The walk home was a limping parade of humiliation.
My right boot felt tight, the leather pressing against a toe that was definitely broken and currently swelling to the size of a Raditz-sized radish. Every step sent a jolt of electricity shooting up my shin, settling as a dull, throbbing ache in my hip.
I told myself, pain tells you you're alive.
Yeah, well, my inner voice argued back. Pain also tells you that a seven-year-old brat nearly crippled you for fun.
I kept my head down as I navigated the labyrinth of the Iron District.
I wasn't the only one walking with a limp. I passed a group of laborers hauling scrap metal. One of them was missing half an ear. Another had a tail that looked like it had been severed and cauterized with a torch.
This was the planet's filtration system. The strong went up to the sky to conquer stars. The weak sank down here to rot.
And I was currently sinking.
If I didn't treat this toe, I was in trouble. On Earth, a broken toe was an inconvenience. You iced it, you taped it. On Planet Vegeta, in the slums, a physical impairment made you a target. If I limped tomorrow at the depot, Bok would fire me. If I got fired, I lost my rations. If I lost my rations, I starved.
Or worse, infection. I doubted Saiyan biology was immune to gangrene, especially with the filth that coated every surface of this sector.
I needed supplies.
I reached our housing block just as the second sun dipped below the smog line, plunging the district into a bruised, purple twilight.
The door hissed open. The apartment was dark, lit only by the glow of a small heating unit in the corner.
Sela was sitting at the metal table, stripping parts from a scavenged blaster pistol. She didn't look up when I entered.
"You're late," she said. Her voice was flat, lacking any maternal warmth. It was the tone of a supervisor noting a discrepancy in a logbook.
"Had to finish a haul," I lied, keeping my voice steady. I tried to walk normally, suppressing the wince that threatened to contort my face.
She looked up then, her sharp eyes scanning me. She paused at my boot. She saw the slight drag in my step. She saw the dried blood on my lip where Taro had slapped me.
I held my breath. Ask me, I thought, a tiny, foolish part of my human heart hoping for comfort. Ask me if I'm okay.
"Don't bleed on the mats," she said, turning back to the blaster. "I just cleaned them."
The hope died, replaced by the cold, hard resolve that was becoming my armor. "Understood."
I walked to the small alcove that served as my room, basically a closet with a ventilation grate, and sat on the thin mattress. I unlaced my boot, biting my knuckle to keep from screaming as the pressure released.
My big toe was a mess. Purple, swollen, and pulsing like it had its own heartbeat. The nail was cracked down the middle.
I stared at it in the dim light.
"Okay," I whispered to myself. "No medical insurance. No mom. No magic beans."
I checked my pockets. I had nothing. My first pay cycle wasn't until the end of the week. I couldn't buy bacta-spray or painkillers.
But I knew where to get them.
The "Rust Market" was located three sectors over, nestled in the skeleton of a crashed cargo hauler that had been too big to move, so the locals had just built a bazaar inside its ribs.
It was fully night now. The temperature had dropped, the metal ground leeching the heat from the air. I pulled the collar of my jumpsuit up, trying to hide my face. A four-year-old walking alone at night was usually bait, but I moved with the purposeful stride of someone who had nothing to steal.
I stuck to the shadows, using my small size to weave behind piles of junk and under walkways.
The market was a sensory assault. Even at night, it was alive. Low-Class Saiyans bartered over slabs of questionable meat, stolen tech, and canisters of unfiltered water. The language was rough, a dialect of Basic filled with slang I was still learning.
I wasn't here for food. I was here for the "Chemist."
I found the stall near the back, tucked under the overhang of a rusted engine turbine. It was a chaotic pile of vials, jars of blue liquid, and rolls of bandages that looked slightly grey.
The owner was slumped in a chair behind the counter, a ragged hood pulled over his face. He looked asleep.
I crept closer, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I bet even Luffy's heartbeat in Gear 5 wasn't as loud...
Stealth mission start, I thought. Objective: One vial of antiseptic and a roll of tape.
I analyzed the target. The old man wasn't moving. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm. A half-empty bottle of spirits sat on the crate next to him. Drunk. Perfect.
I reached up. The counter was high, just at my eye level. I had to stand on my tiptoes.
My hand hovered over a small, clear vial of green liquid—standard issue disinfectant. I grabbed it. The glass was cool against my palm.
Easy.
I turned to leave, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from the folds of the cloak.
It moved with a speed that defied logic. One moment, the man was asleep; the next, his fingers were wrapped around my wrist like a vice made of durasteel.
"Gah!" I yelped, dropping the vial.
It didn't shatter. The man caught it with his other hand before it hit the ground.
The hood fell back.
He was old. Ancient by Saiyan standards. His face was a roadmap of scars, leathered and beaten by a lifetime of war. One of his eyes was milky white—blind. But the other one, a sharp, piercing black, was locked onto me.
And he was missing his left arm. The hand that had caught the vial was actually his foot. He was flexible enough to kick up and catch it, or maybe I was just hallucinating from the pain.
No, wait. I looked closer. It wasn't his foot. It was his tail.
He had caught the vial with the tip of his tail, curling around it with prehensile precision.
"I thought rats were quieter," the old man rasped. His voice sounded like gravel grinding in a mixer.
"I... I wasn't..." I stammered, panic flooding my system.
"You weren't stealing?" He tightened his grip on my wrist. It felt like my bones were grinding together. "You were just borrowing it indefinitely?"
I tried to pull away. I dug my heels in, using the leverage I had practiced at the depot. But against this old man, I was nothing. He didn't even budge. He was a mountain, and I was a pebble.
Think, Cress. Think.
Running was impossible. Fighting was suicide. Pleading? Saiyans hated beggars.
I stopped struggling. I went limp, forcing my body to relax.
The old man blinked, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance.
"I wasn't borrowing it," I said, looking him in the eye. "I was stealing it. Obviously."
The old man's good eye narrowed. "Honesty? From a thief?"
"I'm broke," I said, speaking fast. "I get paid in four days. But my toe is the size of a fruit, and if I don't fix it, I get fired. If I get fired, I can't steal from you in the future when I actually have money to buy things."
The old man stared at me. The silence stretched for an agonizing ten seconds.
Then, he snorted. The snort turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle turned into a dry, wheezing laugh that sounded like a dying engine.
"A pragmatist," he muttered, releasing my wrist. He shoved me back. "And a smartmouth. You're small for your age, kid. Runt?"
I rubbed my wrist, checking for bruises. "Something like that."
The old man poured the vial of green liquid onto a dirty rag and tossed it at me. "It's not free. Nothing is free."
I caught the rag. The smell was overpowering, like bleach and fermented berries. "I told you, I have no credits."
"I don't want credits," the old man said, leaning back into his chair. He took a swig from his bottle. "You have small hands. Dextrous. I have a box of Scouter micro-chips that need sorting by serial number. My eyes aren't what they used to be, and my fingers are too thick."
He gestured to a dusty box in the corner.
"Sort them," he commanded. "And you keep the medicine. You try to run, and I snap your other toe."
I looked at the box. Then at the medicine. Then at the old man—Zorn, as I would later learn.
"Deal," I said.
I sat down on the cold metal ground and started sorting.
It took two hours.
By the time I finished, my eyes were crossing from reading the microscopic serial numbers on the chips. Zorn had watched me the whole time, occasionally throwing a sarcastic comment my way.
"You read fast for a gutter-rat," he observed as I stacked the last chip.
"I pay attention," I replied, pocketing the medicine vial and a roll of tape he had thrown in.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Cress."
"Zorn," he grunted. "Now get lost. If you come back to steal again, I'll eat you."
"A pleasure doing business," I said dryly.
As I walked away, I felt his gaze on my back.
It was well past midnight when I finally reached the outskirts of the Iron District.
I wasn't going home yet. For the past four years, I had been miserable. Laziness didn't even exist in my vocabulary anymore. I was going to train. I had been training for the past four years without much progress, but I simply couldn't stop and fall into this miserable routine waiting for the planet to explode.
I wanted to live not survive.
I found a spot near the metropole, but far enough. It was a desolate patch of rocky ground.
I sat on a flat rock and quickly re-taped my toe with the supplies Zorn had given me. The green liquid stung like fire, but I ignored it.
"Okay," I muttered, standing up and shaking out my limbs. "Back to the grind."
This was the routine I had established over the last two years. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't the best but that was what I needed. It was just basic, brute-force labor.
I started running.
My target was thirty minutes.
I took off, my small boots crunching against the gravel. The 10x gravity was a constant, invisible weight, dragging every limb down. Every step required a conscious effort, a deliberate push against the planet itself.
I still wasn't accustomed to this, at least mentally, I always felt heavy.
Five minutes. My lungs started to burn. The air here was thin. Fifteen minutes. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through deep water.
I kept my pace steady. I wasn't fast, but I wasn't stopping. I focused on my breathing, forcing the oxygen into my blood. I knew that if I stopped moving, the gravity would make it twice as hard to start again.
By the time I hit the thirty-minute mark, I was drenched in sweat, gasping for air. I slowed to a walk, circling the rock to cool down, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Warm-up complete," I wheezed.
Next came the strength training.
I dropped to the ground. Push-ups.
In this gravity, lifting my own body weight was a nightmare. I started the count.
One. My arms shook. Two. My shoulders burned.
I gritted my teeth, staring at the dirt inches from my nose. I did sets of ten. It was pathetic. I was trying to build muscle on a frame that wasn't designed for it.
After the push-ups came the sit-ups. I hooked my feet under a heavy piece of scrap metal and pulled myself up until my abs felt like they were tearing.
I did this until my body simply refused to listen to my brain. My arms gave out, and I collapsed onto the gravel, staring up at the smoggy sky, chest heaving.
I lay there for five minutes, letting the lactic acid settle.
"Okay," I whispered, wiping the grime from my forehead. "Now for the weird part."
I sat up on the flat rock, crossing my legs.
Meditation.
In the anime and fanfictions, this was the part where the character had a breakthrough. They would sit down, look inward, and suddenly find a raging river of power.
For me, it was mostly just sitting in the dark feeling stupid.
I closed my eyes. "Just breathe," I told myself.
I tried to slow my heart rate. I focused on the concept of Ki. According to the lore, it was life energy. It was supposed to be in the center of the body. The Dan Tian? The Solar Plexus? Maybe I was too much of a nerd.
I focused on my stomach. I tried to "feel" warmth. I tried to "pull" energy.
Inhale. Exhale.
Nothing happened.
I sat there, shifting uncomfortably on the hard rock. My toe throbbed. My muscles ached. I felt absolutely nothing mystical. No hum of power. No ball of light. Just digestion and exhaustion.
"Am I even doing this right?" I muttered, opening one eye to look at a passing cloud.
I had no teacher. I had no manual. For all I knew, I was just imagining things. Maybe Ki control required a specific trigger I didn't have. Maybe I was just sitting on a rock wasting sleep.
But I closed my eye again. I didn't have a better plan. If I couldn't figure out Ki, I was dead.
So I sat there. I breathed in deeply, imagining the air filling a tank in my gut. I breathed out, imagining the waste leaving.
Focus. Just try to feel... something.
I spent another hour in silence, fighting the urge to fall asleep, grasping at straws in the dark. I didn't unlock Super Saiyan. I didn't even make a pebble float.
But as the first sun began to bleach the sky grey, I stood up. I felt slightly calmer. My breathing was controlled.
"Another day, another failure," I said, dusting off my jumpsuit.
It wasn't much, but it was consistency. And right now, consistency was the only weapon I had.
I turned back toward the city. Sela would be waking up soon, and I had Scouter chips to sort if I wanted to eat tomorrow.
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Author's note: Leave a comment and a power stone if u enjoyed. If you have ideas about the story let me know in the comments. Next chapter will also be coming out tomorrow although the hour may change.