Minus (DBZ Gine SI)

Femto · Feb 28, 2025

Thanks for clicking this story. This idea of mine had popped years ago back in the corporate days. Now you're here - I hope you enjoy it and see it lightens.

Planet Plant, Age 714

The sky stretched wide, unbroken. Not by steel or glass towers, not by the hum of neon lights, but by open air—pale and endless, streaked with faint clouds. Figures moved in the distance, dark silhouettes against the morning light. They floated, their bodies cutting through the sky with effortless control. I watched them from the hill's edge, my bare feet sinking slightly into the cool dirt.

They moved like hunters, scanning the ground below, their sharp gazes assessing something unseen to me. I should have found it strange. People don't fly. But the thought barely surfaced before fading into the void of everything else I didn't understand.

A wind rolled through, cold and biting, cutting through the thick fur draped over my shoulders. The weight sat unevenly, shifting with every small movement. My fingers curled into the rough texture, brushing over coarse strands as I pulled at it absently. It felt strange—too heavy, too unfamiliar.

Something flicked at my side, and I stiffened. A pressure, a presence, a part of me that shouldn't be. My breath hitched as I reached down, fingertips grazing something soft yet firm. It twitched at the contact, coiling instinctively away before curling back, wrapping around my wrist.

I swallowed hard. A tail.

I forced down the unease, exhaling through gritted teeth. The wind howled again, tugging at my fur-lined cloak, but I barely noticed. My mind was elsewhere, tangled in the undeniable truth that I wasn't as me anymore.

A memory tugged at the edges of my mind.

"Daddy, look!"

A little hand, gripping paper too tightly. Bright, eager eyes searching for mine. The drawing—a messy, uneven scrawl of colors—was held up high, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

"It's us!" she had declared proudly. "Mommy, you, and me!"

I had barely glanced. Later, sweetheart. Daddy's busy.

The way her fingers curled over the edges. The slight falter in her smile before she forced it back. Okay, Daddy.

The wind shifted. I exhaled slowly, pushing the memory down, down, down—where it belonged. The lake wasn't far. I made my way toward it, stepping carefully over the uneven terrain. The ground was rough beneath my feet—hard-packed dirt, scattered stones. It stretched wide, open, untamed. The kind of land that hadn't known roads or walls. The water was still. A perfect mirror, reflecting the dull light of the sky above. I knelt by the edge, cupping the cool liquid in my hands, letting it run between my fingers.

The sound of it, the feel of it—real. More real than anything else.

"You just stopped trying, didn't you?"

The voice came unbidden. Flat. Tired. I could still see her. Standing in the doorway, coat damp from the rain, eyes scanning the cluttered desk, the untouched dinner, the unopened messages.

"I'm leaving."

Not a fight. Not an argument. Just quiet resignation.

"The divorce papers are in your email. I sent them this morning."

The lake reflected the image of a child.

I stared.

Wide, dark eyes—black, depthless, framed by thick lashes. A round face, soft, too young. Hair wild and spiked, thick and untamed. A tail. The fur-lined clothing swallowed her small frame, the heavy black pelt layered over rough brown fabric.

The girl in the reflection lifted her hand.

So did I.

The fur was foreign. The weight of it unnatural against my skin. But everything here—everything about this place, these people—seemed built for survival. Not comfort, not vanity. There were no woven textiles, no careful stitches. Just thick hides, meant to endure harsh winds and harder lives. The fur—it smelled of drashik, the beast they hunted in the mountains. I didn't know how I knew that. But the knowledge was there, just beneath the surface, as if it had always been.

The child in the water's reflection blinked.

I didn't.

The weight was absurd.

Eighty kilos of sloshing water, hauled in a crude container strapped across my back. It pressed down against my spine, the strain biting into my shoulders with each step. The ground beneath me was uneven, packed dirt shifting under my bare feet, but I moved forward anyway. Slow.

I should not have been able to carry this.

The body I was in—small, thin, barely four years old—had no business hauling a load that would have broken an adult human's back. But here I was. The village came into view, little more than a scattered collection of huts built from thick wood and dried mud. Smoke curled from fire pits, carrying the sharp scent of roasted meat and charred wood. Figures moved in the distance, broad-shouldered and strong, draped in thick pelts, their eyes sharp as they worked. No roads, no fences, just open land stretching endlessly beyond the settlement's edge.

A presence lingered in my mind. A memory.

That glare.

Not the furious kind. Not even the disappointed kind. Just… cold. A quiet sort of dismissal.

He had always looked at me like that.

"Tch." A grunt, the weight of his gaze settling on me. "Is that your use here?"

The words weren't harsh. Not outright. But the meaning was clear.

I wasn't like my brother.

He had been hunting by four. Four. Running through the trees with the others, tracking prey in the wildlands beyond the village. He had brought down a tharak—a hulking beast with tusks and thick, dark fur, known to tear through flesh with a single swipe.

They had carried its carcass back together, a pack of little warriors with bloodied hands and wide grins. My father had stood among them, nodding in approval, clapping my brother on the back as the tribe shared in their success.

And me?

I had been here. Hauling water. Prepping food. Staying within the village, where it was safe. The weight of the container shifted, the straps digging into my shoulders. I adjusted my stance, pressing forward. I knew how this worked. Strength was everything. Survival, the only measure of worth. And I—this body, this girl—was nothing but a burden. To them.

The hut was dimly lit, the fire casting long, wavering shadows against the rough wooden walls. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, thick with the scent of roasting meat—rich, heavy, and taunting.

My stomach twisted, a sharp reminder of just how little I had eaten. I set the water container down with a dull thud, rolling my shoulders back. My arms trembled from the strain, but I forced them still. It wasn't the first time I had hauled something too heavy for me.

It wouldn't be the last.

Complaining wouldn't change anything.

"Oi, Gine!"

I barely had time to brace myself before he strolled in.

Borgos.

Round and broad, thick with muscle even at four years old, he moved with the confidence of someone who knew his place in the world. A heavy pelt hung over his shoulders, the thick black fur barely fitting his bulk. His grin stretched wide, toothy and smug.

"Your old man said I could eat with you guys today."

Of course, he did.

I pressed my lips together, turning back to the water, but Borgos stepped closer.

"What's with that face?"

He let out a chuckle, then nudged my shoulder—lightly, like he wasn't even trying. It was enough to make me stumble back.

"Oh yeah," he added, eyes gleaming, "you don't eat much, huh? That's rough."

My hands curled into fists. He wasn't wrong. Food wasn't mine. It never was.

The hunters ate first. The warriors. The strong. That was how it worked. Strength determined worth, and I was worth nothing. My father never needed to say it outright. He showed it in the way he looked at me, in the way his gaze always shifted past me to my brother—the real child worth raising. He made it clear in the way I was given scraps while my brother was praised for his growing strength.

He had hunted his first kurvak at four years old, dragging its bloodied carcass back to the village. And I?

I carried water. I cooked, I cleaned, I prepared food for everyone else. I knelt beside my father after a hunt, pressing my small hands into his aching shoulders, listening to him and my brother talk about their kills. I smiled when I was supposed to, I lowered my gaze when it was expected.

And I ate once or twice a week.

Because the meat was for those who deserved it. Borgos tilted his head, watching me like a child poking at a small, squirming insect. Then he laughed.

"Guess I should thank you, huh?" He patted his stomach, full and content. "If you weren't so weak, I wouldn't be getting extra meat today."

Something flared in my chest—hot, sharp, and ugly.

But I swallowed it down.

I let Borgos' laughter roll past me, dull and distant, like the crackling of the fire behind me. There was no point in answering him. No point in giving him a reaction he would only enjoy. Instead, I turned away, stepping toward the entrance of the hut. The worn fabric covering the doorway swayed slightly as I pushed it aside, and I was met with the vast, endless expanse of the sky.

Red.

It was always red here—deep, rich, and layered in streaks of burning orange. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the rough, uneven ground of the village. The sky shifted like a wound that never healed, always burning, always glaring.

It was nothing like the world I used to know.

Used to?

The thought flickered in my mind, hazy and unformed, but it was gone before I could grasp it. Like trying to catch smoke in my hands.

All I knew was that this sky was wrong. Not in the way that made my heart race or my instincts scream, but in the way that settled in my bones like something forgotten. Like something I had once known, but no longer remembered.

The village sprawled beneath the sky, simple and crude. Huts made of rough wood and hardened clay, scattered between stretches of dry, cracked land. Fires burned at the center, warriors gathered around them, their voices carrying—loud, brash, alive.

Even from here, I could hear them.

Stories of hunts. Fights. Boasts of strength.

Everything I was expected to be.

Everything I was not.

I exhaled, slow and steady. The weight in my chest didn't lighten, but I pushed it down. Like I always did. Like I always had to.

The sky remained red. And I remained here.

The cold air burned my lungs as I ran, panting, but I didn't stop. My feet pounded against the dirt, kicking up dust with each step. My arms pumped, fingers curled into fists, knuckles tight, skin raw from the cold.

The village had long since disappeared behind me, swallowed by the endless plains and jagged rock formations that stretched toward the horizon.

The sky was red—it was always red—a deep, oppressive hue that bathed everything in a dim, rust-colored glow. I barely noticed it anymore.

Faster.

I could hear my own breath, ragged and uneven. My muscles burned, my legs ached, but I refused to stop. I had to go faster. I had to move.

If I kept running, I wouldn't have to think. If I kept pushing forward, I wouldn't have to remember.

But my thoughts had never listened to me before.

And they didn't now.

A face flickered in my mind, unbidden. Pale. Cold. Perfectly smooth, like polished bone. Dark, slitted eyes—calculating.

Amused. Thin lips curled into a smirk, cruel and knowing.

And a tail. A thick, muscular tail, swaying lazily behind him, as if nothing in the universe could possibly pose a threat to him.

Something twisted in my stomach.

The image slipped away, but the unease remained, curling around my ribs like a vice. I knew him. I should have known his name, yet it hovered just out of reach, teasing me, mocking me.

I clenched my teeth, trying to shake the thought, but another image surfaced—different this time. Wild, golden hair, standing on end, crackling with energy. A boy—young, too young—his small structured frame brimming with untamed fury. And his opponent—massive, grotesque, more insect than man.

Green, sleek, armored. They clashed, and the earth cracked beneath them. The air itself seemed to wail with the force of their battle. My breath hitched.

I knew this.

Not as a memory, but as something I had seen.

Something I had watched.

A story. A legend.

Dragon Ball.

The words weren't my own, but they were. They settled into my mind with an eerie, undeniable certainty. I had watched this. I had lived in a world where this was fiction. But I hadn't seen all of it—no, I had only known up to Cell. Everything beyond that was blank. My foot caught against an uneven patch of dirt, and I staggered, barely managing to keep my balance. My heart hammered against my ribs, the weight of realization pressing down on my chest. This wasn't just knowledge. It was meta-knowledge.

And it changed everything. I knew where I was. I knew what was coming. And I knew that being weak in this world wasn't just a problem—it was a death sentence. I swallowed hard, lifting my gaze toward the darkening sky. I had no power. No advantages. No future.

Yet.

I took a deep breath. My fingers curled, nails digging into my palms. And then, without thinking, I pulled back my arm and drove my fist into the nearest tree. The bark splintered beneath my knuckles, but it wasn't enough. It barely left a dent.

I grit my teeth.

Borgos could fly.

My brother could hunt.

Even at four years old, other Saiyan children could break stone, lift weights that dwarfed them, strike with enough force to shatter bones. And I could barely damage a tree. I pulled my arm back again, chest heaving, frustration boiling beneath my skin. My muscles screamed, but I ignored them.

I hit the tree again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike sent a dull ache up my arm, but I didn't care. The pain kept me grounded. The pain meant I was doing something. I had wasted my first life chasing things that had never mattered. I had thrown away what did matter. I wasn't going to make the same mistake again. I stepped back, breathing hard. My knuckles stung, but I barely noticed. The sky was darker now, the twin moons rising over the horizon, casting long shadows across the land.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders.

And then I ran again.

Faster this time.

The worst part of all this wasn't the hunger, the exhaustion, or even the knowledge that I was weaker than the other Saiyan children. It gnawed at me. A quiet, creeping thing that I tried to push to the back of my mind, but it always slithered back in when I let my guard down.

This body. This life.

I was Gine. That name didn't belong to me. It couldn't belong to me. Because I wasn't a woman. Not really. Not before. Every time I moved, every time I felt the way this body carried itself—lighter, smaller, so much more fragile than I remembered being—it sent a ripple of unease through me. It wasn't just that my strength was gone. It was everything. My center of gravity. My voice. The way people looked at me. And the worst part?

I was supposed to give birth to the savior of Earth.

To Goku. To Kakarot.

The thought twisted in my gut like something rancid, but not out of disgust—no, it was deeper than that. A kind of raw, unsettled wrongness. Because I had never wanted this kind of life. Because I had been a father.

And a bad one.

My chest clenched as a memory surfaced—small fingers clutching at my sleeve, her voice hesitant, too quiet.

"Are you coming home today, Papa?"

And I hadn't looked up from my screen.

"I'm busy. We'll go out this weekend."
A pause. A second of hesitation.

"You said that last time."
I had sighed, frustrated, tapping at my keyboard. "I have work."

That was always my excuse. My reason. Work. Career. A promotion I was chasing. A position I was fighting for. I had spent years thinking that as long as I climbed high enough, made enough money, secured the right future, everything else would just fall into place. But by the time I realized how wrong I was, it was too late. I wasn't there for her first recital. I wasn't there when she got sick and needed me. I wasn't there. Period.

And my wife—no, my ex-wife—she had been done waiting. Done hoping I would wake up and see what I was throwing away. She had begged me. Begged me to put her, to put our daughter, first. And I hadn't listened.

The moment I heard them approach, I already knew what was coming. Their footsteps were heavy, crunching over the dirt with that weighty confidence of boys who had never been told no in their lives. The ground trembled slightly under their combined mass, loose pebbles shifting and scattering beneath their feet. They moved like young predators, each step deliberate, expectant—anticipating the fight before it even began.

I turned, slow, controlled—only to find myself dwarfed.

Borgos stood in the center, thick arms crossed over his chest, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over me. His face was round with youth but hardened by the early promise of brutality, his jaw set in a smirk that curled with amusement and cruelty. The thick black fur draped over his body made him look even larger, blending seamlessly into the rough, primitive aesthetic of our kind.

The others stood behind him, just as massive, each with the same compact musculature of young warriors in the making. Saiyan children grew fast, their bodies sculpted for war from the moment they could walk.

And then there was me. Thin. Small. Frail in comparison.

Like an underfed cub left to scavenge scraps while the pack gorged themselves on the freshest kill.

"Oi, look at this runt," Borgos sneered, his tail flicking lazily behind him. His voice dripped with disdain, thick and condescending, as if addressing a particularly offensive insect. "Thought I smelled something pathetic."

One of the other boys snickered, his sharp canines flashing as he grinned. "Nah, that's just her. Smells like a half-dead Tukkai rat."

Another jabbed a finger toward me, his nails dirty and cracked from climbing and fighting. "You sure you're even Saiyan? Bet your old man fucked a Vermian, and that's why you're so damn tiny!"

Laughter erupted, loud and jeering. A cruel, barking kind of laughter that echoed against the nearby huts, making it feel like the whole world was in on the joke.

I stiffened.

I knew them.

Borgos - one of the earliest elites, a brute even before he reached his prime. The other boys? Lesser names, but still familiar, still recorded somewhere in my mind from all those hours scouring Dragon Ball wikis back in my old life.

But that wasn't the most unsettling part.

The moment they stepped into my radius, my awareness flared. Everything registered—every breath they took, the slight shifts in their weight, the micro-adjustments in their stances. I could hear the subtle grind of their joints as they flexed, could see the fine layer of dust disturbed by their movements. I felt the heat radiating off their bodies, the natural furnace that was Saiyan biology running hotter than a human's ever could.

Data flooded in.

Instinct. Calculation. Conclusion.

They were here to test themselves on me.

To use me as a moving, breathing punching bag for their little training session.

It was trend in our tribe—the Radun, named after some long-dead warrior who probably gutted his own father for strength. This was their culture. Their trend.

The weak existed to be sharpened against. Borgos stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. The fur of his cloak shifted with the motion, revealing the thick cords of muscle underneath. His tail flicked once, twice—excitement.

"How about it, Gine?" he asked, voice light, teasing. His eyes, dark and expectant, watched me closely. "Wanna help us train?"

A challenge. A taunt.

I swallowed.

Humans weren't like this. Humans had wars, sure, but they didn't evolve from violence the way Saiyans had. Here, battle was instinct. A gnawing, itching hunger in their blood that demanded release.

And I was just another outlet for it.

I ran.

The wind howled, dragging against my skin as I tore through the dirt path, my feet hammering the ground in frantic rhythm. My breath came fast, burning my throat, but I forced it down, forced my legs to push harder. The distant crunch of footsteps behind me grew louder, closer.

Laughter. Taunts.

"Where you going, Gine"

"You know you can't run forever."

I ignored him. A branch snapped somewhere to my right. My senses stretched—every shift in the air, every subtle vibration, every flicker of movement. They were trying to corner me.

Move.

I ducked low, twisting my body just as a hand swiped for my tail. The wind brushed against the hairs at the tip—too close. A fist shot toward my ribs—I sidestepped, barely missing the strike. Another kick came for my legs—I jumped, vaulting over it, my body reacting before I could think.

For a second—just a second—I was ahead.

Then something blurred in my vision.

A weight slammed into my side.

The force sent me flying.

Air ripped from my lungs. The sky twisted, ground flipping, spinning. My back crashed into the dirt, momentum rolling me over and over until I skidded to a stop. I barely had time to breathe before a shadow loomed over me.

"Not so fast now, are you?"

A sharp impact.

My stomach caved in. Something ruptured inside me. My body seized, every nerve screaming, my mouth falling open in a silent choke.

A metallic tang spread over my tongue. Wet. Coppery. Something warm trickled from my lips. Boots shuffled around me. The ground trembled as they stepped closer.

"That was pathetic."

"You really are worthless," another sneered. "Not even fun to beat up."

A low chuckle. Borgos crouched beside me, his smirk wide, his face barely visible through the spots dancing in my vision.

"You tired already?"

I tried to move. My body refused. A final blow. Distant pain.

Feel too bad writing bullying scene. Had to do this. Saiyans are just that jerks. I'm still thinking of a proper power sets - I'm tired with standard Saiyan Form Package.

Femto · Feb 28, 2025

This chapter is graphic. A bit unconventional. I love AU powers - if you had known me from my BC Fic. I had often change the rules for the sake of the story. (I just love it that way - I mean for me, copy pasting the known canon leaves repetition idk haha) The following events is not conventional - I would want to go in traditional sensei route - where the MC learns from a hidden sensei and comes back stronger. However - I leaned different this time. Some might not like it - some would do. But at least - we're here to enjoy and have some fun.

Now start. Enjoy the chapter. And thanks for reading, in advance.

I did not back down. For some reason. I could not back down.

Something slithered beneath my skin—an awareness so raw it burned, like an exposed nerve. I felt it. I had felt it since the moment I woke up in this world, threading itself into my every thought, coiling around my senses like a second spine.

I wasn't like this before. I knew it.

My mind had always been sharp, but not like this. Not this precise. Not this calculating. It was as if something had rewired the way I processed the world, peeling back the layers of reality and laying them bare before me. Every flicker of movement, every breath, every shift in muscle tension around me—I felt them, dissected them, understood them before they even fully happened.

A foot sliding an inch too far back meant hesitation. A tensed jaw signaled restraint barely held together. The way someone exhaled, sharp and measured, spoke of calculation, of waiting for the right moment to strike. I didn't just see these things. I grasped them, as if my mind had been honed into a scalpel designed to carve out meaning from the smallest details.

It was more than instinct. More than battle sense.

The forest floor trembled beneath me, the impact of Borgos' fist driving deep into my gut like a hammer through fragile glass. My body folded inward, ribs compressing under the sheer force, a sickening pressure crushing my diaphragm. Breath stolen. A jagged, voiceless gasp tore at my throat, but no sound escaped—only raw, burning sensation as my lungs fought against the vacuum inside my chest.

Pain was not just pain. It was data. Sensory overload. Every nerve screamed, every synapse fired, my entire body translating the devastation into something I could understand.

Something shifted.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It wasn't instinct. It was calculation. Before Borgos' knee even surged upward, I saw it. Felt it. Understood it. The way his weight had shifted—off by three to four degrees too much to the left.

The way his hip flexors coiled, the way his quadriceps tensed, the subtle twitch in his abductor muscles, signaling the precise moment of release. His stance—too wide. His balance—just slightly imperfect.

A flaw.

Not hesitation. Not weakness. Just a gap. A brief, near-imperceptible window where his attack became predictable—inevitable. But knowing was one thing. Reacting was another.
My body refused to move. Broken, battered, unresponsive. I felt it struggling—muscles torn, fibers stretched beyond limit, my skeleton barely holding itself together. It should have been over.

And yet—

My body began to change. A shudder rolled through my frame, not from fear, but from something deeper. A restructuring. The torn muscle fibers twitched, then hardened, reinforcing themselves in real time. New fibers wove into place, stronger, denser, fine-tuned for the exact kind of force I had just endured.

My ribcage, weakened from the blow, compacted and solidified, reinforcing itself for durability. My spine adjusted, neurons firing at double speed, rewiring pathways to prioritize reaction time over conscious thought. For the first time since the beating started, I was no longer falling behind.

I moved.

A sharp twist, muscles responding with surgical precision, and the knee that should have shattered my face missed by a hair's breadth. The heat of it brushed past my skin, close enough to scorch but never close enough to land. Because I had already calculated and countered. This wasn't instinct. It wasn't desperation.

The moment my body adjusted, the moment I dodged, I became aware of it again.

That perception. It had been with me since I woke up in this world—an extra layer to my senses, an invisible boundary surrounding me, stretching exactly three meters in all directions. I had never questioned it before, but now, in the heat of battle, it was impossible to ignore.

I felt Borgos' movements—not just in the way a fighter reads an opponent, but as if I were watching him from above. My body stood in place, but my mind had already taken a step back, seeing everything unfold from a third-person view.

The way his foot pressed into the dirt, ready to pivot. The subtle clench of his fist, muscles tensing before the next strike. The shift in his breathing, a rhythm I had already started memorizing.
This was not normal.

Not human. Not Saiyan. Not even the heightened instincts of a warrior species.

Something was different. Within this three-meter radius, I could see everything—not just movement, not just anatomy, but intent. The brief moment before an attack, the tiny flickers of motion that revealed what was about to happen. I was not just reacting anymore. I was anticipating.

Borgos was already coming for me again, fists raised, a sneer on his face as if he had already won.

For a moment, everything stopped.

"Huh?!"

Borgos staggered back, his knee cutting through nothing but air. His face twisted, eyes going big and round like he couldn't believe what just happened.

"She moved—?" one of the goons mumbled, voice small, uncertain.

"Nuh-uh, she ain't s'posed to do that!" another one said, shaking his head so hard it looked like he was trying to shake the thought right out of it.

"She's cheating!" the third one blurted, stomping his foot like a tantrum. "She's weak! She's weak!"

But none of them ran at me again.

Borgos' shock didn't last. It never did.

His confusion twisted into anger, a snarl pulling at his lips. He stomped forward, baring his teeth like some wild animal, fists clenching so tight I could hear the joints crack.

"Lucky dodge." His voice dripped with irritation. "Won't happen again."

He lunged.

And I saw it. Again. The weight shift. The twist of his torso. The angle of his elbow as he reeled back for a punch. It was like time stretched out before me, each movement unraveling into pieces, into calculations. Too wide. Too predictable. A fraction of a second too slow. My body moved before I even processed the decision.

I sidestepped, my foot barely making a sound against the dirt. Borgos' fist carved through empty air, his momentum carrying him forward as his balance faltered.

"Wha—?!"

I didn't wait. I pivoted, twisting my body low, the motion smooth, efficient—precise. My leg shot out, striking the back of his knee. A clean, pinpoint blow. He stumbled, cursing, barely catching himself before his hands hit the ground. I could hear the three goons sputtering behind him.

"No way—!"

"She's—"

"Stop moving, stupid face!" One of them just started screaming in frustration, fists clenched like he wanted to throw a tantrum. But Borgos—he wasn't laughing anymore.

His body stiffened. His tail lashed behind him, bristling. And then—

A pulse.

Ki.

It crackled around him like an unseen force, rising, condensing, pressing into the air with raw, unrestrained power. The ground trembled beneath us, dirt kicking up around his feet.

I felt it sink into my bones before I even realized what he was doing.

He was powering up.

I braced. But the moment I tensed, he was there. Faster. Stronger. The pressure of his ki crushed against my skin before the impact even landed. A fist slammed into my shoulder. Not a clean hit—I had barely managed to turn my body—but it was still enough. My entire left side went numb, the force knocking me off balance, sending me skidding across the ground.

My ribs screamed. My breath hitched. This wasn't just brute force anymore. This was a level beyond it. I pushed myself up, body trembling. He was stronger now. Faster. More than just a bully throwing punches—he was fighting like a Saiyan.

I was struggling.

The moment Borgos powered up, everything changed. The air grew heavy, dense with an unseen weight that pressed down on my skin. The static hum of raw ki built around him, crackling in small, erratic bursts, raising the fine hairs on my arms. Dust lifted off the ground, caught in the currents of his surging energy, swirling in chaotic spirals before vanishing into the air.

His breathing slowed. His movements sharpened.

Gone was the sluggish, overconfident brute who swung his fists like a battering ram. The Borgos before me now had transformed—no longer just a thug throwing wild haymakers, but a Saiyan, a hunter, one who had instinctually tapped into his battle-born heritage.

I felt it the moment he moved.

Faster. So much faster.

I barely had time to register the shift before he was already in front of me. A rush of heat. A pulse of energy.

And then—impact.

His fist slammed into my shoulder, not a wild strike, but a precise, controlled blow. The force rattled through my bones like a shockwave, a concentrated burst of power compacted into a single devastating point. I tried to twist with it, tried to lessen the damage, but it didn't matter. The moment his knuckles connected, I was already flying. The world blurred. My body skidded across the ground, dirt and broken rock tearing at my skin as I tumbled—once, twice—before stopping in a rough, gasping crouch.

Pain flared through my ribs. A sharp, biting sensation that told me something had cracked.

Borgos didn't let up.

He pressed forward, the ground shaking beneath every step, his energy spiking higher with each second.

"Not so tough now, huh?"

He sneered, but I wasn't listening.

I was adjusting.

The pain, the impact, the sheer force of his ki—it wasn't just an obstacle. It was information. Data. The second I took that hit, my body had already begun breaking it down. The way my bones had nearly given out under the pressure. The way my muscles had strained to absorb the force. The way my lungs had struggled to expand against the crushing weight of his ki.

All of it—data points.

And then—

Adaptation.

A deep, shuddering shift within me. Not just on the surface. Not just my skin toughening, or my muscles bracing.

Deeper.

My bones compacted, growing denser, layering themselves with reinforced microstructures designed to distribute and absorb impact. The fractures along my ribs sealed, not through healing, but through realignment—like puzzle pieces locking into place, optimizing my body for endurance. My organs shifted, adjusting to the unseen pressure of ki, rerouting blood flow, repositioning themselves ever so slightly to better withstand internal shock.

A lightness. A sensation I hadn't noticed before. The way my weight—my presence—had changed. Not just resistant. Not just durable.

I was—

lifting.

Not by pushing off the ground. Not by any conscious effort. But because my body had learned. Borgos had been flying this entire time. He had taken to the air without thought, without hesitation, as naturally as breathing.

And now—

So had I.

The realization came too fast for him to process. I saw it in his expression—the way his sneer twitched, the brief widening of his eyes as his brain struggled to comprehend why

I wasn't standing where I should have been. Because I wasn't there anymore. I was above him. Hovering, weightless, suspended midair like it had always been natural.

I saw everything. The tension in his legs as he prepared to spring forward. The way his shoulders squared, instinctively bracing for a follow-up attack that hadn't come yet.

The way his ki flickered, his energy momentarily dipping as his body reacted instead of anticipated.

Borgos had powered up. He had escalated.

But so had I.

And I was already ahead of him. He roared, a burst of frustration laced in his voice as he launched himself toward me, a wild, ki-charged punch aiming straight for my chest.

Borgos' fist buried itself into my gut. Not just a hit. A full-powered, ki-fueled, rib-crushing strike. The moment of impact was absolute.

A shockwave rippled outward as the force collapsed into my core, organs compressing, ribs bowing inward like brittle twigs. My mouth snapped open—no sound came out. The air inside me was ripped away, my body already folding around his fist, bending under the sheer force.

Then—

Detonation.

The release of power blasted me away, my form cratering into the dirt, skipping like a stone across a lake. Pain laced every nerve, my limbs flailing as I tumbled, until finally—

Impact.

The ground caught me, slammed me down with a sickening finality. For a moment, there was nothing but the hollow ringing in my ears, the muffled pounding of my heart against battered ribs.

I stared at the sky.

The world blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into each other, my body screaming at me in ways it never had before. I had taken hits before. But not like this.

I tried to breathe, and my own lungs refused to cooperate—foreign, unfamiliar, my own body fighting itself just to stay conscious.

I should be out.

Any other Saiyan would be.

But instead. Something shifted. Not just inside me.

Me.

I felt it as clearly as I felt the dirt beneath my palms, as clearly as I felt the lingering imprint of Borgos' fist on my abdomen. It started deep, beneath skin and flesh, beyond the bruises, in the places no eye could see.

A reconfiguration. Not healing. Not merely repairing.

Recalculating.

And suddenly—

The pain was different.

Not fading.

Refining.

The cracks in my ribs didn't just close—they shifted, reinforcing stress points, redistributing tension along a more efficient structure. The compressed organs in my gut didn't just reset—they realigned, optimizing internal placement to withstand impact better next time. Every part of me was adjusting—not just to survive, but to eliminate the possibility of taking that same damage again.

This wasn't Zenkai.

Saiyans didn't adapt like this. I knew it in canon. Saiyans took damage, survived it, and returned stronger—raw power escalation. This was something else. This was optimization. The realization burned through the haze of pain, clearer than ever. This is why training never worked. Why I had struggled with basic exercises like push-ups and jogging. Why lifting weights for months had done nothing. Because my body did not improve through repetition.

It improved through real-time adaptation. Saiyans trained, fought, recovered, grew stronger.

I didn't.

I have adapted on the spot. Right now. forced my body to adjust to a scenario as it happened, ensuring it would never happen again.

Which meant—

I had been training all wrong. The thought was almost laughable. I had spent months trying to get stronger like a normal Saiyan. But I wasn't normal. It seemed. I was still Saiyan—I could feel the battle instincts, the pull of combat embedded in my genes, the itch to fight, to push past my limits. But my power set?

My biological function. It wasn't just Zenkai. It wasn't brute strength. It wasn't even Ki control. It was Battle Precision. My talent wasn't reacting in the natural way.

It was preemptive survival. Not through overwhelming force. But through ensuring the fight was already won before the next hit even landed.

Borgos was charging again. His body shrouded in Ki, his aura flaring with renewed aggression, his rage pushing him forward.

I saw it—

All of it.

The way his stance shifted. The angle of his foot pressing into the dirt. The way his breathing steadied, controlled, his muscles tightening in preparation for his next attack.

He was adjusting too. Saiyan genetics kicking in. He's a prodigy. He was getting faster. Recovering from fatigue mid-fight. Increasing performance against adversity. He was evolving the longer this battle continued.

And so was I. I was doing it faster. His movements got precise, but mine were exact. His attacks were strong, but mine were inevitable.

He thought he was pressing the advantage -

A sharp exhale left my lips as I retracted my knee, letting Kid Borgos crumple onto the dirt beneath me. He clutched his stomach, gasping, his small body trembling as he fought for breath. The other two Saiyan children screamed. Without hesitation, they turned and ran, their tails fluffed out in instinctive distress.

I stood still, watching the two Saiyan children disappear into the distance. Their retreating figures kicked up dust, tails tucked low, their instincts screaming at them to escape. The fight had left them the moment they realized they couldn't win. I let out a slow breath, my muscles still thrumming from the brief skirmish. Then, something else caught my attention. A sensation.

Subtle, yet undeniable. I looked down at my hands. At first, nothing seemed out of place. The same fingers, the same skin, the same battle-worn body. But then, I noticed the way my fingers flexed—smooth, controlled, efficient. I rotated my wrist, feeling the movement, the precision in every joint. My breathing had already steadied.

The ache from my strikes had dulled too quickly, my body adjusting in real-time, as if it had learned from the engagement.

Optimization.

The word settled uncomfortably in my mind. This wasn't normal. Saiyans get stronger after battles, sure—but that's after they recover. After they nearly die. I wasn't supposed to be adapting mid-fight normally. Unless I am similar to Broly. Or transforming. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the steady beat of my heart. Even that seemed… regulated. No erratic pounding. No fatigue. Just a steady, calculated rhythm.

Saiyan genetics weren't supposed to work like this. And yet, I could feel it—my body refining itself, piece by piece, moment by moment. Like a machine fine-tuning its parts.

Efficient. Optimized. Precise.

Something was happening to me. And I had no idea why.

I stared at the kids. Their instincts had overridden their pride, their desire to fight replaced by a deeper, more primal need—survival.

But that wasn't what unsettled me.

It was my body.

Something was… shifting. Adapting. I flexed my fingers again, watching how smoothly they moved, how efficiently my muscles responded. Every slight twitch, every minuscule motion—precise, controlled, optimized. As if my body wasn't just recovering but recalibrating.

That shouldn't be possible.

Saiyans only grow stronger after surviving a battle, after recovering from near death. But this? This was something else. Then I noticed it—my mind.

It was sharp. Too sharp. I wasn't supposed to be thinking this fast, wasn't supposed to be processing this much information with such clarity. It was as if my thoughts were slotting into place with machine-like precision, each one flowing into the next without delay, without wasted effort.

That wasn't normal. I knew this because I had studied brain development before—back on Earth, with a friend who had been obsessed with neurology. We had spent hours poring over research papers, debating cognitive evolution, discussing how the human brain matures in stages.

The prefrontal cortex—the seat of rationality, decision-making, and self-control—wasn't even fully developed until the mid-20s. That was why teenagers made impulsive choices, why risk assessment wasn't as refined in younger minds. Yet here I was.

And my brain was running like a fully optimized machine. How? Frowning, I focused inward, probing this new awareness.

Scan. A sensation rippled through me. Data poured into my mind, raw and overwhelming, like a system diagnostic running in real-time. My own body—mapped, analyzed, processed.

I could see it, feel it, understand it at a level no normal person should. My muscle fibers were denser than before. My blood flow had adjusted for efficiency. Even my neural pathways—connections I should not be able to perceive—were structured in a way that screamed optimized.

What had triggered this?

The fight? The stress? The adrenaline?

Or had this ability always been there, dormant, waiting for the right moment?

I exhaled, grounding myself. No immediate answers. No clear explanations. But one thing was certain.

This wasn't normal Saiyan biology.

And if my body was changing—optimizing itself at a fundamental level—then I needed to figure out why and how.

A breach. Someone entered my range.

My range screamed at me. An intrusion so sharp and immediate that my body reacted before my mind fully processed it. My breath hitched, muscles tightening, shifting into a combat-ready state. My balance recalibrated, weight distribution adjusting in real time. Heart rate spiked, then steadied—regulated, controlled.

Then I saw him.

A child. Taller than me, but not by much. His frame, however, was something else entirely. Compact, dense musculature packed into a small frame—far more developed than it should be at his age. His stance was loose, effortless, yet I could see the underlying structure of it. Stable. Balanced. A posture that spoke of habitual combat experience, of someone who had already learned how to move efficiently, how to strike without wasted motion.

And then there was the armor. Saiyan armor. A fully formed set, not the kind of rug everyone wears. This was high-grade, flexible but sturdy, molded perfectly to his physique. That wasn't right. Saiyans at this stage weren't supposed to have access to military-grade equipment.

Mass production of their standard armor hadn't even begun. It should take years—close to a decade—before this kind of distribution became normal. And yet, here it was. Here he was.

He bit into a fruit.

My eyes—no, my mind—tracked the motion instinctively. The pressure distribution across his jaw, the seamless fracture of the fruit's outer skin, the way his grip held just firm enough to control but not crush. That level of control wasn't normal for a child.

And then I saw his face.

A smirk.

Sharp. Self-assured. Almost mocking.

It triggered something in my head. Recognition. A flood of cross-referencing information, my neurons firing at speeds they had no business operating at. That face. That build. That posture.

Goku. No - Bardock!

The realization sent another shock through my system. My mind processed his presence with an intensity I couldn't suppress. Height—slightly taller than me. Body mass—lean but packed with high-density muscle fibers. Skeletal proportions—balanced for agility and explosive power. Every detail snapped into focus with frightening clarity. His respiration was stable. His metabolic rate showed no inefficiency.

His energy signature? Contained. No leakage, no unnecessary exertion. And then there was the sheer difference in power.

I could feel it. Even without the Ki Sense, even without numbers, my body—no, my instincts—registered it. Vastly stronger than Borgos. And Borgos had been my benchmark. The fight had pushed me, but I had emerged stronger. I was stronger.

But not strong enough. Not against this. I had just barely edged past Borgos. The estimates forming in my head placed this boy at two—no, three times the power I had just struggled against. Maybe more. There was no certainty in the numbers, only that they weren't in my favor.

"You had won."

A statement. No awe. No disappointment. Just fact. I forced my breath to steady, my mind still running through calculations, assessments, possibilities.

Every part of me screamed that I was being measured, evaluated. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else. Not just an assessment.

A test.

I took a step back. Not out of fear—no, not yet. But distance was a tactical necessity. Space gave me time. Time gave me options.

"Who are you?"

My voice came out steadier than I expected, though my body remained tense, every fiber waiting for a shift in his stance. A tell. An opening. The boy just chuckled. A quiet, knowing sound, as if the question itself amused him. He didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head, gaze still locked on me like a predator considering its prey. "Huh," he muttered to himself, taking another casual bite of the fruit, barely even chewing before swallowing. "Thought Borgos was the hotshot in this tribe." A grin spread across his face.

"Guess not."

I inhaled sharply, my mind reeling through possibilities. This wasn't Bardock. For a moment, I had been sure. That face. That hair. That attitude. But no. That smirk was wrong—too lighthearted, too entertained by this encounter rather than sizing me up with quiet intensity.

Saiyan genetics. It hit me like a slap. Low-class Saiyans didn't have the luxury of genetic diversity. Their features blurred together, repeating across the generations. The same hair, the same faces, over and over again.

Of course.

This wasn't Bardock. Just another Saiyan boy with the same damn template.

"I've seen it," the boy said, his tone still casual, but there was an edge of curiosity beneath it. "The way you fought Borgos. You're a unique fighter."
His eyes studied me, calculating.

"Saiyans usually fight head-on. Brute strength. Overpowering Ki manipulation." He took another bite of his fruit, his smirk never fading. "But you? You fight differently."

I narrowed my eyes. My tail lashed behind me—a sharp, involuntary motion, but I didn't care.

"Answer my question," I snapped.

The boy just chuckled again. "Don't be paranoid."

I clenched my jaw. The arrogance in his voice was infuriating. He wasn't like the others, the reckless ones who only cared about who could punch harder. No, this one was watching, analyzing—and that made him more dangerous than any brute force attack.

Then, finally, he answered.

"Turles," he said simply. "I'm eleven."

I froze.

Turles?

My mind spun, collating every fragment of information I had on him. I knew that name. I should know that name. My readings—my understanding of Saiyan history—told me he was low-class. He should be weak.

But he's not. That much was clear.

Borgos was meant to rise in rank, to reach mid to upper class in the future. But right now? Right now, this low-class Saiyan was stronger than him. Stronger than what my knowledge should have dictated. My readings had been off. No—my assumptions had been off. And now I understood why. This version of Turles wasn't just strong. He was smart.

Turles rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, his tail swaying lazily behind him. His smirk hadn't left his face since the conversation started.

"I'm putting together a team," he said, voice full of confidence, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Been looking all over the continent for the best fighters. People with potential. Not just for now, but for later too."

I tilted my head, widening my eyes just a little—playing the part. "Why?" My voice came out softer, more childish. "What's the team for?"

Turles grinned, like he was proud I asked. "Gonna take over," he said simply. "First target—the Kesha Tribe. Mid-size. Got food, water, good hunting grounds. Good place to start."

I kept my face blank, but my mind was already running at full speed. Take over? For a kid to think like this—it wasn't just ambition. It was planning. Long-term. He went on, tapping his chin.

"Borgos was supposed to be my first pick. He's strong, you saw that. But you—" He jabbed a finger at me, grinning wider. "You beat him. That means you're in."

I blinked, feigning hesitation. "But... I'm not a hunter," I said, shifting my weight awkwardly. "I don't fight like the others."

Turles frowned slightly, then scoffed. "That doesn't matter. Hunters follow rules. They think small. You don't." He eyed me like I was some rare find. "You think when you fight. That's better than just being strong."

I nodded slowly, like I was still processing it, even as my brain continued breaking him down. He's not just gathering strong fighters. He's gathering people he can use. And right now, he thought I was one of them.

I flinched at the voice that rang out across the dusty clearing. Gruff. Impatient. Just the right mix of annoyance and authority.

Right on time. My mind envision. It fabricated.

Oi! Gine! Stop messin' around and get back here! Food ain't gonna make itself!

I sucked in a sharp breath and let my shoulders tighten, just slightly, as if the words had weight. My tail curled inward like a cornered animal's, my fingers twitching at my sides. Pretend. Adapt. Redirect. The calculations running through my mind slowed, shifting gears, adjusting the strategy.

Turles had been talking. I barely heard him now. My focus narrowed to the moment, to his stance, to his expression—casual arrogance up until now, but now? Now, he was paying attention.

"I gotta go," I muttered, pitching my voice just right—small, reluctant, like a child caught between obligation and curiosity. I lowered my gaze, hesitated, let my fingers curl into the fabric of my ragged tunic. "If I don't, my dad'll yell at me."

Turles blinked, his smirk faltering ever so slightly.

"What?"

I took a slow step back, letting the movement look natural, instinctual, like I wanted to stay but couldn't. "I gotta help cook," I repeated, as if that explained everything. Then, as if it cost me something, I added the final piece: "Or I'll get in trouble."

Silence.

The air between us shifted, stretched taut. I could feel his mind working, gears turning, analyzing, trying to reconcile what he just heard with what he knew.

"You?" he said at last, and the confusion in his voice was real. "With your strength? You're just… making food?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. I let my shoulders droop, let my tail flick uncertainly before curling back. I let the weight of the moment settle, let the absurdity of his own words sink in. Let him make his own conclusions. Then I turned. I walked away, pace unhurried, controlled, feeling his eyes bore into my back. Confusion. Suspicion. Disbelief.

Good.

I had already gotten what I needed from him. Now, I'd leave him with something to think about, too.

Turles

He watched the girl disappear into the sky, her departure a sharp, clean motion—efficient, precise. His gaze lingered on the empty space she left behind. His mind, ever calculating, ran through the implications. She's good. Too good for a kid.

More than that, her movements had a deliberate sharpness to them, a controlled execution that suggested something beyond raw talent. Saiyans were strong, yes, but strength alone didn't account for the way she maneuvered, the way she masked her intent until the very last second. Turles exhaled, crossing his arms as he turned his attention back to the ground beneath his boots.

She was interesting. A wildcard. An unknown factor. And he hated unknowns. His plans had no room for uncertainty, no space for misplaced expectations. His goal was clear: unify, conquer, expand. The Kesha Tribe was the first in a long series of dominos. The continent, then the planet, then the war against the Tuffles.

The others couldn't see it yet—the way the old ways shackled them, the way the elders clung to their positions like insects feeding on a rotting carcass. The strong ruled, but the strong also stagnated. Their time had passed.

The young are the new era.

That girl—Gine, was it?—she understood something, even if she played dumb. Her act had been convincing, slipping into the role of an obedient child, playing the part of a lesser. But Turles had seen the flicker in her eyes, the sharpness buried beneath that mask.

She had strength. Intelligence. Potential. That made her useful.

But also dangerous. His tail twitched in thought, his mind already forming contingencies.

He would build his army, piece by piece, gathering those who could be molded into something greater. Those who would follow. Those who would not question.

Turles' fingers curled into a fist. The world around him blurred for a moment, his breath slowing, his pulse steady—controlled. But deep beneath that carefully maintained exterior, something festered.

A memory.

Her hands. Clawing, trembling. Desperate fingers scratching at the thick, calloused grip around her throat. Her mouth opened, but no words came—only choked gasps, the futile sound of lungs fighting for air. Turles had been small then. Too small. Too weak. He had watched, frozen, as his father—his own tribe leader—tightened his grip. His mother's eyes found his, wide, pleading. And then—nothing.

The light faded. The struggle ceased. Her body crumpled like discarded meat, left to rot among the dust and stone. And his father? His father had turned to him, staring down with an expression carved from cold, indifferent stone.

"Weak things die."

Turles blinked. The memory scattered, dissipating into the dry air of the wastelands. His fingers slowly unfurled. He had long since crushed the weakness out of himself, stripped it away like shedding old skin. His father was strong, but old strength meant nothing. Strength alone was a stagnant force—power that sat still, festering in its own decay. Turles would prove it. He would build something new. Something greater.

And then, one day—

He would wrap his fingers around that man's throat. And watch the light leave his eyes.

One day, he would look down from the throne of a united Saiyan race. One day, he would watch the Tuffle cities burn. One day, the stars themselves would kneel. But first—first, he would kill his father.

A gust of wind slipped through the cracks in the hut, sending a sharp chill through the air. The temperature had dropped again. I exhaled, watching as my breath clouded in front of me, dissipating into nothing. My fingers twitched, instinctively flexing against the cold. The thin rags draped over my shoulders were barely enough for insulation, their fibers worn, frayed from years of wear.

I needed something better.

The hut was dim, only the faintest light slipping through the crude gaps in the walls. My gaze moved, scanning. A tattered fur pelt, discarded near the sleeping mats. Old, but salvageable. I crouched, fingers brushing over the rough texture. Thick. Dense. Heat retention potential—acceptable.

A blade rested near the firepit, its edge dulled but still usable. I worked quickly, slicing, restructuring, sewing with strips of cloth torn from the least damaged parts. The crude jacket came together in minutes, stitched together with the efficiency of necessity. A snug fit. Heat conservation—optimized.

Another breath. The air was still cold, but it no longer bit.

A small victory.

I turned my attention to the next task.

Food.

The storage corner held the usual: dried meat, a bundle of withered fruit, a half-empty container of preserved broth. My body moved without thought—scanning, analyzing, executing. The broth was heated, consistency thickened to maximize caloric intake. The meat was stripped, softened in the liquid for easier digestion.

Movements—outside. I froze, senses sharpening. Footsteps, distant but approaching. The weight of them, the rhythm—hunters. Likely returning from a failed excursion. Their energy signatures were low, Ki reserves diminished. Hunger. Frustration. I rolled my shoulders, scooping up a piece of dried fruit, biting down. The taste was bitter, barely palatable.

"Better eat fast," I muttered to no one in particular. "The mighty hunters might need feeding."

Sarcasm, a habit I hadn't bothered unlearning. The food disappeared quickly. My body hummed, metabolism firing at an unnatural rate. A side effect, perhaps. The fight against Borgos had changed something.

A shift at the biological level. The way my body processed energy, the way it stripped nutrients to their absolute efficiency—leaving nothing to waste. It was unnatural. Unheard of. Even in the absurdity of Saiyan physiology, where battle meant growth, adaptation wasn't supposed to be this immediate.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the strength humming beneath my skin. Something had been awakened.

I would need to test it. The door slammed open. A shadow filled the entrance, broad-shouldered, imposing. The temperature in the hut didn't change, but the air grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension.

Father. I missed you dearly.

He drops onto his mat with a thud, rubbing his temples. The silence stretches, thick and waiting. I ladle some broth into a bowl and place it in front of him. He takes one sip. Freezes. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he flings the bowl aside. The broth splashes across the dirt, wasted.

"This is dog's piss," he snarls. "Is this what you call a meal, girl?"

I press my hands into my lap. "It's all we have," I say quietly.

His hand moves faster than my eyes can track. A crack rings through the tent as pain explodes across my cheek. My head snaps sideways, but I don't make a sound. I don't give him that.

"All we have," he mocks, voice dripping with disgust. "Borgos would have made do with less and still please his father. Your brother—" He lets out a harsh laugh, sharp like snapping bone. "Your brother would have hunted himself before he sat here like a useless lump, waiting for scraps like a mangy pup."

I swallow, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dirt.

"You're weak," he spits. "A mistake. Soft where you should be sharp. And you wonder why the gods curse you?"

The next blow catches my shoulder, knocking me sideways. My hands slap against the ground, bracing against the impact, but I don't rise. I stay there, breath steady, waiting.

"You shame me," he says, voice quieter now. The kind of quiet that lingers longer than the pain. "I break my back for this family, and in return, I get a daughter who can't cook, can't hunt, and can't even cry properly."

"Maybe if the gods had given me another son instead—" He stops, shakes his head, then spits on the ground.

His eyes locked onto mine.

Silence.

Then, he moved.

Fast.

The first blow struck my side, hard enough to split bone—if my body had still been the same as yesterday. It wasn't though.

The pain registered, but distantly, like an afterthought. My body adjusted, adapted. The fibers of my muscles constricted, realigned. My breathing remained steady. Another strike. This time to the ribs. Then the jaw. The temple. Faster now, more desperate. His blows landed, but they did nothing. My body absorbed, recalibrated, strengthened. He didn't understand. His breath hitched, an instant of hesitation.

I met his gaze, tilting my head slightly. "Are you finished?"

A sharp inhale. The flare of Ki. He was going to try harder. I watched him, waiting. My own energy remained steady, controlled. The deductions were complete. His Ki surged, crackling at his fingertips. A final attempt, a desperate bid to reassert dominance. He was ranked the second strongest in the tribe, after all.

I smirked. The calculations were complete.

From the fight with Borgos to the blows my father had delivered, my body had absorbed and adapted. But the true revelation came in the aftermath. My body wasn't just reacting—it was learning. Ki wasn't just energy. It wasn't some abstract force to be wielded through instinct alone. It was something far more intricate. A biological phenomenon. A fundamental aspect of life woven into muscle fibers, nerve endings, and cellular regeneration.

Ki, I realized, was the body's response to extreme stress, an extension of the fight-or-flight mechanism. It coursed through the bloodstream, surged with adrenaline, embedded itself in bone and sinew, reinforcing the physical structure at a microscopic level. Every strike I had taken was recorded, broken down, and rebuilt into something stronger.

Optimization. Adaptation. Execution.

I didn't just withstand his attacks. I improved because of them.

My father stood before me, second in strength only to the Tribe Leader, his breaths uneven, his muscles still coiled with residual aggression. But I could see it now. The way his Ki pulsed, how it wove into his muscles and dictated his movements. I had analyzed him—every pattern, every shift in energy. And now, I knew how to dismantle him.

My Ki flared—sharp, electric, refined. Before he could react, I moved. A single strike. Precision over power. My fist drove into his gut, the force traveling past flesh and bone, tearing through organs. His body folded around my arm, breath vanishing in a choked gasp. His eyes widened—shock, pain, confusion.

I ripped my hand away, and his body crumpled. I didn't stay to watch him fall. The roof of the hut splintered as I shot upward, debris scattering below. The cold air greeted me as I hovered above the village, my eyes already scanning.

Somewhere in my mind, the data stitched itself together. A theory. An analysis. Ki Sensing—combined with my inherent scanning ability. It wasn't just about feeling energy signatures. It was about reading them. Understanding them. Dissecting them.

My vision sharpened. The energy signatures below mapped themselves out—pulsing lights in a vast grid. But one burned brighter than the rest. A deep, ominous blue.

A whisper, barely audible against the howling wind.

The words formed in my mind before they reached my lips. Slow. Deliberate. Each syllable laced with the weight of years spent watching, waiting, enduring.

I parted my lips, voice steady.

"Kame…"

The energy in my palms pulsed, stretching, curling outward in a slow spiral, the air around me shifting—denser, charged, electric. My breath remained even, my focus unwavering.

"Hame…"

The glow intensified, swallowing the darkness, casting elongated shadows across the dirt beneath me. The raw force of it sent tremors through my bones, but I remained still, grounded. Controlled. I could feel it now—every strand of Ki bending to my will, woven into something far greater than just raw power.

"HAAA!"

The release was not an explosion, not a wild burst of energy without direction. It was a lance of concentrated force, honed and sharpened, a perfect execution of power and intent.

Power Levels:

Borgos: 500
Father: 700
Turles: ???
Gine Pre Battle (Pre-Analysis) : 65
Gine Post Battle (Logical Legendary Saiyan Base): ???

Femto · Feb 28, 2025

My vision blurred. Crawled inward.

For a moment, the present dissolved. The cracked earth, the cool night air, the weight of logic pressing against my instincts—all of it faded.

Instead, I was small. Too small.My limbs weak, my body unfamiliar, my senses raw and unformed.

The first thing I saw was him. My dear father.

A towering figure, broad-shouldered, wrapped in tattered pelts and crude armor. His hands—thick, calloused, stained—held me up with little care, his grip firm but indifferent. He wasn't looking at me, not really. His dark eyes, shadowed beneath a heavy brow, were locked onto something deeper, something beneath my skin.

My bones.

He muttered, voice a low rumble, the words tangled and foreign, slipping through the cracks of my newborn mind. I didn't understand, not then. But I knew what disappointment looked like.

And I felt it when he saw me.

His grip faltered, just for a second, just enough for something cold to settle in my gut. His expression twisted—disgust? Disdain? It didn't matter. He had already decided.

I screamed.

Not a cry. Not hunger. Not fear. It was pain. A wretched, piercing wail that ripped through my tiny lungs, through the stale air, through whatever was left of my past self.

But he didn't flinch.

He just let go.

The sky stretched out in an endless sprawl of deep, cosmic black, pinpricked by stars that burned like distant, silent witnesses. No moon. Not yet. Only the shimmer of the void above and the hush of the world below. I hovered just beyond the reach of the clouds, their tops curling in slow, ghostly waves beneath me. The air up here was thin, cold, but it did nothing to still the fire coiling inside my chest.

I could feel it. Crawling beneath my skin, pressing against every nerve, threatening to explode outward in a searing, blinding storm of Ki. But I held it. Kept it locked under layers of discipline and precision—an iron grip forged by necessity. The rage—primal, suffocating—pushed against the walls of my restraint, but the Optimizer wove through me, smoothing the jagged edges, refining my control. I let it guide me, let it regulate every inhale, every pulse of energy, tempering raw fury into something sharper. Something usable.

But instinct was another beast entirely.

Instinct didn't care for control. It surged through my veins, gnashing at the binds of reason, clawing at the logic that tried to suppress it. Instinct demanded vengeance. It demanded blood.

I knew why. I had always known why.

Two thousand, four hundred times.

That was how often that man—the father of the original Gine—had spat on her. That was how often he had broken a four-year-old girl with the weight of his hate, his disgust. That was the number that had burned itself into my mind since the moment I woke up in this mad world, wearing a life that wasn't mine, carrying the memories of someone who should have been long gone.

The count had clawed into me like a wound that wouldn't heal. It had whispered through my bones, an ugly, unrelenting echo. And I knew, from the moment I became her, that this would be inevitable.

I had to do this.

Every instinct screamed for it. The Optimizer, ever calculating, warned against it—cold, hard logic advising patience, efficiency, an approach without emotion. But logic wasn't enough to silence the voice in my head.

Not this time.

The two thousand, four hundredth time was the last.

It worked. The Kamehameha did.

The Kamehameha bloomed outward in a searing arc of blue, splitting through the night like a second sun. But it was never meant to kill. It wasn't even meant to hit.

It was a smokescreen. A blinding light, a roaring distraction that swallowed the battlefield in dust and devastation, making it impossible to tell where I had gone. I didn't know how powerful the Tribal Leader was—not yet—and it wasn't wise to pick fights with people who had no personal grudge against me. Not until I understood the game they were playing.

I let my body drift, floating just above the barren land at a moderate speed, Ki pulsing low, controlled. The terrain stretched endlessly in jagged, broken rock, pockets of dust swirling where the night winds scraped across the cracked ground. In the distance, the shadows of dead mountains loomed, their outlines like the ribs of some long-forgotten beast.

This was Yerxun.

I had known this continent's name since birth—since I had asked my brother. Even as a newborn in this world, I had known that to survive, I needed to understand where I stood.

But I couldn't wander too far.

Beyond the wrong ridgeline, past the broken terrain, lay Tuffle territory. That was a line I would not cross.

The Tuffles, with all their diminutive size and supposed fragility, were an unshakable power in the war. Their technology alone was enough to level battalions of low- to mid-class Saiyans. It was a known fact—common knowledge, repeated in murmured warnings and reckless boasts among the tribes.

And still, they mocked them.

They laughed, spat insults, calling the Tuffles weak, small, cowards who relied on machines instead of raw strength. But their scorn had no weight in reality. Because the truth was, the Tuffles didn't need Saiyan strength.

They had something stronger.

And I was in no hurry to find out exactly how strong.
Optimize fired through my veins, sharpening thought, steadying breath, suppressing the rage as it crawled beneath my skin like a living thing. My fingers flexed, then curled into a slow, deliberate fist. Every movement was calculated, every twitch of muscle restrained.

I exhaled. My body drifted lower, just above the cracked terrain, the ground beneath me jagged and uneven. The night air pressed against my skin, cool but thin, carrying the distant scent of scorched rock and dry earth.

I couldn't stay here. Not under the Tribe Leader.

My father—Gine's father—wasn't just another warrior. He was a leader, the head of an entire faction that could be bent with the right show of strength. But it wouldn't be simple. Tribal structures didn't work like that. Strength wasn't just about winning—it was about maintaining the cycle.

I moved. A slow rotation of my shoulders, rolling out tension. My tail flicked behind me, a subconscious reaction to the thoughts running wild in my mind. I needed to keep moving, keep thinking, keep calculating.

To defeat, to break, to oppress—that was encouraged. That was order. That was how the system sustained itself. But murder?

I adjusted my altitude, keeping myself just high enough to avoid loose debris but low enough that the ground still felt close. Killing someone weaker was frowned upon—not because of morality, but because it upset the labor force. The lowest weren't warriors; they were tools, meant to be beaten, not discarded.

Killing someone stronger was worse. That was destabilization. That was chaos. That was a power vacuum. And a power vacuum meant uncertainty, vulnerability—weakness.

I clenched my jaw, rolled my neck, and let my body dip slightly before steadying myself again.

The rules were unspoken, but absolute.

And I had to decide which ones to break.

I exhaled.

Think.

I needed to leave. This planet—this hellhole—was a cage, built on blood, strength, and the fragile balance of power. I couldn't stay. Not under the Tribe Leader. Not under him.

The only way out was up.

The Tuffles had ships. Advanced ones. If I could steal one…

Easier said than done.

The Tuffles weren't weak, no matter how much the others spat on their name. Their technology leveled the playing field. One soldier. One weapon. A dozen dead Saiyans. It was the norm. If I get caught, I die. No second chances.

How often do they check their ships? What are their flight schedules? Do they have biometric locks? If I steal one, can I even fly it?

Too many unknowns.

And then, there was them. The Tribe.

They won't just let me go. The Leader would see it as defiance. The rest? A challenge. They didn't care for escape. They cared for power. If I ran, I'd be prey. If I stayed, I'd be trapped.

Would they hunt me?

Would I have to kill someone to make them hesitate?

No. A fight I can avoid is better than a fight I have to win.

So what are my options?

Infiltration? Sneak into their bases. Too risky. I don't know enough about their security yet. Deception? Fake a capture, sneak in. Do they take prisoners? Do they process Saiyans or execute them on sight? Bargain? Offer them something they want. But what do I have that they don't? Sabotage? Force an evacuation, steal a ship in the chaos. More plausible. Still risky.

My fingers curled into a fist, knuckles white.

I need more information. Data. Patterns. Movement cycles.

The air rippled around me as my Ki surged, a raw, searing current that sent waves of heat distorting the barren land. My breath came in sharp bursts, each inhale laced with the intoxicating rush of power.

Then—I screamed.

A visceral, unrestrained roar tore from my throat, and the ground beneath me cracked as the force of my energy bore down upon it. Dust shot up in violent spirals, and the dried, brittle remains of vegetation disintegrated in my wake. Every fiber in my body listened, every muscle primed, every nerve alight.

This body—

This body is different.

My mind raced. All the knowledge that was seared into my bones since the moment I woke in this world. And now, every cell in me responded to that accumulation.

The komodo dragon, a towering beast of blackened scales and scarred hide, let out a guttural hiss. Its forked tongue flicked out, tasting the charged air between us. The creature was massive—easily the size of the tribal huts back in the settlement, its bulk alone a testament to its survival in these unforgiving lands. It moved with a weighty grace, a slow, rolling step that belied the sheer explosiveness it could unleash at any given moment.

I knew that kind of movement. It's a predator. It's waiting.

The moment I shifted—it lunged.

Its body blurred forward, its claws raking out. I twisted mid-air, barely avoiding the swipe. The wind pressure from its strike alone sent cracks rippling through the rock formations behind me.That would have broken bones.

I retaliated. My body reacted faster than thought, because I understood now.

The biochemical process flooded my mind as I fought. Every movement, every reaction, was being optimized, refined. Before—my Ki was rage. It burned wild. It was raw, uncontrolled, wasteful. But now—

Now, I am adjusting.

My Ki no longer flared recklessly. It tightened, compressed around me, feeding into my limbs, refining my output. Less excess. More precision.

I shot forward, my fist driving into the beast's ribcage. The impact sent a concussive blast through the air, and the creature reeled, its massive frame skidding back, claws digging trenches into the dry earth to regain balance. But it wasn't enough. Not yet. The komodo dragon reared its head back—then spewed forth a torrent of searing, molten acid.

I moved. My body twisted, Ki guiding the motion with ruthless efficiency. The heat licked at my skin as I barely dodged the corrosive spray, feeling the air sizzle behind me.

The beast lunged again, and this time, I didn't retreat. I met its charge head-on. I ducked under its snapping jaws, drove my elbow up into its throat, and as it staggered—I launched myself beneath its belly. Ki flared to my fingertips—no longer wild, but sharp. I struck. A rapid, relentless flurry of attacks, each impact sinking deep into the vulnerable flesh under its armored plating.

The beast screeched—a deep, guttural, agonized sound.

I felt it now. The difference.

Before, my strikes would have been blunt, wasteful. I would have thrown everything into brute force, hammering away until something gave.

But now—

Now, I was efficient.

Ki control. Body control. Movement control.

It wasn't perfect. Not yet.

But I was learning. And at a rapid rate.

The komodo dragon heaved, trying to escape—I didn't let it. I twisted mid-air, planted both feet against its gut—

And with a final, precise surge of Ki, I blasted it skyward. The impact was devastating. The beast was sent hurtling, spiraling uncontrollably before it crashed into the jagged rock formations in the distance.

Silence. I hovered, breathing heavy, watching the dust settle. Then, a slow exhale.

Turles

He smirked, leisurely biting into the crisp flesh of a crimson apple. The girl standing before him had changed. He could see it, feel it. Her frame, once scrawny and unremarkable, had hardened. Not into the bulky muscle of an elite warrior, nor even the lean refinement of a seasoned fighter, but something in between—tempered. The subtle tone of her limbs suggested a body accustomed to movement, to exertion, to violence.
But it wasn't her physique that caught his attention the most.

It was her eyes.

Dark, depthless pits. Abyssal, cold, and unreadable. There was something there—something he could only vaguely grasp. Still just a kid, but the way she stood, the way she looked at him… something had happened to her.

His gaze flicked downward. Her clothes—immaculate. The fabric was high quality, perfectly woven, unlike the rough, hastily stitched rags most Saiyan brats ran around in. Her boots—new, untarnished, completely untouched by the dirt and grime of this wretched planet.

His lips twitched in amusement. What, did I wake up in a noble's estate?

Casually, he crushed the throat of a dying volker—a wolf-like predator native to this wasteland—before tossing the lifeless body aside. Its neck snapped like a twig. He wiped his hand on his armor and turned his attention back to her.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, half-curious, half-amused.

She didn't even hesitate. "I have my means."

Turles raised an eyebrow. Vague little brat. But fine. He wasn't here to pick apart a child's secrets.

"You here to join my team?"

A pause.

Her expression didn't change, but there was thought behind it. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head. Then—

"I have a condition."

Turles clicked his tongue. Of course, she did.

"Speak."

Something felt off. He focused his senses, probing for her power level—but nothing. No signature, no readable output. It was masked. His smirk faltered for the briefest second.

Before, yesterday— he knew—that he was leagues above her. But now? The certainty wasn't there. He hated that.

His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as irritation simmered beneath the surface.

"I need to know if you have connections with the PTO."

Turles froze.

For a fleeting moment, his thoughts stalled. How the hell did she know? His dealings with his Arcosian contacts were well-hidden, known only to his inner circle. Even among his crew, it was a carefully guarded secret. He studied her, trying to see if she was bluffing—but there was no uncertainty in her stance, no hesitance in her voice.

Then, he laughed. Low, amused, as if the idea of a child challenging him was entertaining.

"Why?"

"I need you to connect me with a scientist or an engineer."

Turles' amusement dimmed. His fingers tapped against the half-eaten apple in his palm.

"Why?"

She smiled. "That's none of your business."

His smirk twitched. His grip on the apple tightened slightly. This brat…

She wasn't just making demands—she was controlling the conversation. Steering it like she had the upper hand.

He exhaled slowly, gaze sharpening. "And why would I do that?"

Her smirk grew sharper.

"Because if you don't," she said smoothly, "I won't share any rights to the conquered tribes. Not even a speck of it."

Turles' jaw tightened.

Now they were really talking. But he wasn't about to let some five-year-old dictate terms. He leaned back slightly, feigning indifference. "What you're asking for is cheap."

Her expression didn't flicker. "Right now, I could call King Vegeta to wipe out your entire crew."

Turles' body stiffened. The amusement drained from his face. His grip crushed the apple in his hand, juice and pulp seeping between his fingers.

She wasn't bluffing. He knew she wasn't bluffing.

His mind raced. If King Vegeta viewed his operation as a threat to the hierarchy, he wouldn't hesitate to crush them. The King depended on order—on maintaining the power structure of the Saiyan race. If someone like Turles started creating ripples, stirring chaos, and disrupting the system he was building—

He shuddered.

That smirk.

She grinned at him, eyes glinting with something dark and unnatural.

"I also have the means to locate you in real time."

His breath caught. His tail lashed behind him, muscles coiling with irritation. His power flared, raw energy crackling around him. The pressure of it sent dust and debris scattering across the dry ground.

She only laughed. Her gaze locked onto his, unblinking. Watching. Studying. Reading him, as if she could peel him apart layer by layer.

He grit his teeth. Damn her.

"…Fine," he spat. His tail flicked, irritated, but his expression remained composed. "But I want monopoly over five resource points on this continent."

She blinked. Her head tilted slightly. "Five?" A pause, then a slight furrow of her brow. "Does that mean you plan on conquering the entire thing?"

Turles grinned, baring his teeth. "Obviously."

She studied him, silent for a moment. Then—she nodded. "Fine." But there was a slight shift in her tone. A warning. "Without outside help, it'll be difficult."

He let out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulders as he tossed the ruined apple core aside.

"Don't worry." He smirked. "I've got friends."

Nappa

He wore a cape. Not because he was a hotshot—though, apparently, he was. Not because he needed to stand out—though he did, towering over the lesser warriors like a titan among ants. He wore it because he was Colonel of All Saiyans. Every tribe, every faction, no matter their size or strength, was beneath him. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't pride. It was fact.

And yet, this was what he had to deal with?

His boots scraped against the hard-packed dirt as he came to a stop, his gaze sweeping across the barren wasteland. Jagged rock formations jutted from the earth like the broken ribs of a corpse, and the wind howled through the desolation, kicking up a haze of dust and sand.

His lip curled in disgust.

A waste. All of it.

His ki flared in response, a seething, churning mass of fury that crackled and snapped around him like an untamed storm. The air grew thick with pressure, the ground beneath his feet trembling as if in anticipation of what was to come.

Then, without a word, he raised a hand.

A blinding wave of blue energy erupted from his palm, screaming forward in an instant.

The landscape didn't even have time to resist. One moment, there were uneven crags and lifeless terrain. The next, a violent detonation of heat and force, a shockwave that tore through the ground, annihilating everything in its path. The air exploded outward in a burst of scorching wind, sending plumes of dust and debris spiraling into the sky.

When the light faded, there was nothing left.

A crater. A wound upon the earth. Molten rock sizzled at the edges, glowing red-hot, the remnants of a wasteland erased as if it had never existed.

And yet, the coward in front of him still breathed.

The tribe leader knelt, his forehead pressed against the dirt in complete, trembling submission. His muscles were locked, his hands curled into the sand as though trying to grasp onto something solid. As if that would help him now.

Nappa exhaled sharply through his nose. The sound alone could have been mistaken for a growl.

His cape billowed as he took a step forward, the heavy clank of his boots cutting through the silence. The weight of his presence alone pressed down on the kneeling warrior like an unbearable force, but Nappa wasn't interested in fear.

He wanted answers.

"Speak," Nappa ordered, his voice low, dangerous. "Tell me exactly what happened to Spinsh."

The tribe leader flinched at the name, his throat convulsing as he swallowed hard. He dared not raise his head. "Colonel Nappa—please, it wasn't—"

Too slow.

A flicker of movement.

A solid thud.

Nappa's fist buried itself deep into his gut, sinking into flesh like a hammer driving through wet clay.

There was no scream. No breathless cry of pain. Just a raw, choking gurgle, as if the air had been ripped from his lungs along with something deeper. His body jerked violently, his knees leaving the ground as the sheer force of the blow lifted him into the air. His ribs bent inward. His entire frame caved under the impact.

Nappa didn't let him fall.

His other hand shot up, seizing the trembling man by the throat. Tight. So tight that his fingers dug into flesh, cutting off whatever weak, gasping attempts the fool made to breathe.

The bastard's legs twitched, feet barely scraping against the dirt. His hands clawed at Nappa's wrist, useless, feeble, like an insect trying to fend off a hurricane.

A sneer curled across Nappa's face.

"You let Spinsh die?"

The words came low, venomous, dripping with something so much heavier than mere rage. He shook the man once, hard enough that vertebrae popped, his head snapping back like a broken doll.

"You?" Nappa snarled. "You incompetent, worthless, spineless little shit."

His grip tightened. The struggling grew weaker.

"My sworn brother. My best friend." He spat the words out like poison. "And you? You let him die?"

A desperate wheeze. The tribe leader's fingers twitched against Nappa's grip, then dropped limply. He forced out a raspy, strangled breath.

"It—it wasn't supposed to be like that, Colonel," he croaked. "We—we were attacked!"

Nappa's grip slackened—just slightly. Just enough for him to talk.

"Attacked?" Nappa echoed. His voice was a low rumble, dangerous.

The tribe leader coughed violently, chest heaving. "Yes! The camp—we were just resting after a hunt when—when a massive blue wave just erupted from nowhere!" His voice cracked, his entire body trembling. "It—it was too fast! It swallowed everything! I—it burned straight through the tents, the warriors—Colonel, it disintegrated Spinsh before he even had a chance to fight!"

Nappa's brows furrowed.

Spinsh? Disintegrated? Not even a body left to bury? No resistance? No struggle?

The tribe leader continued, words spilling from his lips as if the dam had broken. "The attacker—he was just gone. After the blast, there was nothing left—no trace of him, no energy signature, nothing! We—we couldn't even fight back!"

Nappa's patience snapped.

A sickening crack echoed through the air as he slammed the tribe leader's body into the ground, hard enough to make the earth tremble. Dust and rock scattered from the impact.

"Gone?" Nappa bellowed. "GONE?!" His voice was raw, his rage a living, breathing thing. "You mean to tell me some rat shows up, wipes out Spinsh, and just leaves?!"

The tribe leader gasped, his body spasming in the dirt. "We—we don't know why he left! He could have killed us all, but he—he just vanished!"

Nappa loomed over him, chest heaving. His tail lashed behind him, muscles coiled, every fiber of his being screaming for something—anything—to hurt.

Spinsh wasn't some low-class nobody. He was a warrior. A fighter. Someone who had stood beside Nappa through every battle, every mission, every war that mattered. He wasn't supposed to die.

And yet, here he was. Gone.

And the bastard who did it?

Not only did he kill Spinsh—he had the audacity to leave? To think that wiping him out in an instant was enough?

No.

No, it wasn't.

Nappa leaned in close, his breath hot against the trembling man's ear.

"Listen to me," he growled. "I don't care who did this. I don't care why. I don't care if that bastard is hiding in the furthest reaches of the galaxy, or if he's already dead."

His eyes burned.

"I will find him."

His grip tightened, just for a moment.

"And if he's dead? I'll rip him out of hell myself, just so I can kill him again."

Then, he threw him.

Not with any technique. Not with any grace. Just pure, seething force.

The body shot through the air like a ragdoll, arms flailing, eyes wide in a horror he didn't even have time to process. He crashed against an outcrop of jagged stone, bones crunching on impact, then bounced—skidding, rolling, before smashing into the remains of a crumbling settlement.

A cloud of dust erupted from the impact. Silence followed.

Nappa rolled his shoulders.

His ki still burned.

His hands still trembled.

Spinsh was dead.

And this?

This was just the beginning of hell for them.

Shorter chap this time. Saiyan Tribe Conquest this time. Don't know much about Canon Saiyans but I might go for OCs to develop. But if you have something in mind. Please let me know. Ciao!

Power level Reference:

Nappa: 3500 (Serious State) 3800 (Rage)

Femto · Feb 28, 2025

Hey friends. Please keep in mind that this story is AU - lot of changes - I just would want to be more creative with the world building - it may be me - kinda don't want to follow the SI route of going to Traditional Dragon Ball Wishing for cheat code - or getting potential unlock, fighting Frieza - helping the Dragon Warriors. I mean yeah - given the backround the SI could help them - but I won't go to that route directly. Red Ribbon and Gero might conquer Earth, or Pilaf getting his wish - or some sort of new villain introduce in Earth. What I'm saying is - I racked my brain to think on the better way to create a tiny bit different form of dragon ball - something not so canon - but interesting.

End of note, thanks for here mate. Enjoy!

Beets barely had time to exhale before a fist crashed into his ribs. A sharp, wet crack rang in his ears—his bones giving way beneath the force. Pain, white-hot and unbearable, speared through his body. His breath hitched, cut short, as his vision swam. His knees almost buckled, but instinct kept him upright.

Then came the second hit.

A forearm, thick and solid, rammed into his jaw. His head snapped sideways, the impact jolting through his skull like a whipcrack. Spit and blood sprayed from his mouth, his teeth clacking together hard enough to rattle his brain. His feet stumbled back, dragging through the dirt, barely finding purchase.

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he heard them.

A chorus of voices, laughter, excitement.

"Beets! You're getting wrecked!"

"Stand up and hit back, idiot!" Another voice, mocking, like he even had the chance.

The taller Saiyan didn't stop. He never did. A knee drove into Beets' gut, folding him in half. He choked on the pain, felt bile rise up his throat. The force of the blow lifted him clean off his feet. His body twisted, flung like a ragdoll, before something—no, someone—met him midair. A boot, fast and merciless, connected with his jaw.

The world spun violently.

His back hit the ground hard. A shockwave of agony shot up his spine. Dust billowed around him, sticking to the blood on his lips, his skin. His limbs twitched, unresponsive, the nerves screaming in protest. He gasped for air, but his lungs were locked, refusing to expand. The sky above blurred, unfocused, shifting between the glares of the onlookers and the merciless sun.

He needed to move. Get up. Fight back.

"Pathetic."

Rough fingers clenched around his hair, yanking him upright. His body followed limply, feet dragging against the ground. His head lolled for half a second before—

Another fist.

This one drove deep into his stomach. Beets' entire body convulsed. Pain exploded outward, coiling, tightening, crushing every ounce of breath from his lungs. He wheezed, eyes wide, stomach caving inward as if it were trying to flee from the impact.

The grip in his hair kept him from collapsing. He hung there, trembling, barely conscious, while the voices around him rose in volume.

Some laughed. Others cheered.

But the taller Saiyan wasn't done.

Not yet.

Beets barely had time to suck in a ragged breath before another fist crashed into his gut. The pain wasn't just sharp—it was suffocating. A raw, twisting agony that dug deep, forcing his ribs to groan under the strain. His body seized, spine arching as his stomach clenched violently, his breath stolen right out of his lungs.

The taller Saiyan held him upright by the hair, his grip merciless, keeping Beets from collapsing into the dirt. His arms hung uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to move, like they could still fight.

But they couldn't.

A cruel uppercut to the ribs, the kind meant to savor the suffering. A sickening crunch followed as he felt something shift unnaturally inside him. He coughed, a wet, shuddering sound, dark red spilling from his lips. The iron taste coated his tongue, thick and warm.

His opponent chuckled, low and amused.

"Damn, you're fragile."

A rough shake of his grip in Beets' hair, making the younger Saiyan groan, his head tilting up, barely able to keep his eyes open. "What, all that talk, and this is all you got?"

The jeers from the crowd flared up again, the other Saiyans watching with eager, entertained grins.

"Thought he'd last longer!"

"Beets, you gonna cry, or what?"

Another fist. This time, right to his side. His body spasmed violently, his knees giving out entirely. But the grip in his hair kept him from collapsing, forcing him to stay upright, forcing him to feel every bit of it. His opponent leaned in, breath hot against his ear.

"You know what I like about weaklings like you?"

Beets couldn't answer. His throat barely worked. Every breath felt like dragging air through broken glass.

The next blow wasn't a punch. It was a slap. Casual, humiliating, sending his head snapping to the side. The taller Saiyan clicked his tongue.

"You make the best sounds when you break."

Beets shuddered. His body wanted to collapse. Wanted to stop. But Saiyans weren't supposed to stop. The taller Saiyan laughed. A slow, amused chuckle.

"Ohhh, you're still conscious?"

He sounded genuinely surprised. His grip tightened in Beets' hair, tilting his head up to force eye contact. "You don't look too good." A smirk. "But hey, I like 'em still breathing when I finish."

Had it always been like this?

No.

He had never been the weakest. Never the strongest, either. He was a fighter like any other—battered, bruised, and standing. He had his share of losses, his share of wins. No one singled him out.

Then came Fasha.

He hadn't spoken to her. Hadn't even been near her. But she was there—impossible to ignore, like a storm hanging over the battlefield. Strong. Too strong. The kind of strong that no one questioned, because she was the daughter of the tribe leader, and that alone made her untouchable. No one pursued her. No one dared.

But he had looked. It had been nothing. A glance. Barely even that. She had been standing with her arms crossed, watching the matches with that same sharp, unreadable expression. Her stance was solid. Balanced. He had taken in that detail without meaning to. Maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he had acknowledged that she was good-looking.

Karots had seen. And that was enough.

The first time, it was a shove. Beets barely registered it, didn't think anything of it. The second time, an elbow to the ribs, just a little too hard. By the third, it wasn't subtle anymore. A fight that wasn't a fight—Karots sizing him up, testing how much he could take before breaking. He fought back. Of course, he did. He cracked Karots in the mouth, split his lip, and for a moment, he thought that was it. That he had proved his point.

Then Karots grinned. Ran his tongue over the blood, eyes alight with something worse than anger. That was when it started. No warnings. No build-up. A fist from nowhere. A kick to the back of the knee while he was walking. A knee driving into his gut when he least expected it. Beets stopped waiting for a reason. There never was one.

Pain. Sudden and crushing. The world tilted. The ground slammed into his back. His ribs screamed. Beets barely had the air to cough, let alone breathe. Cheers. Laughter. They were watching. They were always watching.

Bootsteps crunched against the dirt. Slow. Leisurely. Karots' shadow loomed over him before the boot followed—slamming into his stomach and twisting, grinding down like he was snuffing out a flame.

A sharp, broken wheeze tore out of Beets' throat. His body convulsed, arms twitching to curl inward, to protect himself, but the weight on his gut didn't let him move. Karots crouched down, gripping a fistful of his hair and yanking his head up.

Beets barely saw him. His vision swam, darkness creeping at the edges, but he felt Karots' breath, warm and taunting against his bloodied skin.

"This is what happens... when you think you can take what's mine."

He wanted to say he hadn't. That it wasn't like that.

But the words caught in his throat, drowned by the iron taste of blood.

I didn't.

Blood filled his mouth. He barely got enough breath to keep his vision from slipping.

Didn't matter.

It never mattered.

A flicker of movement.

Karots was laughing, turning away. Already done with him.

The blood in Beets' mouth tasted like fire.

No.

Heat surged through his veins, a furious, desperate burn. His muscles screamed, but he forced them to move. His fingers clawed into the dirt.

Karots had barely turned halfway when he lunged.

A wild swing. Sloppy, reckless, but it hit.

The crack of a fist meeting flesh. Karots' head snapped to the side. The crowd went silent for half a breath. Beets staggered upright, legs shaking, fire roaring in his blood. His breathing was ragged, heart pounding against his ribs. He could still fight.

He could still -

Karots exhaled sharply. Rolled his jaw. Spat a bit of blood onto the dirt.

Then he grinned.

Beets had seen that grin before.

The air shifted. A rush of heat. The sickening sound of joints popping, muscles flexing.

Karots flared—power surging, a crushing force pressing against Beets' skin.

"You dumb, useless trash," Karots said, almost laughing. His voice was smooth, pleased. "You actually thought—" He scoffed, eyes glinting. "That was cute."

A blur. A fist slammed into Beets' gut.

He barely had time to register the pain before another blow crushed into his ribs, caved them. His body twisted violently, breath escaping in a broken wheeze.

Karots grabbed his collar, yanked him upright, lips curled in amusement.

"Did that feel good?" he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "Did you think you were gonna win?"

He slammed a knee into Beets' stomach. Hard.

The world blurred. The ground wasn't under his feet anymore. Then it was. Pain shot up his spine, his skull rattling from the impact.

Karots loomed over him.

"You're fucking pathetic," he sneered. "Getting ideas just because you landed one hit? You're nothing. Less than nothing."

The world was pain.

Beets gasped, but his lungs refused to pull in air. His ribs—some were cracked, some were broken, and every breath felt like knives scraping against his insides. His body was screaming, nerves flaring in agony, but he couldn't move.

Bootsteps. Karots was still there. Still standing over him. Still grinning.

"You're just a weak little bitch."

The kick came fast.

A sickening crack.

Beets' body twisted from the impact, vision flashing white. His mouth tasted like blood and bile. The ground felt distant, like he was floating just above it, his consciousness slipping in and out.

The crowd was laughing again. He could barely hear them through the ringing in his ears.

Something changed. The air itself changed. A weightless moment. An unnatural stillness. Beets' instincts screamed.

His tail curled before he could think—pure, primal fear tightening every muscle in his body. His half-lidded eyes shot open, and he felt it.

So did everyone else.

Karots had frozen mid-step, his cocky smirk slipping. The laughter from the crowd died, cut off like a blade had sliced through the sound itself.

A figure from above.

No warning. No sound. A blur, crashing toward them like a meteor.

The ground shattered.

A deafening explosion of earth and dust. Rocks split apart. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, a force that slammed into Beets' already battered body and sent him skidding across the dirt like a ragdoll.

A massive crater, at least ten meters wide, gaped open where the figure had landed. Dust and debris curled into the air, obscuring everything.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Beets' heart was hammering. His entire body screamed to run.

Whatever had just landed—whoever it was—wasn't normal.

And they were dangerous.

The laughter died.

Beets felt it before he saw it. A shift. A change in the very air, like something ancient had stirred awake. His instincts screamed at him, his tail curling against his will.

His breathing turned shallow.

A shadow moved within the dust cloud. Slow, casual.

From the heart of the crater, a small figure emerged—barely four feet tall, clad in dark blue alien armor. His hair, wild and unkempt, framed his sharp, youthful face. A single hand rested lazily on his hip, while the other brought an apple to his lips. A crisp bite echoed in the unnatural quiet.

Beets, still sprawled across the dirt, barely breathed. His head throbbed, his vision blurry, but he saw the kid's smirk—mocking, playful, like he was enjoying a private joke.

Karots stepped forward, shaking off the unease that had gripped him just moments ago. His tail lashed behind him, irritation flaring in his expression. "Oi, runt." His voice carried arrogance, but there was hesitation now. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"

The kid stopped chewing. His dark eyes flicked toward Karots, then over the crowd, as if bored by what he saw.

He grinned.

And then, with an exaggerated flourish, he bent at the waist, one arm sweeping out in an elaborate, mocking bow.

"I'm Turles." His voice was smooth, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Straightening up, he took another slow bite of his apple before continuing. "And I'm here to have a chat with your tribe leader."

A beat of silence.

Then, laughter.

Karots and his gang exchanged glances before bursting into jeers. Some spat at the ground, others folded their arms, shaking their heads.

"You serious?" one of them snorted.

"This little brat?" Another slapped his knee, barely holding back a grin. "You lost or something, kid?"

"Lookin' for the tribe leader?" Karots sneered, stepping closer. He loomed over Turles, a full two heads taller. "You ain't even tall enough to look him in the eye."

More laughter.

Beets forced himself to breathe. Something about this—about him—wasn't right. The way he stood there, unfazed. The way he watched them, completely unbothered.

Turles sighed, shaking his head.

"A whole lotta barking," he mused, rolling the apple between his fingers. "Not much bite."

Turles stood there, still chewing his apple, still smirking like nothing had changed—except everything had.

A low hum vibrated through the ground. The dirt at Beets' feet trembled. His skin prickled, and his stomach churned as something heavy settled over the battlefield.

The kid exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded, like he was savoring the moment.

BOOM.

A wave of raw force exploded from Turles' body. The ground shattered beneath him. Air itself warped, as if the atmosphere was trying—and failing—to contain the power now flooding from him.

Beets staggered back, feet scraping against fractured stone. His pulse slammed against his ribs, his breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a choke.

What… what the hell is this?

Karots had stopped laughing. His tail had gone rigid, his muscles locked. The others—Saiyans who had been jeering moments ago—were now silent.

Turles opened his eyes.

A deep, eerie glow sat behind his dark irises, something terrifyingly calm, something utterly assured.

His smirk widened.

"Allow me to show you..." His voice was light, almost mocking.

A deep vibration ran through Beets' bones as Turles raised a single hand, fingers curling. His aura flared to life—a suffocating black-violet blaze swallowing the space around him, churning like an endless storm.

"What it means to defy the Saiyan Emperor."

He vanished.

No warning. No sound. Just gone.

Beets barely had time to process before.

CRACK.

Karots' body folded around a brutal knee to the gut.

His mouth gaped open in a silent scream. His ribs caved under the impact. Then, his body launched, rocketing into the sky so fast that Beets' eyes barely tracked him. The force of it sent a shockwave through the ground, cracks splitting outward from where Karots had once stood.

Beets felt his own breathing hitch, eyes wide, neck craning upward—Karots was already a speck in the clouds.

No way…

Turles stood exactly where he had started. Unmoved. Unbothered. As if kicking Karots halfway to orbit had required nothing.

Wind screamed around him, his power still rising, dark and wrong—like something beyond Saiyan limits.

Beets swallowed thickly.

Turles lifted his hands, slow, deliberate.

Between his fingers, a sphere of black and violet ki crackled into existence. It pulsed with something unnatural, twisting the very air around it. Darkness bled from its edges, light dying as it grew.

Beets felt the hair on his arms stand.

Something was very wrong.

Far above, Karots had finally stopped rising. He hovered for half a second, weightless, trying to catch his breath—

A low, vibrating hum filled the battlefield.

His head jerked down. Turles was aiming at him. His grip around the ki sphere tightened.

"Kill Driver."

Beets' tail curled tighter around his waist, his entire body locking up—

A howling streak of black-violet energy tore through the air, twisting space in its wake, ripping toward Karots at impossible speed. The pressure from it alone sent chills crawling up Beets' spine.

Karots screamed.

The attack hit.

A blinding eruption of black energy consumed the sky. The force of it sent shockwaves outward, tearing apart the clouds, shaking the earth beneath them. Beets shielded his eyes, his body trembling against the pressure. The air itself trembled.

When the light faded, the sky was empty. No Karots. No body. No ashes. No trace.

The wind howled past my ears, thin and sharp at this altitude. Cold, but insignificant. My body adjusted, muscles micro-correcting every fraction of a second, keeping me steady in the air with the least amount of energy expenditure. Every motion – subtle shifts in posture, the minuscule tension in my core – was optimized, streamlined. No wasted effort. No unnecessary movement.

I hovered just above the dense cloud cover, weightless, watching the village below. Kesha Tribe. It was... big. A lot bigger than I expected.

My pupils contracted, focus sharpening as I scanned the landscape with precise, calculated sweeps. The layout was intricate – concentric rings of structures, pathways forming a deliberate pattern. The outer zones stretched far, packed with rows of compact, square dwellings, all uniform in shape and size. No excess, no extravagance – functional. Further in, larger buildings stood, arranged methodically around an open central space. A training ground? A gathering area? My eyes tracked the scars in the dirt, the uneven depressions, the subtle discoloration of frequently disturbed soil. Yes. High activity zone.

Beyond that, the inner sanctum – more fortified, rooftops elevated, reinforced. That was where the important ones stayed. Where the leader stayed.

My gaze flicked over the figures moving below, counting, measuring. Hundreds of them. Saiyans, all of them. Power signatures fluctuating like individual pulses in a vast network. More than my home tribe. Significantly more. My mind processed the data automatically, cataloging and structuring it into something usable.

A breath in.

I adjusted my focus, shifting from mere visual observation to a deeper scan – Ki Signature Tracking. A technique, in theory, simple. In practice, intricate. I aligned my senses, letting them stretch, seeking the distinct markers of life force. Patterns. Resonances. Saiyan energy carried an unmistakable aggression, sharp and volatile, but each had its own rhythm, its own frequency. I tuned in, filtering the noise. The strong stood out immediately – high-density signatures flaring like bonfires among dimmer ones. But I wasn't just looking for strength.

I was looking for him. The tribe leader. The strongest.

My body remained still, locked in perfect efficiency, but internally, everything was in motion. Neural calculations fired at high speed, adapting, refining. The way a machine would optimize a process, I optimized my scan. Range extended. Resolution increased. My perception sculpted a clearer map of the energy web below.

Then – there. A presence.

Different from the rest. Deep. Heavy. Rooted.

My eyes narrowed. Found you.

A sharp crack split the air as stone shattered beneath Fasha's fist. Dust and debris exploded outward, scattering in jagged shards across the barren landscape. She didn't pause. Her body twisted, her right leg snapping up in a brutal arc—another boulder, larger this time, splintered apart as her shin met solid rock with the force of a battle-honed warhammer.

The impact reverberated up her bones, but it was nothing. A familiar sensation. She exhaled through her nose, adjusting her stance, eyes already scanning for the next target.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. Her muscles tensed, Ki flaring at her core. Power surged, condensed—coiling like a serpent waiting to strike. She moved. A blur of motion. Her palm thrust forward, a concentrated blast of energy erupting from her fingertips. The beam carved through the final boulder like a hot knife through flesh, reducing it to dust before the remnants even had a chance to fall.

Silence settled. Only the faint echo of destruction lingered in the crisp morning air. Fasha let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders. The training ground—if it could even be called that—was now nothing but rubble and craters.

This isn't enough. My master can do faster. Stronger.

It never was.

She had long surpassed her father, the so-called strongest warrior of their tribe. That victory had been inevitable—expected. He was a relic, a hardened fighter, but age dulled even the sharpest blades. Fasha, in contrast, was still being forged—hammered into something deadlier, something greater.

But there was no one left to sharpen herself against.

The Kesha Tribe wasn't small, not by Saiyan standards. A mid-sized faction, self-sufficient, strong enough to hold its own. But that wasn't her goal.

Her eyes lifted toward the sky, past the wisps of smoke rising from the wreckage of her training. There's more out there. Beyond this backwater existence. Beyond the petty squabbles and tribal feuds.

The Royal Guard.

That was her path. To stand among King Vegeta's warriors, to take rule in the real battles—the conquest of the Tuffles.

Her blood thrummed at the thought, hunger gnawing at the edges of her mind. She'd seen glimpses of what the Elites could do. Their power. Their ruthlessness. That was where she belonged.

Fasha clenched her fists. She would leave this place. She would search for her master. And she would never look back.

A shadow fell over the ruined training ground.

Fasha's muscles coiled on instinct, her senses flaring, but there was no explosion, no shockwave, no burst of Ki from impact. Just presence.

A figure stood at the center of the clearing—small, slight, impossibly still. A child. A girl.

She didn't recognize the clothing. Not the rugged pelts or loose, battle-worn garb of the tribe, but something different. A fitted suit, navy blue, pressed against her frame like a second skin. The boots—sleek, unscuffed—held an unfamiliar sheen, nothing like the hardened leather scraps most Saiyans wore. It was foreign. Unnatural. Alien.

Fasha's tail bristled.

The child's was relaxed, swaying idly behind her, thick and well-groomed. A Saiyan's tail, unmistakable. But her presence—her being—was off.

Too small. Too delicate.

She barely reached Fasha's waist, her frame no larger than that of a mewling five-year-old. But it wasn't just her size—it was the symmetry of her features, the almost fragile precision of her face. The soft curve of her jaw, the smoothness of her skin, untouched by scarring, by hardship, by anything that marked a warrior's path.

But her eyes.

Cold. Detached. A shade too deep, like empty wells swallowing the light.

Saiyan eyes burned with hunger, with fire, with unrestrained want. But this girl's gaze held none of it. No pride, no arrogance, no cruelty. Only calculation.

Fasha felt it—felt herself being studied, measured, taken apart piece by piece in some silent equation. The girl's stare did not waver, did not blink, did not judge. It simply absorbed.

A slow, creeping instinct clawed at the back of Fasha's mind.

She had fought beasts. She had fought warriors. She had fought those stronger, faster, crueler. She knew how to read intent—when a predator was sizing up prey, when an opponent sought to tear her down.

This wasn't hunger. But this was something else.

A subtle blink. My vision adjusted—no, processed. It wasn't just sight anymore. It was a tool, honed, refined, and restructured.

Before, my eyes functioned within normal biological parameters. A standard Saiyan visual cortex—highly responsive, built for motion detection and low-light environments, superior depth perception to track moving targets mid-air. Adequate. But inadequate for what survival now demanded.

Now, adaptation had pushed past that baseline.

Photoreceptor cells had optimized for efficiency—retinal cones filtering extraneous color data, enhancing contrast for motion clarity. Rod cells had recalibrated, tuned toward micro-expressions and muscle fiber shifts, catching the precursors of movement before they fully formed.

The occipital lobe had expanded its processing speed, no longer just interpreting what was seen, but what was about to happen. Neuroplasticity at an accelerated rate—synaptic pathways optimized for split-second analysis.

Instead, standing before me was a woman clad in leather armor, Saiyan-made, stitched from the hides of native beasts. A far cry from the biofiber plating of Arcosian battle gear, crude but functional. The armor clung to a frame built for combat—lean, powerful, reinforced by something more than just genetics.

Everything about her was built for combat. The lean musculature wasn't just an aesthetic byproduct of training—it spoke of efficiency. Tightly wound fibers designed for explosive output. She wasted no energy on unnecessary bulk.

Her stance, casual on the surface, was a deception. Weight subtly adjusted, optimized for fast-twitch reactions.

Her stance was relaxed. But I saw it. The weight distribution. The microtensions in her arms, her legs. How her tail twitched—not in idle restlessness, but in minute adjustments, controlling balance, preparing.

Strong. Too strong.

Ki levels far above the baseline. Not just raw power, but the density of it—the way it sat within her, compressed, refined. It wasn't erratic, like an untrained brawler. It was tempered. Controlled.

My mind ran the calculations. Bone density—above standard. Possibly reinforced through repeated high-impact stress. Muscle fiber compact, optimized for explosive bursts. Mannerisms—aggressive yet disciplined. No wasted movement. Ki flow—stable. Minimum leakage.

I exhaled slowly, barely a sound, but the woman caught it—her stance, already poised like a spring coiled too tight, wound just a fraction more.

"…Fa…sha?" The name felt foreign on my tongue.

Her tail flicked once, then stilled. The air between us felt heavier—a shift in pressure, in intent.

"Who the hell are you?" Her voice was rough, edged with suspicion. Not immediate hostility, not yet. But close. Too close.

I studied her. The way her muscles flexed beneath the leather armor, the way her weight centered instinctively, the way her fingers curled—not clenched into fists, but poised, ready. I was being measured. No—sized up.

"I'm looking for the Kesha Tribe leader."

Her brow twitched, just a fraction.

"You didn't answer my question." Her tone sharpened, but she didn't move. Not yet. "Who are you? Why do you want to see him?"

I hesitated. Lying was pointless—if I was wrong, if I said the wrong thing, she'd see through it. Saiyans weren't complicated people, but they knew battle. And in battle, intent mattered more than words.

"I have my reasons."

"Not good enough."

Her aura flared—just a flicker, just enough to remind me how bad of an idea this was.

I knew my limits. Physically, she outclassed me in every conceivable way. Strength, speed, endurance. Maybe I had precision, but precision didn't matter when the difference was this severe. She could brute force through anything I tried.

"I'm not here to fight,"

"Doesn't look like you could even if you tried, kid."

I clenched my jaw. My tail curled behind me, a reaction I quickly forced still. Her expression didn't change, but I felt the shift in her energy, the way her stance subtly adjusted. She was waiting—watching for a tell, something to confirm whether I was a threat or not.

I met her gaze.

"I just need to see him."

She tilted her head, considering. Then, a humorless smirk.

"You think just asking is gonna get you what you want?" A dry chuckle, more air than sound. "You really don't know how things work around here, do you?"

Fasha took a slow step forward. Not aggressive, not outright hostile—but there was weight behind it, a deliberate shift in balance. A hunter gauging prey. The air between us thickened, charged, like the moments before a storm fully broke.

I didn't move.

Every instinct screamed at me to do something—to widen my stance, to adjust my weight, to prepare for impact. But I held firm, every muscle locked in controlled stillness.

Fasha's eyes narrowed. She was testing me.

"Let me get this straight," she said, voice low, tone almost mocking. "You—some weird little girl—drop out of the sky, call me by name, and now you're just asking to see our leader?" Her smirk sharpened. "You got a death wish, or are you just that stupid?"

The wind stirred between us, kicking up dust. The faint, acrid scent of burnt rock still clung to the air from her earlier training. Even now, heat radiated off the shattered boulders behind her, the stone split clean through by sheer force.

My mind processed everything in real time. The residual energy in the atmosphere suggested repeated, high-intensity impact strikes—possibly at full power. Scorch patterns indicated multiple contact points, meaning she had been training for both speed and efficiency. But the debris—too controlled, too uniform—meant she had already mastered what she was practicing. She was refining, not learning.

I swallowed. Outclassed was an understatement.

"I don't care if it sounds strange," I said, keeping my voice even. "I need to see him."

She took another step closer. The way she moved—it wasn't just strength. It was certainty. No wasted energy, no hesitation. A predator comfortable in its own dominance.

"Need, huh?" Her tail flicked lazily behind her. "That's not how things work."

A chill—not of fear, but calculation—settled in my gut. This wasn't going anywhere.

I shifted, just slightly, adjusting my center of gravity. Fasha caught it immediately.

Her smirk widened.

"Oh? Thought you weren't here to fight."

"I'm not."

"Sure looks like you're getting ready to."

Silence. The distance between us had shrunk to only a few paces. Her presence was overwhelming up close, the raw power beneath her skin something tangible, something that pressed against my senses like an oncoming tidal wave.

She exhaled, shaking her head. "You're not gonna get anywhere by just asking."

I clenched my fists. Think.

I exhaled slowly. Speak their language.

"If you don't take me to him," I said, "someone stronger than you will come for him."

Fasha stopped. Just for a moment. A flicker of something crossed her face—annoyance, curiosity, something sharper beneath.

Then she laughed. A single, sharp bark of amusement.

"Someone stronger than me?" She repeated the words like they were absurd. Like I had just declared a rock could outfly a starship.

I had no time to explain further.

Her body moved first. No hesitation, no warning. One second, she was standing there—next, a blur.

My instincts roared. My mind snapped into optimization mode—reaction time stretched, the world slowed. Wind patterns shifted, dust twisted in her wake, and her power crushed the air between us as she closed the distance.

My arms moved—crossed to guard—

Impact.

It was like getting hit by a planet. My bones screamed, the force sending shockwaves through my body. Feet dug trenches into the dirt as I skidded backward. Pressure surged against my arms, my ribs threatening to crack under the sheer brutality of her strike.

She's fast.

I barely had time to register it before she was on me again.

A knee drove toward my gut. My body moved before thought could catch up—I twisted, sidestepped, barely avoided taking the full brunt. Even then, the sheer force brushed past me, ripping fabric, sending shockwaves through my ribs.

A fist followed. Optimization engaged—trajectory calculated—countermeasures initiated.

I ducked. Slid under her arm. Twisted away—

Something slammed into my side.

Pain erupted. A direct hit—my own calculations couldn't keep up. My feet left the ground. My body flipped, momentum twisting, before I crashed into the dirt hard enough to rattle my skull.

My vision blurred. Dust filled my lungs. She's beyond me. I forced my arms beneath me, pushed up, spat blood. A shadow loomed overhead.

Fasha stood there. Casual. Like she hadn't even exerted herself.

"You gasped," she said, tilting her head. "What, shocked?"

My breaths were ragged. My muscles screamed.

I looked up.

And I was. Shocked. All my calculations, all my optimization, all my enhancement, none of it mattered. She was that far ahead of me. She was right. Saiyans didn't operate on words. Respect wasn't given - it was taken.

The ground was a ruin. Deep scars tore through the dirt, rock reduced to shattered debris, the air thick with dust and the sharp scent of burnt earth. Craters pockmarked the landscape—some fresh, some still smoldering. The terrain was unrecognizable, twisted by the violence of our battle.

My breaths came sharp, lungs burning. Muscles coiled like steel cords, every fiber strained to the limit. My body moved before thought, before hesitation, before instinct could scream—because hesitation meant death.

Fasha was relentless. Every attack crushed the air around her, raw power bleeding from every movement. Her form was precise, honed through years of battle, each strike aimed to destroy, not just overwhelm. And she was winning.

I barely avoided a blow to the temple—twisted my body mid-air, legs snapping out to counter. She caught my kick with a single hand.

For a fraction of a second, my brain flooded with calculations—force distribution, optimal escape vectors, the fastest way to break her hold and reposition. The numbers fed into my muscles, my body reacting before I could even fully register the process.

I wrenched free. Spun backward. The moment my feet met the ground, I launched forward again, low, aiming for her ribs.

She pivoted—fast. Unnaturally so.

A fist met my gut.

White-hot pain exploded in my core. My vision flickered. My feet left the ground. My body folded around her strike before momentum took me, sent me hurtling through the air.

I barely managed to right myself before impact—crashing into stone, rock giving way like brittle glass.

Dust filled my throat. My ribs screamed.

I pushed up. Forced my limbs to work.

Fasha stood in the crater's edge, rolling her shoulders. No signs of exhaustion. No labored breathing. She was thriving in this fight.

A slow grin stretched across her face.

"You're fast," she admitted. "Precise. Almost like fighting a machine. Like of the Tuffles machines." Her tail flicked once. "Too bad machines don't win wars."

I exhaled sharply.

My optimization was keeping me alive. Every moment, every exchange, my body adjusted, adapted, processed the combat in real-time. My reactions refined. My defenses improved. My movements recalibrated to counter her strength.

And yet.

It's not enough.

She was still ahead—thirty percent, at least.

A gap too wide.

The battle was no longer just a fight—it was a storm. A violent, primal force that consumed everything in its wake. The sky trembled with each impact, the ground bore deep scars from their clash, and the air itself crackled with the sheer energy pouring off their bodies.

Fasha's movements had changed.

At first, it was subtle. A slight increase in speed. A bit more force behind her strikes. But then—something shifted. Her body seemed to respond to the fight itself, her energy climbing higher, wilder. Her strikes became sharper, heavier. Her power didn't just stay constant—it grew.

My body burned from the accumulated damage, muscles screaming, bones creaking under the weight of every exchange. But my mind was clear. I had the data. I had the calculations. I had adaptation.

And yet, for the first time since this battle began—

I was losing ground.

I twisted, barely managing to block a savage hook aimed for my ribs, but the sheer weight behind it sent me skidding back, my boots carving deep trenches into the dirt.

She was evolving.

Fasha exhaled, tail flicking sharply behind her. Her breathing was steady, but her eyes—

Her eyes.

A deep yellow, glowing faintly under the moon's dim light.

She grinned. "I can feel it," she said, voice husky, thick with something primal. "This battle—the more I fight, the more my body remembers."

I kept my stance firm, but my mind raced.

This isn't right. Her Ki—it's not just growing stronger. It's… shifting. Refining itself.

"This is our nature, isn't it?" Fasha continued, rolling her shoulders. "This is what it means to be Saiyan."

Her tail curled behind her, tight, like a coiled spring.

"Instinct," she murmured. "Raw. Unfiltered." She grinned, stepping forward. "You feel it too, don't you?"

My breathing hitched.

Because she wasn't wrong.

I could feel it—something creeping into my body, into my mind. A pull. A whisper at the edges of my thoughts. My body burned, not just from pain, but from something else.

Madness.

Not wild, uncontrolled rage. No. This was battle-madness. Something deeper. Something primal.

It called to me.

And for the first time, I understood.

Fasha lunged. I reacted. Not with calculation. Not with careful planning.

But with instinct.

Fists clashed. Bodies twisted. The battlefield blurred as we moved, no longer two warriors testing their limits, but two beasts locked in a dance as old as their bloodline itself.

I struck. She countered. She struck. I evaded. Neither of us thinking. Neither of us hesitating.

Only fighting.

Fasha laughed—a wild, exhilarated sound. "I knew it," she breathed between strikes. "You're just like me."

Fasha exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as she sized me up, her tail flicking behind her. Despite the sweat glistening on her skin, despite the battlefield torn apart beneath us, her stance remained loose, confident—like she wasn't even close to reaching her limit.

Her lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk. More like the barest ghost of amusement mixed with something darker.

"I don't know who you are, kid," she muttered, cracking her knuckles. "Or what you want."

She took a step forward. Just one. And yet, it felt as though the space between us had shrunk.

"But I'll tell you something," she continued, her voice dipping lower, thick with something bitter—something personal. "When I was your age? I was weak."

Another step.

"A crybaby," she spat, as if the word itself was repulsive.

Her energy flared, and the air grew heavy.

"That's why," she said, her grin widening, eyes gleaming with something twisted, something hungry, "I want to crush you even more."

And then she moved.

Southern Galaxy, Age 714

The sky churned, thick with storm clouds that swallowed the stars whole. Thunder cracked, splitting the heavens in violent bursts of white, but no rain fell—just the dry, suffocating weight of something unnatural. The wind howled through the barren expanse below, kicking up dust, whispering warnings to an empty wasteland.

Then, a streak of fire.

It tore through the sky, a smoldering comet wrapped in flame, descending with impossible speed. The impact came like a god's hammer, shattering the land beneath it. A wave of force rippled outward, rock and debris thrown high into the air before crashing back down like a rain of shattered bones. The ground trembled, as if trying to flee from what had arrived.

Steam hissed from the jagged crater, a metallic groan cutting through the stillness. The pod, scarred and battered, its surface marred by deep scorches, released a sharp, mechanical exhale. The hatch creaked, opening in uneven jerks, expelling smoke and heat like a dying beast's last breath.

A figure stumbled out.

Massive. Looming. His silhouette cut against the dark, framed by the pulsing light of his own energy—erratic, unstable. Hair, long and wild, flickered between gold and green, each shift of color casting an eerie glow across the battlefield his arrival had created. His skin, rough and scarred, bore the marks of war, of struggle—of something far worse than mere battle. Open wounds seeped, deep gashes that had yet to close. Muscles tensed, trembling under the weight of his own failing strength.

His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, each exhale carrying the scent of burnt ozone and raw power. His fingers twitched against the ground, pressing into the fractured stone, as if demanding his body rise—move—fight.

Then, he roared.

The earth quaked beneath him. Dust and debris shot into the air, carried by the sheer force of his voice. It wasn't just pain. It wasn't just rage. It was something primal, something unshackled. His cry tore through the empty wasteland like a storm made flesh.

"KAKAROT!"

The name ripped from his throat like a dying curse, like a plea, like the last tether keeping him from oblivion.

His body seized. Muscles locked. A violent shudder wracked his frame, and for a moment, that wild, flickering glow tried to return—golden light crackling at his fingertips, sparking to life in his dulling eyes.

But it was fleeting. The power slipped away, draining from his limbs like sand through broken fingers. His breath hitched once more. His vision blurred. His body, battered and beaten, refused to rise.

With a final exhale, he collapse, silent, motionless, swallowed by the darkness creeping at the edges of his mind.

I will now stop posting power reference now. I will leave the guest to you wonderful readers.

Femto · Feb 28, 2025

Hey - I've just realized that average word-count here in SB tends to be around 2.5k in average. I'll do the same too - since people here kinda adapted the Worm - Webnovel format when it comes to word count. I came from other site - so I'm not really that used in Webnovel. But it seems to be fun to do.

I did my best to do my research when it comes to story. I also did asked my Doctor friend to proofread this and see if it'd work out.

Enjoy.

Kesha Tribe Outskirts

The earth trembled. Not from an explosion, not from some unseen force, but from her.

Fasha wasn't moving like she had before. She was faster now, wilder. Her stance, her breathing, even the way her fingers flexed before a strike - everything had changed. Her muscles coiled like a predator ready to pounce, raw aggression radiating off her in waves. Her golden eyes gleamed unnaturally, cutting through the dust like a pair of burning lanterns.

I barely had time to breathe before she lunged.

A blur. A roar.

I threw my arms up just as she came down on me like a falling star. The impact sent a shock through my bones, my legs sinking into the dirt as I took the hit head-on. It wasn't just power - the way she fought had changed. Her strikes weren't clean anymore. They were brutal, reckless, monstrous. Like she wasn't thinking anymore, just acting.

A forearm slammed against my guard, and my feet left the ground before I could react. The world flipped - sky, trees, ground - and then I crashed, spine-first, through a broken tree trunk. My vision flickered. Something cracked.

I rolled to my feet just in time to dodge the next blow. A fist dug into the earth, the shockwave ripping through the forest, sending leaves and splintered wood flying.

My body was already adjusting. Muscles contracting, realigning. My bones were denser now, the skeletal frame reinforcing itself where the last impact had nearly shattered it. It wasn't healing - it was optimization. The damage had been absorbed, repurposed, turned into something more.

But I wasn't catching up fast enough.

Fasha grinned, sharp teeth bared, her breath heavy with something primal. "You're still standing," she said, tilting her head. "Figures."

She took a step forward, and the air between us shuddered.

This wasn't normal. Not for her. Not for a Saiyan.

"What the hell is happening to you?".

Another step

Her pupils were narrowing. Her nails looked sharper now.

"Never fought someone like you before." She grinned. "It's fun."

She was changing. And I wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

A jagged trench carved through the ruined forest, trees splintered, the earth uprooted from the sheer force of my body slamming into it. I forced myself up, legs trembling under my weight, breaths ragged.

Fasha stood at the edge of the destruction, rolling her shoulders, tail swaying behind her. The glow in her eyes hadn't faded - if anything, it burned brighter.

"You really are something else," She said. "Every time I knock you down, you get back up just a little bit harder to put down."

I wiped the blood off my chin. Spitting what remained onto the cracked dirt.

"Tough luck. Looks like you're stuck dealing with me."

She grinned.

"Yeah? Then let's see how much longer you last."

She was on me before I could react. No wasted movement, no tell - just pure, monstrous speed. Her fist drove into my guard, sending a shockwave through my arms, my bones groaning under the strain. Another strike, a sharp elbow to the ribs - I twisted, but not fast enough. Pain exploded through my side.

My body was still adjusting, analyzing. Muscle fibers restructured, micro-fractures in my bones were reinforced mid-motion, my nervous system sharpening - optimizing. But it wasn't instant.

Fasha's attack didn't stop. A kick to my knee, forcing me down. A brutal uppercut, my head snapping back - black spots danced in my vision.

"You keep growing," she muttered, catching me by the collar before I could fall completely. "But you're still too slow."

Her grip tightened.

"This form," she said, eyes narrowing, "my form would catch even King Vegeta off guard."

I barely heard her over the pounding in my skull. My vision swam, my lungs screamed for air.

"My master," she continued, dragging me forward until our foreheads almost touched, "taught me what it really means to be a Saiyan. Not just a warrior. Not just a soldier."

Her fingers clenched, crushing my collarbone.

"A predator."

She pulled back her fist. And then she threw it forward. A split-second window. That was all I had.

Her fist came forward, a blur of motion, the air itself trembling in its wake. Instinct screamed at me to dodge, but I wasn't fast enough - no, I wasn't adaptive enough.

Everything in my body, every microscopic adjustment, every real-time recalibration - I let it happen without resistance. My domain perception surged outward, locking onto the attack, dissecting the angles, the force, the way the tendons in her arm coiled and released. A perfect storm of biological efficiency, something my body had failed to replicate for years.

Not because I lacked the talent Not because I lacked the drive.

But because I had been doing it wrong this entire time.

Weights. Repetition. Progressive overload. All the things that worked for a Saiyan with natural talent, with an innate ability to get stronger through sheer effort. But I wasn't one of them. My body wasn't built for that.

I wasn't supposed to grind through the limits of my own physiology. I was supposed to rewrite them.

The moment of realization sent a shockwave through me - not ki, not power, but something deeper. My muscles didn't just tense; they reformed. The fibers twisted, adjusted, shed unnecessary strain, optimized themselves for this fight, this moment. My skeleton reinforced itself at the weak points where her previous blows had landed, reinforcing the cracks before they could become breaks. My nervous system rewired, prioritizing reaction speed over raw physical output.

I didn't dodge.

I stepped into her punch.

Her knuckles grazed past my cheek instead of crushing my jaw. My body had already adjusted my center of gravity, my weight distribution, the subtle lean of my stance. It wasn't instinct. It wasn't prediction. It was logic.

Her expression flickered.

"Oh?"

I twisted, slamming my palm against her wrist, redirecting the force, my leg snapping forward into a counter-kick aimed straight for her ribs. She blocked, but I felt the impact ripple through her frame. She felt that one.

A smirk tugged at her lips.

"There it is," she muttered. "Now you're getting it."

I barely had time to process that before she retaliated, her movements wilder, sharper - more feral. This wasn't just raw power anymore. She wasn't fighting like a normal Saiyan.

I could see it now - the way her muscles flexed unnaturally, the way her hands twitched before every strike, the animalistic precision in her movements. This wasn't just battle instinct. This was something deeper. Something buried in Saiyan blood.

Something I hadn't understood until now.

I struggled.

Her blows were relentless, hammering into me like a war drum, each strike heavier, faster, smarter than the last. She wasn't just strong - she had grown. The gap between us widened every second, her power swelling, her attacks sharpening into something monstrous.

And I was breaking under the weight of it.

My bones creaked, my muscles screamed. Every fiber of my being told me to retreat, to regroup, to find some way to survive. But there was no space for that. No breathing room. No reprieve.

So I did what I had to do.

I adapted.

My body reconfigured in real time, the Logical Adaptation threading its way through every cell, every ligament, every muscle strand. Pain became data. Instinct became calculation. I wasn't fighting the way I had before - I was rebuilding myself from the inside out, second by second, punch by punch.

Fasha lunged again, and this time, I saw it.

Her body was shifting too, but not like mine. This wasn't refinement, wasn't efficiency - it was evolution. Her power had multiplied at least eightfold since our first exchange. That meant I was fighting someone nearly five thousand units stronger than me.

And yet. I wasn't crumbling.

Her fist blurred toward my ribs. I twisted just enough, my skin barely grazing her knuckles. Instead of absorbing the full brunt, I let the impact slide, dispersing the force through the shifting alignment of my bones. My feet dug into the shattered forest floor, and I spun, my counter strike lashing out like a whip.

She blocked, but not perfectly.

Her forearm buckled for half a second before she pushed me back, her yellowed eyes gleaming.

"You're getting scary, brat," she said.. "If you don't have a tail - I thought you're not one of us."

I clenched my jaw, my breath coming in hard, sharp exhales. My lungs burned, my arms trembled. My body was holding up, barely.

She grinned. A wide, savage thing.

"My master was a monster," she said, voice thick with something that wasn't quite admiration, wasn't quite horror. "A freak of nature."

She stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

"King Vegeta?" She scoffed. "This form would tear him apart before he even knew what hit him."

Another step I wiped the blood from my lip, my fingers steady despite the tremor in my arms.

"You think I can't win?"

She laughed. Low. Amused.

"I think," she said, "you might be the craziest damn brat I've ever seen."

I struggled.

Every strike sent shockwaves through my bones, rattling deep into my core. Fasha wasn't just hitting harder - she was hunting. Her eyes, burning yellow, gleamed with something feral. Her muscles tensed before each attack, coiled like a predator about to pounce. And when she moved, it was monstrous. She didn't fight like a warrior anymore. No technique, no restraint. Just raw, unrelenting power tearing through the battlefield.

The forest around us was ruined. Trees reduced to splinters. The ground cracked and torn apart. Smoke and dust clouded the air, mixing with the scent of blood and sweat Her strength had multiplied eightfold since we started. Meaning I was fighting something five hundred units stronger than me.

I should've lost already.

But I adapted.

Not like a Saiyan. Not like a beast. My body wasn't built for that kind of evolution. My adaptation was precision, calculation, and efficiency.

Every movement refined. Every wasted motion eliminated. My muscle fibers compressed, my skeletal structure subtly shifting for better weight distribution. I wasn't getting stronger. I was getting smarter. My tendons adjusted for maximum elasticity, my nerve response time shortened, my ki pathways restructured for energy conservation. My body - no, my system - was learning in real-time.

Fasha lunged.

I adjusted.

Her fist came for my gut, but this time, I absorbed the impact, shifting my weight at the last second. My core tightened, dispersing the force throughout my frame. Instead of being blown back, I flowed with the hit, pivoting on my heel, letting the momentum turn into a counterstrike.

I struck.

A sharp blow to her ribs, aimed with pinpoint precision. Enough to disrupt, to unbalance. Not to overpower.

Fasha stumbled but caught herself instantly. She rolled her shoulders, grinning.

"You're a freak," she said. Her voice had changed - rougher, almost guttural. "Not a Saiyan. Not a beast. A battle machine."

I didn't respond.

She took a step forward, the ground cracking beneath her heel.

"I've fought monsters. Real ones."

The battle surged on. I had lost track of time.

Fasha was relentless. Each strike carried the force of tectonic shifts, each movement sharper, more animalistic. She wasn't just fighting - she was thriving. Her body no longer moved with the crisp discipline of a trained warrior. This was something else. Something raw, overwhelming.

I barely weaved past a clawed swipe aimed for my throat. My counterstrike - precise, calculated, targeting the brachial plexus - met flesh, but it may as well have been air. The impact dispersed inefficiently, her muscle fibers reacting in real time, reconfiguring to absorb the shock.

She wasn't just growing stronger. She was refining herself mid-battle.

I observed everything.

The dilation of her pupils - beyond normal combat stress response, indicative of heightened adrenergic activity. Her breathing - deeper, rhythmic, maximizing oxygen intake for sustained exertion. Muscle density - thickening at a microscopic level, optimizing fiber recruitment for power output.

Then, her tail.

It wasn't just a balancing tool. It twitched before each strike, a split-second biofeedback mechanism. Her heart rate spiked whenever it curled, agitation fueling her aggression.

That's when it clicked.

The tail was the key.

Saiyan biology dictated that Great Ape transformation required a critical threshold of Blutz Waves - electromagnetic radiation reflecting off a celestial body, typically a full moon. Seventeen million zenos, the minimum energy input, triggered a biochemical cascade within specialized glands in the tail, initiating the transformation.

But there was no moon. Planet Plant's satellite was still forming - its surface unstable, its reflective properties insufficient to project the necessary Blutz Wave density. By all logic, the transformation shouldn't be possible.

And yet, Fasha had changed.

Not into a Great Ape. Not into the towering colossus of destruction I had seen before in Dragon Ball. But into something else.

I analyzed it. I gathered data points from our exchanges. Every movement. Every impact.

She had bypassed the need for external Blutz Wave exposure. Instead, she was triggering the transformation internally. The biochemical glands in her tail were self-activating, no longer reliant on an external radiation source. She was folding the Oozaru's raw, primal strength into a compact, humanoid form - retaining agility, retaining cognition, but keeping all the sheer brutality.

Controlled destruction. Condensed Berserker State This wasn't a normal Saiyan transformation. This wasn't instinct. This was biological evolution in real-time.

Her transformation had stabilized. What started as erratic bursts of speed and raw aggression had refined itself into something terrifyingly effective. She no longer wasted motion. No unnecessary swings. Every attack had a purpose, each step calculated, body optimized for destruction.

Her fist came for my temple - fast, but not wild. I barely twisted in time, her knuckles grazing my cheekbone. The sheer air pressure from the strike left a sting across my skin, like I had passed through a sonic boom.

I retaliated, a sharp knee to her abdomen - direct, precise, aimed at the solar plexus, where the phrenic nerve clustered. A well-placed hit here could momentarily disrupt the diaphragm, force unconsciousness.

It didn't work.

Her muscles - densified fibers, increased elasticity, rapid kinetic absorption - distributed the force across a wider surface area, neutralizing the damage. My strike barely registered.

She grinned.

A blur - her forearm smashed against my guard, sending a jolt through my frame. I staggered back. My bones weren't broken yet, but the micro-fractures in my radius and ulna were accumulating.

I needed something more.

And then I saw it.

Her tail.

It twitched, pulsed, responded before she moved, like a second brain processing combat stimulus. It wasn't just there for balance. Every time her aggression spiked, her tail flicked involuntarily, and I saw the way her muscle fibers reacted.

The tail was the biochemical catalyst.

I narrowed my focus. Domain Perception - three meters of absolute data clarity.

Ki signatures mapped themselves out in my mind. Blood flow, muscle contractions, neurological activity. I traced the energy pathways along her spine, watching for anomalies.

There.

At the base of her tail, something pulsed - almost like a gland going into overdrive. The supraspinal motor control from her brainstem wasn't acting alone. There was a hormonal response, bypassing the need for Blutz Wave exposure.

The Oozaru transformation required 17 million zeno units of Blutz energy based on my deductions, reflected through a celestial body like a full moon. But there was no moon. Planet Plant's twin suns hadn't stabilized, and the forming moons weren't reflecting light properly.

So how?

I dodged another strike - this one close, knuckles grazing my collarbone. If external Blutz Waves weren't triggering the transformation, then the process was being simulated internally.

Fasha had forced her body into an adaptive hormonal state - condensing the properties of an Oozaru into a humanoid frame. Aggression, strength, endurance. The shift wasn't instinctual. It was engineered.

And if she could do it - So could I.

My mind raced, piecing together the components.

I didn't have the same primal instincts. But I had logical adaptation.

Instead of relying on emotion, I could replicate the results manually, break down the process, rebuild it from the inside out. Fasha came again - light on her feet but carrying the force of a wrecking ball. I barely sidestepped. My ribcage screamed in protest.

I had no time.

I focused inward. Reconfigure.

The first change came in the muscles. I adjusted the actin-myosin filament overlap, maximizing contractile efficiency, enhancing reflex responses. My body realigned, shifting for explosive bursts of power without the added bulk. Next, I forced the release of combat hormones - elevated catecholamines, precise spikes of adrenaline, but regulated cortisol to prevent emotional instability. This wasn't berserker rage. It was controlled aggression, chemically induced and fine-tuned.

The final step was the tail. Or rather, what the tail represented.

My ki condensed, concentrated into a single point near the base of my tail, a forced biochemical trigger stimulating the dormant Blutz receptors manually.

A surge ran through me - heat spreading from my core, radiating through my limbs.

My breathing steadied. Heart rate synchronized. Domain Perception sharpened - not just sight, but everything. The way the air shifted. The micro-expressions flickering across Fasha's face. The tension in her muscles before a strike.

She lunged - I moved. This time, I wasn't just dodging.

I saw it - the structure of her movement, the biomechanical chain reactions leading to each attack.

She swung. A right hook.

I intercepted, striking at the precise moment where her triceps and deltoids flexed - disrupting the kinetic sequence mid-motion. Her arm jolted, the force misdirected.

She corrected fast - too fast - but I was already there, slipping inside her guard.

A sharp blow to her lower ribs - angled, concentrated force at the weakest structural point. Not brute strength. Precision. She staggered. Not by much, but it was enough.

The shift wasn't supposed to go like this.

I had broken transformations down into equations before—isolated the core components, deconstructed the variables, mapped out the necessary hormonal and muscular adjustments. I had accounted for everything.

But the moment I forced my body to bridge the gap between logic and instinct, it collapsed.

A sudden snap ricocheted through my skull - a misfiring signal, a short circuit, a chain reaction that set every neuron ablaze. Too much. Too fast. My mind fractured under the weight of its own processing, every calculated function spiraling into chaos.

Fasha was moving. I saw her, but not correctly.

The world stretched, contracted, folded in on itself. My vision split into overlapping frames, a hundred predictions firing at once, all demanding my attention. Ghost images of Fasha flickered at the edges of my perception—one striking from my left, another from my right, a third hovering just behind.

Which one was real?

I calculated. I recalibrated. I failed.

By the time I picked one, she was already moving somewhere else.

A sharp jolt tore down my spine, my muscles jerking violently in protest. My arms convulsed, fingers locking into a claw-like curl I hadn't commanded. My tail lashed erratically, sending dust and debris scattering. My lungs tightened, my breath coming in ragged gulps.

My body wasn't obeying.

It was fighting me.

My vision blurred further. Colors distorted, red-tinged and shifting like oil over water. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs, a hammering pulse that refused to stabilize. My muscles—designed for calculated optimization—were swelling out of sync, stretching past their ideal density, expanding without efficiency.

This wasn't a refined combat state.

Then came the pain.

Not the sharp, surface-level pain of battle wounds, but something deeper. A burning, raw sensation, as though my entire nervous system was catching fire. Every signal my brain sent clashed with an instinctive counter-signal, creating a feedback loop of misfires and conflicting commands.

Move. Stop. Attack. Don't. Breathe. Choke.

Fasha lunged. I saw her. I calculated. But when I moved to dodge, my limbs lagged. The milliseconds of delay were minuscule—imperceptible to anyone else—but to me, to my combat state, they were catastrophic.

The punch landed.

A thunderous crack split the air as her fist buried itself into my ribs, the impact ripping through my frame like a shockwave. The force launched me backward, my feet skidding through dirt and shattered rock. But the real damage wasn't external.

It was inside.

My muscles tensed in erratic spasms, not from the hit—but from the sheer, unnatural stress of my own failing transformation. My limbs shook, nerves misfiring, struggling to reconcile the shift. My hands flexed—no, not hands. Claws.

I froze.

Claws.

I glanced down, my fingers no longer my own. Elongated, sharpened, monstrous. My breath hitched as something burned behind my eyes, a pressure in my skull that wasn't mine. My mouth felt wrong—my teeth scraping over my tongue, canines extending past their natural limit.

This wasn't my form.

I fought to stabilize - tried to force my mind to regain control - but the very act of thinking sent a ripple of neurological backlash through my body. The Logical Saiyan State had always balanced calculation and action, a perfect synchronicity between thought and movement.

But now. The two were splitting apart.

My thoughts slowed, my body moving without me. I tried to anchor myself in logic, in analysis, in the certainty that I could break this down into parts and solve it.

But then my throat rumbled.

A low, guttural snarl tore from my lips. Not mine.

Fasha hesitated.

"What is happening to you?"

I tried to answer. Failed.

Instead, my chest heaved, breath ragged and unsteady. Every muscle fiber in my body was pushing toward something it shouldn't be. My ki fluctuated wildly, spiraling out of sync. My tail bristled, every hair standing on end.

Too much. Too far. Too fast.

The shift had gone wrong. I was losing control.

Femto · Mar 1, 2025

This is longer than I expected 2.5k. But please - bear with me. If you came here all the way. Thanks. 33k word already mate.

I remember the cold.

Not the kind that bites at your skin but the kind that seeps into your chest and settles there, heavy, unmoving. The kind that makes every breath feel like a mistake.

The apartment was quiet except for the buzzing of the overhead light and the occasional drip from the sink. My fingers hovered over the trackpad of my laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating yet another rejection email.

"We appreciate your interest, but at this time—"

My hands clenched.
It didn't matter how many times I saw these words. It always felt the same. Like a punch to the ribs, like the air was being forced out of my lungs. Like I was standing at the bottom of a pit, clawing at the sides while the dirt kept slipping through my fingers.

The front door opened.

I didn't turn.

She stepped inside, the shuffle of her movements so familiar that I knew exactly what she was doing without looking. Bag on the couch. Jacket slung over the back of the chair. She stretched, rolling her shoulders, letting out a small sigh before walking over.

I kept staring at the screen.

"Bad news?" she asked.

The warmth in her voice made something inside me twist.

"It's nothing."

The chair scraped against the floor as she sat down across from me. I felt her eyes on me, steady and unwavering. I didn't look up.

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?" I muttered.

"Where you act like you don't care, but your whole body says otherwise."

I flexed my fingers, realizing they had locked into fists. Slowly, I uncurled them. The laptop screen blurred as I exhaled.

"I'm fucking zero," I said, voice tight. "I have nothing. No money, no job worth a damn, no future. You're still here, but for how long? Until you realize I'm dead weight? Until you wake up and wonder why you stayed with a guy who can't even afford a real goddamn couch?"

Silence.

I expected pity. I expected frustration.

Instead, she smirked.

"You're broke. So what?"

My head snapped up.

"So what?!"
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Yeah. So what?"

The light flickered. Her face was half-shadowed, but her expression was clear. Confident. Amused, even.
"You think I'm with you because of your bank account?"

"That's not the point—"

"No, that is the point." She tapped the table once. "You think being nothing right now means you'll always be nothing. But you're wrong."

My throat felt tight.

"You don't get it," I said. "I—"

"I get it just fine." She didn't sound angry. Just sure. "I see you working seven days a week, taking shifts nobody else wants. I see you up until two in the morning teaching yourself things just so you can apply to jobs that don't even bother to answer. I see you breaking yourself just to claw forward an inch at a time."
Her voice was steady. Like she wasn't just saying it—like she knew it, down to her bones.

"You're not nothing," she said, fingers brushing over my clenched fist. "You're just not there yet."
I swallowed.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her that just because I was trying didn't mean I'd make it. That effort didn't guarantee anything. That I was terrified, exhausted, and barely keeping my head above water.
But I didn't say any of that.

Because if I did, she might start believing it.

And I couldn't have that.

Minus

Fasha

The girl was nothing but skin and bones.

Thin wasn't right. She was a stick - ribs pushing against pale skin where muscle should've been, arms so skinny they looked ready to snap if you blew on them hard.

Fasha's grip tightened around the small Saiyan child's arms as she lifted her up, expecting some kind of reaction - struggle, defiance, something. But the girl remained utterly still, like a doll, her limbs limp yet impossibly heavy. For someone so thin, she was denser than a boulder, her weight unnatural in Fasha's hands.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the child. Emotionless. Her dark eyes were vacant, like twin voids that reflected nothing - not curiosity, not fear, not even irritation. Saiyan children were supposed to be wild, unruly, snarling little beasts from birth. This girl? She was the opposite. Perfectly symmetrical features, skin so smooth it looked untouched by battle, and those teeth - perfectly aligned, eerily pristine. Too perfect.

A cold feeling twisted in Fasha's gut. This wasn't right. This wasn't Saiyan.

Her lip curled. Enough of this.

With a scoff, she threw the girl, watching as her small body sailed through the air. A normal child would have flailed, tried to break their fall. She did nothing. She hit the ground, skidding across the rough terrain - but not haphazardly, not with the chaotic scrapes and tumbles of an ordinary child.

No, she moved mechanically. Every roll, every skid executed with an unnatural efficiency, her limbs shifting with precise that absorbed the impact in perfect balance. No wasted movement. No struggle.

She just… stopped.

Fasha's fingers twitched. She had seen elite warriors train for years to achieve movement that precise. But this was a child. A Saiyan child.

And yet, as she slowly rose to her feet, not a single muscle in her face moved.

But when she moved - hell, when she moved - the ground didn't just crack, it exploded under her feet, sending chunks flying everywhere. The air around her twisted like heat over fire, making everything behind her look all wavy and wrong.

Fasha spat to the side, her heart pounding against her ribs. The dusty battlefield stank of dirt and something else - something sharp that made her nose wrinkle. Everything had gone quiet, like the whole world was holding its breath.

She had fought plenty of Saiyans before. Big warriors with muscles bulging everywhere, brutes who reeked and snarled, men who thought they could beat her just by being bigger. Their eyes always had that same wild look, their moves always giving away what they'd do next. She had beaten every last one of them, leaving them bloody and broken.

This girl. This girl was wrong. Everything about her felt off.

Fasha sucked in a breath and charged, fist pulled back, knuckles tight. She had enough power in this punch to smash a boulder to dust. The blow whistled as she aimed to crush the girl's skull in one hit.

The girl moved - barely. Just a tiny shift that somehow made Fasha's fist slice through empty air. Not a dodge, not really. More like she'd solved some equation in her head.

The miss sent a jolt up Fasha's arm as she stumbled forward, sweat already beading on her forehead. She caught herself quick, twisting on her heel, the groundbreaking beneath her boot.

Fasha threw a kick, muscles bunching before she changed it mid-attack into a downward smash. The air cracked as her leg switched direction - a move that had fooled plenty of fighters before.

The girl reacted before the attack even happened, twisting her body at an angle that shouldn't work, shifting her stance just right - like she knew what Fasha was going to do before Fasha did. Her movements were smooth but weird, not like the rough, raw way Saiyans usually fought.

Her dark eyes watched Fasha's every move, pupils so wide they swallowed up all color. They weren't just black - they were empty, like staring into a hole with no bottom. No light bounced back, no feeling showed. Just darkness that seemed to take Fasha apart piece by piece.

Fasha's throat tightened as she growled deep and angry. She snarled, spit flying between her teeth as she slammed her knee up hard into the girl's ribs. Bone hit bone with a sound like a cracking whip, sending up dust that caught the dying sunlight.

The hit should've broken her in half. Should've sent bone splinters into all her insides.

But instead of folding like she should've, the girl's body twisted with the hit, like she was bending around it. Fasha felt the weird change halfway through her strike, like punching water instead of something solid - the power just spreading out and disappearing.

Before Fasha could think, the girl's foot shot up - a nasty, fast kick that hit her right under the chin with dead-on aim.

Pain exploded through Fasha's skull like a bomb, her teeth smacking together so hard she felt something chip. Blood filled her mouth as lights danced in her vision. The world tilted and spun around her.

She stumbled back, putting space between them, tasting the copper on her tongue. Her vision cleared after a second, eyes narrowing as she looked harder at the girl. That speed - no, not just speed. Something else. Like every move was perfect.

Saiyans fought like beasts, like storms made of flesh and bone, tearing through everything in their way. This girl fought like...something else. Like a machine - no, worse than that. Like something that wasn't even real.

A blur - no warning signs, no wasted movement, nothing held back. The girl's fist came up, aimed right at Fasha's throat. Fasha barely blocked it, her arm screaming as the force sent her skidding backward, her boots carving lines in the dirt. The hit rattled her bones all the way to her shoulder.

A rough laugh bubbled up from Fasha's throat, sounding half-amused, half-pissed off.

"You're fast, I'll give you that." She rolled her shoulders, muscles rippling as she cracked her neck with a series of pops. "But you're still outmatched."

The girl didn't flinch. Didn't get mad at the taunt. Didn't narrow her eyes or clench her jaw or show any of the little signs that would show she was feeling anything. She just stood there, breathing steady, those empty eyes watching, calculating.

That should've made Fasha's blood boil, should've stoked her pride. But instead, something cold crawled up her spine, making the hair on her neck stand up. The taste in her mouth went sour.

Because Saiyans always react. They growl, they rage, they fight harder when pushed into a corner. It's in their blood, woven into what they are.

This girl? She just watched.

Like she was taking Fasha apart one piece at a time. Studying her. Learning. Changing. Not like a fighter learning a new move, but like something cold and empty.

Fasha blew out a breath, tasting blood mixed with the sharp tang of her own sweat. Fine. If this girl wanted to act like a machine, she'd break her like one. Piece by piece.

No more testing.

She planted her feet wide, digging deep inside herself. Power surged through her, ki flaring around her in blue waves that kicked up rocks and sent electricity crackling over her skin. The air got hotter, the battlefield lighting up blue as her muscles tensed, veins standing out, ready to crush this weird little thing with raw power.

The girl blinked - the first normal thing she'd done.

Her own energy shifted - just a little. Nothing flashy. No big light show, no ground-shaking power move.

But Fasha felt it. A weird ripple in the air around the girl, like reality itself, didn't want to touch her.

Fasha's lips pulled back in a fierce grin, teeth shining in the blue light of her power. This fight wasn't over.

Fasha was winning.

Her knuckles smashed against the brat's guard, the hit sending shock waves through the air. The clash made a high-pitched noise that hurt the ears, vibrations running up Fasha's arm to her shoulder. The hit made her bones ring - but it was her attack that landed. Not the brat's.

That meant she was ahead. That meant she was stronger.

But that gut feeling at the back of her head - that survival sense all Saiyans had - was screaming at her, sending chills down her back.

Because the brat wasn't slowing down.

Every blow she took, she adjusted to. Little changes to her stance, tiny shifts in how she blocked. Every fake-out, every mix-up, every change in rhythm - she figured it out too damn quick. Like a machine that kept getting better and better in a rapid pace.

Fasha clenched her teeth till her jaw hurt, feeling hot sweat running down her face, soaking the band across her forehead. Her muscles burned, aching with each explosive move. Her lungs worked hard, sucking in dusty air that tasted of dirt and that weird sharp smell.

She'd thought she could outlast her. Crush her before she learned too much.

The truth hit her like a punch to the gut. Her eyes went wide for a split second.

Dammit. No choice.

Her master's words echoed in her head, so clear she could almost feel his rough hand on her shoulder, smell the herbs he always stank of.

Only when it's absolutely necessary, Fasha. You know what happens if you can't control it.

This was necessary. This was surviving.

Her tail went stiff behind her, muscles tightening along it. Her heart hammered in her chest like a drum - and then she gave in to the oldest, deepest part of being Saiyan.

Power roared through her body, a flood of raw, wild fury tearing through every nerve. Her muscles swelled visibly, getting thicker, veins bulging under skin that suddenly felt too tight. Her senses sharpened till it hurt - smells too strong, colors too bright, sounds too clear. Her veins burned like fire as the Ikari State took over, turning controlled power into something old and terrible.

And damn, it felt good. Like drinking lightning.

The brat moved - but Fasha was faster now, way faster.

Her elbow cracked against the girl's ribs hard, the sound like a gunshot. The hit sent the girl skidding backward, feet digging twin tracks through solid rock. Before she could adjust, before her freaky mind could learn, Fasha was already there, knee driving into the girl's stomach with bone-crushing force.

The brat coughed - a surprisingly normal sound - her small body folding around the hit. For the first time, something like pain showed in those bottomless eyes. But Fasha didn't stop.

She couldn't. A savage grin spread across her face, teeth bared as she pressed her advantage. Every strike hit with thunderous force, each blow faster, harder, heavier than the last. The air cracked around them, ki flashes lighting up the battlefield in bursts of blue-white light. The air reeked of that burning smell, the taste of victory sweet in her mouth.

The brat wasn't keeping up anymore.

For the first time since the fight started, Fasha wasn't just fighting - she was dominating. Crushing. Breaking.

And yet, underneath all that wild satisfaction, all that rush - she sensed something off.

The brat was still watching.

Still figuring things out.

Still learning.

Fasha snarled, a sound more beast than person, and threw her hardest punch yet - a blow that could shatter mountains - and the brat dodged.

Not like before. Not just barely getting out of the way.

It was smoother. Cleaner. Better. She'd already adjusted to the Ikari State.

"Tch - !" Fasha clicked her tongue in frustration. She slammed a knee into the girl again, not giving her time to settle. She couldn't let her adapt. Couldn't give her time to figure things out.

She had to finish this before -

It hit her, the realization striking hard.

She wasn't just holding the Ikari State anymore.

She was mastering it.

Every second she fought, every moment she kept her head instead of letting the rage take over - she was controlling it. Using it. Making it work for her instead of it consuming her.

Her master had warned her, his old face serious with worry.

You're strong, Fasha, but the form isn't stable. If you can't control it, you'll burn out faster than a match in a storm.

But here, now, in the middle of this crazy battle - she wasn't burning out.

She was getting stronger.

Fasha knew in her gut that the brat was going to counter. She always did.

Every time Fasha landed a solid hit, every time she got the upper hand - the brat adjusted, recalculated, changed her defense. She should've been fighting back now. Should've been learning how to counter this new state, like she'd done methodically since the first exchange.

But she didn't.

She stopped.

Her movements - suddenly slow, like moving through mud. Her reactions - delayed by precious moments. The perfect precision of her defense - suddenly off.

Fasha saw something impossible.

The brat's eyes. Those empty, bottomless pits - they changed.

Confusion filled them - confusion and something deeper. More normal.

Her mouth opened, lips parting, but no sound came out. Her hands shook, fingers twitching like they were getting mixed-up signals. The perfect machine was breaking down.

Tears. Clear drops welling up and spilling over, catching the light as they ran down her hollow cheeks.

It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was confusion - like the girl's body suddenly had no idea what was happening to it. Like the perfect machine had hit an error it couldn't fix.

"The hell - ?"

She didn't get an answer.

The brat was suddenly gone from in front of her, thrown backward like something had grabbed her from inside and violently yanked her away. The impact when she hit the ground shook the whole battlefield, sending cracks racing outward. The crater forming beneath her wasn't just a dent - it was an ugly, gaping hole in the earth, stone melting at its edges from the heat.

Fasha narrowed her eyes, vision sharper in the Ikari State. She had hit her hard, sure - but not hard enough for that. Not hard enough to cause that kind of destruction.

Then she heard it.

Thump.

A deep, sick thump that wasn't quite sound, wasn't quite vibration, but something in-between - something that went through the air itself, through the ground under her feet, through her own body down to her bones.

Thump.

Fasha's tail bristled behind her, every hair standing straight up. Her instincts screamed a warning that bypassed thinking.

Not from battle excitement. Not from thrill. From pure terror. The brat - her chest was moving. Not the steady rise and fall of breathing. Not the shaking of a fighter trying to push through pain.

It was expanding. Swelling. Pulsing with a weird rhythm.

Every beat of her heart was like a massive drum hitting against reality itself, sending visible ripples through the dust floating in the air. The crater around her got wider with each pulse - not from her moving, but from the sheer force coming from her changing body.

What Fasha saw wasn't just disturbing - it was wrong. The gross, unnatural stretching of flesh and bone, muscle fibers growing and expanding under skin that should have torn but instead stretched like rubber. Limbs stretched with wet, cracking sounds, joints popping out and reforming in impossible ways. Her fingers grew longer, curved claws bursting from the tips with the sound of tearing cloth, black and sharp as obsidian.

Her spine twisted, vertebrae audibly snapping and resetting, each crack louder than thunder in the suddenly still air. The sound of wet meat being rearranged burned itself into Fasha's memory.

Her face - it didn't just change, it came apart.

No, not cracked. Split. Torn. Rebuilt.

Her jaw widened with a sickening crunch, unhinging like a snake's, stretching way beyond what should be possible. Teeth multiplied in rows, no longer person-like, but serrated fangs that dripped with something that hissed when it hit the ground.

Her eyes - Fasha froze, muscles locking up as primal fear overrode even her battle instincts. Those black, empty voids transformed, turning into nothing but blood-red hunger, pulsing with evil light. Not the fiery red of Saiyan battle rage, not the controlled fury of a warrior.

This was something else. Something ancient. Something wrong.

*Something's really, really wrong here.*

The brat let out a breath - a single exhale that carried the stench of rot and emptiness, so cold it froze the moisture in the air.

A twitch. The world broke.

Fasha's ears rang with pain so bad it was almost religious as the scream hit her like a physical wall, her body locking up like gravity itself had flipped, multiplied, broken into opposing forces. The sound wasn't normal - it was inside her head and everywhere all at once.

It wasn't just a roar. It wasn't just a sound. It was the universe itself saying NO, a disaster given voice.

And before Fasha's mind could process the sheer wrongness of what she was seeing - before her brain could make sense of the horror in front of her -

The monster looked at her.

Her breath hitched as she staggered back a single step. The thing looming before her wasn't the Oozaru of childhood legends - the one whispered about in hushed voices around low-burning fires. This… this was something else. Something raw, unhinged. Its eyes burned with an eerie, pleading glow, and the way it moved - jerky, unbalanced - sent a spike of dread down her spine.

She swallowed hard, fingers twitching over the hilt of her dagger. This isn't the monster they warned us about. What is it now? Her grip was unsteady, her pulse hammering against her skull as the ground beneath her trembled in protest.

Then she saw its fur. Not the deep brown but of black - a pulsating hue laced with veins of molten gold and green. This wasn't just ki. It was something… wrong. It slithered through the creature's massive form like a living, sentient force. Unlike the usual wild mane of its kind, every bristled tuft of its fur stood sharp, jagged, vibrating under the weight of its own existence. And those golden eyes - not wild with instinct or battle-rage, but hollow, soulless..

The creature took a step. The earth buckled under its weight. Cracks splintered outward. Fasha barely had time to shield her face as a shockwave slammed into her chest, nearly knocking the air from her lungs.

Nothing.

Then it growled. A deep, rumbling sound that didn't just come from its throat - it seeped from the very air around her. Fasha tensed, her entire body locking up as the Oozaru bared its fangs.

Saliva dripped like molten metal from the edges of its mouth.

"This isn't possible," she muttered under her breath, voice barely above a whisper. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear from her chest. "I've never seen anything like this..."

The ground groaned.

A twitch. Just a twitch of the creature's massive arm - and the sky split apart.

Fasha's pupils shrank.

BOOM!

She barely had time to process the horror before a second wave of force slammed into her. This wasn't a ki blast. It wasn't even an attack. It was something else. Something primal, something that didn't just destroy matter - it annihilated it.

Fasha was airborne before she even realized she'd been hit.

The impact when she landed sent cracks splintering through her armor. A sharp, burning pain flared across her ribs, her vision blurred, and for a terrifying moment, she wasn't sure if she could move. Her skin sizzled where the blast had touched, the heat searing deep into her bones.

Above her, the Oozaru lifted its massive hands to the heavens.

The sky convulsed. Clouds churned, dark and violent, coiling as an eerie green lightning spiraled through the storm. Then, without warning, hundreds of emerald orbs flickered into existence - floating, twisting, watching.

Fasha's breath hitched.

They weren't just forming. They were hunting.

Her body screamed at her to move, to run, but something deeper, more instinctual, rooted her in place. The air thickened, vibrating with an energy so oppressive it made her stomach churn.

The first orb lurched. Fasha's mind snapped.

With a guttural cry, she flung herself into motion - just as the first wave ripped through where she'd been standing. The ground detonated, chunks of molten rock sent flying as she threw herself into a desperate roll. She hit the ground hard, barely catching herself before scrambling to her feet.

The orbs weren't missing. They were toying with her.

A blast shrieked past her head, exploding into the ruins behind her. Another - so close she felt the heat sear her cheek.

I can't dodge forever!

The earth beneath her feet groaned.

it collapsed.

Fasha barely had time to scream before the ground caved in, swallowing her whole. The last thing she saw before the darkness consumed her was the Oozaru above, towering, massive - raising a hand wreathed in sickly green devastation.

Then, silence.

Fasha gasped, choking as she hit the crumbling depths below. The underground trembled around her, molten slag dripping from above, rock splintering under its own weight. The force of the explosion had created a void, and she was trapped inside its dying breath.

Her breathing came fast, panicked.

Move. Move. MOVE!

With gritted teeth, she clawed forward, dragging herself through the debris. Every inch burned. Her muscles screamed. The heat, the suffocating dust - it was too much. But the moment she hesitated, the rubble above shifted.

Falling.

With a strangled cry, she pushed off, launching herself through the collapsing debris just as jagged rock came crashing down behind her. The ground trembled violently, a final aftershock of the devastation above.

A breath. Another.

light.

A single sliver of light breaking through the chaos.

With one last, desperate push, Fasha lunged toward it, ignoring the searing pain in her limbs. And finally - she broke through.

Gasping, bleeding, shaking.

But alive.

Her trembling hands dug into the dirt as she pulled herself free, coughing through the thick smoke. The battlefield was unrecognizable. A wasteland of melted stone, burning wreckage, and distant, unnatural green fire.

And above it all…

The Oozaru stood.

Waiting. Watching. A predator that hadn't yet finished playing with its prey.

Fasha clenched her fists.

Fasha ran.

Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred from the sheer pressure of the detonations swallowing the space around her. She wasn't dodging anymore - she was surviving.

The Blasts weren't just energy. They weren't just simple Ki.

They were detonations of reality itself.

She couldn't even call them explosions - explosions obeyed physics. These didn't just break apart rock; they tore through it, carving deep, glowing trenches into the bedrock, then igniting in an eruption of green fire that scorched through the very veins of the planet.

The attacks chased her. Twisting as if they had their own will.

She dove forward, rolling hard as another one detonated just behind her, the force ripping at her leather armor, sending her sprawling across molten rock.

Fasha hissed in pain, but there was no time to stop. The air was thick - too thick. It clung to her like static before a lightning strike, making her skin prickle.

She kicked off the ground, burning her last reserves of stamina, shooting upward at a sharp angle and and broke through the surface in a shockwave of debris.

What awaited her was not the same world she had left.

It wasn't even a battlefield.

It was a graveyard.

The land - what little remained - was nothing but charred trenches and smoking pits, each crater layered atop the last like scars on scorched flesh. The green fire refused to die, still licking at the air, twisting and curling in ways that fire shouldn't move.

The sky -

That's not a sky.

There was no atmosphere left, only a shimmering abyss, colors bleeding into each other like an oil-slicked void. The air wavered, distorting between hues of orange and green, space itself blistering from the heat.

And at the center of it all -

The Oozaru stood.

It didn't move. It didn't breathe heavy. It simply existed.

Steam coiled off its massive frame, the green Ki wrapping around its body like an extension of itself.

Its golden eyes - burning, ancient, unblinking - locked onto her.

Fasha's fingers twitched. Her mind screamed at her to find the pattern, the logic, the fight in its movements.

There was none.

No stance. No bloodlust. No instinct.

Just detached, suffocating presence.

She swallowed hard. It wasn't fighting her. It was undoing her.

Fasha's heart lurched.

The Oozaru raised its hand.

No wind-up. No preparation. Just a slow, absent movement, like it was reaching for something unseen.

The detonations returned.

But this time, they didn't rain down in an arc. They didn't follow a trajectory.

They formed - right there, in the air, a dozen feet from her.

Fasha's breath hitched.

The light flickered, pulsing, unstable - each one like a star trapped in the throes of implosion, shuddering, twisting, before -

BOOM.

The first one detonated. She barely threw herself back in time - too close, too late. The force ripped through her, her ears ringing as the world snapped into white-hot pain.

Another - closer.

She rolled, the second blast igniting the ground itself, sending spirals of fire shrieking into the sky.

A third -

She couldn't dodge in time. The explosion hit the edge of her vision, and then she was airborne, hurtling backward, her body twisting violently in the wake of the force.

She crashed hard, bouncing off the ruined earth before slamming against a jagged rock outcrop.

Her vision blurred.

Her armor - cracked.

Her limbs - numb.

And above her -

The Oozaru.

Still waiting.

Still watching.

Fasha forced herself up, gasping, smoke curling from her skin. She had no strategy. No plan.

She just had this moment.

Her fingers curled into fists.

A shuddering breath.

The last flicker of golden energy crackled at her fingertips.

"Fine," she rasped, voice hoarse.

The sky trembled.

"If you're not done…"

She lit up, the last of her power surging around her battered frame. Fasha didn't breathe.

The air around her had stopped being air. It pressed against her skin like liquid lead, too dense, too wrong. Every inhale burned, dragging the taste of charred rock, scorched ozone, and something acrid deep into her lungs.

She exhaled through her teeth, spitting to the side. "Tch. Smells like something crawled out of hell and took a piss."

Above her, the Oozaru shifted.

Its massive frame radiated an unbearable heat, steam rising from its fur like it was boiling from the inside out. The green glow crawled up its arm, slow and steady, wrapping its thick fingers like sickly fire. Faint flickers of gold and white danced along its knuckles, its own energy too dense to contain itself.

It raised its hand.

The world groaned.

Fasha felt it more than heard it. The sky - what was left of it - folded in on itself, twisting like it was being wrung out by something unseen. Gravity itself bent under the sheer force gathering in the Oozaru's palm.

She squinted up at it, eyes flicking over the shifting mass of energy taking shape.

Not just one blast.

Dozens.

Each orb shuddered, pulsing violently, like they were barely restrained, twisting and coiling in unnatural directions, hungry for something to consume.

Oh, is that all?

Fasha cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders despite the burning ache in her bones. She stood tall, ignoring the way her body screamed at her to run.

She spat blood onto the cracked ground and smirked.

"Wow. So this is what happens when an overgrown flea gets too much power, huh?" She wiped her mouth. "Gotta say - I expected more."

The Oozaru's golden gaze locked onto her. No response. No rage. Just that blank, crushing stare.

It released its hand.

The air twisted.. The first orb detonated before it even hit the ground.

A wall of green fire erupted outward, the shockwave alone splintering the horizon like a shattered mirror. The second and third struck an instant later, gouging through the planet's crust like a god's careless swipe, vaporizing rock, sand - everything.

Fasha moved.

The instant the explosions went off, she vanished, the force of her speed sending cracks racing across the ruined ground. The maelstrom chased her, stalking her, the air itself peeling apart in her wake.

The ground flipped and rolled, slabs of molten rock spinning into the air like the pages of a burning book.

Dodge. Move. Keep running.

Another blast shrieked past, missing her by inches. The heat bit into her skin, peeling armor away like paper.

The attacks were adjusting.

Oh, you've gotta be kidding me.

They weren't random anymore. They were tracking her.

Fasha gritted her teeth, throwing herself into a sharp aerial turn, her body twisting mid-air as another detonation erased the space where she'd been a heartbeat before.

She was running out of options.

Fasha wasn't sure if she was even flying anymore.

The sky and ground had blurred together, a spiraling maelstrom of emerald and gold where gravity seemed to exist only when it felt like it. The heat pressed against her back in waves, searing her lungs with every breath, thick and acrid with the taste of scorched ozone and boiling rock.

She twisted mid-flight - just in time.

A shadow loomed overhead, massive, fast -

Fasha veered hard, feeling the pull of its gravity as a meteor the size of a warship tore past her, splitting the sky apart. It hit the ruined ground with a force that sent columns of green fire clawing upward, reaching for her, hungry for anything still alive.

Another blast screamed past, too close.

The heat burned deep, searing straight through the shattered plates of her armor, cutting fresh lines of agony across her exposed skin.

She didn't wince. No time.

Instead, she descended hard, skimming just above the melted surface of what used to be the planet's crust. Her boots scraped, kicking up glowing embers, her mind racing ahead of her body, assessing, recalculating, searching.

But there was nowhere left to go.

This wasn't a battlefield anymore. It was a graveyard.

Craters stretched for miles in every direction. Fissures split the earth, spewing plumes of toxic smoke that coiled into the warped, bleeding sky. Entire sections of the planet's crust had peeled away, exposing veins of liquid fire that pulsed and churned like an open wound.

And above it all -

The Oozaru stood.

Fasha's breath caught. Her hands twitched at her sides. The Blasts still chased her, circling like starving beasts, closing in from every direction.

Outrun them? Face them?

There was no decision to make.

She wasn't going to outrun anything. She was running out of space to run.

Fasha exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders, ignoring the sting of fresh burns and broken armor.

Her lips curled into a smirk.

"Oh, I get it now," she muttered, lifting her chin toward the towering monster.

"You're just playing with your food."

The sky rumbled.

Fasha let out a breath, steadying her stance. She planted her feet, flexing her fingers as the storm of death closed in

Her lungs wouldn't work. No - they worked too much. Ragged, frantic gasps clawed up her throat, ribs rattling with each desperate inhale. Her muscles were on fire, but the pain was nothing compared to the sheer terror curling, twisting inside her gut like a parasite burrowing deep.

She couldn't move.

Not really.

Her body was locked - stiff, trembling - her tail curled so tightly around her waist it ached. She tried to convince herself she could run if she had to, that she could dodge, fight, survive - but the monster before her made every thought feel like a lie.

The Oozaru lifted its hand.

No, no, no, NO.

A sickly green glow flickered to life in its massive palm, weak at first - like a candle sputtering against the wind. But it wasn't weak. She knew it wasn't weak. The way it felt - wrong, unnatural, like something that shouldn't exist - made every nerve in her body scream.

The glow slithered across the beast's fur, pulsing, spreading, swallowing the battlefield in its deathly radiance. Fasha's breath caught, a new, sharper panic latching onto her bones. It was growing.

Not like a blast, not like an attack.

Like waking up.

Like something that didn't belong in this world and was forcing its way in anyway.

And it swelled.

The tiny ember exploded outward, stretching higher, wider, warping the very air around it. The pressure changed. She could feel it, like a storm before the first crack of thunder, like the whole planet was suddenly holding its breath. The Oozaru's creation wasn't just big. It wasn't just powerful.

It was too much.

This wasn't an attack. This was an execution.

The Oozaru's golden eyes locked onto hers, massive fingers flexing, steadying the monstrous sphere as it churned in its palm. Her brain screamed at her to move, move, MOVE -

Then, its arm shifted.

Not toward her. Toward the horizon.

No.

No, no, no, NO.

Her stomach flipped, the world tilting violently beneath her feet. The Kesha Tribe. Her dear place. She couldn't see them from here - not really. But she knew they were there. Thousand Saiyans, standing in that valley, completely unaware.

Completely doomed.

A sound tore from her throat - some half-choked cry, some useless, broken thing that didn't even matter because the Oozaru was already throwing it.

The blaster ignited the sky, a streak of burning emerald death carving through the air. A shockwave detonated outward, flattening the wasteland beneath it, stealing the ground from under her feet. She barely stayed standing. Her hands trembled, fists clenched, helpless.

She had no time.

No chance.

No way to stop it.

It was going to hit. It was going to -

A miss.

Her breath hitched, her mind struggling to keep up, to process the sheer impossibility of it. The Omega Blaster sailed past the valley, grazing the edges of the Kesha Tribe's land, and disappeared into the horizon.

But it landed somewhere.

She didn't see where.

Didn't know what it destroyed.

The entire world shook.

The sheer force of the explosion sent a wall of green fire tearing across the wasteland. Rock shattered. The air cracked. Debris howled as it was ripped into the sky, a second, unnatural wind screaming against her armor, burning her exposed skin even through the plating.

Her legs buckled. For a second - just a second - she almost collapsed.

But she forced herself to stay standing. Because it wasn't over.

The Oozaru still stood.

Still breathing. Still watched her. And in those golden, unblinking eyes, she saw it.

It could do it again.

Colonel Nappa

The wastelands stretched endlessly before him - barren, lifeless, worthless. Just like the damn village that had cost him Spinsh.
Nappa's boots struck hard against the brittle ground, each step kicking up dust that clung to his skin, mixed with the sweat and blood already staining his leather armor. His pelts swayed with his movements, reeking of old kills, but the only kill that mattered had slipped through his fingers.

Spinsh was dead. His sworn brother. His best friend. The only bastard in this gods-forsaken world who had fought beside him like it meant something.

And how had he died? Not in the war against the Tuffles. Not on some glorious battlefield with his fists buried in the throat of his enemies. But in the dirt of a nameless, backwater village, murdered by some coward who didn't even have the spine to face him head-on.

Nappa's fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. The Tribal Leader had been useless.

A sniveling, gutless waste of air, standing there with his tail tucked tight around his waist, blubbering about how they'd found Spinsh's body too late, how there was nothing to be done.

Nothing to be done. Nappa should have killed him.

His rage curled deep in his chest, a seething, boiling thing with no outlet. There was no trail to follow. No suspect. No damn answers.

Just a corpse in the dirt and a village full of cowards.

He should have ripped that leader apart.

Should have torn his damn head off his shoulders and made an example of him. You lose a warrior - one of your own - you don't just stand there like a weak little shit and call it fate. You burn the world until you find who did it.

But he hadn't.

Because Spinsh would have wanted him to be smart about it.

Spinsh, who always kept his temper in check - who knew when to hold back, when to bide his time.

Damn him. Damn his patience.

The war against the Tuffles was waiting. The King was waiting.

But Nappa wasn't done.

Not with this. Not with whoever had taken his brother from him.

His lips curled back into a snarl, voice low and venomous.

"You'll die screaming for this."

And this time, it wasn't a threat.

It was a promise -

Huh!?

Then the sky cracked apart.

Not like thunder. Not like anything natural. It was light - no, a force. Emerald. Blinding. Alive. It didn't just illuminate; it devoured. The air shook, the atmosphere bending under its weight, something too massive, too unnatural to belong in this world.

Nappa barely had time to register it before something slammed into him from behind.

"What - ?"

No warning. No chance to react. One second, he was standing - the next, he wasn't anywhere at all. His body was ripped from the ground like it was nothing. No, less than nothing. Not even an afterthought. He wasn't flying. He wasn't falling. He was flung.

The force swallowed him whole, an emerald blaze turning the night into a boiling storm of color and fire and annihilation.

"No! DAMN IT - !"

Pain - if it could even be called that - detonated through him. His back - gone. His ribs - collapsing. His lungs - vanishing. The world below blurred into a smear of black and red, stretching so far and fast it stopped looking real. He was being carried - no, hurled, erased, rewritten through the sky by something too vast to be understood.

He tried to move, to brace, to scream - his body refused. His neck wouldn't turn, his mouth opened, but the sound was stolen.

"No, no, NO!"

He wasn't in control anymore. The wastelands, the cliffs, the rivers - all gone. Devoured in green fire. He wasn't inside the air - he was inside something bigger than battle, bigger than war, bigger than the planet beneath him. A new sun had been born, and he was trapped inside its inferno.

"This - this can't - !!"

His hide pelts burned first, fusing into his flesh, then peeling away in smoking shreds of agony. His armor followed, cracking, melting, vanishing into the storm of energy. Then his skin. The heat ate through it like an animal, peeling it in screaming layers, tearing him down one inch at a time. His spine - Saiyan-tough, unbreakable - began to give. Vertebrae snapped like dry wood in a wildfire. His arms twitched, still trying to brace, still trying to fight.

"I… I won't - !"

But this wasn't a battle. This was something else. His fingers melted next, then his arms, the bones inside them softening, bending, breaking. He would have roared. Would have cursed. Would have done anything to prove he was still there.

"I WON'T DIE LIKE THIS!"

But his voice was gone.

His thoughts drowned beneath the suffering.

He wasn't Nappa. He wasn't a Saiyan. He was just something suffering.

"This isn't real. It isn't - !!"

And the worst part?

It wasn't stopping.

This wasn't a ki blast that struck and faded - it was a force beyond him, beyond his kind, beyond anything he understood. A planet-killer. A god's wrath. A cosmic judgment.

His instincts told him to fight, adapt, endure.

"I can't - "

But his arms were melting. His bones were boiling. His mind was unraveling.

"Please - "

But the Saiyan body fought on. Because that's what they did. Because Saiyans were built for war, for destruction, for impossible endurance.

And so -

He endured.

Even as the light grew. Even as his nerves failed. Even as he felt himself breaking apart.

He endured.

And the emerald sun of fire kept pushing him into oblivion.

Great King Vegeta III

The meeting should have been routine.

The royal war tent was filled with Saiyan warlords - scarred, hardened men draped in furred pelts and stitched leather armor, their bodies a tapestry of old wounds and victories. Primitives, outsiders might have called them. But what did it matter? Saiyans had no need for the coward's armor, for the weakling's technology. Their strength was their shield, their rage, their weapon.

They were conquerors.

And now, for the first time in Saiyan history, they were becoming one.

Under him.

King Vegeta stood at the center of the war council, arms crossed over his chest, his presence alone enough to demand silence. He wore no crown - what king needed one when his power was enough? But his cloak, dark and lined with the fur of slain beasts, was a mark of who he was. The first and only ruler of the Saiyan tribes.

Toma stood at the map-covered table, laying out strategies for the war ahead.

"The Tuffles have their cities. Their high walls, their steel towers. It makes them bold. But they are few, and we are many." His voice was sharp, certain. His finger dragged across the crude map drawn onto stretched leather. "Their lands are fertile. Their rivers untainted. Their fortresses are built to withstand time, not war."

A rumble of approval spread through the gathered warlords. Some bared their teeth, already envisioning the slaughter to come.

"They have technology." A gruffer voice, this one from Paragus, one of the older warriors in the tent. "Strange weapons. Metal beasts that spit fire and thunder. You've seen the reports, Toma. Can raw power break steel?"

Toma snorted. "It doesn't need to. Steel bends. It crumbles. It melts. Our fists will rip through their walls, just as we crushed the last city that stood in our way."

More murmurs of agreement. A few warlords laughed, rough and eager.

But King Vegeta remained silent.

His gaze burned into the map, into the crude drawings of Tuffle fortresses, their so-called defenses. He had no doubts about victory. The Tuffles were soft. Clever, but weak. Hiding behind their machines, their tricks, their illusions of safety.

He would burn it all.

Still, something gnawed at him.

Spinsh.

A warrior without equal. A brother to Nappa.

Dead.

And the way he had died - it bothered him.

"Tell me again," King Vegeta's voice cut through the discussion, deep and firm. The tent hushed in an instant. Every warrior there listened when he spoke.

Toma hesitated. "Sire?"

"The one called Spinsh. Tell me again how he died."

For the first time in the meeting, the bloodthirst dimmed. A shadow passed over the warlords' faces, brief but noticeable. It was not a warrior's death.

Toma shifted, clearly reluctant to repeat it. "He was… living peacefully in a small village. Killed in his sleep. A blade through his throat."

A coward's kill.

The war tent was silent.

It wasn't the death that made them uneasy. It was the implication.

Saiyans did not kill like that. Saiyans fought with honor, with fury. They tore their enemies apart with their bare hands, leaving their bodies in the dirt for all to see. Not like this.

And worse - no one had seen who did it.

King Vegeta's jaw clenched. His fingers curled into his arms, leather creaking beneath his grip. A ghost in the night. A faceless killer.

That wasn't a Saiyan.

"And the tribal leader?" His tone was low, dangerous.

Toma exhaled through his nose. "Useless. He mumbled about the attack happening 'too fast,' about there being 'nothing to be done.'"

Lies. Or weakness. Both deserved death.

Vegeta's fingers twitched at his side. He should have killed him.

"Weakness disgusts me," he said flatly.

Paragus nodded, the old warrior spitting to the side. "The tribe should be burned for their failure. If they cannot defend a warrior of our own, what use are they?"

Another voice chimed in. "Or they are hiding something. You think it was an outsider?"

King Vegeta exhaled slowly. His tail flicked behind him, betraying his growing agitation.

"No outsider would dare." His voice was absolute.

And yet - someone had.

The Tuffles were a problem. Their machines. Their numbers. But they weren't ghosts. They weren't cowards in the dark.

This - this was something else.

His gaze flickered toward the entrance of the tent, toward the wastelands beyond.

The war against the Tuffles was waiting. His kingdom's future was waiting.

But something else was moving in the dark.

Something that didn't fear Saiyans.

It was true.

The Tuffles were clever, but small. Their kind lacked the raw power of Saiyans, their weapons and steel towers mere delaying tactics in the face of inevitable destruction. Their walls would crumble, their cities would burn, and their history would be erased by his hand.

But still - something gnawed at him.

Not fear.

Never fear.

Doubt.

Not in the war. Not in his people. In the whispers.

The Legendary Super Saiyan. Someone who has the power of the Gods.

A myth. A curse. A challenge to his rule.

One that had to die.

"Sire?"

Toma's voice pulled him back to the moment. The war chiefs were watching him now, waiting. The fire pit at the center of the tent crackled, casting flickering shadows on their hardened faces. These men - killers, conquerors, warriors - looked to him for leadership, for strength. They had seen him crush clans beneath his heel. They had followed him from bloodstained battlefield to battlefield.

And yet - even they, the strongest among the strong, spoke of ghosts.

King Vegeta exhaled slowly, before speaking.

"The war against the Tuffles will be won." His voice carried, deep and sure, filling the tent with the weight of absolute certainty. "But the Tuffles are not our only enemy."

Silence.

A shift in posture. Some warriors stiffened. Others exchanged glances, uncertain. They were used to hearing about Tuffle war machines, enemy fortifications, traitors among the lesser tribes. But this?

Only one man was bold enough to name it.

Paragus.

"You speak of… the legend?" His voice was careful.

Vegeta's jaw tightened.

He hated hearing the name of it. Of him.

"I speak of the lies that weaken us." His gaze swept the gathered warriors, his black eyes burning. "Every time a warrior rises stronger than the last, the whispers start again. 'Perhaps he is the one.' 'Perhaps he is the warrior of legend.' 'Perhaps he will be the one to lead us to conquest.'"

His lips curled into a sneer.

"I will hear no more of it."

The tent fell into stillness. No one spoke, not even Paragus. No one dared.

King Vegeta stepped forward, the leather bindings of his boots creaking against the hardened earth. The warriors parted for him instinctively, making way for their king.

"The Super Saiyan does not exist. And if it does - " He let the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. With a warning.

Then I will kill him myself.

They shifted, but did not object. Others looked uneasy.

They knew what he meant. What he intended.

For years, the tale had passed through the tribes like a sickness. An ancient warrior of gold and fury, rising once every thousand years to wield power beyond imagination. Some called it a savior, the one who would lead their race to conquest.

King Vegeta knew better.

It was a pretender. A false king. A blight that had to be stamped out.

"The legend is not weakness, sire," Toma spoke at last, cautiously. "It speaks of strength. Of a warrior beyond all others. One who will lead our race to - "

Vegeta's eyes snapped to him.

"I am beyond all others."

Silence.

A moment stretched too thin.

No one dared to disagree.

Of course they wouldn't.

Because it was true.

Vegeta's power was unmatched. None had ever risen beyond him. His strength, his will, his vision for their race - it was absolute. He had bent the clans to his rule. He had crushed chieftains beneath his heel, forced warlords to kneel, and built the Saiyan Kingdom from the bones of the old ways.

And yet - the whispers persisted.

A warrior beyond all Saiyans. A force of pure destruction. A being of gold and fury.

A lie.

"Let them believe in fairy tales," Vegeta thought, his fists tightening. "And I will show them reality."

Because Saiyans did not follow ghosts. They followed power.

And his power was the greatest.

"Sire." Paragus again. The old warrior's voice was measured, careful. "There are some who believe that a little girl from unknown had the power of the Legendary Super Saiyan."

The words struck something deep.

Vegeta's expression didn't change.

A girl?

Vegeta's fingers curled into a fist.

"Then they are fools." His voice was sharp, final. "No girl will be shackled to an old prophecy. And if fate is foolish enough to believe otherwise - "

His eyes narrowed.

"Then I will carve my name into its bones."

The tent remained deathly silent.

Even Paragus - who rarely looked shaken - had nothing to say.

Good.

Let them doubt the legend. Let them fear it.

He would hunt this false warrior. He would find this so-called prophecy.

And he would break it. The war against the Tuffles was waiting. His kingdom's future was waiting.

But first - he would prove, once and for all, that there was only one Saiyan worthy of ruling.

And his name was King Vegeta.

W-what is that!?

The scream came first.

It didn't belong to any man. Any Saiyan. It didn't belong to anything that should exist. It was guttural, raw, something primal that clawed through the heavens like a wounded god crying out in rage and agony.

The warlords turned. Toma's mouth hung slightly open. The murmur of conversation died. The only sound was the crackle of the fire pit, the embers shifting, burning low beneath the weight of something much worse than the war they had been discussing.

Then the sky turned green.

Not a flicker. Not the dancing auroras of a dying star.

A vast, luminous orb - so bright it turned the very air into molten emerald.

And within it - something small, writhing, screaming.

At first, King Vegeta didn't recognize him.

It took him a second. It took the warlords less than that.

"By the stars… that's Nappa!" one of the elites gasped, stepping back.

No. It wasn't just Nappa. It was what remained of him.

His body - charred beyond recognition. His cape, his favorite one - fused to his blackened flesh. His mouth - locked in a soundless howl. But worst of all was the way he moved.

Or rather - how he didn't.

He wasn't flying. He wasn't falling.

He was being dragged.

Shoved.

By a force so large, so monstrous, that it dwarfed even their largest mountains.

A single ki blast but this was no mere attack.

This was apocalyptic.

The Saiyan tribal capital had already begun to react. Thousands were pouring from their huts, pointing, shouting. Some tried to flee. Others were too paralyzed to move, their animal instincts locking them in place.

Toma was already moving. "We have to stop it!"

"Stop THAT?!" Another elite barked, stepping back. "That's not a ki blast - that's a damn planet crashing down!"

King Vegeta didn't hesitate. His hands shot up, energy coiling between his fingers like writhing serpents.

"All of you - fire! NOW!"

The air exploded with golden light as every elite warrior fired at once. Their combined blasts slammed into the monstrous orb, a clash of emerald and gold that sent shockwaves tearing through the sky.

It tilted.

Slightly.

Barely.

Then it swallowed them whole.

Agony.

It struck before King Vegeta could even comprehend it. A force beyond reason, beyond measure - beyond anything he had ever encountered.

It wasn't just pain.

It was erasure.

Like being shoved through a star, every inch of his body unraveled, devoured, rewritten in an instant. His nerves shrieked. His muscles convulsed. His blood - if he still had any - boiled.

His ki shield - shredded. His armor - gone. His skin - flayed raw and remade, only to be burned away again.

The world had become heat, pressure, annihilation.

And he was still alive.

A roar tore from his throat - or at least, he thought it did. There was no sound. Nothing but the deafening roar of the storm swallowing them whole.

Beside him - Toma, Paragus, the other elites. They fared no better.

They were not warriors here. Not conquerors. Not warlords.

They were debris.

Their bodies twisted, crushed, pulled apart by the sheer force of what they had failed to stop. Toma's armor - splintered, disintegrating piece by piece. Paragus - his cloak torn to cinders, his hands reaching, fingers curling around nothing.

And Nappa - Nappa was screaming. Or at least, his mouth was open.

King Vegeta tried to look, tried to force his neck to turn. But he couldn't.

He wasn't moving. None of them were. They were being moved.

Dragged. Hauled. Hurled. Through atmosphere, through existence, through something that should not be.

Faster.

Faster.

The air itself was stripped away. The wind, the sky, the sound - devoured by the unstoppable force.

Below them, the Saiyan city - once a sprawling capital of warlords and warriors - was now a vanishing speck.

The mountains blurred, stretched, smeared across the horizon like wet paint.

They were beyond speed. Beyond flight. Beyond falling. They were being taken.

Agony. It hit before King Vegeta could even register what was happening.

It was like being shoved through a star. Like the universe itself was trying to erase him.

The force slammed into him, wrapped around him, consumed him in an instant. His ki shield - ripped away as if it had never existed. His armor - disintegrating, torn apart molecule by molecule before he could even think to reinforce it. His flesh - boiling, regrowing, boiling again.

And he was still alive.

Beside him - Toma, Paragus, and the others fared no better.

They weren't warriors anymore.

They were debris.

Bodies twisted, contorted, dragged like ragdolls by the sheer force of what they had failed to stop.

Toma thrashed, snarled, convulsed. His teeth gnashed together so hard they cracked. His armor - shredded, melted, gone. His fur pelt - already incinerated.

Paragus tried to grab onto something - but there was nothing. His hands curled into empty air, fingers grasping for anything, for a hold that didn't exist.

And Nappa - Nappa was still screaming.

Or at least, his mouth was open.

King Vegeta tried to look at him.

Tried to force his head to turn.

He barely managed.

But he saw him.

What remained of him.

His body - a ruin. His skin - charred, peeling, raw. His ribs - exposed, shifting with every strangled breath.

But his eyes -

They were still there.

Wide.

Bloodshot.

Bulging with unfiltered terror.

His mouth moved.

"K-Ka…King…Vegeta…"

It wasn't a voice anymore.

It was a whisper.

A ragged, gasping plea.

And King Vegeta could do nothing.

None of them could.

Because the emerald force surrounding them was alive.

It wasn't just a ki blast. It wasn't just an attack. It was a monster.

And it was growing.

Larger.

Brighter.

Bigger than the mountains. Bigger than the storm clouds.

Bigger than anything a Saiyan should ever be able to conjure.

And they were still moving. The entire sky blurred past them, the ground a distant, vanishing streak.

The wastelands. The rivers. The mountains.

All of it fading, consumed by the sheer speed and power of this impossible force.

"Damn it! DAMN IT!" One of the elites thrashed, his hands trying - failing - to push against the sphere. His own ki disintegrated before it could even form.

"HOW THE HELL IS THIS EVEN REAL?!"

Toma snarled, his body convulsing against the force, his teeth grinding so hard they cracked.

"WHO - WHAT - DID THIS?!"

No answer.

Because what answer could there be?

King Vegeta's mind raced. No Tuffle technology could make this. No Saiyan had this kind of power.

So where - where did this come from? Then - another shudder. Another pulse.

The energy swelled. The sphere expanded again.

Nappa screamed.

Not a roar. Not a battle cry.

A pure, unfiltered sound of suffering.

In the distance.

A mountain rose to meet them.

No. They were racing toward it.At horrifying, unstoppable speed. And there was no way to stop it.

The world was a vortex of blinding agony - an endless descent into an emerald sun.

King Vegeta's very existence fractured beneath the crushing weight of it all. Heat unlike anything he had ever known licked at his skin, seared into his flesh, melted the very essence of his being - only for his Saiyan resilience to regenerate him mid-torture, forcing him to endure the cycle over and over again.

No air. No sky. No sense of direction.

Only momentum.

Only suffering.

Somewhere beyond the infernal blaze, he heard Nappa's screams - thick, guttural, raw. A warrior's voice reduced to nothing more than primal agony. His battle-hardened lungs failed him, his roars of defiance warping into fading, gurgling howls as his body was shredded, reformed, and shredded again.

The others? Toma? Paragus? The rest of his elite?

Their voices were lost in the whirlwind of destruction.

Through the blinding green chaos - King Vegeta saw it.

A city.

Not ruins. Not primitive fortresses of rock and crude steel like the Saiyans' war camps.

No.

This was Neo-Plantis's heart - the Tuffle Capital, Erydion Prime.

A monument of cold brilliance, standing in defiance of nature itself.

Towering spires stretched into the heavens, their neon-drenched exteriors gleaming in the night, so impossibly vast they dwarfed even the mountains themselves. The skyline was alive with hovering transport spheres, blinking signals, a world of perfect order, its streets lined with glimmering energy conduits weaving like electric veins. A utopia of steel and precision, the last bastion of the Tuffle race.

And they were barreling straight toward it.

Through the thick layers of reinforced glass and titanium, the Tuffles saw them coming.

And panic took hold.

A citywide pulse rang out - a deafening wail of sirens, a warning that something unnatural was descending upon them.

"IMPACT VELOCITY IS OFF THE CHARTS!"

A voice - mechanical, clipped, filled with the sharp edge of fear - echoed through the airwaves.

Within moments, Erydion Prime mobilized.

Dome-shaped barriers, crackling with untamed energy, snapped into place. Tower-mounted railguns shifted in unison, their cannons humming as they locked onto the incoming sphere of destruction. Plasma turrets whirred to life, their barrels gleaming with charged energy, primed to incinerate whatever this was before it reached them.

The Tuffles did not hesitate.

"FIRE THE DEFENSE ARRAY!"

A synchronized pulse rippled across the skyline.

The night itself ignited.

Hundreds - thousands - of energy turrets lit up in unison, unleashing a barrage of hyper-focused beams that should have been instantaneous death for any invader. The kind of technology that had wiped out Saiyan forces before they ever touched the city walls.

But this?

This wasn't a Saiyan invasion. This was something else.

The first blast collided with the emerald sphere. Then the second.

Then all of them hit at once.

And for a moment, there was hope. For a moment, the entire capital believed they had stopped it.

It absorbed them.

Not deflected. Not repelled. It devoured the attacks, consuming them like oxygen feeding a wildfire. The energy waves meant to neutralize it became its fuel.

The sphere GREW.

"Energy dispersal is ineffective! IT'S ABSORBING OUR FIRE!"

The Tuffle engineer's voice cracked over the comms, shrill with disbelief.

"Cease fire! Redirect all energy barriers - "

Too late.

Far too late.

The sphere pulsed, contracting inward - then detonated outward.

The shockwave tore the sky apart.

The barrier domes - unbreakable shields designed to withstand planetary bombardments - shattered like brittle glass.

The capital's once-impenetrable defenses crumbled before the apocalyptic force of the emerald blast.

The impact.

King Vegeta felt his body collapse inward, his very skeleton compressing under the sheer gravitational force before he was slammed into the first metallic spire.

It was not like breaking through a wall.

It was not like crashing into the side of a mountain.

It was worse.

His body was liquefied on impact, vaporized into pure energy, only for his Saiyan genetics to force him back into physical form in an instant of unbearable regeneration.

And again. Toma was next - his body slammed into a sky-transport, the hovercraft imploding, sending a firestorm of debris scattering into the streets.

Paragus crashed through the central tower, the tallest structure in the city, his impact so powerful that the entire skyscraper buckled inward, its support beams snapping with a thunderous groan before the monolithic structure caved in on itself.

And Nappa -

There was nothing left of Nappa.

King Vegeta barely registered it.

He had no time to.

The ground came.

Too fast.

Too hard.

His body slammed into the steel-plated streets of Erydion Prime, burrowing into the surface like a meteor strike. The sheer force annihilated everything around him, the explosion of fire and rubble swallowing the city blocks in its wake.

The pain was indescribable.

His bones were dust.

His muscles torn apart like wet paper.

His vision flickered - his eyes swollen, blood trickling down his forehead, pooling into the wreckage beneath him.

His ears rang - so loud it drowned out the screams of the dying.

And yet -

He was still alive.

Saiyan tenacity was both a blessing and a curse.

Above him - the city burned.

Erydion Prime, the pinnacle of Tuffle civilization, reduced to a war-torn graveyard.

Figures moved through the smoke. Tuffle soldiers.

They were still standing.

Their sleek armor was stained with dust and ash, their energy rifles humming with lethal precision.

One of them stepped forward.

A woman - helmeted, visor gleaming in the ember-lit ruins. In her left hand, she held a scanning device, its bright blue interface flickering with data.

She stared down at him.

"They survived," she murmured into her comm, her voice detached, clinical. "Unbelievable."

A pause.

Then - without hesitation - she raised her gauntlet.

And fired. A bolt of searing blue plasma struck King Vegeta in the chest.

His vision collapsed inward, swallowed by darkness.

The last thing he saw -

Was Erydion Prime, standing above him.

The world he had vowed to conquer. And a Tuffle - unshaken, unafraid - watching him fall.

Dr. Myuu

High above the war-torn skies of Neo-Plantis, inside the cold steel halls of the Tuffle Armada's Mothership, the Cerebellum, the atmosphere was tense, electric with resentment. At the center of the command chamber, beneath the pale glow of holographic battle maps, Dr. Myuu, the infamous Tuffle scientist, stood surrounded by his elite war council - General Jagra, Strategist Klyx, and High Marshal Revok - all of them clad in sleek, form-fitting combat uniforms lined with energy-enhancing circuits.

The room reeked of synthetic oils, burned wires, and the faint metallic tang of artificial oxygen being filtered through the ship's vents. But none of that mattered. Not when the Saiyans, the brutish, barbaric warriors, had brought their empire to the brink of destruction.

"They're nothing but mindless animals," Jagra spat, slamming his fist against the table, his red cybernetic eye flickering with malice. "They fight like rabid dogs. Unrefined, reckless - yet somehow, they still win!"

Strategist Klyx, a wiry figure with an elongated skull and four luminescent fingers, scoffed. "It's the sheer numbers. They breed like parasites. They don't strategize - they overwhelm." His voice dripped with venomous disdain, fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "And yet, we are the superior species."

Dr. Myuu, standing at the head of the table, folded his hands behind his back, his long, silver hair draping over his hunched shoulders. He wasn't one for petty outbursts, but he seethed with barely-contained fury.

"They mock us," he muttered, his voice cold, almost mechanical. "Those filthy apes revel in destruction. They destroy our cities, laugh at our fallen, and defile our legacy. We are the architects of civilization, and yet they - " His gloved fingers curled into a trembling fist. "They think they can outlast us."

High Marshal Revok, the most battle-hardened among them, let out a guttural snarl. His artificial arm whirred as he crossed his arms, his crimson pupils burning like embers. "Then let us burn them first."

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room, save for the distant hum of the ship's reactors. A slow, eerie grin spread across Myuu's face.

"Yes… Burn them first."

The alarms blared.

A sudden flash of emerald light flooded the chamber, drowning out the cool blues of the holograms. A searing heat - so intense that even through the reinforced walls of the mothership, it felt as though the world itself was about to rupture - pulsed through the ship. The Tuffles snapped their heads towards the panoramic window, and what they saw froze them in place.

A colossal, emerald orb - blazing like a miniature sun, easily the size of four mountains - plummeted through the sky.

But that wasn't what made their blood run cold.

Within the globe of superheated destruction, figures writhed - dozens, maybe hundreds - their silhouettes twisting, contorted in agony, their bodies engulfed in flames as they were dragged mercilessly at unimaginable speed. Tuffle soldiers, scientists, innocent civilians - their own people - were inside that searing mass of death.

"No…" Klyx whispered, his luminescent eyes wide with horror.

Dr. Myuu stumbled back, his usually composed face contorted in sheer terror. "What… what is that?!" His voice cracked - a sound none of them had ever heard from him before.

The sphere descended upon Neo-Plantis's capital - Erydion Prime - with an earth-shattering impact.

It erupted.

A blinding, emerald inferno engulfed everything.

The explosion was not merely an explosion. It was a cosmic annihilation, a force so devastating that the very air ignited, turning the atmosphere into a raging superheated storm of plasma. Mountains crumbled to dust in an instant. Oceans evaporated into nothingness. The earth split apart as if the planet itself were rejecting its own existence.

The shockwave that followed was not one of mere destruction - it was erasure.

The Cerebellum, their mighty mothership, was instantly obliterated, its metal frame vaporized before Myuu or his generals could even scream.

The city of Erydion Prime - the last beacon of Tuffle civilization - was no more.

And with it, the continent itself ceased to exist.

Now choose: A. Continue this plotline. B. Alter it. C. Stitch this line with some of your ideas. And please if you choose to alter - this you may suggest - and could deviate the story in my mind. My ideas is insanely fun to write though - kinda insane but welp I made this to build story with you mate.

dxdragon · Mar 1, 2025

Well now, this fic looks fun!
Looking forward to seeing where this goes.

not sure how i feel about Vegeta, Nappa, Paragus, and so many all dying from the rampaging blast.
If this Author Note is still open to suggestion, I say "B. Alter it" so that Gine didn't fire the blast, and was able to regain enough control to power down. No nuking the Saiyan leaders.

Laath- · Mar 1, 2025

I'm new to the story, readed the first chapter and really liked but I got a question; any plans for romance, will there be (if any) a waifu or a husbando?

Femto · Mar 1, 2025

Laath- said:
I'm new to the story, readed the first chapter and really liked but I got a question; any plans for romance, will there be (if any) a waifu or a husbando?

Not so sure yet because the focus is surviving haha.

Femto · Mar 1, 2025

dxdragon said:
Well now, this fic looks fun!
Looking forward to seeing where this goes.

not sure how i feel about Vegeta, Nappa, Paragus, and so many all dying from the rampaging blast.
If this Author Note is still open to suggestion, I say "B. Alter it" so that Gine didn't fire the blast, and was able to regain enough control to power down. No nuking the Saiyan leaders.

Thanks for the vote. Honestly - given the PL potential of Gine, Fasha and Turles - they could make an empire our of themselves including the surviving Saiyans and Tuffles to resist the PTO.

Femto · Mar 1, 2025

Turles

The initial tremor, a low, guttural vibration, resonated through Turles' advanced armor, a subtle hum against his skin. He felt it in the soles of his reinforced boots, a deep, unsettling thrum against the parched earth. The air, usually a dry, arid whisper, thickened, a sudden, suffocating pressure. The scent of sun-baked rock and dry scrub was abruptly overwhelmed by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone, an acrid, electric scent that stung his nostrils even through the filtration system of his armor.
The ground lurched, a violent spasm that sent hairline fractures spidering across the cracked landscape. The low rumble escalated into a deafening boom, a shockwave that slammed against his armored form, the impact registering as a dull thud. He felt the sting of grit and small stones against the reinforced plating of his legs.

Then, the mountain erupted.

The sound was a monstrous, tearing shriek, a cacophony of shattering stone and roaring fire. Molten rock, glowing like the heart of a dying star, arced across the sky, leaving fiery trails against the rapidly darkening horizon. The air shimmered with intense heat, the smell of burning stone and sulfur filling his senses.

Then, the sky itself turned against them.

A sickly, pulsing emerald light overtook the dull blue, thousands of glowing orbs blooming like malignant stars. Humming. Crackling. Thrumming. The very air vibrated, a shrill, high-pitched whine like a death knell ringing through his nerves.

Turles' hands curled into fists. Then the first orb struck.

A thunderous explosion ripped apart the Kesha Tribe's settlement, its impact sending waves of heat and force rolling outward. The flimsy huts, built from rough-hewn timber and sun-baked clay, disintegrated.

Screams. Not war cries. Not roars of defiance. Screams of terror.

A warrior, his face a roadmap of old scars, was flung into the air like a ragdoll. He landed hard, his burnt skin steaming, his breath ragged - before another orb consumed him, leaving behind nothing but a smoking crater.

Turles' eyes reflected the chaos. His armor, advanced and durable, protected him from the worst of the heat, but the raw carnage unfolding before him was unlike anything he had ever witnessed.

A young Saiyan woman, her dark hair singed, scrambled up, only to have her arm torn away by a grazing blast. The stench of charred flesh filled the air as she crumpled, writhing in agony.

"What the fuck is happening?!"

One of the Kesha warriors bellowed, his voice cracking with panic. His wild eyes darted between the raining emerald destruction and his fallen comrades.

Another Saiyan, his hands trembling, gritted his teeth. "It's a monster!" He staggered backward, eyes darting to the distant, monstrous silhouette burning in the distance.

Turles barely heard them.

His focus was locked on the horror standing at the heart of it all.

The figure in the distance was colossal, wreathed in violent, emerald fire. Its very presence distorted the air around it, heat warping its form into something impossibly vast. The pressure in the air grew heavier, a dense, suffocating weight that settled over everything like a death shroud.

"That… That's not a Saiyan!" A panicked voice choked out. "It's the Oozaru state our ancestors used! !"

Turles didn't respond.

His tail twitches involuntarily, a primal, restless reaction, despite the advanced weave of his armor. His fists clenched tighter, the servos in his gauntlets responding with a low hum, drawing blood from his palms, though his armored gloves remained unmarried.

Through the swirling dust and smoke, past the rolling waves of fire and ruin, he saw it more clearly now - the warped, hulking frame of great ape.

Turles' jaw locked. His lips curled back, baring his teeth in something between frustration and rage.

"Tch. Where the hell is that brat?"

His voice was low, almost drowned out by the chaos.

But as another shockwave of destruction rippled across the land, turning yet another stretch of the Kesha Tribe into a flaming ruin, one thought burned in his mind.

A female warrior, her lip split and swollen, a crimson line against her soot-stained face, clenched her fists, her knuckles bone-white with strain. Her wild eyes, reflecting the emerald glow of the inferno, darted between the collapsing village and the monstrous energy churning at its heart. Her tail, usually a symbol of pride, trembled uncontrollably, a betraying flicker of fear.

"We can't fight… that!" she choked out, her voice raw and hoarse with smoke and terror. "This isn't a battle - it's a massacre!" Her words, a desperate plea, hung in the air, a stark admission of their powerlessness.

A younger warrior, his face smeared with soot and blood, a mask of grime and fear, snarled, his tail thrashing wildly behind him like a trapped animal. He spat onto the cracked earth, the blood-tinged saliva hissing and evaporating as it hit the searing-hot ground, a futile act of defiance.

"We're Saiyans! We don't run from… from monsters!" His bravado rang hollow, his voice trembling despite his effort to mask it, a thin veneer over the primal fear that gripped him. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms, drawing blood, but his stance, rigid and unnatural, betrayed his terror.

Turles barely acknowledged them. His gaze, black and devoid of emotion, remained fixed on the maelstrom of destruction ahead. He was an observer, an opportunist, watching them crumble under the weight of their own arrogance, their misplaced pride. He was a predator watching prey weaken.

The others turned to one another, not to him - as if expecting leadership from their elders, from their betters. Old fools. Weaklings. They had no plan, no direction, just blind terror, their false bravado already cracking under the sheer weight of the unknown. The unspoken question hung in the air: what do we do? But no answers were forthcoming.

The shockwaves were intensifying, the ground rumbling with increasing ferocity, deep fractures splitting through stone and steel alike. The very planet seemed to recoil from the monstrous power raging in the heart of the ruins, a primal fear echoing through the very bedrock.

They had minutes. Maybe less. The village was lost, consumed by a force they couldn't comprehend, a force that dwarfed their understanding of power.

Turles inhaled sharply, calculating, his mind already steps ahead, analyzing the situation with cold, detached logic. This isn't worth it. The risk outweighs the reward, the potential gains swallowed by the overwhelming chaos.

Without turning, without even acknowledging the crumbling warriors around him, he stepped back. Then another step. A calculated movement. Precise.

The female warrior flinched, her eyes widening in disbelief. The younger warrior's mouth opened, but no words came out, his bravado replaced by stunned silence. The others stared, uncomprehending, their survival instincts warring with their pride, their ingrained sense of Saiyan dominance.

But then another explosion ripped through the air, deafening, the force lifting them off their feet and slamming them back down, a brutal reminder of their vulnerability. Pain blossomed in cracked ribs and torn muscles, but it wasn't the pain that got them moving. It was fearful, raw and unadulterated.

Turles exhaled through his teeth, the heat warping the air around him, a shimmering distortion of the ravaged landscape. He allowed himself one last glance over his shoulder - at the maelstrom of destruction, at the monstrous energy surging from within the inferno, a swirling vortex of emerald fire. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of cold calculation in their depths.

They were brutes, trapped in an endless cycle of violence, incapable of perceiving the grander tapestry of conquest. He, however, was different. He possessed the cold, calculating mind of a conqueror, a mind that saw beyond the immediate skirmish.

Gine, initially, was a mere anomaly. A flicker of something… unusual. He'd observed her, cataloged her weaknesses, initially dismissing her as another disposable pawn. But then, she defied the predictable. She adapted.

Her growth wasn't the crude, instinctual surge of power typical of Saiyans. It was deliberate, almost surgical. She studied, adjusted, exploited vulnerabilities with a chilling efficiency. From someone he could decipher to something was not. Chilling intelligence, a predatory instinct that transcended the savage norms of her species.

Such a deviation was dangerous, and dangerous things, properly harnessed, were invaluable. Turles had entertained the notion, briefly, of shaping her into a weapon, a living siege engine for his grand designs. A vanguard, a force of nature he could direct. The concept had held a certain dark allure. He envisioned her as a blade, sharpened and honed, then unleashed upon his enemies.

A monstrous entity, a raw, untamed force of destruction, erupted, tearing through the landscape with a primal fury that made the very air vibrate. The roars, guttural and thunderous, echoed through the ruined village, a sound that seemed to emanate from the planet itself, a desperate, agonized scream against the overwhelming power unleashed.

His meticulously crafted plans, his carefully calculated contingencies, were rendered utterly irrelevant. The universe, it seemed, possessed a cruel, ironic sense of humor.

Turles inhaled slowly, a measured breath against the rising tide of dark amusement. He'd stumbled upon a potentially devastating asset, only to watch it devolve into a mindless engine of destruction. All that potential, all that calculated efficiency, consumed by raw, untamed savagery.

Turles' ki flared violently, a dark and searing force that cut through the choking atmosphere like a sharpened blade. A wall of energy, a shimmering, obsidian barrier, erupted around him, halting the relentless onslaught of debris, fire, and suffocating pressure. The remaining warriors - battered, bloodied, and exhausted - huddled behind the hastily erected shield, gasping for air, their eyes wide with disbelief as they stared at the small, child-like figure before them.

Turles exhaled sharply, a hiss of expelled energy, lowering his outstretched arm. His dark eyes, gleaming with cold calculation, scanned the ravaged landscape, a scene of utter devastation.

"Tch. You're pathetic."

His voice, clear and unwavering, carried through the scorched battlefield, sharp and distinct despite the surrounding chaos. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the remnants of the once-mighty Kesha Tribe, a collection of broken figures clinging to the tattered remnants of their pride.

"Listen up, old men. My name is Turles. And from this moment forward - " He straightened, his posture shifting, his small frame radiating an aura of cold, undeniable authority. "I am your Emperor."

Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the crackling flames and the distant roars of the rampaging monster. Then, laughter - dry, humorless, disbelieving - broke the tension.

A warrior, tall and scarred, his face a roadmap of hard-won battles, spat blood onto the cracked earth, his lips curling into a sneer. "You? Emperor? Hah! You think shielding us from some falling rocks makes you fit to rule?"

Turles didn't even blink, his expression unchanging, his gaze unwavering. Another, a burly Saiyan with a split brow and a shattered shoulder, let out a guttural growl, his voice thick with pain and defiance. "Enough of this nonsense! We bow to no brat. Where is our leader? He'll - "

"He'll do what?"

Turles' voice cut through the air like a razor-sharp blade, silencing the burly Saiyan. The sheer confidence in the child's tone, the absolute certainty, was unsettling.

The burly Saiyan hesitated, taken aback by the unexpected challenge, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. Turles tilted his head, mock curiosity dripping from his words, a subtle, cruel mockery.

"No, seriously. Where is he? Shouldn't he be here? Shouldn't he be leading you? Protecting you?"

The murmurs started, a low, unsettling hum of doubt rippling through the ranks. The first cracks in their unwavering belief, the seeds of fear, were beginning to sprout. Turles took a single step forward, his presence, despite his diminutive size, suddenly looming, a dark, imposing shadow. "But he's not here, is he?"

More silence, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by the crackling flames. Turles sighed dramatically, shaking his head, a gesture of feigned disappointment. "You want to know what real power looks like? Fine."

Without warning, he vanished, a blur of motion, a rush of displaced air. The tall, scarred warrior barely had time to register the movement before a fist, bare and small, buried itself deep into his gut. The impact was brutal, a shockwave of force rippling outward, the sound of his ribs audibly cracking echoing through the ruins. The warrior's eyes bulged, a choked gasp escaping his lips, a silent scream of agony. Before he could even collapse, Turles seized him by the throat, his small hand surprisingly strong.

He lifted him, one-handed, the fully grown warrior dangling helplessly, his feet kicking futilely against the scorched earth. The others stared in stunned silence, their eyes wide with disbelief and terror.

Turles tightened his grip, his voice a low, menacing growl. "This? This is power."

Then, he squeezed, the sound of snapping bone a sickening crunch that echoed through the battlefield, a brutal, undeniable demonstration of his strength. Turles let the lifeless body fall unceremoniously, dusting off his hand as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

His gaze flicked back to the survivors - some trembling, their eyes filled with raw fear, some refusing to meet his gaze, their faces etched with shame, others clenching their fists in impotent rage, their anger a futile attempt to mask their terror.

Turles smirked, a cruel, predatory grin twisting his lips.

"So. Anyone else want to be stupid?"

No one spoke, the silence heavy and oppressive, a testament to their utter defeat. He let the silence drag, savoring it, savoring the moment they realized the truth. Their leader was gone, their tribe was ruined, their lives - meaningless. And the only one standing between them and total annihilation? Him.

He turned, casting one last glance toward the inferno where monstrous form continued to rampage, a chaotic force of destruction. Lucky. That's what he was. What better way to break them than to let them see something even worse, something that dwarfed their own fears?

He looked back at them, his voice calm, unwavering, a chilling contrast to the chaos around them. "You can stand behind me and live. Or you can get in my way and end up like him." He nudged the corpse with his bare foot, a casual gesture of dismissal.

"Choose."

Kilometers away

The land was gone. Not merely scarred or ruined, but utterly obliterated. Jagged spires of molten rock, still glowing with an infernal heat, pulsed like open wounds in the planet's ravaged flesh, the earth itself fractured and broken beyond recognition. The heat shimmered, a distorted, wavering veil that warped the very air, making each breath a searing, agonizing struggle.

Fasha - battered, bleeding, her once-proud leather armor shattered and blackened in places - dragged herself up from the rubble, her movements slow and agonizing. She spat out a mouthful of blood and grit, the coppery taste a familiar, unwelcome companion. Every inch of her body screamed in protest, her muscles a symphony of pain, her bones aching with the dull throb of deep bruises.

She had pushed the brat too far. Her own Saiyan instincts, the primal addiction to battle, the insatiable hunger for a challenge, had taken control, blinding her to the true nature of the power she was provoking. And now? Now, she had unleashed something else entirely, a force beyond her comprehension.

Her vision blurred, the edges of her sight flickering with black spots, but she could still see it - the monster, that impossible child, rising from the wreckage like a demon from the abyss. Girl - or whatever she had become - was ascending, breaking free from the shattered remnants of their world.

Fasha squinted through the heat haze, her eyes burning and watering, watching as the creature's body lifted higher and higher, breaking past the charred clouds that clung to the ravaged landscape. The sheer, raw force of its power - that unnatural, pulsating green Ki - sent spiraling vortexes of wind in its wake, churning the air with raw, untamed energy, a tempest of destruction.

"No way..." she rasped, her voice hoarse and broken, her eyes widening in shock, disbelief warring with a primal fear she hadn't felt in decades. But this? This was something else entirely, something that transcended the brutal, familiar violence of her people. This was a force of nature, a raw, untamed power that seemed to defy the very laws of reality.

A memory surfaced, unbidden, a whisper from the past - her master's words, from long ago, echoing in the silence of her mind.

We once wielded the Great Ape's power like this. Raw. Untamed. Without Ikari's control, we embraced the sheer destruction it could bring. But that time has passed - we fight smarter now. We use power without losing ourselves.

Had she, in her arrogance, forced the brat into something ancient, something that wasn't meant to be touched anymore, a primal force that had been buried beneath layers of evolution and control? Had she awakened a sleeping devil?

Far above, beyond the swirling clouds of smoke and ash, the Oozaru's body was enveloped in a swirling cocoon of Ki, the emerald energy shifting and pulsating like a storm barely contained, a living, breathing tempest of power. The light intensified, growing, growing, until it was no longer a mere aura, but a tangible presence, a blinding beacon in the ravaged sky.

Until it was no longer a cocoon. It was a star.

An emerald sun, burning with an unnatural intensity, bloomed in the sky, a roiling, writhing mass of energy, casting an eerie, malevolent green glow across the ruined wasteland. The atmosphere screamed, the very fabric of the planet trembling under the immense pressure, the air itself crackling with the raw energy unleashed.

Fasha's breathing grew unsteady, her chest heaving, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn't just another transformation, another surge of power. This was evolution through destruction, a cataclysmic rebirth.

"Shit."

The single word left her lips in a whisper, hushed to the sheer terror that gripped her. Because for the first time in a long time, she wasn't just facing an enemy, a rival, a challenge. She was witnessing the birth of something terrifying, something that would reshape the very landscape of their existence.

The searing pain, a relentless, white-hot brand, pulsed through Fasha's body, a brutal counterpoint to the throbbing heat radiating from the ruined landscape. Every nerve ending screamed in unison, a chaotic chorus of agony that threatened to drown out the distant, ominous crackle of the emerald sun. Her bones felt like shards of fractured glass, grinding against each other with every twitch, her muscles like molten lead, heavy and unresponsive. Each shallow, ragged breath sent sharp, stabbing pains through her ribs, a constant, agonizing reminder of her broken state.

She lay trapped, pinned beneath a suffocating weight of scorched rubble, shattered rock, and the cloying, metallic stench of charred flesh. The physical weight was crushing, a tangible representation of her defeat, but it was the unseen weight, the crushing pressure of her failures, the guilt and shame that threatened to break her spirit entirely.

The emerald sun, a sickly, pulsating orb of raw, unfathomable power, still dominated the sky, a malevolent beacon in the ravaged heavens. Its unnatural green light, a grotesque parody of life, warped the very fabric of the atmosphere, casting an eerie, unsettling glow across the desolate wasteland. The planet groaned beneath its presence, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the rubble, through her very bones, a primal scream of agony.

The air, thick with static and the lingering, acrid scent of destruction, crackled with unseen energy, a palpable tension that made her skin crawl. Even through her battered senses, dulled by pain and exhaustion, she could feel the monstrous power emanating from the green star, a constant, chilling reminder of the creature she had unleashed, the force she could no longer control.

A low, guttural groan escaped her lips as she tried to move, her limbs heavy and unresponsive, her body a prison of pain. The rubble held her fast, a cruel, unyielding embrace, a physical manifestation of her helplessness. Then, the sound of scraping stone, the gritty crunch of debris being moved, a welcome intrusion into her world of pain. A pair of hands, rough and calloused, began to dig through the rubble, pulling away chunks of rock and ash, revealing a sliver of the ravaged sky.

"Hey."

The voice, young but steady, broke through the haze of pain, a lifeline in the sea of agony. Fasha, her vision blurred and swimming with black spots, barely managed to lift her head, her neck muscles protesting with a sharp, stabbing pain.

A teenager, thin and lanky, stood over her, his silhouette stark against the eerie green light. His dark eyes, set in a gaunt face, held a quiet intensity, a depth that belied his youth. A tattered rug-pelt, cheap and worn, hung loosely over his shoulders, a meager protection against the harsh elements. His messy black hair framed a face that spoke of hardship, of a life spent scavenging and surviving in the harsh, unforgiving landscape.

A low growl rumbled in Fasha's throat, a primal sound of suspicion and pain. There was something familiar about him, a sense of recognition she couldn't quite place, a nagging feeling that she had seen him somewhere before, a ghost in the shadows of her memory.

He crouched beside her, his movements careful and deliberate, brushing dust and ash from her forehead with a gentle touch that surprised her.

"Don't move too much," he said, his voice calm and reassuring, a soothing balm against the raw edges of her pain. "You're messed up. You need to get healed."

Fasha's throat was raw and burning, her mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood and the gritty taste of ash. She forced the words out, her voice hoarse and weak, barely a whisper.

"...The tribe...?"

The teenager's expression remained neutral, his dark eyes unwavering, his gaze steady and direct. He exhaled slowly, as if weighing his words, choosing them with care.

"They got out."

Fasha's fingers twitched, a desperate, futile attempt to push herself up, to regain some semblance of control. "Where...?"

He didn't try to stop her, didn't force her back down. He simply sat there, watching her, waiting for her to gather her strength. After a long, pregnant pause, he spoke, his voice tinged with reluctance, a subtle hesitation that spoke volumes.

"They escaped," he said, looking away, his gaze fixed on the desolate landscape, as if the ravaged earth held the answers she sought.

Fasha's breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that sent a jolt of pain through her ribs.

"What.?"

The teenager shifted his weight, his eyes darting over his shoulder, then back to her, a flicker of unease in their depths. "They've got a new leader." A faint, almost imperceptible curl appeared at the corner of his lips, a hint of something that wasn't quite a smirk, but a subtle, knowing expression. "Some kid. Short. Weird armor."

Fasha's brow furrowed, confusion adding to her pain, a bewildering puzzle piece in the chaotic landscape of her defeat. A child? Leading the Kesha Tribe? It didn't make sense, it defied all logic.

The teenager exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound of quiet resignation, a sigh that spoke of unspoken burdens and hidden truths.

"Calls himself Turles."

He didn't offer assistance, didn't attempt to coddle her, a calculated restraint that spoke of a sharp, observant mind. Smart kid, she thought, a flicker of grudging respect in her pain-addled mind.

She exhaled sharply, a ragged breath that carried the acrid scent of ash and blood, and rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen the knots of pain that held her captive. "So," she muttered, her voice still rough and hoarse, "you got a name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you 'brat' in my head?"

The teen hesitated, his gaze flickering away for a moment, then back to her. A small, almost imperceptible smirk played at the corner of his lips.

"Beets."

Fasha paused, the name a strange, unfamiliar sound in the desolate landscape. Beets? She blinked, scanning his gaunt features again, searching for a spark of recognition. And then, it clicked. The orphan. The quiet, unassuming shadow that was always lurking around the outskirts of the village, never quite part of the crowd, but never far away. She'd seen him before - hell, she'd probably ignored him a hundred times, dismissing him as another inconsequential stray.

Her lips twisted into a wry smirk. "No shit. You're Beets?"

Beets shrugged, his expression nonchalant, as if the revelation was of little consequence.

"Been around."

Fasha huffed, shifting her weight, her muscles protesting with a dull ache. "Yeah, I remember you. Always skulking around the training grounds, pretending you weren't staring." Her smirk widened, a hint of her old, sardonic self resurfacing. "What, you wanna fuck me or something?"

Beets stiffened, his face not quite flushing, but there was a flicker of something - an instant, unguarded reaction, a momentary lapse in his carefully constructed composure. Then, just as quickly, his expression smoothed out into something unreadable, a blank canvas of studied indifference.

"I wouldn't put it that way."

Fasha chuckled, a deep, raspy sound that echoed through the desolate landscape, wincing at the sharp ache in her ribs. "Oh? Then how would you put it, brat?"

Beets met her gaze, his dark eyes steady and unwavering, a stark contrast to his youthful features. "I was watching you fight." A pause, a subtle shift in his stance. "I've been watching for a while."

Something about the way he said it, the quiet intensity in his voice, made her amusement fade, just a little. The casual banter, the playful mockery, seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of something more profound.

Fasha raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharpening. "Yeah? And?"

Beets exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting toward the ruined battlefield, the twisted spires of molten rock, the desolate expanse of shattered earth. "I wanted to see how a real warrior moves. How someone who is strong fights." His fists clenched slightly at his sides, a subtle, almost unconscious gesture. "How they survive."

Fasha studied him for a moment, her smirk softening into something more considering, a look of quiet contemplation. So that's how it was. Not a childish crush, not some dumb brat with a fleeting fantasy. The kid was just hungry.

Not for food, though he likely knew the pangs of starvation, but for strength, for knowledge, for the raw, untamed power that defined her people. She recognized that hunger, that burning desire to transcend limitations, to become something more.

Fasha leaned heavily against a jagged chunk of broken rock, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain was a dull, persistent throb, a constant reminder of the brutal beating she had endured. Her injuries weren't trivial, but she'd weathered far worse in her time. What truly gnawed at her, however, wasn't the physical agony, but the unsettling sight of the emerald sun that still glared down from the sky, and the desolate, unrecognizable landscape that had once been her home.

She turned her gaze back to Beets, her eyes narrowed, searching for answers. "Alright, kid. Back up. Where the hell did this Turles even come from?"

Beets exhaled through his nose, a soft, almost weary sigh, his arms still crossed over his thin chest, a posture of quiet observation.

"Crashed from the sky."

Fasha blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "...What?"

Beets nodded, his expression serious, devoid of any hint of humor. "He just dropped in. Literally." He motioned vaguely upward, his gaze following the invisible trajectory. "Came down like a damn meteor. First thing he did was walk right up to Karots and kill him in two moves."

Fasha's brow furrowed further. "Two?"

Fasha frowned, a flicker of unease creeping into her thoughts. Karots was an arrogant, brutish warrior, but he wasn't weak. If this so-called Turles had dispatched him that swiftly, that easily… it spoke of a power far exceeding their own.

She shook her head, trying to make sense of the absurdity. "And you're saying he just took over the whole damn tribe?"

Beets nodded, his gaze unwavering.

"Yeah. They were already half broken, running scared. He just finished the job. Picked up the pieces."

Fasha exhaled sharply, a sound of frustration and disbelief. "How tall is this kid, anyway?"

Beets paused, considering his eyes scanning the ruined landscape as if searching for a visual comparison.

"Short. A runt."

Beets shrugged, unfazed by her veiled threat. "Just saying. He looks young. Too young. But his armor… it's not a Saiyan. I've never seen anything like it. Dark, heavy, almost like…" He hesitated, searching for the right words, his gaze drifting towards the distant spires of molten rock. "Almost like something out of this world."

Fasha's lips pressed into a thin, grim line. Not Saiyan armor. The implication hung heavy in the air, a chilling realization. Her gaze flickered up, towards the emerald cocoon still burning in the sky, a malevolent beacon in the ravaged heavens. The brat above, the girl, had been wearing something different too, something alien, something that didn't belong. Not like any Saiyan armor she had ever seen.

"…How the hell did you even find me?"

Beets tilted his head, as if the answer was obvious. "I knew you'd be here."

She narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Beets let out a slow breath, glancing away. "This spot. It's always been your favorite, hasn't it?" He gestured vaguely to the ruined wasteland around them, the scorched earth, the shattered rock formations that used to cast long shadows at sundown. "Figured if you were still breathing, you'd crawl back here."

Fasha stared at him, caught off guard. She hadn't realized anyone paid that much attention. She sure as hell didn't think some rag-wearing kid would.

"Huh." She huffed a short, humorless laugh. "So what? Are you just some stalker or something?"

Planet Trade Organization

The sterile glow of countless monitors bathed the darkened chamber in an artificial, clinical haze, casting long, skeletal shadows across rows of advanced scouters and high-end data modules. The air hummed with the quiet, rhythmic beeping of supercomputers, their processors churning through ceaseless calculations, digesting war reports, power readings, and combat footage harvested from across the vast expanse of the galaxy.

At the heart of this technological labyrinth, a single figure sat, his posture ramrod straight, his fingers tapping a precise, rhythmic cadence against the console. His eyes, sharp and focused, were locked onto the shifting screens before him, absorbing the torrent of data with an almost unnerving efficiency. His expression remained unreadable, a mask of cold, yet his presence radiated an aura of quiet, undeniable power.

His lord's decree, delivered with the chilling finality of a death sentence, had been absolute:

"Find the strongest. Break them. Shape them. They will be my blade." And he, a meticulous architect of conquest, was not a man to disappoint his Emperor.

He had witnessed countless warriors rise and fall, meticulously measured their strength, cataloged their weaknesses, dissected their fighting styles with the cold precision of a surgeon. But this was different. His narrowed gaze flickered between two profiles, side by side, two anomalies originating from the same planet.

A boy and a girl.

His fingers danced across the controls with practiced ease, a delicate ballet of precise movements as he sifted through the torrent of data streams, filtering out the irrelevant noise, the mundane chatter of galactic conflict. He wasn't merely looking at raw power levels, at the brute force that defined so many warriors. He was searching for something more, something elusive - potential.

His lord's command, delivered with the chilling finality of a decree etched in stone, echoed in his mind: "I have no use for mediocrity. Find me something… extraordinary." The words were a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, demanding not just strength, but a spark of something unique, something that transcended the limitations of ordinary warriors.

A slow, deliberate breath filled his lungs, a moment of quiet contemplation before the storm. A flick of his wrist, a subtle gesture that spoke of practiced control, and the first subject appeared on the primary display. The screen flickered, then stabilized, revealing a series of data, visual feeds, and combat analyses, a comprehensive profile of the individual in question.

He wasn't interested in the raw numbers alone. He scanned the footage, his eyes dissecting every movement, every subtle shift in posture, every flicker of emotion. He was looking for the intangible, the hidden depths beneath the surface. He sought the spark of intelligence, the flicker of adaptability, the raw, unbridled will to survive that separated the exceptional from the expendable. He searched for the echo of a potential that could be honed, shaped, and unleashed upon the galaxy.

Turles. A child, barely past his teen years, yet the ravaged village before him spoke of a strategic brutality that belied his age. Saiyan instincts, honed to a chilling edge, he mused, his gaze dissecting the playback footage. The bloodied, broken warriors weren't slaughtered, but subdued, a crucial distinction. Not a mindless rampage, but a strategic subjugation. A conqueror, not a savage.

He watched Turles move, his posture radiating an unnerving calmness amidst the chaos. Not arrogance, not the wild, reckless savagery typical of his kind. Control. He wasn't reveling in victory, he was orchestrating it, a puppeteer pulling the strings of a brutal, blood-soaked play. The audio transcript confirmed his suspicions: "Kneel or burn." A chilling ultimatum, devoid of emotion, a cold, calculated declaration of dominance.

The warrior's desperate lunge, a final, futile act of defiance, was met with swift, brutal attack. A single strike, two cruel movements, the body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. No wasted effort, no theatrical display. Just cold, unadulterated power, a stark message delivered with chilling clarity. Assimilation, not annihilation.

He exhaled slowly, noting the boy's tactics, the subtle nuances of his control. A ruler, not a soldier. A leader, not a follower. Turles possessed the rare ability to command, to instill fear and obedience, a trait far more valuable than raw strength alone. He understands power, not just force.

He marked Turles for further observation, his rise would undoubtedly be interesting, a study in ambition. A promising specimen, perhaps, he thought, his gaze lingering on the boy's image. But not what the Emperor needs. Not yet.

Turles lacked the raw, untamed potential he sought, the spark of something truly extraordinary. He is a blade, finely honed, but not the forge that shapes it. He needed more. He needed something… more. Something that could shatter the mold, break the boundaries of what was possible.

Proceed.

Unknown subject. A child, perhaps. Or what was a child. Genetic Mutation? The readings were chaotic, the system struggling to categorize the data. Unquantifiable destruction. He watched the footage: a continent reduced to molten ruin. Raw, untamed power, he thought, zooming in. A Saiyan girl, or something that resembled one. A Great Ape in records, but… wrong. Unstable energy, mutations, a chilling efficiency. Adapting, not rampaging.

He rewound the footage Fighting someone twelve thousand units stronger than her and more experienced. She fought smart, then… adjusted. Movements sharpened, attacks precise. Learning, optimizing, evolving mid-battle. Then, the transformation: an emerald sun, a cataclysmic pulse. Desolation. The Tuffles, their entire civilization, erased. A shame, he mused, considering their expendable usefulness.

But this girl… no records, no name. A stray? Her power rivaled his lord's a bit. She might be able to resist some of his attacks. Interesting. He encrypted the data, sending it directly to his lord. Ginyu was strong, but limited. Tricks, not true power. The Empire needed more. Absolute power.

He typed a final note: Potential Candidate: Project Emperor's Blade. Subject Unknown. Observation Required. He shut down the screens. He waited.

The comms unit, a polished obsidian monolith, seamlessly embedded in the armrest of the hovering throne, emitted a slow, resonant hum - an almost imperceptible vibration that pulsed through the vast, silent chamber. The sound, rhythmic and unbroken, was a whisper in the dark, threading through the air like an unspoken promise.

The chamber itself stretched into the abyss, its high, curving walls sculpted from the same obsidian alloy, absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Only the dim, pulsating glow of the throne offered illumination - casting jagged silhouettes across the floor, distorting the space into something infinite, something unknowable.

A lone figure reclined, his posture the epitome of effortless control. His ruby-red eyes, half-lidded, gleamed in the darkness, their glow betraying an unreadable expression - neither boredom nor amusement, but something deeper. Fingers - elegant yet lethal - drummed a slow, deliberate pattern against the armrest, a cadence of anticipation.

Then, a crackle of static. A break in the silence.

A voice, smooth and measured, devoid of inflection.

"Your summons, Lord."

The fingers stilled.

For a moment, there was only the distant thrum of the throne, the ever-present hum of energy coursing through its frame. Then, at last -

A chuckle. Soft. Melodic. Devoid of warmth.

"Tell me something interesting."

A pause - calculated. The kind of silence that weighed more than words.

Then, the voice returned.

"The requested reports. Two subjects of note, both of Saiyan origin."

A subtle electronic click - data transfer in progress. From the throne's built-in console, a flickering holographic display materialized, bathing the chamber in an eerie azure glow. Two figures rendered in shifting light: one, a child clad in unfamiliar armor, standing atop a battlefield littered with corpses. The other -

An anomaly. A distortion of power itself. Not an image, but an unstable energy signature, pulsating and unreadable.

The figure in the throne remained still, watching. Dissecting.

The voice continued.

"The first - Turles. A child of no notable lineage. Unlike the others." A flick of the hologram. The image sharpened - black combat gear, a smirk full of unearned confidence. "He does not rely on strength alone. He conquers through smartness. Subdued a Saiyan tribe but did not slaughter them. He seeks control, not destruction. He appears to have built connections outside of this world as well."

A flick of the tail - silent interest.

"A conqueror in the making?" A murmur, more to himself than a question. "How… amusing."

"He may be worth grooming. His methods are efficient."

The hologram shifted - flickering to the second image.

The pulse of energy twisted and warped, refusing to settle into a stable readout.

"The second - an anomaly. Unnamed. No records prior to the event. Transformed into a Great Ape. Eradicated a civilization. Turned an entire continent to dust."

The rhythmic tapping resumed - slower now, more deliberate.

The voice pressed on.

"Analysis suggests the transformation was strange. Adaptation was precise. Calculated. She had grown three thousand times her initial power readings - that not even our advanced technology could see properly."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then -

"Fascinating."

The word was spoken softly. Barely a whisper. Yet it carried through the chamber with chilling clarity, as though the very walls absorbed its weight.

For the first time, the figure leaned forward - just slightly. The movement was subtle, but the shift in presence was absolute.

"Dispatch forces to eliminate?"

A single finger rose - a signal to halt.

"No."

Not a refusal. A decree.

The strategist did not question it.

A pause. A beat.

The Emperor's gaze lifted, his eyes distant yet piercing, as though staring beyond the chamber itself, beyond the stars.

"Tell me… what do you believe I desire?"

The strategist blinked. A test? A trick? He kept his voice steady.

"Universal dominion. Absolute rule."

For a moment, silence. Then - a laugh. Not the sharp-edged amusement of a tyrant, not the cruel satisfaction of a conqueror, but something else. Something tired.

"How small-minded." The tryrant did not sneer, did not mock - he simply stated it, as though disappointed by the obviousness of the answer. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as if peering beyond the chamber itself.

"The universe has known only chaos - civilizations rising and falling, species waging war, empires turning to dust. Each one clawing for power, blind to the cycles they perpetuate."

The strategist remained still. There was an undercurrent in The Emperor's tone, something elusive yet unmistakable.

"Do you think I delight in destruction? In cruelty for its own sake?"

The strategist had seen it firsthand - planets shattered, voices silenced, entire bloodlines reduced to nothing. And yet, for the first time, he was forced to wonder.

"Strength is not a tool for suffering," The Emperor murmured. "It is the means to end it. To bring order to a universe that has never known peace."

His fingers tapped idly against the throne's armrest, a slow, deliberate rhythm. The strategist said nothing, but his mind churned.

The Emperor gestured toward the image of Turles. "A child who conquers through calculation. Not for bloodlust, but for control." Then to the anomaly. "A force of nature, untamed. But perhaps... capable of more."

And then, softer - almost too soft to be real.

"I do not seek to burn worlds. I seek to end the need for war."

The strategist did not move, did not react, but something in his understanding shifted.

"My father. Brother. None of them could break the cycle. That's their intent."

For the first time, the strategist considered the weight of those words.

The Emperor was not speaking of conquest. He was speaking of finality.

"Peace," the emperor whispered. "Not the quiet of the grave, but the stillness of harmony. True dominion... is not in crushing hope, but in giving it a place to rest."

And there, for just a fraction of a second, the strategist glimpsed something beneath the surface of the tyrant's words. Not cruelty. Not malice.

A man who had seen too much, razed too many civilizations, and found no satisfaction in the ruins.

A ruler who no longer wanted to rule through fear.

The Tryant leaned back in his throne, the flickering light of the hologram casting long, jagged shadows across his face. The strategist stood in silence, waiting for the command that never came.

The strategist stood still, his mind turning over the words he had just heard. This was not the decree he had expected.

"I do not seek to burn worlds. I seek to end the need for war."

Such words had no place in the empire The Emperor had built. Not among the countless massacres, the systems laid to waste, the planets reduced to cinders. And yet… the tone in which they were spoken did not allow for doubt.

Still, protocol demanded clarification.

"Then… what would you have of me, Lord?"

The Emperor's fingers tapped against the obsidian throne, slow and deliberate. The faint hum of the comms unit filled the silence, an ever-present whisper threading through the void.

"Tell me, Strategist… What is strength?"

The question was unexpected, but the answer was obvious.

"Power. The ability to shape reality. To shape the future."

The Emperor exhaled softly, a sound that was neither approval nor disappointment.

"And yet, those who wield power use it to destroy. To take. To rip apart and leave nothing behind." His eyes lifted, staring past the strategist, as though he could see the universe itself stretching out before him. "Is that strength? Or is that merely the instinct of beasts?"

The strategist hesitated. The weight of the words felt different now - less like an interrogation, more like a contemplation. A glimpse into a mind far beyond his own.

"You have conquered more than any living being. If destruction is not your goal, then what is?"

The Emperor let the silence hang between them, long enough for discomfort to settle. Then, at last, he spoke.

"Order."

The word was spoken softly, yet it carried enough weight to feel like an immutable law of the universe.

"Look at them." The Emperor gestured at the holograms once more. "A child who seeks dominion. A force of nature that adapts rather than mindlessly rages. Tell me, Strategist - do you see potential in them?"

The strategist straightened, taking a measured breath before answering.

"I see dangers. Unpredictability. Possible threats."

The Emperor's smirk was barely perceptible.

"And yet, unpredictability is what allows a species to evolve. It is what breaks stagnation. It is what moves the universe forward."

The strategist narrowed his eyes slightly, considering.

"You speak of shaping the future. Yet your empire was built on the ruins of countless worlds. Why change your vision now?"

The Emperor's gaze drifted once more, distant but sharp.

"Because I am tired."

The words were quiet, yet they cut through the chamber like a blade.

"I have destroyed more than any warlord, crushed more civilizations than history can remember. And still, the universe fights, the cycle repeats. They think I rule through fear, through cruelty. But fear is fleeting. Terror fades." He leaned forward, resting his chin lightly against his knuckles. "And I am... bored of it."

For the first time, the strategist saw something beyond the cold, unshakable facade. Not a weakness. No regret. But exhaustion.

The Emperor's voice dropped to something almost contemplative. "What do they expect me to do? Continue? Burn planets I have already burned? Prove my power to those who already know it? What point is there in ruling if I am left to wage the same war over and over again?"

The strategist had no answer to that.

"The strong rule," The Emperor continued, "not because they desire power, but because only they can bring order to the chaos."

He studied the holograms once more, the flickering light reflecting off his crimson gaze.

"I wonder... Can they be shaped? Can they learn that strength is not just in destruction?"

The strategist's brow furrowed. "And if they cannot?"

The Emperor smirked. "Then they will perish like the rest."

The strategist exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly. That, at least, was an answer he understood.

The Emperor leaned back into his throne, fingers resuming their slow, rhythmic tapping.

"But... I think I will give them the chance."

A rare mercy. A test of sorts. Not one of power, but of purpose.

The strategist bowed his head. "Then I will prepare the necessary steps, my Lord."

The Emperor did not respond immediately. He simply gazed at the holograms, the same unreadable expression on his face.

But for the first time, the strategist thought he saw it - not the ambition of a tyrant, nor the malice of a conqueror, but something else entirely.

The strategist remained silent, observing. The flickering holograms reflected in The Emperor's eyes, but his focus had drifted elsewhere. Somewhere beyond this chamber. Beyond the empire he ruled.

Then, softly, almost to himself -

"I have outgrown them."

The words were measured, deliberate. Yet beneath them, there was an edge - a quiet defiance, coiled and waiting.

The strategist lifted his gaze. "My Lord?"

The Emperor exhaled through his nose, fingers still tapping that slow, rhythmic cadence against the throne. A thought turning over. A decision solidifying.

"My father… Beerus… how long have I bowed my head? How long have I entertained their arrogance, their belief that I am nothing more than an instrument of their amusement?"

The strategist stiffened. This was dangerous territory. To speak ill of Lord Beerus - of the God of Destruction himself - was unthinkable. Even King Cold, in all his wisdom, had never dared to challenge that authority.

"They have granted you domain over much of the cosmos," the strategist offered carefully. "Under their will."

The Emperor chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

"Granted? No. They tolerated my rise because they believed me beneath them. Because they saw me as an extension of their rule, another pet to keep the universe in check while they slept."

His fingers stilled. His expression darkened.

"A mistake."

The strategist swallowed, but remained composed. "You believe you have surpassed them?"

The Emperor did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back into his throne, a slow, deliberate movement, his posture relaxed - but his presence? His presence had never felt heavier.

"I was created in their shadow, yes. Trained beneath their rule. Conditioned to believe that my ceiling was below their feet." His crimson eyes flickered, amusement creeping at the edges of his voice. "But tell me, Strategist… Does a ruler submit? Does a god kneel?"

The strategist held his breath.

The Emperor's tail swayed idly over the throne's armrest, his smirk returning - not playful, not cruel, but decided.

"They made the mistake of assuming I would always remain lesser. That I would always be their perfect little monster, burning worlds when they grew bored, groveling when they saw fit to remind me of my place." His tone dipped, quiet yet absolute. "I have no place beneath them. I have no place beside them. I stand above them."

The strategist's mind reeled. Did he truly believe this?

A being who had once called himself the embodiment of death, the emperor of the known universe… now speaking as though even gods were beneath him?

The Emperor exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

"Do you know why Beerus tolerates my existence?" he mused. "Because I amused him. Because he saw no need to wipe me from the stars, as one swats a fly. My father was the same. He believed his rule eternal, that I would never be more than his heir, his tool."

His fingers curled against the throne's armrest, slow and deliberate.

"But I am no one's tool. No one's heir. No one's plaything."

For the first time, there was a glint of something dangerous in his expression - not just arrogance, not just confidence. Certainty.

The strategist, despite his years of service, despite his unshakable demeanor, felt the urge to take a step back.

The Emperor was not boasting.

He was stating an inevitability.

"Beerus may sleep, my father may scheme, but the universe will learn the truth soon enough." His voice dipped into something almost… reverent. "They are relics. And I am the future."

The strategist bowed his head, the weight of this declaration settling in his chest like stone.

Everything was about to change.

Emperor of the Northern Galaxy PL readings: ?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Femto · Mar 2, 2025

Minus

Fasha

The first thing Fasha noticed when she woke up was the heat.

A heavy, oppressive warmth pressing against her skin, the kind that made her instinctively tighten her muscles and prepare for a fight. Even through the rough fabric covering her, she could feel it - radiating, pulsing, alive.

The second thing was the pain.

Dull and distant, like her body had been crushed and put back together by someone who wasn't quite sure where everything went. But she was healing. Faster than she should have.

The third was the voice.

"You're awake."

Fasha's eyes snapped open.

The ceiling was rough wood, uneven and poorly cut. A hut. Not a medical bay. Not a battlefield.

She turned her head. Beets sat by a small fire, his expression unreadable.

"Oh," she rasped. "Great. I lived."

Beets didn't react.

Fasha let her head drop back onto what barely passed for a pillow.

"You didn't answer my question."

Beets raised an eyebrow. "You didn't ask one."

Silence.

She pushed herself up. Her body protested, but it obeyed. Sore. Stiff. But not broken.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the heat in the air, the strange hum of energy pressing against her senses. She didn't have to look to know where it came from.

The emerald sun still burned.

It had been there for weeks now, hanging in the sky like a second star, casting everything in unnatural green light.

It wasn't the sun.

It was a scar.

Fasha exhaled.

"How long was I out?"

"Four days."

She whistled. "That long?"

"You needed it."

"No kidding," she muttered, rolling her shoulders. Everything ached, but it was functional. The heat in her muscles was different. Not just recovery. Adaptation.

She wasn't just healing. She was getting stronger.

Her fingers twitched. Saiyan instincts. Combat recovery.

Good.

"You're quiet," she said,"That's never a good sign."

Beets was pale.

Fasha had never seen a Saiyan look like that before - like all the fire had been drained out of his soul, leaving behind a husk too afraid to collapse. His breathing was shallow, erratic, his fingers twitching as if his body couldn't decide whether to flee or fight an enemy that wasn't even here.

"Say that again."

Beets swallowed, his throat bobbing like he was choking on the very air.

"King Vegeta… he's gone."

A silence.

It stretched between them, an open wound neither wanted to acknowledge.

Fasha stared. Waiting for the punchline. The dismissal. The addendum that said, But he took out the bastard responsible before he went down, because King Vegeta wasn't just a king - he was the King. The strongest of them all. A symbol. A titan standing above the rest.

Fasha's fingers clenched against the cot, nails digging into the rough fabric. Her wounds still ached - bones knitting back together, muscles regrowing - but none of that pain compared to the sick, sinking weight in her gut.

King Vegeta was dead.

Just like that.

Not in glorious battle against some great enemy. Not in a war for conquest or honor. But against that - the thing still hanging in the sky like a second sun.

She turned her gaze toward the open window, toward the emerald light that never faded, weeks after the monster's rampage. It pulsed, steady and patient, like it was still breathing. Like it was waiting.

Beets was shaking. His whole body, like his instincts were screaming at him to run, but he had nowhere to go.

"How?"

Fasha exhaled slowly. Her knuckles ached.

The King. The Elites. All gone.

She had once dreamed of fighting beside them. Training under them. Earning her place among the strongest.

Beets exhaled, his breath shallow, his tail twitching erratically against the floor. His hands clenched into fists, then unclenched, over and over, as if he could wring the fear out of his bones.

"It was one attack," he said, his voice thin, almost disbelieving. "One. A blast bigger than a damn mountain. The King and the Elites deflected it - barely - but the shockwave alone wiped out half the city. They saved the capital, saved the people, but they got caught in it. They didn't even have time to retreat."

Fasha felt something cold crawl down her spine. She swallowed, but it did nothing to remove the dryness from her throat.

A single blast.

She had fought that thing. Had seen the way it moved, the way it adapted. But she hadn't truly grasped what it meant.

Not until now.

Her mind reeled back to the fight, to that moment - the moment she thought she was dead.

And then, that blast.

It had been small at first. A tiny of emerald light no bigger than a candle's flame, barely noticeable. But then it had grown - twisting, swelling, distorting - until it was the size of a fist, then a head, then a damn basketball.

Fasha had barely dodged it.

She hadn't even thought about it at the time. Just another near miss. Just another brush with death in a fight where everything was death.

But now…

That had been a stray shot.

A miss.

A single, wasted attack. And it had nearly swallowed her whole.

She felt sick. He stopped, his breathing ragged.

Fasha finished for him.

"If they hadn't, there'd be no Saiyan Capital left."

Beets nodded shakily. "Yeah."

A heavy silence fell between them.

Fasha forced herself to breathe, to steady the hammering in her chest. She was a warrior, a fighter - fear was supposed to be an afterthought. But this wasn't fear.

This was something worse.

This was the realization that she had been standing in front of something beyond her comprehension.

And she had thought she could win.

Beets swallowed hard, his tail curling tight around his waist like he was trying to hold himself together. His voice was unsteady, a mixture of disbelief and growing dread.

"They're calling them heroes."

Fasha narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"The King. The Elites. All of them. The ones who died deflecting that attack." Beets' hands twitched, fingers clenching as if trying to grasp something solid in all of this madness. "They're saying they saved the Saiyan race. That without them, the capital would've been - " He exhaled sharply. "Gone. Just gone."

Fasha's throat tightened, but she stayed silent.

"While everyone's busy mourning, that kid, Turles - he's making his move."

"What?"

"He's annexing tribes. Fast." Beets' expression twisted. "They didn't even stand a chance."

Fasha's blood ran cold.

"He's not satisfied with just Kesha Tribe?"

"I mean he's taking them over," Beets said. "Tribe by tribe. Just - absorbing them. Anyone strong enough to fight back? Dead. Anyone useful? Recruited. He's moving fast. Too fast."

Fasha clenched her jaw. She knew how Saiyan tribes worked. Strength ruled. If you had the power to take what you wanted, you took it. But this - this was different.

Turles wasn't just conquering. He was consolidating.

And no one could rise against him.

Not after what had happened. Not after the strongest warriors - the King, the Elites - were gone.

Fasha exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from her muscles. This was bad. Really bad.

And worse than that…

She was starting to piece it together. Turles had come to the Kesha Tribe looking for their leader.

And so had that monster.

The small, thin girl. The one who had no right to be that strong.

Fasha had fought her, had seen the way she learned in real-time, the way she grew stronger with every second.

She had fought a child.

Beets stirred the fire, his expression unreadable. The orange glow cast flickering shadows across his face, barely fighting against the green light that bled in through the gaps in the hut's walls.

Fasha could still feel it, even without looking - the emerald sun. Its heat pressed against her skin, its presence a weight in the sky. Not a real star. Not natural.

A wound in the world.

Beets glanced at her. "So… you fought it."

Fasha snorted. "You say that like it was a fight."

Beets' fingers tightened around the stick he was using to poke the fire.

"You're serious."

"Dead serious."

He stared at her.

Fasha stretched her arms above her head, rolling her shoulders. She felt solid, her muscles still tight with lingering soreness, but functional. Every day she was getting stronger. Faster. Better.

But not enough.

"Let me get this straight," Beets said slowly. "You - Fasha - fought the thing that did this." He gestured vaguely to her still-healing body. "The same thing that took out the entire Royal Guard. That thing."

"Yep."

"And you lived."

Fasha smirked. "I'm sitting here, aren't I?"

Beets didn't return the expression. He just stared, his brows furrowing, lips pressing into a thin line.

"Beets."

He didn't respond.

"Beets," she said again, sharper.

He blinked, exhaling slowly.

"That's insane."

"Yeah."

She had looked into its black eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, she had thought it looked back.

Beets swallowed. "What was it?"

Fasha didn't answer immediately.

She thought of green fire, of a pressure so heavy it warped the air, of a soundless roar that shook the sky.

She thought of the moment she knew she would die.

"Strong. Too strong."

Beets frowned. "But you're still alive."

"Not for lack of trying."

Beets shook his head.

"No, I mean - you shouldn't be alive. If it's really that strong, then how did you - "

Fasha shrugged. "Dumb luck."

Beets didn't look convinced.

She couldn't blame him.

Neither was she.

She had survived, but she hadn't won. Not even close.

And the emerald sun still burned.

Beets was still staring at her, his expression unreadable.

"What now?"

Fasha exhaled slowly.

She wasn't sure.

But she had a feeling she would find out soon.

Beets shifted uncomfortably, his tail flicking behind him. He let the silence settle between them for a moment, the crackling fire the only thing filling the space. But Fasha could tell - he was waiting.

And then, like she knew he would, he asked,

"How did it happen?"

Fasha rolled her eyes.

"Why do you need to know? You wouldn't have lasted two seconds out there."

Beets didn't rise to the insult. "You're right," he admitted easily. "I'm weak." He gestured to himself. "Not a fighter. Not like you, not like them." He tilted his head toward the distant sky, where the emerald sun still pulsed like a raw wound. "But I know how to listen. And I know how to survive."

Fasha scoffed. "Oh yeah? By running?"

"By knowing where to run," Beets corrected, his tone unreadable. "By knowing where to look. Where to listen."

Fasha exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head.

"I can't tell you that."

Beets' face twisted in frustration, his tail lashing behind him.

"You keep dodging the question," he snapped. "Just tell me what happened."

Fasha crossed her arms, leveling him with a cold stare.

"You want the truth? Get stronger. Then maybe you'll be able to handle it."

Beets stiffened. His breath hitched, and for a moment, there was silence.

Then his hands clenched into fists. His whole body trembled - not with fear, but with anger.

"Stronger?" His voice cracked. "You think I give a damn about that? That monster killed my only family!"

Fasha frowned.

"My grandad - " Beets gritted his teeth. "He was in the Kesha Tribe when that monster attacked. He didn't fight. He wasn't a warrior. He was just an old man. But that didn't matter, did it?" His eyes burned as he glared at her. "Because that thing killed everyone. Everyone."

Fasha didn't flinch, but she didn't speak, either.

Beets' breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.

"And you're telling me I need to be stronger to understand?!" His voice cracked. "What the hell is there to understand?!"

Fasha exhaled through her nose, her expression unreadable.

"More than you think."

Beets' fists trembled at his sides. His mind was a whirlwind of grief, rage, and helplessness. He wanted to fight. He wanted to do something. But against that monster? Against her?

He had nothing.

Fasha snorted, crossing her arms. "Oh, cry me a river, Beets. What, you think screaming at me is gonna bring your grandpa back?"

Beets flinched. His tail bristled in fury, but Fasha didn't stop.

"You want me to tell you some tragic little story about how the monster just lost control? That it felt so bad about killing your granddad and everyone else?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "Hate to break it to you, but the monster doesn't care. Not about you. Not about your family. Hell, it barely even understood what it was doing at the time."

Beets' face twisted, but she kept going.

"And let's be real - you weren't gonna stop it. No one was. Not your grandpa, not the Kesha Tribe, not even King Vegeta and his elites." She leaned in slightly, her smirk razor-sharp. "Tell me, Beets, what exactly was your granddad gonna do? Lecture the monster to death? Maybe wave a stick at it?"

"Shut up."

"Why? Because I'm right?" Fasha tilted her head, her voice almost mocking. "Or because you finally realized that power is the only thing that matters? That all your grief, your anger, your little sob story - it's worthless if you don't have the strength to back it up?"

Beets' jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might snap. His fists trembled. His breathing was sharp and uneven.

But he didn't deny it.

Fasha let the silence hang for a moment before shrugging.

"Look, you can hate me all you want. But the truth doesn't change. If you want answers, if you want justice - " she leaned back, giving him a pointed look, " - then stop whining and get strong enough to take it."

Beets' nails dug into his palms, his shoulders shaking. His teeth were clenched so tightly it hurt. But his rage wasn't directed at her anymore.

And that was exactly what she wanted..

"That… that thing," he finally managed, voice hoarse. "It - it was just a Great Ape, right? Just a big, uncontrollable monster like any other?" He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "One that - just happened to wipe out a continent?"

Fasha didn't answer immediately. Instead, she rolled her shoulders, testing the ache in her body. It was healing, slowly but surely, but the memory of that battle lingered like a fresh wound.

Beets had no idea what he was talking about. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't felt it.

The weight of the monster's presence. The way it had moved - not like some mindless Oozaru, but with purpose. Calculating. Cold. Each step, each motion, as if the world itself had bent to accommodate it.

And its power - that was the worst part.

It hadn't burned hot like a warrior's fury, nor had it raged wildly like an Oozaru's berserk wrath. No, it had been something else entirely. Something unnatural.

And Beets, standing there, trying to fit it into his small, fragile understanding of the world, had no clue.

Fasha exhaled sharply through her nose.

"You think a normal Oozaru could do that? Turn everything into glass? Leave an emerald sun in the sky for weeks?" She shook her head. "No. That was something else."

Beets blinked, his brow furrowing. "Then… what was it?"

Fasha gave him a long, measuring look, then snorted.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Beets bristled, his tail flicking sharply behind him.

"Yeah, actually, I would." His voice rose slightly, frustration seeping into his tone. "Considering that thing killed my only family, I think I deserve to know!"

Fasha tilted her head, unbothered. "And what would you do with that knowledge, exactly?"

Beets' jaw clenched.

"I don't know - maybe actually understand what the hell happened? Maybe figure out why the strongest Saiyan warriors are dead? Maybe - just maybe - get some damn closure?"

Fasha's smirk was sharp and humorless.

"You think knowing makes a difference? You think understanding will make you stronger?"

Beets glared at her. "It's a start."

Fasha chuckled, low and dry. "No, it's a distraction. You want answers? Get stronger first. Earn them."

Beets bared his teeth, his frustration boiling over.

"That's easy for you to say! You're a fighter! You're strong! I - I was born weak! I scout, I gather, I listen - I don't fight monsters!"

Fasha leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto his.

"Then start."

Beets let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Yeah? And how the hell am I supposed to do that?"

Fasha's smirk didn't waver.

"By using what you already have."

Beets' expression darkened. "And what the hell does that mean?"

Fasha crossed her arms, tone flat.

"It means you're not as helpless as you think."

Beets stared at her, his breath uneven, his hands shaking. He wanted to argue. He wanted to throw her words back in her face.

But beneath his anger, beneath the frustration and grief, something else was stirring.

A quiet, simmering rage.

Not at Fasha. Not at himself.

At that thing.

At the fact that it existed.

Beets inhaled sharply through his nose, exhaling slow and controlled. His fists clenched at his sides.

"Fine," he muttered. "Tell me how to start."

Fasha grinned.

"Now you're talking."

Fasha kept her arms crossed, watching Beets with thinly veiled irritation. The idiot still looked like he was trying to process everything, his jaw clenched tight, his hands twitching at his sides. He had always been weak, but right now, he looked small.

"You still haven't answered my question," Beets said, his voice unusually sharp. "What the hell are we supposed to do about Turles?"

Fasha clicked her tongue. "First, we figure out what he's after."

Beets blinked. "You think he's just conquering tribes for fun?"

Fasha gave him a pointed look. "No one does anything just for fun. There's always a reason."

Beets still looked unconvinced. "You're saying Turles has some kind of master plan?"

"I'm saying he's moving fast," Fasha said, eyes narrowing. "Too fast. He dropped out of the sky, just like that, and now he's already taking over? It doesn't add up."

She turned slightly, glancing out the hut's entrance. The emerald sun was still there, still burning, its eerie green glow casting unnatural shadows over the land. It had been weeks, and still, it had not disappeared.

Beets followed her gaze, his expression tightening.

"You think he has something to do with that?"

Fasha's tail flicked.

"I think he showed up at the same time."

She kept her tone neutral, but in the back of her mind, the real thoughts churned. The monster. The destruction. The fight.

The girl. Fasha kept that part buried, locked behind steel-tight control. Beets didn't need to know. No one needed to know.

Beets shifted uncomfortably.

"You're making it sound like there's a connection."

Fasha gave a sharp, humorless laugh.

"I don't believe in coincidences, Beets."

He hesitated, then exhaled heavily. "Alright," he muttered. "Say you're right. Say Turles isn't just building an army for the hell of it. What do we do?"

Fasha finally turned back to him, her smirk sharp.

"We keep moving. We keep watching. And we figure out what he wants - before we end up on the wrong side of it."

Beets didn't look happy, but he nodded.

Good.

Because Fasha still didn't know what the hell she had fought that day. She didn't know why it had happened.

But she had the sinking feeling that this was just the beginning.

Deadzone, Former Kesha Tribe Outskirts

It wasn't a transformation.

It was a collapse. A reversal. A forced correction of something that should never have existed.

Above, the emerald sun convulsed, writhing between brilliance and decay. Light shattered in jagged bursts - erratic, violent, like a failing heart ripping itself apart in its final, desperate beats.

Inside, the energy churned, unstable, wrong. Oozaru had been a brute-force mutation - not an evolution, but a mistake. A grotesque accumulation of mass and instinct, an inefficient monstrosity built only to destroy. Too much, too large, too slow. A form that could not sustain itself, consuming more energy than it produced, a fire raging against its own fuel.

It had to be fixed.

The change came violently.

The emerald sun fractured, not in explosion but inward collapse. Light folded into itself, imploding in a blinding white flash. It wasn't just energy being reabsorbed - it was being rewritten.

Not expansion, but optimization.

Not mutation, but perfection.

Reconfiguration

Her bones shrank, cracked, shattered - not from damage, but from forced realignment. A brutal, agonizing restructuring. Joints snapped into new positions, spinal curvature twisted, correcting centuries of Saiyan biological inefficiency. Calcium compressed with molecular reinforcement, condensing into something denser, unbreakable.

Her scream never left her throat.

Her body tore itself apart and remade itself in the same breath.

Muscles unwound, liquefied, rebuilt - the thick, crude slabs of brute strength torn down to their base fibers. They stretched, condensed, rewiring their architecture to favor maximum contraction speed and kinetic efficiency. No wasted motion. No excess strain. Every fiber realigned for pure, lethal function.

She could feel it - the raw, blinding agony of a body being broken and reshaped at the atomic level.

Her heart collapsed inward, shrinking like a dying star, its chambers reinforcing, ventricular walls thickening. Each beat now controlled, measured - no wasted exertion, no inefficiencies. Her lungs tightened, expanded, alveoli restructuring to extract the absolute maximum oxygen per breath. The need to consume massive amounts of food, the metabolic dependency that had enslaved Saiyans to constant resource intake - erased.

She did not consume.

She endured.

Nerves burned, every connection ripped apart and rewired. The sluggish, instinct-driven impulses of Oozaru snapped into accelerated precision. Synaptic relays compressed, reaction speeds multiplying - no delay, no hesitation. Sensory input flooded her mind, drowning her in raw data - air pressure shifts, electromagnetic fluctuations, the micro-movements of every particle around her.

She could feel everything.

Her tail - the primitive Saiyan appendage, once a liability, once a weak point - twitched. Then twisted.

Nerve endings surged through it, more than before, sharper than before. The crude, unrefined limb of a Saiyan's past evolved into something else entirely. A fifth limb, not just for balance, not just for transformation - but a weapon. The musculature tightened, hardened, micro-movements aligning it to precise, whip-like control. No longer sensitive, no longer an exploitable weakness.

A blade. A spear. A perfect extension of her will.

Pain receded. And she was whole.

Superior in form

The cocoon imploded.

Light collapsed, folding inward until only one figure remained.

A woman.

No longer a child. No longer unfinished.

She had grown, but without excess. Every proportion - hip-to-waist ratio, limb length, muscle distribution - aligned perfectly to the Golden Ratio. Not in the way nature might occasionally create beauty, but in a way that defied nature entirely.

Her skin, pale, impossibly smooth, untouched by scars, free of genetic noise. Not fragile. Not soft. Just… flawless.

Her face - disturbing in its symmetry. No imperfections, no irregularities. Saiyan features, but refined beyond recognition. Bilateral perfection so exact that the human brain, wired to see beauty in slight asymmetry, would struggle to process it.

Her hair, untouched by chaos. Black, uniform, strands aligning in flawless cohesion. It did not tangle. It did not shift. It obeyed.

Her tail uncoiled, smooth and deathly controlled, swaying with intent, not instinct.

She lifted her head.

Her eyes -

Black as the void.

No light reflected. No color. No flicker of expression.

Only absolute, unyielding clarity.

She inhaled.

And the air shuddered.

Power reference:

Fasha: 5000 (Zenkai Boost)
Beets: 600
The Woman: 160 000

dxdragon · Mar 2, 2025

Wait, Fasha went through all that growth fighting with Gine where both of them were growing every second, and then gained a Zenkai Boost from surviving against a raging Oozaru-cousin, and only made it to 5000 PL?
She got robbed, hard!

I'd expect at least 10-20,000 PL after she recovered.

Also, looks like Gine hit her growth spurt! And got one of those Cultivation breakthroughs that make you 10x more attractive lol. Can we have a Pic for her?

160,000? Yeah, she's the strongest being on the planet by a large mile.
Only when Captain Ginyu or Frieza show up will she have any problem. And Ginyu is only because of the Body Swap risk.

Looks like Turles and the rest of the Saiyans will have to bend the knee to their new Queen.
At least till Fasha or Beets become a Super Saiyan or something.

Imagine if Beets found 5 Pure-Hearted Villagers who are weak like he is and they accidently rediscover the Super Saiyan God ritual to defeat the "Evil Saiyan Gine" lol
From the weakest in the story to the "Savior" of the people

Or Turles can find a Tree of Might Fruit, which 1 bite made him go from 19,000 to 300,000.

Well, looking forward to seeing what happens next! Wonder what Gine is gonna do, and if she's in complete control again.

Thanks for the chapter!

Femto · Mar 2, 2025

dxdragon said:
She got robbed, hard!

Tbh. That kind of growth is already impressive - considering saiyans usually experience that. Goku and Vegeta are just freak during Namek Saga to catch up to Frieza. Also the Oozaru did not intentionally killed her - just releasing energy blasts randomly.

Femto · Mar 2, 2025

Minus

Weird.

A dull wind rolled past, dry and restless, carrying with it the scent of burnt ozone and scorched earth. It whispered against my skin, pressing lightly against muscle and bone, tracing the contours of a body that had been unmade and rebuilt.

I hovered in the open sky, staring down at five hundred kilometers of ruin.

The land slept below in a state of quiet desolation - cracked earth, deep fissures running like veins, stone formations shattered as if crushed beneath a titanic weight. Not even embers remained. It was not just destruction. It was absence. An expanse where life had been erased.

The air curled against me, cold and sharp, bringing with it a new sensation - one I shouldn't have ignored for this long.

Bare skin.

I blinked, the realization settling slowly, crawling into my awareness like an afterthought. The wind wasn't brushing against fabric or armor. It touched me. Unhindered. A cold contrast against the warmth of my body.

I was naked.

I exhaled, chest rising, muscles tensing. And that was when I felt it.

A shift. A weight. My breasts moved.

Not exaggerated, not unnatural, but undeniable. A slight, subtle pull as I adjusted my posture, as the air curled against my front. A faint sway when I shifted my shoulders. Even the mere act of breathing - in, out, slow and even - caused a barely perceptible movement.

I glanced down.

Lean, toned muscle defined my form, shaped with a precision I hadn't earned. My shoulders - broader now, yet proportionate. My waist - trim, but not fragile. My legs - longer, coiled with tension, built for explosive speed. I could feel it, the power in them, ready to be unleashed at the slightest thought.

But it was the curves that threw me off the most.

My hips flared slightly wider than before, a natural taper that followed the lean musculature of my torso. My stomach - flat, smooth, yet the faint outline of functionality remained. And my chest…

I shifted again. The movement confirmed everything. The weight. The bounce.

My lips pressed into a thin line. I had been a man once. A long time ago. In another life.

And yet, here I was - stripped bare in every sense of the word.

A gust of wind swept past, curling around me, forcing another faint sway I couldn't suppress. A reminder. A quiet, mocking testament to the biological restructuring my mutation had deemed necessary.

I inhaled again, steady. Fact over feeling.

The Oozaru transformation had triggered something - an attempt to control the uncontrollable. To take raw, unshaped destruction and mold it into something usable. Something functional.

And it had failed.

A flick of my wrist. My fingers curled, the movement smooth, effortless. My flight adjusted with the shift, my body already compensating for air resistance, for altitude, for efficiency. I barely had to think about it. My mutation had taken care of that too.

Higher. Safer. Unseen. Below, the wasteland stretched endlessly. five hundred kilometers of silence.

A jagged break in the wasteland.

I adjusted my flight, dipping lower, letting gravity do half the work while my ki subtly counterbalanced the descent. Wind curled around me, brushing against bare skin, cold but inconsequential. I ignored it. My body - denser, refined, structurally altered down to the cellular level - was built for endurance, efficiency, survival.

The ruins of the Kesha Tribe came into full view.

Not gone. Not entirely. The settlement still stood in fractured pieces, stubborn against destruction.

The first time I had scouted this place, it had been a warrior's outpost, alive with movement and sound. Roughly built but reinforced - stone structures fused with salvaged huts, training fields filled with sparring Saiyans, the air thick with sweat and the scent of roasting meat. There had been order here, the kind that came from unspoken hierarchy and strength.

Now?

I hovered above the wreckage, silent, observing. The outermost structures had taken the worst of it - walls blown apart, rooftops caved in, support beams snapped like brittle bone. Debris littered the streets, the once-packed dirt roads buried under layers of ash, soot, and pulverized stone.

But it wasn't just destruction. It was absence.

No movement. No heat signatures. No energy fluctuations beyond the residual radiation of past blasts.

I narrowed my gaze, activating my adapted vision. Light refraction adjustments. Ki signature breakdown. Spectrum expansion.

Immediately, my perception shifted. The visible world bled away, replaced by layers of data. Infrared mapped out the thermal remains - nothing organic. No lingering body heat. Ultrasonic echolocation pulsed outward, returning only the hollow echoes of collapsed structures. Ki sense extended beyond that, reaching deep, scanning for even the faintest residual fluctuations.

Nothing.

Not a single bioelectric trace.

The realization settled in. There were no survivors. Not hiding, not waiting - just gone.

I exhaled slowly, my breath controlled. My chest expanded, the weight shift still a reminder of the body I hadn't chosen but had been forced to adapt to. I let my ki stabilize, maintaining altitude without effort, scanning deeper.

At a microscopic level, the damage was total. Cellular degradation from high-energy exposure. Carbonized structures where organic matter had once been. The molecular breakdown of stone, wood, and flesh all pointed to the same conclusion - there hadn't even been time for bodies to rot.

Erased.

I drifted lower, arms loose at my sides, eyes tracking every detail. Some structures remained standing, but not untouched. The surviving homes were stripped bare, not by the blast, but after. Scavengers, maybe. But not survivors.

No footprints. No scent trails.

This place had already been picked clean.

A low hum vibrated in my throat - not quite a sigh, not quite a growl. Just acknowledgment. This was the cost of what I had become.

Wind curled around me again, pressing against bare skin, against the newly structured muscle, the altered density, the refined proportions that I hadn't fully reconciled with yet. The logic-driven part of my mind took it in without issue. A more efficient form. Stronger. Faster. Adapted for survival.

Oh. There was one.

A single, faint signature, weak, it barely stood out against the lingering heat and static of destruction. If I hadn't widened my search - tracing electromagnetic shifts, mapping residual ki disturbances - I wouldn't have caught it.

Distant. Past the ruins. Southwest. Near the treeline.

I adjusted instantly, tilting my descent, tucking my energy in tight. Minimal output. Minimal movement. No unnecessary bursts, no wasted effort. Just a smooth, silent approach.

And then the wind hit - cold air sliding over bare skin, brushing against every unshielded inch of me.

I clicked my tongue. Right. That was still a problem.

It wasn't just the exposure. That was bad enough. But it was also just - weird.

I altered course slightly, heading toward the remains of the forest.

Twenty seconds to touchdown.

The landscape blurred beneath me, shattered stone and burnt earth giving way to trees - scarred, but still standing. The forest had been hit hard, bark stripped, branches twisted, but it hadn't been completely wiped out. And nestled among the wreckage, between two leaning support beams, was a hut.

I landed lightly, weight sinking into dirt and ash. My body handled the shift in balance automatically - muscles compensating, joints adjusting. A side effect of the rebuild. Denser frame, optimized structure, but all of it wrapped in something that still felt… humans.

I stepped inside.

The air was stale, thick with old sweat and the faint tang of dried meat. Recently abandoned. Days, at most.

I swept my gaze across the interior.

Find something to wear. Fast.

A pelt, a hide - hell, even a ragged cloak. Just something to cover up.

I searched with the same sharp focus I used in combat, breaking down my surroundings into material types, scanning for anything with enough tensile strength to hold together.

Nothing. I pushed deeper into the hut, scanning discarded fabric, stripped bedding, torn cloth. Frayed at the edges, worn thin, but usable.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. Not ideal, but it'd do.

I knotted the makeshift wrap into place, the fabric pressing against muscle, shifting over skin. The fit was uneven, and my center of mass was still off. Slight, but noticeable.

The chest weight was still something I wasn't used to.

I ignored it. Logged the adjustment. Moved on. Stepping back outside, I glanced toward the lone ki signature in the distance.

The skeletons of buildings stood in defiance of the destruction, blackened and crumbling, but still there. The air carried the stale scent of burnt wood, lingering smoke, and something older - something final.

And amidst it all, a lone figure.

He stood with his back to me, shoulders stiff, tail wrapped tight around his waist. He wasn't looking at a house. There was no house left - just rubble, uneven piles of stone and wood, twisted beams jutting from the ground like broken bones.

I landed lightly behind him, feet pressing into the ash-covered dirt. My presence barely made a sound, but his tail flicked - his body tensed.

"What happened here?"

His breath hitched. Then, in a single instant, his expression twisted.

Anger. Not the distant, simmering kind - the immediate, visceral kind. The kind that surged hot and raw, that demanded an outlet.

His fists clenched, shoulders snapping taut as his tail bristled behind him.

"What do you mean, 'blasts'?" I had barely finished the question before he moved.

His step forward wasn't an attack, but it carried the weight of one - sharp, deliberate. "You're serious." His voice had dropped, rough and edged with disbelief. "You don't know?"

I didn't react. Not physically. But I held his gaze, steady.

That only made it worse.

Beets exhaled sharply through his nose, hands trembling from the sheer force of his grip.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped. "How could you not - ?"

He cut himself off, jaw tightening. His tail lashed once before curling close, a motion more protective than aggressive. His breathing was uneven now, muscles locked like he was barely keeping himself still.

I weighed my options.

Letting him spiral further would waste time. A direct denial would only escalate things. I needed an out.

So I gave him one.

"I'm a traveler," I said smoothly. "I wasn't here when it happened."

The tension in his posture didn't ease. Not yet. But it gave him something to process - something to redirect his focus.

"A traveler."

"Yes."

His tail uncoiled slightly, but the disbelief remained. His hands loosened, but his jaw stayed locked. Processing. Re-evaluating.

For a moment, I thought he might let it go.

Then his nostrils flared, and the fury came back in full force.

"You mean to tell me," he said, voice rising, "that you flew into this wasteland, saw all of this - " he gestured wildly at the ruins, the rubble, the graves " - and somehow, somehow, it never occurred to you what happened!?"

His energy flared - not enough to be a threat, but enough that the air shifted, the dirt at his feet scattering from the force of it. His tail flicked, a sharp, frustrated motion.

I adjusted my stance, not in defense, but in acknowledgment.

He wanted a reaction. A confirmation. Something.

But I wasn't here to give him what he wanted.

"I wanted to hear it from you."

His breath caught, just slightly.

His anger didn't vanish. But it hesitated. Not gone. Just… faltering.

The silence stretched again, taut with lingering tension.

Then, after a long, shuddering inhale, he exhaled through his nose and turned away.

"The sky opened up," he muttered, voice quieter now. "Blasts rained down. No warning. No pattern. Just - " His throat bobbed. "Just everything."

His tail flicked again, this time slower. "They ran," he continued. "Most of them. As soon as the first blasts hit, they ran for the forests." His voice wavered. "Some made it."

His posture stiffened. His breath hitched.

"But not all."

His silence was an answer in itself.

"My grandfather didn't make it."

His fists remained clenched, nails digging into his palms, but the heat in his glare had cooled into something heavier. Not rage - grief. A grief too vast to burn itself out in a single outburst.

"He was just an old man."

His voice was low, rough, like it had been scraped raw from screaming.

"He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't a threat. He never hurt anyone in his whole damn life." His teeth clenched so hard I thought they might break. "He was just… him."

The silence stretched. A cold wind stirred the embers at his feet, lifting what little remained of the life that used to be here.

"I told him to run," he said, his voice distant. "When the sky turned green. When the ground split open. When people started dying. I told him to go."

His breath hitched. A moment of weakness, swallowed down.

"But he wouldn't listen. He just—" His lips pressed together, tight, bloodless. "He just smiled at me. Like he always did. Like none of it scared him."

His fingers twitched. His hand lifted, just slightly, before he let it fall.

"He put his hand on my head." A sharp inhale. "Ruffled my hair. Said I was getting too tall. That soon, he wouldn't be able to do that anymore."

Something cracked in his voice, just for a second. Then it was gone.

"And then the sky lit up." His hands clenched into fists again. "Green. Blinding."

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"The blasts came down like rain. It wasn't just one." His voice had gone flat now, steady, like he was just reciting facts. "It was a storm. People ran. People burned. But he—"

A pause. His throat worked around the words he didn't want to say.

"He saw a kid. Some brat who wasn't moving. Just standing there, frozen. Too scared. Too stupid. Just…" His breath hitched.

"He didn't even hesitate."

His fists tightened. His arms trembled.

"He grabbed them. Threw them clear. And then—"

Then, softer:

"Then the blast came down."

He exhaled.

"I saw it happen. I felt it happen." His voice turned to gravel. "I smelled it."

For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes locked onto something distant—something I couldn't see, but knew was there.

His voice was quieter now. Steadier.

"I don't care how strong it is." A slow inhale. A slow exhale. "I don't care how long it takes."

His fingers curled, nails biting deep into his palms.

"I will find it. And I will make it suffer."

The wind howled through the ruins, lifting the ashes into the sky.

His tail had coiled around his waist in a death grip, tension wound so tight it was a wonder the muscle didn't snap. His shoulders were squared, his stance locked - like holding himself together physically was the only thing stopping him from falling apart entirely.

His breath left him in a slow, unsteady drag, like his lungs weren't cooperating.

Because I was already putting the pieces together.

The trajectory. The energy signature. The scope of destruction.

A blast. Not an aimed strike. Not a targeted attack. Just raw, unrestrained power - tearing across the sky without purpose.

Oozaru.

Emerald energy..

Something cold twisted in my gut.

The Saiyan kept talking, voice detached, like he wasn't even directing the words at me anymore - just forcing them into existence.

"It wasn't even meant for him," he whispered. "Just some random blast. It came down out of nowhere. Cut straight through the canopy."

A shudder ran through his frame, but he bit it back. Forced himself to stand straighter, like denying the weakness would erase it.

"He never even saw it coming."

Just power.

Unchecked. Unrelenting.

And entirely mine.

I swallowed the taste of iron at the back of my throat.

The Saiyan dragged in a slow breath, his voice rough around the edges.

"And it wasn't just us," he muttered. "Not just this tribe. Everyone scattered. There's Saiyans from all over trying to find shelter." He exhaled sharply. "Their home," His jaw clenched. "Gone."

I blinked. "Gone?"

A bitter laugh. "You really don't know anything, do you?"

I didn't answer.

He let out a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself back under control. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but the weight of it hit even harder.

"King Vegeta. The war council. His fingers curled tighter. "They're dead. All of them."

Gone.

The word lodged itself in my chest, pressing against my ribs with something suffocating.

The empire. The war machine. The foundation of Saiyan rule. Erased.

And I was standing in the wreckage of everything left behind.

His expression twisted - teeth bared, eyes burning with something raw and volatile. Anger. Grief. Something tangled between the two.

"You don't know? You really don't know?" His voice cracked, and he took a step closer, tail lashing like a whip.

I didn't move. Didn't react. Let him process it however he needed to.

He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "The King - our King - sacrificed himself." The words hit the air like a battle cry, but there was something in them that wavered, like he still couldn't believe it himself.

I didn't speak.

He did.

"There was - " His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. "There was this blast. A - thing. No warning, no time to react. It came down from the sky like it was tearing the whole planet in half."

His breath came uneven now, his shoulders rising and falling with every word.

"The King didn't run. He didn't flinch. He stood there and took it head-on." He swallowed, jaw tight. "He held it. Pushed back against it. And for a second, we thought - "

His voice broke. Just for a second.

A deep inhale. A shuddering exhale. He shook his head, like he could force the emotion back down.

"But it was too much."

A pause. A sharp, bitter laugh - one with no humor.

"He burned. Right there. In front of us. The last thing we saw was him - standing, fighting, refusing to fall. And then - " He snapped his fingers. The sound cracked through the empty ruins like a gunshot.

Silence.

Gone.

He looked away, blinking fast, jaw locked so tight it might've cracked. His voice was lower now, rough. "He was our strongest. Our best. And it still wasn't enough."

I said nothing.

Because there was nothing to say.

The wind screamed past me, ripping against the makeshift fabric I had wrapped around myself. My flight pattern was streamlined - minimal drag, optimized acceleration, every muscle aligned for maximum output.

I pushed faster.

Faster.

The ground blurred beneath me, settlements streaking past like ghosts. My eyes processed the details in fractions of a second - some still intact, others reduced to skeletal remains. The ones that survived bore scars - cratered earth, collapsed structures, lingering traces of residual energy seared into the soil.

I adjusted altitude, climbed higher. The speed I was moving at had long since surpassed anything a jet could achieve. The air around me thinned, pressure dropping as I neared the upper atmosphere. My lungs adapted, oxygen uptake efficiency recalibrating in real time.

I expanded my ki sense.

Not just instinctual feeling - calculated detection. Ki left imprints on reality. A living signature in the fabric of the world. The stronger the destruction, the deeper the scar it left in the energy field of the planet itself.

I enhanced my perception further - stripping away surface noise, filtering residual power fluctuations from the planet's electromagnetic field. Scanning for anomalies, tracing the gravitational inconsistencies caused by mass displacement.

A dead zone in the ki field, not like the aftermath of a battle, but something worse. Something final.

I stopped, hovering at the very edge of the stratosphere.

From here, I could see the curvature of the planet. The vast stretches of land, oceans, the massive storm systems crawling across the surface.

The scar.

A molten ruin, yawning open like a wound in the planet's crust. It stretched beyond the horizon, a vast crater where land should have been. As if a continent had been carved out and reduced to slag. The rock was liquefied, glowing with the heat of something so powerful that even now, the atmosphere above it churned with rising ash.

I knew what this was.

What it meant.

The scale. The depth. The force required to do this wasn't just planetary - it was tectonic. Annihilation at a level that left a permanent mark in the planetary structure itself. The landmass hadn't just been destroyed. It had sunk.

I knew.

Even before the thought formed, before my mind connected the pieces, my body reacted first.

A roar tore out of me, raw and unrestrained.

Anger.

It shouldn't have been possible. My form - my state - was logic-driven, optimized for calculation and control. Emotion was inefficient.

The sound ripped through the atmosphere, shaking the very air around me. My ki surged, flickering violently, an unstable pulse of power that cracked like thunder against the sky.

Because I knew.

I knew exactly what had done this.

Or rather -

Who.

Regret seeped into me like poison.

I hovered above the devastation, staring at the molten wasteland below. The heat rising from it distorted the air, turning the horizon into a shimmering blur of ruin. The sheer scale of it was unfathomable. Not just destruction - erasure.

This place - this land - should have been Neo Plantis.

The thought struck like a fist to the gut.

I had never been here before, had only ever heard its name spat out with derision from the Saiyans around me. Tuffle scum. Weaklings playing empire. Their mockery had followed me since childhood, words thrown around like an afterthought. But now - now I saw what it had been.

A base. A city. A home.

For someone. For thousands.

For people with families, with lovers, with friends.

And now?

Gone.

No structures left to mark where they had lived. No streets, no ruins, nothing but molten rock and smoldering debris. The land had collapsed inward, as if the planet itself had given up holding onto their existence.

And for what?

Because they were enemies? Because their bloodlines were wrong? Because history had decided they should be wiped away?

I clenched my fists, the motion slow, deliberate. My fingers dug into my palms, blunt nails biting into skin.

Someone had a daughter here.

The thought hit harder than I expected.

Somewhere in that lost city, there had been a girl - small, bright-eyed, laughing at something stupid. Maybe tripping over her own feet, maybe climbing onto her father's shoulders, maybe tugging at his wrist while begging for another sweet from a market stall that no longer existed.

Someone's daughter.

A daughter like mine.

The image of her face - soft, round, smiling up at me - flashed through my mind, unbidden.

My throat tightened.

I could still remember the weight of her small hands when she grabbed onto mine, the way she used to press against my side when she was scared, her voice calling out -

I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing the thought down.

But it didn't leave.

It just sat there, heavy in my chest.

A father had lost his daughter here.

A daughter had lost her father.

Maybe she was still alive, wandering through the wreckage of what was once her home, waiting for someone to come back.

And no one ever would.

Because of me.

I stared down at the chasm, at the scars I had burned into the world without even knowing. The weight of it pressed against my shoulders, not just guilt, but responsibility.

Because what was this, if not proof of what I had become?

The heat of the ruined continent rose in waves, thick with the stench of scorched earth and molten stone. Ash coiled through the air like the remnants of something that had once mattered - a people, a history, now reduced to sediment and memory.

I stared down at it, the weight of it pressing against my ribs, my breath coming slow, measured, though every instinct in me screamed otherwise.

This was wrong.

Not just in the way destruction was wrong - not in the way the weak crumpled before the strong, the way war swallowed the helpless. Those were simple things. Expected things. The natural order, as my kind saw it.

But this - this was pointless.

I had thought I understood the shape of this world. Yet, here it was - proof of my failure, stretching out in smoldering ruin beneath my feet.

What went wrong?

The plan had been simple. Conquer the continent. Secure resources. Take what was needed to leave this planet behind, to reach Earth - to reach the Dragon Balls. There had been no need for excess bloodshed. I had tried to subdue Fasha, tried to stop the pointless fighting. I didn't care for this endless cycle of violence. I wanted control, efficiency - a way to carve a path forward without the waste, without the slaughter.

And yet, it had spiraled into something else.

Something I had no control over.

I clenched my jaw. Memory flickered, intrusive and cold, winding back to my earliest years in this world.

A childhood of violence.

A society built on nothing but hunger - for battle, for power, for the validation that came from standing above another's broken body. Saiyan history wasn't just soaked in blood - it was designed for it. Our genetics ensured it. Our hierarchy reinforced it. We didn't just live by war; we had made ourselves into creatures that could survive no other way.

And I was no exception.

When instinct took over, when survival demanded it, I had given in. Let the logical state refine and sharpen my power, let my mutation push me further, let it take everything.

A slow breath passed through my lips, but it felt hollow. My fingers curled, nails pressing against my palm, but no amount of pressure could silence the weight in my chest.

If this was what Saiyans were meant to be - if this cycle of war, of slaughter, of waste was the only path forward - then this world was already lost.

I refused to accept that. I refused to let this be all there was.

Something in me shifted, deep and raw, burning hotter than even the molten ruin below.

If this world was broken - if everything about it led to this inevitability - then I would not leave it as it was.

I would tear apart the foundation of this violence. Rip it out from its very roots.

Because for the first time, I didn't just want to escape.

Saiyans and Tuffles.

I wanted to change it. I will rebuild it.

PL Reference.

The woman: 8 000 0000 (Super Saiyan)

Kidding. No transformation yet. Just posted this chapter because Ive got extra energy left.

dxdragon · Mar 2, 2025

Damn, I saw the PL at the bottom and immediately reread the chapter, not realizing it was a joke lol.
Shame, her realizing she just caused all that death and likely killed many daughters just like their own is perfect fuel for a rage transformation into SSJ1 like Goku did.

Thanks for the chapter!

Femto · Mar 3, 2025

Minus

Clan Chief Vortan

The Royal Tent was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of an oil lamp at the center of the table. The canvas walls shifted with the wind, casting restless shadows that stretched and recoiled with every gust. The air carried the scent of sweat, leather, and something acrid - burnt metal, maybe, or the lingering stench of ki-scorched earth.

Vortan sat stiffly, arms crossed, tail wrapped tight around his waist - a habit, not a comfort. Across the table, Harza leaned forward, fingers drumming against the map. His face was drawn, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion settling deep in his features.

The figure sat there, elbow propped against the armrest, posture loose, almost careless. They did not speak. They had not spoken once since the meeting began. Just sat there, listening, watching, eating.

No one had questioned his presence. Not when he entered the tent, not when they took the seat meant for a warlord. No introductions, no explanations. They had simply arrived, and the room had adjusted around them.

Another bite.

The silence stretched. Harza shifted uncomfortably, but he didn't move to question the gesture. No one did. The weight of it. The decision that had already been made, settled over the room like a thick, inescapable fog.

Vortan's gaze to the hand still resting against the map. Small, almost delicate in comparison to the warriors around him. But that was an illusion. There was no mistaking the weight behind it, the absolute confidence in the gesture.

The armor was the first thing that had struck him as wrong.

It wasn't Saiyan-made. Not the battle-worn plating the Elites used, nor the scrap-forged sets of the lower tribes. Sleek, segmented plating, lined with interwoven bands of some unknown metal - one that caught the dim lamplight in unnatural ways, shimmering faintly with each subtle movement.

His eyes finally settled on the face of the figure in the throne.

A child.

A boy, no older than fifteen.

Turles.

Vortan exhaled slowly, pressing his palm against the table to steady himself.

A week ago, he would have laughed if someone had told him this brat - this runt barely past his first blood battle - had laid waste to sixteen tribes. Not just any tribes. Among them were the Four Supersized Tribes - Vorkan, Harza, and two others, each powerful enough to rule entire sectors on their own.

Turles had taken them one by one. Not by deception. Not by numbers. He had killed them in single combat.

With sheer brutality.

Vortan had heard the rumors, of course. Whispers of mass graves, entire strongholds turned into slaughterhouses, bodies barely recognizable from the carnage. He had dismissed them at first. Saiyans exaggerated. It was in their nature.

But now, looking at the boy sitting before him, at the way he ate his apple with quiet disinterest, at the way no one in the tent dared to breathe too loudly in his presence -

The rumors had not done him justice. Harza cleared his throat, the sound abrupt in the stillness.

Turles leaned back into the throne, arms draped over the sides as if he had always belonged there. His black eyes swept over the tent, a slow, measuring gaze that settled on each warrior before moving on - not as an equal, but as something greater.

Vortan had seen that look before. On warlords, on Elites, on conquerors who had crushed their enemies beneath their heels. But never on a child.

Turles exhaled, stretching as if the conversation bored him.

"I'll make this simple," he said, voice laced with something that wasn't quite amusement.

Something closer to contempt.

"I've already proven myself. You all know it. You've seen what I've done." He gestured absently, as if the destruction of sixteen tribes was just another chore. "So let's not waste time pretending there's still a fight left to be had."

Vortan's fingers curled against the table.

Harza stiffened but said nothing.

"The war is over," Turles continued, tone casual. "I won."

No reaction.

No protests.

None of them could refute it.

He let the silence settle, let it fester, before speaking again.

"That means we're doing things my way now. No more pointless squabbling. No more territory disputes. I unite this place."

His lip curled.

"No. That's over. I am setting the hierarchy now."

His gaze flicked between them.

"The four warlords still standing - Vorkan, Harza, Kazrak, and Deyn. You lot were the strongest. Until I killed you."

Harza inhaled sharply through his nose. Vorkan's fists clenched.

Kazrak and Deyn weren't here, but it didn't matter. They had lost, just the same.

Turles smirked, slow and sharp.

"But I'm feeling generous," he continued. "You get to live. Not because you deserve it, but because I need warriors, not corpses."

His fingers tapped against the armrest.

"From this point forward, the tribes are gone. No more warbands, no more petty alliances. One army. One force. One ruler."

His smirk widened, baring sharp canines.

"And that ruler is me."

The silence in the war tent had a weight to it. Thick. Suffocating.

Vorkan sat rigid, his fists pressed against the table. Across from him, Harza shifted but said nothing, his jaw tight. Kazrak, on the other hand, barely concealed his anger, his lips peeling back over sharp teeth.

It was wrong.

All of it.

They had fought. They had bled. They had survived the Tuffle Skirmishes, the day the sky itself had turned against them. And through it all, they followed King Vegeta.

A King. Their King.

Not some runt who hadn't even sprouted his fangs yet.

Vorkan had known King Vegeta for decades. He had fought at his side, seen firsthand the power that man commanded. He would have never allowed this. If he were here, if he had survived the blast that had taken the capital, he would have crushed this upstart beneath his heel.

Turles was lesser. They all knew it. But no one spoke.

No one, except Kazrak.

The bastard snorted, arms crossed, tail flicking behind him in irritation. "This is a joke," he said, voice low but carrying through the tent. He leaned forward, looking Turles dead in the eye. "You think just because you tore through a few scattered warbands, that makes you King?"

Turles didn't react immediately. He merely stared, still slouched against the throne, one finger lazily tapping against the armrest.

Kazrak scoffed. "You're not King Vegeta. You're not even half the warrior he was. He'd have killed you before you even had a chance to open your mouth."

Still, no response.

Kazrak's lip curled, his fangs bared.

"You expect us to bow to you? To a child?" He stood abruptly, slamming his hands against the table, rattling the entire setup. "I'd sooner gut myself."

A low scoff. The scrape of a chair against packed dirt.

Kazrak stood, arms folded, shoulders squared. His nostrils flared.

"This is a joke."

Turles didn't react. Didn't even acknowledge him.

Kazrak took a step forward.

"You think wiping out a few scattered tribes makes you King?" His voice was steady, but his tail lashed behind him in quick, sharp flicks. "You think that just because the capital's power is gone, we'll bow to the first brat that walks in and sits on a throne?"

Still nothing.

Turles lounged, one boot hooked over the armrest, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the wood.

Kazrak's teeth bared.

"You're not King Vegeta." His voice dipped lower, carrying the weight of certainty. "You're not even half the warrior he was."

That got a reaction. Not from Turles. From the room.

Harza exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes darting toward the floor. Vorkan's grip tightened. The air had shifted.

Kazrak didn't notice.

He took another step, leaning in, sneering down at the boy who hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, hadn't even blinked.

"You expect us to follow you? You?" A sharp laugh, humorless. "I'd sooner - "

He never finished the sentence.

The motion was too fast to track. One moment, Turles was seated - relaxed, almost bored. The next, he was in front of Kazrak, fist buried deep into his jaw.

The sound was obscene. A wet, tearing snap.

Kazrak's head twisted past its limit - far past its limit. His body convulsed, feet skidding against the dirt as his spine rotated in ways it was never meant to.

A full turn.

A second.

Then he dropped.

A heavy, twitching heap of dead flesh and cooling blood.

The only sound left was the soft patter of droplets hitting the floor.

Turles exhaled, shaking out his hand. Blood splattered against the ground in lazy arcs. He flexed his fingers once, then lowered himself back into the throne as if nothing had happened.

But he wasn't.Vorkan's breath was steady, but his pulse pounded at his temples. King Vegeta would have never let this happen. If he were here, this runt wouldn't have even made it through the war tent flaps.

And this was the reality now.

Across the table, Harza sat frozen, his throat bobbing with a slow, careful swallow.

Turles leaned forward. His eyes, dark and depthless, swept over them. His lip curled - not quite a smirk, not quite a snarl.

Then, voice smooth, almost conversational -

"Anyone else?"

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The only sound in the war tent was the slow, deliberate tap of Turles' fingers against the throne's armrest. The wet scent of blood clung to the air, mingling with the burning oil of the lamps.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Vorkan felt it. That primal, gut-wrenching dread curling in his stomach, a sensation he hadn't felt since the Emerald Catastrophe - when the sky itself had burned and the strongest among them were reduced to ash in an instant.

His hands were steady, his face blank, but inside, something clawed at his ribs, screaming for him to act - to do something.

But he didn't. Because Turles was still watching. Still waiting. Still amused.

The boy - no, not a boy, not anymore - tilted his head, his eyes glinting under the dim light.

"No one?"

Harza inhaled sharply through his nose. His shoulders were squared, but his tail was stiff behind him, betraying him.

Vorkan forced himself to meet Turles' gaze. The brat wasn't suppressing his power - he had no need to. They all knew what he could do.

Kazrak's corpse was still twitching on the ground, his face frozen in something that wasn't quite pain, wasn't quite shock. Just wrong.

Turles shifted in his seat. His boot dragged across the dirt floor, idly kicking up dust.

"Strange," he murmured. "I thought Saiyans were supposed to be proud."

No one answered.

He let the silence hang for another breath, then leaned back, stretching, shoulders rolling like a predator settling into its throne.

"Good."

His tone was light. Pleased. Harza finally exhaled, his fingers curling into fists against the table before relaxing.

Vorkan only allowed himself to blink.

Turles' gaze swept over them one last time, then he lifted an arm and flicked his fingers toward the entrance.

"Clean that up."

He wasn't looking at Kazrak's body when he said it. He was looking at them.

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

A voice - perfect, unnatural, inhuman. It didn't belong to the filth of this war tent, to the blood in the dirt or the sweat on their skin. It cut through the silence like a blade of ice.

And then the ceiling caved in.

The war tent collapsed in an instant, the support beams snapping like brittle bone. Fabric tore, the ground shuddered, but there was no explosion, no uncontrolled force.

Just impact.

Vorkan had felt real destruction before - chaotic, uncontrolled, driven by rage and instinct. This was something else. Something measured. Surgical.

The dust cleared too quickly. And when it did, she was standing there.

Wrong.

Everything about her was wrong. Saiyans were rough - scars, hardened muscle, bodies built for war. But she - she wasn't.

Every line, every angle, crafted into something unnerving. Her skin, delicate like she had never bled. Her limbs, long, lean, but not thin - engineered. A frame that should've been delicate, but wasn't.

And then there was her tail.

It moved in slow, fluid arcs, curling and uncurling with impossible control. Not a twitch, not a tremor - just intent.

The warlords did not speak.

Kazrak's body lay where it had fallen, his head twisted the wrong way. The blood on the floor had stopped spreading.

The woman's onyx eyes flicked to it. Studied it.

Then, she looked at Turles.

"This," she said, tone light, almost amused, as if she were discussing the weather. "This is how you rule?"

Turles did not answer immediately.

The brat - no, the conqueror - who had crushed sixteen tribes in a week, who had taken his throne like it was owed to him, paused.

His fingers curled tighter against the armrest.

The air was heavy.

"Who the hell are you?"

The woman blinked. Slow. She smiled.

Vorkan had seen Turles kill men for less.

The brat had sat on his stolen throne, back straight, gaze heavy, fingers drumming against the armrest with the confidence of a conqueror. He had crushed sixteen tribes in a week - sixteen. That wasn't strategy. That was brutality, raw and absolute.

Vorkan had watched him butcher warlords without hesitation. Had seen men, strong men, beg before being torn apart by his hands. Had witnessed a child rise from nothing and carve his name into history with blood.

And yet. Turles wasn't moving.

His fingers had stopped drumming. His tail - always loose, always shifting with restless energy - had gone still.

The woman stood in the wreckage of their meeting, onyx eyes locked onto him, waiting.

Vorkan saw the way Turles looked at her. Not like an opponent. Not like prey.

Like something worse. Like something that shouldn't be.

Then, a whisper. Barely a breath.

"No."

The word hung there, thin and frayed.

Vorkan felt it before he understood it - a crack in the

Vorkan had seen men break before. He'd seen warriors hesitate in battle, seen warlords falter when the tides turned against them. He'd seen desperation, fear, and the slow, creeping realization of death settle into a man's bones.

But never in him.

Never in Turles.

And yet, here he was, gripping the armrest of his stolen throne like he needed something solid to hold onto.

His tail, always restless, always moving, was frozen mid-air. His breath had slowed. His fingers twitched. Small, barely noticeable movements - if you weren't looking.

But Vorkan was looking.

Then, after a long silence - a name.

"Gine?"

Turles' voice didn't match his expression. It should've been commanding, certain. It wasn't.

The woman laughed. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't mocking. It was worse.

It was amused.

"You finally figured it out?"

She mused, onyx eyes glinting in the dim torchlight. She tilted her head, watching him like he was some curiosity she was considering pulling apart.

"I knew I was a pawn from the start."

Turles exhaled, sharp and uneven. His fingers flexed against the throne, grip tightening.

"No." His voice was hoarse. Unsteady. "You're a kid."

He was staring at her like the ground had dropped out from under him. Like he'd found himself standing at the edge of something too deep to see the bottom of.

Deyn scoffed, stepping forward.

"Who the hell do you think you are, walking in here like this?"

Turles turned his head so fast the air shifted. His voice was flat.

"Shut up."

Deyn blinked. "What?"

Turles' eyes never left the woman.

"You're an idiot."

The weight of that statement pressed into the room. Deyn tensed, confusion flickering across his face before frustration took over.

*"You little - "

The woman cut in.

"No, he's right."

She was still smiling.

"I am that. The Emerald thing."

Vorkan felt the shift.

The weight in the air wasn't just heavy - it was suffocating. Because now, finally, he understood.

They all did. Weeks ago, the Emerald Catastrophe had erased everything. Cities. Bloodlines.

And now, the thing responsible for it was standing in front of them. The tension hadn't left the room. If anything, it had settled deeper, thick as smoke in Vorkan's lungs.

The woman - Gine, if Turles was to be believed - stood there, her onyx eyes scanning the war tent, taking in the warlords like they were irrelevant.

Then, she spoke.

"Where are my scientists and engineers?"

It wasn't a demand. It wasn't even a threat. It was a simple question, casual - like this was some routine business meeting, like she was supposed to be here.

"I need my equipment. My materials. If I don't get them now, it's going to be a pain coming back here later."

Turles stiffened.

His hands - one still gripping the throne's armrest, the other half-raised, almost as if to stop her - shook.

Vorkan saw the exact moment Turles' breathing changed. The hitch of air before he spoke.

"L - Look."

A bad start. A terrible start.

"Things are complicated." Turles' voice wasn't the same as before. It had lost that sharp edge, that effortless arrogance. There was hesitation now.

Vorkan wasn't sure if anyone else noticed, but she did.

Her expression didn't change. But something in her eyes sharpened, the faintest flicker of understanding settling in.

"Hah. You lied."

A short, humorless laugh.

Then, she started muttering.

Vorkan caught some of it - not much.

"…Self-sustaining energy grids would be easier if there was even a semblance of a proper infrastructure… No geothermal plants, no functioning hydro systems, not even residual nuclear power… Relying purely on personal Ki expenditure is a bit of waste…"

Vorkan narrowed his eyes.

She wasn't rambling.

No. Every word, every phrase, was placed carefully, logically.

Like her mind had already mapped out the next hundred steps.

"…Resource extraction is inefficient to an absurd degree. Saiyans barely use their own metal deposits, no standardized metallurgy, crude weaponry at best… The entire concept of war as they fight it is outdated… No development of integrated urban planning, no consideration of agricultural sustainability - "

What was she talking about?

Vorkan understood war. He understood strength, tactics, battle formations. But these words - these concepts - slid past him like water through his fingers.

The woman laughed. A soft, amused sound, too light for the situation.

She pinched the rough fabric of her cloak between two fingers, examining it like a piece of rotting meat. The dim firelight caught the crude stitches, the uneven seams - Saiyan work, built for function, not appearance. Her lips curled in faint disgust.

"Even fashion here is a disaster."

No one reacted. No one knew how to.

Turles stood rigid, fingers twitching against the armrest of his stolen throne. His mouth opened - then closed.

The woman exhaled, slow and measured, the weight of it heavier than anything she'd said so far. She pressed two fingers against her temple as if warding off a headache.

Then, with all the finality of a judge delivering a sentence, she spoke.

"Too bad. This planet needs better management."

A breath of silence. Then another.

No one moved.

Across the war tent, Vorkan could feel the others shift - Harsa's throat bobbing as he swallowed, Deyn's fingers twitching against his side. Not a single voice rose in protest. Not a single fist clenched in defiance.

It wasn't hesitation. It was the way she'd said it.

Like the thought had barely been worth stating. Like the inevitability of it was so obvious, so undeniable, that she was already moving past it.

Vorkan had seen warlords declare their right to rule before.

This wasn't that. This was someone looking at a rusted blade and deciding it needed sharpening. The fire crackled. Embers popped in the silence, casting flickering shadows against the torn fabric of the war tent.

No one moved.

Turles was still sitting.

Vorkan didn't understand what he was looking at. His instincts screamed, but his mind lagged behind, refusing to accept what his eyes saw.

Then, the body caught up to reality.

Fingers loosened. The apple slipped from Turles' grasp, rolling once before bumping against the dirt.

A hollow thud.

Vorkan swallowed. His stomach twisted. The firelight flickered through the holes - one in the forehead, another in the chest, a third where his throat should have been. Turles wasn't alive anymore.

And none of them had seen how it happened.

No movement. No flash. No sound. Just… dead.

A rustle. The shift of fabric.

Vorkan's body tensed. He wasn't the only one. Every warlord in the tent, men who had fought their way through battle after battle, stood frozen. Their muscles locked, their breath shallow.

She moved. The woman.

"You."

Vorkan's throat dried up.

"You're the new Chief Commander of the Saiyan faction."

Her voice was steady. Not a suggestion. A statement.

Vorkan forced himself to swallow. It felt like sandpaper. Harza twitched. Deyn shifted his weight. But no one spoke.

Not one of them. Because Turles had been the strongest. The one they had all unwillingly accepted as ruler, because they had no choice.

And he had died before he could even stand back up.

"Tch."

The woman clicked her tongue, exhaling through her nose. She was unimpressed.

"What? No objections?"

Her tail curled and uncurled, slow, methodical. Like she was waiting. Hoping.

Vorkan's fists clenched. His bones felt tight in his skin. Everything in him wanted to object.

To say, no, you don't get to decide that. But his mouth stayed shut.

Because deep inside, his instincts were screaming do not speak.

"Tomorrow."

Vorkan flinched. He hadn't even realized she had turned away.

"Same tent."

She glanced back at them, a flicker of amusement in her eyes, then sighed, rolling her shoulders as if this was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Be there."

Then she left. And none of them stopped her.

None of them even breathed.

Femto · Mar 3, 2025

Minus

Chief Commander Vortan

His fingers twitched. The tent loomed around him, larger than before, reinforced with pelts and scavenged plating. Smoke curled from the brazier in the corner, thick with tallow and old blood. The ground beneath him was dry. Steady. But it didn't feel safe. Not with her standing there.

She wore something new. A thin band of metal wrapped around her brow, darkened with age. At its center sat a stone, green as old embers, pulsing dully in the firelight. The glow shifted, reflecting against the sharp edges of her face. Her jaw did not move. Her expression did not change.

The light should have softened her gaze. It did not. It slipped into the depths of her eyes and vanished. Black, endless, absent of warmth or rage. They watched him the way the deep watched the drowning. Unmoved. Indifferent. Waiting.

Her armor was not hers. Not originally. Turles had worn it once. Now, it had been stripped down, reforged, molded to her frame. The plating bore old scars, smoothed and reforged.

A cape hung from her shoulders, thick, serrated at the edges. It moved when she did, heavy with the weight of something that had once lived.

Vortan knew the hide. Karnoth beast. The kind that stalked its prey for days. The kind that did not die unless torn apart by something stronger.

"It seems you've seen a ghost."

Vortan swallowed. His throat felt dry. His hands curled tighter against his knee.

She stepped forward. Not hurried. Not slow. Just enough to remind him there was no escape. The green stone on her brow caught the movement, its glow shifting, twisting, alive in the dark.

Vortan's tail flicked. He forced himself to sit still. Don't move. Don't show weakness. She tilted her head. Her black eyes, bottomless and empty, did not blink.

"No words?"

His tongue felt like lead. His lungs felt too small. The tent felt too small.

Vortan exhaled. Carefully. Slowly. Don't flinch. Don't look away.

He met her gaze. It was like looking into a black hole.

The woman's expression shifted. A flicker of something beneath the cold exterior. Not anger. Not quite. Something sharper. Something restrained.

Her lips parted.

"You don't even greet your new High Sovereign?"

Vortan stiffened. His breath came short, sharp. His mind raced, but his body refused to move. The words settled in the air, heavy, suffocating.

She took another step forward. The weight of her presence alone pressed down on the space between them. The brazier's flame bent slightly, as if something unseen pulled at it. Her cape dragged along the ground, the Karnoth hide shifting, creaking - an animal sound, something still alive even in death.

Her voice remained steady. Not raised. Not boastful. Simply stated as fact.

"I rule now."

The words struck harder than any fist.

She did not need to elaborate. The wreckage of what once was spoke for itself.

The Tuffles - erased. Not conquered. Not subjugated. Gone. Entire cities leveled to dust, technology and history obliterated in a single breath. King Vegeta - dead. The monarchy crushed beneath a force it never anticipated, never understood. The throne, reduced to cinders. The line of Vegeta, wiped clean.

Turle. His ambition, his army, his conquests - all shattered. A warlord turned to nothing.

Vortan's throat tightened.

This wasn't just some upstart with power. This wasn't a coup. This wasn't a rebellion. This was the Emerald Catastrophe. She did not conquer. She did not overthrow.

She ended.

The woman sighed. A long, drawn-out breath, slow and deliberate, as if exhaling the last traces of patience.

"I suppose formalities are in order." Her voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it. Only certainty. Only weight. "I am the newly appointed Supreme Ruler of all Saiyans in the universe."

Vortan felt the words sink into his bones. The title hung in the air like a physical thing, oppressive, undeniable.

She tilted her head slightly, the green stone on her brow catching the light, gleaming like an eye that never closed.

"My name is Gine."

She let the silence stretch, as if to test how the name settled in his ears. Then, with a faint curl of her lips, she added,

"But Emerald One will do."

Vortan did not move. He did not breathe.

The fire crackled. The wind shifted the edges of the tent. Somewhere outside, the distant murmur of voices carried on, oblivious to the moment unfolding here, in this space that suddenly felt too small.

Gine, Emerald One, exhaled again, softer this time.

"A name is not just a name," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "It is a symbol. A claim. An expectation."

Her gaze flicked over him, assessing, weighing, already dismissing.

"But you wouldn't understand that, would you?"

Vortan moved before he could think. His body knew what his mind refused to accept. His knee hit the ground. His hands pressed against his thigh. His head lowered.

Submission.

"Yes," he said, voice hoarse. "I understand."

The words tasted strange. Bitter. Heavy.

Above him, Gine was silent. No satisfaction. No approval. Just the weight of her presence pressing down on him, as if she had expected nothing else.

Vortan did not dare look up. His heart pounded against his ribs, his tail curled tight around his waist.

The Emerald One had spoken.

And now, the universe would listen.

The Emerald One exhaled through her nose, arms clasped behind her back. Her posture was perfect - controlled, measured, the stance of a ruler assessing her domain.

"Report," she said, voice crisp. "The structure of the sixteen tribes. Their populations, their conditions, their allegiances."

Vortan, Chief Warlord of the Drekkan Tribe, did not hesitate this time. He had spent his life navigating power - he knew when to assert dominance and when to kneel. This was the latter.

"There are sixteen recognized Saiyan tribes," he began, his voice steady, formal. "Four of them are Supersized, with approximate populations of two hundred and fifty thousand. The Barodu Tribe commands the largest numbers but relies almost entirely on brute force to maintain cohesion. The Kazkara are nomadic, spread across multiple regions, their loyalty loose but adaptable. The Ozarith enforce a strict warrior-elite caste system, structured but inflexible. And my own tribe - the Drekkan - operates on selective breeding and survival training, producing some of the most physically hardened Saiyans."

He inhaled carefully. "The remaining twelve tribes range between thirty to ninety thousand. Some are offshoots of the larger ones, others fully independent. Tribal conflict is frequent but contained - skirmishes over resources, territory, and personal vendettas. It ensures constant battle-readiness but prevents long-term alliances."

He finished speaking. Waited.

A slow, deliberate click of the tongue.

The Emerald One's brow twitched.

"That many bodies," she murmured, "and yet you've constructed nothing beyond warbands and scavenging parties."

Vortan's jaw tightened.

Gine shifted, the green stone on her brow catching the brazier's glow.

"No central command structure. No logistics network. No technological infrastructure to consolidate forces."

Vortan chose his next words carefully.

"Our methods have worked for generations. Saiyans are not builders. We are conquerors."

A sharp exhale. Not quite a sigh. Not quite amusement.

The Emerald One's gaze was flat. Cold.

"A conqueror who cannot hold their conquests is nothing but a raider."

Vortan's tail curled tighter around his waist. His fingers pressed into his knee. He could not argue. Not because he lacked words - but because he could already see she was right.

The Emerald One was silent for a moment. Then, she shifted her stance, adjusting the weight of her Karnoth-hide cape. When she spoke again, her tone was different - less about strength, more about structure.

"Agriculture," she said. "How is it managed?"

Vortan blinked. His fingers twitched slightly.

"Agriculture?"

"Yes." Her voice was patient, but it held an edge. "How do the tribes sustain themselves? Where does food come from? Who oversees distribution?"

Vortan hesitated. He wasn't used to these kinds of questions. Battles, power struggles, warrior hierarchies - those were the conversations of warlords. But this? This was something else.

"Saiyans hunt," he answered stiffly. "Scavenge. Take what's needed."

Her brow twitched.

"There are over a million of you spread across the tribes. You can't all be sustained by hunting alone."

He exhaled slowly.

"Some tribes keep livestock. The Zadur domesticate herds in the southern plains. The Kazkara raid them. The Barodu grow root crops in the valley, but it's inefficient. Most of our food comes from hunting."

Gine made a quiet sound. Not approval. Not disapproval. Just noted.

"Markets," she continued. "Trade. How do resources circulate?"

Vortan's tail flicked. He had never put much thought into it. "Saiyans don't trade."

She raised a brow.

He clenched his jaw, then elaborated.

"Bartering happens. Weapons for food, furs for leather armor, but nothing formal. The strongest take what they need. The weak adapt or die."

Gine's expression remained unreadable. "And life expectancy?"

Vortan frowned. "That depends."

"On?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

"A Saiyan who dies in infancy was weak. A Saiyan who reaches adulthood fights until they can't. A warrior's life ends when it ends - battle, execution, starvation. If you're asking for a number, I don't have one."

For the first time, he noticed something shift in her eyes. Something calculating.

He felt like a beast being studied.

The Emerald One tapped a finger against her forearm, thoughtful.

"You've given me half-answers, Chief Warlord."

Vortan gritted his teeth.

"Because we don't think like this."

"No," she mused. "You don't."

She let the silence stretch. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

Then, finally, she exhaled. "That will change."

The Emerald One let his words settle, her expression unreadable. Then, she spoke again - calm, precise, relentless.

"Education."

Vortan blinked. "What?"

"How do Saiyans learn?"

A strange frustration built in his chest. This wasn't how warlords spoke. These weren't the questions of rulers or conquerors. What did it matter how learning happened?

Vortan forced himself to answer.

"Younglings fight. They watch their elders. They learn through survival, through battle."

"And if they don't?"

"Then they die."

A flicker of something passed through her eyes. Not shock. Not pity. Just… calculation.

She moved on. "Technology."

Vortan exhaled sharply. His patience was thinning. "We don't have it."

Her brow twitched. "At all?"

"Weapons are forged. Fire is used. Stone and pelts make shelters. What more is needed?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she shifted slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of her cape. Then -

"Medical systems."

Vortan almost scoffed. "You get injured, you recover, or you don't."

"No healers?"

"The weak rely on them. The strong push through."

Silence. The fire crackled between them. Outside, the distant howls of beasts echoed through the night.

She exhaled through her nose. Slow. Measured. "You truly are caged creatures."

Vortan's muscles tensed. His fingers curled slightly against his knee.

The Emerald One - studied him like a beast in a pit. "You don't realize how much you're missing. How much is wasted. You don't even see the walls of your own prison."

Vortan's tail twitched, but he said nothing.

"This is why I asked. Because this is where it starts."

She turned slightly, the green stone in her tiara gleaming in the firelight. "The way you live now is not sustainable. The strong kill the weak. The weak serve the strong. It continues until nothing is left but stronger beasts tearing each other apart. No structure. No foundation. No future."

Her voice was calm, even. But Vortan felt the weight of it settle in his chest.

She looked at him, not with contempt, but with certainty.

"That will change."

The Emerald One inhaled slowly.

"Caged creatures. That's what you are."

Her voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be. It carried the weight of something absolute, something final.

Vortan stiffened, but before he could respond, she continued - cutting through him like a blade.

"You call yourselves conquerors, but you don't hold land. You call yourselves warriors, but your battles are pointless. Your tribes fight, kill, and burn, only to rebuild the same rotting foundations. A cycle of destruction with no end, no meaning."

Vortan clenched his jaw.

"That is the Saiyan way."

"No," she said, her eyes cold. "That is the way of animals."

His tail bristled, his muscles coiled - but he stayed kneeling.

She stepped forward. Just enough for her presence to loom over him. Not as a brute force. Not as a warlord. But as something greater.

"You think strength is enough. That survival is proof of power. But what has it given you? What has it built?"

She tilted her head slightly.

"Tell me, Chief Warlord - what does your strength do against time?"

Vortan opened his mouth, but no words came.

She continued, relentless.

"You fight. You kill. You take. But then you die. Your warriors fall. Your bloodlines vanish. No records. No history. No legacy. In a hundred years, nothing of you will remain. You will be bones in the dirt, forgotten."

Her voice sharpened.

"At least the Tuffles are better. The weak at least leave something behind. Farmers build fields. Artisans craft weapons. Mothers raise children. What do you leave?".

A slow exhale through her nose.

"This is the truth you refuse to face." Her gaze bored into him. "Your 'strength' is a lie. Your 'warrior way' is a dead-end. And the moment you meet something greater - something truly strong - you will break."

Vortan's breath was shallow. His hands curled into fists against his thighs.

She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping.

"And you already know this."

His body tensed.Her words were knives, slicing through the beliefs that had defined him, the instincts drilled into him from birth.

He wanted to fight back. To deny it.

But the worst part - the most unbearable part -

Was that she was right.

Vortan's breath came shallow. His mind spun. Too much. Too fast.

She had come from nowhere. No warning. No slow rise to power. No struggle for control. She simply appeared, and the world changed.

King Vegeta? Gone. The Tuffles? Wiped from existence. Turles? Crushed like an insect.

One by one, everything fell before her, not through war, not through endless bloodshed, but as if their fates had been decided beforehand. As if they had never even mattered.

And she had done it alone.

Vortan swallowed, his throat dry, his thoughts tangled.

This wasn't just power. Power, he understood. Strength could be challenged. Strength could be overturned. Even the greatest warlords fell in time.

This was something else.

She didn't rule by fear. No. Fear was fleeting. She ruled by certainty.

The way she spoke, the way she carried herself - it was as if she had already won. As if nothing in this world could oppose her, as if she wasn't merely stronger but inevitable.

His fingers twitched. A memory clawed its way to the surface. The old myths. The whispers of the elder warriors.

The Super Saiyan.

Not just a warrior. Not just a Great Ape. Something greater.

A god.

A being not of brute strength alone, but of wisdom, vision, and inevitability. The one who would change the Saiyans forever.

Vortan had never believed in it.

The strong ruled. The weak died. That was all there was. That was all there had ever been.

He knelt before her, his tail wrapped tightly around his waist, his muscles locked in place.

His throat was dry, but he forced himself to speak.

"You… you planned all of this."

The Emerald One exhaled, slow and measured, as if he had just realized the obvious.

"Of course." Her voice was steady, emotionless. "A storm does not rage without purpose. A blade does not strike without aim. And I do not move without knowing exactly where I will land."

Vortan's heart pounded in his chest.

She continued, tone sharp, precise. "Your world was broken before I arrived. It is still broken. You just never realized it."

The Emerald One sighed. A slow, deliberate exhalation. Not of frustration, not of anger - but of finality.

"Vortan."

Her voice carried weight. Like stone pressed against his ribs. Like the silence before a world-ending storm.

"You will gather the Tribe Chieftains. All sixteen of them."

Vortan's head snapped up. His breath caught. All of them?

All of them?

The Supersized Tribes. The Mid-Sized Clans. Even the Lesser Warbands that scraped survival from the wastelands. Never - never - had the entire Saiyan race stood in one place. Not once in their history.

And she expected him to do it?

"You will organize a festival," she continued, tone measured, unshakable. "One grand enough to accommodate Capital Sadala itself."

His heart pounded. A festival?

A gathering on a continental scale? It was madness. The logistics alone - coordinating their arrival, keeping blood feuds from igniting, ensuring warriors didn't slaughter each other on sight - it couldn't be done.

But she wasn't finished.

"This will not be a mere meeting," she said, eyes glinting like sharpened steel. "It will be the foundation of something greater. A unification. Not in blood, not in conquest, but in existence."

Vortan swallowed thickly, but forced himself to speak.

"For what purpose?"

She tilted her head slightly, as if he had asked whether the sun would rise.

"To forge what has never been."

A pause.

"A nation."

Another.

"An empire."

The words slammed into him like an unseen fist.

"A legacy."

His breath turned shallow. He wanted to object, to demand how this was possible, but the words died in his throat.

Her will wasn't something to be debated. It was something to be obeyed.

"And the Deyn," she continued, voice cutting like a blade. "Harza. You will inform him of this conversation. Word for word."

Vortan stiffened.

Unease coiled in his gut, but it withered under the weight of her presence.

"Your deadline is five days."

His pulse stopped.

Five?

Before he could react, before he could think, she spoke the words that would carve themselves into his bones.

"Failure to comply," she said, voice as calm as if she were remarking on the weather, "means annihilation."

Vortan gasped.

His body locked.

A word so casually spoken. A concept so absolute. Annihilation. Not a battle. Not a war. Not the gradual destruction of an empire over centuries.

A single decision. A single moment. The end of his entire race.

The Emerald One exhaled. Slow. Controlled. Final.

"One last thing."

Vortan swallowed, throat dry.

"If any of you see a Tuffle," she continued, her tone neither cruel nor kind - just absolute, "you will not harm them."

A slow pause. The weight of her words settled.

Vortan's mind reeled. Not harm them? The very race that oppressed them?

"Their technology must be preserved," she added. "Any discovery, no matter how small, must be reported directly to me. Untouched. Uncorrupted."

Vortan forced himself to nod, though his instincts screamed against it.

Tuffle machines, their arcane contraptions - things beyond Saiyan understanding. Things that should have been destroyed, burned away, forgotten.

But the Emerald One spoke, and her words were law.

She leaned forward slightly. Just enough to make the air feel heavier.

"If I ever see a Tuffle in chains," she murmured, "if I hear of one being used as a slave…"

Vortan felt his stomach twist.

"Then whoever is responsible," she continued, "will know infinite torture."

Her gold-green eyes burned.

"Not death. Not mercy."

A pause.

"Humiliation. Suffering. Endlessness."

Vortan gasped. He had seen monsters. He had seen cruelty beyond measure. He had watched warlords tear flesh from bone, had heard the screams of dying warriors as they were devoured by beasts.

But this?

This was something else.

He bowed, sweat beading at his temple.

"I… understand."

He had no other choice.

"I know you will. Chief Commander."

PL Reference:

Vortan: 7500

Laath- · Mar 3, 2025

Ohhhh, I like where this is going. Finally gonna make something useful out the Saiyan are we?

Femto · Mar 3, 2025

Laath- said:
Ohhhh, I like where this is going. Finally gonna make something useful out the Saiyan are we?

Yeah. Other readers actually pushes me to freaking escape the planet because they're harsh to her. I just don't wanna follow that trope haha.

Femto · Mar 4, 2025

Minus

Beets

The firelight flickered. Loud voices. Heavy steps. Drums pounding like a heartbeat in his skull.

Beets sat near a bonfire, legs stretched out, tail curled loose by his side. The air was thick - smoke, sweat, ale, the spit-roasted meat turning over open flames. Saiyans shouted, brawled, tore into food like starving animals. Someone got punched in the jaw. Someone else laughed until they choked on their drink.

It was loud. Too loud. But that was normal. He should've been celebrating. Everyone was celebrating.

Instead, his mind wandered.

His hands curled into fists before he even realized. His jaw clenched. His breath was heavy.

His grandfather should've been here.

The thought sat in his chest, heavy like a rock. Kesha Village was his home. His grandfather had raised him here, trained here. And now? Gone. Just like the village. Just like the old Saiyans who once walked these lands.

His chest felt tight. And then - he remembered.

The grass had been dry under his boots. The festival's noise had faded, swallowed by the quiet of the graveyard. The air had been cool. The stone had been rough under his palm. His throat had burned. His chest had ached.

He wouldn't cry. He couldn't. Saiyans didn't cry.

But still - he missed him.

He had stiffened. His tail moved. A scent had drifted past the smoke and sweat - clean, warm, something he couldn't place.

He hadn't been alone. Slowly, he had lifted his head. And then he had seen her.

A woman. No - not just a woman.

Not like Fasha. Not like any Saiyan he had ever seen. Not rough. Not sharp. No scars, no bulk, no battle-hardened edges.

She had been smooth. Soft, but strong.

Her frame had been lean, not small. She had long legs, a tight waist, her body balanced in a way that just felt right. Like she had been built different - not weaker, not lesser, just perfect.

And then - her face.

Sharp, but not harsh. Refined. Her cheekbones sat high, her jaw soft, but firm, giving her an ageless look - like she wasn't meant for battle, but could dominate it anyway. Her skin was smooth, unmarked, nothing like the rough, sun-scorched Saiyan warriors he had known.

Her eyebrows were dark, and angled just slightly, giving her an expression that was not unkind, but unreadable. Like she was always thinking, always watching.

And her eyes. Deep onyx. Not wild. Not dull. Not battle-hardened or cruel. Just… calm. Focused. A gaze that didn't waver. A gaze that saw.

His fingers had twitched. His chest had felt hot.

She had moved.

Her pelt had been loose. Too loose. It had slipped off her shoulder, just a little. A glimpse of her neck. A hint of her collarbone. A sliver of her chest.

His mind had shut down.

Heat had shot up his spine. His tail had frizzed. His stomach had flipped. Why had she been looking at him like that?

His mouth had opened - nothing had come out.

She had tilted her head. Blinked. The corner of her lip had twitched. And then he had messed up.

His foot had slipped. He had jerked back, too fast, too stiff. His boot had caught the gravestone. His weight had tipped.

Shit. His body had hit the dirt. Hard.

Pain had cracked through his skull. He had groaned. The stars had blurred above him.

And then it had hit him. He had made a complete fool of himself in front of the God of the Saiyans.

A mug slammed down next to him, snapping him out of the memory.

"Drink,"

Beets blinked, looking up. The festival was still raging. The fires still burned. Saiyans still laughed, fought, drank, and roared at the sky.

But all he could think about - was her.

A mug slammed down beside him, hard enough to spill water over the rim.

Beets blinked. The memory fractured, and the festival came crashing back - firelight and sweat, fists hammering flesh, voices rising in drunken roars.

She snorted. Arms folded. Tail lashing once behind her. Eyes cutting through him like a blade.

"I said drink."

Beets frowned. "I don't - "

Fasha clicked her tongue.

"It's water." A sharp jerk of her chin. "You don't need ale. We're preparing for him."

Turles. The name landed like a blow. A reminder.

Beets exhaled, dragging a rough hand down his face. His fingers were stiff. His pulse hammered in his skull, out of sync with the festival's rhythm.

But he took the mug anyway. The water was ice-cold. It did nothing to smother the heat coiled in his chest.

Fasha crouched beside him, elbows braced against her knees. Her posture was easy, relaxed. She vanished into the chaos around them, absorbed by the movement of the crowd - the brawlers, the drinkers, the warriors with bloodied knuckles and wild grins.

Beets sat rigid. The weight of the noise pressed against his skin, thick as the smoke curling through the air.

"You're thinking too much," she muttered, barely heard over the crackling flames.

His grip on the mug tightened. "No, I'm not."

"Tch." She kicked a discarded bone into the fire. Sparks snapped up, devoured by the dark. "You've got that look. The one where your brain won't shut up."

Beets felt them in his ribs, pulsing through the air, through the ground, through the thousands of Saiyans crammed into the heart of Sadala. Fire pits roared, their heat rolling in waves, their smoke curling into the darkening sky. The scent of charred meat, sweat, and ale clung to everything, thick and heavy.

Warriors packed the streets, shouting, laughing, fighting. Their voices clashed with the sound of bone meeting bone, boots scraping against stone, weapons clinking against armor.

It was chaos. Loud. Overwhelming. Alive.

Beets exhaled, tilting his head toward Fasha.

"You think it's a bit weird?"

She turned, raising a brow. "What is?"

His fingers tapped against his cup. "Gathering twenty thousand Saiyans for a single celebration."

Fasha snorted. "Of course not. They're gathering for the coronation of that bastard kid, Turles."

Her voice dripped with something sharp. Not just irritation. Something deeper.

Beets let the words sit for a moment. The crowd around them moved like a living thing - restless, eager, waiting.

He took a slow breath. "Still. Turles already made a name. He annexed seven of the tribes. Including the four biggest."

Fasha didn't answer right away.

Because they both knew what that meant.

Those weren't just any tribes. They were led by the strongest. The warlords. The ones who had ruled their territories for years, carving out power through blood and battle.

And Turles took them. Not through deals. Not through empty promises.

Through force.

Fasha rolled her shoulders, watching the warriors surrounding them.

"Yeah." Her lips curled. "That's why this is interesting."

A sudden weight crashed into Beets' shoulder.

His boots scraped against the stone as he staggered back, fingers clenching around his cup. Liquid sloshed, a few drops hitting his wrist, warm against his skin.

He turned.

A Saiyan loomed over him.

Tall. Broad. His frame thick with muscle, the kind earned from battle, not show. Firelight carved sharp shadows across his face, catching on the deep lines along his jaw. His tail coiled tight behind him, bristling like a predator ready to strike.

"Oi." His voice carried over the crowd, flat and heavy. "You with her?"

Beets' chest tightened. His fingers curled harder around the cup.

He didn't look at Fasha. He didn't need to.

His gut twisted. The bastard was big. Not just in size, but in the way he stood, in the weight of his stare, the way the space around him seemed to shrink.

The urge to step back scraped against Beets' spine. His body screamed at him to move, to avoid, to let it go.

He didn't.

His shoulders locked in place, rigid but unyielding. His tail wound itself around his waist, slow and controlled.

He met the man's stare.

"What if I am?"

Beets barely registered the movement before pain exploded across his jaw.

The world snapped sideways. His skull rattled. His feet left the ground.

Wind roared past his ears as he was sent hurtling backward, weightless for a heartbeat before gravity seized him. The festival lights blurred, streaking like smears of fire against the dark. His body twisted midair, limbs flailing as the force carried him ten meters up, higher than the rooftops.

His mind caught up a second too late.

Shit.

Then the ground rushed to meet him.

Stone cracked as he hit, rolling, skidding, his back scraping against the rough surface. Sparks of pain flared across his shoulders, his spine, his ribs. He barely got his arms up before slamming into a pile of overturned crates, splintering wood, sending debris flying.

A dull ringing filled his ears. His vision pulsed, black at the edges.

The taste of iron flooded his mouth.

For a second, he just lay there. Face-up. Jaw throbbing. Staring at the festival lights twisting in the sky above.

Fast.

Too fast.

The crowd thickened.

Saiyans pressed in from all sides, voices sharp with laughter and excitement. Boots scraped against stone, tails flicked, and the air was thick with the scents of sweat, blood, and roasted meat. Bets were already being tossed into the growing pile - leather pelt armor, bone knives, even a few restless beasts snarling in their bindings.

Beets groaned, rolling onto his side. His jaw throbbed. His ribs ached. The hit still echoed through his bones, but the worst part?

They were enjoying this.

Fasha stood over him, arms crossed, tail swaying. "Hah. They're really betting pets over you?"

Beets wiped the blood from his lip and sighed. "Great. Now I'm worth a couple of lizards."

The crowd laughed. Someone clapped him on the back - too hard. Pain shot through his ribs like a knife.

Beets inhaled sharply, pushing himself onto one knee. He spat red onto the stone and looked up at the bastard who decked him.

"Alright - seriously," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "What the hell did I do?"

The Saiyan - tall, broad, and way too smug - rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles.

"You really don't know?"

Beets scowled. "If I did, I wouldn't be asking."

The bastard grinned. "You're trying to take my woman."

Silence.

Beets blinked. His head still hurt, so maybe - maybe - he misheard.

His eyes flicked to Fasha.

She raised an eyebrow.

His stomach dropped.

"Wait," he started, holding up a hand, "you're talking about her?"

The guy tilted his head. "Yeah."

Beets stared. Then laughed - wheezed, really, because his ribs were screaming.

"Fasha?" He pointed weakly. "You mean this Fasha?"

The bastard's smirk widened. "Yeah."

Beets ran a hand down his face. "Oh, come on."

Fasha, who had been watching this unfold with amusement, suddenly snorted. Loud.

"You dumbass," she said, nudging Beets with her foot. "What the hell did you do to make him think that?"

Beets groaned, tilting his head back. "I have no idea."

The Saiyan - the absolute idiot - crossed his arms.

"Doesn't matter. You stand near her, you fight for her. That's how it works."

Beets let his head drop forward, exhaling slow. His tail flicked once against the stone.

This was so stupid.

But the crowd was watching. The bets were down. And the bastard who hit him looked very ready to do it again.

The crowd swarmed in.

Saiyans pushed close, boots grinding against the stone, tails snapping through the air, their voices crashing together in laughter, jeers, and shouted bets. The scent of sweat, leather, and roasted meat thickened around them, settling in the back of Beets' throat.

They weren't just watching. They were waiting.

Beets kept his hands raised, palms out, chest rising and falling in sharp, careful breaths. His heart pounded, ribs still sore from the first hit. He squared his stance, forcing his muscles to stay loose.

"Alright," he started, voice steady. "Let's just - think for a second."

The bastard cracked his neck. Didn't care.

A fist slammed into his gut.

Beets folded in half.

Air ripped from his lungs. His stomach caved under the impact.

Pain twisted deep in his core, white-hot and suffocating. His knees nearly buckled, but he forced himself to stay up - just for a second.

Then came the next punch.

It whipped across his jaw, sharp and brutal. His head snapped sideways - light burst behind his eyes.

He hit the ground hard, palms scraping against the stone. Blood pooled in his mouth, thick and metallic.

The crowd howled. Coins, weapons, and furs clattered into betting piles. More laughter. More cheers.

Beets blinked fast, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. His body screamed.

"Dammit - wait!" he gasped, raising his hands again. "I don't even like her!"

The bastard scoffed. "Doesn't matter."

A boot drove into his ribs.

Beets rolled across the rough ground, shoulder grinding against the stone, pain flaring in every nerve.

He tried to rise. Fingers digging into the dirt - another kick crushed into his back.

A sick, sharp pop.

The breath choked out of him.

The bastard stepped back, flexing his fingers. "Tch. Pathetic."

Beets coughed, blood splattering onto the floor. His vision swam, the sounds of the crowd warping, shifting - distant.

This wasn't a fight. This was a damn execution.

He forced his head up.

And saw her.

Fasha.

Still. Arms crossed. Watching.

Not stopping it. Not stepping in. Just - there.

Something inside him curled tight.

"Fasha," he croaked, blood streaking his teeth. "Are you - serious?"

Another fist crushed into his face.

The world split apart.

Beets' breath came sharp, fast. His aura crackled, heat rolling off his skin. His muscles coiled tight, body thrumming with battle-born instinct. His ribs ached. His skull pounded from the last hit, but - he was still standing.

Across from him, the bastard smirked. Tall. Strong. Arrogant.

Someone in the crowd barked a laugh. "You don't even know who you're fighting, do you?"

Beets barely glanced over.

Another voice cut in, louder. "That's Kashta, idiot! Kashta of the Durga Tribe!"

"Durga's favorite son!" someone else added, jeering.

Beets felt his stomach tighten. The Durga Tribe. One of the old ones. One of the big ones. No wonder this bastard fought like he was born for it.

Kashta tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming under the festival torches.

"So you finally woke up, huh?" His voice was mocking, easy. Like this was still a game. "Thought you'd just curl up and die."

Beets spat blood. The metallic taste coated his tongue. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the lingering ache. He had no words for him. Only fists.

More shouts rang out from the crowd.

"Bet's still on! Who's got hides to throw down?!"

"Kashta's gonna rip his arms off!"

"Durga bloodline's undefeated!"

Kashta clicked his tongue.

"What, got nothing to say? No begging? No whining?" His aura flared - a warning. A promise. "Come on, 'not-my-woman.' Show me what you got."

Beets' knuckles tightened.

Fine.

He moved.

The first hit nearly snapped his ribs.

Beets barely had time to register the pain before the second came. A fist like a battering ram slammed into his gut - his breath vanished. His feet lifted off the ground.

Then the third hit.

Then the fourth.

His body jerked, twisted, snapped back like a rag in a storm. Every impact carved pain into his bones. His own blood spattered the ground, steaming against the cold stone.

The crowd roared.

"Break him apart, Kashta!"

"Thought you had a fight in you!"

Beets tried to move. Tried to fight back. His muscles screamed, but Kashta was already on him again. A knee to the ribs. A boot to the chest. The world blurred. He hit the ground.

Hard.

His vision spun. He barely registered his own voice, hoarse, gasping. "…Fasha - "

She was still silent.

His body twitched, tried to rise. His ki surged, gathering, rising on instinct. The pain fueled it. His own body responded, reaching for power, for survival -

Kashta grabbed his collar, hauled him up like nothing.

A fist reared back.

Beets barely heard the next words before it came crashing down.

"You should've stayed down."

The pain was constant. Unrelenting. It came in waves, each one heavier than the last.

Kashta's fists were like warhammers, every blow slamming into Beets with bone-crushing force. His body jerked, twisted, snapped back, each strike a brutal punctuation in the savage rhythm of the beating.

A sharp crack. His ribs.

A dull crunch. His jaw.

His vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges. His ears rang, drowning out the wild cheers and jeers from the crowd.

"Rip him apart, Kashta!"

"Look at him squirm! Thought he had a spine!"

"Bet's still open! Who wants in?!"

A boot slammed into his stomach. His breath vanished. His body lifted off the ground before he crashed back down, the stone floor shaking beneath him.

Beets tried to move. Tried to breathe. His arms trembled, struggling to push himself up -

Kashta grabbed his collar and hauled him up.

His legs dangled. His body felt weightless, distant. He was barely even in control of it anymore. His own ki flickered - gathering, coiling, but he couldn't focus.

Kashta pulled him in close, sneering. His breath was hot against Beets' bloodied face.

"You done yet?"

Beets tried to answer - a mistake.

A fist buried itself in his stomach. Deep. The impact sent a shockwave through his insides, ki bursting from the point of contact. He felt something inside tear.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Kashta didn't let go. He kept swinging. Kept beating. Every hit rattled Beets to his core, turning pain into something more. Something deeper.

"You should've stayed down."

Kashta's knee drove into his ribs. Something cracked again.

The crowd roared.

Beets' ki flared, surging on instinct. His body screamed for survival.

But his vision blurred.

His strength wavered.

And the bastard wasn't finished yet.

Beets hung there. Barely breathing.

Kashta's fist cracked against his cheek, snapping his head sideways. His vision blurred, the world tilting, spinning. His body screamed, but he barely felt it anymore.

The crowd's cheers faded. The jeers blurred.

And then - a voice.

Rough. Aged. Laced with laughter.

"Beets - when I was your age, I was already fucking women."

A memory. His grandfather.

The old man had grinned, all teeth, voice thick with pride. Mocking.

"But you? You're just tucking away!"

Beets had scowled, fists clenched. He had argued back.

"No, Grandpa. You're wrong."

And he had been. Because he had met her.

The woman from Kesha Village.

He remembered.

Her confused gaze, deep and searching. The way her dark hair framed her face, wild yet delicate. How the wind had caught her pelt, loosening it, exposing the soft curve of her neck, the slope of her collarbone. The faint scent of earth and rain clinging to her skin.

Something ignited.

A heat in his chest, sharp and blinding.

His ki flared. It surged through his body, flooding his limbs, burning away the weakness. The pain snapped into focus.

Kashta cocked back his fist for another blow -

Beets' eyes snapped open.

And this time - he moved.

"You are wrong, Grandpa!"

Beets roared.

His ki exploded from his battered body, a surge of raw power that shattered the stone beneath him. Dust and debris whipped through the air as the force of it sent a shockwave through the gathered crowd.

Kashta's fist came down. Beets caught it.

The impact cracked the ground beneath them, but Beets didn't budge. His fingers clamped around Kashta's wrist, his grip unbreakable.

The bastard's eyes widened.

Beets pulled.

Kashta stumbled forward, off balance - just for a second, but that was all Beets needed.

His fist drove into Kashta's ribs, deep, forcing out a wheezing breath. Another strike. Faster. Harder. His knuckles cracked against Kashta's jaw, snapping his head back. The bastard staggered -

Beets didn't stop.

He lunged, his knee ramming into Kashta's gut. The bastard gagged, spittle flying from his mouth. His body arched from the impact, feet lifting off the ground.

Beets twisted. His elbow crashed into the side of Kashta's head, sending him skidding across the dirt.

The crowd erupted.

"Holy shit, he's coming back!"

"Kashta's getting wrecked!"

"No way! That weakling?!"

Beets stalked forward. His breath was heavy, but his body felt alive. Every nerve burned with power. His ki surged, wild but controlled.

Kashta snarled, wiping blood from his split lip. His stance widened. His tail lashed. His ki flared in retaliation.

Beets grinned, baring his teeth. "Come on, then."

Kashta roared and charged.

He was winning.

His fists landed true - blow after blow, carving through Kashta's defenses like a blade through flesh. The bastard staggered, swaying, his stance unsteady. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body struggling to keep up.

Beets could feel it. The fight was his.

One more hit - one more, and he'd put this bastard down.

He lunged, his fist cocked back -

Then - pain.

A crushing force slammed into his ribs from the side, folding him in half. His vision blurred, his body twisted through the air before he crashed into the dirt, rolling, gasping for breath.

The crowd exploded.

"Oi! What the hell was that?!"

"A cheap shot! That's not a fight, that's a damn ambush!"

Beets groaned, forcing himself onto his elbows. His ribs ached, his breath shaky.

Boots thudded against the dirt. A shadow loomed over him.

A huge kid stood there, towering. His build was unnatural - thick, broad-shouldered, like his bones had been stacked wrong. His face was ugly, his mouth twisted in a smirk.

"I got him, big bro." The bastard's voice was smug, childishly cruel.

Beets' stomach dropped.

Kashta's laughter rang out, rough and mocking. The bastard was still standing.

Beets barely had time to react before a foot buried itself in his gut. His body arched, pain lancing through him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out - just breath, just pain.

Kashta's voice came low, smug. Cruel.

"You thought this was your win?"

His hand grabbed Beets by the hair, wrenching his head up.

Kashta grinned, his face smeared with blood - but his eyes were sharp. Alive.

"Stupid bastard."

And then - the beating started.

Kashta's fist came down –

Stopped.

A hand caught his wrist. Firm. Effortless. Unyielding.

"Tch. That's pathetic."

Fasha.

Kashta snapped his head up. His arm wouldn't move. His muscles tensed, veins bulging as he tried to wrench himself free, but her grip was iron. Unbreakable.

Beets barely had time to process it. One second, Fasha had been standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching with her usual smirk. The next – she was here, standing between them, holding Kashta like he was some unruly cub.

The crowd stilled.

A low murmur rippled through them, shifting, uncertain. Warriors nudged each other, brows raised.

"Oi, oi," Fasha's voice was light, amused. Mocking. "Didn't know you needed backup, bastard."

Kashta's teeth ground together. His tail lashed behind him, bristling.

"Let go," he growled.

Fasha tilted her head. She looked at him like one might look at an insect, something small and struggling.

Then she let go.

Kashta staggered back, catching himself before he could fall. His ki flared up in an instant, burning hot, crackling with rage. But Fasha –

She wasn't even looking at him.

She turned instead to the other one – the ugly, thick-boned kid who had sucker-kicked Beets earlier.

"And what the hell are you supposed to be?" she asked, tone casual, almost bored.

The bastard's brother bristled. "Shut up, woman! Stay out of this!"

Fasha blinked once.

Then she laughed.

Short. Sharp. Cruel.

"Oh, I see now." Her smirk widened as she took a slow step forward, shoulders loose, posture relaxed. "This was supposed to be easy, huh?" Her gaze flicked to Kashta, mocking, piercing. "Jump Beets, feel real strong, and if that doesn't work, let your little mutt here handle it?"

The ugly kid growled. "That's not – "

"Not what happened?" Fasha cut him off, tilting her head. Her smirk sharpened. Dangerous. "Then what was that cheap shot for?"

The bastard's mouth clamped shut.

Kashta's face twisted. His aura spiked, heat rippling off him in waves.

"Shut your mouth."

"Or what?" Fasha's voice didn't change. Mocking. Lazy. Unbothered. "Gonna get the rest of your clan to help? Maybe whine about it?"

The ugly kid bared his teeth.

Kashta lunged.

A straight punch – fast, sharp, full of rage.

Fasha… wasn't there.

The fist shot through empty space.

Kashta stumbled, his footing off.

"Oi, that's slow."

Her voice – behind him.

He whipped around. Swung an elbow –

Nothing.

She was gone again.

A shadow. A ghost.

The crowd murmured, then laughed. Warriors pointed, shaking their heads.

"She's playing with him!"

"Damn, he looks stupid!"

Kashta's aura flared hotter. The ground cracked beneath his feet. His stance lowered, tight, focused. He wouldn't let her humiliate him. Not here.

He roared, throwing himself forward – faster, sharper, stronger. A storm of blows, each one fueled by frustration.

Fasha didn't block. Didn't even raise her arms.

She just moved.

Like air. Like a flicker of flame in the wind – one second in front of him, the next somewhere else.

Kashta's attacks hit nothing but air.

He let out a snarl, pivoting, breath ragged, form unraveling. He swung again – fast, brutal.

Fasha barely leaned to the side. A hair's width away.

His fist passed harmlessly by her face.

"That's it?" she mused, her grin widening.

Kashta's eye twitched. He clenched his fists.

"Shut up!"

He struck again. Harder. Sloppier. Desperate.

Fasha stepped around him. Light. Effortless.

"Come on," she sighed, hands still tucked behind her back. "I was hoping for a challenge, bastard."

Kashta's swings had turned to garbage. Arms heavy. Legs buckling. Desperation leaked from every sluggish motion. His shoulders sagged, his chest caving inward as he gasped for air. Each breath rattled through his ribs, dragging like rusted chains. Sweat poured from his body, thick and sour, mixing with the festival heat until the entire ring stank of defeat.

Fasha barely blinked.

Her weight shifted. Just enough. Just the barest tilt of her hips, the slightest shift of her stance.

"You're finished."

She didn't raise her voice. Didn't sneer. Didn't boast.

She simply moved.

A single step. A single fist. A single execution.

The hook slammed into Kashta's jaw with a dull, wet crunch. His head snapped sideways, spit and blood misting into the air.

The world flickered.

For a moment, Kashta hung there – weightless, ungrounded, irrelevant.

Then his body went airborne.

Limbs flailed, twisting in the air as he tumbled, his form a ragged mess of muscle and failure.

Then he crashed.

A plume of dust shot up where he landed, his body tumbling once, twice, before finally going still.

A beat of silence.

Then – chaos.

The crowd erupted. Warriors howled, fists pounding against chests, teeth bared in a frenzy of bloodlust. Others cursed, throwing pelts and trinkets into the dirt, furious at their lost bets. Some laughed, mocking, jeering, pointing at Kashta's broken form as if he were a spectacle, nothing more than a momentary thrill in an endless cycle of violence.

But Beets wasn't watching Kashta.

He was staring at her.

His nose caught the scent before his eyes fully registered it. A thick, cloying mixture of sweat, burnt meat, and iron-heavy blood. The heat of the festival had turned the air into something stagnant. Rotten. Alive.

Then – the shift.

A ripple of silence moved through the crowd. Not immediate, not forced, but something instinctual. A reaction deeper than thought.

Kashta had landed at the feet of a woman.

She hadn't moved. Not when his body crashed before her. Not when the dust curled around her ankles. Not even to acknowledge his existence.

She stood in stark contrast to the chaos around her.

No crude armor. No furs drenched in battle. No scars earned through war.

Just a cape of Karnoth hide, thick and unblemished, hanging from her shoulders like the pelt of a beast she had never needed to fight. A tiara rested against her forehead, its emerald centerpiece gleaming, untouched by dust or blood.

And her face.

Still. Expressionless. Not neutral, not disinterested – vacant. Her lips neither curled nor tightened. Her eyes neither narrowed nor widened.

She did not judge.

She did not care.

Beets' breath hitched.

No amusement. No disgust. No rage.

Kashta might as well have been a stone at her feet.

Something cold gripped his stomach.

Then – he saw them.

The three behind her.

They did not move.

They did not blink.

They stood as if they had been carved from the very rock beneath them.

And yet – their presence was crushing. A weight pressing into the space around them, shifting the very air with something invisible yet undeniable.

Not warriors.

Not elites.

Monsters.

Fasha's smirk faltered.

The cheers died in Saiyan throats.

The festival, once a living, breathing beast of noise and chaos, fell into a hush so thick it choked.

Someone whispered. Then another.

Beets swallowed, his tongue a dry, useless thing in his mouth.

He didn't know who she was.

But the air itself whispered it to him, in the way the crowd shifted, in the way instincts screamed even when logic faltered.

She was not here to celebrate.

Beets couldn't look away.

The woman stood there, still as a pillar against the storm. The festival swirled around her – dust, heat, the stench of sweat and blood – but none of it touched her. Not truly. As if the world itself bent around her presence.

She wasn't large, not in the way warriors were. Not in the way Kashta had been, all brute mass and battle-worn muscle. No, she carried something far heavier than size.

Authority.

It radiated from her like a heatwave, an unseen force that pressed against the skin. Not a battle aura, not raw ki – but something deeper. Something ingrained.

The way she stood, her back straight, shoulders squared, yet entirely unburdened. As if the very ground was hers to command, as if the space she occupied had always belonged to her.

Her Karnoth hide cape shifted slightly with the wind, its dark, glossy sheen catching the torchlight. Untouched. Unsoiled. Perfect.

And then, her eyes.

Deep black. Bottomless. Not cruel, not kind – simply… absolute.

No flicker of reaction. No trace of emotion. As if she had already accounted for this moment long before it happened.

Kashta's body lay broken at her feet, and she didn't even glance at him. Not in the way a warrior would size up a fallen opponent. Not in the way a predator would appraise its prey.

But in the way a monarch sees a discarded tool.

Beets felt something cold claw up his spine.

Then – her gaze shifted.

It was like being marked.

Not attacked. Not threatened. Simply noticed.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Fasha exhaled sharply, a quiet breath that wasn't quite a sigh. Not frustration. Not amusement. Something else.

Her fingers flexed at her sides, slow, controlled.

Beets swallowed. His throat was tight.

"You… uh, you know her?"

Fasha didn't answer right away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the woman, her usual sharpness dulled into something unreadable.

"Shut up."

Beets blinked. "What – "

"Just shut up."

Her voice was lower than before, quieter. Not a whisper, but close. Like she didn't want to risk being overheard.

Beets shifted, uneasy. His gut twisted, a cold weight pressing against his ribs. His fight with Kashta, the crowd, the laughter – it all felt like a dream already slipping away.

The woman walked closer.

And Fasha didn't move.

The murmurs thickened, voices overlapping like crashing waves.

Beets caught fragments of stories – whispers of conquest and survival, of warriors who had bathed entire battlefields in blood.

"That's Vortan… no doubt about it."

"Tyrant of the Red Wastes," someone muttered, voice hushed like a warning.

"That bastard cracked a Tuffle fortress with his bare hands," another whispered.

Vortan. A juggernaut whose fists had shattered mountains, whose warband had razed five entire villages in a single night. They said he crushed a Tuffle war engine into scrap, then dragged its molten wreckage across enemy lines like a trophy. His name carried weight heavier than iron, a legend built on unrelenting conquest.

"No, it's Harza I'm watching. You see the way he moves?"

Beets followed the pointed glance.

Harza. The Phantom of the Cracked Moon. He wasn't brute force, but whispers and inevitability. He had once slain the Ashfang Tribe's entire leadership in their own stronghold – without a single witness. One by one, warriors and elders alike fell in their sleep, throats opened by an unseen blade. By dawn, the entire tribe knelt before him, their chieftain's severed head resting at their feet. He was a ghost, a warlord of silence.

"Shit, and Deyn too? Why the hell is he here?"

"Means a fight's coming."

Deyn. The Wild Hound of the Black Cliffs. He had no army. He didn't need one. He was a storm of violence, a beast who fought for nothing but the joy of it. They said he once went into battle alone against a rival clan – not to conquer, not for revenge, but simply to see if he could kill them all. And he did. When his kin found him, he stood over a hundred corpses, drenched in blood, laughing.

Beets' stomach twisted. These weren't just warlords.

These were the three strongest chiefs of the surviving sixteen great tribes. The last true powers left standing after King Vegeta and his council had been wiped from existence.

And yet…

They walked behind her.

"Who the hell is she?" a warrior finally voiced what everyone was thinking.

"Where is Turles?"

Beets had no answer. No one did.

She wasn't draped in the pelts of conquered foes. She bore no visible scars, no war paint, no ceremonial armor. Just a flowing Karnoth hide cape, thick and draping, shifting slightly with the wind. A tiara rested on her forehead, polished yet simple, the emerald at its center gleaming beneath the festival torches.

Still. Unreadable. Absolute.

There was no rage in her expression, no amusement, no contempt. Just presence. The kind that made the air feel heavier, like the weight of something inevitable pressing down on them all.

She didn't march. She didn't stomp. Like she belonged at the center of it all.

The festival had been wild, chaotic – a roaring, untamed beast. But now, as they approached the throne, the energy shifted. The warriors weren't just rowdy. They weren't simply drunk.

They were watching.

Not for a fight.

For an answer.

Power Reference:
Beets: 2000 (Rage Boost)

Laath- · Mar 4, 2025

Okay, now that it seems that there's a character already pinning for the MC, I gotta ask if there's gonna be a male romance interest instead of a female one. If that's the case I'll just politely dip out of the story. Nothing wrong with the story itself (I really like it) and I'm fine with yuri it's just that I'm not a fan of f/m romance/smut when the MC is female.

Femto · Mar 4, 2025

Laath- said:
Okay, now that it seems that there's a character already pinning for the MC, I gotta ask if there's gonna be a male romance interest instead of a female one. If that's the case I'll just politely dip out of the story. Nothing wrong with the story itself (I really like it) and I'm fine with yuri it's just that I'm not a fan of f/m romance/smut when the MC is female.

Most likely female. Or gender neutral. Idk yet but the focus of this story is psychological, combat mechanic and kingdom building. Beets just freaking hots for the MC due to her extreme precise body structure.

Also keep in mind. Our MC is mentally a man. He had a daughter and wife in his past life and trying to make amends for it.

Femto · Mar 4, 2025

Minus

The air was thick. Sweat. Musk. Burnt meat. Blood.

Fresh. Stale. Old. New. The scents layered over each other, pressed into the heat, clinging to skin like a second layer. Every breath dragged it deeper into my lungs.

Twenty thousand Saiyans.

Bodies crammed together, muscle against muscle, breath against breath. Warriors—some bruised, some bloodied, some victorious, some looked victorious. Packed so tightly the space barely felt real. They weren't just watching.

They were waiting. I stopped walking.

A ruler does not walk. A ruler fly. A ruler dreams.

The ground no longer held me. Six inches. That was all. No great display. No explosion of power. Just a shift. Just enough.

The reaction was immediate.

Spines stiffened. Eyes sharpened. The chatter dulled, voices thinning, strangled into murmurs. They didn't understand it yet. But they felt it.

The weight. The expectation.

I let them take it in. The way the emerald on my brow gleamed beneath the firelight. The way my cape, thick and heavy, refused to flutter. The way the three figures behind me, Vortan,Dey, and Harza - moved in perfect lockstep, their footfalls heavy. Deliberate. Absolute.

My men. The last great chiefs. The strongest left after the fall of King Vegeta. Men who had only ever stood at the top. And yet, they followed. The throne loomed ahead. Bone-white. Stark against the darkness, against the glow of a hundred torches. The stone beneath it was carved with the stories of old conquests, of battles fought and won.

But that was the past. The silence told me everything.

They didn't know me.

But they would.

I analyzed. Twelve tribes present. Durga. Batodu. Kazkara. Drekkan. Ozarith. Seven more. Makros. Yadren. Khador. Zatran. Volgak. Haskir. Rennak.

I did not sit.

The throne loomed behind me, carved from the bones of some ancient predator, its surface worn smooth by the weight of rulers long buried. The air was thick, damp with the sweat of twenty thousand Saiyans packed into the festival grounds. The scent clung—iron-rich blood, scorched meat, damp pelts, bodies unwashed and unbothered.

Torches lined the upper ridges of the stone walls, their flames snapping in the open air. Shadows warped and twisted along the ground, flickering against the sea of armored figures below. The din of voices pressed in—low murmurs, restless shifting, the occasional bark of laughter as warriors exchanged bets, curses, expectations.

Yet all of it—all of it—was background noise.

Because I could feel the weight of their eyes.

They weren't looking at the throne. They weren't looking at Vortan, or Deyn, or Harza. They weren't looking at the crowned skulls embedded into the arena walls—the silent reminders of what happened to weak kings and failed rulers.

They were looking at me. I did not fidget. I did not move. I let them see.

I exhaled slowly. A deliberate breath.

Vortan stood unmoving at my side. Deyn and Harza did not shift. But the weight of their silence said enough.

Four absent. Four who had refused the call. Four who thought silence was a shield.

It wasn't.

If they would not come willingly, then I would make an example.

I called his name.

"Vortan."

He straightened. Shoulders squared. Back stiffened. Muscles coiled beneath his armor, tense as if preparing for a strike.

"Yes, Emerald One."

I did not look at him. I looked at them.

The twelve. Durga. Batodu. Kazkara. Drekkan. Ozarith. Makros. Yadren. Khador. Zatran. Volgak. Haskir. Rennak.

The missing four.

The ones who thought silence was strength. The ones who thought absence was resistance. The ones who thought I would tolerate it.

I inhaled.

The air was thick, damp with heat, sweat, the acrid bite of charred meat from the feast fires. Twenty thousand bodies pressed close, eyes locked forward, waiting, watching.

I exhaled.

Then I spoke.

"Why is it lacking?"

Silence. A heartbeat. Two. Vortan tensed.

I felt it. The way his breath caught. The way his fingers curled, ever so slightly, at his sides. The way his tail—stiff, rigid—betrayed what his face did not.

"I…" He hesitated. A crack in the iron. "I sent the summons."

His voice was steady. His body was still. But there was something else now, something beneath it—hesitation. I turned my head. Just enough to look at him. Just enough to let the weight settle.

He did not flinch. But I saw it.

The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his jaw flexed, tense, uncertain.

"And yet." My voice was quiet. Too quiet. "They are not here."

Another breath. Another heartbeat. Vortan exhaled through his nose.

"They did not come." A pause. Then, carefully: "I can send another—"

"No."

One word. Sharp. Final. Absolute.

He stopped. I let the silence stretch. Let him feel it. Let them all feel it.

Then I spoke again.

"If they will not come," I said, "then I will go to them."

I rose. Not a step, not a climb—I ascended. Three meters above the ground, above the circle, above the twenty thousand who watched. Eyes widened. Mouths parted. Tails stiffened. The air shifted, thickened, tightened.

A hush. Not of peace, but of pressure of weight.

"As you can see."

My voice carried, not in a shout, not in a roar, but in something far heavier. A presence that pressed into their bones, into their skin, into the very blood that made them Saiyan.

"Today was meant to be the day of Mighty Turles' coronation. The day he would have been crowned King of the Saiyan Kingdom."

A stir. Heads tilted. Brows furrowed. They knew this. Of course, they knew this. But to hear it—to hear it now, in this moment, from me—

I let the silence stretch. Let the expectation settle. Then I continued.

"He was the one who bent the tribes to his will. The one who crushed defiance beneath his boot. The one who stood above all others, not because of blood, not because of birth—"

I let the words hang, let them feel it.

"But because he took it."

A murmur. A ripple. Not of disagreement, but of acknowledgment.

"Turles. The Conqueror. The Usurper. The one who did what no king before him had done. The one who took a shattered people—scattered, divided, leaderless—and forced them into one - as a brat. As a kid."

I spoke his feats.

"He took the Eastern Ridges in less than we could think is possible."

Nods. Warriors murmuring amongst themselves.

"He tore down the banners of the old clans and raised his own in their place."

A bark of laughter. A slap to the back. They remembered.

"He made warriors out of those who once cowered. He made a kingdom out of those who once kneeled."

Eyes gleamed. Blood rushed. He had done that. I saw it. I felt it. The slow burn of pride. The rise of honor. The weight of history.

A pause. A beat. A shift. Because the truth hung over them, whether they wished to acknowledge it or not.

I let the silence stretch. Let them feel it. The weight of it. The absence of it.

Then, I spoke again.

"Turles."

The name alone carried weight. A name that had burned itself into the bones of every Saiyan present.

"The one who took what he desired. The one who forced this world to kneel before him. The one who led, not with words, not with empty promises, but with action. With conquest. With power."

A murmur spread through the gathered warriors, low and reverent. Some nodded, some clenched their fists, some grinned with the sharpness of old memories.

I let them sit with it. Let them recall.

"He was the first to do what no Saiyan before him could."

I lifted my hand, palm open to the sky.

"He crushed the old order. He shattered the weak, the complacent, the stagnant. He raised his banners over the corpses of those who resisted. And not once—"

My voice sharpened, cutting through the murmurs.

"—not once did he bow."

The air shifted. The mood rose. Because they knew. Turles did not kneel. Turles did not yield. Turles did not falter.

"He had taken the Eastern Ridges when no warlord before him could. He had burned the Deepfang Raiders to the ground, leaving nothing but ash and legend. He had forced the twelve great tribes to heel—not through diplomacy, not through compromise, but through power."

I smiled.

"He turned cowards into killers. He turned scattered bands into an army. He turned defeat into empire."

A growl of approval. A fist slammed against a chest. A tail curled, tense with energy.

I could see it—the pull. The slow, creeping rise of pride.

Because it was true.

Turles had done this.

The silence stretched again. Longer this time.

I let it settle. Let it breathe. Let them feel the weight of what had been said.

Then, slowly, I lowered my hand.

"But Turles was not the first."

The murmurs softened. Some expressions stiffened, eyes narrowing. Others merely waited.

Because they already knew where this was going.

I inhaled—slow, measured, deep.

The air was thick with sweat, with dust, with the lingering heat of burnt meat and festival fires.

And beneath it all—something sharper.

Something older. History.

"Before him, there was another."

I descended. Not much. Just enough. My boots barely brushed the stone, hovering just above it.

A deliberate shift. A different tone. A different name.

"King Vegeta the Third."

The response was immediate. A stir. A shift. The atmosphere itself tightened.

The older warriors—those who had seen the past with their own eyes—straightened. The younger ones, those who had only heard the stories, leaned in.

I continued.

"The Savior of the Sadala Capital."

More than a title. More than a name. A symbol. I saw it in their faces. In the brief of memory, of reverence, of something dangerously close to longing.

"The warrior who bled for this world before any of you were even born. The one who fought the Tuffles—not for a day, not for a year, but for decades."

I let the word settle. Because decades meant something to them. Saiyans did not fight long wars.

Saiyans conquered.

"He was the one who carved purpose from chaos. The one who forged warbands into legions. The one who took a race of scattered killers and made them something more."

A breath. A pause.

"He gave us a name."

The shift was palpable. Not loud. Not riotous. But real. In the way some warriors nodded, ever so slightly. In the way others tensed, eyes sharp, spines straight. Because that was the truth, wasn't it? Before King Vegeta, the Saiyans had no purpose. They had no kingdom.

They had nothing. And he had changed that. He had built them. He had defined them. And for all his failures, for all his mistakes—he had made them more than they were. I looked at them. The twenty thousand gathered. Packed together, shoulder to shoulder, tail to tail. They could feel it now. The weight of what came before.And the unspoken question of what came next.

The weight in the air did not lessen. It only grew. Thicker. Heavier. Absolute.

And they felt it. Because they had no choice but to.

I let my gaze sweep over them, twenty thousand warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, pressed together like a great, restless tide. They stood on the soil their ancestors bled for. In the capital their people built from nothing but will and war.

They waited. They listened. Because this was not just a festival. This was a reckoning. I exhaled, slow. Deliberate.

"And yet—"

A flicker of movement. A shift in posture.

"For all his strength."

Tails bristled. Hands clenched.

"For all his victories."

The warriors held still.

"For all that he built…"

A heartbeat. A pause. A moment stretched thin like a drawn bowstring.

"It was not enough."

The words rang out, clear as a battle horn. A ripple of unrest spread through the gathered Saiyans—low growls, stiffened shoulders, eyes that burned with something raw.

They did not want to hear it. But they knew it was true. Because they had seen it. Because they had lived it.

I did not stop.

"But before there was failure—"

The tone shifted. The tension cracked, replaced by something older. Something greater.

"There was a man."

Their breath hitched. Their postures straightened, chests rising, spines stiffening.

"There was a king."

Their eyes sharpened.

"There was Vegeta the Third."

The shift was instant.

The name alone carried weight. It rang through the space like the clash of steel, like the roar of battle, like the very foundation of what they stood upon. I let the name settle. Let it sink into their bones.

And then, I spoke again.

"The Savior of the Sadala Capital."

A murmur ran through the warriors.

"The one who fought the Tuffles for decades—who faced their war machines, their weapons, their endless hordes and did not bend."

Their silence deepened. Their stances hardened.

"The one who refused to kneel."

There. There it was. A single truth that burned in their blood, that twisted in their chests, that made them Saiyan.

"When the war dragged on, when the sky itself burned, when our people were scattered like ashes on the wind—"

A slow inhale. A sharp exhale.

"He did not run."

A warrior grunted in approval. Another nodded, jaw tight, tail flicking in restrained emotion.

"When the enemy pressed forward, when the Tuffles sought to erase us, when they demanded our surrender—"

I let my voice rise, not in volume, but in weight.

"He did not yield."

A growl. A fist pounding against a chestplate.

"When the last stronghold stood, when all seemed lost, when there was no one left to fight—"

I met their gazes, one by one.

"He fought alone."

The silence was no longer empty. It was filled. With memory. With pride. With the unshakable, undeniable truth.

And then— A voice from the crowd.

Rough. Fierce. Saiyan.

"King Vegeta stood when no one else could."

Another joined.

"King Vegeta fought until the bitter end."

More.

"He gave us war."

"He gave us a future."

"He gave us our pride."

The tension cracked—not into fear, not into doubt, but into something greater. Into remembrance.

I breathed in, slow.

And then, with finality—

"He made the Saiyans more than scattered tribes. More than warriors fighting for scraps. He made us a Kingdom."

A fist slammed against a chestplate. Then another. Then another. The sound built. Grew. Became thunder.

Because they remembered. Because he had made them remember. And I let them. Because this—this—was how you ruled a people.

The air changed. A ripple in the mass of bodies. A disturbance in the storm. A figure shot forward, fast, controlled, deliberate. Not reckless, not some nameless warrior drunk off festival spirits, but someone who mattered.

Someone they knew. A heavy thud. Boots skidding against stone. The weight of his landing sent dust curling up around him. People recognized him. They all recognized him. The murmur spread, thick with something close to reverence. A name passed through lips, quiet at first, then louder, swelling like a tide.

"Rokann."

"The Chief of Yadren."

"The Iron Fang."

"The Warlord of the Black Flood."

Admiration flickered in their gazes. Yadren was no minor tribe. Mid-sized, yes, but never weak. The Iron Fang had led them through blood and fire, through feuds and conquest. Respected. Feared. Unyielding.

He stood before me.

Broad-shouldered, battle-worn, every inch a Saiyan chief. His armor bore the scars of a hundred fights, the edges of his pauldrons chipped and worn, but the way he carried himself—the way he stood—left no doubt.

But when he spoke—

There was no respect.

"Where the fuck is King Turles?"

His voice was a growl, guttural, sharp, slicing through the air like a drawn blade.

The crowd flinched.

"And who the fuck are you to stand in front?"

The festival pulsed.

Tails bristled. Teeth clenched. The warriors of Yadren stiffened, their gazes locked on me, waiting, watching. I let the silence stretch. Because silence—was power. Because a ruler who answered too quickly, too easily, lost more than words.

So I floated there. Above him. Above them all. I let him feel the difference. His tail flicked in irritation. His stance squared. He did not like waiting. But he would. Because this was not a battlefield where strength alone dictated the outcome.

This was a throne. And he was beginning to realize—he was speaking to something greater.

Rokann's scowl deepened. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into loose fists. His tail lashed once, twice, a sharp snap against the ground.

"You float above us like some fucking Tuffle king." His voice carried, sharp and cutting. "Like you think you're above us. Like you think we should kneel."

A murmur spread through the crowd, rippling outward.

"She doesn't even stand on the ground—"

"Where's Turles?!"

"What right does she have to speak in front of us?!"

The pressure shifted. The air thickened. Saiyans were fickle, their loyalty a fire that burned hot—but could just as easily turn into a wildfire consuming all in its path.

And I could feel it turning.

"You speak of kings, but you ain't one." Rokann spat at the ground. "You ain't even a chief."

A chorus of agreement. Grunts of approval.

"Where was she when Turles was carving through the tribes?!"

"Where was she when King Vegeta stood against the Tuffles?!"

"Where was she when our warriors bled and died?!"

More voices. More unrest. Saiyans were never passive listeners. They were fire, chaos, war in human form. And right now—they were rallying. They smelled weakness. Not in me. But in uncertainty.

I could feel the heat of their rising tempers. The shift of bodies as warriors bristled, muscles tensed, some even stepping forward as if preparing for a fight.

I did not move. I did not react.

I let them build. Let them stoke their own flames, feeding off each other's rage, their misplaced loyalty to a king who wasn't here.

Rokann scoffed, stepping forward, his tail thrashing behind him, stirring up the dust beneath his boots. His eyes, dark and sharp, bore into mine with barely concealed contempt. The thick, musky scent of sweat, blood, and roasted meat from the festival fires lingered in the air, but it was the tension—the rising heat of collective resentment—that made the space feel suffocating.

"Who the fuck even are you?" His voice rang out, cutting through the uneasy silence like a blade. He spread his arms wide, gesturing toward the gathered warriors, toward the thousands packed together like animals waiting for a spectacle. "Floating up there like you're some kind of queen—like you think you're above us."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, low at first, then growing, swelling, rolling into something dangerous.

"Yeah, who is she?" a gruff voice barked from the throng.

"Where's Turles?!" another shouted, fists clenched, teeth bared.

"Where the hell is our king?"

Rokann's lip curled, his fangs glinting beneath the firelight. He took another step forward, emboldened by the growing wave of unrest. "You talk big, but I don't see a warrior. I don't see a leader. I see a nameless bitch too afraid to plant her feet on the ground like the rest of us."

The insult was like a match to dry tinder.

A guttural growl of approval rose from the warriors around him.

"She thinks she's better than us!" a voice snapped, filled with spite.

"Just another weakling pretending to be strong!"

"A fucking nobody!"

Laughter erupted—harsh, unrestrained, crackling through the festival air like a violent storm. It wasn't the laughter of amusement. It was the laughter of wolves circling wounded prey, teeth flashing, eyes alight with the thrill of an easy kill.

Saiyans didn't whisper their insults. They didn't hold back. They tore into weakness, ripped it apart with their words, their fists, their very presence. To stand before them was to stand before a pack of wild beasts—hungry, waiting, searching for the first sign of fear.

Vortan shifted. I felt it—the barest pull of energy, the tensing of his muscles, the flicker of intent. He was going to step forward.

"Supreme Ruler, let me—"

"Shut up, Vortan."

The words cut through the air like steel. Cold. Final.

Vortan froze. The crowd did too.

A chieftain—the Chief Commander—silenced with a single command. It confused them, threw them off, made them hesitate when they should have been riling themselves up for blood. The jeering wavered. The laughter stilled. The crack of uncertainty splintered through their bravado.

I laughed. Loud. Mocking.

Not a chuckle. Not soft amusement. Not restrained control. No, I laughed. A raw, scornful, fanged snarl of a thing, a laugh that spilled out of me like a blade dragging across flesh. A laugh that cut.

I saw it. The flickers of anger. The curling of lips. The clenched fists. The twitching tails. They didn't like it. They hated it.

Good.

"Who am I?"

I echoed, tilting my head, eyes sharp, grin sharper. I let the words settle, let them hang in the air like a blade before the drop. Then I breathed in deep, slow, steady—felt the weight of the moment press down on them.

"No."

The crowd tensed.

"Who are you to ask me?"

And then I let go. Power surged.

Not just any power—mine. My Optimizer unfurled, no longer held back, no longer suppressed, no longer contained. It didn't explode outward like an uncontrolled blast—no, it expanded, filled every space, every crevice, every breath of air like an inevitability.

The ground shuddered. The festival torches flickered. A hum filled the air—not a sound, not a noise, but something deeper, something felt rather than heard, something pressing into bones and rattling nerves and setting every Saiyan's instincts on fire.

Then—gravity. Heavy. Crushing. A force they couldn't fight.

Their bodies faltered. Their knees buckled. Some staggered, others dropped entirely—hands slamming into the trembling earth as their spines bent against the pressure. I saw them grit their teeth, saw them fight, saw them struggle just to stand.

"Tch—!" someone hissed through clenched fangs.

"What the fuck—?!"

"She's—what is this—"

"I can't—my legs—!"

The disbelief. The fear. It crawled into their voices, into their expressions, into the twitching, desperate flicker of their eyes.

Good. I moved. No sound. No wasted motion. No hesitation. One instant I was hovering. The next—I was there. Directly in front of Rokann.

His pupils shrunk.

"Hhh—!"

My hand wrapped around his throat. Not gently. Not firmly. Brutally. Fingers locking in like a vice, like a snare, like something unstoppable. A single motion—swift, effortless—I scooped him from the ground. His feet left the earth.

His arms flailed. His body convulsed. I slammed him down.

The impact sent a shockwave through the ground. A crater formed beneath him, dust and debris blasting outward, cracks splintering through the stone.

Rokann gasped. His hands clawed at my wrist. His legs kicked, useless, frantic, pathetic. I leaned in, voice dropping, soft, sharp, venomous.

"You don't use your brain much, do you?"

I squeezed. His body jerked.

"Did you think barking the loudest would make you the strongest?"

I lifted him—then slammed him back down. Harder.

"Did you think throwing insults would make you worth something?"

His tail lashed, his fingers trembled, his breath came in ragged, choking gasps.

"You stood before me—me—and thought your words meant something?"

I tilted my head. Smiled.

"How pathetic."

The crowd?

Silent.

I didn't stop. I wouldn't stop.

I looked down at Rokann—this so-called chieftain, this so-called warrior, this so-called man—and I saw it. The struggle. The disbelief. The crack forming in his pride. His hands still clawed at my wrist, his legs still kicked, his body still fought, but it wasn't real anymore. It wasn't resistance. It was instinct.

Because he knew. He knew. He had already lost.

"Rokann."

I said his name slowly, deliberately, like I was testing the weight of it, like I was deciding whether it was even worth speaking. My grip didn't loosen. My voice didn't rise. I didn't need to shout. Not when every word already pressed into the air like iron.

"Rokann of the Yadren Tribe. Rokann the Warrior. Rokann the Conqueror. Rokann the one who stood over the broken bodies of Tuffles and made them kneel."

His teeth bared in a snarl. His eyes burned with fury. He hated hearing that. He hated hearing the truth in my voice.

"Yes." I tilted my head, watching him, watching the rage and shame and helplessness twist together like poison in his gut.

"You were strong, weren't you? You were feared. You crushed the Tuffles. You raid cities. You led your people through blood and war and made your name something to be spoken with respect."

A pause. A heartbeat. A moment where I let him feel it—the weight of his past, the weight of who he was compared to what he is now.

Then I laughed.

"And yet—"

I slammed him down again. Dust shot into the air. Cracks webbed through the earth.

"—here you are—"

I lifted him again, held him high, made sure everyone could see, made sure everyone could witness.

"—choking—"

I squeezed. His legs twitched.

"—gasping—"

His mouth opened, but no words came.

"—weak—"

His tail went limp.

"What happened, Rokann?" I leaned. "What happened to that mighty warrior? What happened to the man who stood proud and took what he wanted?"

I turned my head, gaze sweeping over the crowd—the twenty thousand who had laughed, who had jeered, who had dared to insult me.

"What happened to all of you?"

No one spoke. No one moved.

Good.

"I expected warriors," I said, voice cutting through the silence. "I expected fighters. I expected Saiyans who knew how to recognize strength when it was in front of them. I expected something worth ruling."

I scoffed, turning back to Rokann, shaking my head.

"But instead, I find this. A chieftain who barks louder than he bites. A man who thinks his past victories mean anything to me. A fool who stands before something greater and refuses to see it."

I lifted him higher.

"Tell me, Rokann—" My voice was soft now, almost gentle. "Did you really think you could stand against me? Did you really believe—"

I looked him in the eye, dared him to answer, dared him to lie to me, dared him to pretend he still had an ounce of pride left.

I smiled.

"—that you were my equal?"

Silence.

Nothing but the sound of his ragged breath. Nothing but the weight of my words pressing down on the entire gathering like a storm on the horizon.

Then, finally, I let go. Rokann collapsed. And I stepped over him.

I rose.

Above them. Above their doubts. Above their disbelief. And I let them see me.

Let them see the emerald glow pulsing through my veins, threading through my body like liquid fire, shifting, adapting, growing. Let them feel the air tighten, the dust swirl, the very world itself responding to my presence.

I let them feel the weight of what stood before them.

Then, I spoke.

"Before you judge me—"

A pause. A breath. A moment stretched taut with tension.

"—let's get something straight."

I descended slowly, deliberate in every movement, my presence pressing down on them like an unseen force, heavy, suffocating, inescapable.

"I am Gine."

No movement. No sound. Only listening.

"But none of you will call me that."

The shift was palpable. Unease flickered in their expressions, in the stiffening of shoulders, in the tightening of tails.

"You will address me as your Supreme Ruler, your Monarch, your Apex. I am above you. I am beyond you. I stand at the peak while you scramble in the dirt, clawing at a throne you will never reach."

A flicker of movement. A clenched jaw. A coiled tail.

Good.

"You remember, don't you?"

Tension rippled through them, thick and stifling.

"You remember the Emerald Catastrophe."

The silence deepened. Muscles locked. Eyes darkened.

"You remember the screams. The blood. The bodies. You remember how your homes were turned to ash, how the sky burned red with fire and death."

A murmur. A few shifting glances.

"You remember—"

A pulse of Ki. A gust of wind. A tremor in the earth beneath them.

"—how King Vegeta and his War Council were annihilated in a single instant, their power nothing more than dust that."

A sharp inhale. A flicker of fear.

"You remember how the Tuffles weren't just defeated—"

I took a step forward, my presence crackling in the air, pressing against them like an unseen weight.

"—they were erased. Reduced to nothing. Their legacy scattered to the winds."

Someone muttered under their breath. No one dared speak louder.

"And now—"

I descended fully, boots striking the stone with a force that sent a ripple through the ground.

"—your newly appointed King Turles has been crushed beneath my feet."

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Absolute. Then I inhaled. And my Ki surged.

Not in wild chaos, not in reckless destruction, but in something worse. In control. In refinement. In perfect, unwavering precision. It expanded outward, an emerald radiance spiraling through the air, shifting, evolving, adjusting to their fear, their hesitation, their understanding.

I let them see. I let them feel.

"I am the Emerald Calamity."

I raised a hand, letting the glow intensify, letting it reflect in their widened eyes.

"I am the Emerald Emperor."

The air thickened. The wind howled. The earth groaned beneath us. And they knew. They knew.

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Anger. Rage. Hatred. It bled into the air, thick and seething, a beast with a thousand voices, a thousand accusations.

"You destroyed our homes!"

"You slaughtered our people!"

"You wiped out everything we had!"

Their fury cracked like a whip, voices rising, bodies tensing, the heat of their collective Ki simmering beneath the surface. I let them speak. I let them rage.

Then, I raised my hand. Not a shout. Not a threat. Just a single, precise movement.

The ground trembled, dust rippling outward from where I hovered. The air tightened, as if space itself had drawn taut around them. Gravity deepened, pressing onto their shoulders, a whisper of the force I could unleash.

It was not violence. It was not destruction. It was authority.

"You think I did this because I was stronger?"

My voice was even. Steady. The kind of calm that swallowed storms whole.

"You think I razed your homes, slaughtered your kin, reduced your world to ruin—on a whim?"

I let the words hang. Let them linger. Let them sink in.

"I was fighting…"

A flicker of hesitation. Confusion curling at the edges of their anger.

"I was fighting an enemy that could have shattered this world. An enemy that, if left unchecked, would have burned every last one of you from existence."

I took a step forward.

Deliberate. Measured.

"You think I chose to let your homes crumble? You think I wanted to see your families turned to ash?"

My Ki flickered. A pulse of emerald light, coiling around me, thrumming with restrained power.

"I did not fight for myself. I did not fight for conquest. I fought because if I had not—"

I let the pressure rise, let them feel the ghost of that battle, the sheer, crushing force of what it had taken to stand against that foe.

"—there would have been nothing left to mourn."

Silence.

Their fury did not vanish, but it wavered. The foundation of their anger cracked, the edges of their certainty fraying.

"You call me a destroyer, but you fail to see the truth. If I had not fought—if I had let that battle go unanswered—"

The wind howled. The earth beneath us pulsed, as if remembering.

"—there would be no Saiyan Kingdom left to rebuild."

The weight of my words settled over them. Heavy. Inescapable.

Some still glared. Some still clenched their fists.

But others… others listened.

I watched them. Their eyes burned with anger, but beneath it—uncertainty. Doubt.

Good.

"You curse me for the destruction. But tell me—who among you could have done better?"

I let my gaze sweep across them, daring one of them—any of them—to step forward.

"Who among you could have faced what I faced and emerged victorious?"

Hush.

"Who among you could have reasoned with a beast that could not be reasoned with?"

The wind howled, carrying the weight of my words across the gathered Saiyans.

"You see only the aftermath. You see only the ruins, the losses, the scars left behind."

My Ki pulsed—deep, steady, controlled. Not an outburst. Not a threat. A reminder.

"But you do not see what would have happened had I not fought."

I stepped forward, the air around me tightening, the pressure mounting—not crushing, but undeniable.

"I fought a monster."

My voice cut through the air, even and sharp as a blade.

"A force that would have annihilated this world if I had let it."

I let that truth sink into them, let it settle in their bones.

"You say I destroyed your homes? If I had not fought, you would have had no world left to stand on."

I saw it in their faces. The realization. The slow, creeping understanding that the destruction they hated me for was the price paid to keep them breathing.

I exhaled.

"And you hate me for it."

A pause.

Then, softer, colder—

"Fine."

I lifted my chin, my emerald aura flickering with controlled intensity.

"Hate me."

I let the words linger, wrapping around them, pressing into their hearts like a vice.

"Curse my name. Spit on my existence."

A long, heavy silence.

Then—

"But know this."

My Ki flared. The ground beneath me cracked, the very air trembled, the pressure of my presence pressing into them like an undeniable truth.

"I protected this planet. I protected you."

A pause.

"And I will do it again."

I laughed, inside. A sharp, knowing laugh.

Because I saw it now. In the way their fists clenched. In the way their eyes wavered.

I had them. Even if they refused to admit it—I had them.

I exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch, letting them feel the weight of what I was about to say. Thousands of Saiyans stood before me, warriors by birth, fighters by instinct, but I saw them for what they truly were.

"You call yourselves warriors."

The words carried across the gathering, smooth, deliberate. A single spark before the fire.

"You think you fight because you are strong. Because it is your nature. Because you are Saiyan. But tell me—what have your battles built?"

A pause. No answers.

"You fight. You kill. You conquer. You burn your enemies and take what is theirs. And then? You move on. You leave nothing behind but ruins and corpses, nothing ahead but the next war."

I took a slow step forward, floating just above them, looking down not in arrogance, but in judgment.

"You think this is the way of strength? No. This is the way of animals."

Tension. Anger. I saw fists clench. Teeth grit. Good. Let them feel it.

"A warrior builds. A warrior protects. A warrior fights for something more than the thrill of battle."

My emerald aura pulsed—controlled, deliberate.

"But you?" I shook my head, laughing. "You are not warriors. You are beasts with sharpened claws, nothing more than predators chasing the next kill. You kill because you can. Because you know nothing else."

I pointed toward the vast landscape beyond, the broken ruins, the remains of what once was.

"Look around you. Look at what your 'strength' has won you. A world of dust and bone. A history of blood and nothing else. Where are your monuments? Your great halls? Your legacy? Where is the future?"

My voice hardened.

"King Vegeta the Third is dead. Turles is dead. Their era is dead."

A hush fell over them.

"Do you know why?"

I let them sit in their silence.

"Because they were leaders of nothing. Because this… this endless cycle of war and slaughter, of battle for battle's sake—it leads nowhere. Because you, as you are, are a race already defeated. Not by me. Not by the Tuffles. But by your own blind, savage ignorance."

The words struck deep. I could see it, the way some of them faltered, the way the weight of it pressed into them.

"You are not warriors. You are not even a people. You are a weapon swinging wildly with no hand to guide it. And a weapon with no wielder?"

I raised my palm, fingers curling into a fist.

"Is already broken."

I let the words sink in.

The weight of them settled over the crowd like a storm rolling in—slow, suffocating, undeniable. I could hear the way their breath hitched, the way some shifted uneasily where they stood. The fire of instinct, of anger, burned in their eyes, but beneath it, something deeper stirred. Something they didn't want to acknowledge.

Doubt.

I saw it in the way their fists loosened, in the flicker of hesitation in their expressions. It was an unfamiliar thing for them, wasn't it? To question. To think beyond the next fight. The next conquest.

"You feel it, don't you?" I said softly.

A ripple went through them.

"That small, nagging thing clawing at the back of your skull. That thing telling you I am right. That thing makes you wonder—" I gestured to the wasteland around us, "—if this is all there is."

Silence. The kind that weighed heavy. The kind that meant something.

Then, a voice—small, hoarse, from somewhere in the crowd.

"What are we supposed to do, then?"

I turned my gaze toward the source, a young Saiyan, his brow furrowed, his tail twitching with restless uncertainty. Others turned to look at him too, as if the very act of asking such a thing was dangerous. As if even entertaining the thought was a betrayal of what they were.

I exhaled, slow and measured. Then, I met his gaze.

"You learn."

The word rang out, sharp, cutting.

"You evolve. You become more than what they told you that you are."

I spread my arms, my aura pulsing—calm, contained, yet undeniable.

"You think strength is in battle alone? You think power is only in the fist? No. Power is in building, in creating, in shaping something greater than yourself. In leaving something behind that does not crumble to dust when you die."

I let my hand drop, fingers curling slightly as my voice lowered, steady, firm.

"The era of warriors with no purpose is over. The era of beasts pretending to be men is done."

My gaze swept across them, locking onto every doubter, every believer, every soul standing at the edge of something they did not yet understand.

"You are not just Saiyans anymore."

I let the words hang there, heavy, final.

"You are something greater—if you have the will to claim it."

I let the silence stretch, let the weight of my words coil around them like an unseen force. Let them feel it. Let them wrestle with it. The instinct to reject, to resist—to deny—warred with the flickering ember of something deeper. Something they had never known to crave.

"I, your Sovereign, will lead you to something more."

The words rolled over them, slow, deliberate, undeniable.

"Beyond this place. Beyond this planet. Beyond the limits you have shackled yourselves to."

My voice did not rise, but it did not need to. It cut through the air like a blade, slicing through years of blind tradition, through the hollow echoes of battles fought and forgotten.

"You believe yourselves warriors, but tell me—where has it led you? What have your fathers and their fathers before them built?"

The wind howled, whipping dust through the sea of bodies before me. I saw their eyes, burning with the remnants of defiance, of pride—but beneath it, doubt.

"You fight. You kill. You die. And then?"

I let my gaze sweep over them, catching every flinch, every tightened jaw, every flicker of hesitation.

"You become nothing."

A ripple of unease spread through the crowd. They wanted to argue. They wanted to reject my words. But they could not. Because they knew.

"You call yourselves a warrior race, but tell me—what war have you truly won?"

A murmur. A shift in the air. I pressed forward.

"The Tuffles conquered your tribes before you ever knew the taste of victory. King Vegeta fought for decades just to take back what was already yours. And Turles? He did what no other could. He forged order from chaos, made you stand together. But even he—"

I let the silence bite.

"—fell beneath my feet."

Tension coiled like a drawn bowstring. Fury warred with the cold bite of reality.

"Your so-called strength has never been your own. You have never owned your fate. You have been weapons, pointed in whatever direction the strongest commanded."

I let my energy flare—not wild, not reckless, but vast. A controlled storm pressing down on them, making them feel, for the first time, how small their strength truly was.

"But today, that changes."

A sharp intake of breath from the masses.

"Follow me, and I will take you beyond the cage you have lived in. Follow me, and I will make the name Saiyan mean more than bloodshed, more than battle, more than a cycle that has led you nowhere. Follow me—"

I let the words strike deep.

"—and you will become something more."

A silence so thick it clung to the air, stretched between us, wrapped around their throats like a noose.

Twenty thousand Saiyans stood before me—soldiers, killers, warriors by birth. And yet, for all their strength, all their bloodshed, all their battles won and lost, they had nothing. Nothing.

"For generations, you have fought. For generations, you have killed. And for generations, you have died. But tell me—" I let my gaze sweep over them, sharp as a blade, "what have you won?"

My aura surged. The air thickened, the weight of my presence pressing against them, making the ground groan, the sky tremble. Some dropped to a knee, not out of choice, but because their bodies refused to stand against it.

"You are not warriors. You are not soldiers. You are weapons. Forged for battle, wielded by others, used until you break. But a weapon without a master is useless. A sword without a hand to guide it is nothing but cold steel waiting to rust."

I let the hush drag. Let them feel the emptiness of their past, the hollowness of their so-called victories.

Then I gave them something else.

"But that ends today."

My voice rang out, cutting through the silence like a war cry.

"I am not asking for your loyalty. I am claiming it. I am not offering you freedom. I am giving you purpose. Follow me, and I will take you beyond this wasteland, beyond this planet, beyond the limits of your ancestors' failures. Follow me, and I will make you more than warriors, more than killers, more than tools for someone else's war—I will make you rulers of yourselves."

The hush turned electric, heavy with something new. Hunger. Hope.

"But know this—" I turned to Vortan, my gaze locking onto his, unyielding.

A silent command. A judgment passed. The four absent chieftains would not see another sunrise. Failure to comply was treason.

Vortan did not speak. He did not hesitate.

He simply nodded.

Apparently I'm feeling good about the speech I'm making for my client's team building - so I also made one for this fic. Thanks for reading. Bunch watchers - let's goo!

ender0116 · Mar 4, 2025

Can't wait to see Fasha's reaction to being labeled a planetary danger.

Femto · Mar 4, 2025

ender0116 said:
Can't wait to see Fasha's reaction to being labeled a planetary danger.

What a troll. Haha. I mean that's justified given that she cannot reasoned with during their battle.

dxdragon · Mar 4, 2025

Hahaha, go Gine! Uniting the people while passing off the destruction as the price of salvation. Giving them all a purpose to strive for.

Fasha: "What have I done!?"

Gine: "Yeah, I fought against a Calamity that would destroy the world. The Calamity? Myself when I lost control and became nothing but a Beast."

Thanks for the chapter!

Femto · Mar 4, 2025

dxdragon said:
Hahaha, go Gine! Uniting the people while passing off the destruction as the price of salvation. Giving them all a purpose to strive for.

Fasha: "What have I done!?"

Gine: "Yeah, I fought against a Calamity that would destroy the world. The Calamity? Myself when I lost control and became nothing but a Beast."

Thanks for the chapter!

Fasha might be vomiting blood right now - given that Gine is speaking with straight face haha.

Femto · Mar 4, 2025

Minus

The chair was comfortable. A rarity in this world of bone and stone.

I had made it myself - stitched, woven, built. The fabric came from a Dratharox, a six-legged beast with quilled spines sharp enough to flay careless hunters. Its carcass had been useful. Its hide beneath me. Its bones reforged into tools. Its flesh long devoured. Nothing was wasted. I sat by the window. My desk was uneven, but it was mine - sanded, sturdy, meant to last.

The paper before me was progress. The paper before me was mine. I had been developing it rapidly - a writing system, a foundation, a future.

Crude scratches on stone would no longer be enough. Memory would no longer be enough.

If we were to be something greater, we had to record. Luckily they have semblance of writing on their own.

Which was why they were here. Harza. Vortan. Deyn.

Three warlords. Three conquerors. And not one of them looked at ease.

Harza exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders rolling as if shaking off tension. He held the inkstick in his palm like a blade, thick fingers curled too tightly around it. Too tightly. It would snap if he wasn't careful.

Vortan's fingers tapped against the parchment. A steady, restless rhythm. His eyes flicked from me to the paper and back.

Deyn shifted his weight from foot to foot. Never still. Never settled. The paper in his hands crinkled, edges already bent from how he held it. His nostrils flared slightly, lips parting as if he wanted to speak - then pressing shut just as quickly.

Three warlords. Three conquerors.

Now, they were like elementary students.

I leaned forward, resting my fingers on the desk. The paper crinkled slightly beneath my touch.

"I asked you all here for a reason," I said. "Do you know why?"

Harza shifted his weight. His grip on the inkstick tightened. Too tight. Vortan's fingers stilled on the parchment, the steady tap-tap-tap abruptly stopping. Deyn exhaled, a sharp breath through his nose, but said nothing.

They didn't know. I let the silence stretch. Let it settle. Let them feel the weight of their own ignorance.

Then I spoke.

"That," I said, "is the problem."

I slid the papers toward them, the rough parchment whispering against the wood. They hesitated. Then, slowly, they reached out. Calloused fingers, battle-worn hands, taking something unfamiliar.

Not a weapon. Not a strategy. Not a decree for war.

Just paper.

Then I turned the next sheet over, revealing the flowchart. Boxes. Arrows. Connections. Structure.

Their eyes flicked across the page. Flicked. Stopped. Stared.

"This," I said, tapping the chart, "is a society."

Harza scoffed, lips curling back like I'd placed something rotten in front of him.

"Looks like a game."

I didn't look away. "Look closer."

Vortan did. His sharp gaze traced the lines, the hierarchy laid out in defined steps. Order. Function. Logic.

Deyn frowned, rolling the paper slightly in his hands. "We already have roles," he muttered. "Warriors fight. Hunters hunt. The strong lead. The weak follow."

I met his gaze. Held it. Let the silence stretch.

Then I spoke.

"That's not a society. That's a pack of wild dogs."

Deyn's fingers twitched. His jaw tightened. But he said nothing.

I leaned forward. My voice even. Measured. Cutting.

"You fight. You kill. You take. But when the dust settles, when the blood dries - then what? What happens when there's no battle? What happens when there's nothing left to conquer?"

Silence.

Harza exhaled sharply through his nose. "Then we fight again. We get stronger. That's what Saiyans do."

I tilted my head. "And what happens when you die?"

His brow furrowed.

I gestured to the chart. "This isn't about strength. This is about function. About civilization. About building something that lasts beyond one battle, beyond one generation. A system where warriors aren't just brutes swinging their fists, but leaders, tacticians, protectors. A system where the strong don't just fight - they guide. The weak don't just exist - they contribute."

Deyn scoffed. "And if they don't?"

"Then they die," I said simply.

That shut him up.

Vortan studied me, fingers tapping the desk again. Tap. Tap. Tap. A slow, restless rhythm.

"You want to force structure onto Saiyans," he said, voice quiet but steady. "Force a system where there's only ever been instinct."

I met his gaze. "Instinct is the beginning. Not the end."

Harza crossed his arms, muscles coiling, tension in his stance. "You talk like you're making us something we're not."

"I'm making you something more than what you are."

I tapped the chart again. Once. Twice.

"Strength without structure is destruction. A beast tears through everything in its path, but a builder? A builder creates. And in the end, the builder outlasts the beast."

Deyn let out a breath. "Saiyans don't build."

"They didn't," I corrected. "But they will."

Vortan's tapping slowed. Harza stared at the paper, unmoving. Deyn shifted, rolling his shoulders like he needed to shake off a weight he didn't understand.

They weren't convinced. Not yet. But they were listening.

That's progress.

I tapped the chart again. Once. Twice. A steady rhythm against the wood.

"You say warriors fight. Hunters hunt. The strong lead. The weak follow." I glanced at Deyn. "That's the way it's always been, right?"

He nodded slowly. I nodded back, like I agreed. Like I understood. Then I shattered it.

"But what happens when the strong die?"

Harza's brow twitched.

I leaned forward. "What happens when the leader falls? When the warriors are wiped out? When the hunters don't return? What happens then?"

No answer.

I gestured at the flowchart. "This - this - is what happens. Roles. Structure. A system that ensures that if one man falls, another takes his place. A system that ensures we don't collapse the moment one battle doesn't go our way."

Harza exhaled, slow and sharp. "We don't lose."

I laughed. Short. Cold. "You do. You just don't survive long enough to see the consequences."

I pressed forward.

"What happens when a war lasts longer than one generation? What happens when a leader dies before naming a successor? What happens when a battle is won, but the warriors are too wounded to fight again?"

I leaned back, letting the weight of my words settle. Letting them feel the emptiness in their own logic.

"You've never thought that far, have you?"

Vortan's fingers tapped against the desk again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Faster this time. His eyes flicked over the chart again, brow furrowing.

"Say we do this," he said slowly. "Say we follow it. What does it give us?"

I raised a brow. "A future."

Harza scoffed. "We don't need a future. We need strength."

I tilted my head. "And what is strength without direction? Without purpose? A man can swing his fists all his life, but if he's swinging at nothing, what does it matter?"

Deyn shifted. "You're saying we're swinging at nothing?"

I held his gaze. "I'm saying you don't even know what you're aiming for."

The silence that followed was different. Heavier.

They were warriors. They were killers. They knew how to fight. But for the first time, they were realizing that wasn't enough.

I pressed harder.

"We say we're strong," I said. "But tell me - what have we built? What do we have to show for it?"

I let the words sink in. Let them see the answer for themselves.

Nothing. No cities. No records. No inventions. No lasting legacy. The Tuffles had left behind ruins. The Saiyans?

I let the silence stretch. Let them sit in it. Let them feel it.

The wind howled outside, rattling the walls. A distant fire crackled in the brazier. The scent of scorched meat lingered in the air, thick and heavy. No one spoke. No one moved.

Then, I moved.

I leaned forward, slow, deliberate, pressing my palm flat against the chart. The parchment crinkled beneath my fingers.

"You say we need strength," I said. My voice was even, measured, cutting. "Fine. Then tell me – what is the strongest thing a Saiyan has ever built?"

Harza's mouth opened. A warrior, he was about to say. I saw it in the way his muscles tensed, the way his shoulders squared, the way he braced for the argument he thought was coming.

I didn't let him speak.

"It wasn't a warrior," I said. "It was a nation."

A pause. A crack in their certainty. Small, but there.

I pressed harder.

"Our ancestors," I said, my voice steady, "did not survive by fighting alone. They did not thrive by killing alone. They hunted, but they stored their food. They fought, but they built walls. They conquered, but they protected what they took. They did not fight just to fight. They fought for something."

I let that settle.

"A warrior dies. A leader falls. A tribe scatters. But a nation?" I let my fingers drag across the parchment. "A nation stands. A nation endures. A nation is not strong for a moment – it is strong forever."

Vortan shifted, his fingers tapping against the table, slower now. Thinking. Harza exhaled through his nose. He did not speak, but his arms were no longer as rigid, his weight shifting as if something uncomfortable had taken root in his mind.

Deyn was the last. His pride burned in his eyes, but I watched him glance, just once, at the chart before him.

They weren't speaking. They were thinking. They were breaking. I delivered the final blow.

"Saiyans fight," I said. "That's what we do. But what happens when the war is over? What happens when there's no one left to fight?"

No one answered. They didn't have one. I let them feel that. Let them sit in the emptiness of their own logic. I leaned forward, voice lowering, pressing against their bones like the weight of truth itself.

"Our ancestors were more than killers," I said.

I let the words settle.

"If we are nothing but warriors," I said softly, "then we will end like warriors. Dead and forgotten."

The words settled. Deep. Unshakable. Vortan inhaled through his nose. Slow. Steady. Then, at last – he nodded. Harza exhaled. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding from his frame. His gaze flicked to Vortan, then back to me. Deyn was the last. The fight in him burned longer, but in the end, he exhaled too.

I let the silence stretch. Let them sit in it. Let them feel it.

The fire crackled low, the embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat. The wind whispered through the cracks in the stone, carrying the scent of charred meat and blood-worn leather. The air was thick – heavy with something unspoken, something they had never felt before.

"My goal," I said, my voice steady, deliberate, unshakable, "is not just to surpass the ancestors."

I let the words hang, let them settle in the space between us.

Harza's fingers twitched. Vortan's gaze sharpened. Deyn's lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, his breathing slow.

"I do not want to return to what we were," I said. "I do not want to claw our way back to a past that has already failed us." My gaze swept across them, cutting, demanding. "I want more."

They did not speak. They only watched.

I leaned forward, my fingers pressing into the parchment, the flowchart beneath my hand a map to something greater – something they could not yet see.

"I want a place where every Saiyan has a purpose." The word hit the air like a strike. Like a blow. "A world where our strength is more than just bloodshed. A world where we do more than survive."

I let my voice drop lower, firmer.

"You think strength is enough?" I shook my head, slow. "Strength without meaning is nothing. Strength without a future is nothing."

"I am going to build more than a nation. More than an empire. I am going to build a future where every Saiyan – every race that follows us – lives with meaning."

They had never heard words like this before. They had never imagined a future like this before. They had never thought they could be more than what they were. For the first time, they weren't just listening.

They were feeling.

I sat back, letting the silence stretch once more. Letting them sit in it. Letting them feel it.

"You asked why I called you here," I said. "Now you know."

No one spoke. No one argued. No one resisted. For the first time, they weren't just following me out of fear. They were following me because they believed.

I didn't let them sit in it for too long.

"Now," I said, tapping the flowchart, pulling them back to the moment. "Look here."

The parchment crinkled beneath my fingers. The ink stood bold and sharp against the page. Three boxes. Three names. Three roles.

I let them look. I let them see.

"These," I said, my voice steady, absolute, "are the Eminents."

I tapped the first.

"Eminent of War."

Vortan's eyes burned. His brow furrowed. His fingers curled, slow, deliberate.

I tapped the second.

"Eminent of Order."

Deyn exhaled. Slow. Measured. His gaze stayed on the parchment, unmoving.

I tapped the third.

"Eminent of Innovation."

Harza's tail curled once. His lips parted, just slightly, before pressing back into a thin line.

I let it stretch. Let them sit in it. Let them feel it.

Their eyes flickered between the parchment, between each other, between me.

Uncertainty.

Curiosity.

Something deeper.

They didn't understand. Not fully.

Not yet.

"Vortan," I said, tapping the box beneath his name. "Eminent of War."

His shoulders tensed. His breath slowed. His eyes locked onto the parchment, onto the words written beneath his name, as if seeing them for the first time.

"You will function as the Military Leader of the entire Empire."

A pause. Something hesitant.

I didn't let it settle.

"You command. You lead. Every army, every war campaign, every strike, every defense – they all fall under you. The blade of this empire is yours to wield."

His fingers curled against his knee. His tail flicked, just once. A tell. A sign of something shifting.

I didn't stop.

"You manage and oversee the sixteen war generals. You ensure they manage and oversee their commanders. You ensure they lead the elites beneath them."

"Take notes," I said.

Not a suggestion. A command.

Vortan reached for his parchment.

"You will attack. You will invade. You will secure. Land. Planets. Systems."

Vortan's grip on the charcoal stick tightened.

His eyes snapped up.

"Planets?" His voice was rough, edged with disbelief. "You mean – "

"Yes."

I met his gaze, steady, unwavering. His lips parted, just slightly, but no words came. I didn't wait for him to find them.

"Our reach will not end at the skies," I said, tapping the parchment again. "It will not stop at the horizon."

"You think the world ends here?" I asked, tilting my head. "You think this – " I gestured to the land beyond the window, the wild, untamed expanse of what once was " – is all there is?"

"There is more," I said. "More than you've ever seen. More than you've ever imagined. And it will belong to us."

Vortan exhaled. His fingers flexed. His shoulders straightened.

Not defiance. Not rejection. Something else. Something uncertain. Something calculating. He tapped his charcoal stick against the parchment. Once. Twice. A slow rhythm. A thinking rhythm.

"How?"

"How what?"

"How do we fight in space?" He gestured vaguely upward, toward the ceiling, toward the sky, toward the endless dark he had never seen. "No air."

For a Saiyan, battle was rooted in physicality. Strength. Stance. Impact. To them, a fight was a clash of bodies, of weight, of presence.

But space? Space was an absence. A void. A battlefield with no ground, no sky, no walls – nothing.

"We don't fight the same way,"

His brow furrowed, deep, but I continued before he could speak.

"We adapt," I said, tapping my temple. "We learn. We master movement in the air. We master our ki control. You think flight is only for traveling? It's not. It's an extension of our body, an extension of our control."

"We won't be just brutes throwing punches," I said, my voice steady, absolute. "We will maneuver. We will strike with precision. We will turn space itself into our battlefield."

Vortan's jaw clenched. He sat back slightly, tail curling around his waist.

"And what about breathing?"

Another good question.

I exhaled, slow. "Saiyans can survive longer than most in low-oxygen environments," I said. "With training, we can endure even longer. With tech, we can go even further."

His brow twitched. "Tech?"

"Armor," I said. "Masks. Scouters, even. Things we will develop. Things we will build."

He tapped his charcoal stick against the parchment again.

"Say we do all that," he said. "Say we learn to fight in space. Say we figure out how to breathe. Then what?"

I met his gaze.

"Then," I said, voice firm, unshaken, "we take what's waiting for us beyond the sky."

I tapped the flowchart again. Deliberate. Focused. Their gazes followed.

"Sixteen War Generals," I said, voice smooth, voice steady. "They oversee war squads. They lead invasions. They defend territories. They answer only to you, Vortan."

A muscle tensing along his jaw. He was picturing it. Weighing it.

"Under them," I continued, "sixty-four Commanders. Tactical minds. They don't hesitate. They don't question. They execute war plans. They enforce strategy."

"And the Elites?"

"The enforcers," I said. "The backbone of the conquest. The frontline warriors. Thousands. Tens of thousands."

Vortan exhaled through his nose. It was a slow, sharp breath. He was absorbing it. But not without resistance.

Not without friction. Because this – this was not Saiyan. Not the Saiyan way. Not the Saiyan instinct. Saiyans fought in chaos. Saiyans fought with hunger, with fury, with the thrill of the kill.

Saiyans did not have structure. Saiyans did not have chains of command.

And yet – This made sense. That was the problem. That was the threat.

"So what happens," he said slowly, carefully, testing, "if a War General fails?"

I met his gaze, unflinching. "Then he is replaced."

Vortan's brow twitched.

"By who?"

"A Commander," I said. "The strongest, the smartest, the most capable."

"And if a Commander fails?"

"A new one rises," I said, unwavering. "From the ranks of the Elites. Promotion is earned. Promotion is taken. Those who climb the ranks are those who prove they deserve it."

It was order. It was not Saiyan. Not yet.

"So we follow orders now?" he muttered. "We fall in line? We obey?"

"You follow orders," I said. "But not blindly. Not without reason. You follow orders because they work. You follow orders because they lead to victory."

I leaned forward, gaze locked.

"This is not submission, Vortan," I said. "This is mastery. This is control. This is making war into something more."

"Picture this," I said, voice steady, unwavering. "Two armies. Equal in strength. Equal in numbers. Equal in power."

I raised one finger.

"One side – a Saiyan war band. They fight as they always have. With instinct. With hunger. With raw, unchecked power. They charge without hesitation. They strike without thought. They overwhelm through sheer ferocity."

I raised another finger.

"On the other side – a structured army. A force with strategy. A force with discipline. A force where every single movement serves a greater whole."

I let them picture it. Let them see it in their minds.

"Tell me," I asked, voice even, measured. "Who wins?"

Vortan's tail flicked. Harza's lips parted slightly, but no words came. Deyn exhaled through his nose, arms crossed tight.

"The structured army," I said, answering for them. "And do you know why?"

A pause. The faintest twitch of Vortan's jaw. Harza's fingers curled against the table.

"Because strength alone is not enough. Because power alone is not enough. Because instinct alone is not enough. It's only limited to rare individuals. To gods."

I tapped the table.

"Let's walk through it," I continued. "The battle begins. The Saiyan war band charges. They are faster. They are wilder. They strike first."

I let the tension hang.

"And yet, the structured army does not panic. They do not break formation. They absorb the charge, redirect the force. Because unlike the Saiyan war band, they have prepared. They have planned. They have accounted for this moment before the first attack was even thrown."

I traced a line on the parchment before me, slow and deliberate.

"The frontline absorbs the impact. Shields raised. Armor locked. They take the blow – not as individuals, but as a unit. The second line moves in, striking where the Saiyan war band has left itself open. A precise counterattack."

I raised my eyes.

"The Saiyan war band fights individually. They attack when they see an opening, but they do not think ahead. They do not coordinate. They do not support one another."

I smirked.

"The structured army fights as a single organism."

Vortan's brow furrowed. Harza exhaled slowly. Deyn remained silent, watching.

"Now, let's say the battle drags on," I continued. "The structured army begins rotating out their fighters, keeping their forces fresh. The Saiyan war band fights until exhaustion. Until their muscles ache. Until their bodies are slow and heavy and dying."

I tapped the table again.

"Who wins?" I asked, tilting my head. "Then the structured army does not need to overpower them. They do not need to be stronger. They only need to last. And when the Saiyan war band is tired, the structured army moves in – fast, efficient, merciless."

A silence settled between us. Heavy. Unyielding.

"You know this is true," I said, softer now. "You have seen it. Saiyans fight like wild animals. They fight like beasts."

I leaned in.

"And that is why they lose."

Vortan's hands curled into fists. Harza's tail twitched. Deyn's gaze was locked on the parchment, his jaw set.

"You think order is weakness," I said, pressing forward. "You think structure is submission. You think following a plan means losing what makes you Saiyan."

I let that hang. Let them feel the weight of it.

"But tell me – what is more Saiyan than winning?"

Vortan exhaled through his nose. His grip tightened against the parchment.

I didn't stop.

"You say strategy is for cowards. Then tell me, is it cowardly to outthink your enemy? To outmaneuver them? To make them fight a battle they've already lost before it begins?"

Harza's fingers twitched.

"You say this isn't Saiyan," I pressed. "Then let me tell you what is."

I held their gaze.

"Saiyan is taking what makes us strong – and making it stronger. Saiyan is adapting. Saiyan is evolving. Saiyan is being the absolute best at what we do."

A pause. A shift. The smallest change in the air.

"And what we do," I said, "is war."

I turned to Deyn. He had been quiet, but not absent. His eyes were sharp, calculating. He was thinking. Processing.

Good.

He needed to understand before he could believe. And I would make him understand.

I dragged my finger across the parchment, shifting the focus. "Vortan leads war," I said. "That is his role. Expansion. Conquest. Defense." I let the words settle, then continued. "But war alone does not build a civilization. War alone does not create an empire. War alone does not keep your people alive."

Deyn's arms remained crossed, his expression unreadable.

"That," I said, tapping his name on the parchment, "is where you come in. Eminent of Order."

I met his eyes. Steady. Sure.

"Order is not weakness," I said. "Order is not restriction. Order is not chains." A pause. A breath. "Order is function. Order is stability. Order is the foundation upon which all power is built."

Deyn's brow twitched. Harza's gaze flicked between us. Vortan shifted slightly.

"Tell me," I said, tilting my head, "what happens when a Saiyan is hungry?"

Deyn blinked. A simple question.

"They eat," he said.

I nodded. "And if there is no food?"

His jaw flexed slightly. "They take it."

"Yes," I said. "They take it." I let the pause stretch, then asked, voice quiet, voice firm – "And if there is no one to take from?"

Harza's fingers twitched. Vortan's tail curled tighter.

"They die," I said. Soft. Certain. Absolute.

I let it sit. Let it sink.

"Order prevents that," I continued. "Order ensures that every Saiyan is fed. That food is cultivated, preserved, distributed. That no warrior starves before they can fight."

Stillness. Thought. Processing.

"Infrastructure," I said. "Without it, you have nothing. No roads, no supply lines, no way to move resources efficiently. If every Saiyan must fend for themselves, they waste time hunting, scavenging, surviving. Time that should be spent training. Preparing. Fighting."

I stepped closer.

"Tell me, Deyn – what is stronger?" I raised a finger. "A hundred Saiyans fighting alone, surviving alone, living alone?" Another finger. "Or a hundred Saiyans working together? Feeding each other? Strengthening each other?"

Deyn's gaze flickered downward.

"Social structure. Governance. These are not luxuries. These are necessities. Without them, we are nothing. Without them, we are just scattered war bands, clawing at survival." I tilted my head. "And what happens to those who only claw at survival?"

I didn't let them answer.

"They die,"

Not cruel. Not unkind. Just true. Deyn exhaled slowly through his nose.

"This role is not about restriction," I said. "It is about power. Real power. Power that lasts. Power that does not crumble the moment war ends."

"War is not eternal," I said. "Empires are."

I tapped the next section of the chart, dragging Deyn's focus back.

"Now," I said, voice steady, voice sure, "you understand why Order is necessary. You understand why it is power." I held his gaze. "But power without direction is chaos. Power without function is waste."

Deyn said nothing. He was listening. He was thinking.

I pointed to the first tier.

City Administrators.

"There will be sixteen of them," I said. "They oversee resources, housing, food supply. They ensure every Saiyan has what they need – not just to survive, but to thrive."

"And if they fail?"

A sharp smile.

"Then they are removed," I said. "Efficiency is everything. Stagnation is death. Just as Vortan's War Generals must prove their worth, so must the ones who govern."

Deyn's brow furrowed slightly. I tapped the next tier.

District Chiefs.

"They maintain social order. Trade. Security. They ensure our people are not killing each other over scraps of meat. They enforce balance."

"Saiyans don't follow laws."

I tilted my head.

"Not yet," I said. "But tell me, Deyn – what happens if a warrior kills another warrior in a meaningless fight?"

Deyn shrugged. "The stronger one wins."

I nodded.

"And if that warrior was supposed to guard a supply route? If he was supposed to lead a raid? If he was supposed to stand at the frontlines of a battle that determined the fate of our people?"

Deyn didn't answer. He didn't need to. He understood. I stepped forward, pressing.

"This is not about control," I said. "This is about efficiency. About ensuring that every Saiyan is at their best, in their place, strengthening all of us."

I pointed to the last tier.

Workers. Builders. The foundation.

"They are the ones who build. They are the ones who farm. Without them, there are no cities, no infrastructure, no supply lines."

I let the words settle. Then I asked,

"Do you think warriors should be digging trenches? Building homes? Plowing fields?"

Deyn frowned.

"No," he admitted.

"Exactly."

I gestured to the full hierarchy.

"That is why we structure society. So warriors can fight. So leaders can lead. So builders can build."

A breath. A pause.

Deyn's fingers tapped against his arm.

Then, I turned to Harza.

"Eminent of Innovation," I said, voice steady, voice firm. "Do you know why your role matters?"

His brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, I saw the hesitation – the flicker of uncertainty in his otherwise sharp gaze.

"They're not warriors," he said, measured, careful. "They don't fight. They don't conquer. Why should we protect them?"

I exhaled slowly, then leaned forward, planting my hands on the table.

"You believe strength is everything," I said. "That warriors decide the fate of empires. That battle is the only truth."

I let the words sink in. Let the silence stretch, long and deliberate.

"Then answer me this, Harza." I met his eyes, unwavering, unflinching. "What happens when a warrior falls in battle? When they're bleeding, broken – one breath away from death?"

A pause.

"They die," I said before he could answer. "Not because they were weak. Not because they weren't worthy. But because we failed them. Because there was no one to heal them. No one to mend what was broken. No one to pull them back from the brink."

His jaw tensed. I pressed on.

"You call them weak," I said, each word precise, each word cutting. "But tell me, what is truly stronger? The warrior who falls and never rises again? Or the one who is struck down, left for dead – but stands back up because someone saved them?"

Harza's fingers curled against the table. I didn't stop.

"You think of healers, of engineers, of scientists as lesser the Tuffles," I said. "But tell me – what is an army without armor? What is a ship without an engineer? What is a warrior without a healer?"

No retort. No defiance. Just thought.

"You say they don't fight?" I said, voice lower now, slower. "Then tell me, Harza – when an army charges into battle, whose hands forged their weapons? When a warrior dons their armor, whose mind designed it? When the wounded are brought back, whose knowledge kept them breathing?"

His tail curled tighter around his waist.

"They do not fight with fists," I said. "They fight with knowledge. With creation. With the ability to change what is possible."

A beat. A breath.

"And if you still believe that isn't power," I said, "then you don't understand war at all."

Harza's gaze flicked to the flowchart. To the hierarchy I had laid out before them. To the words he had once dismissed but now found himself staring at as if seeing them for the first time.

Then, I tapped the parchment once more.

"Now, Harza," I said, voice steady, voice firm. "Understand this. This is not just organization. This is not just structure. This is survival. This is evolution. This is the foundation upon which we rise – or the weakness that will see us fall."

My finger dragged along the topmost tier.

"Grand Scientists." Sixteen in total. The architects of the future. The overseers of knowledge. The ones who see beyond the now, beyond the immediate, beyond the battlefield.

"They do not fight," I continued, my voice calm, unwavering. "They do not conquer. But they make conquest possible. They are the ones who develop the means, the methods, the advancements that separate an empire from a rabble of strong warriors swinging fists in the dirt."

I let that settle before moving down.

"Research Directors." Sixty-four in total. The minds that bridge vision to reality.

"They take theory and make it tangible. They take ideas and turn them into weapons, into medicine, into progress. They oversee laboratories, direct engineering projects, refine techniques. They do not imagine the future – they construct the path that leads to it."

A pause. A flicker of recognition in Harza's eyes. He was following. He was understanding.

"The Medical Officers and Engineers. Thousands of them. The backbone of advancement. The foundation of war. The unseen hands that keep our warriors standing, our ships running, our infrastructure unbroken."

I met his gaze. Unblinking. Unshaken. Unyielding.

"Tell me, Harza," I said, my tone cutting, my words deliberate. "What happens when a fleet goes to war – but no one is there to repair the damage? What happens when warriors return from battle – wounded, broken – but no one is there to heal them? What happens when we push forward – faster, harder – but leave behind the very minds that make the future possible?"

Because he knew.

Everything stops. Without them, everything stops.

"This is why they matter," I said, pressing my fingers against the parchment. "Not because they are strong. Not because they fight. But because they make everything possible."

Harza exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against the table.

"Every link in this chain matters." I grinned. "The Grand Scientists guide. The Research Directors build. The Medical Officers and Engineers sustain. One fails, the others crumble. One is missing, the entire system falters. A warrior can win a battle – but without them, we cannot win a war."

I leaned back, arms crossed.

"Strength alone does not build an empire. Strength alone does not maintain one. It is the mind, the structure, the system behind it that determines if we rise or if we fall."

Silence stretched between us.

Harza's jaw tensed. His tail flicked once, twice – then slowly curled around his waist.

I exhaled slowly, my fingers tapping against the parchment. Once. Twice. Letting the weight of my next words settle.

"Harza," I said, my voice even. "Out of all three Eminences, yours will be the hardest to build."

He didn't like that. I didn't care

"What you have is resistance. A culture that does not see your worth. A people who do not yet understand why they should care. A people who think only of war, who think only of strength, who think only of what their fists can take and their power can crush."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled against the parchment.

"But that changes," I said, tapping the chart once more. "That changes today."

Because I wasn't speaking of possibilities. I wasn't speaking of hopeful futures.

I was speaking of inevitability.

"Whether they accept it or not, whether they fight against it or not, they will need you. The warriors will need you. The commanders will need you. The empire itself will need you. Because without innovation, we do not grow. Without progress, we do not last."

I let the words sink in. Let them weigh heavy.

"The Eminence of Innovation is not secondary," I said. "It is not an afterthought. It is the foundation upon which all else will be built. It is the key to ensuring we do not just conquer – but that we endure. That we evolve. That we build something greater than war itself."

Harza inhaled slowly, deeply. His tail coiled tighter around his waist. His mind was turning, shifting, grasping at the enormity of it.

He understood.

And he knew – out of all three of them, his battle would be the hardest.

"This is a waste of time."

I met his eyes. Steady. Unwavering.

"Is it?"

"Saiyans fight," he snapped. "Saiyans conquer. Saiyans win through strength, not by tinkering with useless machines. What you're asking – it's not our way."

I sighed, not in frustration, but in expectation.

I had been waiting for this.

I tapped the parchment before us, slow and deliberate.

"Harza. If brute strength alone decided everything, we wouldn't be here. We'd still be clawing for scraps, still fighting each other over nothing, still dying in the dirt like mindless beasts. Is that what you want? A cycle that never ends? A future that never changes?"

His fingers twitched. His tail curled tighter. But he said nothing.

"Let me show you why you're wrong," I continued. "Two Saiyans. Equal strength. Equal power. They fight. They struggle. Who wins?"

Harza's scowl deepened. "Whoever has better experience and mind."

I shook my head.

"No. The one with an advantage."

I let the words settle. Let them sink in. Then I leaned forward.

"The one whose wounds close faster. The one whose armor absorbs impact. The one whose scouter warns of danger. The one who drinks a serum that lets him fight for hours while the other tires."

I held his gaze, unwavering.

"The one who has innovation on his side. Experience and mindset can be honed altogether."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to push back.

But he couldn't. Because he knew I was right.

"Strength alone is primitive," I said. "Strength alone is wasteful. A dull blade when it should be honed to perfection. And you – " I pointed at him, voice unyielding – "you will forge that edge. You will create the tools that make strength unstoppable. That make power undeniable."

I exhaled, slow and measured. "Harza. Look at me."

He did.

"A battle. Two armies. Equal in strength. Equal in numbers. The first relies only on instinct – wild, uncoordinated, every fighter moving on their own, driven by nothing but their own desires. The second?" I tapped the parchment, voice sharpening. "The second has coordination. The second has armor that absorbs energy, scouters that detect threats, medical supplies that heal wounds mid-fight. The second has warships that rain death from above, while soldiers fight with enhanced stamina, unyielding endurance."

I leaned in. "Who wins, Harza?"

His jaw flexed. He wanted to say 'the stronger side.' He wanted to say 'Saiyans don't need tricks.' But the answer was too clear.

He said nothing.

"A battle is not won the moment fists clash. It is won before the first strike is thrown. It is won through preparation. Through intelligence. Through science."

I lifted a finger.

"A single healing pod."

Harza's brow furrowed.

"A single healing pod," I repeated, voice unwavering, "means an injured warrior fights again within hours, not weeks. A single serum means a Saiyan doesn't collapse from exhaustion after pushing past their limits. A single cybernetic enhancement means a severed arm is not the end – but a new beginning."

I stepped forward, closing the space between us.

"We fight to win, Harza. Not just today. Not just tomorrow. But forever. A Saiyan who survives is a Saiyan who grows. A Saiyan who grows is a Saiyan who rules. Strength alone is a flame that burns hot and fast – but strength guided by innovation?"

I met his eyes, voice dropping to a razor's edge.

"That is a fire that never dies."

He was fighting it. Fighting the instinct to deny. Fighting the truth he now saw.

"You're asking me to change everything," he muttered.

"I'm asking you to make Saiyans unstoppable."

I stood before them, my hands resting on the parchment, my voice calm, steady, but filled with undeniable weight.

"This is the foundation. This is the future."

Their eyes remained locked on me – Vortan, still rigid, still adjusting to the concept of discipline; Deyn, contemplative, tracing invisible lines in his mind; and Harza, his scowl faded, but his skepticism still simmering beneath the surface.

But they were listening. They understood.

I tapped the parchment, reinforcing each pillar with precision, with conviction.

"Vortan – your forces do not just fight. They secure. They conquer. They hold." My voice hardened. "What use is a battle won if the planet crumbles after? What use is a victory if it does not last? Your warriors will do more than destroy. They will take. They will keep. They will expand. Not for momentary glory – but for lasting dominance."

Vortan exhaled sharply through his nose, but he did not argue.

I turned to Deyn.

"Deyn – what Vortan's forces seize, you will shape. You will build. You will establish. You will turn rubble into cities, chaos into order, hunger into surplus. You will make planets livable. You will turn conquests into civilization." I met his gaze. "No empire survives on war alone. Without structure, without stability, we will collapse under our own strength. You will ensure we do not."

Deyn's brow furrowed, but he nodded, slow, thoughtful.

Then, I turned to Harza.

"And Harza – " I let the words hang. His jaw tensed, waiting for the challenge.

"You will ensure that our strength never stagnates."

I stepped closer.

"Your work will make Saiyans more than warriors. More than brutes swinging fists in the dark. Your work will make us something greater. Healing, technology, enhancements – these are not distractions. These are weapons. These are the edge that ensures we do not just win today – but every day that follows."

I smiled.

"You will not be building alone." I gestured at all of them. "None of you will. War alone is not enough. Stability alone is not enough. Innovation alone is not enough."

I tapped the parchment one last time.

"This is balance. This is structure. This is how we rise."

I let the weight of my words settle. Let them feel the enormity of what was in front of them.

Vortan crossed his arms. Deyn exhaled through his nose. Harza's tail flicked once, twice.

But none of them denied it.

None of them could.

"We are Saiyans." I met each of their gazes, unyielding. "And we will not be slaves to instinct. We will not be trapped by tradition. We will not live and die as mere brutes, swinging at whatever enemy stands before us."

"We will build. We will expand. We will endure."

Harza's brow furrowed, skepticism written across every tense muscle in his face. His arms crossed tight, tail lashing once before wrapping around his waist, a gesture of restraint. He wasn't just unconvinced – he was resisting.

"How?" His voice was sharp, cutting, demanding an answer that made sense. "How does this happen? This isn't some war campaign where you charge in, break a few skulls, and declare victory. This – " his fingers curled against his bicep, knuckles whitening " – this is a dream. A fantasy."

He exhaled through his nose, gaze drilling into me. "There are millions of Saiyans. Millions. Scattered across sixteen tribes, spread over a world that has never known true unity. Some barely acknowledge each other. Others hold blood feuds that go back generations. And most?" His tail flicked. "Most don't care about anything beyond their next fight, their next kill. You expect them to just… listen?"

Vortan, who had remained silent thus far, let out a low grunt. His arms remained crossed, but his expression was one of grim agreement.

"It's a fair question." His voice was like rolling thunder. "Saiyans don't unify. Saiyans don't build." He shook his head. "We take. We destroy. We conquer. That's what we do. That's what we are."

I met their doubt with something they didn't expect.

Calm.

"You're right."

Harza blinked. Vortan's brow twitched.

I let the moment hang, let the weight of their own words settle before I continued.

"Saiyans have never built. Saiyans have never unified. That is not in question." My voice was steady, deliberate. "The question is not whether we have done it before. The question is – can we?"

I gestured around us, to the world beneath our feet, to the ruins of what had been. "This is not an army we are building. This is not a warband we are leading. This is a civilization. And civilizations are not built in a day. They are not forged in an instant. They begin with something small."

I turned to Harza first.

"Tell me – how does fire spread?"

Harza frowned, caught off guard. "…What?"

"Fire." I repeated. "Does it consume everything at once? Does it devour the forest in an instant? Or does it start small? A spark. A single flame. And from that, it grows. It feeds. It spreads. Until it is unstoppable."

A pause. I turned to Vortan next.

"Saiyans will not unify overnight. That is not how war is won. That is not how empires rise. We do not start with the weak. We do not start with the broken. We start with the strongest. The best. The leaders, the warriors, the ones who can see beyond the next battle, beyond their next meal."

My gaze swept across them, unwavering.

"Not all will agree. Not all will submit. But some will."

I tapped the parchment between us, the map of our future laid bare.

"And when the strongest kneel – "

A promise.

"The rest will follow."

This was Saiyan nature. This was truth. The weak followed the strong. Always.

Deyn leaned back, eyes narrowed in thought. I could see the shift in his stance, the slow acceptance forming beneath his silence.

Harza, however, was not finished.

"And the ones who don't?"

I met his gaze. "Then they will burn."

Heavy. Absolute.

I let my words settle. Not just a threat. Not just a warning. A certainty.

"This is not a request. This is not a suggestion. This is the future. Some will resist. Some will fight. Some will die."

"But those who remain?"

I stepped forward, my voice lowering, steady as stone.

"They will inherit an empire greater than anything the Saiyans have ever known."

Vortan's tail uncurled slightly.

Harza exhaled, rubbing his temple. He wasn't convinced, not fully, but the cracks in his resistance had formed.

Deyn, thoughtful, murmured, "A single flame…"

"And from it – a wildfire."

I smirked. "Luckily, you have me."

I tapped the parchment. "Turn it over."

Hesitation. And they froze.

Harza's brows shot up. Vortan's fingers curled around the parchment's edges. Deyn exhaled sharply through his nose.

Because on the back – there was structure. A plan. A vision that stretched beyond tribes, beyond battles, beyond the endless cycle of war-for-war's sake.

A blueprint for something far greater.

I let the silence weigh on them before I spoke.

"Destruction is a form of creation."

Harza scowled. "What?"

I leaned forward. "What do you think conquest is?" My voice was calm, deliberate. "You burn down the old to make way for the new. You tear apart weakness to make room for strength. That is what war has always been. That is what Saiyans have always done. But for the first time – we will not stop at destruction."

I let that sink in. Let the idea twist its way into their minds.

Then, I tapped the first section of the chart.

The Grand Saiyan Exam: Filtering the Future of Our Race

"The first step to civilization is purpose. And the first step to purpose is knowing what a Saiyan is capable of."

I met their gazes, voice steady, unshaken.

"Every Saiyan will be tested. No exceptions. No more 'elites' and 'low-class' distinctions. No more pointless pride in birthright or power level. The only thing that matters is function. Strength alone is not enough. Intelligence alone is not enough. Every Saiyan must prove their worth in battle, in leadership, in skill. And this – this is how we find out who belongs where."

My finger trailed across the parchment.

1. Strength & Combat Test → Warriors

"Power without discipline is nothing. Power without control is wasted. Power without purpose is just destruction with no end."

I locked eyes with Vortan. "Your forces won't just be strong. They'll be efficient. Controlled. Tactical. A hundred disciplined soldiers are deadlier than a thousand reckless brawlers."

2. Intelligence & Tactics Test → Commanders & Scientists

"Not every battle is fought with fists. Not every war is won with brute force. Conquest without strategy is just chaos. And chaos does not build empires."

I pointed to the next section.

"Commanders must prove their minds are as sharp as their fists. Scientists must show they can innovate, problem-solve, and advance our race beyond simple battle instincts."

I turned to Deyn. "And governance? It requires more than strength. It requires vision. It requires understanding. You will not just rule warriors – you will rule builders, researchers, families, civilians. You will rule a people. And to do that, you must learn to see beyond the battlefield."

3. Labor & Skill Test → Builders, Farmers, Engineers

Harza scoffed. "And what of them? The weak?"

I met his gaze, unflinching. "There is no such thing as 'weak,' Harza. There is only wasted potential."

His eyes narrowed, but I continued.

"A Saiyan who cannot fight can build. A Saiyan who cannot conquer can cultivate. A Saiyan who lacks brute strength can forge weapons, repair ships, construct cities. War does not happen in a vacuum. Every battle you fight? Every invasion you lead? Someone builds the armor you wear. Someone repairs the ships you travel in. Someone grows the food that keeps you alive. You dismiss them as weak – but without them, you are nothing."

I let the words settle.

"Tell me, Harza. What happens when a great warrior is wounded beyond recovery? Is he thrown away? Discarded?"

His silence was the answer.

I smirked. "No. He becomes something else. Something greater. He becomes the foundation upon which the next war is won."

The End of the 16 Tribes

I let the silence stretch before I spoke again.

I tapped the parchment, slow and deliberate. "From this moment forward – there are no more tribes."

The weight of those words settled in the room like a stone dropped into deep water.

I leaned forward, voice unwavering. "The era of the sixteen scattered tribes is over. We are no longer a collection of warring clans, no longer a race fractured by infighting and isolation."

I gestured to the chart.

"We are something greater now. We are one empire."

Vortan's brows furrowed. "You expect every Saiyan to just… abandon their tribe? Just like that?"

I met his gaze. "They won't have a choice. Because when they step into this new world – when they take this test and are assigned their purpose – what they were before will no longer matter."

I leaned back.

"There will be no more 'Tribe of Deyn.' No more 'Tribe of Vortan.' No more 'Tribe of Harza.'"

I let my voice drop, let the weight of my words settle.

"There will only be Saiyans."

Deyn rubbed his jaw. Harza tapped a single finger against the parchment. Vortan remained utterly still.

They understood.

It was a lot to take in. A new world. A new order. But they understood. And that was enough.

"This exam is not a suggestion. It is not optional. It is the foundation of our civilization."

I let my gaze sweep across them—Vortan, Deyn, Harza. Their expressions were rigid, unreadable, but I knew they were listening.

"This is how we separate the worthy from the useless. This is how we forge a future beyond endless infighting and meaningless destruction. Every Saiyan will take this test. Every single one. No exceptions."

I leaned forward, voice sharpening. "And those who refuse?"

Silence.

Then, Vortan spoke, his tone wary. "…What happens to them?"

I met his gaze, unflinching. "They will be executed."

"No second chances," I continued, voice unwavering. "No negotiations. No leniency. If a Saiyan refuses to be tested, they refuse their place in this new world. And if they refuse their place—then they have no right to exist in it."

I straightened.

"There is no mercy for dead weight. There is no patience for those who cling to a past that no longer serves them. If they are too stubborn, too proud, too weak to accept the future we are building, then they will be cast out—or put down."

Harza exhaled through his nose, a grin tugging at his lips. "And the ones who still believe in bloodline superiority?"

I smiled.

"They will be the first to die."

Harza chuckled, but it was Deyn who spoke next, voice measured, thoughtful.

"You're forcing the Saiyans into compliance through fear."

I tilted my head. "No. I'm forcing them to evolve."

Deyn exhaled slowly. "Some won't accept it."

"Then they will die with the old ways."

The room fell silent again. There was no room for hesitation. No place for the weak, the stagnant, the ones who clung to outdated notions of superiority through birthright.

This was a new age. And in this new age, only those who proved their worth only those who adapted would have the right to live in it.

Note: MC knowledge of Saiyan is very limited as of now. Her canon knowledge is not so vast - she knows a bit. She knows some movies - some parts were clear to her. Her understanding of civilization may be subjective - but what she's doing is trying - progress - step by step process.

dxdragon · Mar 4, 2025

Well now, that's an interesting Nation she is building.

Looking forward to seeing what happens in the near future.
Will we be getting some timeskips incoming?

Also, how long before Frieza or any other alien arrives to mess up her careful plans? I'm assuming it takes a long time for Frieza's ship to travel there, and they are likely busy consolidating their rule, but maybe within 5 years they'll show up?

Minus (DBZ Gine SI)

Well worn.

I trust you know where the happy button is?

Well worn.

Well worn.

I trust you know where the happy button is?

I trust you know where the happy button is?

Making the rounds.

Well worn.

Well worn.

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