Dragon Ball: Enlisted

Wraak leaned against one of the trees near their training grounds, arms crossed as the hum of conversation filled the air.

It was finally here—Evaluation Day.

They'd already done the theory tests for this, but anyone worth a damn knew that was just a formality. The knowledge a galactic patrol member needed was overstated, and in his eyes, it was common sense.

It was the chance to prove himself superior that set his heart racing in just the way he liked it.

His eyes scanned the crowd, sizing up the competition.

Few were able to match his prowess, and as such he wasn't worried about the majority of them.

Unlike them, he'd been putting in more training than ever. While he wasn't allowed to spar, for whatever inane reason, Wraak had a secret technique that his father had derived in his younger years.

It was the ability to channel one's internal energy, and in doing so, permanently multiply the strength of that energy through sheer force of will.

His father had once said that this ability wasn't a secret—that anyone could do it and that there were likely others who'd already discovered it.

…But that couldn't have been true. It had taken his father, an incomparable genius, decades to develop it. For a true-blooded Waarthar, that lifespan was nothing. But for the rest of the universe?

From what he'd seen, that amount of time was significant. They couldn't possibly have figured it out in such short lives.

With that technique to guide his energy to new heights, there wasn't anyone here besides possibly Irelia who could rival him.

Third place wasn't enough. Not after last time. Today, he was gunning for second—perhaps even first if Irelia was having an off day.

His eyes flickered as a familiar face finally decided to join them.

Jyn.

His hair stuck to his forehead in damp clumps, his uniform rumpled like he'd barely bothered to throw it on. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and Wraak didn't miss the stiffness in his movements. 

The guy looked like he'd crawled out of a ditch.

"Look at that mess," one of the guys at Wraak's side snorted. "Who trains all night before an evaluation? What an idiot."

The other laughed. "Maybe he's trying to fail with flair."

Wraak frowned slightly but said nothing.

In the past few months, Wraak was forced to acknowledge that Jyn wasn't just another weakling anymore. He didn't know how the dead last did it, but his physique had improved drastically.

It pained him to even think such a thing, but Jyn might've been even physically stronger than Wraak was now.

But…

Today, it was obvious that he'd overworked himself. He'd shown up half-dead and would probably trip over his own feet during the evaluation. It wasn't worth wasting breath over.

But as Wraak shifted his gaze, something else caught his attention.

Edith.

She was on the far side of the room, slowly stretching with that same tired look. Her blonde hair was tied back, but strands stuck out of place, and the way she rolled her shoulder screamed of sore muscles.

Wraak's brow lifted.

"Both of them?" he muttered under his breath.

If Jyn and Edith had both overdone it, that meant they were going to burn out fast. Edith was the real threat—rank two—but not if she couldn't even get through the early stages.

Wraak's frown deepened, and a weight suddenly settled in his gut.

It should've felt like an easy win. He'd trained hard—hard enough to be confident in his strength. If those two wanted to burn themselves out before evaluations, that was their mistake.

And yet…

His mother had once scolded him as a hatchling when he'd dominated another in battle and laughed victoriously. He'd retorted that honor had no place on the battlefield, and that she wouldn't understand.

Wraak hadn't seen her fight before and had naively thought she wasn't a warrior herself.

"I'm not asking you to be honorable," she snapped, her voice tight with restraint. He could tell she was holding herself back from striking him. "But remember this—victory without risk is hollow. A triumph without struggle carries no glory. Don't seek danger for the sake of it, but don't take pride in the effortless."

In other words, if the odds were so stacked against his opponent that they couldn't win—then he hadn't truly won.

She'd drilled that into him with every fight, and it slowly became something he believed wholeheartedly.

If he won today, it wouldn't be because he surpassed them at their best. It would be because they were too worn down to fight properly.

His pride as a warrior twisted at the thought.

But pride or not, the evaluation wasn't going to wait. Wraak rolled his shoulders, pushing the unease aside.

"If they collapse, they collapse," he muttered under his breath. "It's not my fault, nor my problem."

Before Wraak's thoughts could linger any longer, a familiar sharp clap pulled his attention forward.

Of course, it was Aprico.

The crowd quieted as he stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the packed dirt of the training yard. He stopped in the middle of the open space, reaching down to his belt. With a flick of his wrist, a small, disk-shaped device slipped into his palm.

Without ceremony, Aprico tossed the device to the ground.

The disk embedded itself with a soft thunk, and a faint hum left it in waves. Lines of blue light traced outward in jagged patterns, spreading like cracks beneath the soil. Moments later, a massive black stone pillar emerged from the ground, rising smoothly until it loomed over them.

The hum slowly faded, leaving only the weight of an unspoken challenge. 

Wraak's gaze traced the pillar's surface. There were faint cracks and dents covering it on all sides, with what looked like an antenna attached to the top.

He watched as Aprico configured with something behind the pillar before he laid down a screen next to the monstrosity of technology.

"This is the first stage," Aprico said, slapping a thick hand against the pillar. The impact echoed like a drum. "You hit it as hard as you can. The stronger the hit, the higher the score."

The screen lit up with his slap, lighting up with the number ten in golden lettering.

He turned, red eyes narrowing on the group. "I don't care how you do it. Fists, kicks, elbows—hell, headbutt it if you think that'll work. Just make sure you hit it hard enough to break the threshold."

When they were attempting to measure their power levels, they'd used a simple measuring machine back then. But if they had that technology, there had to be a reason to use this over that.

Wraak narrowed his eyes in thought, the discrepancy niggling at the back of his mind.

"The threshold is fifty," Aprico added. "Anyone below will not be able to go on to the next stage of the evaluation."

Then, it hit him.

This was not just a test of strength, but a test of one's ability to control that strength. The pillar measured force, not the raw power someone had. It was common sense that without skill, raw strength could only take one so far.

It was his father that showed him that a punch done incorrectly could be a hundred times weaker than one done perfectly.

Wraak's hands clenched slightly. He already knew how to throw a punch, so this test wasn't hard.

But for those who didn't? It would be one not just of strength and control, but talent. For if they didn't know the method, then they would have to derive it themselves.

Aprico stepped back and jabbed a thumb toward the pillar. "Form a line. Let's get this over with."

Wraak found himself near the front, watching as the first few recruits stepped up. Most barely crossed the threshold. Their scores flickered on the screen in faint golden numbers—fifty-two, fifty-eight, a rare sixty-three.

A particularly tiny one tried to mask her struggle, wiping sweat from her brow as she stumbled away with a forty-one.

Expected.

Wraak rolled his shoulders, stepping forward when his turn came. The stone loomed over him, but he felt nothing but calm focus. Drawing in a breath, he let his internal energy loose beneath his scales, muscles tightening. 

He didn't need to waste energy on fancy techniques; Just one solid blow.

His fist connected with a sharp crack.

The pillar shuddered, and bright numbers flashed across the screen:

Seventy-two.

Wraak allowed himself the smallest smirk. It was the highest so far, as evidenced by the frantic whispers of those who looked up at him.

As he stepped away, his eyes flickered to the next in line—Jyn.

The guy still looked exhausted to death. He dragged himself forward, barely bothering to hide how tired he was. But Wraak couldn't help but notice the small smile on his face as if he knew something Wraak didn't.

That smile bothered him.

Jyn placed a hand against the stone, closing his eyes for a brief moment. The crowd—Wraak, most of all—waited in silence, unsure of what to expect from the disheveled dead last. 

Without warning, he drew his arm back slightly, barely more than a twitch of movement. 

Wraak could've sworn at that moment that he saw an imperceptible glow around his hand.

"Hah!" Jyn let out a shout.

Then, in a blur, he shot his palm forward.

CRACK!

The pillar jerked, the impact resonating deep into the ground as a number flashed across the screen.

Eighty-three.

Wraak stared with a blank expression, the number burning itself into his eyes. 

The murmurs returned, louder this time, filled with disbelief.

"How did he—"

"He barely moved."

"Impossible…"

Wraak's eyes narrowed. Jyn stepped back, brushing stray hair from his face, though his breathing had grown heavier. The guy looked like he could drop at any second, and yet…

'Is this why Irelia has been coaching him? Did she see something in him that I didn't…?'

Before the crowd could settle, another sharp crack echoed through the air.

Edith.

"HRRAAAAH!"

She let out a low war cry as her fist connected with the pillar, shaking it hard enough that dust kicked up around the base.

Her score flashed. 

Seventy-four.

The line shifted as murmurs died into quiet tension.

Wraak's lips curled into a feral grin, his teeth showing like a predator about to strike.

Yes.

This was what he lived for—the fight, the challenge. Even in their exhausted state, they were making him work for it, and that made it all the sweeter.

He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, every muscle in his body bristling with anticipation.

'And once I take second place,' he thought, his gaze shifting to Irelia at the back of the line, calm and poised as always.

'I'll come for your spot as well.'

- - - - -

A/N: I have no idea why this chapter was so difficult to write. It usually takes me about an hour or two of my undivided attention to write a chapter, but this one took like 4 hours for some reason.

Well, whatever. It's over now.