One month had passed since the fall of the Androids.
The world, though scarred, had begun to breathe again. Cities that once lay in ruins were slowly being pieced together. Scavenged steel beams stood upright as the skeletons of new buildings, and broken roads were patched with rough stone and cement. Crops sprouted where craters once smoked, tended carefully by survivors who had known nothing but fear for years. With the constant threat of destruction gone, humanity began to rebuild—not just walls and homes, but hope itself.
And at the heart of that hope stood two warriors.
High in the air, far from the settlements, Gohan and Trunks clashed in their base forms. No golden auras, no earth-shattering transformations—just raw skill, speed, and discipline.
Trunks shot forward, fists blurring as he aimed strike after strike at Gohan's chest. The older warrior parried with ease, his hands moving in smooth arcs, redirecting every blow. Trunks' breath came sharp, sweat forming at his brow, but he never relented.
"Come on!" Trunks gritted his teeth, snapping a kick at Gohan's side. "Don't hold back just because I'm not transformed!"
Gohan caught his ankle mid-swing, his expression calm but firm. "It's not about holding back. If you can't beat me here, in base form, what good is relying on Super Saiyan?"
With that, he twisted, sending Trunks flipping through the air. The boy tucked into a roll, landing on his feet, determination burning in his eyes.
Their sparring had not gone unnoticed. Weeks earlier, a news crew had stumbled across their battle with the Androids, cameras capturing the raw devastation, the desperate struggle, and—most importantly—the final victory. That footage had spread like wildfire.
For the first time in years, the people of Earth had seen hope with their own eyes. A warrior with golden hair cutting through monsters that had tormented them for so long. A boy, no older than thirteen, fighting with the courage of men twice his age.
Gohan and Trunks were celebrated as the savior, the calm and unshakable protector who had carried humanity through its darkest hour. Trunks, on the other hand, became something different: a symbol of the future. The sight of a boy standing against Androids stirred admiration and awe.
And among the younger generation, especially the girls his age, Trunks' name became a whisper on every tongue. Posters of his image—grainy stills pulled from news footage—were pinned to walls. Letters piled up in what passed for a postal system, many scrawled in youthful handwriting confessing admiration, some even love.
Trunks didn't care. Every time Gohan teased him about it, he brushed it off with a scowl. "Romance? Now? When there are still potential enemies out there?" His focus was sharp, unyielding. "I don't have time for that. I can't afford it."
On the ground, Trunks charged again, feinting left before throwing a quick jab. Gohan slipped past it, countering with a soft but precise strike to his shoulder. The boy stumbled, then regained his stance, eyes blazing.
"Good feint," Gohan said between breaths. "But your follow-through was sloppy. If I were an Android, you'd already be on the ground."
Trunks tightened his fists. "Then let's go again."
They clashed once more, the sound of fists meeting echoing across the barren plain. Dust swirled beneath their feet, grass flattening under the pressure of their movements.
For hours they sparred, neither transforming, neither unleashing their full power. This was about discipline, about refining their foundation. And Trunks, though battered and sore, grew sharper with every exchange.
Life on Earth slowly adjusted. Markets opened again in makeshift stalls, laughter returned to streets once filled with silence, and families reunited after years of hiding. The shadow of fear had lifted, though scars remained.
People looked to Gohan and Trunks as their guardians, but also as proof that strength could be born from despair. They were famous now—not just among survivors, but everywhere humanity's fragmented networks still reached. Radios and broadcasts spoke of them daily.
And with fame came pressure, but benefits too.
Gohan bore it quietly, knowing it was less about him and more about what he represented. Trunks, though, struggled. He wanted to train harder, to grow faster. The fame meant nothing if he wasn't strong enough to stop the next threat that might come.
And deep in his heart, he knew something was out there. The Androids had been destroyed, but the universe was vast, and peace on Earth did not mean safety forever.
As the sun set over the broken horizon, Gohan placed a hand on Trunks' shoulder.
"You did well today," he said, his voice steady. "But remember—strength isn't just for fighting. It's for protecting. Every person rebuilding down there is alive because we fought. And we'll fight again if we have to."
***
A week after they defeated the Andriods.
That night , after training, Gohan sat with Trunks and Bulma over dinner. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with resolve.
"Bulma," he said, setting his bowl aside, "I want you to build us a spaceship. Not just for travel—one that can reach New Namek."
Bulma blinked, caught off guard. "New Namek?" Bulma's face changed into disbelief when she realised the implication.
Gohan leaned forward, voice steady. "The Dragon Balls. If we can get to them, we can bring everyone back. Dad, Piccolo… all of them. Earth doesn't have to fight alone anymore."
Trunks' heart skipped. The Z Fighters could return.
Bulma sighed, rubbing her temple. "You Saiyans never make things simple. A ship like that will take time and resources. But… if it's for that, I'll do it."
Gohan gave a rare smile. "Then it's decided. With North Kai's help, we'll get the coordinates. It's time we stop surviving… and start rebuilding."
Trunks clenched his fists under the table, his chest tightening with anticipation. For the first time, the future didn't look hopeless.