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Chapter 22 - Time skip (1)

Three and a half years slipped away like pages in a windstorm. The Earth outside healed slowly—cities rose again from the ash, laughter returned to the streets, but the scars of the androids' reign still cut deep into its people. To Trunks, though, time wasn't measured by construction cranes or rebuilt skylines. It was measured in bruises, sweat, and the endless rhythm of training.

Every morning, he stood beneath skies that still felt heavy with memory, sparring with Gohan until his arms shook. Gohan drilled into him patience, control, and calm. Don't just swing harder, Trunks. Make every strike count. Their clashes echoed like thunder, yet each one carried a lesson tucked behind it.

Afternoons belonged to Vegeta. Brutal afternoons. Vegeta never went easy—not once. His words cut almost as hard as his fists.

"Keep your guard up, boy! That hesitation would've cost you your head."

But through every scolding, every knock to the ground, Trunks felt the gap closing. Slowly, painfully, his father was shaping him. For Vegeta, the boy's progress was something more than just training—it was penance, a chance to pass on the pride of a Saiyan the right way this time.

With Goku, it was different. Calm. Methodical. Almost like a martial arts school textbook brought to life. He broke movements into parts—stances, footwork, breathing patterns—tearing them down before rebuilding them from scratch. Goku never once treated Trunks as just a kid. He spoke to him like a warrior, someone who needed to learn how to let his body flow instead of just force.

Piccolo's training was stranger still. Silence. Long stretches of meditation under cliffs or deep in the woods. The cicadas hummed louder than either of them most days. But then Piccolo's voice would cut through like a knife:

"Don't gather power like a fool. Understand it. Command it. Become it."The words made Trunks pause. He'd heard something like it before—Bruce Lee in one of his past life. Be water, my friend.

But even with all their guidance, Trunks felt a ceiling pressing down on him. His base power soared. His transformations stabilized. Yet. it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He needed more.

That hunger eventually carried him across the stars, far from Earth, to the strange, crimson-skied world of Yardrat. Its air hummed with ki, its plants swayed as though alive.

The Yardratians welcomed him with open arms, though their movements and forms seemed alien. Here, strength wasn't measured in destruction—it was measured in control.

Instant Transmission was his first hurdle. Hours spent focusing on distant ki signatures, straining until his head pounded. He failed again and again, frustration clawing at him. Then—snap!—the world blurred, and he reappeared across the plains, chest heaving, triumphant grin tugging at his face.

"Not bad," he muttered to himself, brushing dust off his clothes. "Only took me. What, nine hours?" His spatial talent had cut down what should've been years into a single grueling day.

Spirit Control came next. That was worse. Agonizing. His ki slipped through his fingers like sand at first, scattering every time he tried to hold it. But the more he worked, the tighter it became, until his aura hummed around him like a drawn blade, sharp and coiled.

By the third day, he'd cracked it open completely—his power suddenly surging, lightning dancing across his body. Without forcing it, he had climbed into Super Saiyan 2. His hair sparked, his aura howled—and he knew it wasn't just borrowed rage this time. It was his.

Forced Spirit Fission nearly broke him. Separating ki, tearing apart stolen or fused energy—it demanded insane precision. Every failure left him on his knees, gasping. But he understood its importance. Against the enemies he knew would come, brute force wouldn't always be enough. Sometimes, you had to take them apart from the inside out.

Then came the Metamoran Dance. Honestly, Trunks almost laughed himself sick watching two Yardratians wobble through synchronized poses. But after hours of drilling the precise steps, the humor faded. The timing, the humility, the trust required—it humbled him more than any beating Vegeta had ever given. Yardrat wasn't about pride. It was about surrender. And in surrender, control.

When he finally returned to Earth, he wasn't the same boy who had left. His ki was steady, vast, and frighteningly sharp. His movements had the edge of someone who had forged themselves in silence. Even Gohan admitted it with a quiet smile. Vegeta just scoffed, muttering, "Hmph. Finally showing some spine." But even he couldn't fully hide the pride in his eyes.

Gohan, curious and inspired, later went to Yardrat himself.

Trunks trained with his katchin sword in his base form when he returned to Earth. He also learned sword techniques from Yadrat, but did not use this sword.

He learned how to imbue ki into his sword, just like Trunks did in the Zamasu saga.

Now, years later, the day had come.

Bulma stood proudly in the Capsule Corp lab, exhaustion written into the lines of her face, but her eyes glowing with triumph. Before them gleamed the completed time machine. Its polished steel curves gleamed under the lights, glass cockpit reflecting the faces gathered there. It was the symbol of hope, of second chances, of everything they had fought for.

Trunks froze in place. His heart hammered. His palms tightened into fists. The time machine. The same one Future Me used. His breath quickened, half with awe, half with nerves.

Gohan smirked at him. "Don't look so serious, Trunks. You'll wrinkle faster than Piccolo."

Trunks chuckled despite himself. "Yeah, well. Can you blame me? This is groundbreaking".

This will allow me to earn more extractions and fate points.

And then, just as his anticipation reached its peak, that familiar pulse echoed in his mind—his system's voice ringing with cold finality:

{Rewards settled}

Trunks drew in a slow breath, lips tugging into a grin. Something new awaited him. Something that would push him even further.

"The future," he muttered under his breath, "is opening again."

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