Chapter Text
Bejita was on the porch meditating when muffled footsteps in the long grass made him look up. The Kame monk was coming to the house, easily identifiable in his saffron robes.
“Um. Lord Bejita,” he said, bowing without looking down. “Someone would like to visit you.”
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“It’s not Goku.”
Bejita frowned. “Then who is it?”
His allies would have simply come up to the house—in fact, Shin had come once to try and discuss the future of Kyūshū, giving up only after Bejita made it clear he would express himself on the subject when he was fucking ready. Which was never. He simply didn’t care how they redrew the borders and who would get to be shogun and who would get to be daimyō. He didn’t care if they claimed the entirely of the Saiyajin domain for themselves and left him destitute. Soon, none of that would matter anymore.
Perhaps Korin had come to him? The old fool had stayed in Roshi’s compound for the summer, but after the battle, now that it was safer for coalition leaders to cross the country, he had joined them on Honshū and made his presence known to Bejita, who didn’t fucking care he was here and didn’t see why anyone imagined he might. But Korin wouldn’t have had anyone announce him, either.
The Kame monk swallowed. “It’s your servant. Kabba,” he added. “You’d challenged him? He’s come to answer.”
“By messenger?”
“He didn’t want to disturb your rest…”
“Then he still hasn’t grasped the concept of a challenge.” Bejita huffed. “Might as well finish this. Send him to me.”
The monk hesitated, clearly worried. “Might I request some…” He withered slightly under Bejita’s glare, but persisted, “some lenience on your part?”
Bejita snickered. “What’s that? Don’t you trust the teachings of your master? I thought Roshi was the greatest sensei in Kyūshū. Surely he’ll have taught the boy to hold his own against me.”
“Lord Bejita—”
“I said fucking send him over.”
The monk retreated, worried, and Bejita’s servant appeared at the end of the field fifteen minutes later. He had grown over the summer, going from a young boy to a weedy teenager, with a slender bokken by his side. He wore a short grey kimono, perhaps in an effort to offend neither Roshi nor the Saiyajin house by appearing to pick an allegiance over the other. Certainly he had distanced himself from the white-and-purple colors of the Korudo.
“Lord Bejita.” He stopped before the porch, bowed deeply. “I… I have come to prove myself worthy of your house, like you’ve asked of me.”
Bejita got up, stepped down into the long grass and started walking away. The boy followed him in a nervous rustle. Stopping by the creek, Bejita abruptly turned to face him. “Let’s see it, then.”
The boy stared. “My lord? You’re unarmed…”
“I am also wounded,” Bejita pointed out sarcastically, tugging at his collar to show the bandages. “Are you going to find more excuses?”
Kabba floundered for a few moments, then drew his bokken—despite his obvious anxiety, he didn’t fumble the weapon, his grip the clear result of constant practice. Standing there, he stared transfixed at Bejita for a second. Then, because there was nothing else to do, he took a deep breath and rushed him.
Bejita stepped right into his guard and flicked him hard between the eyes, prompting a squeaking cry and a scramble back. Kabba didn’t reposition himself like he would have in a dōjō, though, attacking again right away; better than one might expect from someone taught by Roshi. Either Bejita had underestimated the Kame school, or the boy was so panicked by the situation that he had forgotten the proper way and was now just fighting for his life.
He tried a less frontal attack which Bejita ignored just as easily, slamming his palm into his face this time. Kabba spluttered and staggered back, then tried again. Bejita let it go on for a minute or so, slapping and shoving him more and more brutally every time, keeping an eye on the boy’s footwork as he attempted to dodge better. Then, when he decided he’d seen enough, he stepped out of the way of the bokken as it fell, grabbed Kabba’s wrist in a sharp lock and knocked his weapon out of his hands.
His servant half-collapsed to his knees, clutching his wrist. Under his black eye and his split lip, he was deathly pale.
“Sit up straight,” Bejita snapped. “Be a fucking man. If you’re going to bear the Saiyajin name, you can’t faint every time someone slaps you around.”
The boy stared uncomprehendingly for a few seconds. Then he stammered, “My lord…?”
Bejita picked up the bokken and tossed it to him. “You heard me.”
This time, Kabba did fumble the weapon, eventually clutching it to his chest with both arms. “I don’t understand. You said you would kill me if… And I didn’t do anything right…”
“Why do you say that? Because you lost? Of course you fucking lost. It’ll be ages before you get anywhere near my level, and by the time you do, I’ll have become even stronger.” Bejita folded his arms. “It’s useless to measure yourself against others. It’s useless to try to catch up to anyone. Just make sure you are always stronger than you used to be. A defeat is proof that you can get even better, that’s all.” He worked his jaw. “Proof that you’re still alive.”
Kabba stared. “…Yes, lord.”
Bejita waved an impatient hand. “I’ve seen what I needed to see. You can be taught. Keep studying under Roshi as Saiyajin Kabba, if you truly don’t mind being the heir to a dead house. And come to me again in a year.”
The boy was trembling with incredulous relief. “Y-yes, l-lord. Thank you, lord. I mean—” He prostrated himself. “My deepest, most sincere thanks.”
“You are dismissed.”
“Yes, lord.” He left hurriedly through the long grass, his movements much lighter than they had been a moment ago. The Kame monk, who had been waiting at the end of the field, was practically steaming with relief; when the both of them met, they started jumping with joy.
Bejita started back towards the house. A hint of blue drew up his gaze: the woman had opened the door to watch them, eyebrows raised.
“Will you close that,” he said when he climbed back onto the porch. “You’re letting in the cold. Think of the goddamn child.”
He walked stiffly inside to go sit by the firepit.
“And don’t make any comments.”
“About the fact that you spared him even though I wasn’t even there to beg for his life? Or about your little life lesson there at the end? Either way, sure, don’t worry, I won’t.” She sat next to him. “I do have a question, though.”
“I just said—”
“That last thing you told him. The heir to a dead house. What the hell?”
“My house is all but dead, I don’t see how—”
“Don’t play dumb. The heir,” she repeated. “Isn’t that supposed to be you?”
He huffed. Of course she had noticed what had eluded even the boy. He should have taken his ex-servant even farther away from the house to make sure she couldn’t hear them. But if he hadn’t, maybe he had wanted her to hear. Maybe he had wanted an excuse to broach the subject at last.
“I’m going to renounce my name.”
She moved to sit in front of him, so he would have no choice but to face her. Her eyes looked amazingly blue by the light of the fire. “Why?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed, “Don’t tell me it’s about honor—because Goku was the one to defeat—”
“No,” he snapped. He looked around the room, trying to think of a way to say it without actually pronouncing the words, but came up short. “I’m marrying you.”
She stared at him.
“There is no precedent for anyone of my status taking a nanbanjin wife,” he added, “but I can only assume my father would have disowned me, and certainly my son could never bear the family name, so it’s simpler for me to cast my house away entirely in order to avoid these considerations altogether—”
“Bejita,” she almost shouted. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You’re the one who asked me not to leave again,” he said in exasperation. “How else am I supposed to achieve that?” He shifted restlessly. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and the only conclusion—”
“For the love of God, you’re not marrying me out of some messed-up obligation you’ve cooked up for yourself!”
“I want to marry you,” he said in Dutch.
She stared frozen at him.
Bejita fidgeted some more. He had always known she would want to have an actual conversation about it, because she always fucking did, but he hated this so comprehensively it was all he could do not to run out of the house. Now that he had expressed himself clearly, why couldn’t she just drop it? He couldn’t offer himself up more completely to her. He had no family left, and her own parents were on the other side of the world, not that she cared about their opinion anyway, since she never cared what anyone thought. So there should have been nothing left to discuss.
After a moment, she said, “Okay. You—” She shook her head, her eyes still too wide. “You haven’t thought this through.”
He glared at her. “Yes, I have.”
“Your reputation—”
“Fuck my reputation,” he said impatiently.
She started giggling. He sat there and endured it. Eventually, breathily, she said, “God, this is just like you. No half-measures.” She made an obvious effort to be serious. “I’m sorry, just—what would even be the plan here?”
“As a rōnin, I could swear fealty to Roshi, or even fucking Shin, who cares. A lower-class samurai without even a house to shame can do what he wants, as long as he serves his master well on the field.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “And what if I’m planning on going back home?”
She clearly thought the question would stump him. He stared into the fire for a second, then said, “I would go with you.”
Now she was the one who found herself stumped. After a moment, she said, “Bejita, you’d hate it. I don’t think you understand how different the rest of the world…”
“Of course I’d hate it,” he said brusquely. “But I would hate the alternative more.” Oh, why did she always have to look at him like that. In a bid to puncture the tension, he added, “And besides, if Kakarotto can do it, so can I.”
His attempt failed. She still had that look on her face. “Bejita,” she repeated, quiet. “You’d be fine without me.”
“That’s preposterous of you to say.”
“I…” She trailed off, and this time, he knew she had finally realized he was serious. Thank fuck, or he really would have run out of the house—a man had limits.
Actually, he might do that now. “I see you need time to collect yourself,” he said, pushing to his feet. “I’ll wait outside.” He opened the shoji, then paused. “If you’re going to push me away at long fucking last, now’s the time, so I don’t humiliate myself any further.”
Having closed it behind him, he sat on the porch, took a deep breath, and released it.
The night had fallen while he wasn’t paying attention. Behind him, through the paper screen, he heard her light the lamps, whisper to the baby. A light breeze rustled through the grass; down in the creek, the last frogs of the fall began their croaking chorus.
He had thought he would fret, waiting here as if for a judgment. But he felt oddly lighter than he had in a long while. He thought back to the blood-frenzied samurai who, seeing a strange girl in his courtyard, would have killed her without a second thought and forgotten her existence a moment later. He still recognized that person; in fact, his past self was much less foreign to him than the man he was becoming now.
Which was how he knew he had stopped going in circles. Yes, his family would have disowned him. He would have disowned himself, certainly. He was doing something so entirely outside his predetermined options that he could have never even imagined it less than a year ago.
He found he didn’t dislike that thought.
Even if she refused him, he could try and stick to this path he might have never found otherwise—but he simply wasn’t confident he would manage. You’d be fine without me, she had said. Well, of course he would survive. But he would lose his way.
He crossed his arms more tightly, pushing his hands further up his sleeves. Maybe he was fretting after all.
When the shoji opened, he didn’t turn around. As she took her time sitting next to him, it was all he could do not to snap at her to give him her answer already, to end this wait which, now that it was coming to a close, suddenly felt endless.
“Sorry,” she said. “You took me off guard.”
He said nothing.
“Okay,” she began. “I’ve thought about it, and—” he braced himself, “don’t renounce your name. Honestly, I don’t see why you should.”
Now he looked at her. “What?”
“I’m an Onderbroek. Outside of Japan, that’s not nothing, for your information. Actually, you should know, seeing as my family’s traded with yours for years. Plus I pretty much won that battle for the coalition, no offense to you or Goku. So why would I settle for some nameless rōnin, I ask you?” She flapped a hand. “You said it yourself, there’s no precedent for this, plus you don’t have a family to shame. And you weren’t entirely useless at Sekigahara either. Could they actually take your house? Would they even have that power?” She poked him in the shoulder. “Just go for the kill, instead of anticipating consequences. You’re supposed to be good at that.”
“So—” he interrupted.
She watched him for a moment. Then she said, a smile curling the edge of her mouth, “You spoke Dutch. Do it again.”
He exhaled. “Certainly not.”
“You’re asking me to marry you. Make an effort.”
“I just have.”
“Come on.”
“No,” he said in Dutch, and smirked back.
*
The Jinzō fortress stood as dramatically as ever, black tiles and white walls gleaming under the sun. Getting back hadn’t been too difficult—outside the mountains, on horseback again, no longer pregnant, Bulma hadn’t even seen the days go by. After this whole adventure, she really had a newfound appreciation for her own body, which she’d already appreciated a lot before that.
The day the victors finally gathered for the drawing of the borders turned up unexpectedly beautiful and warm, one of the last triumphs of autumn before the cold and the wet fully set in.
“Oh! Master Korin!”
The old man was sitting cross-legged by an oak tree, sunning his back, watching the servants set up the council room through the wide open walls. Bulma, who had been coming to take advantage of that same spot since women weren’t allowed inside, was delighted to see him; he lit up when he saw her.
“My dear,” he greeted her jovially. His hand rested on a small furry thing which turned out to be a kitten sleeping on his lap, curled up in a ball. “So radiant still! I’m very pleased to see you in good health, after all this.”
“Same to you.” She sat down next to him in the grass. “I hope the journey from Kyūshū wasn’t too tiresome.”
“My goodness, but your Japanese has become almost as wonderful as your hair! Amazing, amazing.” He grinned, looking up at the samurai starting to arrive in the room, all of them in full regalia. Roshi was already there, joking around with Kuririn as his audience. “So! The old fuck is dead. You youngsters have done all right, for once.”
“Honestly? I was the one who did all the work.”
He cackled, waking up the kitten who gave him a sleepy, reproachful look. “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said, scratching it behind the ears to apologize. “And it wasn’t even what you’d come here for. What about your real goal, eh? Tell me.” His eyes sparkled. “Did you get your wish?”
She pretended to turn up her nose at the question. “That’s still private.”
“Don’t be so cruel to an old man…”
She reached out to pet the kitten as well, smiling. “As it turned out, I got my wish before I even got all the relics together. So when I did gather them, I wished I would get to keep it.”
“Oh, nice one. Most people realize they don’t actually want whatever it is, when the time comes—you can’t lie to a dragon, you know.” He grinned. “I like your version better.”
“I’m sorry about the relics. They’re lost on the mountain.”
“They will turn up, dear. Or I’ll send a few students to search for them as training—one or the other.” One of his bushy eyebrows arched up, revealing a glittering eye. Bejita had just come into the room, looking mildly exasperated with his surroundings as ever. Along with his black kimono, he wore his night-blue hakama with subtle white patterns, and over it all a silver haori.
“Amazing,” Korin said under his breath. “Amazing.”
“What is?”
“Look at him. He’s alive.” He rubbed the cat’s ears again. “Assuming the coalition even made it, I thought either he would get to face Furiza, and he would get himself killed; or someone else would do it, and he would kill himself. Quite a lot of opportunities to die. And yet…”
Everyone got up and bowed when Shin entered the room, flamboyant in pink and green—everyone but Bejita, who sat cross-legged, keeping his arms folded. Shin didn’t comment, just greeted them all in return. He hadn’t taken the hill and it had almost cost them everything. No one would protest Bejita’s irreverence.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m rambling,” Korin said. “Don’t listen to an old man.”
In fact Bulma already wasn’t listening, distracted by what he had just said about Bejita killing himself if he couldn’t kill Furiza, distracted by thoughts of her own joined hands, the tears on her face, the fire at the temple, the long sinuous lights in the night sky over the mountain. The blank space in both Bejita and Goku’s accounts of what had happened up there after she was gone.
She would never know, and it didn’t matter—or if it had mattered, it didn’t anymore. Bejita had made his choice, and she had already observed he never wasted any time looking back after he made a decision. The thought made her smile.
“And look at what he’s wearing,” Korin added. “How intriguing. Brighter than his usual, wouldn’t you say?”
“You like the haori? I picked it for him.”
He turned towards her. “How so?”
The kitten, presumably annoyed by the old master shifting position again, got up and stretched luxuriously before picking its way to Bulma’s lap. She scratched it gently under the chin, smiling at the blissful way it closed its eyes. In her kimono, Trunks wiggled. Having survived his premature month of life, he was starting to take a more active part in his own existence, focusing his eyes to study everything around him with a rather serious frown.
“My goodness! You have a baby here!”
“I have. Say hello…” She took Trunks out of her kimono, dislodging the kitten who slunk away in disgust. Sitting on her lap, the baby stared at Korin with dark incomprehension.
“He’s got his father’s glare,” she sighed. “Come on, say hello.” She shook his little hand in Korin’s direction.
Korin almost managed to hide his momentary speechlessness, but Bulma had been watching out for it, and could see it plainly. She would have to reconcile herself with the fact that most people would always be in awe of her for seducing Lord Saiyajin Bejita, first and foremost. Oh, well, she didn’t care that much—she liked to be admired whatever the reason, and if everyone saw her as an exotic seductress, no one would realize she was actually interested in other things until it was too late. Keeping the Nanban trade open and favoring the Onderbroek ships, for instance, which would enrich the Saiyajin and the Onderbroek in one fell swoop, since they were now becoming the same house. The same family. Bejita cared mostly about his own progress on the Way, whereas Bulma’s way had always been to build empires—so really, their marriage would be a seamless continuation of their relationship so far: he would get her access to what she needed, by force if necessary, so that she could manage just about everything else.
Meanwhile, in the council room, the men had agreed unanimously that Roshi would be the new shogun—both savvy and corruptible enough that everyone could get a share through him—and were now discussing what should be attributed to Goku in reward for his feats. Goku wasn’t even here, since the whole thing didn’t interest him in the slightest; he was training somewhere in the fortress, which would have been a mortal insult if not for everyone rather awkwardly choosing not to comment on it. The reward that made the most sense was for him to become a high-ranking samurai in his father’s house, meaning the elite guard of the Saiyajin heir, a highly prized position—except that Bejita’s outraged glare was rather putting a damper on things. (Bulma had no idea what he hated more, everyone pretending Goku should defer to him when they damn well knew he had killed Furiza himself, or the perspective of sharing his august name with the bastard son of a farmer.) Next to him, Kuririn was offering alternate suggestions that had been quite clearly rehearsed in advance, things like land and riches, which meant Chi-Chi had made sure her influence would weigh on the final decision. Bulma always knew she was a clever girl.
“My dear, I’m so sorry,” Korin said at last, unsettled for the first time since she’d met him. “I would have never imagined…”
Of course, he too was now assuming Bejita had forced her in some way. But it warmed her to see how obviously shocked he was at the idea. Here was finally someone who would have never believed it of Bejita, and who still didn’t quite believe it.
“Master Korin, I like you, so I’m just going to tell you outright, ahead of the whole announcement,” she said, gesturing towards the open council room. “We’ve been married for a week.”
He was speechless again. Ah, she thought. Even the man who had called her a shock to Bejita’s system hadn’t quite imagined things would go this far.
The wedding had been very simple—the longest part had been to convince Kuririn that no, they weren’t kidding, and no, Bejita wasn’t going to kill him on principle. They needed a monk, it might as well be him. Right there in the house on the edge of Sekigahara, he had recited the appropriate prayers while she and Bejita drank three times from three different cups, the sharing of the saké apparently symbolizing the sharing of their future life. The meeting of the families and the week-long celebration that should have ensued would have to be skipped for obvious reasons.
Is that it? she’d asked afterwards, looking between them both. Are we married now?
Of course we’re married, Bejita had answered with his usual impatience.
And then, as his words resonated, they had looked at each other for a second that had felt strangely longer than all other seconds in their lifetime, past and future. Every time their eyes met now, Bulma felt the slight but definite weight of that enduring moment.
“Married?” Korin repeated in utter disbelief. “But—what is he going to do?”
With that announcement, everyone would expect Bejita to renounce his name and his house in the same breath; it had been his original plan. She raised an eyebrow. “He’s going to become the daimyō of the Nagasaki area, he’s going to reopen the Nanban trade, and my house is going to grow incredibly prosperous. Why do you ask?”
Korin stared for another five seconds; then he started laughing uproariously. He was still laughing when Bejita dryly announced the news to the flabbergasted council and, when asked a similar question, got up at last, one hand on the pommel of his sword, and declared that he stood perfectly ready to duel anyone who might object.
“There,” he growled, coming to join them both under the oak tree afterwards. “It’s done. Fucking shame no one took me up on that—I wanted to kill them all.” Seeing Korin, he scowled. “Oh, and you’re here.”
“Congratulations,” the old man half-choked, “on your enlightenment. Marriage is the shortcut to wisdom.”
Bejita let himself fall sitting in the grass. “I doubt that’s accurate.” The hopeful cat tried climbing in his lap and, to Bulma’s surprise, he let it.
After a moment he asked, in Dutch, “Will you want to go back home one day?”
Korin almost had a heart attack hearing him speak another language; he excused himself and left, almost bent in half with sheer joy.
“Maybe one day,” Bulma answered, in her best Japanese. She put her hand down on the grass so that their little fingers brushed against each other, about the one thing he would allow in public. “But we’ve got time.”
Her husband didn’t answer, perhaps pondering this fresh new idea. During the ceremony of thanks at the wedding, she had heard him mutter prayers to his parents, almost impossible to hear. As for her, she had addressed them to Shenron.
*
“Bejita!”
Kakarotto crossed the Jinzō courtyard bare-chested, smiling. They hadn’t seen in each other in a month, but what with the council and the announcement of his marriage—everyone in the fortress still thought he had gone insane, which was rather entertaining, though he would never admit it— Bejita had forgotten he was trying to keep him away. Now he saw that his wounds from the battle had fully closed, even the great slash across his torso, so seamlessly it might not even scar.
“Finally, I’ve found you. So! How about that rematch?”
The idiot wasn’t wasting any time. Of course Bejita couldn’t say no. His own injuries were much better anyway, the stitches in his shoulder long gone. He followed Kakarotto to an empty dōjō, all walls and doors flung open, and said, “No weapons.”
“Fine by me.” He laughed. “Chi-Chi would be mad if I got hurt again so soon after last time.” He took off his shoes and climbed on the mat. “I’m glad I caught you before we all leave for Kyūshū. Apparently I’m going to go live in the Furaipan compound once we’re there, so we probably won’t see each other as often.”
“Apparently?” Bejita repeated. “Don’t you have any choice in the matter?”
He shrugged. “It’s important to Chi-Chi. And Bulma’s got you now, so she’ll be fine. I can stay a while, go to the Son house, pay my respects to Grandfather. Plus I’d rather be close to the foreign ports in case I feel like going back to China, or somewhere else, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” Bejita said. He had no idea whether Kakarotto meant to get married and settle in Japan, or abandon everything he’d found here on a whim, or somehow both. “But I don’t care.” He took his stance. “Let’s see what you got.”
They started with a warm-up, gauging each other, exchanging a few punches and kicks, blocking and dodging easily. The show began attracting passersby from the courtyard—samurai from all houses, monks of all denominations, even servants and maids. Bejita only noticed them in flashes and had no time to get annoyed at their presence; Kakarotto seemed not to notice them at all.
“I remember that,” Kakarotto exclaimed when Bejita almost knocked his jaw out of alignment with an uppercut. “How do you do it? Every time, it feels like it comes out of nowhere—”
“For the love of fuck,” Bejita said, slapping his answering punch away and doing it again.
“Oh, I see,” Kakarotto said, and immediately tried it on him, which got him a suckerpunch in the stomach.
“You’re too fucking predictable,” Bejita smirked.
The next second he was swept off his feet by Kakarotto’s scything leg. “Kalarippayattu!”
Bejita bounced back up and slammed their foreheads together, prodigiously annoyed. “This is a move for monkeys!”
Kakarotto snickered even as he staggered back, holding his head. “Worked on you—”
Shoving a hip under his body, Bejita shouldered him over his back and slammed him into the mat. He was about to answer with a boast of his own when Kakarotto grabbed both his legs and made him lose his balance again. Bejita landed with an elbow into his stomach and jumped back, only for Kakarotto to pursue with another of those ridiculous flying kicks. Bejita just barely dodged his foot, repositioned himself and followed with a hook to the head, which Kakarotto evaded easily—
Well, of course he did. Bejita had repositioned himself.
As if he was five, teaching his body to always fall back into the correct stance. He lost another half second to realizing it, yet Kakarotto took no advantage of it, waiting for Bejita to snap back into focus before coming at him once more. Come to think of it—Bejita should have never been able to throw him over his shoulder.
Once again, no one else but them could probably notice what was going on. In fact—Bejita darted a quick glance at the onlookers—no one had, clearly. Anyone worth their salt would have cried out in surprise at Bejita looking away from an opponent in the first place.
“Oh, no fucking way—” The crowd parted before the sounds of Dutch screaming. “Are you guys fighting?”
“No,” Bejita said grudgingly.
And it was the truth.
He stepped back. “If you’re not going to face me seriously, there’s no point to this.”
“I am serious! Just—not trying to win.” Kakarotto smiled. “I wanted to make it last a bit. It’s always so interesting to fight with you. And you feel the same, I can tell!”
“I’m not here for your amusement.” Bejita turned away. “I yield. Enjoy your victory.” He stepped out of the shade of the dōjō, into weightless sunlight.
“Aw, come on,” Kakarotto called as Bejita walked away, but there was a smile in his voice.
Bulma was waiting for him, her fuming only barely alleviated by his obvious lack of new injuries.
“Spare me,” Bejita said as he walked up to her.
“What a novel request coming from you,” she answered dryly, taking his arm.
As they both left towards the baths at the other end of the compound, Kakarotto caught up to them. Behind him, the little crowd was dispersing. “All right, that’s 2-1. You still owe me another rematch.”
Bejita frowned at him. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You disarmed me at Sekigahara! Don’t you remember?”
“What—” Bejita remembered the staff he had ripped from his hands. “Moron,” he said between his teeth. “That doesn’t count.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Bulma interjected.
“Now you’re advocating for another fight, woman?”
“I’m just saying, if you disarmed him then that’s a win, fair and square.”
“No, it isn’t! We weren’t fighting at the time! I took him by surprise!”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” Kakarotto insisted. “If I managed to take you by surprise about anything at all, you’d never let it go.”
The Furaipan girl appeared at the corner, carrying Trunks. “Goku, have you seen—oh.” She stumbled to a stop. “Lord Bejita.”
“Furaipan,” Bejita barked, taking the child from her unresisting hands. “You’ve got some sense. Explain to this idiot I haven’t beaten him twice.”
“You… haven’t?” she repeated, perplexed.
Bulma rolled her eyes. “He’s certainly intent on winning this fight.”
“Woman, that’s enough of your commentary.”
On the horizon stood the blue shape of Mount Tori. It was a clear day, washed even clearer by the previous night’s rain. Anyone looking in that direction might have spotted a winking light near the peak, where the sun caught just at the right angle on a crystal ball, half-buried in the muddy ashes of a fallen temple. But the next moment the sun moved, and the light was gone. Nobody was looking anyway.