Chapter 2 – The Saiyan Body, Refined
Zhou Fan did not train like Son Goku.
Training implied repetition.
Effort.
Trial and error.
Zhou Fan restructured existence.
The first night he took full control, he sat cross-legged beneath the stars, spine straight, breath slow. The Saiyan body resisted him at first—not out of weakness, but instinct. This flesh had been shaped by battle, not introspection.
Zhou Fan corrected it.
He reached inward, past muscle and bone, past blood and nerves, and grasped the current of ki flowing through the body.
It was wild.
Unrefined.
Like a raging river never taught to obey its banks.
Crude, Zhou Fan judged coldly.
In his previous world, such energy would have been classified as low-grade spiritual essence—usable, but wasteful. Ninety percent of it dissipated with every strike, every shout, every reckless transformation.
Unacceptable.
Zhou Fan compressed it.
Not forcefully.
Precisely.
Ki screamed as it was folded inward, its natural circulation shattered and rewritten. New routes formed—demonic meridian paths etched directly into flesh and soul, paths never meant to exist in a Saiyan.
The pain was immediate.
Muscle fibers tore themselves apart, then reknit stronger.
Cells collapsed under pressure, then adapted, mutating at the most fundamental level.
Bones hummed, dense enough to resist planetary force.
The body should have died.
Instead—
It evolved.
Zhou Fan's lips curved slightly.
This body learns fast.
Each night, while the world slept, Zhou Fan refined the Saiyan vessel as if it were a divine artifact pulled fresh from a forge. He burned away inefficiency. Smoothed rough power. Condensed excess force into silent reservoirs hidden deep within muscle and marrow.
By the end of the first week, Goku's resting heartbeat alone radiated pressure.
By the second, gravity felt lighter around him.
By the third—
The transformation became clear.
Within weeks—
Goku's base power surpassed his former Super Saiyan state.
And that was without transformation.
Vegeta noticed first.
Of course he did.
They stood facing each other on a barren plateau, wind tearing at their clothes. Vegeta narrowed his eyes, every instinct screaming wrong.
"Kakarot…" he said slowly.
"You've changed."
Zhou Fan lifted his gaze.
No smile.
No warmth.
Only pressure.
Invisible, suffocating pressure rolled outward from his body like a silent tide. The air thickened. The ground groaned.
Vegeta's breath hitched.
His knees bent involuntarily.
Not forced.
Compelled.
Vegeta snarled, veins bulging as he fought his own body.
"You kneel too easily," Zhou Fan said coolly, voice carrying the weight of judgment.
"A prince should die before bowing."
Vegeta trembled—not from fear—
But rage.
Pure, incandescent rage.
His teeth clenched hard enough to crack.
"Who…" he growled,
"…are you?"
Zhou Fan turned away, already bored. The pressure vanished instantly, as if it had never existed.
"Your future emperor."
The words were not a threat.
They were a statement of inevitability.
Inside the sealed consciousness, Goku slammed against invisible barriers.
"Hey!" Goku shouted.
"That's not how you talk to friends!"
Zhou Fan did not respond.
He did not even acknowledge the voice.
Kings did not explain themselves to prisoners.
And emperors did not soften their rule for sentiment.
As Zhou Fan walked away, Vegeta remained frozen, fists shaking, heart pounding—not from defeat, but from the terrifying realization that for the first time in his life…
Someone had looked at him
not as a rival
not as a warrior
but as someone already beneath them.
And somewhere deep within the Saiyan body, something ancient stirred—
Not rebellion.
Not fear.
But the quiet understanding that this vessel had entered a path from which there was no return.