Three weeks on Planet Vegeta was enough time to realize that time itself felt heavier here.
I stood in the Supply Depot. The air smelled of burnt hydraulic fluid and ozone.
In front of me sat the nemesis. It was a dull grey box, scuffed at the corners, looking innocent enough.
"Move it, Runt!" Bok's voice boomed from the catwalk above. "We have a transport leaving for the Cold Planet 79 in ten minutes. If that crate isn't on the loader, you're walking home."
I didn't look up. I didn't waste the breath.
Three weeks ago, this crate had nearly broken my spine.
Now, I just chalked my hands with dust from the floor.
I widened my stance. My boots gripped the metal grating. I bent my knees, keeping my back straight. My hands locked onto the recessed handles. The metal was cold, rough against my calloused palms.
Three, two, one.
I exhaled sharply and drove through my heels.
The crate rose.
It wasn't easy. But there was no shaking. No buckling.
I lifted it to waist height, pivoted on my heel, and began the walk to the loader.
The rhythm was automatic now. My body had entered a state of survival adaptation. The soreness that had crippled me in the first week had hardened into a permanent, dull ache that I simply ignored. My jumpsuit, once baggy, was starting to fit differently. Not because I had grown taller, but because the wiring of my body was changing. The soft fat of a child was burning away, replaced by dense, corded muscle.
I reached the anti-grav loader and slammed the crate down onto the pallet. The metallic clang echoed through the bay.
"Time," I whispered to myself. "Three minutes flat."
A week ago, that trip took five.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and turned back to the pile. There were twenty more crates to go. I didn't dread it. I looked at them as stepping stones. Each one was a rep. Each one was a microscopic deposit in the bank account of my survival.
Bok leaned over the railing, chewing on his root. He looked disappointed. He liked it better when I struggled. "Don't celebrate yet. The shift isn't over."
This guy must be a sadist. Well I guess its fine since he isn't outright bullying me.
"Yes, sir," I replied, my voice neutral.
I walked back to the line. I wasn't celebrating. I was calculating.
The shift ended as the second sun began its descent, painting the smog over the Iron District in shades of bruised purple. My arms felt like they were made of jelly, and my stomach was gnawing at my spine, but my mind was awake.
I didn't go home. Home was just a place to sleep and be ignored. I wish my mother, at least, had been like Gine.
I headed deeper into the slums, toward the Rust Market.
Zorn's stall was open. The old, one-armed veteran was sitting in his usual spot, tinkering with a partially dismantled blaster rifle using his tail to hold a magnifying glass.
" You're late," Zorn grunted without looking up.
"Depot ran long," I said, stepping into the cramped space behind the counter. It smelled of solder, rust, and the cheap alcohol Zorn favored.
"Excuses don't solder circuits," he muttered. "The pile is over there."
I looked at the corner. The pile of salvage had grown. Broken communicators, cracked armor plating, and tangles of wire that looked like robot guts.
"You're a slave driver, Zorn," I said, sitting on my stool.
"I'm a job creator," he corrected, taking a swig from his flask. "And you're cheap labor. Now get to work. I need the copper stripped from those comm-units. Cleanly. If you nick the core, the transmission gets static."
I picked up a pair of wire strippers and a rusted communication hub.
This was the second part of my education.
The Depot built my body. Zorn's shop built my brain.
Saiyan technology was fascinating. It was advanced, far beyond Earth's, capable of space travel and energy manipulation. But it was also utilitarian. Brutal. There was no elegance in the design. It was built to survive explosions and vacuum.
Well, all the tech comes from King Cold, I mused. The Saiyans weren't that bright.
I sliced the rubber casing of the wire, peeling it back to reveal the golden filament underneath. My fingers, small and scarred from the work, moved with a precision I didn't have a month ago.
"Zorn?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the copper wire I was stripping. "Do you have a spare Scouter lying around? One you could lend me?"
Zorn stopped polishing his rifle. He looked at me like I had asked to borrow his remaining arm.
"Lend?" he rasped. "Do I look like the Quartermaster? Scouters are military-grade hardware, kid. Even the old models fetch a decent price."
I didn't back down. I had been training for weeks. I felt stronger. I could lift the crates easier, and I could run longer without my lungs feeling like they were collapsing. But "feeling" stronger wasn't enough.
I needed to know if the number "Two" was still my reality, or if I had moved the needle even a fraction. I still couldn't feel a damn thing so naturally, a scouter was the only thing left to check my progress.
"I don't need a new one," I said, trying to sound casual. "Just something functional. I want to check something."
"Check what? Your ego?" Zorn snorted, taking a swig from his flask. "You're a worker, Cress. If you can lift the box, you're strong enough. If you can't, you're weak. You don't need a machine to tell you that."
"It's not about ego," I said. "I'm trying to figure out if my training is actually working. I need a number, Zorn."
Zorn rolled his single eye. "You and your training. You run around the pipes until you puke, thinking it'll make you an Elite."
Just watch old man, you're going to be real surprised when my training will start to show its result.
He sighed, scratching his scarred chin with the tip of his tail. He seemed to debate kicking me out versus humoring me. Finally, he grunted and leaned down, rummaging through a box of "unsalvageable" junk he kept under the counter.
"I'm not giving you a working unit," he muttered, tossing aside a cracked helmet. "But... I might have a brick. Heavy. Ugly. The visual display is cracked, and the audio synthesizer sounds like a dying cat."
He pulled out a headset. It was dusty, the casing was chipped, and wires were poking out of the side. It looked less like high-tech gear and more like a car part.
"It doesn't work," Zorn said, tossing it onto the counter. It landed with a hollow clatter. "The sensor grid is misaligned. I was going to toss it in the incinerator, but the disposal fee is five credits."
I looked at the broken gadget. It was perfect.
"I'll save you the five credits," I said, reaching for it. "I'll take it off your hands for free."
Zorn narrowed his eye. "You're doing me a favor, huh?"
"I'm taking out your trash," I said, shrugging. "You save money, I get a toy to tinker with. Win-win."
A crooked grin spread across Zorn's face. He waved his hand dismissively.
"Take it. Get that piece of junk out of my sight. But if you manage to fix it and it explodes in your ear, don't come crying to me."
"Deal," I said, sliding the broken Scouter into my pocket.
"Now get back to the copper," he barked. "Those wires won't strip themselves."
--
I slipped out of the stall and into the night.
The walk from the market to the outskirts took me past the Military Academy grounds.
This was the forbidden zone for Low-Class trash like me. The Academy was where the Mid-Class and Elite children trained. It was a massive complex of white stone and high walls, illuminated by floodlights that turned the night into day.
I usually took the long way around, but tonight, I felt bold. I crept up to the perimeter fence, hiding in the shadow of a support pillar.
I could hear the sounds of combat.
Crack. Boom. Thud.
I peeked through a gap in the plating.
In the courtyard, a group of cadets were sparring. They looked to be about eight or nine years old. One of them was familiar.
Taro.
The boy who had slapped me was laughing. He was fighting a Saibaman, one of the green, acid spitting creatures used for training.
"Is that all?" Taro shouted, dodging a swipe from the creature. He didn't just dodge; he moved with an arrogance that was painful to watch.
The Saibaman lunged. Taro didn't block. He didn't deflect. He just stood there and took the claw to the chest.
Skreee!
The claw raked across his armor. Taro didn't even flinch. He grabbed the Saibaman's arm and ripped it off with a sickening crunch.
"Too slow!" Taro yelled, blasting the creature with a point blank energy wave. The explosion lit up the courtyard, reducing the Saibaman to green slime.
The other cadets cheered. "Nice shot, Taro! Power level of 400 is no joke!"
I pulled back into the shadows, my heart racing.
It was a staggering number. I was a 2. He was two hundred times stronger than me. If he hit me with that blast, there wouldn't be a body left to bury.
But as I walked away, replay the fight in my head, I realized something.
Taro fought like an idiot.
He took the hit. He let the Saibaman strike him because he knew his armor and his natural durability would handle it. He relied entirely on stats. He relied on the fact that he was simply harder and stronger than his opponent.
There was no technique. No redirection of force. No economy of motion. It was just brute force slamming against brute force.
They fight like rhinos, I thought, moving quickly through the dark streets. They trade blows until the weaker one falls down.
It made sense. When you are the strong, why learn to dodge? Why learn martial arts when you can just tank a laser to the face?
I stopped in an alleyway and looked at my hands.
Earth martial arts were created by weak people to defeat strong people. They focused on evasion, joint locks, and using the opponent's momentum against them.
I threw a punch at the air. It was slow. Weak.
I tried again. This time, I imagined Taro swinging at me. I slipped to the side, pivoting on my left foot, and imagined striking his liver.
Slip. Pivot. Strike.
It felt awkward. But I forced the discipline.
I did it again. And again.
--
I reached my sanctuary under the pipes. I didn't start my run immediately.
I sat on my rock and pulled out the treasure.
The Scouter lay there like a piece of dead roadkill. I pulled out the small heating tool and the coil of solder I'd swiped.
I didn't waste time admiring the engineering. I just needed to bypass the fractured circuit on the display feed. It was a rush job. I twisted the copper filaments together and sealed them with a drop of molten lead.
"Don't blow up," I muttered.
A spark jumped, and the screen flickered to life. Green symbols scrolled across the cracked glass. It was glitchy, but readable.
I put it on. The lens hovered over my left eye, casting a green tint over the dark wasteland.
I didn't hesitate. I looked down at my own hand, then pressed the button on the side.
Beep.
The glyphs spun for a fraction of a second before locking onto a number.
15.
I stared at the green digits floating in front of my eye.
Fifteen.
No powering up. No screaming. Just my resting state.
I sat back against the cold pipe, letting the number sink in.
A month ago, I was a 2. Now I was a 15.
On Earth, a farmer with a shotgun was a 5. Goku, at the very start of his journey, was around 10.
I was technically stronger than an adult human male. I was stronger than the kid who met Bulma.
I let out a breath, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. The gravity training worked. The grind worked. My body was adapting faster than I expected.
But then I thought about Taro. 400.
I thought about Raditz. 1,500.
I thought about the King. 10,000.
The smile faded. Fifteen was progress, sure. It proved I wasn't stagnant. But in the grand scheme of the Frieza Force? I was still a bug. A slightly tougher bug, maybe, but a boot was still a boot.
"Fifteen," I whispered to the rising suns. "Mediocre."
It wasn't enough to survive. It wasn't enough to save anyone. But it was a start.
I switched off the device and slipped it into my pocket.
"Back to work," I muttered, standing up.
I had a long way to go before the clock ran out.
--
Three Years Later.
The twin suns beat down on the loading bay, but I barely felt the heat anymore.
"Two! Incoming shipment from Frieza Planet 41. Heavy ordnance. Clear the pad!"
"On it, Boss," I called back.
I wasn't the scrawny, malnourished toddler struggling with a single crate anymore. I was seven years old.
I stood at average height for a Saiyan child, my frame filled out with dense, corded muscle that rippled under my jumpsuit. My hair had grown out, a thick, spiky black mane that defied gravity, reaching down to my shoulder blades.
A stack of five Type-4 crates sat on the pallet. Three years ago, one of these nearly broke me.
I walked up to the stack. I didn't widen my stance. I didn't psyche myself up. I just grabbed the bottom crate and lifted.
The entire stack rose into the air.
I balanced the tower of metal on one shoulder, feeling the weight settle comfortably against my reinforced bones. I walked across the bay with a steady, rhythmic stride.
Bok watched from his usual spot on the catwalk. He wasn't chewing roots anymore; he was eating a proper meat skewer. He nodded at me.
"Good pace, Two," he grunted. "When you're done, take a break. You've earned fifteen minutes."
"Thanks, Bok."
Our relationship had evolved. I was no longer the useless runt he wanted to fire. I was his most efficient worker. I didn't complain, I didn't start fights with the other workers, and I didn't steal (from him, at least). To Bok, I was a reliable piece of machinery. He still called me "Two," but the venom was gone. It was just a name now.
I finished the load and wiped my hands on a rag.
My life had fallen into a rhythm. The Depot by day. Zorn's shop by evening. Training by night.
I had become a fixture at the Rust Market. Zorn had taught me how to strip engines, repair Scouters, and calibrate weapon systems. In exchange, he paid me a small cut of the profits. I wasn't rich, but I had a stash of credits hidden under my floorboards, enough to buy extra protein rations to fuel my growing body.
I clocked out as the suns began to set and headed home.
The apartment was the same cramped, grey box, but the atmosphere had changed slightly.
Karr was gone, deployed on a long term conquest mission in the East Galaxy. Sela was home, sitting at the table, sharpening a combat knife.
Her armor was unbuckled, revealing the slight swell of her stomach.
She was pregnant.
I walked in, grabbing a nutrient bar from the pantry.
"How was the shift?" I asked, gesturing to the knife.
"Dull," Sela replied, not looking up. "The meat processors are loud today."
She didn't mention the baby. We never talked about it. It was just another fact of life. Another Saiyan on the way. Another roll of the genetic dice. If the baby was strong, they would celebrate. If it was like me... well, I knew the drill.
I ate my food in silence, changed into my training gear, and slipped out the window.
My training spot had changed. I needed more space than the drainage pipes could offer. I had moved further out into the Wastelands, to a canyon filled with jagged rock formations.
I stood in the center of a crater I had carved out over the last year.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Scouter, the same beat-up shit I had fixed three years ago. I kept it calibrated perfectly.
I put it on and pressed the button.
Beep.
200.
The number glowed green in the twilight.
Two hundred.
It wasn't just "good" for a Low-Class seven-year-old. It was soldier-grade. Most adult Low-Class warriors hovered around 500 to 1,000. At age seven, I was already a fifth of the way to an adult soldier's power.
The training, the heavy labor, the extra rations, it had all compounded. My body was a machine designed for stress.
But I had hit a wall.
I could punch a boulder into dust. I could outrun a hover car. But I couldn't shoot a beam. I couldn't fly.
Flying was natural for saiyans but for some reasons I had no idea how to do it, well it's probably because I was born with such a low power level, it was the same for Goku, he had to learn how to fly too.
Starting as a low class really is hell difficulty, this is honor mode!
I had stopped meditating two years ago. It felt like a waste of time. Sitting on a rock trying to "feel the warmth" while my muscles atrophied felt stupid. I had focused entirely on physical stats.
But 200 was the limit of just muscles. To go higher, to truly survive what was coming, I needed Ki.
I would become a walking cheat, I could fool scouters, hide my energy, use the techniques of the main characters, Kienzan was looking pretty damn useful along with solar flare.
"One more try," I muttered, sitting down on the dusty ground.
I crossed my legs.
I thought back to the source material. I replayed every scene in my head. I had tried the spiritual approach, useless. I had tried the anger approach, unreliable.
Then I remembered Dragon Ball Z. I remembered Gohan teaching Videl.
He didn't tell her to meditate on the universe. He didn't tell her to get angry.
He told her Ki was already there. It wasn't something you created; it was something you drew out.
"Quiet down the noise," I whispered, quoting the memory. "Find the source."
I closed my eyes.
I didn't try to force a feeling. I didn't flex my muscles. I just sat there and visualized my body as a container. Inside the container was a liquid, energy.
Usually, I tried to grab it. This time, I just tried to let it sit.
I focused on a single point in my hands. Cupped together in my lap.
Don't push. Just open the tap.
I visualized a valve in my wrists opening. I imagined the energy flowing from my gut, down my arms, and pooling in my palms.
Flow.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a heat.
It was a tension. Like the air pressure dropping before a storm.
I felt a strange sensation in my palms. A tingling. A resistance.
My heart skipped a beat. Don't lose focus.
I kept the visualization going. More. Let it fill the space.
The tingling grew stronger. It felt like I was holding two magnets with the same poles facing each other, an invisible force pushing back against my skin.
I cracked one eye open.
There, in the cup of my hands, was a faint, flickering white light.
It was barely the size of a marble. It sputtered like a dying candle. But it was there.
It was pure energy.
I stared at it, mesmerizing.
"I did it," I whispered.
The concentration slipped, and the light vanished instantly.
But I knew the feeling now. I knew the pathway. It wasn't about muscle. It was about opening the gate.
I looked at my hands. They were trembling. Not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline.
A laugh bubbled up in my chest.
It started as a chuckle, then grew into a cackle. I threw my head back and laughed at the dark sky, a sound that bounced off the canyon walls.
"HAHAHAHA!"
I wasn't just a runt lifting boxes anymore. I was a Ki user.
I stood up, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes. The Scouter on my face chirped, picking up the spike in my emotion.
I clenched my fist.
"Okay," I said, my grin stretching wide. "Now the real fun begins."