection. Guilt. Not with Trunks. Not with anyone.

Not when his whole life had been blood and fire and survival. Not when pride was all he’d had left.

Connection led to weakness. Weakness led to death. He’d learned that early. What mercy had the universe ever given him for feeling anything? He had survived because he didn’t need anyone. Not Nappa and Raditz. Not his father. Not Frieza.

And yet somehow, Trunks remained.

The power surged. He leaned into it. More.

His ki climbed violently, spiking without control. Muscles tensed. Limbs locked. Energy roared through his veins. He gritted his teeth against the pressure, against the noise, against everything.

He was not going to leave here weaker than he came in.

And then it happened.

Power surged upward like a geyser cracking through stone. His aura flared, brilliant and jagged—gold, violent, alive. Muscles thickened excessively. Shoulders broadened. His back hunched involuntarily under the sudden bulk.

This was it.

Beyond even the ascended Super Saiyan form. Beyond restraint.

At last.

But almost instantly, he knew. He tried to move and staggered.

Too heavy. Too slow. His body, though stronger, resisted itself. Every motion lagged. Every breath took effort. This wasn’t control. It wasn’t refinement. It was excess—ugly, unwieldy excess. A form built for intimidation, not victory.

Vegeta stood in the glare of his own transformation, chest heaving, furious.

“This is it?!” he spat aloud. His voice like shattered gravel.

“This… bullshit form… is USELESS!”

He dropped the form with disgust. Let it burn out of him like poison, limbs trembling in the aftermath.

The transformation faded, and the silence swallowed him again—harsh, sterile, inescapable.

This was the final path?

This was the shape of power?

No. It was a lie.

All of it: the pride, the pushing, the lonely, bitter climb toward a summit that turned out to be a pit. A waste.

This wasn’t ascension. This wasn’t glory. It was desperation masquerading as power. He’d come here to surpass everything. But all he’d done was build a stronger cage.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, a flicker of Trunks’ face surfaced. That was it. He was done here. No more time to waste. No more searching for answers that didn’t exist. No more watching himself slip toward something like… care.

Somewhere behind the living quarters’ wall, Trunks was still asleep. The boy hadn’t seen the form. Good. He didn’t want him to see his failure.

Vegeta sank down to the floor. Not gracefully. Just… down. Like gravity had finally remembered him. The rage had nowhere to go now. It turned inward—molten, directionless. He stared into the blankness until it blurred.

This was what he’d earned? After a lifetime of clawing upward? Power that dragged him backward? Strength that made him slower, dumber, easier to kill? He’d always believed there was a price for greatness, but he hadn’t expected it to be meaninglessness.

Somewhere in the distance, the whiteness pressed tighter. Even the endless chamber felt disappointed in him.

He didn’t move. Cross-legged in the endless white, arms resting on his knees, shoulders slumped not from exhaustion but from something heavier. Emptier.

The chamber was too still. The air too thin. The silence too loud.

So he sat. In the middle of that vast blank world, he folded his arms and stayed.

Powerless—not for lack of strength, but for the hollow ache of finding it meaningless.

He didn’t know how long passed. Time was sludge here. Long enough for the cold to settle in.

At some point, he sensed movement. Footsteps. Unhurried.

Trunks crossed the white void without looking at him. Didn’t speak.

No fanfare. No challenge. Just motion—steady and familiar.

Vegeta’s first instinct was to ignore him. He’d said they were done. Said there was nothing left to gain.

But something in the rhythm caught him.

Not power. Not exactly. But resolve.

Trunks stopped a short distance away and began moving—slow, fluid drills. One after the other. No wasted motion. No arrogance. Just clean technique, repeated with quiet precision.

Vegeta’s gaze flicked up despite himself.

Trunks was steady. Controlled. Older than he should’ve been.

The line of his stance, the discipline in his movement—it didn’t belong to a child anymore. And when he turned mid-form, Vegeta caught the faintest glimpse of his face.

Focused. Calm. Not waiting for approval. Not expecting anything.

And yet, he was still here.

Vegeta didn’t speak. But he stayed. Watched. Said nothing.

That was enough.

Vegeta got up and spoke—quiet, flat, final:

“We leave tomorrow.”

No argument came.

He didn’t say you’ve improved.

He didn’t say you lasted longer than I thought you would.

He didn’t say you remind me of me.

Trunks just nodded once and kept moving.

Maybe he’d heard it all the same.

The vast white pressed in, as if sensing their departure. They didn’t speak as they made ready to leave, though there was little to gather.

There were no bags. No gear. Nothing earned or brought back but themselves.

Their clothes hung ragged from months of training: tears along legs and sleeves, scorched hems, fraying seams. Trunks tugged his boots on without a word. His Capsule Corp jacket hung folded nearby, mostly untouched through the months. He slipped it on now—an old, familiar shape settling over the strain in his shoulders.

Vegeta looked down at one gloved hand, flexed the fingers once like testing something unseen.

Then he turned and walked.

Trunks followed, quiet, steady. They reached the chamber door and paused.

Trunks stepped toward the door first. His stance was calm, his power contained. Just as he reached to push it open, Vegeta’s voice cut the silence, low and rough:

“Don’t embarrass yourself out there.”

Trunks paused and glanced back at him, expression unreadable, shoulders square.

Vegeta met his eyes and gave a single, deliberate nod.

Not an invitation. Not an apology. A warrior’s acknowledgement: You endured.

Trunks’ mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Then he turned back and opened the door.

The world outside roared to life, colour and sound exploding in as if the universe had held its breath for a year. Vegeta squinted against the sudden onslaught, the weight of air and time catching up all at once.

Trunks stepped forward first. Shoulders squared. Chin high.

Vegeta followed, gaze fixed ahead.

Whatever else had grown in the silence, he buried deep.