"Had his hands and feet bound by family ties, his fangs tied down too...?" he murmured. His tone was even, making it impossible to tell whether he was mocking him or merely stating a fact.
"Son Goku, if you cannot even break free from the cage you built with your own hands... then Super Saiyan 4 can only ever be an unreachable dream for you."
At the center of the battlefield, Goku was growing more and more battered.
Three powerful enemies were attacking him in perfect coordination.
He was like a lone boat, swaying on the verge of capsizing amid a storm.
A scorched wound had appeared on his left arm, left behind by the passing aftermath of an energy blast.
His right leg had taken a kick head-on, and every movement now felt like needles stabbing into it.
His gi had been torn open across the back, revealing overlapping purple bruises beneath—the marks left by blocking heavy blows.
His once-bright orange martial arts uniform had been reduced to strips of rag drifting lifelessly in the air currents.
But his deepest wounds had never been on his skin.
Every time he dodged, he caught sight of Gohan's eyes—eyes that should have been intelligent and warm, but now held nothing but emptiness and savagery.
Every time he blocked, he saw Goten's face—once lively and cheerful, now filled with dullness and killing intent.
The familiar yet unfamiliar cold aura coming from Piccolo cut into his heart like a dull blade whenever it struck, scraping at him again and again until he could barely breathe.
Memories of them calling him "Dad," pestering him to train, and fighting at his side now overlapped with every lethal attack before him, becoming the cruelest punishment imaginable.
"Hahahaha!" Baby floated in the air, watching it all as