A single crash steals his life—then hands him a Saiyan body… and a battle power that shouldn't exist.
The story isn't a system novel. It's old-school.
Li Wei, male, twenty-two.
He'd just graduated from college and—after weeks of stress and interviews—finally passed the internship screening for a major company he genuinely wanted. The kind of place that could turn an internship into a career.
That afternoon, sunlight poured down in clean, bright sheets.
He walked through it with a swelling sense of purpose, already picturing the future like it was something he could touch. In his head, he was budgeting his first paycheck—thinking about what he could buy for the younger kids back at the orphanage.
Then the wheel of fate turned.
At a crossroads that felt ordinary in every possible way, a runaway "hundred-ton king" of a truck—an out-of-control Dayun—came roaring in like a steel executioner.
It hit him.
Hard.
He flew.
The pain was tearing, absolute… and lasted only a heartbeat before the world was swallowed by endless black.
No life-flashing-before-your-eyes montage.
No memories replaying on loop.
Only the sensation of his soul being grabbed, ripped apart, kneaded, and crushed like something disposable.
"I'm finished… my job… maybe in the next life…"
That was his final thought before his consciousness sank.
After that came a journey—long, chaotic, and without meaning.
He couldn't feel a body. He existed as nothing but a thread of awareness drifting in a cold, viscous liquid, carried along like debris in deep water.
The liquid carried a strange stench—an impossible blend of metal and something that felt like living energy.
His thoughts flickered like a broken signal.
Sometimes he could "feel" the slow flow of the fluid against a body that wasn't quite real. Then, without warning, he'd drop back into dead silence—into a void so complete it made time itself feel fictional.
During those brief fragments of clarity, he occasionally "heard" voices.
Muffled. Distorted. As if separated from him by a thick wall.
"…vitality… stable…"
"…this brat… the reading… unexpectedly high…"
"…beep… battle power… five hundred… confirmed…"
"Battle power… five hundred?"
Somewhere in the fog, a thin streak of lucidity flashed—absurd and sharp.
"What is this, a game? Or… some hallucination after I died?"
He couldn't think any further before the darkness dragged him down again.
Time lost its shape.
A second might have passed. Or years.
He felt like a forgotten seed locked in forced dormancy—passively accepting alteration and nourishment, unable to resist.
Fragments of memory that didn't belong to him—battle, roaring, planets being destroyed in violent flashes—forced themselves into his human mind like a virus. Each one came with tearing headaches… and then, just as quickly, the cold liquid smoothed everything over.
Half-asleep. Half-awake.
Pulled between awareness and chaos until he nearly forgot who he was.
Forgot his past.
Forgot the damned crash.
Until—
Splash!
With the sound of thick liquid draining away and the sudden lurch of weightlessness, his back slammed onto a hard, freezing surface.
"Urgh—!"
A choked groan tore from his throat before he could stop it.
Harsh light—bright enough to sting—pried open his heavy eyelids.
His vision sharpened.
The first thing he saw was a smooth, metallic ceiling in a cold silver-gray sheen, packed with complex, unfamiliar pipes and blinking indicator lights. The air was dry, sharp, carrying a sterile chemical bite—nothing like the fluid he'd been submerged in.
He was lying at the bottom of an empty metal vat.
Along the walls, pale green viscous residue clung and dripped in slow trails.
"Where… am I?"
He tried to sit up.
His body felt heavy—wrong. Like he'd rented it on short notice and it hadn't fully accepted him yet.
Then a voice spoke beside him—shocked, reverent.
It wasn't a language he'd ever heard.
And yet, impossibly, he understood every word.
"Y-You… you're awake?! Lord Vitelli!"
Li Wei snapped his head toward the sound.
Standing beside the vat was a creature about one and a half meters tall—gray-green skin, huge bulging eyes, and an overall shape that reminded him of a frog.
An alien.
The thing held a glowing tablet-like device, fumbled it under one arm in panic, then bowed so deeply it looked like it might fold itself in half.
The movement was so practiced it might as well have been drilled into its bones.
"Lord Vitelli! Welcome back to consciousness! This is the Elite Warrior Awakening Chamber!"
The frog-like alien's voice trembled.
"I am Kam, your awakening guide. Your battle armor and the latest battle power scouter have already been prepared. Your private residence coordinates have been uploaded to the system—someone will escort you to inspect it shortly. If there is anything you find unsatisfactory, you may request a replacement at any time!"
Lord Vitelli… Vitelli?
Li Wei—Vitelli?—stared, blank.
His brain completely stalled out.
He looked down at himself.
His body was wrapped in a thin membrane-like undersuit that clung tight to his frame. The outline beneath it was brutally strong—hard lines, dense muscle, the kind of explosive power you could see even at rest.
This wasn't the body of a guy who survived on delivery food and late-night games.
Reincarnation? Transmigration? Aliens? Saiyans?
That frog-thing just said "Elite Warrior." Me?
Information detonated in his skull.
But the stubborn endurance of someone who'd grown up in an orphanage—and the survival instincts built from reading way too many web novels—forced him to clamp down on the panic.
He took a slow breath.
Then he copied the cold, composed tone of every aloof protagonist he'd ever watched.
"…I understand."
He braced one hand against the vat's rim and climbed out, clumsy but steady, bare feet touching the icy floor.
The body felt heavy—yet beneath that weight was something he'd never known before.
Strength flowed through his limbs like a living current.
Following Kam's frantic pointing, he looked toward the open metal corridor on the far side of the room.
Kam saw that Lord Vitelli wasn't immediately angry or demanding, and visibly loosened with relief. He bowed again—so low his forehead nearly hit his knees.
"Safe travels, Lord Vitelli! May your battle fortune be prosperous!"
Only after Vitelli disappeared into the corridor did Kam dare straighten up.
He wiped cold sweat from his forehead and muttered under his breath, shaken.
"Still alive… thank the stars. This one seems calm… not like the lord who woke up last month and nearly tore the entire chamber apart… Let's see who wakes next…"
In the corridor, the lighting softened.
Vitelli walked with stiff, measured steps.
The walls were polished like mirrors, reflecting a figure that didn't match his memories: short black hair spiking like a porcupine's quills, a youthful face with sharp, defined lines… and eyes that tried very hard to hide confusion and wariness.
And beneath that—
A young body loaded with raw, violent potential.
"Vitelli… Saiyan… battle power five hundred… the prince's guard…"
He rolled the words around on his tongue, piecing them together with the awakening chamber, Kam's terrified respect, and the shards of alien memory that had invaded him.
A conclusion rose—unbelievable, but terrifyingly clear.
"This is the Dragon Ball world… Planet Vegeta… I became a Saiyan."
He stopped, leaning against the cold metal wall, forcing himself to digest the impact.
"…An orphan."
He let out a bitter breath. Two lives, same start.
Fragments of this life's history surfaced, hazy but sharp enough to cut: his parents had died in a campaign against some high-level planet while he was still in the tank.
A flicker of familiarity came with it.
Then, stronger than anything—
A sense of danger.
"Prince Vegeta… waking in a year… at least a thousand battle power… and I'm his guard?"
Vitelli's gaze hardened.
"What kind of joke is that?"
If he ended up as Vegeta's "guard," then when the prince got irritated—one squeeze, and Vitelli would die like an insect.
He didn't fool himself with fantasies.
This was Planet Vegeta.
This was Saiyan society.
Strength decided your value. Weakness decided your lifespan.
"I have to get stronger," he said inside his head, the thought crisp and absolute. "Before Vegeta wakes up… I need to become stronger than him."
The goal formed instantly.
Survive first.
Then live well.
He pushed off the wall and kept walking, steps growing firmer as he went.
Outside waited his new world—violent, unknown, full of lethal threats… and limitless possibility.
And his first move was simple:
See his assigned "home."
Then train until his body begged for death.
A month later, Vitelli sat cross-legged on the cold metal ground in his backyard, breathing slow and steady.
One full month of uninterrupted practice—feeling "ki," guiding it, forcing it to respond—had finally given him a foothold.
The savage, uncontrolled torrent inside his body had been tamed… not fully, but enough that he could crudely lead it with intention, compress it, coax it into shape.
"I can power up too," he murmured, voice tight with disbelief and satisfaction.
He stood and rolled his shoulders.
Bones cracked softly.
Inside his assigned residence—simple, rough, and unmistakably Saiyan in its brutal practicality—he picked up the scouter.
Cold material clamped onto his ear and temple. The lens shimmered to life.
Vitelli walked up to a large metal mirror mounted on the wall and stared into his own reflection.
Short black hair. Sharp eyes. A basic dark-blue battle suit. A body that felt like a loaded weapon.
He exhaled.
Numbers began to jump on the scouter's lens.
510… 650… 800… 1150… 1480… 2002.
It stopped at 2002.
His battle power had risen by fifteen hundred points in a single month.
A surge of excitement ran through him so hard it almost turned into laughter.
He'd been right.
Basic physical training improved the foundation—but ki control was the key that actually opened the Saiyan vault.
Then he tried the reverse.
He imagined the heat inside him folding inward, compressing, hiding.
The number plunged.
2000… 1500… 800… 554.
It stabilized at 554.
"Yes."
Vitelli clenched his fist and let out a low, rough sound that was half-growl and half-triumph.
His control wasn't fine yet. The number still wavered. But it was real.
This meant he could hide his true strength.
More importantly—it meant he'd found a path upward: precision. Efficient use. Real technique.
He'd built the foundation for everything the original story's strongest fighters had: special attacks, sensing energy… and actual mastery, not just brute force.
With that confidence, his target sharpened.
One year.
He needed to surpass Vegeta.
At minimum—ten thousand battle power.
And after that, his life became even more disciplined. Even more brutal.
Mornings were silent meditation in the yard—feeling ki flow, forcing finer control, pushing compression lower and steadier. He tried to guide ki through his body in continuous circulation, the way he vaguely remembered old teachings from Earth—bits and pieces of Master Roshi and Korin's words echoing through the haze of stolen memories.
Sometimes he focused energy into a fingertip and watched a weak glow flicker in and out like a candle in wind.
Late morning through afternoon became hell.
Saiyan biology let him endure loads no human body could survive.
He set crude but heavy weights in the yard and punished himself with squats, deadlifts, presses. Then he destroyed his legs with sprint intervals, frog jumps, push-ups, sit-ups—training until muscles screamed, bones felt like they were grinding, and the last thread of strength snapped.
Sweat soaked his suit and pooled on the ground until it looked like rain had fallen.
Evenings were recovery—and more ki work.
He discovered that after extreme physical exhaustion, his sensitivity to ki improved instead of dulling. Like his body learned faster when it was pushed to the edge.
At night, he studied the battle armor and scouter delivered to him, trying to understand the technology. He didn't grasp most of it, but even ignorance could be useful if it sharpened how he thought about training efficiency.
The food the servants delivered tasted… terrible.
But it was abundant. Dense. High-energy.
Vitelli forced it down in huge bites, feeling it turn into heat inside his stomach—fueling repairs, rebuilding fibers, feeding strength.
As an elite warrior, these resources were his right.
He rarely left his home.
Saiyan society outside was built on aggression and conquest. He had no interest in participating.
Occasionally other Saiyan warriors passed by, sensed that his suppressed "public" level was still around two thousand, and—considering his role as the prince's guard—either looked at him with wary respect or jealous discomfort.
None challenged him.
Vitelli welcomed the quiet.
He lived by one rule:
Hide. Train. Grow.
In the royal palace, King Vegeta tapped his fingers against the armrest of his throne, eyes cold as stone as he looked down at the officials gathered below.
"That Vitelli," he said. "The child of Met and Zor. How is he doing?"
The intelligence officer stepped forward immediately.
"My King—Lord Vitelli remains in his assigned residence. According to the servants' daily reports, he… almost never goes out. All of his time is spent… training."
"Training?"
King Vegeta laughed, sharp and full of contempt.
"Hmph. An elite warrior born at five hundred battle power—and he thinks he can grow strong using the stupid, inefficient methods of low-class trash? Pathetic."
His eyes narrowed.
"If not for his father Met's contributions to Saiyan glory, that boy wouldn't even be worthy of looking at my son."
He leaned back, voice dropping to ice.
"Keep watching him. He won't cause waves. As long as he doesn't stir trouble, let him be."
"Yes, my King."
King Vegeta's attention shifted.
More important matters.
"And what of Cold?" he asked. "Do we have anything more concrete about his son… Frieza?"
At the mention of Cold, a flicker of wariness slipped through his gaze.
The officials bowed their heads lower.
The chief intelligence officer answered carefully, forced steadiness in his tone.
"My King… we have only confirmed the name—Frieza. Lord Cold calls him a… rare genius among their Frost Demon race. But as for battle power and temperament… our agents cannot obtain details. Every attempt to probe deeper has resulted in… loss."
His voice shook slightly at the end.
"Genius?"
King Vegeta slammed his palm down on the armrest.
The sound boomed through the hall.
"By what right?! My son—Prince Vegeta—will awaken in one year with the presence of a true king! He is the real genius! Unmatched in the universe!"
His roar echoed.
The officials went rigid with fear.
After venting, the king inhaled, smoothing his expression back into something controlled.
"When will Cold arrive?"
"The date is confirmed, my King," a diplomat hurried to answer. "Three months from now. Lord Cold will personally visit Planet Vegeta with his son Frieza… and pay his respects."
He emphasized the phrasing carefully.
The king's mouth tightened in satisfaction.
"Hmph. Good."
His eyes turned sharp.
"Prepare everything. We will show them Saiyan pride. There will be no mistakes."
"We obey!"
When the officials withdrew, King Vegeta walked alone deeper into the palace until he stood before a massive nutrient tank protected by layers of energy shielding.
Inside floated a small, curled figure suspended in pale green fluid.
Prince Vegeta—still asleep.
King Vegeta pressed his palm against the cold glass, eyes burning with fanatic anticipation.
In a whisper only he could hear, he spoke like a prayer.
"My son… Vegeta… soon."
He stared at the tiny body as if he could see through it and witness a future carved in conquest.
His voice dropped even lower, thick with obsession.
"You will be the legendary Super Saiyan. You will lead our people to conquer the stars. Any obstacle—whether Cold… or that Frieza—will kneel beneath your feet."
His gaze glittered with ambition.
While the prince still slept, another month of quiet passed.
Vitelli's training escalated again.
He was no longer satisfied with basic conditioning.
Using a few low-status alien engineers—research types who were easy to intimidate and cheap to exploit—he had a crude gravity chamber prototype built in one corner of his backyard.
It was primitive. Small. Unstable.
It could only cover a limited area, and its gravity fluctuated between one-and-a-half to three times Planet Vegeta's normal pull.
But to Vitelli, it was treasure.
This was far beyond simple weight training.
At that moment, he stood shirtless beneath roughly 2.5x gravity, hammering his body with extreme drills.
Every punch and kick made his muscles swell and contract violently. Heavy wind-blasts cracked from his limbs as they moved.
His sweat had already run dry.
His skin was flushed hot, almost red. Steam rose from his head in wavering threads.
His eyes were terrifyingly focused.
"Not enough," he snarled inside his own head. "Give me more."
He forced more ki into his limbs, trying to resist the crushing pull while using it to drive the body into a stronger shape.
He could feel it.
His power boiling.
Under pressure, it was being hammered, compressed, refined.
Then—
Hnnng…!
The gravity generator emitted a strained whine.
The field lurched.
Gravity spiked—nearing three times.
Vitelli seized the moment.
"HAH—!"
He gathered everything—strength, ki, will—and drove it into a single punch.
Boom!
The air compressed and detonated with a dull blast. A shockwave rippled outward from his fist, rattling metal fragments on the ground and tossing them into the air.
In the instant the punch landed, he felt it.
A invisible "gate" inside him—something locked—cracked open under the extreme pressure and violent release.
Power surged up from deeper than before.
Bigger.
Denser.
And the numbers on his scouter went wild.
2100… 3200… 5500… 6200… 6800… 7200!
It stopped at 7200.
Vitelli stood there, panting hard, staring at the lens like it was a hallucination.
Two months.
From five hundred… to seven thousand two hundred.
Even he felt a chill at the speed.
The gravity chamber, crude as it was—combined with ki guidance and ruthless self-destruction—was absurdly effective.
"It won't stop at ten thousand," he thought, breath still ragged. "I still have around ten months of freedom…"
A thin smile tugged at his mouth.
At this pace, by the time Prince Vegeta woke, Vitelli could push his battle power beyond fifty thousand.
Then his eyes sharpened with something colder.
"After Vegeta leaves on his first mission… I'll fake my death and disappear."
And after that—
Earth.
Earth had martial arts heritage. Training methods. Masters.
And Bulma—the genius who could turn ideas into machines.
If he wanted to climb fast, why wouldn't he go straight to the best resources?
Besides…
Planet Vegeta wasn't safe.
He'd already decided.
As long as he didn't act reckless, as long as his plan didn't slip, he could leave before the planet's destruction and head to that remote blue world.
"Ai Age 737… that's when it happens. Right now is Ai Age 731."
Plenty of time.
As for Planet Vegeta's fate…
What did that have to do with him?
One sentence.
Don't come looking to pin this on me.
We're not close.
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