The Return Journey and the Challenge

"That's the only possible way for me to return to my original world."

Bulma was stunned, completely stunned.

She opened her mouth, but couldn't say a word.

In the laboratory, the air, which had been at a constant temperature, suddenly felt a bit cool, as if the air conditioning system had malfunctioned.

She only stared at him—this man who had barged into another world, possessing unbelievable power, yet here he was also intertwined with the fate of this world.

He still stood so upright, like a straight pine tree.

But Bulma suddenly sensed that beneath his calm expression lay a turbulent undercurrent.

That kind of obsession can make someone go to any lengths to cross time and space, just to return to their original world.

Time ticked by, and only the sound of machines filling the excessive silence in the laboratory.

Bulma's gaze shifted several times.

First it landed on his face, then on his tightly clenched fist, and finally met those golden, inhuman eyes.

Countless questions raced through her mind—what was that "original world" like? What was it that he couldn't let go of, that made him so determined to go back? Was there nothing here, in this land he had once protected and fought for, that he would miss?

She thought for a long time before she found her voice.

With a slightly hoarse voice, "You... really... want to go back?"

Qi Heng answered decisively, without the slightest hesitation.

That's my world.

His voice was extremely calm, like the surface of a still lake, yet the firmness he conveyed was like a stone pressing down on the air.

Then, his voice softened, and he turned his head as if he could see through the wall to a place very, very far away, or to someone hidden in his heart.

"And here... there are people I must protect."

These words were like a key, gently unlocking the knot in Bulma's heart.

Her confusion and worry slowly dissipated, replaced by a kind of understanding—an understanding mixed with helplessness.

Images of him fighting to protect the Earth flashed through her mind, along with the image of him fighting side by side with his comrades.

It turns out that for him, leaving and staying, fighting and pursuing, were actually the same thing, just with different names.

She finally nodded.

The movement was light, but the weight it carried was anything but light.

She refrained from asking the remaining questions—about the risks, the timing, and who the opponent was.

Some answers don't need to be asked; some resolves simply need to be respected.

"I see."

Bulma took a deep breath and walked back to her workbench.

Her fingers swept across the blueprints of the Time Machine, her eyes becoming focused—an expression she only wore when facing the most challenging research.

"I will adjust the final energy coupling system and eliminate all known time coordinate errors... I will build the Time Machine as soon as possible, to the best of my ability."

Qi Heng simply looked at her, and a trace of warmth finally appeared in his golden pupils—very faint, but very genuine.

"Thanks."

They didn't say anything more.

He glanced one last time at the lights outside the window, a sight that was both familiar and strange to him, then turned and started walking.

The sound of black boots tapping steadily on the floor, step by step leaving the laboratory light and heading towards the door.

The automatic door slid open silently, and the light from the outside corridor outlined his clean and sharp features.

The door closed again the next second, shutting him out.

The laboratory fell silent again.

All that remains is Bulma and the unfinished Time Machine —bearing the dream of traveling through time and space, and also bearing a heavy responsibility.

She put her goggles back on, her gaze fixed on the blueprint, and muttered to herself.

It was like making a promise to oneself, and also like responding to the departing figure:

"I will definitely... take you wherever you want to go."

The setting sun bathed the Capsule Corporation's courtyard in a dark gold hue.

The air still carried the scorching smell of dust from the training session.

Vegeta stood alone in the middle of the yard, the ground beneath his feet cracked and littered with rubble.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his knuckles turning white from the force, and his tight Battle Suit accentuated his muscle definition.

The evening breeze ruffled his upright black hair, but it couldn't dispel the oppressive aura emanating from him.

His expression was frighteningly gloomy, his lips were tightly pressed together, and the veins on his forehead throbbed slightly.

Qi Heng pushed open the alloy door, his footsteps echoing clearly in the empty courtyard.

Vegeta turned his head sharply, and the setting sun slanted in, making the features of his face even more defined.

His pupils contracted, his eyes churning with complex emotions—anger, burning like a volcano; jealousy, sharp as a venomous snake; and a hint of resentment suppressed deep within his heart.

That gaze, as if it were tangible, rooted Qi Heng to the spot.

"Kakarot..." Vegeta gritted his teeth, his voice low and hoarse, each word like it had been ground against gravel, "... becomes Super Saiyan 4."

He paused, his breathing became heavier, and his chest heaved violently.

"You helped him."

The wind whipped up the withered leaves by the training field, swirling them between the two men.

"Yes."

Qi Heng answered decisively.

He stood in the shadows of the porch, his golden eyes utterly calm, as still as a deep well.

Vegeta took a step forward, his combat boots crushing the gravel with a particularly jarring sound.

Why won't you help me?

This sentence came quickly and forcefully, like a long-suppressed emotion suddenly erupting, or like a longing revealed after a hole has been torn in one's self-esteem—a longing that even he himself was unwilling to admit.

His fists clenched even tighter, his nails digging into his palms.

Qi Heng walked down the steps with steady steps.

The sand rustled beneath his feet.

He walked to a spot three steps away from Vegeta, and looked up to meet the other's gaze, which was almost fire-breathing.

"You'll break through on your own."

Vegeta's brows were furrowed so deeply they almost formed a furrow.

"What's the meaning?"

His voice was full of doubt and impatience, and he leaned forward like a beast ready to pounce.

The evening breeze picked up a bit, rustling the half-dried leaves in the yard.

"The Saiyan prince," Qi Heng's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced through the wind, carrying a distant meaning, as if stating some ancient prophecy, "Doesn't need anyone else's help."

These words were like a bucket of cold water poured on him, or a punch to the heart.

Vegeta shuddered, his pupils dilating instantly.

He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, wanting to shout it out, but all the words got stuck in his throat.

Pride, anger, humiliation, and a touch of awkwardness at being called out were all written on his face.

In the end, he just gritted his teeth, his face as stiff as stone, and said nothing more.

Only the increasingly heavy breathing and the slight trembling of the shoulders revealed the intense struggle within.

Qi Heng said nothing more and walked past him.

The wind stirred by the hem of his clothes swept across Vegeta's arm.

Just as he was about to step out of the courtyard archway, Qi Heng stopped.

He didn't turn around; his shadow was stretched long by the setting sun.

"Vegeta."

His voice remained calm, but it was like a pebble thrown into stagnant water.

Vegeta suddenly looked up and stared at his back.

"Son Goku has already gone ahead of you."

These words, like a knife, coldly dissect reality.

"If you don't want to be left behind by him, you'll only ever be able to see his back..."

He tilted his head slightly, glancing at Vegeta's stiff figure out of the corner of his eye.

"... Then catch up with him as soon as possible."

After he finished speaking, the courtyard became so quiet that only the sound of the wind could be heard.

Vegeta's fists clenched so tightly they cracked, the muscles in his arms tensed and trembled slightly.

His teeth were clenched so tightly that you could hear a grinding sound.

A bead of sweat slid down his face.

"I don't need you to remind me."