The intercom crackled to life, cutting through the industrial roar of the Supply Depot.
"Unit Two. Report to the Supervisor's Office. Immediately."
I froze, a crate of hyper-dense alloy hovering an inch above the floor in my grip.
Around me, other workers, burly, scarred Saiyans with tails wrapped around their waists, stopped and stared. In the Iron District, getting called to the office usually meant two things: you were getting fired, or you were getting executed for stealing.
"Ooooh," a one-eyed laborer jeered from the walkway. "Two's finally in for it. Nice knowing you, runt."
I ignored him. I set the crate down with a gentle thud, wiped the grease from my hands onto my jumpsuit, and walked toward the suspended metal box that served as Bok's office.
I walked up the stairs and knocked.
"Enter," Bok's voice grunted.
I stepped inside. The office was surprisingly cool, air-conditioned to keep the massive servers on the wall from overheating. Bok was sitting behind a desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a spaceship wreck.
He looked up, chewing on a skewer of meat. He didn't look angry. He looked... annoyed. But not at me.
"Sir?" I asked, standing at attention.
Bok sighed, tossing a datapad onto the desk. It slid across the metal surface and stopped in front of me.
"You're a pain in my ass, Two," he said.
"I apologize if my performance—"
"Shut up," he interrupted, waving a hand. "Your performance is the problem. You're too efficient. My numbers are up 15% in your sector. The Central Logistics algorithm flagged it."
I felt a cold drop of sweat slide down my back. Too efficient. I tried to fly under the radar, but I worked too hard.
"The algorithm flagged you as 'High-Value Labor Resource'," Bok continued, picking a piece of gristle from his teeth. "I tried to keep you. Told them you were a specialized asset. But the transfer order came down this morning. Overrode my clearance."
He pointed at the datapad.
"You're being promoted."
I blinked. "Promoted?"
"Royal Sector," Bok grunted. "Palace Support Grounds. They need a handler for the sensitive equipment. Apparently, finding a Low-Class who can read, count, and not break things is rare."
My heart stopped.
The Royal Sector.
That was the heart of the beast. That was where King Vegeta lived. That was where the Elites trained.
"Do I have a choice?" I asked carefully.
Bok laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "We're Saiyans, kid. We don't have choices. We have orders. Pack your gear. Transport leaves in an hour."
He leaned back, his chair creaking. "Don't die, Two. And try not to piss off the landlords. They blast people for sneezing wrong up there."
"Understood," I said. "Thank you, Bok."
"Get out."
The transport shuttle was a silent, sleek pod that smelled of lavender and sterility, a sharp contrast to the sweat and rust of the Iron District.
I sat alone in the back, watching the landscape change through the thick glass.
We rose above the smog layer. The jagged, industrial slums faded away, replaced by sweeping plains of red grass and white stone structures. The architecture here was different. It wasn't built for survival; it was built for ego. Massive spires pierced the sky, and the roads were paved with smooth, polished stone.
As the shuttle docked at the Service Hangar on the outskirts of the Palace grounds, I felt it.
It wasn't a sound. It was a pressure.
A wave of Ki washed over the area, so dense and cold it made the hairs on my arms stand up.
What the hell is that?
I stepped off the shuttle, clutching my small bag of belongings. My Scouter was in my pocket, turned off, but I didn't need it. My Ki sensing, honed by months of meditation, was screaming at me.
Hide.
I looked toward the main promenade leading to the Palace.
Two figures were walking leisurely down the path, flanked by a dozen King Cold Force soldiers in pristine white armor.
One was a large, pink, spiked brute. Dodoria.
But the other...
He was tall, with teal skin and braided green hair. He wore a cape and walked with an elegance that seemed out of place on a planet of barbarians.
Zarbon.
I stopped breathing. I clamped my mental suppression down so hard I nearly gave myself a stroke.
I looked at the floor, feigning the submissive posture of a servant.
Even from a hundred meters away, his power was terrifying. It wasn't just strong; it was vast. It felt like standing next to a deep ocean.
That's... that's over 20,000, I calculated, my mind racing. The strongest Saiyan, the King, is maybe 10,000. This guy could kill every single person on this planet right now, solo, without breaking a sweat.
The group passed by. They didn't even glance in my direction. Why would they? I was an ant. A piece of furniture.
As their presence faded, I let out a shaky breath.
"You there! New recruit!"
I snapped to attention, turning toward the voice.
A tall, lanky Saiyan with a receding hairline and a clipboard was marching toward me. He wore the crest of the Royal Maintenance Corps.
"Yes, sir," I said, bowing my head slightly.
"I'm Overseer Toz," he barked, checking a list. "You're the transfer from Sector 7. Cress, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're small," Toz noted, looking me up and down with disdain.
"I'm compact, sir," I replied, keeping my voice flat. "It helps with crawling into engine intakes."
Go ahead, underestimate me. It's my best defense.
Toz snorted. "Smart mouth. I heard you're good with tech. We'll see. The last 'tech expert' they sent me tried to refuel a Pod with hydro-coolant and blew up a hangar bay."
He gestured for me to follow.
We walked into a massive, cavernous hangar. It was spotless. Rows of Attack Balls, the spherical space pods used for invasions, sat on elevated platforms. These weren't the rusted junk heaps I saw in the slums. These were pristine, white, and gleaming.
"This is Hangar 4," Toz explained, his voice echoing. "We service the Mid-Class and low-ranking Elites here. Your job is simple. Diagnostics, cleaning, and fueling."
He stopped in front of a pod that looked like it had recently flown through an asteroid field. The hull was scorched and pitted.
"This belongs to Commander Nappa's squad," Toz said. "He wants it flight-ready by tomorrow morning. Don't screw it up."
"Understood," I said.
I wonder if he's already bald lol.
"Work hours are sunrise to sunset," Toz continued. "You sleep in the barracks. You eat in the mess hall. You do not speak to the Warriors unless spoken to. You do not make eye contact with the Nobility. And if you see King Cold or his retinue..."
He paused, his face turning grim.
"You face the ground and pray they don't notice you. Clear?"
"Crystal clear, sir."
Toz handed me a datapad and a toolkit. "Get to work."
He marched away, shouting at another worker who was slacking off.
I stood alone in the pristine hangar, holding the heavy tools.
I looked at the scorched pod. Then I looked out the massive bay doors toward the Palace towers in the distance.
I was in the belly of the beast.
Great, I thought, popping the hatch on the pod. I'm the janitor for the apocalypse.
"Alright," I whispered, pulling out a hydro-spanner. "Let's see what makes these murder-balls tick."
--
The first day was a lesson in invisible mechanics.
The Supply Depot had been loud, chaotic, and physical. You lifted things, you moved them, you sweated. It was honest work.
The Royal Hangar was different. It was quiet.
I spent the first three hours inside the guts of the damaged Pod. The engineering was impressive but brutish. The King Cold Force tech didn't prioritize safety or efficiency; it prioritized output. The engines were essentially controlled explosions channeled through a magnetic field. There were no backup systems. If the primary coupling failed, you didn't glide to a landing; you turned into a fireball.
"You're actually cleaning the intake valves?"
I looked up. A Saiyan with a jagged scar running across his nose was leaning against a tool rack, watching me. He was older, his hair graying at the temples, wearing the same grey maintenance jumpsuit as me.
"The manual says they need to be scrubbed after every atmospheric entry," I replied, wiping grease from my hands.
The man snorted. "Manual. Cute. I'm Rask. Nobody reads the manual here, kid. You just hose it down, refuel it, and pray it doesn't explode. If it explodes, it's the pilot's fault for being weak."
"I prefer my work not to explode," I said, turning back to the engine.
Rask chuckled, picking at his teeth with a small screwdriver. "You're fresh from the slums, aren't you? Iron District?"
"Yes."
"I can tell. You still have that look in your eye. Like you think doing a good job matters." Rask spat on the pristine floor, then casually rubbed it in with his boot. "Up here, we're not workers. We're furniture. The Elites don't care if the intake is clean. They care if the paint is shiny and the seat is warm."
Great, I thought. Cynicism seems to be the national religion.
"I'll keep that in mind," I said outwardly.
"Heads up," Rask hissed, his demeanor instantly changing. He straightened up, dropping the screwdriver into his pocket and grabbing a rag. "Inbounds."
The massive blast doors at the far end of the hangar groaned open. The sunlight from the twin suns spilled in, silhouetting three figures walking up the ramp.
It was a squad returning from a mission.
They weren't wearing the standard Frieza Force armor. They wore customized Elite gear, pauldron plates with personal crests, capes fluttering in the hangar draft. They didn't walk; they strutted.
I felt their power levels before I saw their faces.
2,500. 2,800. 3,100.
Mid-Class warriors.
I stepped back, melting into the shadow of the Pod I was working on.
The leader, a tall Saiyan with long hair tied back in a ponytail, tossed his helmet onto the floor with a loud clatter. It skidded across the polished concrete and stopped at Rask's feet.
"Refuel," the leader barked. He didn't look at Rask. He looked through him. "And get the blood off the seat. The locals on the previous Planet pop like ripe fruit. Messy."
"At once, Lord Vorak," Rask said, bowing low. He picked up the helmet like it was a holy relic.
Vorak didn't acknowledge him. He turned to his squadmates. "That was pathetic. The intel said resistance level 4. They barely had projectile weapons."
"Boring," the female warrior next to him yawned, stretching her arms. Her armor was stained with purple ichor. "At least the atmosphere was breathable. I hate fighting in masks."
"We're getting deployed again in two cycles," the third warrior grunted. "The commander wants the sector cleared before the quarterly review."
They walked past me.
The female warrior stopped.
She turned her head slowly, looking at me. She had sharp, predatory eyes.
"Hey," she said.
I froze. "Yes, my lady?"
She pointed a gloved finger at the Pod I was working on. "Is that Nappa's ship?"
"Yes, my lady. I'm running the diagnostics now."
She scoffed. "Don't bother. He crashed it into a mountain because he was flying drunk. Tell him he owes me fifty credits."
She laughed, a harsh, barking sound, and walked away to join her squad.
"See?" Rask muttered, stepping up beside me once they were out of earshot. He looked pale. "Furniture. They talk about genocide like they're discussing the weather."
"They're efficient," I said neutrally, turning back to the machine.
"Come on," Rask said, gesturing to the helmet Vorak had thrown. "Help me with the solvent. If we don't get this purple blood off before it dries, it stains the leather. And if it stains, Vorak breaks our fingers."
"Coming," I said.
I walked over to the cleaning station.
This was my life now. Scrubbing the blood of innocent civilizations off the boots of murderers, all while smiling and saying, "Yes, sir."
Just you wait, I thought, dipping a rag into the stinging chemical bath. One day, I'm going to be the one flying away from this rock. And I won't be coming back.
--
The suns finally dipped below the horizon, signaling the end of the shift.
"Tools down," Rask called out, locking the solvent cabinet. "If you're not done, leave it. The Empire isn't going to collapse if Nappa's seat is still a little sticky."
We filed out of the hangar and marched toward the workers' quarters.
The barracks were a step up from the Iron District, but that wasn't saying much. Instead of rusted metal shacks, we had concrete blocks.
I was assigned to Room 404.
I walked in. It was a cramped square room with four bunks bolted to the walls. It smelled of unwashed bodies and industrial soap.
"Fresh meat gets the top bunk by the vent," a voice called out.
I looked up. A Saiyan with a missing tusk, probably a former low-level grunt demoted to labor, was lying on the bottom bunk, tossing a ball of tape against the wall.
"Name's Goro," he grunted.
"Cress," I replied, throwing my bag onto the top mattress. It was thin, but at least it wasn't stained.
"You met Rask?" Goro asked, gesturing to the bunk opposite him where the older mechanic was already taking off his boots.
"He showed me the ropes," I said.
"Don't listen to his whining," Goro laughed. "This is the good life, kid. Three meals a day. Hot water in the showers. And the schedule? Five days on, two days off. You won't find that in the mines."
"Two days off?" I asked, sitting on the edge of my bunk.
"Rest cycles," Rask muttered, pulling his blanket up. "So you don't drop dead from fumes. Don't get used to it. The moment war breaks out, those days disappear.
The fourth roommate, a silent, lanky Saiyan who seemed to be asleep already, snored loudly.
"Lights out in ten," Goro warned, tossing the ball one last time. "Don't be loud. I value my beauty sleep."
I laid back, staring at the grey concrete ceiling.
Five days of work. Two days of freedom.
To them, the rest days were for sleeping and drinking cheap ale.
To me, they were opportunities.
It was nighttime.
The barracks were silent, filled with the rhythmic snoring of three exhausted laborers.
I slipped out of my bunk. I moved like a phantom, my feet making no sound, since I wasn't walking but flying. Makes less noise.
I dropped down into the shadows of a massive structural buttress.
This was the "Blind Spot." I had spotted it on the shuttle ride in. The sensors here were calibrated for high-altitude threats, creating a small dead zone near the foundation of the palace walls.
It was freezing. The wind whipped around the white stone towers, carrying the chill of the upper atmosphere.
"Perfect," I whispered.
I stripped off my jumpsuit, wearing only the weighted undershirt I had sewn for myself using scrap lead from the depot. I didn't know how heavy it was and frankly it wasn't necessary, it was enough to make me sweat. if I adapted to it, I would just make it heavier.
"Warm-up."
I started with shadow boxing.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
My fists moved faster than the eye could follow, but I kept the impact silent. I focused on form.
After an hour of physical conditioning, I moved to the main event.
I stood facing a jagged rock formation that jutted out of the ground.
"Ki control," I muttered.
I raised my right hand, palm facing up.
It was time I started learning earthling's techniques. I didn't know how I was going to do it but I was gonna try.
I thought of Krillin. I thought of the Destructo Disc. The Kienzan.
"Visualize the edge," I instructed myself. "Spin it. Flatten it."
I drew Ki into my palm. Instead of a ball, I tried to flatten it into a saucer.
A yellow glow sparked to life above my hand. It wobbled, looking more like a lumpy pancake than a razor.
"Spin it."
I poured more focus into the rotation. The energy began to turn.
Whirrrr...
It picked up speed. The edges sharpened. It was working. A buzzsaw of pure light.
"Hold it... Hold it..."
My arm shook. The torque was incredible. It felt like holding a gyroscope that wanted to fly away. The energy was volatile, fighting against the shape I was forcing it into.
"HA!"
I threw it.
The disc flew forward about three meters.
Then, it wobbled violently, lost its shape, and fizzled out into a harmless puff of yellow sparks before it even touched the rock.
"Damn it," I hissed, clutching my wrist.
It was harder than it looked. Much harder. The Kienzan required insane rotational control. If the spin wasn't perfect, the centrifugal force tore the Ki structure apart.
"One more time," I whispered, wiping sweat from my eyes.
I raised my hand again.
I failed again. And again.
By the time the first hint of sunrise painted the horizon, I was exhausted. I hadn't managed to cut a single pebble. Though I was used to sleep less.
But as I slipped back inside, crawling back toward my "Two" persona, I wasn't discouraged.
I still had time since King Cold hadn't left his son his place. Once he appears, the countdown will start.
--
Author's Note: Finally in the rankings, Drop the power stones !!!