Dragon Ball Z: The Beast Within - CH60

[Escarot POV]

I couldn’t feel my arms.

That was the first thing I noticed.

Not the blood in my mouth. Not the ringing in my ears. Not the fact that my spine felt like it had been reassembled.

No—just the simple realization that my arms weren’t responding.

Probably because Beerus had hit me with enough force to turn a mountain range into a decorative crater.

Again.

The second thing I noticed was that I wasn’t lying flat on the ground.

Something was sitting on me.

Comfortably.

Like I was a chair.

“Hmm…” Beerus hummed above me, his tone bored and disappointed at the same time. “His power is barely increasing.”

I tried to move. Maybe shift. Maybe breathe.

Nope.

Beerus had parked himself right on my back like he was lounging on a picnic bench. Legs crossed. Tail swaying lazily.

Whis floated just to our right, completely calm, staff in hand, looking like he was evaluating a mildly interesting insect.

“Oh dear,” Whis said with that eternal polite smile. “It appears the Saiyan post-battle growth phenomenon is not working in the way we’d expect.”

Beerus snorted. “Tch. Figures.”

I coughed.

Blood splattered the dirt.

My face was pressed into the ground hard enough that I could taste soil. Not metaphorically. Like literally dirt on my tongue.

Beerus wiggled a bit to get more comfortable on top of me.

He was using me. As a cushion.

I tried lifting my head.

He casually pressed one foot between my shoulder blades and shoved me back flat.

“Stay still,” Beerus said, annoyed. “You’re squirmy when injured.”

I’m SQUIRMY?! This motherfu—

I didn’t say that out loud. Mostly because my lungs weren’t fully cooperating, and I was smart enough to comprehend that doing so would kill me.

Whis continued, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Well, Lord Beerus, it seems your hypothesis was correct. Simply injuring him repeatedly isn’t giving you the exponential jump you were expecting.”

Beerus huffed. “Then Saiyan biology is even more inconvenient than I thought.”

“In fairness,” Whis replied, “their genetic growth—or rather, their accelerated adaptation after near-death—varies dramatically between fights. And…” He gestured at me with his staff. “This one is still a child.”

Beerus blinked once.

Then twice.

“Oh,” he said flatly.

Whis nodded. “Yes. Biologically speaking, undeveloped bodies have certain limitations. Bone density. Organ resilience. Hormonal output. Recovery efficiency. Not to mention the fact that some traits simply don’t activate fully until adulthood.”

“So you’re saying,” Beerus said slowly, “that I’ve been beating him up… and he’s not even getting the benefit of being beaten up?”

I would’ve shrugged if he wasn’t literally pinning my entire torso with the force of a divine paperweight.

Another cough rattled through me.

More blood.

Beerus leaned forward, purple ears flicking. “You hear that, brat?”

I tried—TRIED—to push myself up on sheer stubbornness.

He pushed back down with one toe.

Just one.

My ribs made a noise ribs shouldn’t make.

“Hrk—!”

“Oh my,” Whis said. “Escarot, please try not to pass out yet. Lord Beerus still wants to test something.”

Beerus tapped his chin. “Yes. I want to see if he can stand.”

I couldn’t.

I knew that.

Beerus knew that.

Whis definitely knew that.

Yet Beerus asked, as if hopeful the answer might surprise him.

He lifted his foot off my back.

Just enough for me to try.

I managed to raise my head roughly three inches before gravity and pain tag-teamed me and slammed me right back down.

Beerus sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like I was the one inconveniencing him.

“Pathetic.”

Whis shook his head lightly. “Now, now, Lord Beerus. He took those strikes rather well for someone whose skeleton is still soft.”

SOFT?!

I wheezed in outrage. Or tried to.

Beerus scoffed. “I suppose so...”

Whis smiled. “He is eight.”

“Eight what?”

“Years old.”

Beerus stared at him.

Then stared down at me.

Back at Whis.

“…You mean,” Beerus said slowly, “I’ve been punching a eight-year-old?”

Whis nodded.

Beerus paused. Tail flicking in contemplation.

Then:

“I see.”

He leaned back down and flicked me in the head with one finger.

I ate dirt. Again.

“Still disappointing,” he added.

If I had strength left, I would’ve screamed.

Instead, more blood.

Whis drifted downward a few inches, floating beside my half-dead body like a serene ghost. “If we don’t tend to him soon, Lord Beerus, he’ll die.”

Beerus didn’t look remotely worried.

“He’ll be fine.”

Whis blinked. “No, my Lord. He will die. His organs are failing. One of his lungs is partially collapsed. His shoulder blade has splintered. And his tail is—”

“Still attached,” Beerus interrupted. “Good enough.”

Whis sighed. “My Lord, durability training is supposed to be marginally survivable.”

“He survived.”

“Barely.”

“That still counts.”

I groaned in the dirt. “Ughh…”

Beerus flicked one ear. “Stop being dramatic. You Saiyans always complain when you’re injured. Yet you jump right back into battle the second you can move again.”

“That,” Whis added pleasantly, “will not be today.”

Beerus tapped his foot impatiently. “Fine. Heal him then. But not all the way. I want to keep punching him, I mean… training.”

I wanted to cry.

Whis raised his staff.

A bright blue glow enveloped me.

Bones slid back into place. Organs reformed. Pain receded enough that I could breathe again without sounding like a road kill animal.

My vision sharpened.

My arms twitched.

Beerus leaned over me, hands on his hips.

“There,” he said. “Good as new.”

Whis corrected gently. “Approximately sixty percent functional.”

Beerus waved a hand dismissively. “Close enough.”

—---------------------------------------------------------

[Beerus POV]

This was irritating.

I watched the boy—lying half-dead on the ground again. He was making that awful wheezing noise mortals make when their lungs are trying to re-negotiate existence.

Whis healed him just enough so he wouldn’t die, which I suppose was the bare minimum needed for continued training. Beyond that? I didn’t care.

Sure, I wouldn’t kill him, his food was far too valuable.

But still…

I clicked my tongue and crossed my arms.

“Hmph. Disappointing.”

Whis glanced at me with that smile that always felt like he was politely announcing that I’m wrong about something.

“What exactly is disappointing, my Lord?”

I gestured toward Escarot with one clawed finger. “This whole thing.”

Whis folded his hands behind his back. “Perhaps he isn’t so responsive to such crude methods.”

Crude methods.

I have trained MANY using the same system for over 75 million years. It worked fine.

Of course, none of them survived.

Which, now that I think about it, may explain the lack of improvement. Maybe Whis was right… but I would never let him know that.

Still. I frowned down at Escarot’s twitching body.

“I hit him full-force—scaled to his own power, no less. He should’ve jumped at least… hm… twice that by now.”

Whis tilted his head. “My Lord, he is eight.”

“Yes, yes, you keep saying that.” I flicked my tail in annoyance. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

Whis’ smile widened. “Children, my Lord, do not possess the same physiological response pathways as adults. It is scientifically remarkable he hasn’t died twelve times already.”

I huffed.

Escarot groaned from the dirt. “If…I could have a word…”

“Quiet,” I told him. “The adults are discussing what to do with you.”

Whis gave me the look he gives right before he starts lecturing.

“I believe our little chef requires a different approach to his current dilemma,” He tapped his staff lightly. “He is, after all, quite the anomaly.”

“Hmm, yes… Everything about him is an anomaly,” I muttered. “He’s a respectful mortal in a race full of idiots. He’s stronger than all of his species. He cooks like an angel—”

Whis smirked. “Why thank you, my Lord.”

I sighed and crouched slightly, inspecting Escarot more closely. He had raw potential. That much was clear. More than any Saiyan I had ever witnessed at this age, and I’d seen plenty of their kind across history.

But potential wasn’t strength.

And if I was going to waste my divine time training someone, they’d better be capable of achieving results faster than geological time.

“He’s sloppy,” I said finally. “All power, no focus. When he transforms that ki of his—this ‘Surge’ technique—he wastes most of what he flares.”

Whis nodded. “Correct. It’s like pouring a barrel of water when you only need a cup.”

I flicked my ear irritably. “And every time I punch him, he bleeds. That’s not a good sign.”

Escarot groaned again. “It’s… a side effect…of being punched….”

“Of being inefficient,” I snapped.

Whis raised a finger. “He is right, my lord.”

I shot him a glare.

Whis pretended not to see it.

“So what do we do?” I muttered, mostly to myself. “I can’t beat him into improvement. His body can’t handle much more. And he’s not gaining enough from the process anyway.”

Whis placed a hand over his chest, bowing slightly. “If I may suggest—”

“No.”

Whis blinked. “But I haven’t said anything yet.”

“No. Whatever you’re about to suggest, I already know you think it’s clever, and therefore I will not like it.”

Whis gave a small sigh. “My Lord… if you want Escarot to grow stronger efficiently, you need to help him refine his technique. Not pound him into the dirt endlessly.”

“But pounding is the fun part,” I said. “Watching him cough up blood is fun.”

Escarot weakly lifted a hand. “For who…?”

“For me,” I answered.

He dropped the hand again.

I felt my tail flick with irritation. Whis was right—just this once. If Escarot’s raw strength wouldn’t multiply the way I wanted from pure physical punishment, then there needed to be a different angle.

A different set of skills.

A different environment.

He needed conditioning that didn’t involve me reducing him to molecules.

I tapped one claw against my arm.

“Perhaps,” I said slowly, “I should outsource this stage of his training.”

Whis brightened instantly. “My Lord, that is an excellent idea! There are several civilizations adept at non-destructive ki refinement. Technical training. Philosophical—”

“I said perhaps.”

He floated closer. “But if you were considering it—”

“I was thinking, Whis. Thinking.”

Whis gave a small nod like he was humoring me.

I ignored him and considered the options.

I could teach him, of course, but I had better things to do than babysit a child who kept breaking every time I lightly touched him.

Who else…?

Which race specialized in ki control…?

My eye twitched.

Oh no.

Whis clapped his hands. “My Lord! Are you thinking of the people of—”

“I swear if you say it,” I growled, “I’ll erase the nearest star.”

Whis smiled wider. “Yadrat.”

I groaned.

Yardrat.

The weird little pink and purple aliens with their absurd techniques and ridiculous outfits.

The ones who specialized in ki manipulation, spirit control, teleportation, cloning, size control—techniques so bizarre even gods considered them too… gimmicky.

Their food sucked.

Whis placed a hand on my shoulder. “They would be perfect for Escarot. Their training emphasizes precision. Efficiency. Ki control. Everything he lacks.”

“I am not sending my personal chef to a planet full of balloon-headed mystics wearing pajamas.”

“They are robes, my Lord.”

“Robes are pajamas.”

Whis tried and failed not to laugh.

Escarot moved slightly beneath us. “P… pajamas…?”

“Be quiet,” I said. “You’ll go where I tell you.”

Whis spun his staff slowly. “You know it's the best option, my Lord.”

I hated that he was right.

I despised it.

I clicked my claws together in thought.

“…If he learns a thing or two with them,” I muttered, “he may actually become interesting.”

Whis giggled. “That’s the spirit, my Lord.”

“I was not trying to sound spirited.”

“You did.”

“Tch.”

I looked down at Escarot again—the bruised, bloodied little gremlin I had somehow adopted as my personal chef.

A mortal.

A child.

A fan of the greatest God to ever live. 

A creature with barely any refinement but an absurd amount of potential.

“Well,” I said, “get up, brat.”

Escarot didn’t move.

Whis poked him lightly with his staff. “Escarot, Lord Beerus is speaking to you.”

“I… can’t… feel… anything…I think… I’m dying….”

I sighed dramatically.

“Such a crybaby…”