Undercurrents at the Dinner Table

But he still insisted on chewing every bite at least twenty times—this habit had been formed on Vampa.

The beast meat there had been too tough. If he couldn't chew it properly, it would cut his throat.

At the other end of the long table, half of Beerus's head emerged from behind a pile of plates.

His purple ears twitched, his golden eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at Broly for several seconds, then he snorted. "Hmph. You eat like a starving ghost reborn."

Yet as he said that, he grabbed an entire roast chicken himself and unapologetically tore off a leg, grease dripping down his wrist.

"Lord Beerus, aren't you about the same?" Whis sat beside him with elegant poise, lightly tapping his staff against the floor.

There was only a small salad and a cup of tea before him, a stark contrast to the chaotic dining table around him.

With a smiling squint, he added, "When you ate your fifth slice of cake just now, cream got stuck in your beard."

Beerus's face immediately turned dark purple, like an overripe eggplant.

He wanted to argue, but his mouth was stuffed full of chicken, so all he could make were muffled "mmph" sounds. His tail thrashed behind him in fury, nearly knocking over the juice beside him.

"Pfft—" Krillin was the first to lose it. Gohan and Piccolo laughed as well, and even Android 18's lips curled upward.

Broly smiled too.

It was only a faint smile, the slightest lift at the corners of his mouth, yet it softened his entire presence.

He continued eating, quickly, but still chewing every bite with care.

Forty-one years of life on Vampa had completely changed the weight carried by the word "food" in his heart.

That barren planet had only offered two kinds of edible things—fishy, unchewable beast meat, and wild fruit so sour it made him wince, barely enough to fill his stomach.

Taste? That had been a luxury he hadn't even been qualified to mention.

Eating had only been for survival.

Now, before him stood a mahogany dining table draped in a pristine white linen cloth, laden with all kinds of dishes.

The steak was cooked just right, its surface marked with beautiful grill lines. When cut open, pink juices flowed out and pooled into a small amber puddle at the bottom of the plate; the stew was soft and tender, carrots, potatoes, and beef appearing and disappearing in the rich broth, steam thick with the scent of spices; the fried shrimp were golden and crisp, their tails still curled upward; and there were pastries he didn't know the names of—powdered sugar-dusted pancakes, chocolate lava cakes that flowed with filling when cut open, fruit tarts piled high with bright berries and cream...

Every dish was a new experience. Every one struck against his impoverished memories of taste.

He ate with focus and sincerity, with a feeling almost like pilgrimage.

His knife and fork clinked crisply against the porcelain. His cheeks puffed slightly as he chewed, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed—every motion carried a hint of ritual.

Then Son Goku's voice suddenly sounded beside him. Broly couldn't help frowning, like a stone tossed into still water.

"Um... Broly?" Son Goku had somehow already come to stand beside the table.

He rubbed his hands together, his fingers unconsciously brushing back and forth, wearing a childlike, ingratiating smile.

His eyes shone like two lit stars, glittering beneath the warm yellow lights.

His gaze moved over Broly again and again—his shoulders, his hands, and finally his profile.

Broly didn't look up.

His silver dinner knife cut through the steak, scraping faintly across the plate. The pink meat gleamed enticingly under the lights.

"What is it?" His voice was calm, with no emotion to be heard in it.

"Hehe..." Goku scratched the back of his head, making one tuft of hair stick up even more.

He edged half a step closer, his sneakers nearly silent against the wooden floor. "Um... wanna fight later?"

The moment the words left his mouth, his entire body seemed ready to launch forward. The atmosphere instantly tightened, and every inch of him radiated barely contained excitement.

Broly's movements paused.

The knife stopped in midair, and the meat on his fork swayed slightly.

He slowly raised his head and looked at Goku.

Those black eyes were as still as the deep sea before a storm. There were no ripples on the surface, yet they instinctively made one feel that undercurrents churned below.

It was that unfathomable calm that made Goku's smile stiffen. His mouth remained curved upward, but vigilance had already begun to rise in his eyes.

"I'm eating." Broly's voice wasn't loud. It was even somewhat gentle, but every word dropped into the air like a stone.

He glanced at Goku. There was no anger, no displeasure—only a pure, immovable refusal. Like a mountain would not move, like the sea would not dry up, this rejection was instinctive.

That look made Goku unconsciously take half a step back.

Not out of fear, but from a more primal instinct—like an antelope on the grasslands suddenly catching the scent of a lion, or a deer in the forest hearing claws scrape against bark from within the bushes.

Broly hadn't even released any energy, tensed his muscles, or changed his breathing. It was only a look, a moment of eye contact, yet every hair on Goku's body stood on end, and his body automatically shifted into a defensive stance.

A cold snort came from the restaurant entrance.

Vegeta leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. No one knew when he had gotten there, but he had seen everything that had just happened.

His dark blue battle suit made his physique look even leaner and sharper. His brow was furrowed deeply enough to crush a fly, his mouth turned down, his face full of impatience.

"Kakarot." When he spoke, his voice was as cold as frozen earth on a winter morning in West City. "Stop embarrassing yourself here."

Only then did Goku come back to himself. A trace of embarrassment flashed across his face, and the tips of his ears reddened slightly.

But that embarrassment was quickly swallowed by even stronger excitement. His eyes grew brighter, as if someone had thrown more wood onto the fire within them.

"But..." He looked at Broly, who was still cutting his steak, then glanced at Vegeta. He could barely hide the excitement in his voice. "Can't you feel it? The ki around him..."

He did not finish, but of course Vegeta had felt it.

Ever since Broly had stepped into Capsule Corporation, Vegeta had been sensing the unfamiliar Saiyan's ki.

Like extending feelers, he had cautiously probed and examined it.

Yet no matter how he probed, it was like tossing a stone into a bottomless mine shaft—there was only a hollow echo, and he could never reach the bottom.

That man's ki was not being concealed. It was simply too deep—so deep that Vegeta's senses could not even touch its edges, like trying to measure the ocean's depth with a bamboo pole.

It made Vegeta deeply uncomfortable.

He was the Saiyan prince, a once-in-a-century genius, a super warrior who had broken through his limits through sheer will and mastered the realm of gods.

He had faced many powerful enemies—Frieza, Cell, Majin Buu, even a God of Destruction.

But before Broly, for the first time, he felt that long-forgotten, infuriating sensation—he could not see through him. He was unfathomable.

"So what?" Vegeta snorted, deliberately raising his voice as though convincing himself. "Don't forget, Bulma could give birth at any moment. Do you want to tear Earth apart right now?"

His gaze swept across the dining room—the chandelier, the family portrait on the wall, the garden outside that Bulma had so carefully tended. Everything seemed so peaceful, yet that peace was fragile enough to shatter at a touch.

Goku's expression stiffened.

Of course he remembered. Bulma's due date was only days away, and Trunks would soon have a little sister.