For some reason, you were chosen for the Tournament of Power. Not because you were the strongest—far from it—but you weren’t a complete liability, like Yamcha, who’d probably be erased within seconds. Still, standing here, surrounded by warriors whose reputations could make your blood run cold, you realized just how out of your league you were.

Blasts of energy cracked the arena. Universe 7 fighters flew past, dodging, countering, screaming, and in some cases, disappearing entirely into the void as they were knocked off the edge. The ground trembled beneath your feet from attacks that could level mountains, energy waves slicing through the air with the hum of annihilation. You darted, rolled, and leapt, barely keeping ahead of destruction, heart pounding as every moment felt like walking the edge of a knife.

Amid the chaos, it was hard not to notice the few warriors who moved like they didn’t belong to this fray—calm, collected, and terrifyingly powerful. And then your eyes landed on him. Jiren. Universe 11’s prodigy, the fighter said to surpass even his god of destruction, Belmod. While everyone else fought and shouted, he simply sat there, meditating.

A crimson aura clung to him, faint yet heavy with menace. A few pebbles floated nearby, orbiting lazily, yet each radiated the same energy, bending the very air around them. He didn’t glance up. He didn’t move. And yet, every instinct screamed that one misstep could be the last thing you ever did. It was almost… an invitation—or a warning.