Chapter 38 - The Return of the Demon King (part 1)

Western Connector Road, 290 km north of the Red Ribbon HQ, 20:10 (22:10 Capital time)

The man at the wheel squeezed his tired eyes for a moment, then put them back where they belonged. He had been tired from a long work shift to begin with, so a long, seemingly aimless drive wasn't the best way to wrap up the day. Worse was the prospect that he many never get to go back. He suspected his son and daughter were being a bit too overdramatic, but given who they'd brought around, he did not have exactly a choice. He would rather leave his every possession that couldn't be crammed in his van behind and run that risk a firing squad.

He sighed.

"Regretting this, dad?," asked Lazuli, reclined on one of the two seats next to him in the driver's cabin.

"What's there to regret?," he replied, with a tired voice. "We didn't really have a choice, didn't we?"

"Don't worry. When that girl says she'll make it worth your while, she means it. She's got enough money that she could give us enough to settle down for life and it wouldn't make a dent in her fortune."

"She's younger than you, you know." "Sorry if I didn't make it that big, yet," the girl shrugged. "Working on it."

"Don't worry. You're great and smart just as you-"

"Dad. Don't force me to cringe."

"Right, right. No compliments." The man smiled lightly. "So, do we have a destination yet?"

"They're discussing about it in the back," replied Lazuli. "The two main ideas are either the Capital, or West City. We're on the right way for both, but we're going to take a turn in approximately 60 km, so I hope they can make a decision before then."

"That's... whoa!"

The van swerved violently to dodge a car that in turn seemed to have lost control. The man squeezed his eyes again, unsure if they were playing a trick on him. But that didn't seem right. Everything looked about how it should have, except...

"The sky is darker," he said. "I'm not the only one seeing it, right?"

"You're not," confirmed Lazuli. She knocked on the wall behind her, separating the cabin from the cargo bay. "Bulma! The sky just went dark, didn't you mention-"

"STOP THE VAN!," shouted back the girl's voice.

The driver did as asked, and the van came to a screeching halt. Father and daughter climbed down from the cabin, while the other three joined them after opening the doors to the cargo bay, where they'd been cooped up for a while, trying to keep Gero and Bulma hidden from any indiscreet eyes. Bulma stepped forward slowly, looking horrified at the sky, now jet black, way too much even for an early evening hour, with not a star in sight.

"FUCK!," she screamed in the end, and her speech didn't get much more articulate than that. She slammed her foot on the asphalt. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!"

"It's like last year," said Lapis, looking up as well. "Does that mean they've lost?"

"Maybe it's the other guys who gathered the Dragon Balls," suggested Lazuli, unconvinced.

Bulma shook her head and passed a hand through her hair. When she stepped away from where she'd stomped her foot, a slight dent was left in place. Now her leg hurt too, since she had involuntarily channelled ki in it with her chip. She bit her finger, nervously. Yes, it could not be the end. It could be something done by their side to defuse the threat from the Balls quickly without destroying them. But if it needed to be done that way at well, it meant the battle had been at least very close, and the Balls had been gathered in a single spot. And until news arrived of what was going on, they would not know.

"We assume the worst," she said. "We need the safest place possible, and one where we can start working on anything necessary right away. Let's go to West City."

The Instruments' mobile operations base, 23:10 (22:10 Capital Time)

The sky went black, but Yamcha did not notice right away. The battle had, understandably, kept him quite busy. While none of the soldiers individually could give him much trouble, all together they at least required his attention - and unlike earlier in the same day, now he did not have Major Cobalt's own squad to cover his back. Between dismantling one artillery piece and another, he'd run around, blow up or wreck a few cars and foxholes, all while trying to avoid bullet fire and knocking down and disabling any soldiers who where on his path. Between the need to focus on potential dangers and all the flashes of gunfire and explosions impressed on his retinas, it took him a while to realise something had changed in just how much pitch black the night sky was.

He was trying to catch his breath in a corner of the battlefield during a short respite when he realised. He immediately looked around and sure, there it was, the giant snake of light, twisting on itself, the dragon answering the call of whoever summoned it. And given the direction from which it came, that couldn't be someone good.

Yamcha consider it for a moment. It was going to be dangerous. From his current position to there the distance was maybe a few hundred metres, or even a kilometre. He could cover it quickly enough to stop the wish if the person expressing it was slow. He would need to just run and dodge, he wouldn't have time to clean up. That meant that however his attempt went, he would then be left strayed in the middle of enemy territory. A lot of enemies that, in the best case scenario, would be very pissed that he'd just foiled their years long plan to bring back their evil demon leader.

Then again, thinking about it, to do that he would have to express his own wish to the dragon. Which might as well be make me strong enough to beat all these chumps, or a more modest just get me the hell out of here.

"Very well," he said, pumping himself up for the burst of action. "Here. We. Go!"

He sprinted towards the dragon. He could already see it having fully taken form, and it was speaking now. It would be a matter of seconds. He ran straight into a bunch of tents and scaffolds, jumping and balancing on their poles, leaving some to crash and crumble behind him. Bullets started zipping around him again. One rocket flew past, almost hitting him; the exhaust singed his hair. He was almost halfway there now. The dragon was speaking again, it seemed like the wish was taking time. Yamcha could now see the spot where it had been summoned. There were two rows of soldiers in parallel, and in the middle, someone standing in front of a source of light that must have been the Dragon Balls. Just a little more to go-

While he was still mid-jump, someone tackled Yamcha from his right side. The boy tumbled to the side, but almost immediately spun on one hand to gain back balance and stand on his two feet. He looked towards whoever had attacked him. There was another young man, bare chested, with blonde hair and blue eyes, looking at him.

"Sorry, but I can't let you pass," said Flute, with a smile. "Now please di-"

He couldn't finish the sentence before Yamcha had already disappeared from his sight, running towards the dragon again. The Instruments' officer ran behind him, but unable to catch up, he slung his rifle from his shoulder and quickly took a shot. The bullet glanced Yamcha's ankle and bounced off. It wasn't enough to wound him, but it did make him trip while he was trying to land on the top of a roof. He fell again. Flute ran towards him again. Yamcha considered his options, looking desperately at the new challenger and the dragon, back and forth, multiple times.

"Ok, I need to take you down then," he said finally, turning to Flute with a grin. "I can spare five seconds."

When the dragon first appeared in front of him, descending from the sky as pure light and then taking its final shape, for a moment, Piano was overwhelmed. The creature's immense body, seen from the centre of its coil, was a more vertiginous sight than any other he'd ever witnessed in his life. He'd long left behind all his memories of the tribe he once hauled from, all the superstitions about the spirits, and the Dragon Gods who originally begot their race; but for a moment there he was like a hatchling again, back in the darkness of the shaman's hut, terrified and enthralled by tales too big for him to understand and the flickering shadows that told them.

"I am the eternal dragon," boomed the creature's voice, "and I have come to grant your wish. Speak, mortal, and I will do as you command!"

As soon as he spoke, the spell was over, and Piano was back to the present. Speaking, bargaining, ordering - this he understood very well.

"O great dragon Shenlong," he proclaimed, "we come here in humbleness to ask you for your favour! Our Maestro has been lost to us. Cowardly men, in a distant past, have defeated and unjustly imprisoned-"

"I'm sorry, did it sound like I cared for context?," grumbled the dragon, annoyed. "Just tell me the wish and let's get this over with."

The ptero was taken aback, but he tried to roll with it gracefully. Even in front of a divine creature of power, it was important not to look weak. Many of his officers and soldiers were watching, after all.

"Then listen, dragon!," he spoke now, in a commanding tone, raising his eyes to the sky, "From the depths of time, retrieve the container in which the Demon King Piccolo was imprisoned! Let us have it in front of us here as it was a mere instant after being dropped in the ocean, on that day of three hundred years ago!"

The dragon didn't do or say anything for a short while. Then it spoke, uncharacteristically subdued in tone. One might have thought, even worried. "Are you sure that is exactly what you want?"

"Yes," snapped back Piano. "Now do it."

"Because you're asking me to mess with time. And the gods aren't very happy about messing with time. In fact, there are precise rules about it. You break them fragrantly enough, you risk drawing the ire of," and here he said a name that sounded like worlds crumbling to dust, like stars exploding, like the universe itself unravelling into nothing, "and trust me, that's not something you want to do."

Piano didn't really need to think about it. He couldn't back down, and he couldn't show himself scared. Even though that name had indeed made a shiver run through his spine, for some reason. "Do it!"

"Very well, mortal. Let me think how-"

"Dragon, make me strong enough to-!"

Someone suddenly jumped out from the back shouting at full lungs, and came to a stop right in front of the stunned lines of soldiers. His sentence was interrupted when just an instant later he was tackled from behind.

"Sorry for that, Piano," said Flute, rolling on the ground after having pushed Yamcha down. "He tried to distract me and then jumped here."

"Dragon," started Yamcha again, "make me-"

"Oh, shut up!," exclaimed Flute, running in front of him so that their eyes would cross. Yamcha's mouth closed. Flute attacked on, and the warrior, suddenly panicking as he realised his inability to speak, immediately dodged and started running away. Flute went in pursuit.

"So, have you decided who is doing the wishing?," asked the dragon, annoyed.

"Still me," replied Piano. "Let us continue."

"I suppose there's no avoiding this," sighed Shenlong. "Look, in the interest of both of our safeties, I've been considering how to grant your wish in a way that merely bends the rules instead of breaking them. This is as much as I can do. I will reach into the past and make it so that time for the container you want to retrieve flows approximately one trillion times slower than for anything else. Then I will retrieve it from the present and teleport it here. The container itself will only experience less than ten milliseconds of subjective time."

The ptero had to think for a second. "That sounds reasonable. But why does it have to be that precise factor, and not more?"

"Because I just checked to see if this was possible," said the dragon. "and that is precisely the factor by which the subjective time of the container has indeed been slowed down for the last three hundred years. Your fleshy brain is probably better off not pondering this matter for too long. We all know what you're going to say in the end anyway."

Piano was somewhat disturbed by the lack of free will this implied in his following choice. But then, was it even a choice at all? If anything, this reinforced it all the most. What was about to pass was destiny - written in history already since the moment Piccolo's imprisonment started.

"Very well," he said, finally. "Do it!"

"As you wish."

The dragon's eyes lit up with a red light for a moment. It felt like something more spectacular ought to happen, but in reality, that was it; without a wink or the universe instantaneously flickering and resetting itself, the strange time loop was closed, and the dragon triggered what had already happened, to then move on to the next part of the wish. Without flashes or noises, just the popping sound of one cubic decimetre of air being suddenly displaced, a small, ancient canteen made of clay materialised in front of Piano. It was still wet with the water of the ocean it had been ripped out of.

"Farewell, then," boomed Shenlong, "and have fun with your new friend."

Piano grabbed the canteen. Slowly, solemnly, he turned around and raised it high above his head, like a holy offering to the sky. The officers and soldiers gathered around exploded in a single roar of triumph.

Yamcha had jumped the hell away the very moment he realised that for whatever reason, he was unable to speak. He wasn't sure what it was, except he immediately had the feeling that he didn't want to stay any longer to find out. That unfortunately also meant he would lose his chance to disrupt the wish.

"Damn you!," shouted Flute, still pursuing him. "Stop already and let me-"

The boy fired a ki blast behind him, causing an explosion and raising a big cloud of dust. His squad mates back at Capsule Corporation all had some kind of weird ability that had very little to do with simple strength. If this enemy was the same, his ability might as well be that of controlling his opponents - but the question was, how did he activate it? Unfortunately, there was no room for experimenting; one false step would cost Yamcha his life. So all he could do was assume that anything could be the trigger, and just act as careful as possible.

Not scared. Careful.

Flute has been flung away by the explosion, but he wasn't down, sadly. Yamcha hid behind a prefabricated building, catching his breath. There was still time, he thought. The enemy didn't seem too strong at all. He could peer out, maybe create a diversion with another ki blast. Then, once he had a clean line of sight and the other fighter was distracted, a single Wolf's Fang Fist would be enough to take him down, he was sure. All he had to do was wait for the right moment. Just one -

There was a flash. Yamcha turned his eyes to the sky, and he saw the dragon glowing and dissolving into light. Then the seven Dragon Balls darted towards the sky, remaining suspended and spinning for a moment, and finally, they fired in seven different directions, streaking the sky with as many bright trails.

So, now the Demon King was about to return. His prison was in the hands of the Instruments, and it would only be seconds before they freed him. But on the bright side of things, Yamcha's enemy was distracted. He had turned to look behind, to where the dragon had been.

There was one last chance to do something. One last chance to save the world.

Yamcha jumped out, darting towards Flute, arm extended, hand ready for a neck chop, and already his eyes were going to the next goal, the one who would hold the container, the hope that it had not been opened yet-

"Don't move a muscle," said Flute, turning his head around to cross Yamcha's gaze. The boy tumbled down on the ground, stumbling upon himself with his own momentum as his legs suddenly grew weak and refused to move by even one inch. The boy waited helplessly, as the blonde man walked towards him, sure of his victory. He had a vicious smile and started pointing his gun at Yamcha's head.

Yamcha was helpless, prone on the ground, but he could still see the feet of his enemy coming closer, hear the click of the gun being cocked. His hands, at the end of the abandoned arms, were laying splayed open, palms up, aimed above. He couldn't move a single muscle. But muscles weren't all he had.

A burst of ki, powered by the stimulation of the HEP II chip in his back, erupted out of his palms. Without technique behind it, it was unfocused and weak; it didn't fire in any direction, rather, it exploded in a burst of light and sound, like a stun grenade, creating a shockwave. Flute was tossed away and smashed against a nearby crate, where he fell, unconscious.

Instantly, strength came back to Yamcha's limbs. Without a thought to his opponent, he just jumped to his feet and darted forward.

The canteen was laying on the ground in front of Piano's feet; its seals had been broken, and only a simple cork remained, keeping it closed. To his right was Violin, standing near, arms behind her back. Then there was the full row of Instruments officers, including Drum and Tuba, and then more simple soldiers. On his left, an identical row stood in front of them, creating a perfectly symmetrical scene.

He put his fist to his chest.

"He is our Maestro," he shouted.

Everyone else followed in the salute, their fists similarly raised above their hearts. "And we are but his Instruments!"

"THE WORLD TO THE STRONG!," they finished, in a chorus, and as they said so, Piano bent down, pinched the cap of the canteen between his index and thumb, and popped it open with little effort.

Out of the canteen came a blinding, sickening green light. From pure light it seemed then to morph into something more solid, a gas or fluid fluctuating mid-air.

"THE WORLD TO THE STRONG!," kept chanting the Instruments, enraptured, every time louder and faster. "THE WORLD TO THE STRONG!"

The light took shape. It formed a head, arms and legs, sculpted with muscles. They solidified in a tough, green skin, with natural bulges of a pinkish colour on the inner parts of the arms.

"THE WORLD TO THE STRONG! THE WORLD TO THE STRONG! THE WORLD TO THE STRONG!"

Chest and legs materialised already covered by a blue gi with a purple sash; the head had a round shape, but out of it protruded two thin antennae like a slug's. As the lineaments defined themselves, one could see a prominent brow shaping up above the eyes; deep, sharp cheekbones giving a malignant air to the entire face; a mouth half disclosed revealing fanged teeth more wolfish than human.

The chorus became deafening, the words indiscernible now. The Instruments raised their free arm to the sky while beating their chest with the other in a rhythmic drumming. They saluted their reborn Maestro, and waited with bated breath his first words to them, the orders that would prompt them to finally march on to usher in a new era they'd been promised for so long.

The creature became fully solid; the light died down; the spell that had captured him, finally fully undone. And as soon as nothing was sustaining his body, the returned Demon King Piccolo fell to the ground on arms and legs, gagging.

The chanting slowed down and stopped. Someone listened in, sure to hear soon the first, long awaited words.

Piccolo kept coughing and making gagging sounds. He clenched his throat, his eyes bulging with pain. He puked some greenish liquid on the ground.

A few turned their eyes away, embarrassed.

"Maestro," said Piano, leaning in, "Maestro, are you feeling well? Perhaps the imprisonment-"

Piccolo's gagging stopped, and the creature rose to his feet, still heaving. His breath steadied, and as soon as pain disappeared from it, an expression of unspeakable anger took over his face.

Fists closed, the Demon King threw his head to the sky and screamed.

And hearing that powerful, terrifying scream of anger and hatred, Yamcha knew instantly it was too late, there was absolutely nothing he could do any more, but more than that, it was like there was a wind, a pressure pushing him away from the direction it had come from; every step felt like a thousand voices were whispering don't go any further, you'll die! into his ears. So he did the only thing that made sense. He turned around, he looked for the direction in which the castle was, and ran towards it as fast as he could.

The scream eventually died down.

Violin had heard it from up close, just next to Piano, and she could still feel herself shake from it. It was excitement, and anticipation, and yes, even fear; the most primal, fundamental reaction of any living being when faced with overwhelming power. Like a rabbit looking at an eagle. There was no mistaking whose presence she was in. She had not covered her ears, at the risk of being deafened from the sound; no one had dared to. Not just because it was disrespectful, but because that scream had in itself the promise of everything she and all the other Instruments had been working towards for years. They had to let it rip through their body, let their very insides tremble at it. Like a rooster's singing announces the dawn, that was the sound that opened a new era.

Piccolo stood, silent. His breath had slowed down, but was still slightly laboured, irregular. Seen from up close, Violin could appreciate just how impressive his body was - he was taller than her or most other human beings; and far from being elongated or lanky due to such height, his body instead was well proportioned and incredibly muscular. His mouth set in a displeased grimace, the reborn Demon King looked around, taking in the scene. He moved his head slowly when he needed to turn it, but his eyes instead had a mercurial vivaciousness - they would jump from one side to the other quickly, dilate slightly at some sights, as if he was scanning the entire scene, perhaps the entire landscape, as quickly as he could. No one interrupted him; everyone waited anxiously to hear his orders. And then, finally, he spoke.

"Whose idea?," he asked, in a low, raspy voice.

That was not the first thing anyone expected him to say, and Violin could recognise the confusion in many eyes. Piano, who had been kneeling in front of the creature, took the initiative.

"Maestro, we are your loyal followers. We have brought you back after-"

"Whose idea," repeated Piccolo, uncaring. "was it to bring me back in front of this many people?"

His tone was peremptory, and betrayed fury. Violin realised what he meant, and had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. At the Demon King's feet was still a puddle of his own vomit. Freeing him this way had exposed his one moment of weakness to the sight of those who worshipped him. Piccolo looked at the scene around him again, this time fixating his eyes in turn on each and everyone of the onlookers, and each recoiled a bit when faced with that singularly hateful gaze. The ptero hesitated too; then, after renewing his bow, he raised his head, hopeful.

"Maestro," he said, "we all respect you and pledged to serve your every wish. Everything we did was to-"

"WHOSE IDEA WAS IT?!"

The scream was only a pale imitation of the earlier one, but it was enough to shake the ground, and the souls of everyone who'd heard the first one already. Piano didn't answer immediately. He remained interdicted for a moment, confused, unsure what to say.

He knew whose idea it had been. So did Violin, who took a first step forward. She caught the ptero glimpsing at her in that moment, then quickly turning to Piccolo again.

"It was mine, Maestro," said Piano, with a smile. "I thought you would wish the proper honours to be tributed to-"

His head disappeared in a mush of green flesh and brain pulp, blood, and bone fragments. The body, still in the bowing pose it had been occupying before, fell down like a ragdoll a moment later. Piccolo's right hand, now raised in the air, was dripping with the same fluids that were now spreading on the ground. With a brusque gesture, he extended it in front of him.

"Someone clean it," he said.

For one second, no one moved. For one second, everyone thought someone would, eventually, but perhaps it would be better if they weren't that someone.

Piccolo flicked his finger, a tiny flash of light shone for a moment, and the chest of one of the soldiers in the right row was pierced by a hole as wide as a fist. He spat blood and fell on the ground, eyes wide open. His two neighbours recoiled slightly, but maintained their composure, even as their comrade was twitching and eventually stopped, right on the shoes of one of them.

"Someone clean it," repeated Piccolo.

Three people took a step forward instantly, but only one of them took the second, and the other two swiftly folded. The soldier drew an handkerchief from his pocket and kneeled in front of Piccolo. While everyone else watched in silence, he religiously wiped out the gunk and blood from the demon's hand, passing the fabric above, below and in between the fingers. When he ended, he stood, and concluded with a bow.

"It is done, Maestro," he said.

His body flew whole, and thus not a drop of blood was spilled. When it crashed on the ground, more than fifty metres away, already bent over like a broken twig by the first blow, there was little doubt on what the impact must have done to it.

Everyone waited in frozen silence. No one dared speak a word, while the demon put back on the ground the leg he'd used to kick the unfortunate man.

"I AM A KING!," roared Piccolo, stomping the ground hard enough to make it shake, "You shall address me as Your Majesty!"

Shen, followed by his pupils, had been running fast from the castle towards the spot where the dragon had been summoned, at the beginning with the faintest hope of making it in time.

When the dragon disappeared into the sky, that hope was shattered.

When he heard the scream that seemed to shake the world, he started getting a really bad feeling, and cursing every single deity whose name he'd heard in his life.

Tien and Chiaotzu were still on his trail, faithful as always. Tien had asked what they were to do when he saw the dragon disappear; his master had answered that they should do the usual, namely, as they were told. Then he kept running. That was, of course, an intentionally vague response, because the first unspoken rule of the Crane School was that a master should never, ever admit to his pupils that they were just as stumped as them. Then again, there was still a way to go, and running helped Shen think.

They could have started running in the other direction, of course, but Shen had seen Piccolo in action, back in the day. Running away was mostly good for one thing, and that was delaying one's death. Ultimately, Piccolo valued nothing, and there was no sure way of dealing with him. But as far as hopes of survival went, loyalty still gave you better odds than defiance.

They were close now, and slowed down. There was a small crowd gathered at some distance in front of them. It wasn't clear what was happening; but at one point, something flew out from the middle of the crowd, and landed with a wet crunch at a short distance from them. It was a human body, mangled by a major trauma and the subsequent fall.

"Piccolo's back all right," grumbled Shen, scratching his moustache.

"Then we can't bring back master Tao?," said Chiaotzu, gasping. His master looked at him in slight disbelief.

"Of course not, that's been clear for minutes now," he snapped back. "But we could still try in one year. If we make it alive to next year."

"Master, you are powerful, and you taught us much," said Tien. "Do you really believe that if we fought together-"

"Of course I believe!," shouted back Shen, then, lowering his voice to a hush. "Listen, don't even start thinking about fighting. Forget talking about it out loud. You want to get out of this alive, you need some tact. Diplomacy. Cunning. You need to-"

He took a long look at his two pupils. Tien, the burly, tall, enthusiastic youth who learned martial arts techniques like he was born with them engraved in his body, overconfident in his admittedly amazing skills; and Chiaotzu, the... well, whatever Chiaotzu was, with a knack for eerie powers and spiritual energy manipulation, and the mind of a child.

"-you need to stay put here, is what you should do," concluded the old man with a sigh. "This is a matter that requires some experience. Good for you, I have plenty."

The two seemed reluctant, but they nodded and obeyed. Shen walked forward, getting closer to the scene. Piccolo had shouted something earlier, and now everyone was bowing and calling him "Your Majesty". Yes, this called back some memories from their first meeting, centuries ago. When he and Roshi had thought like Tien and Chiaotzu were thinking now - that there couldn't possibly be any way in which this monster would beat their awesome master and both of them if they worked together! It had turned out, there were a lot of ways in which it absolutely could. All of which involved a lot of pain.

He tried to shake off any residual sense of aggression or suspicion he could give off; it was vital he appeared absolutely deferent. He didn't bother hiding the subtle signs of fear; those would help, if anything. And then he walked to the scene.

"Your Majesty, King Piccolo," he said, with a deep bow, "I am pleased to see the plan has succeeded! You walk again on this Earth and bless us with your magnanimous rule."

The demon raised his eyebrow, but he couldn't hide a small, pleased grin. "Here's someone who knows his manners," he said. "And you are?"

"Just a humble servant of yours," hurried to explain Shen. "One ever loyal, who has helped these followers bring you back, struggling for centuries to that end."

A lie, of course, but from a quick glance, the only one present who could disprove that was dead, his head smashed like a watermelon. Everyone else from the Instruments was a secondary worry, and judging from the amount of corpses around, likely would not feel like objecting to anything at this point.

"I asked for your name," growled Piccolo, his face distorted by anger again.

No, you actually didn't, you asshole, thought Shen, but he knew better than pointing that out. "I am Shen, master of the Crane, who pledged-"

Piccolo squinted. "You're older. Much older."

"I am grateful that Your Majesty deigned himself to remember this humble peasant," hurried to say the old man, bowing again to hide his face. "Since the day I swore I would be loyal to you, I did-"

"You were there." continued Piccolo.

Oh, crap, thought Shen.

"You saw it."

There was a single instant of silence. The standoff was tense, and many of the Instruments could tell as much, even though they had no idea why.

Then, in a single instant, Piccolo attacked. He jumped forward and swung a clawed hand down to grab master Shen. And for the first time since he'd been brought back, someone didn't die the first time he took a swing at them. Fully expecting what was going to happen, Shen had thrown himself to the side; though he still hadn't been fast enough to entirely avoid the strike. Piccolo's claws had left three gashes in his arm. The Demon King screamed again and pushed forward, his anger renewed by being denied the kill. Shen had seen him fight already, and knew that flaw of his. He seemed to exist in a perpetual state of blind rage, like a rabid dog. Exploiting it was the only hope he had of surviving and winning, if any existed at all.

The Crane Master launched himself to the side, dodging again. Piccolo kept going at him like a raging bull; his momentum prevented him from reacting quickly enough to turn sharply, and that was the only thing that saved his opponent from being caught. Each punch and kick that missed cracked the ground open, or blasted away people and objects with its shockwave. Regardless, Shen knew this couldn't last long. He didn't dare to counterattack; he had seen Mutaito try, centuries ago, and do little to no damage. He doubted he had surpassed his old master enough for the outcome to be much different, and attacking only meant coming close enough to be on the receiving end of those deadly blows. But punches and blasts hadn't been all Mutaito had attempted. There was a reason why Piccolo feared him so much, after all.

Shen's eyes ran to the empty canteen that lied abandoned on the ground, encrusted with seaweed and salt, right next to Piano's corpse. As long as he was reasonably close, and aware of its exact position, that was good enough. He saw the cork abandoned on the ground next to it; he could get there in a single leap, grab it, and plug the container in an instant, if needed. Then he might even survive, if he had managed to build up more stamina than his master ever had. The odds were still the highest he had available at this moment.

He dodged one last time, then, facing Piccolo, who was already turning towards him, the Crane Master planted his feet on the ground and extended his arms in front of him, palms open, repeating every single gesture and detail of that one attack he'd seen performed a single time, centuries ago. He'd thought about it endlessly, of course. He'd tried to deconstruct it, to analyse it, to crack its secret. He was confident he had, eventually, even though he'd never dared trying; an attack that can cost you your life isn't one you could afford to train easily.

Piccolo recognised the pose, and froze. His face morphed for once in a different expression - abject terror. A reminder of the defeat that for him had been only minutes ago and had already etched itself in his psyche.

"Mafuuba!," shouted Shen, pushing all his energy to his hands, and instinctively, the Demon King recoiled, ready to dodge.

But nothing happened. Shen's hands did not glow; no light came out of it, no beam, nothing to envelope Piccolo and trap him into the canteen again, this time, hopefully, forever.

He had tried to deconstruct the attack, analyse it, crack its secret. He even had managed to discuss it once with his long time rival, albeit the discussion had not been a productive one. Roshi had a theory, that he could never learn to use this attack, because it required not just fear or a desire to get rid of the target, but an utter, sincere, complete moral disgust at their actions, and all they represented.

Shen had told him that had to be bullshit, because martial arts don't run on warm fuzzy feelings, and that had been that.

Piccolo's fearful grimace slowly turned into glee as he realised what was going on.

"So you couldn't, after all!," he said, laughing.

Then the momentary burst of elation ended, and the endless anger came back. He darted forward again, and this time Shen, still stunned by his failure, was a fraction of a second too slow. The Demon King's elbows fell down each on one of his still stretched arms, breaking them both with a crack. His opponent cursed in pain.

"How dare you!," hissed Piccolo, grabbing Shen by the neck next. The old master couldn't oppose any resistance; he tried kicking up, but his foot missed the enemy's head, and while it was still high, Piccolo, with a monstrous grin, opened his mouth and sunk his fangs into the ankle, ripping fabric and rending flesh with his sharp fangs. This time, Shen let out a yelp. The hand holding his throat tightened its grip.

It was the end, realised Shen. This really was it. There was no more tact, diplomacy, cunning. No adapting to survive. This was the world of the strongest at its most brutal; pure and simple survival of the fittest. And for once, it wasn't going to be him.

"I hope someone comes around and kills you, you arrogant bast-" he managed to spit out, but uncaring, Piccolo choked even the last word out of him. His hand pushed further, crushing his windpipe, and then cracking his vertebrae. When he was done with it, of Shen's neck remained only a pulped strand of bloody flesh and bone fragments. Then, with a casual gesture, he tossed the body aside.

Having witnessed the scene, Chiaotzu and Tien didn't flinch, or gasp, or make a sound. They merely looked, eyes wide, and at the critical moment, Chiaotzu's hand looked for his friend's, and squeezed it. They held their breath and held themselves back, because now that they saw it, they could tell. There was no way they could be of help right now. They couldn't change what was happening. They couldn't save their master.

But maybe they could, eventually, get revenge for him.

Hiding in the shadows, biding one's time, finding one's enemy's weak spots, adapting and fighting only when victory is assured - that was the Crane's way. They exchanged looks, and in perfect silence, darted out in the darkness, from where they could strike again when the enemy least expected it.

Piccolo's nostrils dilated as he breathed deeply and calmed himself down at the sight of Shen's corpse abandoned on the ground. His fury momentarily placated, he turned to his followers.

"How much has passed?," he asked.

The moment of hesitation was much briefer than the previous time. In the end, Drum stepped forward, aiding himself with his crutch.

"Three hundred years, Your Majesty," he said. "It took a long time for us to-"

"I want to know what's going on," interrupted the Demon King. "Everyone who's been in charge until now, lead me to my apartments and tell me everything."

Drum nodded, and gestured towards the others. Cymbal, Tambourine, Oboe and Tuba left the ranks and followed him.

"Where the hell is Flute?," whispered the large ptero to Drum.

"No fucking clue," replied the other. "Not the moment to look for him. We don't want to make His Majesty wait."

They walked forward, and Piccolo followed them towards one of the capsule prefabricated buildings. Everyone else was left behind, and once the officers were gone, some of the squad commanders started giving orders to coordinate the grim work of removing and cleaning up all the bodies that had piled up.

Violin stared, unflinching, as two grunts lifted up what remained of Piano's body, while a third one rushed in with a bucket of water that he tossed on the ground to wash away the blood. Then she turned on her heels, and decisively walked towards Lady Baba's quarters.