Minus (DBZ Gine SI)

[Femto]

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?

Click to shrink...

Not sure yet - but Beerus might visit. Saiyans will be purged to less than 20% for sure. The focus is kingdom building right now - develop it from ground up.

 

[TheEldritchKnight]

That was such a good freaking read and I cannot wait for the next chapter of this amazing story and I am intrigued on how this new Saiyan society will turn out.

 

[Femto]

That was such a good freaking read and I cannot wait for the next chapter of this amazing story and I am intrigued on how this new Saiyan society will turn out.

Click to shrink...

Thanks for the watch mate.

 

[DankAnonymous]

Without Goku, do you think Bulma and Chi Chi become defacto protagonists. I just like the thought of Bulma fighting with ki techniques and technology. Freedom fighter Bulma against the Red Ribbon army sounds rad.

Chi chi training and fighting with Bulma sounds interesting. Maybe Piccolo would be a separate problem to struggle against.

While Gine builds the proto (emerald) saiyan empire. Do you think silver and green should be the new empires military uniform? I think it would compliment the new title and the tech.

Looking forward to more!
Have a great day!
-DankAnon

 

[Femto]

Without Goku, do you think Bulma and Chi Chi become defacto protagonists. I just like the thought of Bulma fighting with ki techniques and technology. Freedom fighter Bulma against the Red Ribbon army sounds rad.

Chi chi training and fighting with Bulma sounds interesting. Maybe Piccolo would be a separate problem to struggle against.

While Gine builds the proto (emerald) saiyan empire. Do you think silver and green should be the new empires military uniform? I think it would compliment the new title and the tech.

Looking forward to more!
Have a great day!
-DankAnon

Click to shrink...

Your idea is interesting. I'm actually researching for a uniform/combat suit design armor - and viltrumite suit mix with kryptonian war armor is the combination I'm leaning more into. Can you elaborate more?

 

[DankAnonymous]

I was thinking of a design similar to what the Doom Slayer wears when in space but when using basic planetary combat for the first stage maybe a silver battle armor with green accents.

Spoiler: Armor

Maybe something like this but less bulky.

 

[Femto]

I was thinking of a design similar to what the Doom Slayer wears when in space but when using basic planetary combat for the first stage maybe a silver battle armor with green accents.

Spoiler: Armor

Maybe something like this but less bulky.

Click to shrink...

that's an interesting design. Though the protagonist might go for less alien/futuristic given her fashion style and earthly knowledge. It's also important to consider that armors that protects them from direct combat lessen zenkai potential.

 

[TheEldritchKnight]

So armor that protects only from Instantly fatal damage but all other damage gets allowed in? I can see that. Probably have different tiers of armor depending on a mission. One where it full on shields from most damage where a mission needs to go off without a hitch.

 

[Femto]

So armor that protects only from Instantly fatal damage but all other damage gets allowed in? I can see that. Probably have different tiers of armor depending on a mission. One where it full on shields from most damage where a mission needs to go off without a hitch.

Click to shrink...

Yeah - and would fit to the wearer's physique if they transform like in the original dragon ball.

 

[Drasizard]

I like this story and the direction it's going but why am I seeing the same words and near identical scenes repeating? It's damn distracting like looking at something that was left in an unfinished chapter.

 

[Femto]

A year timeship. It's Age 715 now.

---

Minus​

---

Nion

This wasn't supposed to exist.

Not here. Not in this world. Not among a people who measured worth by what could be shattered, burned, or killed.

And yet, here it was. It wasn't stone.

It wasn't heavy. It wasn't coarse, carved, or chiseled. It wasn't like the Tuffle slates she had salvaged from the ruins, engraved with symbols she barely grasped. It wasn't cold, wasn't rigid, wasn't something… abandoned.

It was something new.

Nion clutched the thin sheet between her fingers, rotating it carefully, almost expecting it to crumble. But it didn't. It curved without snapping, flexed without splintering. Light seeped through in places, exposing faint fibers beneath the surface –woven, structured, deliberate.

This wasn't stone.

It was soft but not frail. Light but not fleeting. Unfamiliar but… intentional.

Her pulse quickened. The others dismissed it. They barely spared the thin sheets a glance before moving on, indifferent to anything that couldn't cleave, crush, or pierce. But she knew better. She could sense it.

This wasn't just something to touch. It was something to fill.

The realization coiled through her, electric and undeniable. This was meant to capture thoughts, to safeguard knowledge, to preserve. A tool not for war, but for memory. Not for ruin, but for creation.

The Strange one created this. She calls it paper.

Her fingers tightened. Her thoughts surged. Possibilities crashed over her, too vast, too relentless to contain. What could she write? What could she unravel? What could she keep, truly keep, when everything else in this world was doomed to be lost?

For the first time in her life, Nion didn't want to be anywhere else.

For the first time in her life, she wanted to stay.

She wasn't meant to be here. She wasn't meant to sit in this room. She wasn't meant to stare at these walls –too smooth, too precise, too intentional.

She wasn't meant to breathe this air –thick with something she couldn't name. She wasn't meant to be surrounded by things that didn't belong to Saiyans.

Nion sat rigid, fingers digging into her leg, grounding herself in the only sensation that made sense. The walls were wrong. The air was wrong. The silence was wrong.

But the memory. The memory was clear.

That woman.

That voice.

She could still hear it, sharp and steady, slicing through the tension of the gathered Saiyans. It hadn't barked commands. It hadn't demanded blood. It hadn't roared for conquest.

It had spoken. Spoken with precision. Spoken with clarity. Spoken with purpose.

Nion had tried to ignore it. Had tried to tell herself it was strange. Wrong. Saiyans didn't talk like that. Saiyans didn't think like that. Saiyans didn't –

Something inside her had shifted. A crack. A spark. A pull.

A feeling she couldn't name. A certainty she couldn't shake. Now, in this unfamiliar room, surrounded by things she didn't understand, Nion clung to that feeling. Because for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure if she wanted to run. For the first time in her life… she wanted to know.

She remembered. She remembered the way the ground had ruptured beneath her father's weight. She remembered the way his bones had splintered like rotting bark.

She remembered the way his power, unmatched, unshaken, unquestioned - had meant nothing.

Nothing at all. Her father.

The same father with godlike specs. The same father with impossible metrics. The same father who could reduce mountains to rubble with a flick of his wrist.

Crushed in an instant.

Gone without a breath. Gone beneath the weight of a force he couldn't begin to understand. It didn't make sense. She had spent her life watching. She had spent her life measuring. She had spent her life deciphering every movement, every clash, every war.

She knew how battles were won. She knew how power was wielded. She knew how to predict the outcome of any fight before the first strike was thrown. Her father was invincible. And yet, he had been eradicated. No, not eradicated. Disgraced. The problem wasn't that he had lost. The problem was her.

That woman.

She didn't fight. She ended. She didn't strike. She executed. She didn't waste. She calculated. She moved with deliberation, but not hesitation.

She fought with precision, but not detachment. She struck with efficiency, but not mercy.

It should have felt mechanical. It should have felt cold. It should have felt predictable. But it wasn't. It was inevitable. It was convicted. It was absolute.

And Nion - Nion, who lived by numbers and logic and reason –had never witnessed anything like it. She wasn't afraid. She was enthralled.

The figure sat redefined.

Not like a warrior after battle. Not like a Saiyan after conquest. No –this was something else. Something intentional. Something designed.

The white-silver fabric clung to her like a second skin, smooth yet impenetrable, interlaced with golden threads that exuded dominance. The material etched her physique with mathematical precision, a form chiseled to proportions that should have been impossible –yet manifested before her eyes.

A body not granted, but engineered. The tiara remained untouched.

The same emerald stone burned, its surface capturing the light with an eerie, almost omniscient gleam. But her eyes –those onyx-black Saiyan eyes –felt wrong.

No. Not wrong. Not unnatural. But beyond. As if they could pierce through everything. Unravel everything. Command everything.

Nion's gaze swept outward. Toward the world below. Toward the vast sprawl of Emeralds, stretching, sprawling, surrendering beneath them like a kingdom awaiting its ruler. They stood perched at the zenith of the city, where the air thinned and the winds roared, where no one dared to tread –except for her.

The woman who had reconstructed this land with her bare hands. They said she had seized a mountain, had molded the terrain itself, had erected a masterpiece of architecture with nothing but her unyielding will and raw force.

The Zenith Emerald Palace, her working office.

And now –now, as if such triumphs were trivial –she simply sat. Hair fastened back.

Pen balanced in hand. Paper arrayed in razor-sharp symmetry. She wrote. She wrote with unrelenting velocity. She wrote with surgical precision. She wrote as if her mind could compute a thousand permutations at once, as if she were not merely documenting knowledge, but drafting the foundation of an era.

Nion watched. Watched the woman who had toppled titans, reshaped continents, and shattered everything Nion thought she understood.

And yet, she did not annihilate.

"Nion."

Her name hung in the air. The voice carried weight, not forceful, not loud –just undeniable.

"You are the daughter of Rokannn. The only daughter of a powerful tribe. Born with both strength and intelligence… that's rare."

Not impressive. Not extraordinary. Just rare.

Nion stiffened. She had been called a prodigy. A genius. A mind beyond Saiyan comprehension. But this woman –this impossible woman –spoke as if she were nothing more than a passing curiosity.

Nion met her gaze, trying to steady herself.

"I –"

The woman smiled.

Small. Effortless. As if she already knew what would happen next. And for some reason, Nion's heart stumbled. A reaction she did not understand. A response she could not predict.

The woman observed, tapping a finger against the desk.

"You're hesitating?"

Nion clenched her fists. "I didn't."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You should calm down for a bit. You're not like this with others."

Nion opened her mouth. She had no answer. Because she had hesitated. Because she had faltered. Because, for the first time in her life, she felt small.

The woman leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against her knuckles.

"You've always understood the world, haven't you? How things work. How things move. How things fall."

She froze. How?

"You've done good work, Nion."

The words hit harder than they should have.

"Under two eminents," She said. "You've worked under Order – establishing structure, ensuring stability, systemizing chaos in the labor class. "And under Innovation - your help in establishing the framework with Harza is admirable."

Nion's throat felt dry. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to argue. But she couldn't. Because everything the woman said was true. She had taken rubble and made it flourish. She had taken wasted land and forced it to yield. She had taken a species built for destruction and made them plant, cultivate, sustain.

But –how? A plow that dug through the toughest soil –not wood, not crude stone, but something sharper, stronger, engineered for Planet Plant brutal terrain. A tool that shouldn't have worked –but it did.

She analyzed. Plants that grow without soil ? hydroponics, she named it. Using water, pure nutrients, controlled environments. A technique unheard of, unnatural even –but it worked.

Solar heat captured, stored, and repurposed –using the relentless twin suns not as an enemy, but as fuel. A method to keep crops alive through the harshest seasons. Something so obvious in hindsight –but they had never thought of it.

Her mind raced. Livestock bred for size, for strength, for rapid growth. Not just throwing the strongest into the wild and hoping they survived, but selecting, optimizing, controlling. A precise science, a meticulous craft –and it was working. Food compressed, condensed, carried with ease. High-caloric meals packed into dense, efficient rations, enough to sustain people without the constant need to hunt. It shouldn't have been possible –but it was.

Nion's breath hitched. She had been part of all of it. She had overseen it, structured it, ensured it ran. She had seen it succeed.

But it wasn't hers.

She clenched her fists. "I didn't do any of that."

The woman raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"I structured it, yes. I calculated it, I managed it –but I didn't create it."

Her voice was tight. "The techniques, the tools –the entire foundation –it wasn't me. It was you."

The woman's smile didn't waver.

"And?"

Nion's breath caught.

"And what?"

"Do you think that makes your work any less important?" The woman's fingers tapped against the desk. "Do you think innovation without application would have done anything for our people?"

Nion had no answer. Because she knew the truth. Ideas meant nothing without structure. Inventions meant nothing without someone to implement them. And she –Nion, daughter of Rokannn –had been the one to turn ideas into reality.

"How are the people by the way?"

Nion blinked. The people. Not the warriors. Not the chieftains. Not the elites.The hundreds of thousands of lower-class Saiyans taken from the sixteen tribes and placed within the Emerald Capital.

She had seen them. She had documented them.

And the truth was –

"They're… productive," Nion admitted.

The word felt strange. A Saiyan being productive without warfare should have been an impossibility. But it wasn't. Not anymore.

"They're working. They're building. They're eating." She hesitated. "They're happier."

Happier. A concept so foreign, so ridiculous, yet so undeniably real.

She had seen it with her own eyes –Saiyans who once lived by unfair labor and scavenging, now with purpose. Workers forging tools, builders crafting newly designed homes, weak hunters gathering not for destruction but for sustenance.

The Emerald Capital was growing. Expanding. Thriving.

But –why? Why take them? Why take the lowest class when the elites held all the power?

Her mind raced, calculating, analyzing, breaking down every possibility –

She could suppress the elites. The woman had proven that. With her power, with her sheer overwhelming force, she could have seized them, controlled them.

"You're… overtaking from below."

The woman's lips curved into something resembling approval. Nion's pulse quickened. She saw it now. She understood it now. The foundation of Saiyan society was never the elites. It was never the kings, the chiefs, the warlords.

It was the masses.

The warriors. The workers. The people who fought, who bled, who struggled. The people who made Saiyan civilization function –even in its most primitive form.

And if you took that from the elites – If you took the foundation and made it yours –

Then who ruled no longer mattered. Because the old system would collapse on its own. Nion exhaled, realization solidifying in her mind.

Her mind raced. The woman controlled four cities. Not a continent. Not one. Not two. Four. The entire labor class now worked for her. Not for the warlords. Not for the chieftains. For her.

And that meant – No one from the mid to upper class had laborers anymore. No one to cook for them. No one to build for them. No one to clean, to butcher, to haul supplies.

She asked herself. Because why would they? Why would they go back to their masters –the ones who made them work but never fed them? Why would they return to the warlords, the chieftains, the former rulers –the ones who took from them, who abused them, who used them?

Why would they suffer through starvation and brutality when, here, in Emerald Capital, Ruby, Sapphire, and Amethyst, they had food, shelter, and something more?

Something greater. Something they had never had before. They had technology. They had infrastructure. They had tools. Things that should have been impossible for Saiyans. Here, they had plenty. Here, they had machines that lightened their burdens. Something she took part in.

Here, they had structures that didn't crumble, roads that didn't turn to dust, homes that weren't just places to sleep but places to live. Here, they had food. Not scraps. Not stolen rations. Not the kind of desperate, bloody meals scraped together after a raid, or the kind of sparse, unseasoned meat handed out by a warlord who barely cared if they lived or died.

Real food. Plenty of food. And most of all – Here, they had something called a job.

Not just work. Not just servitude. A structured role. A purpose. A system. And with it, Order. There were officers now, Saiyans under the banner of Order Eminence –not to enforce dominance, but to control violence.

No more chaotic brawls that led to pointless deaths. No more fights that ended in crippled warriors with nowhere to go. Now? Duels were scheduled. Now? Fights were organized. Now? There was an arena. The Emerald Tournament Arena.

A real one. A place where warriors didn't just fight for their lives, but for glory. There were posters with matchups –names displayed, rivalries built, anticipation brewing.

And the people – The people paid to watch. They gathered in the thousands. Saiyans, paying. Saiyans, spectating. Saiyans, watching duels, betting on fighters, arguing over winners and losers.

It was a spectacle. A sport. A hobby.After ten-hour shifts, the working class didn't just collapse from exhaustion.

They gathered. They spectated. They participated. They didn't just fight.They competed. They didn't just kill. They entertained. And for the first time in their existence, Saiyans were more than just warriors.

Nion inhaled sharply, realization slamming into her. The woman hadn't just seized power.

She had rewritten the system.

She analyzed the situation. The 16 Tribes. The former warlords. The chieftains who refused to submit. They had not been wiped out. They had not been slaughtered.

But they might as well have been. Because they were suffering. Because they were starving. Because their entire way of life had collapsed overnight.

And why? Because they had built everything in control.

Control over bloodlines. Control over lineage. Control over power. They ruled through dominance, hierarchy, and raw strength. The strongest ate first. The weakest ate last –if they ate at all.

The chieftains didn't lead their people. They owned them.

The laborers? Property. The warriors? Expendable.

The tribes weren't nations or societies –they were packs of predators, bound by fear and violence.

And when the woman came. When she tore through them. When she took the laborers. When she took the builders, the butchers, the cooks, the gatherers. She took everything. And the tribes were left with nothing.

Only the chieftains. Only the powerful. Only the ones who had never worked a day in their lives. The ones who had never built. Never cooked. Never hunted.

They had never learned how. Because why would they?

Why would a warlord learn to build? Why would a chieftain learn to farm? Why would a high-class warrior learn to cook their own food?

They had never needed to. They had slaves. They had servants. They had underlings. Until they didn't. Until she took them.

Until they realized - power was not enough. Strength was not enough. They were starving because they had never learned how to survive without control.

The Emerald One had made sure of that. She had restricted the hunting grounds. The plains, the forests, the rivers –all hers.

No negotiation. No compromise. No hunting without her permission.

And those who tried? They weren't just punished. They were eradicated. Some had tested her. They lasted minutes. Some had fought back. They were gone now.

Entire warbands erased. The message was clear – the hunting grounds belonged to the Imperium Viridion Prime. All taken. All in Emerald Capital. By the four massive cities.

Her gaze fell in the window. Black and green. Everywhere, black and green. The streets were filled with them, figures moving, workers and officers alike, clad in the same uniform, the same colors - however different in insignia. A sea of Saiyans, marching, building, shaping a city that should not exist –a civilization that should not exist.

But it did. Because of her. And Nion. Silver and green. Not black. Not green. Silver and green.

A rank above the rest. A shade apart.

A symbol of something more.

Her uniform fit like it was made for her, and maybe it was. The fabric was smooth against her skin, light but unyielding, flexible yet indestructible. It was not just armor. It was not just clothing.

It was authority. In her chest there is an insignia. A diamond shaped - with four pointed stars and silver circuitry patterns.

Four stars. The Three Eminents had five. She had four.

Almost.

She was almost there. But "almost" was not enough.

The woman in front of her stood. White. White, against the black and green. White, against the city she had forged from nothing. White, standing apart from all of them.

Her cape settled behind her, its fabric clinging to shoulders carved from purpose, a frame built for something beyond battle. She was slightly tall, poised, her movements as precise as her mind, as sharp as her rule. She lifted a single hand, elegant fingers, non calloused palms.

Not a weapon. Not a fist. But a paper. She handed it to her.

And she smiled.

"Here is the next project."

---

Power level Reference:

Nion, Scientist, Administrator, Personal Assistant - 45 000

 

[dxdragon]

Oh my, Nion is at 45K?
I'm guessing everyone in the Empire has gotten a sizeable jump in PowerLevel, now that they have food, time to heal, doctors, and fights without death.

How long has it been since the Nation was founded?

What are the average powerlevels looking like? And what of the higher end?


Thanks for the chapter!


Side Note - Is it just me, or did Nion read like she was another SI, like a Tanya Insert from Youjo Senki?

 

[Femto]

I'm guessing everyone in the Empire has gotten a sizeable jump in PowerLevel, now that they have food, time to heal, doctors, and fights without death.

Click to shrink...

The worker class and officers have risen due to constant tournaments and duels. They have better food and rest. They might be at mid class strength now. Nion is an exception because she trains with Gine - A saiyan with overwhelming power and precise efficiency.

 

[Femto]

Side Note - Is it just me, or did Nion read like she was another SI, like a Tanya Insert from Youjo Senki?

Click to shrink...

Nion is just a scientist from canon. She used to live in Tribal Savage World - completely different to the Emerald Empire. So in her mind it should not exist to a world like that.

 

[Femto]

How long has it been since the Nation was founded?

Click to shrink...

One year.

 

[dxdragon]

Nion is just a scientist from canon. She used to live in Tribal Savage World - completely different to the Emerald Empire. So in her mind it should not exist to a world like that.

Click to shrink...

Ah, didn't even realize she was canon.
Looking on the wiki, she doesn't even look Saiyan lol! Would have thought her an alien in the Frieza force if I didn't know.

So, she's basically the Bulma of the Saiyans? Nice!

Also, she's Gine's sparring partner? Interesting choice.
Is she secretly one of those Logic-based Mutant Saiyans too? Or a standard Saiyan with Zenkais?

Also, did Fasha and Beets stick with the Empire? Or did they go off and do their own thing?
What about Bardock, where is he?

 

[Femto]

Ah, didn't even realize she was canon.
Looking on the wiki, she doesn't even look Saiyan lol! Would have thought her an alien in the Frieza force if I didn't know.

So, she's basically the Bulma of the Saiyans? Nice!

Also, she's Gine's sparring partner? Interesting choice.
Is she secretly one of those Logic-based Mutant Saiyans too? Or a standard Saiyan with Zenkais?

Also, did Fasha and Beets stick with the Empire? Or did they go off and do their own thing?
What about Bardock, where is he?

Click to shrink...

Nion is just extremely smart. Not mutant. Basically she's learning from Gine and from the three eminents a lot.

Bardock has foresight. The clue is Z Broly in Southern Galaxy. Fasha and Beets hmm, will see soon.

 

[Femto]

---

Minus​

---

Nion

The cup was warm. Warm against her palms. Warm against her skin. Warm in a way that settled, in a way that stayed. She inhaled. Slow. Deep. The scent curled into her lungs, thick and sweet, rich with something almost indulgent.

French Vanilla. The name felt foreign, felt distant, felt misplaced. Yet the taste – the taste was here. The taste was real. She took a sip. Smooth. Creamy. Velvety. It melted on her tongue, seeped into her senses, settled in her chest. Soft, but deep. Gentle, but sharp. Simple, but not.

She swallowed, and her mind sharpened. Not just a drink. Not just a flavor. A creation. A refinement. A deliberate effort to make something better. Something structured. Something designed. Something that worked.

She had tried to recreate it.

Measured the ratios. Adjusted the heat. Tweaked the ingredients. And yet, it was never quite right. She took another sip. The hum of the medical office buzzed softly around her. The scent of disinfectants, the quiet whir of machines.

Here she was, drinking warmth. Drinking sweetness. Drinking something that shouldn't exist in this place, in this world, in this life.

Because The Emerald One had made it. The drink was available everywhere now – sold in the markets, popular among the Engineer Working Class, a staple in the new Emerald Capital. Accessible. Common. Replicated.

But this – this was hers. Brewed by the hands she admired. Crafted with deliberate care. Given to her, just her, in the quiet of this moment. She took a sip. It melted on her tongue, seeped into her senses, settled in her chest. Soft, but deep. Gentle, but sharp. Simple, but not.

She remembered the words.

"A drink should do more than taste good. It should serve a function. Improve the mood. Improve the body."

That was what The Emerald One had said. So she had experimented. She used kafa bean extract – strong, bold, just enough to sharpen focus. She balanced it with Aurelin honey, a rare sweetness that didn't spike energy but sustained it. She infused it with amberroot essence, known to stabilize adrenaline, to smooth out the erratic edges of exhaustion.

And then, there was the final touch – starflower dust. A subtle compound. Nothing overpowering. Just enough to lift the mood, to settle the mind, to make everything feel just a little bit… better. That was the brilliance of it. A drink engineered for the working class. For function, for efficiency, for productivity.

However, this one was different. Brewed by the woman she revered. Handed to her with a simple, knowing smile.

Knock

The knock came hard – too forceful, too rough, too unmeasured.

A pause.

Too long, too hesitant, too unsure.

Nion exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening around the porcelain cup. Warmth against skin, warmth against bone, warmth against thought. She set it down, the soft clink lost beneath the hum of machines embedded in the walls.

"Go in."

The door slid open before she could answer.

A woman stepped inside.

She moved like a puppet with tangled strings – stiff, awkward, unnatural. Her bodysuit clung to her form, regulation-perfect, but her posture betrayed her.

Too rigid. Too forced. Too rehearsed. Her hands were clenched – too tight. Her shoulders locked – too stiff. Her breath held – too long. Her tail twitched first. A flick, a lash, a snap.

A crack in the act. Nion's gaze swept over her. She said nothing.

The woman swallowed. Shifted. Tried to plant her feet, but her weight wavered between them. Unsteady. Unsure. Undone. Outside, the city pulsed. Towering billboards glowed. Towering billboards watched. Towering billboards dictated.

Women stood tall – poised, polished, perfected. A new standard. A new expectation. A new trend among women. One Nion had once been forced to embody herself – her own image, stretched across the skyline, frozen in light. This woman might had seen them. Had studied them. Had tried – and failed – to become them.

Nion leaned back, arms folding. Waiting. Watching. Weighing. The woman's throat bobbed. A breath hitched.

"Just speak."

She hesitated. Too long, too awkward, too obvious.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, gripping something small, something creased at the edges. A card.

Nion gestured to the seat across from her. She obeyed – too fast, too stiff, too unnatural. The chair scraped against the floor. She winced. For a moment, silence settled between them. The hum of machines. The faint aroma of vanilla. The muted noise of the city beyond the walls.

Then, at last, Lora moved. She lifted the card with both hands, like it was something precious, something fragile, something more important than it was. She set it down. Nion looked at it.

IMPERIUM VIRIDION PRIME

Official Citizenship & Clearance Card

LORA AN

Under-Eminence of Order | Cleaning Division | 1-Star

Citizenship Tier: Bronze

Sector Assignment: Sapphire District

Clearance: Civil Operations Only

ID Code: AE-OR-CL-01473

Report lost or missing cards to the Administrative Office of Order Eminence.​

Nion's eyes flicked up. Lora swallowed. Once. Twice. Again.

"Cleaning department?"

Lora nodded – too eager, too quick, too desperate.

"You're afraid of me."

Lora flinched. Nion exhaled through her nose, fingers tapping once against the table.

"Relax. You're not in trouble."

Lora didn't look convinced. She studied the woman – Lora An – her posture stiff, her breathing shallow, her fingers gripping the edges of her seat as if she might bolt at any moment. Reluctance thickened the air, hesitation settling between them like an unspoken barrier. Yet the words still came.

"Director Nion… I saw in the advertisements… if you're an official citizen… you qualify for the Emerald Mother Benefits if… pregnant."

If pregnant.

Pregnant.

Nion blinked. The statement shouldn't have surprised her, yet it did. She knew this program well – knew its structure, knew its purpose, knew its intent. Out of all the reforms, this one had been the most delicate. The most controversial. The most important.

For generations, Saiyan women had been warriors first, vessels second. They bore children, but they did not raise them. They birthed them, but they did not nurture them. Infants were measured in strength before they could even open their eyes, their worth determined before they took their first breath. If deemed weak, they were discarded. If deemed strong, they were sent away.

No bonds. No attachments. No future beyond survival.

But now?

Now, the Emerald Mother Program changed everything. Now, pregnancy meant something. Now, motherhood was not a burden but a right. Now, women were given time. Given care. Given priority.

"The future must be handled with support and love."

Support and love. Support and love. Words that had never belonged in Saiyan culture. Words that had no place on the battlefield, no place in conquest, no place in the brutal cycle of war. And yet, the Emerald One had spoken them. Had declared them necessary. Had carved them into law.

Under the Emerald Mother Program, pregnant women were granted access to higher quality of living. Their health became a priority. Their well-being was safeguarded. Their children – no matter how strong or weak – were given food, shelter, and education.

A mother would not just bear a child. A mother would raise them. A mother would protect them. A mother would not be forced to choose between war and her own blood. Nion inhaled, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. Lora An's hands trembled slightly.

"You're pregnant?"

A small nod. Barely visible. Barely a whisper. And just like that, something shifted. Something small. Something monumental. Something irreversible.

Nion's gaze locked onto the swell of her stomach. Rounded. Heavy. Pressing against the fabric like it was straining to be acknowledged. Seven months, maybe eight. Almost due. Almost there. Almost too late.

Her fingers twitched. A sharp breath in. A slow breath out. The irritation curled in her chest, tight, twisting, threatening to unravel.

"For how long?"

The words came clipped, sharper than she intended.

Lora An hesitated. Hands fidgeting. Eyes darting. Voice small.

"Seven months."

Seven months. Seven months. Seven months.

Nion's jaw clenched. Seven months, and she only spoke now? Seven months, and only now did she step forward? Seven months, and she thought this was acceptable?

Exhale. Inhale. The irritation swelled, pressing, clawing, demanding release.

"Then why only now?"

Her voice didn't soften. It didn't need to. Lora flinched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her bodysuit.

"You know the Emerald One would be furious."

A pause. A heavy silence.

"She has a soft spot for babies."

A beat.

"For children."

Another beat.

"Everyone knows that."

Everyone. And yet, Lora had waited. Waited as the months passed. Waited as the child grew. Waited, waited, waited – until now.

Nion's fingers tapped against the desk, slow, deliberate, the rhythm steady, the irritation simmering beneath the surface.

"Why?"

Lora flinched.

"I… I thought if I signed up, I'd lose my job," she murmured, voice small, uncertain. "That I'd be forced to stay home. That I'd have to give up the merit points. Everything."

Nion's irritation spiked, sharp and immediate. She forced it down. Forced herself to breathe.

"And?" Her voice came clipped, expectant.

Lora swallowed. "I didn't want to be… useless."

"Useless?"

The word echoed. Hung in the air. Stretched between them.

"You think raising the next generation is useless?"

A pause.

"You think keeping a child alive, shaping them, making them something than you ever were, is useless?"

Another pause.

"You think the Emerald One designed this system – built this empire from nothing – so we could weaken ourselves?"

Lora's lips parted, but no sound came out.

"What happens to a Saiyan raised without care?"

Nion's fingers tapped against the desk. Once. Twice. A steady, rhythmic beat.

"What happens to a child thrown into the wild like an afterthought?" Tap.

"What happens when we treat our own blood as tools for war, nothing else?" Tap.

Reckless. Tap. Stupid. Tap. Weak. Tap.

"The Emerald One isn't taking away your purpose. She's giving you one."

Her voice dropped lower, steady as stone.

"Paid leave. Training programs. Education. Resources."

She listed them off like a battle plan. A strategy. A foundation.

"Everything you need to come back stronger. Everything you need to raise a child who won't just survive – but thrive."

The silence stretched.

"A Saiyan mother isn't just a caretaker."

A pause. A beat.

"She's the first teacher."

A breath.

"The first commander."

A steady gaze.

"The first battle a child has to overcome."

The room felt smaller. Tighter. Heavier.

Nion exhaled, slow and measured.

"So tell me again."

Her fingers stilled.

"Do you still think you'd be useless?"

Lora gripped the fabric of her bodysuit, her fingers twisting the material. Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to speak.

"It's not that I think raising a child is useless," She murmured. "It's just – " she hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "Nobody respects someone without a job."

She looked up, meeting Nion's eyes with something raw. Something honest. "In the Empire, if you don't work, you're nothing. If you don't contribute, you're dead weight."

A breath. A pause. A truth too heavy to swallow all at once.

"Everyone says the Emerald One changed everything, that she gave us purpose, gave us value. But that means if you don't have a role – " she swallowed, the words like sand in her throat. "You don't have worth."

She bit her lip.

"I know the program provides everything. Food. Shelter. Education. But if I stop working, if I stop being useful – " her grip tightened, knuckles paling. "What am I then?"

The words lingered. Hung in the air like smoke.

The tension in her shoulders was unmistakable, the hesitation in her eyes even more so. She was afraid – not of Nion, not of the Emerald One, but of what signing that document meant.

"You think this is just about survival?"

Lora shifted, hesitating. "Isn't it?" she asked, her voice small, uncertain.

Nion shook her head.

"The Emerald One understands something most Saiyans never will," She said. "A person without love, without care – someone only seen for their strength, their combat power – they aren't a person at all. They're just a weapon."

Lora flinched.

"And what happens to weapons, Lora?" Nion continued. "They get used. They get wielded by others. They get discarded when they're no longer useful. Is that what you want? To be another discarded blade, rusting in a pile of forgotten things?"

Lora swallowed hard, her grip tightening around her own fingers. Nion let the silence stretch before continuing.

"You think this program is about making you weak?" Her fingers curled against the desk. "You think taking care of your child, giving them a life where they are more than just a fighter, is weakness?"

Lora's lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"Do you know why she created this program?" Nion asked. "Because she lived it. The Emerald One grew up knowing exactly what it meant to be nothing but a tool. She was born in a place where power was the only thing that mattered. Her own father starved her, forced her to fight, to work tirelessly just to stay alive. And no one cared. No one ever looked at her and saw anything but a future tool."

Lora blinked, stunned.

"You think those are just rumors?" Nion scoffed. "I saw the Emerald One tear down everything that made her that way. She swore no child under her empire would be left to rot, abandoned to die just because they weren't useful enough. No woman under her rule would ever have to choose between survival and motherhood."

She let the words sink in before speaking again.

"And you, Lora." Nion's voice softened, but there was something piercing underneath, something undeniable. "Given your combat power, given your strength – did she hesitate to take you in? To make you part of this empire?"

Lora's breath hitched.

"No," she whispered.

Nion nodded.

"Because she saw something more in you."

Lora looked down at her stomach, fingers hovering just above it.

"She wants you to see it too."

Nion leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly as she studied Lora's face. The woman was still tense, still processing, but Nion could see the shift – the hesitation cracking, giving way to something else. Something deeper.

"I will extend my understanding to you," Nion said. "You're not the first to hesitate. You won't be the last. But this is bigger than you, Lora. Bigger than me. Bigger than any one person."

Lora swallowed, nodding faintly.

"I want you to talk to the other women," Nion continued. "Tell them what you were afraid of. Tell them why you hesitated. Tell them why that hesitation was a mistake."

Lora's hands curled into loose fists.

"We have to be transparent," Nion pressed. "No more hiding. No more waiting until it's too late. No more fearing that asking for help means weakness." She leaned forward."The Emerald One designed this system so no woman would have to fight alone. So no mother would be forced to choose between survival and her child. But it only works if we trust it. If we trust each other."

Lora exhaled, long and slow.

"I understand…"

Nion held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.

"Then prove it. Show them that transparency isn't a weakness - it's a strength."

Lora hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of her uniform. The weight of the conversation settled over her like a thick veil, pressing down on her reluctance, her fear of stepping into something unknown.

"And if I sign up now?" she asked, voice quieter, unsure. "What happens next?"

Nion didn't hesitate. "Then you receive full Emerald Mother benefits immediately. Housing upgrades, higher food rations, full medical care, and post-birth support. You will be assigned a maternity officer from the Eminence of Order to monitor your well-being. You will be given time – real time – to raise your child without worrying about survival."

Lora swallowed. "And my job?"

"Your position is secured. When you're ready to return, there will be a place for you. No demotions. No penalties. But while you are in the program, your only duty is to your child. To ensure they grow strong, not just in body, but in mind and heart."

Lora glanced at her lap, her expression unreadable. Then, after a long moment, she exhaled.

"Where do I sign?"

"Here. It's a declaration of commitment – your acceptance into the program. Once you sign, it is absolute."

Lora reached for the document, her fingers hovering over the paper. She hesitated – just for a second – before pressing her thumb down.

It was done.

---

Kashta

The Sapphire District was nothing like the wastelands. Nothing like the barren, lifeless stretch of dirt where he had been cast aside – filthy, starving, humiliated. Nothing like the place where the once-powerful warriors of the tribes now scrounged like rats, their strength wasted on nothing.

Here, people moved with so called purpose. Here, people walked without fear. Here, people lived.

It made him sick.

That Emerald Bitch had taken everything from him. His status. His servants. His right to rule. Back in Durga, he had been a young master, second only to the tribal chiefs – feared, respected. When he spoke, warriors listened. When he raised his hand, servants cowered. But now? Now there was nothing.

No one to serve him. No one to cook for him. No one to kneel at his feet. No one to suffer when he was angry. She took them all. Took them from their tribes, took them from their place, took them from him. Dragged them into her so-called Empire. Left the real Saiyans to rot.

Kashta had seen it firsthand. First, she killed the chiefs. Killed them without hesitation, without ceremony, without even a fight. Then, she took the working class. Took the cooks, the builders, the smiths, the laborers. The warriors sneered at first. Laughed. Thought they'd adapt. Thought they'd hunt more, take more, survive.

But there was no food. No proper animals left. No servants to cook. No one to serve. No one to obey.

The hunting grounds that had fed them for generations? Restricted zones. The plantations where they once took their fill? Guarded. The beasts that roamed the wastelands? Tough. Bitter. Inedible. Some tried to fight back. Of course they did. They were Saiyans. They were warriors. They were conquerors.

They were obliterated. Not by her. Not even by her generals.

By her fucking system.

A system where the workers no longer needed to kneel. A system where no one needed to serve. A system where the weak were not weak because they had opportunity. She took everything from them. Took the foundation of their power, took the very place that made them Saiyans. And then she rebuilt it.

Kashta refused to accept it. He refused to bow. He refused to kneel.

He refused to let that Emerald Whore think she had won.

No matter how many of them died. No matter how deep they were forced into the dirt. No matter how much the world had changed. He would not back down.

Kashta ground his teeth as the laughter rang in his ears, grating, mocking, taunting.

"Shit, this broth is insane!" one of them groaned, practically melting into his seat. "I swear, I could drink this for the rest of my damn life!"

"You think this is good? You should've tried the Black Pepper Beef Ramen last week," another said, slurping obnoxiously. "Had me throwing punches in the air like I was about to ascend!"

"Yeah? Well, I got the Spicy Hellfire Special today. Almost knocked me out of my seat! If I get any stronger off this, I might just sign up for the next tournament."

"You? Stronger?" The first one cackled. "Keep dreaming, pal. You barely won your last match!"

"That's 'cause I was running on empty! But now? With this?" He lifted his bowl dramatically. "I feel it, man! I feel the power flowing through me!"

Laughter erupted around the stall. Carefree. Loud. Unrestrained.

Kashta's fingers dug into his palms.

Power?

These vermin – these worker-class nobodies – had the audacity to talk about power over a fucking bowl of soup?! He felt something in his jaw crack from how hard he was clenching.

Then another voice chimed in, almost sending him over the edge.

"You know, if you sign up for the new Labor Operation, you get half off at all the food stalls?"

"No way. You serious?"

"Dead serious! The Emerald One's orders. Full bellies, full strength, better performance. That's the motto!"

"Fuck me, that's genius! Why didn't we do this sooner?"

Kashta's vision blurred red. His world had burned. His entire life had been ripped apart. And these fucking insects were singing praises for her? For her system? For her empire?

His stomach twisted. His fists trembled. His entire body screamed at him to move. To act. To tear them apart.

A firm tap on his shoulder. A voice, casual but expectant.

"Oi. Why aren't you in uniform?"

Kashta's breath caught. His fingers curled under his cloak, digging into his palms. He didn't turn. Didn't move.

The voice didn't go away.

"You new or something?" A scoff. "That'd be the only reason you're walking around like this."

Kashta stayed silent.

A sigh. "Fine. I'll explain it so you don't get yourself executed or worse."

Executed? His stomach twisted. He forced himself to stay still.

"You see," the man continued."this is Imperium Viridion Prime. Not some wasteland where you can do whatever the fuck you want. If you're a citizen, you wear the bodysuit. If you're an outsider? It's goodluck on you."

Kashta's fingers twitched. Processed?

The man clapped him on the back. Too familiar. Too fucking casual.

"They'll drag you to an outpost, check your records, and if you belong here, congrats – you get your uniform and a fine. If not?" A laugh, cruel and knowing. "Well it depends."

Kashta's jaw clenched.

"Not gonna lie, though," the man went on, "most guys who show up like you don't come back. Either they're criminals, exiles, or just stupid. And the Imperium? Doesn't like wasting resources on the them."

The words crawled under Kashta's skin like fire ants.

Useless.

Exile.

A fine? He had nothing. He was already starving, already on the verge of collapse, and now this fucking bastard was acting like he was some ignorant fool? His stomach clenched again, hunger gnawing at his insides. The scent of food drifted past – hot broth, sizzling meat, thick noodles. Laughter from the ramen stall.

Saiyans – low-class trash – were eating. Talking about martial duels. Mocking him with their happiness. And this bastard behind him – this pawn of the Emerald One – was explaining his own demise like it was nothing.

Kashta gritted his teeth.

"Wait a second," he murmured. "Kashta? Kashta of Durga?"

Kashta stiffened. The air between them changed. The casual amusement drained from the man's voice, replaced by something else. Something colder.

Kashta turned.

Kashta's breath hitched.

He knew this man. Not just knew – remembered.

Vividly.

His favorite punching bag. A scrawny, rat-faced weakling. Small. Thin. Short. The kind of Saiyan who barely deserved the air he breathed. The kind who flinched when spoken to, who cringed under a glare, who folded at the slightest threat.

Kashta had made it a sport to break him. A slap here. A kick there. A fist to the gut when he felt particularly pissed. Just to remind him. Just to put him in his place.

But now?

Now, the weakling stood a head taller than him. Now, the thin frame had filled out – lean, solid muscle stretching against that fucking bodysuit, black and green, stitched with two and a half stars. Now, he didn't flinch. Didn't cringe. Didn't bow his head.

He just stared.

And something about that – the lack of fear, the quiet, unmoving weight of his gaze – made Kashta's blood pound in his skull.

A sick, twisting heat churned in his gut. No. No, this wasn't right. This worm – this thing he had beaten into the dirt – was standing over him? Looking him in the eye like they were equals?

Unacceptable.

Kashta forced a grin, sharp and mean. "Well, well," he drawled, voice curling with venom. "Looks like someone finally learned how to eat."

The man said nothing.

Kashta's grin widened, a sneer curling at the edges. "What, did the Emerald Bitch fatten you up? Hand-feed you scraps like a good little mutt?" His eyes flicked over the bodysuit, the stars, the stance that held no fear. "Tell me, did it feel good? Wagging your tail for her?"

Still, the man didn't react. Didn't lunge. Didn't snarl. Didn't break. And that – that infuriating, unshaken silence – felt like a slap in Kashta's face.

The man laughed.

A deep, full-bodied laugh. The kind that didn't just come from amusement – but from pity.

Kashta's stomach twisted.

"You're lucky, you know that?" The man wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head. "Kashta of the Durga Tribe. The Kashta of Durga."

Kashta's jaw clenched. The way he said it – like a joke, like a relic of something pathetic – made his skin crawl.

"You don't even know, do you?" The man's smirk widened. "You're on the list."

Kashta stiffened. "What list?"

The man leaned in, voice low and almost gentle. "The ones with extreme merit points upon capture."

Kashta felt his blood run cold.

"You," the man continued, expression unreadable, "are worth a lot."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Kashta swallowed. His mind raced. Merit points? Capture? He didn't understand – no, no, he did understand, but he refused to accept it.

"You have no idea how much trouble you're in, man."

Kashta's ki flared violently, scorching the air around him. His body screamed for food, for strength, but his pride screamed louder.

He lunged. A straight shot, all power, no hesitation. His fist cut through the air like a meteor, aimed right at that smug, calm face.

The man didn't move. Didn't brace. Didn't blink. Didn't even acknowledge the blow.

Kashta snarled – you fucking dare?! – and threw his other fist, faster this time. The man shifted a single step to the side, just enough for Kashta's strike to graze past his cheek.

That fucking calm.

"Is that all?"

His voice wasn't mocking. It was worse than that. It was genuine.

Kashta's rage boiled over. His aura exploded outward. He spun on his heel and came down with an axe kick, aiming to cave the bastard's skull in. But before the impact – before he could even register what happened – his foot never landed.

A sharp jerk – his balance ripped out from under him – his own body twisted – And suddenly, he was on the ground.

Face pressed into the dirt. Arm wrenched behind his back, locked in a brutal vice.

The fuck?!

Kashta thrashed, his bones straining, his ki flaring hotter –

But the grip only tightened. When did he grab me? How did he – ?!

"Predictable,"

His voice – calm. Unbothered. Kashta growled, trying to force his way up, but then – pressure. A shift of weight. The man's legs wrapped around his neck, locking in a chokehold.

His breath vanished.

"No – no, no, you piece of – !"

He clawed at the arm around his throat, his vision swimming, his lungs screaming. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Not against him. Not against this fucking runt. The bastard didn't even speak now. Just let the hold sink deeper.

Kashta's strength meant nothing. His body refused to move. His thoughts turned sluggish, spiraling into black. And the last thing he heard – before his world snapped into darkness – Was the steady, even sound of the man's breathing.

 

[TheEldritchKnight]

Goddamn that is terrifying. Saiyans actually thinking in the long term and actually learning to restrain themselves and know when to let go. Someone who was stepped on and and treated less than trash with their abuser appearing in front of them. The victim is now stronger than them but doesn't go right for the kill and ends up capturing them instead. This is a huge change to their entire culture right their.

 

[Femto]

Goddamn that is terrifying. Saiyans actually thinking in the long term and actually learning to restrain themselves and know when to let go. Someone who was stepped on and and treated less than trash with their abuser appearing in front of them. The victim is now stronger than them but doesn't go right for the kill and ends up capturing them instead. This is a huge change to their entire culture right their.

Click to shrink...

Terrifying in what way?

 

[TheEldritchKnight]

They aren't thinking just about fighting and hunting they are actually contemplating what they can be doing and are starting to look around and think. "What can I do with this that can help me in the long term".

 

[Femto]

They aren't thinking just about fighting and hunting they are actually contemplating what they can be doing and are starting to look around and think. "What can I do with this that can help me in the long term".

Click to shrink...

Goku and Vegeta changed. Gine tweaks the rules to indoctrinate a system wherein if they don't follow they'll be culled. The one who adapts to her will survives.

 

[Femto]

---

Minus​

---

Cooler

He sat motionless in his command chair, the vast emptiness of space stretching beyond the reinforced glass of his warship's bridge. Stars flickered, distant and indifferent, while the quiet hum of machinery filled the silence. His fingers tapped once–just once–against the polished metal of the armrest.

The holographic screen lightens life.

And there he was.

His brother. Frieza.

Reclined on his throne, lounging as if the weight of an empire were nothing more than an amusing inconvenience. His tail curled idly around the base of his seat, his fingers tracing the rim of a goblet filled with something dark–wine, blood, Cooler neither knew nor cared.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"Brother." Frieza's voice slithered. "Must you always make these calls so dreadfully stiff? You sit there like a statue – so cold, so serious. It's terribly rude, you know."

"I don't waste time on theatrics."

Frieza chuckled. "Oh, but business is theatrics. It's all about presentation."

"Then let's cut to the point. Your forces have been pressing into my territory–the Mid-Rim colonies. That was not part of our agreement."

Frieza sighed.

"Ah, agreements. Such fragile little things. Lines on a map. Borders in the void. Do you really believe they last forever?"

Cooler's fingers tapped the armrest again. Just once. A calculated pause. A warning.

"You will order your forces to withdraw."

Frieza's smirk widened. "And if I don't?"

The bridge felt colder, though nothing had changed. Cooler's voice dropped and absolute. For a fraction of a second, something flickered behind Frieza's eyes. Calculation. Caution.

Then, laughter. Light, airy, mocking.

"Oh, Cooler, always so dramatic." Frieza leaned forward. "Tell me, how long has it been since Father passed? Since his throne turned cold?" His smile sharpened. "You do know there's no need to play the obedient heir anymore. No one's watching."

Cooler didn't blink. Didn't move. His voice remained the same.

"You will order your forces to withdraw."

Repetition. Control. Frieza's tail twitched, just slightly. A pause. A sigh. Another smirk.

"Fine, fine. If it helps you sleep at night, I'll pull them back. But nothing in this universe is free, dear brother. I expect something in return. Perhaps a few trade routes through the Mid-Rim?"

Cooler's lips curled–just slightly. Not a smile. A warning.

"You'll get nothing."

Frieza's smirk twitched, but he recovered quickly, tilting his head in mock disappointment.

"Oh, how cruel." His voice lilted. "Denying your own brother even the smallest concession? Really, Cooler, I thought you were above such pettiness."

He sighed theatrically, swirling his drink. "But then again… perhaps you're afraid. Afraid that if you give me even an inch, I'll take everything."

His crimson eyes gleamed. "And we both know how terribly easy that would be."

Cooler remained still. His gaze stayed locked, unwavering – unshaken.

His tail tapped against the armrest. Once.

"You assume too much," He said. "You think I deny you out of fear? No, Frieza. I deny you because you're predictable. You push, you test, you play your little games, hoping I'll indulge them. But I don't. I never do."

Frieza chuckled, reclining further into his throne. "Predictable, am I? Now, that stings, brother. And here I thought I was keeping you on your toes." He feigned a pout, though the amusement in his eyes never wavered.

"You're not as clever as you think."

Frieza grinned.

"And yet, dear brother, I always seem to get what I want in the end. Territory. Resources. Power." He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, how does it feel? Knowing that no matter how strong you are, no matter how disciplined, you'll never hold what I do? That you'll never sit on the throne?"

Cooler's fingers curled slightly against the armrest. A barely noticeable shift. The only indication that the words had even registered.

"A throne doesn't make a ruler." His voice was quieter now, but sharper – colder. "Father understood that. You measure power by the number of planets you claim, by the soldiers and slaves who bow to you. But what you've built is a house of glass – one that shatters the moment someone strong enough throws a stone."

Frieza's smile thinned, his tail flicking once against his chair. "And you think you're the one holding the stone?"

Cooler tilted his head slightly. "Not yet."

A pause. A stretch of silence between them.

Then, Frieza laughed – a real laugh. Smooth, easy, genuinely entertained.

"Oh, you are fun when you try to be." He shook his head. "Fine. No trade routes. No compensation. I'll call back my forces. For now." His smirk returned, slow and knowing. "But tell me, dear brother… what will you do when I push again?"

Cooler leaned forward just slightly, his crimson eyes locked onto Frieza's.

"Push harder."

Frieza smirked.

A pause. Cooler asked. "I hear you've taken an interest in a species that looks like monkeys. Is it even worth the trouble, investing in those savages?"

Frieza chuckled, light, airy, entertained.

"Oh, dear brother," he said, swirling his drink. "Interest is such a strong word."

He let the words hang, savoring them.

"They are… unique." A sip. A sigh. "Tough little things. Stubborn. Resilient. But do I consider them important?" He smirked. "Not in the slightest."

Cooler's eyes narrowed. "Then why waste your time?"

A hum. A move of his tail. A knowing gleam in crimson eyes.

"Because I once had a dream, Brother."

Pause.

"A dream about a being."

Another swirl of his drink, slow, methodical.

"Not just any being." A smirk. A glint of sharp teeth. "The only one capable of defeating me."

A pause. A gleam in his eyes.

"A Super Saiyan."

Cooler's fingers flexed. Once. Twice. Again.

"So…" He leaned forward. "They are those Super Saiyans?"

Laughter. Soft. Sharp. Dismissive.

"Please." Frieza let out a short breath, tail flicking lazily. "Do you think something like that could be common?" He chuckled, eyes gleaming. "No, the one I speak of… is one individual. A singular existence."

Cooler's grip tightened. "Who?"

Silence.

Frieza's smirk didn't falter, but it changed. Slightly. Just slightly.

"Ah-ah." He wagged a finger, playful, mocking, condescending. "That information isn't accessible to you."

A pause. A sip. A shift in tone. Quieter. Colder. Sharper.

"And I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut about it – unless, of course, you'd like your ships to start disappearing."

Cooler's jaw tensed. His tail lashed. His fingers dug into the armrest.

"You'd dare – "

The screen went dark. Silence. Thick. Heavy. Suffocating. Cooler sat there, unmoving, his muscles coiled like a tightened wire.

Saiyans. Super Saiyan. A threat.

Frieza knew something. Something important. Something dangerous. And Cooler hated being left in the dark. Cooler's fingers dug into the armrest, claws scraping against the metal. His tail lashed once, twice, again, the sharp crack of it striking the floor echoing through the chamber. His breath came slow, controlled, but the fury beneath it simmered like molten steel.

Frieza had dismissed him. Again. Frieza had mocked him. Again. Frieza had hidden something from him. Again. That alone was unacceptable. But the idea that his fool of a younger brother – Frieza, with all his arrogance, all his certainty – had dreamed of a being that could stand against him? A being strong enough to shake even his delusions of invincibility?

Cooler's eyes burned. That was intolerable.

"Salza!"

The door hissed open, and his right hand stepped forward, spine straight, expression carefully neutral. "Lord Cooler."

"Set the coordinates," Cooler snapped. "That backwater rock. Now."

Salza hesitated. Just a heartbeat, just a fraction of a second too long.

Cooler's glare sharpened. Dangerous. Cold. Unforgiving.

"I said now."

Salza inclined his head immediately, turning on his heel, barking orders to the crew. The ship rumbled beneath them as the engines roared to life, course locked in, the hum of power vibrating through the walls. Cooler leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together, tail curling at his side.

Super Saiyan.

A myth. A ghost story. A warrior of legend, whispered through the darkest corners of the universe. And yet Frieza – Frieza – had entertained the idea. Had feared it enough to keep it from him.

That alone was enough. Enough to hunt. Enough to kill. Enough to annihilate. Cooler exhaled slowly, deliberately, the barest smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He would find this so-called Super Saiyan. He would break it, humiliate it, crush it beneath his heel. He would erase the very idea that it could ever stand against him. And he would make it understand.

Understand the disparity. The distance. The absolute void between them. Not just in power. Not just in ability. But in birth. In blood. In lineage. And when it stood before him, broken, beaten, desperate – when it looked up at him with the realization that no legend, no hope, no prophecy could save it –

It would know.

There was no legend. There was no warrior of destiny. There was no salvation.

There was only Cooler.

---

King Kai

He sat frozen. His antennae twitched. His fingers clenched his robes. His sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. He didn't push them back up.

South Kai's voice crackled through the divine lines, sharp, frantic, unraveling like a frayed rope ready to snap.

"North Kai! North Kai, you listening, you four-eyed hack?! We've got a disaster! A disaster, I tell you!"

King Kai swallowed. South Kai never panicked. South Kai bragged. South Kai boasted. South Kai made fun of him, of his warriors, of his quadrant.

South Kai never panicked.

"What happened?"

His voice was tight, clipped, the words barely squeezing past his lips.

"What happened?! What happened is that a green-haired devil is tearing through my quadrant! Hundreds of planets – gone! Vanished! Obliterated! Do you have any idea how long it takes to oversee terraforming just one planet?! And now they're just – poof! Gone!"

King Kai's gut twisted.

Hundreds of planets. Hundreds. Not a war. Not a battle. Not a skirmish.

A massacre.

And green-haired?

The pit in his stomach grew deeper.

"Wait, wait – green-haired?" The words came out slower this time.

"Yeah! Green hair freakishly strong! And get this, it's not some burly brute! It's… something else!"

Something else. Something new. Something worse.

"Tell me you're joking."

"DO I SOUND LIKE I'M JOKING, YOU NITWIT?!" South Kai roared. "I'm telling you, it's annihilating planets like they're nothing! Entire battle fleets, planetary defenses – nothing slows it down! My quadrant's warriors couldn't even make it blink!"

King Kai jerked back with a sharp inhale, sweat beading at his temples.

South Kai's voice crackled in again, more distant now, drowned beneath the heavy weight settling over King Kai's chest.

"I swear, North Kai, if this monster moves into your quadrant, you'd better start praying to the Grand Supreme Kai, because not even you are gonna be able to handle this one!"

The line cut. King Kai sat there, motionless, staring into the endless sky. A green-haired devil. A force beyond the grasp of even the gods. And it was moving. Moving forward. Moving closer. Moving toward his quadrant.

King Kai sucked in a breath. Stretched out his senses. Reaching. Searching. Dreading.

There.

A force. A void. A presence so vast, so consuming, it felt like a black hole ripping through the fabric of existence. And it was laughing.

King Kai saw him.

Not a man. Not a warrior. Not even a monster.

A devil.

Towering. Wreathed in an emerald glow that pulsed like a dying star. Muscles coiled like steel cables, shifting under the weight of something beyond mere power. Long, wild green hair cascaded down his back, swaying with each slow, methodical movement. His eyes, empty, brimming with something far worse than rage.

Cruel amusement.

And beneath him –

Small. Fragile. Trembling.

A cluster of tiny, delicate beings. Green-skinned, wide-eyed, tears streaming down their faces. Their little hands clutched one another, as if sheer desperation alone could keep them safe.

It wouldn't.

The Devil crouched, looming over them like a god over ants, his smirk deepening.

"Oh look – " his voice was deep, smooth, dripping with something twisted, something mocking, something wrong – "the little slaves decided to be brave?"

One of them whimpered. His grin widened.

"I noticed," he continued, tilting his head, "that you always love looking up at the sky."

Their shoulders stiffened.

"Staring at your silly little planet."

The smallest flinched. The Devil leaned in, his massive frame swallowing their world whole.

"You probably wish you could go back there someday."

A sharp inhale. Their eyes darted between him and the heavens.

The Devil's grin sharpened.

"It's just a dream!"

A glow gathered in his palm – emerald, wild, thrumming with raw power. It twisted and crackled, purring like something alive.

Then – BOOM.

The blast shot forward, dense, compact, rippling with destruction. But it didn't strike them. No. It curved. It twisted. It broke past the atmosphere – soaring, climbing, tearing through the sky with purpose.

The little creatures turned. Their wide, horrified eyes followed the arc –

Up.

Up.

Up.

Straight toward the planet hanging above them like a silent, watchful guardian.

King Kai felt it before they did.

The shift.

The snap.

The end.

And then –

BOOOOOOM!

The sky turned to fire. Light. Heat. Death. The dying scream of a world echoed through the void.

The little creatures screamed. The Devil threw his head back.

And laughed. Deep. Loud. Unhinged.

"Oops! Did I just blow it up? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

---

Cheelai

She exhaled, long and slow, pressing her forehead against the cool metal of the pilot's console.

Four months.

Four exhausting, nerve-wracking, paranoia-fueled months of running, hiding, doubling back, and hoping to whatever gods existed that she wouldn't wake up to a PTO fleet hovering outside her viewport.

She had no one to blame but herself. She had to steal that ship. Had to. No choice. No alternatives.

What was she supposed to do? Just leave those kids behind? Let them rot in a holding cell until some bored officer decided they'd make good target practice? They were just kids. Just some unlucky brats picked up from a backwater planet, thrown into the PTO's endless machine like all the others. Cheelai had seen the look in their eyes before. She knew what happened to cargo that wasn't worth selling. So she did something stupid. Something reckless. Something right.

She got them out.

And in the process, she might've, technically, stolen a high-speed reconnaissance ship from one of Frieza's officers. Not just any officer, either – some uptight bastard who took a lot of pride in his expensive, high-grade, top-of-the-line personal cruiser. A cruiser loaded with tracking beacons, emergency distress signals, and – of course – a kill switch that nearly left her dead in the vacuum of space.

She barely escaped. Lost the kids in the process. Had to jump from planet to planet, system to system, hotwiring, rerouting, shutting down comms – anything to throw them off her trail.

Cheelai slumped back in her seat, staring at the empty expanse outside her viewport. Her heart was still hammering. Her hands still a little too shaky.

Lemo sighed. A deep, heavy, bone-tired sigh.

"So? Did we lose 'em?"

Cheelai didn't answer right away. She just leaned back, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the last four months settle in her chest. Four months of running. Four months of hiding. Four months of jumping from system to system, never staying in one place long enough to breathe.

But now?

Now, she could breathe.

"Yeah," she muttered. "We lost 'em."

Lemo let out a slow exhale, rubbing the back of his head. "Took long enough."

"No kidding."

The kind that wasn't comfortable but wasn't exactly tense, either. Just… heavy. Like the exhaustion was pressing down on both of them at once. Then Lemo pulled out a ration pack, tossed it onto the console, and gestured toward the fuel gauge with his chin.

"Not much left." His voice was flat. "We need to stock up."

Cheelai groaned, running a hand down her face. "Great. Just what I wanted to hear."

"Look, kid," Lemo said, crossing his arms, "we need a plan. We can't keep this up. Can't keep running forever. The PTO's got eyes everywhere. If we show up in the wrong place – "

"We're dead," Cheelai finished, dropping her hand. "Yeah. I know."

She drummed her fingers against her knee.

They needed to stop. They needed supplies. They needed a place where nobody would come looking. A place nobody cared about. A place so unimportant, so out of the way, that even the PTO wouldn't waste their time checking.

"…A backwater planet," she muttered.

Lemo raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"A backwater planet," she repeated, louder this time. "Somewhere out in the sticks, somewhere no one gives a damn about. We land, lay low, refuel, restock, and wait it out."

Lemo frowned. "You sure about that? Some of those places are real shitholes."

"Exactly," Cheelai said, snapping her fingers. "Which means nobody will come looking."

Lemo didn't answer right away. He just sighed again, rubbing his temples like she was giving him a headache.

"…Alright," he relented. "But we pick carefully. I don't want to land on some hellhole full of acid lakes and man-eating plants."

"No promises." Cheelai grinned, spinning back toward the nav-screen.

Lemo frowned, arms crossed tight. "Alright, alright… But where are we? Where in the universe did we even end up?"

Cheelai leaned forward, fingers gliding over the nav-screen. A holographic star map flickered to life, grids and constellations shifting as she zoomed in.

"Omega Sector," she muttered. "Outer fringes. Right on the edge of Quadrant Seven."

Lemo squinted. "Never heard of it."

Cheelai grinned. "Exactly."

Lemo's frown deepened. "That supposed to be a good thing?"

"Oh, it's better than good," she said, tapping a few keys. "It's great. Because this place? This entire sector? It's not on PTO records."

Lemo blinked. "You're messing with me."

"Dead serious." She stretched, hands lacing behind her head. "It's like we just stumbled into a blind spot in the universe."

Lemo exhaled. A slow, considering breath. "…Huh."

Then the viewport shifted. A planet. A massive globe, rising before them like a forgotten giant in the abyss of space. It wasn't barren. It wasn't scorched. It wasn't another dead rock floating in the void.

It was alive.

Deep green continents sprawled across its surface, endless jungles weaving like veins through the land. Oceans shimmered under the pale light of a distant sun, reflecting gold and sapphire. Clouds drifted, slow and steady, casting their shadows over valleys and mountains.

It was habitable. It was beautiful. It was strange.

Strange to see a planet like this still untouched, still whole, in a universe that tore worlds apart and left only ruins behind.

Lemo let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned…"

Cheelai just stared. No signs of warships, colonies, or strip-mining operations. For the first time in a long time, she wasn't looking at a graveyard. Not a war zone. Not some filthy, overcrowded trading post reeking of fuel and desperation.

Just a planet. A real, living, breathing planet.

"…You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Lemo exhaled, shaking his head. "I'm thinking we just got real lucky."

Alarms blared. Lights flashed. The ship shuddered, every system straining to process the impossible.

"Unidentified high-speed object detected."

Not a ship. Not debris. Not a signal flare. Something was moving. Something fast.

Cheelai's fingers tightened around the controls. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Lemo's voice came hoarse. "I – I don't know."

He was lying. He knew. They both did. No thrusters. No engines. No propulsion signatures. And yet, the thing was coming. Straight for them. Straight for them.

"Visuals," Cheelai snapped. "Now."

Lemo fumbled, fingers jabbing at the console. The screen opened, static rippling, then –

Stars. The void. The swirling nebulae. The massive planet below.

Nothing. Nothing. Zoom. A speck. Zoom. A shape. Zoom.

A woman. She wasn't in a ship. She wasn't in a suit. Just a stark white bodysuit clinging to her form, pristine even in the void. Wild, thick hair floated around her, drifting freely in zero gravity. And her eyes – her eyes – glowed a piercing onyx, sharp and inhuman.

Cheelai's breath caught. Her stomach knotted.

"Lemo…"

"I see her." A whisper. "She sees us."

Their ship was still thousands of miles away. The distance was absurd. Yet those golden eyes – those onyx eyes – had already locked onto them. She moved. Not floated. Not drifted. Not with the slow, weightless grace of something adrift in space.

One second, she was a distant blur.

The next –

She was there.

Right outside their ship.

No sound. No warning. No transition. Just there. Cheelai's heartbeat slammed against her ribs. The ship's sensors wailed. The readings made no sense. Lemo stiffened beside her.

"No… no way…"

The woman didn't flinch. Didn't blink. She floated effortlessly, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

And then she spoke.

"What are you doing on my planet?"

The voice rang through the cockpit. Clear. Sharp. Heavy. Cheelai didn't understand the words. She understood the weight. Lemo swallowed.

"Cheelai…"

"I know."

They couldn't understand her. Cheelai's pulse pounded. They needed information. They needed to know.

"Scouters," she ordered, voice clipped. "Check her power level."

Lemo hesitated.

"Now."

He didn't move.

"Lemo – "

"We don't have scouters, Cheelai."

A slow, creeping realization. Cheelai's stomach turned. They didn't have scouters. They threw them away. If they had kept them, the PTO would've found them by now. They had no readings. No numbers. No information. Nothing.

Just her.

The woman tilted her head. Then, slower this time, she asked again.

"What are you doing on this planet?"

Her eyes didn't blink. Her lips barely moved. Her body didn't shift. She was still. So still. Too still. Like she didn't need to breathe. Like she didn't need to move. Cheelai licked her lips, dry and cracked. She could feel it. The pressure. The weight. The sheer, suffocating force of her presence. Not a person. Not a fighter. Not a soldier. Something else. Something more.

Lemo whispered. "What do we do?"

Cheelai didn't have an answer.

---

Power Level Reference:

Cheelai: 260
Lemo: 200
The Devil: 10 000 000 000 (Saiyan of Legend + Post Zenkai)
Lord Cooler: 6 500 000 (Fourth Form)
The woman: 160 000 (Base Form)

 

[dxdragon]

Thanks for the chapter!

Question, how is Broly a thing? He shouldn't even have been born yet.
He's supposed to be around the same age as Goku and Vegeta.

Also, Cooler incoming? Well that will be fun to watch. Gine is gonna need to grow massively to match that PL gap.

Did Frieza bait Cooler to go there to train up Gine? If they've been watching her, they'll have seen how quickly she grows in combat.

 

[Femto]

Did Frieza bait Cooler to go there to train up Gine?

Click to shrink...

Frieza is really smart here in this fic. So most likely yes.

 

[Femto]

Gine is gonna need to grow massively to match that PL gap.

Click to shrink...

The PL gap is massive. Not sure if her combat adaptation will work this really well. Cooler PL is around hundreds of millions.

 

[Femto]

Question, how is Broly a thing? He shouldn't even have been born yet.

Click to shrink...

If you read during Kesha Village Arc - Broly was introduced - crashing down in South Galaxy. He kinda goes back in time after being defeated by Goku.

 

[Femto]

Hey - will rest on this story for a while. My new focus is my new Danmachi Fanfic. Because I got interested in the manga. What can we do? My wife is sucker for adventurer stories. Though I plan on making it a bit unique and ultra realistic

Again see you again in Minus!

 

[Mystero]

Wanted to enjoy this, much too AU. Turles talking like he is 50 year old with phd in martial arts when he is 11. Then the whole tuffle thing. Its just not interesting.

 

[Femto]

Wanted to enjoy this, much too AU. Turles talking like he is 50 year old with phd in martial arts when he is 11. Then the whole tuffle thing. Its just not interesting.

Click to shrink...

Appreciate that man. We're just to enjoy - you may go to other fics to find something worth your time as I'm also writing for my own amusement. No worries - thanks for the patron.