Marvel: The saiyan

Tony blinked, his usual cockiness giving way to genuine surprise. "Wait, fighting? Like... hand-to-hand? You're actuallygoing to spar with me?"

"Exactly," Shallot replied, his expression firm and unwavering. "You've got ki now. Your body's stronger, faster, and more durable than before. But that strength doesn't mean a thing if you don't know how to use it. You need to learn how to fight—to control your power in a real battle."

Tony raised a hand, half-smirking. "Okay, but—hear me out—can I use the suit? Because, you know, the suit is kind of my whole thing."

"No," Shallot said flatly, cutting him off before he could finish the thought. His tone carried no room for argument. "The suit is a crutch. If you want to become stronger, you need to rely on your own body first. If you can't fight without it, you'll never truly understand your potential."

Tony groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Of course you'd say that. Alright, fine. But let me just put it on record: this sounds like a terrible idea."

"Noted," Shallot said with a smirk, the amusement in his tone barely masking the challenge behind his words. "Now quit stalling. Let's get started."

The three of them made their way to the expansive lawn behind Stark's cliffside mansion. The late morning sun bathed the open space in warmth, while the salty tang of the ocean breeze carried the sound of crashing waves. The lawn stretched out like a natural arena, soft grass underfoot and plenty of space for what Shallot had planned.

Shallot strode to the center of the lawn, his arms crossed and his tail flicking lazily behind him. He turned to face Tony, who looked both intrigued and slightly apprehensive as he rolled his shoulders and stretched. From the shade of a nearby tree, Natasha Romanoff leaned against the trunk, her arms folded casually across her chest. Though her posture was relaxed, her sharp green eyes missed nothing. She was observing everything—the way Shallot carried himself, the subtle tension in Stark's movements, the dynamic between teacher and student.

"Alright, Stark," Shallot said, his voice steady and commanding. "Here's how this is going to work. I'll hold back—wayback—and fight at your level. Your goal is simple: land a single hit on me. Just one. That's it."

Tony tilted his head, skepticism etched across his face. "That's all? Just one hit? How hard can that be?"

Shallot's lips curled into a sly smirk, his tail flicking behind him like a cat preparing to pounce. "You'll find out soon enough."

Tony sighed dramatically, stepping forward and adopting a loose, almost lazy fighting stance. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his body still getting accustomed to the heightened strength and speed his newfound ki provided. "Alright, sensei. Let's see what you've got."

But Shallot didn't move. He stood completely still, his arms at his sides, his posture relaxed and casual. There was no guard, no fighting stance—just an air of quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance. "Whenever you're ready," he said, his voice calm and measured.

Tony lunged forward, throwing a quick jab aimed at Shallot's face. It wasn't a bad punch—it had speed, precision, and enough force to stagger a normal opponent. But to Shallot, it was almost laughable. He sidestepped effortlessly, his movement so smooth and natural it was as if he had predicted the punch before Tony had even thought to throw it.

"Too slow," Shallot said, his tone laced with teasing amusement.

Tony gritted his teeth, immediately following up with a roundhouse kick aimed at Shallot's side. But once again, Shallot moved like liquid, ducking under the kick with ease and stepping back, his smirk never wavering.

"Come on, Stark," Shallot taunted, his tone light but cutting. "Is that all you've got?"

From the sidelines, Natasha watched intently, her sharp eyes tracking every movement. Shallot's dodges weren't just quick—they were precise, calculated, and deliberate. He wasn't simply reacting to Tony's attacks; he was reading them, analyzing them, and moving as though he were one step ahead at all times. Even with him holding back, the gap between the two fighters was glaringly obvious.

Tony, meanwhile, was growing visibly frustrated. He launched into a flurry of punches and kicks, each one faster and more aggressive than the last. His movements were strong and determined, but they lacked finesse. Shallot dodged them all with infuriating ease, weaving around the strikes as though he were dancing.

"You're overthinking it," Shallot said, sidestepping another punch. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Fighting isn't about analysis. It's about instinct. Feel your opponent's movements. React. Stop trying to calculate every step."

Tony growled in frustration, his attacks becoming more reckless. He lunged forward again, putting all his strength into a wide hook. But just as the punch was about to connect, Shallot disappeared—vanishing in a blur of speed and reappearing behind him so quickly it was as if he had teleported.

"Boo," Shallot said, his voice low and teasing.

Tony spun around in surprise, but it was too late. Shallot tapped him lightly on the back of the head with his knuckles—a move so casual it felt like an insult. The tap wasn't even hard, but it was enough to send Tony stumbling forward, more out of shock than anything else.

"Okay, that was just rude," Tony said, turning to glare at Shallot.

Shallot crossed his arms, his smirk widening. "Lesson one, Stark: Don't let your frustration cloud your judgment. When you lose your temper, you lose focus. And when you lose focus, you've already lost the fight."

Tony let out an exasperated sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow. "This is going to be a long day, isn't it?"

"Oh, you have no idea," Shallot replied, his tone dripping with amusement. "Now get back up. We're just getting started."

Tony groaned, dragging himself to his feet. His shirt was damp with sweat, and his breathing was labored, but his eyes burned with determination. "Alright, sensei," he said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. "Round two."

"Better," Shallot said with an approving nod. "Let's see if you can actually make me move this time."

From the sidelines, Natasha leaned against the tree, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Shallot wasn't just testing Tony's strength—he was testing his will. And as frustrating as it was to watch Stark flail and fail, she could see the lesson starting to sink in. Stark was learning. Slowly, maybe, but he was learning.

"Alright," Tony muttered, his voice tinged with determination. "Round two. Let's see how this goes."

Shallot tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I hope you took something away from round one," he said, his tone both teasing and serious. "Because if you keep swinging around like an amateur, you're never going to land a hit."

Tony's jaw tightened. He wasn't about to give Shallot the satisfaction of a response. Instead, he lunged forward, throwing a quick one-two combo, his fists moving faster than before. But Shallot sidestepped the punches effortlessly, his body moving with a grace that made it seem as though he wasn't even trying.

"Still too predictable," Shallot said, stepping lightly around Tony's next punch. "You're relying on brute force. That might work against someone untrained, but it won't get you anywhere against someone who knows what they're doing."

Natasha leaned against the tree, her expression unreadable as she watched. Shallot's movements were mesmerizing—calm, controlled, and precise. Each dodge was perfectly timed, almost as if he knew what Tony was going to do before Tony himself did. Tony, meanwhile, looked like a man swinging wildly at shadows, his strikes fast but aimless.

Tony stumbled slightly as Shallot dodged yet another jab, nearly losing his balance. Gritting his teeth, he straightened and glared at his opponent. "Alright, sensei," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If you're such a fighting genius, why don't you tell me what I should be doing?"

Shallot stopped moving for a moment, his smirk fading as his sharp black eyes bore into Tony. "Fine," he said, his tone firm but calm. "Lesson time. First, stop trying to brute-force your way through this. You're not me. You're not a brawler. Use your strengths—your intelligence, your adaptability, your ability to think three steps ahead."

Tony wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his brow furrowing in thought. "You just told me to stop overthinking. Now you're telling me to think. You're giving me mixed signals here, sensei."

"There's a difference," Shallot replied, stepping forward. "Thinking is good. Overthinking gets you killed. You're second-guessing yourself and trying to fight like someone you're not. Fighting is about instinct—reading your opponent, understanding their movements, and reacting. Trust yourself. Trust your body."

Tony frowned, processing Shallot's words. He shifted his stance slightly, loosening up and letting his movements flow more naturally. He didn't overthink it—he just moved.

"Better," Shallot said with an approving nod. "Now, keep your breathing steady. Stay light on your feet. And don't focus on landing the hit. Focus on finding the openings."

Tony exhaled slowly, his gaze sharpening. "Alright. Openings. Got it."

Natasha tilted her head, a faint spark of interest glimmering in her eyes. Shallot had moved from taunting to teaching, and the shift in his tone was noticeable. He wasn't just testing Tony—he was pushing him, shaping him, challenging him to rise above his limits.

Tony lunged forward again, this time throwing a feint with his left before following up with a quick jab from his right. Shallot dodged, but there was a subtle hesitation in his movement, a barely noticeable adjustment. Tony's eyes lit up.

Natasha's lips quirked into a faint smile. Shallot wasn't just evading—he was guiding. Every dodge, every sidestep, every subtle shift was intentional. He was teaching Tony how to fight, giving him the smallest openings, the faintest hints of how to read his opponent.

Tony pressed forward, throwing another punch. Shallot dodged, but this time Tony pivoted sharply, aiming a follow-up strike at Shallot's ribs. The strike wasn't perfect—it lacked precision and power—but it was closer. Shallot caught Tony's fist with his palm, his smirk returning.

"Not bad," Shallot said, giving Tony a light shove to reset the distance. "You're starting to see it now. Keep going."

Tony grinned, a flicker of determination lighting his face. "Oh, I'm just getting started."

For the next ten minutes, the two moved across the lawn like chess pieces in a game of speed and skill. Shallot continued to dodge and deflect, but Tony was improving. His punches grew sharper, his kicks more deliberate. He was learning, adapting, evolving with each passing second.

Natasha leaned forward slightly, her interest growing. Shallot wasn't just sparring—he was molding Tony, testing his limits and pushing him beyond them. And Tony, for all his frustration and sweat, was proving more resilient than expected.

Finally, Shallot sidestepped another jab, his movements smooth and practiced. Tony exhaled sharply, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead, but he didn't let up. He lunged forward again, his attacks more coordinated than before. Shallot deflected a punch, dodged a kick, and stepped around another strike with the same frustrating ease.

But then it happened.

Tony threw another feint, a quick jab meant to bait Shallot into dodging. Shallot stepped to the side, just as Tony had expected. Pivoting sharply on his heel, Tony brought his elbow around in a sweeping arc, aiming for Shallot's side.

For the briefest moment, Shallot's eyes widened in surprise. The strike grazed his shoulder—not enough to hurt, but enough to make contact.

Tony stumbled slightly as Shallot straightened, brushing his shoulder as though nothing had happened. A slow smirk spread across Shallot's face, his black eyes gleaming with approval.

"Well, well," Shallot said, his voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. "Looks like you finally landed a hit."

Tony stood there for a moment, breathing hard, his hands on his knees. Then, slowly, a wide grin spread across his face. "Damn right I did," he said, his voice brimming with triumph.

Natasha, still leaning against the tree, allowed herself the faintest smile. Tony had a long way to go, but today, he'd taken a real step forward.

And from the look on Shallot's face, it was clear he thought so too.

Tony grinned through heavy breaths, his chest rising and falling as he tried to recover from the intense sparring session. "Told you I'd get there," he said, his voice carrying equal parts triumph and exhaustion.

Natasha stepped forward from her spot under the shade of the tree, her arms still crossed but her sharp green eyes now fixed on Tony. There was a faint, almost imperceptible curve to her lips—a rare hint of approval. "Not bad," she said coolly, her tone neutral yet edged with the faintest trace of praise. "For a beginner."

Tony shot her a tired grin, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a glowing endorsement."

Shallot chuckled lightly, his arms crossed and his tail swaying lazily behind him. "Alright, Stark. That's enough for today. You've earned a break. But don't let it go to your head—you've still got a long way to go."

Tony nodded, still grinning as he straightened up. "Fair enough. But for the record, I think I'm starting to get the hang of this."

Shallot raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We'll see."

The three of them began walking back toward the mansion, the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below filling the comfortable silence. Natasha walked with her usual composure, her arms at her sides, her mind turning over the sparring session she'd just witnessed. She glanced at Shallot, studying him as he walked with his usual easy confidence—his sharp black eyes focused ahead, his tail swishing in a rhythm that seemed to mirror his relaxed demeanor.

"You're good at this," Natasha said quietly, breaking the silence.

Shallot turned his head slightly to look at her, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Good at what?"

"Teaching," Natasha replied evenly, her tone thoughtful. "You have a way of pushing people without breaking them. It's... effective."

Shallot paused for a moment, his expression unreadable as he considered her words. Teaching? It wasn't something he'd ever thought about before, but now that she mentioned it, he supposed it made sense. His training sessions with Tony had come naturally, as if he instinctively knew how to break down barriers and help Stark push beyond his limits. Maybe this was a hidden talent—or perhaps some kind of muscle memory carried over from the Saiyan body he now inhabited. Either way, it was working.

Shallot chuckled softly, his smirk widening. "I'll take that as a compliment, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha didn't reply, but the faintest flicker of a smile tugged at her lips before she turned her gaze back to the path ahead. Shallot was full of surprises, and she had a feeling there were still more layers to uncover.

The rhythmic crash of the ocean waves accompanied the trio as they approached the mansion. Tony, still catching his breath, cast a sideways glance at Shallot, who walked as though he hadn't even broken a sweat. The contrast between them was almost insulting. Tony wiped the last of the sweat from his brow and exhaled dramatically.

"I gotta say," Tony began, his voice still winded but carrying its usual sarcastic edge, "that whole 'land one hit on me' exercise? It's a total buzzkill. I feel like I'm stuck playing a video game on the hardest difficulty... with no tutorial."

Shallot smirked, his tail flicking behind him in amusement. "You are the tutorial, Stark," he said casually. "And whether you feel it or not, you're leveling up. Trust me—there's a method to my madness."

Tony groaned, rolling his eyes as he dragged his feet. "Oh, great. I'm in the hands of a philosopher-sensei. But next time, could you at least let me think I'm winning for a second? You know, just a little ego boost. A crumb of dignity, maybe?"

Shallot chuckled, a low and easy sound that carried just the right amount of mockery. "If I gave you a false sense of confidence, Stark, you'd get lazy. And then where would we be?"

Tony let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "You're the worst. Just for the record."

From the sidelines, Natasha quietly observed the banter between the two men. Her gaze flicked to Shallot as he walked, her mind still lingering on what she'd said earlier: he really was good at this—teaching, pushing, guiding. What surprised her most was how natural it seemed for him. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his approach. It was as though he'd been doing this his whole life.

But Shallot knew better. As much as he played the part of the seasoned mentor, the truth was, aside from a handful of MMA matches and some knowledge gleaned from books and shows, he didn't have much real fighting experience to his name. Yet somehow, everything about combat came to him effortlessly—teaching, adapting, reading an opponent.

Maybe it was talent. Maybe it was the Saiyan body he now inhabited, with its natural predisposition for battle. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because in his previous life—a life spent in quiet mediocrity—he'd never been given the chance to truly shine. Now, in this new life, that untapped potential was finally finding its way to the surface.

"Something on your mind, Shallot?" Natasha asked suddenly, breaking him from his thoughts.

Shallot glanced at her, his smirk returning. "Nothing important. Just thinking about how much fun it is to watch Stark suffer."

"Glad I could be your entertainment," Tony chimed in, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Shallot grinned, giving Tony a playful nudge with his elbow. "Oh, come on. You'll thank me for it later."

Tony shot him a look. "Yeah, sure. Right after I thank you for wrecking my lawn with all that footwork."

Shallot laughed, his tail swishing behind him as they reached the mansion's patio. "Fair trade, Stark. A little landscaping in exchange for making you stronger? I'd say you got a bargain."

Natasha watched the exchange, her sharp eyes flicking between the two. Shallot's confidence was infectious—his ability to guide Stark while keeping things light but focused was unlike any teaching style she'd ever seen. And Tony, for all his quips and grumbling, was making progress. She could see it in his stance, his movements, even in the way he carried himself.

As they entered the mansion, Natasha lingered by the doorway, her gaze lingering on Shallot. He was proving to be far more than she had anticipated—a blend of power, sharp wit, and surprising insight. And as much as she hated to admit it, she was beginning to understand why Fury was so intrigued by him.

Whatever Shallot's true potential was, one thing was clear: they'd only scratched the surface.

Later that day, 

The Malibu sunset spilled across the sky, painting the horizon with brilliant shades of pink, orange, and gold. Shallot stood at the edge of the cliffside lawn, his arms crossed as he stared out at the endless expanse of the ocean. The gentle breeze ruffled his spiky black hair and flicked his tail lazily behind him, a rhythm that mirrored his reflective mood.

He replayed the day's sparring session in his mind. Stark was getting better—no doubt about it. His strikes were sharper, his movements less awkward, and his reactions more deliberate. It wasn't much, not yet, but it was progress. Shallot could see the spark in Tony, buried beneath layers of arrogance and overthinking. If Stark could push past his own ego, Shallot had no doubt the man could become something extraordinary.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The voice was smooth, calm, and instantly familiar. Shallot turned slightly, his sharp black eyes catching sight of Natasha Romanoff walking toward him. She moved with her usual quiet grace, hands tucked into the pockets of her black jacket, her green eyes flicking briefly toward him before settling on the horizon.

"Just thinking about Stark," Shallot said, his voice calm as he turned his gaze back to the ocean. "He's doing better than I expected, but there's still a long road ahead."

Natasha stepped up beside him, her posture relaxed but her presence sharp and focused. Her gaze swept the horizon, the faintest breeze brushing a strand of red hair across her face. "He's not a fighter," she said, her voice carrying a soft but certain weight. "Not yet, anyway. But he's stubborn enough to keep going, even when he's out of his depth."

Shallot let out a quiet chuckle, his tail flicking once behind him. "Stubborn doesn't even cover it. Stark's got an ego big enough to fill this entire mansion—and then some. But… I'll give him credit. He's got heart. A surprising amount of it."

For a while, they stood there in silence, the crash of waves below filling the space between them. It was a rare, unspoken kind of comfort, the kind where words weren't necessary. Natasha didn't look at him, not directly, but her attention was still clearly on him.

Then, after a moment, she broke the silence, her tone quieter, more reflective. "You're good at this," she said, glancing sideways at him. "Teaching. Training. You're not just pushing him to throw punches—you're pushing him to think differently. To change the way he sees himself. Most people with your kind of strength wouldn't bother. They'd just overpower everyone else and call it a day."

Shallot turned to her slightly, one eyebrow raised. "Is that your way of saying you're impressed?"

Natasha smirked faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "Don't push your luck."

Shallot chuckled softly, the faint amusement lighting his face as his tail flicked lazily behind him. "Fair enough."

Natasha studied him carefully, her expression shifting to something more thoughtful, almost unreadable. Her sharp green eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before she spoke again, her voice quieter, more direct. "You don't have to do this, you know. Training Stark. Helping him. You could've just… walked away. Gone off to do your own thing. So why stay?"

Shallot paused, genuinely caught off guard by the question. His gaze shifted back to the horizon as he let the ocean breeze fill the silence. After a moment, he sighed, his voice soft but honest. "Good question," he said, his tone reflective. "But I'm not sure I could give you a straight answer. He asked for my help, and I said yes. No grand reasons. It just… felt like the right thing to do."

He glanced sideways at her, his expression open and unguarded in a way that surprised even him. "Stark could've gone on with just his suits and still been a great hero—everyone knows that. But after that day, the day he almost died, I thought… if I can change something for the better, why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I step in, even just a little?"

Shallot paused, rubbing the back of his neck and letting out a small laugh, clearly a little embarrassed. "Guess I just spilled one of my deepest secrets, huh?"

Natasha blinked, momentarily surprised by the sincerity in his words. For all his cocky smirks and teasing, there was something raw and genuine in his tone—a flicker of vulnerability she hadn't expected. She let a small smile play at the corner of her lips, though it was fleeting, quickly hidden behind her usual composed expression. "I get it," she said softly. "It makes sense."

Shallot tilted his head, a hint of curiosity in his gaze as he studied her. "Does it, though?"

Natasha didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the ocean, as if the horizon might hold some kind of answer. "I'll grab some water," she said finally, her tone calm as she stepped back toward the house.

"Sure," Shallot replied, watching her go. "Don't let Stark drink all the good stuff."

Natasha waved him off without looking back, disappearing into the house. As soon as she was in the kitchen, she leaned against the counter, gripping the edge of the sink as a faint blush crept across her cheeks.

"That was… kinda adorable," Natasha muttered under her breath, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts. She stared down at her reflection in the polished countertop, her expression shifting into something sharper, more composed. No. She clenched her jaw slightly. He's still someone who could be a threat. Don't forget that.

Still, despite her mental reprimand, the faint warmth lingered in her chest, an unwanted but undeniable echo of Shallot's unguarded words.

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Author's note : Hope you had a great Sunday. Here is the chapter 15.