As the World Falls Down
He had failed. The mafuba had missed, catching in its wake only the swollen shape of Drum, failing even to reach Piccolo Daimaou. In fragments of ceramic, the denshi jar shattered, a single spark of energy from Piccolo's finger, his mouth moving, words that Tienshinhan did not hear. Somewhere nearby, Drum groaned, hefting his massive shape up from the dirt, and all he could of was that he had failed, that the mafuba had missed.
'Weak.'
Although, his lips moved with the word, in his mind, he saw his old master, hands clasped behind his back, turned away from him, a tranquil lake before them both, the lilies disturbed only by the falling rain, a crane standing on one leg, a serpent slithering through the water towards it.
'In conflict, you must be focused on your victory. To let doubt into the heart, to conceive even of a failure, that is a weakness, Tien, that will be your undoing.'
He drew breath, chest heaving, heart thundering. He had not doubted himself, he had stayed true to the teachings of his old master, to the teachings of the Crane School, and still, in the face of the Daimaou, he had been found wanting.
In his memory, the old man turned to him, the fading light catching the black plastic of his sunglasses.
'You don't get second chances in life, Tien. This is why I have taught both you and Chaozu as I have. This is why I hope you will both follow after my brother. Life is short, and if you do not strike first, you lose.'
Over his shoulder, the crane's slender neck had darted forward, its head diving downward, the surface of the water broken. A moment later, cool and indifferent, it had risen again, the serpent struggling in its beak.
Sweat pouring down his face, he blinked furiously, each of his three eyes struggling to keep sight in focus, the dust stirring at his boots. Up until a handful of days ago, his focus had been singular, to win the Tenkaichi Tournament at any cost—now, he here was, contesting rākṣasa that even his master had weakened before.
To his left, he sensed Drum straightening up, and again, he heard the voice of the Daimaou. There was no time, he was exhausted, another attempt on his life and he would not be able to mount a counterattack.
He did not believe his former master was an evil man. Cruel, yes, petty and vindictive, yes, but not evil. Here in the presence of the Daimaou and his vassal, he understood the true nature of evil, the absolute disinterest in life.
'Focus,' the old man snapped in his recollection once more.
He drew in breath, centred himself, blinking sweat from his eyes. He had no other jar consecrated for the purpose of demon entrapment; he had only his fists.
The Crane School afforded no second chances. With his actions in the tournament, his desire to test his strength against that of the boy, Son Goku, in the purest sense, he had stepped away from such teaching.
There was no alternative. There was no Goku now, no Muten Roshi-sama, no Shen Long, there was only him, standing alone in the desert but for his opponents, chest heaving, sweat in his eyes, gambling on that second chance his master had told him would never come.
Dust stirred, and with a cry of frustration and indignation, Drum launched towards him.