A remote island rose from the Pacific Ocean like an ancient, dark green cone. The center peaked at the highest elevation, with gradually flattening terrain spreading toward the rocky coasts. The air at the top was thin, smelling of salt and damp stone.
Smith stood at the summit, the wind pulling at his suit. He was surveying the construction below. The peak had originally been a jagged, uneven outcropping, completely unsuitable for hosting a tournament. So he'd used a Destructo Disc technique, hurling the golden energy blade to slice the top clean off. Now a perfectly flat platform, almost glassy at the edges, served as the arena.
Dozens of werewolves swarmed across the newly leveled space, their powerful muscles straining as they moved prefabricated stands into place. The sounds of heavy machinery, hammering, and low, guttural growls mixed in the air. A massive electronic screen rose at one end, ready to broadcast the final battles.
Smith watched the progress, his arms crossed. "How's the setup coming?"
Bulma stood beside him, her gaze fixed on a tablet. Its screen showed a map of the island covered in a dense, shifting cloud of red dots.
"The swarm reconnaissance drones are deployed across the entire island," she reported, not looking up. "Every contestant's movement will be captured and transmitted to the main screen."
The swarm drones were one of Bulma's recent inventions, inspired by Dr. Gero's mosquito robots but adapted for surveillance. Material limitations meant they were hummingbird-sized instead of insect-small, but they were fast, nearly silent, and packed multiple functions: high-definition video recording, photography, blood sampling, and data transmission. Each drone also served as a network node, allowing the swarm to create a localized mesh network across the whole island.
"We've divided the main screen into five sections, one for each contestant. Spectators will be able to watch all five competitors simultaneously."
She swiped through diagrams. "Though due to time constraints, the viewing area isn't perfect. Plenty of room for improvement in future tournaments."
For spectators, the Fraternity's leadership and staff would attend, naturally. Smith had also allocated guest passes for each contestant. The pickup teams would inform them they could bring observers.
Though he doubted most contestants would bring many people. Trust was a rare commodity.
"As for the vampire viewing section," Bulma continued, tapping on a new schematic, "I've constructed a tent using black, opaque fabric. When the sun rises, it'll provide complete coverage. No sunlight will penetrate."
Bulma looked up from her tablet. "But what about Selene herself? The competition starts at night, but the finals take place during the day."
"She's overcome her sunlight weakness. The sun won't harm her anymore."
Bulma nodded. That made sense. Otherwise, an entire race competing for Dragon Balls while being unable to survive daylight would be pointless. They'd have to forfeit.
"Run a full equipment test," Smith ordered. "Make sure everything's functional."
Bulma began her diagnostic routine, her fingers flying across the tablet's interface.
In the vampire castle, Selene stood over Marcus's prone form on the cold stone floor.
The ancient vampire stared up at her, his breath hissing in disbelief. "Impossible! How did your strength increase this much?"
He pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing. "I've tried the Siberian bloodline enhancement before. The increase wasn't anywhere near this significant."
The Siberian vampire bloodline had awakened something in Selene beyond raw power. She'd developed superhuman speed, moving so fast she left faint afterimages in her wake. It wasn't Flash or Quicksilver level, obviously, but it was more than enough to overwhelm Marcus completely.
"The facts are in front of you," Selene said calmly, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. "Whether you accept them or not doesn't change reality."
A Death Dealer approached, his boots silent on the stone, and bowed. "Elder Selene, the Fraternity's envoys have arrived. Their helicopter is waiting outside the castle."
Selene helped Marcus to his feet. He took her hand reluctantly. "Come with me to greet them."
Marcus was reluctant, his jaw tight with humiliation, but he recognized he had no choice. Selene's newfound strength made defiance suicidal. "Very well."
The massive castle gates groaned open. Smith and Alexei entered the courtyard, their footsteps crisp on the cobblestones.
"Welcome, Mr. X, elder of the Fraternity, and Alexei, the Judge."
Smith studied both vampires briefly, his gaze flicking from Selene's composed posture to Marcus's bruised one. The shift in power was obvious. "Selene, holder of a Dragon Ball, I'm officially notifying you that the tournament begins now. We're transporting you to the venue immediately."
"As a ticket holder, you may bring up to ten spectators to witness the competition."
A small, almost invisible flicker of relief passed over Selene's expression. She'd worried Marcus might cause problems during her absence, which was why she'd suppressed him the moment the Fraternity called. Having him under her direct supervision eliminated that concern.
"Elder Marcus, Soren, and..."
She rattled off eight more names. "All of you will accompany me to witness this historic event."
Everyone called except Marcus responded immediately, their voices in unison. "Yes, Elder Selene."
Of the ten she'd chosen, five were Marcus's loyalists and four were her own people. The final spot went to a neutral administrator. She was keeping potential troublemakers close, where she could watch them.
The eleven vampires boarded a helicopter to the nearest major airport, then transferred to a chartered plane bound for the Pacific island.
At the motel, Bruce Banner held Betty close, his face buried in her hair. The room smelled of cheap bleach and stale air.
"Betty, believe me. After this tournament, I'll be able to fix everything. Return to normal."
His condition made physical intimacy nearly impossible. He held her, but kept his breathing even, his pulse deliberately slow. A familiar, frustrating cage. Whenever his heart rate climbed above two hundred beats per minute, transformation became inevitable. It made even simple activities like card games dangerous. Both of them hated that limitation.
Betty kissed his cheek. "Bruce, come back safely. I believe you can solve this."
A low, rhythmic thump-thump-thump vibrated through the walls, growing louder. A knock followed seconds later, sharp and precise.
Banner opened the door to find the Gunsmith and the Repairman standing in the hallway, both in their immaculate suits.
The Repairman spoke formally, his voice flat. "Bruce Banner, holder of the One-Star Dragon Ball, the tournament begins now. We're here to escort you to the venue. As a ticket holder, you may bring up to ten spectators."
Betty moved forward immediately, her expression set. "Bruce, I'm going."
Banner looked at the Repairman. "Is there any danger for spectators?"
"The Fraternity guarantees all spectators' safety. You have our word."
Banner nodded. "Then I'm only bringing Betty."
He had no desire to tell anyone else about the tournament. Besides, he didn't have many people he trusted. Mr. Blue, maybe, but even that felt risky. The Dragon Balls represented too much temptation. Better not to test anyone's character.
The Repairman nodded once. "Understood. We need to depart immediately. The venue is quite distant, and transit will take several hours."
He paused. "Don't forget your Dragon Ball and tournament coin."
Banner grabbed the One-Star Ball from the nightstand and tapped his waistband, feeling the hard, thin outline of the gold coin he'd sewn into the lining. Everything was secure.
He took Betty's hand, and they followed the Fraternity operatives into the rainy night, toward the waiting helicopter.