Gohan thought of Mark. Mark Grayson. Invincible. The name itself was a declaration, a stark, unyielding truth that resonated through the cosmos. And within the deepest, most shadowed chambers of Gohan's own being, a whisper of inadequacy, insidious and cold, slithered forth.
Intellect. Gohan, the scholar, had immersed himself in the ancient texts, the esoteric principles of ki, the lost languages of forgotten empires. He had painstakingly charted the celestial mechanics of distant galaxies and deciphered the philosophical underpinnings of peace. Yet, Mark… Mark navigated the labyrinthine politics of intergalactic federations, brokered peace between warring star-cults, grasped the nuanced intricacies of alien biologies, and still managed to complete his terrestrial studies with an almost casual brilliance. Gohan’s knowledge, he realized with a pang, was sequestered, academic; Mark's was forged in the fiery crucible of lived, brutal experience, a wisdom born not of dusty scrolls, but of the very grit and grime of a universe constantly teetering on the brink. His own mind, a meticulous library, felt pale beside Mark's vibrant, ever-adapting, battle-hardened intellect.
And power. Oh, the fickle tempest of his own latent might! It erupted only under the most grievous provocations, a desperate, reactive surge born of fury or despair, only to recede, leaving him to the quietude of his chosen life. Mark’s power, however, was an ever-present, unwavering sun, a constant, burgeoning force that warmed and protected his boundless domain. He grew with every blow, every shattered bone, every planet saved or lost. His very existence was an upward spiral of increasing might, a relentless tide against the encroaching darkness. Gohan's power, for all its occasional, blinding brilliance, felt like a borrowed cloak, donned only when the storm raged, whereas Mark was the storm, an unyielding force of nature.
