Piccolo stood at the edge of the wasteland, arms folded, cape snapping in the dry wind. The sky was an endless blue, calm in a way that felt insulting given what he knew was coming.
One year.
That was all they had.
Behind him, Gohan sat cross-legged on a flat rock, a thick book open in his lap. His small brow was furrowed in concentration, lips moving slightly as he read under his breath.
Piccolo clicked his tongue.
"Your eyes are on the page," he said, not turning around. "But your mind is drifting."
Gohan flinched. "S-Sorry, Mr. Piccolo. I was just—"
"Thinking about your mother," Piccolo finished. "Or your father. Or the Saiyans."
Gohan nodded slowly. "All of them."
Piccolo turned then, sharp eyes locking onto the child. "Fear is fine. Distraction isn't. If those Saiyans arrive and you hesitate for even a second, you die. If you die, your father won't forgive himself. And if that happens—" Piccolo paused, scowling. "—it will be annoying."
Gohan blinked. "…That's not very comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you," Piccolo snapped. "I'm here to make sure you survive."
He gestured toward the book. "Read."
Gohan looked down again. "But why do I have to study now? Shouldn't I be training?"
Piccolo snorted. "Training your body without training your mind is how idiots fight. Saiyans aren't just strong—they're brutal, tactical, and merciless. If you don't understand what you're facing, strength won't save you."
He walked closer, looming over Gohan's shoulder. "What does the book say?"
Gohan swallowed and read aloud. "Um… 'When faced with an overwhelming threat, retreat is not cowardice if it preserves strategic advantage.'"
Piccolo nodded once. "Good. Most warriors don't learn that until they're dead."
Gohan hesitated, then asked quietly, "Mr. Piccolo… do you think they're stronger than my dad?"
The question hung in the air.
Piccolo looked back toward the horizon, jaw tight. "Yes."
Gohan's hands trembled slightly, gripping the book. "Then… what chance do we have?"
Piccolo turned fully now, eyes hard, voice low. "That depends on you."
Gohan looked up, startled.
"Your father has raw power," Piccolo continued. "Krillin has experience. Tien has discipline. But you—" He jabbed two fingers into Gohan's forehead, not hard, but firm. "—you have something none of them do."
Gohan frowned. "What?"
Piccolo's gaze sharpened. "Potential that scares me."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Piccolo stepped back and pointed toward the open plain. "Enough reading. Stand up."
Gohan scrambled to his feet, book clutched to his chest. "Training time?"
Piccolo smirked faintly. "Training time."
He raised one hand—and without warning, fired a ki blast straight at Gohan.
Gohan yelped, barely diving out of the way as the blast exploded behind him.
Piccolo crossed his arms again. "Lesson one," he said calmly. "Never assume your enemy will wait until you're ready."
Gohan pushed himself up, heart racing, fear and determination mixing in his chest.
Far away, beyond the sky, two Saiyan pods cut silently through space.
And on Earth, a child trained to read… and to survive.
Piccolo didn't even move after the blast.
Smoke rolled across the ground behind Gohan, heat still warping the air, and Piccolo stood there in it like a statue carved out of contempt. His cape fluttered once, then settled.
Gohan turned, eyes wide. "Y-You didn't even warn me!"
"That was the warning," Piccolo replied flatly.
He stepped forward.
The ground answered him.
A low hum crawled through the wasteland as Piccolo's ki began to rise—not explosively, not wild, but heavy. Dense. The air thickened, pressure settling on Gohan's shoulders like invisible hands.
Piccolo wasn't shouting. He wasn't posing. He was simply there.
And that was worse.
"This," Piccolo said, voice calm and cutting through the hum of his aura, "is what the Saiyans will feel when they land. Not rage. Not noise. Pressure."
The sky above them darkened slightly, clouds pulling inward as if drawn by gravity that had no right to exist. Small stones began to rattle, then lift, hovering around Piccolo's boots.
Gohan swallowed hard. His knees shook.
"Mr. Piccolo…" he whispered. "It's hard to breathe."
Piccolo's eyes flicked to him. "Good. Learn that feeling. When your chest tightens and your legs want to fold—that's when weak fighters panic."
He took another step forward.
The pressure doubled.
Gohan dropped to one knee, teeth clenched, sweat breaking across his forehead. His book slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a soft thud.
Piccolo didn't stop.
"Power isn't just something you throw," he continued. "It's something you impose. Real warriors don't announce themselves. They suffocate the battlefield."
He raised one hand slightly.
Just slightly.
The floating rocks around him shattered into dust.
Gohan gasped, hands digging into the dirt as he struggled to stay upright. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to cry out—but something else stirred beneath that fear. Something hot. Something deep.
Piccolo noticed.
His aura flared—not brighter, but sharper.
"Ah," he muttered. "There it is."
Gohan's breath came in short bursts. "I—I can't—"
"Yes, you can," Piccolo snapped. "You're still thinking like a child. Stop thinking. Feel it."
He leaned down, eyes burning into Gohan's. "The fear. The pressure. The instinct to survive. Don't fight it."
The ground cracked beneath Gohan's hands.
A flicker of power surged out of him—small, uncontrolled, but real. The pressure eased just enough for him to gasp in a full breath.
Piccolo straightened, a faint, dangerous smirk touching his face.
"That spark?" he said. "That's why you're alive."
He pulled his aura back all at once.
The sky cleared. The rocks fell. The pressure vanished like it had never existed.
Gohan collapsed backward, chest heaving, staring up at the blue sky.
Piccolo looked down at him, cape settling, presence still overwhelming even without the aura.
"Read when I tell you," he said. "Fight when I tell you. Suffer when I tell you."
He turned away, walking back toward the edge of the wasteland.
"And when the Saiyans arrive," Piccolo added without looking back, "they'll realize something too late."
Gohan slowly pushed himself up, fists clenched, eyes no longer just afraid.
"What… what will they realize?" he asked.
Piccolo stopped.
His silhouette cut against the sky, tall, unmoving, absolute.
"That Earth," he said, "isn't undefended."
And for the first time, Gohan believed him.
Piccolo stared at Gohan for a long second.
Then he sighed.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that tired, ancient sigh of someone who had already fought gods, demons, and his own father—and was now babysitting a traumatized six-year-old.
"…You're shaking," Piccolo said.
Gohan looked down at his hands. They were still trembling, adrenaline buzzing through his arms. "I—I'm okay."
Piccolo snorted. "No, you're not. But you're alive. That's progress."
He turned away, waving a hand dismissively. "We're done for today."
Gohan blinked. "Huh?"
Piccolo glanced back over his shoulder. "You pushed past your fear. Your ki responded. Any more and you'll either pass out or explode something important."
He paused. "And I don't feel like explaining that to Chi-Chi."
That did it.
Gohan visibly relaxed.
Piccolo folded his arms. "Go. Clean yourself up. You smell like dirt, sweat, and panic."
Gohan hesitated, then smiled a little. "Can I… get a haircut? Mom said I look like a mushroom."
Piccolo looked him up and down.
The bowl cut. The uneven bangs. The pure academic trauma haircut.
"…Yeah," Piccolo said dryly. "That has to go."
They walked toward the edge of the wasteland together.
As they moved, Piccolo's aura flared just a bit—not aggressive, not heavy—just enough to part the dust around them, carving a clean path through the ground. Effortless. Casual. Aura farming without even trying.
Gohan noticed. Of course he did.
"Mr. Piccolo," he asked, "can you always do that?"
Piccolo didn't look at him. "Yes."
"Even when you're relaxed?"
"Yes."
"Even if you're just… walking?"
Piccolo stopped, glanced down at him, and gave a rare, almost-smirk. "Kid. This is me relaxed."
Gohan's eyes widened.
They reached the road leading toward the city.
Piccolo turned. "Get your haircut. Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow—"
He let just a hint of pressure leak out again. The air bent. The ground whispered.
"—we go harder."
Gohan nodded, serious now. "I won't be late."
Piccolo watched him run off toward civilization, cape fluttering behind him.
"…Don't get bangs again," Piccolo muttered.
Then he turned back toward the wasteland, aura rising slightly as he resumed training—because Saiyans were coming, and Piccolo did not plan on being caught lacking.
Fresh cut or not.
Piccolo watched Gohan walk ahead of him, dust clinging to the boy's clothes, hair sticking out in uneven tufts no matter how many times he tried to smooth it down.
He sighed.
"Stop," Piccolo said.
Gohan turned. "Did I do something wrong?"
Piccolo studied him for a moment longer than necessary. Not his stance. Not his breathing.
Just… him.
"No," Piccolo replied. "But you look unprepared."
"For training?" Gohan asked, confused.
"For anything," Piccolo said flatly.
A short walk later, they stood in front of a small barbershop. The sign buzzed softly, one letter flickering like it was deciding whether or not to exist. The place looked old, stubborn, and still standing out of spite.
Gohan blinked. "Why are we here?"
Piccolo pushed the door open. "Because you're not fighting Saiyans looking like you lost a fight with a pillow."
Inside, the barber froze when he saw Piccolo duck under the doorframe. The room felt smaller instantly, like the walls were listening.
Piccolo pointed at Gohan. "Line him up."
The barber nodded like his life depended on it. Because it did.
Gohan sat in the chair.
The barber leaned in. "So what we doing, lil bro? Taper? Fade?"
Piccolo cut in. "Anything but the 'raised-by-Chi-Chi' special."
Clippers buzzed.
Piccolo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, aura idling like a V12 engine.
The entire shop felt like Namek before it explodes.
The barber locked the fuck in.
Surgical precision. Clean edges. Focused like he's cutting a bomb wire.
Minutes later—
The chair turned.
Gohan touched his head. "Oh—yo??"
Clean. Sharp. Respectable. Future scholar with hands.
Piccolo nodded. "Good. You look like you can survive now."
The barber wiped sweat from his forehead. "That'll be—"
Piccolo dropped exact change on the counter. No wallet. No explanation.
They walked out.
Piccolo stopped.
Extended his fist.
Gohan blinked. Then smiled and dap'd him up.
Piccolo smirked. "Don't get used to that."
Gohan laughed. "Yes sir!"
Piccolo turned, aura flaring just a bit as the wind kicked up.
---
So some you don't like how l am planning to let him look like a human.
And honestly l am a little sad because l thought the harem would be a bigger problem not this.
So l think l would still wish he looked like a human. He will be Frieza inside only his skin would be different. Cuz honestly l don't think anyone would would want to look like a purple Dildo if they can help it.