As they ascended the crystal stairs, Kyoto felt the weight of a dozen hungry gazes pressing into his back. He wasn't intimidated; he was practically humming. The transition from "Whis's student" to "interdimensional heartthrob" was a role he fit into like a glove. He could feel Fasha's Ki spiking beside him—not the focused energy of a fighter, but the volatile, sparking heat of a woman who was two seconds away from throwing a punch just to mark her territory.
The throne room was an architectural fever dream. Walls of translucent quartz amplified the orange sunlight, turning the space into a shimmering, golden kiln. At the center, the Princess reclined on a throne of jagged obsidian, her legs crossed and one heel dangling precariously from her foot. She didn't look like a ruler; she looked like a predator who had finally found a toy worth playing with.
"The Core Shard," she began, her voice echoing in the crystalline expanse. "It's located in the Heart-Sump, the lowest point of the jungle where the quartz grows thickest. It's guarded by a beast that doesn't just eat flesh, but consumes the very Ki of anyone who dares approach. My guards have tried for decades. They failed because they fought with honor and formation." She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto Kyoto's. "But you... you fight like a man who doesn't believe in rules."
"Rules are for people who aren't fast enough to break them," Kyoto replied, his voice dripping with that signature Earth-bred swagger. He leaned back against a crystalline pillar, crossing his arms. "So, what's the deal? I get the shard, the goddess gets her timeline glued back together, and I get... what? A gold star?"
The Princess let out a low, throaty laugh. "A gold star? How quaint. If you retrieve the shard, you shall have the 'Royal Tribute.' My court has a tradition for champions—a night of indulgence where every desire is catered to, regardless of rank or law." She cast a sidelong glance at her guards, who were practically vibrating with anticipation. "The women of this court are very... *thorough*... in their gratitude."
Fasha's tail snapped, cracking like a whip against the floor. "He's not some prize to be awarded!" she snarled, stepping between Kyoto and the Princess. "He's a Saiyan warrior, not a piece of meat!"
Kyoto chuckled, reaching out to pat Fasha's shoulder. The touch was casual, a bold move given her current mood, and it worked—Fasha froze, her anger momentarily short-circuiting into a flustered silence. "Relax, Fasha. If the Princess wants to treat me like meat, I'm happy to be a steak." He looked back at the Princess, his grin widening. "Deal. But since this is a royal request, I expect the 'Tribute' to be... comprehensive."
The Princess's eyes flared with a mix of amusement and genuine desire. "Bold. I like that. Most men tremble before the throne; you treat it like a lounge." She snapped her fingers, and a map of the Heart-Sump materialized in the air. "Go. Before the sun dips. The beast wakes when the light fades, and it's particularly fond of arrogant young men."
As they turned to leave, the captain of the guard stepped in close, her shoulder brushing Kyoto's chest. She leaned in, her voice a husky whisper that only he could hear. "Good luck, little warrior. I've already started preparing my part of the tribute." She gave him a slow, knowing wink before marching away, leaving Kyoto with a very angry Fasha and a very promising set of expectations.
The descent into the Heart-Sump felt like sinking into a kaleidoscope of liquid light. The jungle canopy vanished, replaced by towering walls of translucent quartz that vibrated with a low-frequency hum, vibrating the very marrow of Kyoto's bones. The air here was thick, tasting of ozone and ancient, petrified salt. Fasha marched beside him, her silence more oppressive than the heat. Every few minutes, her tail would lash out and snap a crystalline fern, a clear indicator that her patience was thinner than a wafer.
"You're actually considering it, aren't you?" she finally spat, her voice echoing off the shimmering walls. "The 'Royal Tribute.' You're just going to let a bunch of strangers treat you like a buffet because they've been bored for a century."
Kyoto didn't look at her, his eyes scanning the iridescent terrain for signs of movement. "I'm a man of the people, Fasha. It would be rude to decline such... generous hospitality." He shot her a sideways glance, his expression playful. "Besides, you're the one who's always talking about Saiyan pride. Isn't it a point of pride to be desired by an entire court?"
Fasha's response was a sharp elbow to his ribs. It wasn't a fight-level blow, but it was enough to wind him for a second. "You're an idiot," she muttered, though the heat in her Ki had shifted from murderous to something more possessive, a territorial flare that clung to him like a blanket.
The ground beneath them shifted, the translucent quartz giving way to a basin of pulsing, violet obsidian. As they reached the center of the Heart-Sump, the humming stopped abruptly. In its place came a sound that made Kyoto's teeth ache: a wet, rhythmic clicking, like a thousand giant insects rubbing their legs together.
From the depths of the obsidian pit, the beast emerged. It wasn't a lizard or a raptor, but a mass of shifting, sentient geometry—a creature of living glass and void, shifting its shape from a towering arachnid to a winged serpent in a heartbeat. It didn't have eyes, only a swirling vortex of negative energy where a face should be. As it let out a sonic shriek that shattered the surrounding quartz pillars, Kyoto felt his Ki being tugged. The beast wasn't just attacking; it was siphoning.
"Don't let it lock onto your frequency!" Fasha yelled, her voice barely audible over the roar. She lunged forward, her fist glowing with a concentrated burst of white energy. She slammed a blow into the creature's side, but the impact sounded like a hammer hitting a diamond. The beast didn't even flinch; it simply absorbed the impact, its body rippling as it mirrored Fasha's power, growing larger and more jagged.
Kyoto watched for a split second, his gamer instincts kicking in. *It's a mimic,* he realized. *It doesn't just eat Ki; it copies the intent of the attack.* Fasha was fighting with a warrior's precision, a structured assault that the beast could predict and absorb.
Kyoto didn't wait for the beast to ripple again. While Fasha played the role of the anvil, he became the hammer, launching himself into the air with a sudden, violent burst of Ki. He didn't aim for a strike; he aimed for the beast's center of gravity, spinning his body into a tight, high-velocity drill. As he descended, he began to modulate his Ki, flickering his energy output in an erratic, jazz-like rhythm—shifting from a roar to a whisper and back again. The creature's geometric form shuddered, its mimicry circuits glitching as it tried to calculate a pattern that didn't exist.