Same training

The metal doors hiss open, and the gravity chamber’s red lights paint everything in blood. I step inside, boots clanging, and there he is: five years old, floating three feet off the floor, arms crossed, tail flicking like a whip. His scouter clicks once, scanning me, then he smirks. “Another toy for target practice,” Prince Vegeta says, voice sharp enough to cut steel. “Try not to die too quickly. I hate cleaning up weaklings.”