CHAPTER 15: THE PHANTOM BLADE

The crowd roared as the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, his words cutting through the pandemonium of cheers, jeers, and the pounding bass of music that reverberated through the arena. The tournament was in full swing, and the energy in the air was electric—thick with excitement, sweat, and the tension of high stakes. Spectators of every shape, size, and species packed the stands, their faces lit by the neon glow of pulsating lights that danced across the room.

Vendors weaved through the rows, shouting over the din as they hawked glowing drinks, exotic snacks, and other questionable substances to the rowdy crowd. A pair of alien gamblers argued loudly, exchanging insults as one tossed a handful of credits at the other in frustration. Near the front rows, a group of heavily armed mercenaries clinked their glasses together, hollering at the fighters in the pit below.

Fighters had been battling fiercely in the sunken arena—a metallic pit surrounded by a reinforced energy cage designed to keep stray blasts contained. The scent of scorched metal lingered in the air from the last match, where a fiery alien had left deep gouges in the floor. The audience buzzed with anticipation, still on edge from the explosive finale of the previous bout.

Above the arena, a massive screen displayed slow-motion replays of the most brutal hits, accompanied by flashes of commentary in various alien languages. The announcer’s voice, amplified by the state-of-the-art sound system, kept the crowd engaged, hyping up the next round with practiced bravado.

In the stands, Vegeta, Tarble, and Broly found seats near the middle rows, positioned close enough to get a clear view of the action without drawing too much attention. Vegeta crossed his arms, his expression sour as he scanned the chaotic scene below.

Tarble leaned forward, his wide-eyed expression betraying a mix of nervousness and curiosity. “This place is... intense,” he muttered, glancing at the eclectic mix of spectators.

Broly remained silent, his large frame making him stand out even in the crowded arena. His eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail with quiet intensity. Though he said nothing, the way his muscles tensed suggested he was ready for any sudden trouble.

A pair of insectoid aliens in the row behind them began loudly debating the odds of the upcoming fighters, their rapid chittering punctuated by occasional slaps on the back as they placed their bets.

“It’s more than just intense,” Vegeta said, his voice low but cutting through the noise. “This place reeks of desperation. Look around—most of these people aren’t here for the sport. They’re here for the blood, the violence. For many of them, this is survival.”

Tarble nodded slowly, trying to take it all in. The flashing lights, the shouts of the audience, the muffled sounds of punches and energy blasts from the arena—it all blended together into a chaotic symphony of raw energy.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a single spotlight illuminated the arena. The crowd hushed, leaning forward as the announcer’s voice rang out again. “Ladies and gentlemen, creatures of all kinds! Prepare yourselves for the next match in tonight’s ultimate showdown! This tournament waits for no one, and the stakes only get higher as we move closer to the finals!”

The crowd erupted into cheers again, and the tension in the room spiked. For all the chaos, there was a strange unity in their shared anticipation—everyone was here for the fight, for the thrill of watching strength tested and bones broken.

Vegeta glanced toward the arena, his eyes narrowing. “Let’s see what kind of fighters they have in this cesspool,” he muttered, leaning back in his seat as the next fighter prepared to enter.

The announcer’s voice cut through the noise. “And now, we have a late entry!” he shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for…The Great Saiyaman!”

Vegeta groaned audibly as Gohan stepped into the arena, clad in his classic Great Saiyaman outfit—complete with a flowing cape, gloves, and his signature visor. He struck a dramatic pose, pointing to the crowd.

“Fear not, evildoers! For justice has arrived!” Gohan announced, his voice carrying over the crowd. He followed it up with a series of exaggerated poses, each more ridiculous than the last.

A stunned silence hung over the audience before someone shouted, “What is this nonsense?!” followed by a wave of laughter and boos.

Vegeta’s eyebrow twitched in irritation. “What the hell is he doing? This is an underground tournament, not a stage for his ridiculous antics!”

Tarble, sitting next to him, tilted his head curiously. “The Great Saiyaman?”

Vegeta sighed, clearly frustrated. “It’s Gohan’s idiotic attempt at being a superhero back on Earth. A pathetic gimmick if you ask me.”

It’s kind of…cool?” Tarble ventured cautiously, only to be met with a sharp glare from Vegeta.

Broly, sitting quietly, glanced at Gohan in the arena, his expression neutral but intrigued.

As the crowd continued to boo and jeer, the announcer regained control of the situation. “Alright, alright, settle down! Let’s see if this Great Saiyaman can actually fight! His opponent—straight from the shadows of planet Nyris—Nihru, the Phantom Blade!”

A sleek, ninja-like alien stepped into the ring. Nihru’s skin was a deep blue, and his movements were so fluid and quiet he seemed to glide across the arena. Dual blades were strapped to his back, and his piercing red eyes never left Gohan.

Gohan remained in character, striking another exaggerated pose. “Prepare yourself, villain! Justice will always prevail!”

The crowd groaned and booed louder, with a few voices shouting insults about his "ridiculous act." Gohan ignored them, staying focused on the mission.

Nihru, however, didn’t respond. His crimson eyes locked onto Gohan, his body unnervingly still. The lack of reaction threw Gohan off for a split second, but he quickly realized this wasn’t an opponent to take lightly.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the arena, interrupting the tense silence. “Alright, fighters! Just a reminder—this is a no-holds-barred match! Anything goes, and it doesn’t end until one of you is on the ground and unable to get up! Make it entertaining!”

Gohan blinked, caught off guard. He glanced toward the announcer’s hovering hologram. “Wait, isn’t that a bit…much?” he asked, his tone more serious now.

The announcer laughed loudly, a mocking edge in his voice. “Too much? Kid, you clearly don’t know where you are! This is The Last Round! Now—fight!”

With that, the hologram vanished, and the fight officially began.

Nihru wasted no time. In an instant, he blurred out of sight, his speed almost imperceptible. Before Gohan could fully process, Nihru reappeared behind him with a swift, spinning kick aimed at his head.

Gohan barely managed to duck in time, the wind from the strike brushing past his helmet. He quickly dropped his superhero theatrics, his stance shifting into something more practical. This was no time for flair—this was serious.

The crowd erupted in cheers as Nihru pressed the attack, his movements sharp and calculated. Gohan could feel the intensity radiating off his opponent. This was going to be tougher than he thought.

***

While the fight raged on in the arena, Truffle and Meelo navigated the shadowed corridors of The Last Round, slipping unnoticed through the throng of patrons and staff. The din of the crowd was a perfect cover for their movements, but Truffle remained on high alert, her sharp eyes scanning every face and every whispered interaction.

“There,” she murmured, her voice barely audible as she observed a nearby VIP booth. Several imposing figures sat around a table, their laughter and conversation muffled under the pounding bass of the music. Meelo’s small frame hovered behind her, his single optic lens swiveling to capture the scene.

She tapped her communicator, keeping her voice low. “We’ve got eyes on some big names. I see at least three from your most-wanted list: Alaka the Smuggler, Sambal the Arms Dealer, and I think that’s Wasa—isn’t he supposed to be dead?”

The informant’s voice crackled softly through the comm. “Dead? More like laying low. If he’s there, this is bigger than we thought. Keep transmitting the visuals—this is gold. And be careful. These are dangerous individuals after all.”

Meelo emitted a series of quiet beeps as he scanned the room, transmitting the footage to the Galactic Patrol. Truffle’s eyes flicked around the club, searching for an opportunity. Then, she spotted it—a side hallway marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”

She glanced at Meelo. “Stay close and keep watch,” she whispered before slipping toward the restricted area.

The door was secured with a keypad, but Truffle smirked, pulling a small device from her belt. It hummed quietly as she pressed it to the lock, overriding the security in seconds. With a soft click, the door slid open, and Truffle stepped inside.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit, with security cameras mounted at regular intervals. Truffle pressed herself against the wall, her heart steady as she navigated past the cameras’ line of sight. Meelo hovered silently at her side, scanning ahead.

They reached a small data terminal tucked into the wall. Truffle crouched down, pulling out her tools. “Alright, let’s see what they’ve got,” she muttered, her fingers flying across the console.

Meelo beeped softly in warning, his optic swiveling to the corridor.

“I know, I know,” Truffle whispered. “Almost there.”

The data transfer began, the progress bar crawling painfully slow across the screen. Truffle’s communicator beeped softly.

“We’re getting the feed,” the informant confirmed. “This is perfect. We’ve got records of transactions, communications logs—everything. Just hang tight a little longer.”

The transfer completed with a quiet chime, and Truffle exhaled in relief. She tapped her comm. “You’ve got it all. Making my exit now.”

As she shut down the terminal and prepared to leave, Meelo emitted a series of frantic beeps.

“What is it?” Truffle whispered sharply. Then she heard it—footsteps approaching.

Thinking quickly, Truffle ducked behind a supply rack, her mind racing. The footsteps grew louder, and a shadow fell over her hiding spot. She peeked out, spotting a patrolling guard heading straight toward her position.

Her eyes darted to an open doorway nearby. Inside, a group of showgirls were preparing for their next routine, adjusting their elaborate costumes and chatting amongst themselves.

Truffle smirked, an idea forming. She activated her wristband, projecting a holographic overlay around her body. Within seconds, her outfit transformed into a perfect replica of the showgirls’ attire—glittering fabric, exaggerated heels, and all.

With confidence, she grabbed a tray of drinks from a nearby server bot and strode casually out of the restricted area, intercepting the patrolling guard.

“The boss said you’re due for a break,” she said, her voice calm and commanding as she gestured toward the showgirls.

The guard blinked, clearly thrown off by her sudden presence. “Oh…thanks,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Truffle didn’t linger. She slipped into the group of showgirls, blending in seamlessly. As they made their way onto the main floor, she whispered into her communicator. “Meelo, stay out of sight and follow me. We need to get back to Vegeta and the others.”

Meelo trailed behind her, sticking to the shadows as Truffle navigated the bustling floor of The Last Round. Her heart was racing, but her expression remained calm and composed. They were one step closer to completing the mission—and she wasn’t about to let anything stop them.

***

Gohan struggled at first to keep up with Nihru’s speed and unpredictable movements. The alien ninja was relentless, vanishing and reappearing in flashes of light, his strikes precise and calculated. Gohan was forced on the defensive, barely dodging a spinning kick that whistled past his face, followed by a barrage of sharp jabs that left him staggering. The crowd burst into laughter, jeering at his inability to keep up.

From the stands, Vegeta sat stoic, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes tracked every movement in the ring. “He’s overthinking it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “But he’s adapting.”

Tarble, seated beside him, leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “Do you think he can win?”

“He’s Kakarot’s son. Of course, he can,” Vegeta replied flatly, though his narrowed eyes betrayed his scrutiny. “But he needs to stop playing around and focus. That costume’s bad enough—he doesn’t need to make a fool of himself even more.”

Broly, seated on the other side of Tarble, remained silent, his intense gaze fixed on the fight. Unlike Vegeta, he didn’t seem annoyed. Instead, there was a quiet admiration in his expression as he watched Gohan endure the flurry of attacks.

In the ring, Gohan winced as Nihru’s blade grazed his shoulder, leaving a shallow cut. The ninja didn’t let up, following the attack with a spinning kick that forced Gohan to block, his arms stinging from the impact. Gohan grimaced as he took a few steps back, trying to create some distance. The crowd roared with laughter again, clearly enjoying his struggle.

Gohan took a deep breath, pushing aside the noise of the jeers. Focus, Gohan. Stay calm. His thoughts turned to his training. He could hear Piccolo’s voice in his mind, stern and direct: “Every opponent has a weakness. Find it and exploit it. But don’t rush—patience is key.”

He remembered the image training with Vegeta, where every mistake was punished without mercy. Vegeta’s words echoed next: “You think too much. Trust your instincts, or you’ll lose before the fight even starts.”

Recentered, Gohan analyzed Nihru’s movements. The alien had a pattern—he always struck at Gohan’s blind spots, using speed and misdirection to keep him disoriented. Gohan tightened his stance, watching closely. When Nihru disappeared again, Gohan didn’t panic. Instead, he honed in on his opponent’s energy, tracking it. At the last moment, he sidestepped a slash aimed at his back and countered with a quick elbow to Nihru’s ribs.

The ninja stumbled, clearly surprised. The crowd gasped, their laughter fading as Gohan pressed the advantage. He blocked Nihru’s next flurry of attacks with precision, his movements more fluid now as he adjusted to the ninja’s technique. Blow by blow, Gohan began to turn the tide of the fight.

In the stands, Vegeta smirked faintly. “There it is,” he said under his breath. “He’s figured it out.”

Tarble glanced at him. Vegeta’s smirk grew.

Back in the arena, Gohan seized the momentum. With a perfectly timed dodge, he avoided Nihru’s blades and countered with a swift kick to the chest that sent the ninja staggering backward. Gohan followed up with a powerful uppercut, his fist connecting with Nihru’s jaw. The ninja was launched off his feet, crashing into the arena floor in a heap.

The crowd erupted into cheers, their earlier jeers forgotten. The Great Saiyaman had won them over with his skill and determination.

Gohan stood in the center of the ring, catching his breath. He raised his fist in victory, the cheers of the audience washing over him. But as he lowered his arm, a strange sensation rippled through him. The noise of the arena seemed to fade, and for a moment, he felt… something. A faint, warm energy brushed against his consciousness, ancient and unfamiliar.

“What…was that?” Gohan muttered to himself, his brow furrowing. He shook off the feeling as the announcer’s hologram reappeared, declaring him the victor with great enthusiasm.

The roar of the crowd brought Gohan back to the moment. Nihru lay unconscious on the ground, and Gohan let out a small sigh of relief. At least he’s not dead, he thought. For all the theatrics and tension, he was grateful that he’d managed to hold back just enough.

As he left the ring, Gohan couldn’t shake the lingering sensation that something—or someone—had briefly connected with him. But for now, there was no time to dwell on it. The mission was far from over.

***

The crowd roared with excitement, the energy in the arena reaching its peak as the announcer declared Gohan the victor. Fans chanted, drinks spilled, and the floor seemed to vibrate under the thunderous applause. Truffle, still in her showgirl disguise, weaved through the throng of cheering spectators, keeping her head down as she made her way toward the stands where Vegeta and the others were seated.

Meelo trailed behind her, sticking to the shadows, his small frame barely noticeable amidst the chaos. The droid’s beeps were soft and cautious, a reminder to stay alert. Truffle scanned the sea of faces, her sharp gaze searching for any signs of trouble. Her mission was nearly complete, and she couldn’t afford any slip-ups now.

Just as she neared the edge of the crowd, a burly figure stepped directly into her path. He was a tall, broad-shouldered brute of a man, his bald head glinting under the neon lights. His attire was expensive but garish—a bright purple suit with gold trim that screamed both wealth and bad taste.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” the man sneered, looking her over with a lecherous grin. “The boss wants to see you. Come with me.”

Truffle froze for a split second, her mind racing. She forced a pleasant smile, her voice light but firm. “I think you’ve got the wrong girl. I’m just on my way to—”

The man’s grin vanished, replaced by a scowl. He stepped closer, his sheer bulk intimidating as he leaned down to her level. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. When the boss says he wants someone at his booth, they don’t say no.”

Truffle’s heart raced, but her expression remained composed. She stepped back slightly, feigning confusion. “I’d love to help, but I’m actually—”

“Enough!” The man grabbed her arm roughly, his grip like a vice. “Let’s go.”

Around them, the crowd continued to cheer for Gohan, oblivious to the scene unfolding. Truffle glanced over her shoulder toward the shadows where Meelo was hidden. The droid emitted a series of faint, worried beeps but stayed where he was, not risking drawing attention to her.

Stay put, Meelo, she thought, forcing herself to focus.

As the man began dragging her through the crowd, Truffle bit her lip, quickly assessing her options. Resistance here would draw too much attention, potentially blowing her cover. She’d have to play along—for now.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth, her tone laced with annoyance. “But tell your boss he owes me double for this. I was about to go on break.”

The man didn’t respond, only yanking her forward. As they pushed through the throng of spectators, Truffle’s sharp eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. When they arrived at the private booth, her stomach tightened. The area was lavishly decorated, with velvet seats, holographic screens, and a stocked bar. But what caught her attention was the group of shady figures seated nearby.

They spoke in hushed tones, their expressions serious as they exchanged what looked like encrypted data drives. Truffle’s trained instincts kicked in. This is big. Galactic Patrol-level big.

The man shoved her into the booth, where an even larger figure awaited—a man oozing arrogance and authority, his beady eyes gleaming with entitlement. He lounged in his seat, puffing on a cigar-like device that emitted glowing blue smoke.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” the businessman drawled, motioning for her to come closer. “Join me. I could use a little… entertainment after such an exhilarating match.”

Truffle forced a smile, masking her irritation. “Of course,” she said sweetly, stepping forward. But as she did, her mind raced. She needed to figure out a way to extract herself from this situation without compromising the mission—or missing whatever deal was going down at the adjacent table.

Time to think on my feet, she thought, her hand subtly brushing against the hidden tech on her wrist, ready to act if needed.

___________

Writer’s Note:

And the first round goes to GOHAN!

I decided to bring back the Great Saiyaman as Gohan’s disguise—it felt natural. It’s a fun way to show how he’s underestimated, seen as a joke, only to prove everyone wrong once the fight begins.

For Gohan’s first fight, I didn’t want him going up against just another martial artist. This is an underground tournament, so his opponents should have unique fighting styles and techniques that reflect the gritty, unpredictable nature of this world. This fight serves as Gohan’s warm-up, a moment for him to shake off the dust and get back into the fighting spirit. But he’s not doing this for sport—it’s all for the sake of finding his father.

Writing this segment in the Last Round was a lot of fun. It’s a chance to explore a different side of things and really dive into the culture of the South Quadrant, with its thriving underground dealings.