The world touched me like a silent gust, tearing me from my previous life with the abruptness of a contained explosion. One instant ago, I was Alexander Kane: a thirty-five-year-old elite soldier, a strategist obsessed with Dragon Ball, someone who had dissected every fight, every transformation, every twist of fate as if they were battle plans. Now, that existence was fading like the echo of a distant gunshot, replaced by a new and disconcerting sensation. I opened my eyes and found myself floating in a green, warm liquid, enclosed in a capsule of curved glass. Thin cables snaked from a respirator that covered my mouth and nose, and my body—small, fragile, almost unrecognizable—trembled slightly with each movement. Something brushed my back: a brown, furry tail, waving in the fluid as if it had a will of its own.
My heart beat hard, a dull drum under my childish skin, but my mind, sharpened by years of military discipline, imposed itself coldly. "Observe, analyze, deduce," I ordered myself, as if I were in a training camp on Earth, surrounded by sweaty recruits and the roar of engines. Through the frosted glass of the capsule, I saw blurry figures moving: adult Saiyans with gray armor, walking between rows of capsules identical to mine. The hum of the machines filled the air, a constant sound that vibrated in my ears, and the liquid bubbled around me like a slow cauldron. I remembered the Broly movie, one of those nights in my past life in front of the television, with a beer in my hand and a notebook full of notes: Saiyan babies spent their first three years in these incubation capsules, submerged in green fluid, growing under strict supervision while their bodies strengthened for war. That meant I was on Planet Vegeta, in the heart of the Dragon Ball universe.
But what year? My mind jumped to the timeline I had memorized as a fan. I knew that Planet Vegeta would be destroyed in the year 737 by Frieza, an event that marked the end of almost my entire adopted race. Vegeta, the prince, was born in 732 and was five years old when the catastrophe occurred. If I was in a capsule, newly born, it had to be before that. I calculated 721, based on the outdated design of the capsules—more crude than the ones I remembered from later episodes—and my intuition that sixteen years had passed before the end. I had no concrete proof, only my memory and visual clues, but it was enough. Sixteen years. The clock was already running, and I was trapped in this childish body, floating like an experiment.
I didn't just want to survive what was coming. I wanted power, a power that eclipsed everything I had seen on the screen of my old television. In my past life, I had been a leader, a strategist who subdued armies with surgical precision; Here, I would be a genius, a Saiyan who would change the destiny of his people. I decided from that moment that I would not hide in the shadows or settle for being just another one. I would make myself noticed, gain respect, build a reputation that would give me allies when the time came to act. But my real advantage—my knowledge of the future, of Frieza, of the villains to come—would be a secret locked away. No one could suspect that I knew what was going to happen.
The days in the capsule were a blur of dim lights, muffled sounds, and incessant thoughts. I couldn't move much, trapped in the green fluid that cushioned every attempt to kick or turn, but my mind was free, spinning like a well-oiled engine. I thought about what I knew about Dragon Ball, going over every detail as if it were a military intelligence report. Frieza would destroy Planet Vegeta in 737, fearful of the growing Saiyan power and the legend of the Super Saiyan that he had heard from his advisors. Bardock, born in 714 according to the chronology I had read in fan forums, must already be a young warrior, perhaps exploring worlds for Frieza. Vegeta and Nappa, future survivors, were not yet key figures. I, with sixteen years ahead of me, had time to plan, but not to waste.
My thoughts became strategic, like in the days when I designed operations on Earth. When will I go to Earth? Not now, of course. Earth was a backward planet at this time, irrelevant until after 737, when Raditz would arrive and Goku would begin his ascent. That's where the Dragon Balls would come in, those magical spheres that could grant wishes. They could use them to revive the Saiyans who saved the destruction or to ask me for a power that would rival Frieza's. But before that, I needed to strengthen myself. How? I remembered Yardrat, a planet Goku visited after Namek, where he learned instant transmission, a technique that would give me an advantage in combat and mobility. Then there was Namek, with its Grand Elder capable of unlocking hidden potential, and its own Dragon Balls, more powerful than the Earth ones. Those would be my goals once I escaped from Planet Vegeta.
Then I thought about the villains to come. Frieza was the first, a tyrant whose arrogance was only surpassed by his strength. I had seen him in the series, transforming again and again to crush Goku on Namek, only to be defeated by a Super Saiyan. Then comes Cell, an abomination created by Doctor Gero, and finally Majin Buu, a force of pure chaos that even the gods could not easily control. Each was a threat that would require not only brute power, but strategy, allies, and meticulous preparation. I needed to be ready for all of them.
Why save the Saiyans? That question lingered in my mind as I floated in the capsule. It wasn't just sentimentality, although in my past life I had admired their pride, their indomitable strength, their contempt for weakness. Here, as one of them, I felt that they were my people, my responsibility. But it was also practical: the Saiyans were a race of exceptional warriors, and if I could lead them, mold them, we could be more than Frieza's dogs or the ashes of his betrayal. Under my command, I would build a Saiyan empire that would challenge the gods themselves, a force that the universe could not ignore. That was my dream, and I fueled it with every beat of my little heart.
One day, as I floated in the liquid, two figures stopped in front of my capsule. The man was tall, with a scar crossing his left cheek and shining armor that reflected the cold light of the room. The woman was thinner, with a black braid that fell over her shoulder and piercing eyes that seemed to dissect everything they saw. My parents, I deduced from the way they stood in front of me, with a mixture of pride and expectation. A skinny caretaker, holding a holographic tablet, approached them.
"This is his son," the caretaker said, gesturing at me with a quick movement. "Combat power: 360. Above average, he is a high-class newborn, congratulations."
The man, my father, grunted with satisfaction, crossing his arms over his chest. "Taro would not raise a weak child," he said, his deep voice resonating even through the liquid. "He must be a worthy warrior from the start."
The woman, my mother, leaned towards the glass, studying me with an intensity that made me hold her gaze despite my infantile body. "He has potential, Taro," she said, her tone firm but with a hint of warmth. "Selia hopes he will also be astute. Strength alone will not take him far."
Taro let out a deep laugh, a sound that vibrated in my capsule like a distant drum. "Strength and cunning, then. He will be a complete Saiyan, worthy of our lineage."
The caretaker typed something on his tablet, and a hologram floated in front of them: Varek. "That's how they have registered him," he said in a monotone voice. "Varek, son of Taro and Selia."
I liked my name instantly. It was short, sharp, with a weight that fit into this world of warriors. With a combat power of 360, I wasn't at the level of royalty like Vegeta, but it was a solid start for a high-class Saiyan. Taro and Selia, by their attitude and gleaming armor, had to be elite warriors—I estimated 8000 for him and 5000 for her, based on how the caretakers treated them with deference. Their pride offered me a platform: with their support, I could stand out without raising suspicions about my true origin.
I spent three years in the capsule, trapped in that green liquid that smelled slightly of metal and chemicals. I couldn't move much, but my mind worked tirelessly, planning every step of the way. When the time came, the fluid began to drain with a slow gurgle, and the cold air hit me like a slap as I came out. I coughed, tearing off the respirator with clumsy hands, and blinked at the bright light of the room. The caretakers wrapped me in a rough blanket that scratched my damp skin and took me to an adjacent room, where they dressed me in a gray training uniform: sturdy fabric that smelled of disinfectant and clung to my still-wet body.
My legs trembled when I tried to stand up for the first time. After three years of floating, walking was like learning to use a new body, and I fell to the ground several times, the metallic dust sticking to my knees. But I got up, gritting my teeth, determined not to show weakness. Other Saiyan children were there, some crawling, others staggering like me, all trying to adapt to the world outside the capsules.
That night, my parents acknowledged me. Taro carried me under his arm as if I were a sack of provisions, and Selia walked beside him, holding a small cloth bag. They took me home, a gray stone structure near the palace, with smooth walls and an air that smelled of dust and machinery oil. The interior was functional: a metal table in the center, hard chairs lined up against a wall, and three beds with thin mattresses covered with rough blankets. A large window revealed the reddish sky of Planet Vegeta, with dark clouds moving slowly.
"You will live here with us," Taro said, leaving me on a small bed at the back of the room. "But you will train every day in the field. Don't get soft."
Selia gave me a gentle pat on the head, her warm hand contrasting with the coldness of the house. "Rest tonight, Varek," she said. "Tomorrow the serious stuff begins."
I lay down on the bed, the mattress creaking under my weight, and stared at the ceiling as they moved away to prepare something at the table. This would be my life now: a house with my parents, a place where I could plan in private, and the training field as my daily school. It was perfect.
The next morning, Taro woke me up with a firm nudge. "Up, little one," he grunted, already dressed in his armor. "The field doesn't wait."
I got up, rubbing my eyes, and put on the gray uniform they had left on a chair. Selia gave me a piece of hard bread and a cup of warm water before we left. We walked through the dusty streets of Planet Vegeta, passing stone houses similar to ours, until we reached the training field. It was a wide, arid terrain, surrounded by sharp rocks that looked like broken teeth, under an amber sky that burned with the rising sun. Other Saiyan children were there, sons of high-class warriors like me, and they gathered us into groups as if it were a school.
The first day was exhausting. We were made to run around the field until my legs trembled and sweat burned my eyes. Then we climbed rusty metal structures, my hands slipping on the rough edges, and jumped between platforms until my knees were bruised. I used my military experience to move with precision: firm steps, controlled breathing, calculated movements. The other children stumbled or complained, but I finished each exercise without faltering.
In the afternoon, we returned home. Taro was waiting for me in the backyard, a small space with a gravel floor and a punching bag hanging from a post. "Show me what you learned," he said, crossing his arms.
I raised my fists and hit the bag, imitating the basic movements from the field. He grinned when I connected with a solid blow that made the post shake. "That's it!" he exclaimed, slapping me on the back, almost knocking me to the ground. "You have strength, Varek. Don't waste it."
Selia came out of the house with a portable screen in her hands, a tool that projected straight and curved symbols into the air. "Sit down," she told me, pointing to a chair. "I'll teach you to read and write. Every Saiyan needs to know the universal language."
I sat down next to her, curious. The universal language was the one that everyone spoke in this universe—Goku, Frieza, the Namekians—and seeing it on the screen was fascinating. I learned quickly, tracing the symbols with a finger on the table while she corrected my posture. Within a few weeks, I was reading complete sentences and writing my name fluently.
"You already read better than some adults," Selia said one night, surprised, as she reviewed my work under the dim light of a lamp.
I smiled, letting my talent shine. "I want to be the best, Mother."
She assented, satisfied. "You will be."
In the field, I began to stand out. I was winning small fights against other children, using simple tactics that I remembered from my past life: dodge to the left, strike with a hook, knock down with a leg sweep. One afternoon, an older boy, a brute with disheveled hair and a crooked smile, challenged me in front of the others.
"You think you're ready, Varek?" he grunted, nudging me with his foot.
I stared at him, calculating. "I am," I replied calmly, and when he lunged at me, I dodged his punch, spun, and knocked him to the ground with a clean blow to the stomach. The other children gasped, and some applauded. I walked away without saying more, but I knew that my name was beginning to be heard.
At the age of four, our official instructor arrived: Zorn, a veteran Saiyan with a body full of scars and a gaze as hard as steel. We gathered in the field under a reddish sky laden with clouds. "Pain will make you Saiyans," he said, walking in front of us with his hands behind his back. "If you can't endure it, you don't deserve to be here."
The training became brutal. Running until collapsing, with the dust sticking to my sweaty skin; hitting punching bags until my knuckles bled; blocking Zorn's attacks, whose fists were like hammers. I used my military experience to perfect every move: boxing side steps, precise hooks, krav maga blocks adapted to my small body. I stood out without exaggerating, letting my talent speak for itself.
"Good instincts, Varek," Zorn said one afternoon after sparring, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Keep it up and you'll go far."
"Thank you, master," I replied, bowing my head, but in my mind, I was planning beyond: the ki, the transformations, the real power I would need to face Frieza.
At night, at home, I talked with my parents. Taro told me stories of his conquests, sitting at the table with a jug of dark liquid that smelled of strong spices. "I destroyed an entire planet once," he said once, his eyes shining. "A hundred thousand enemies, and I reduced them to ashes."
"How did you do it?" I asked, feigning childish astonishment while memorizing every detail.
"With strength and without hesitation," he replied, pounding the table. "You will too."
Selia was different. She worked on Saiyan technology and brought devices home: ki meters, communicators, small prototypes that buzzed and blinked. One night, while adjusting a meter on the table, she called me over. "Come, Varek. Look at this."
I approached, watching as she pointed the device at me. "Your combat power is 2000," she said, reading the result. "Impressive for your four years."
"How much do I need to surpass my father?" I asked, curious.
She laughed, a soft sound that contrasted with Taro's gruffness. "Much more, little one. Taro has 8000. But you're on the right track."
I smiled, calculating silently. At four years old, with 2000, I was above average. I would need to train more, but also look for shortcuts like Yardrat or Namek.
At five years old, my fame was growing in the field. I won fights with strategy, not just strength, using movements that confused my rivals: quick feints, low blows, precise takedowns. The other children started talking about me, and the caretakers noticed. One afternoon, while I was resting under a rock, I heard two of them murmuring.
"Varek is a genius," said one, a skinny Saiyan with a scar on his neck. "At this age, he already fights like an adult."
"He has the potential of a leader," replied the other, nodding. "Taro and Selia's son, of course."
At home, Taro saw it too. One night, while we were eating tough meat and thick broth, he looked at me seriously. "You're making noise, Varek," he said. "Keep it up, and King Vegeta himself will notice you."
"That's what I want," I replied, my voice firm. He grunted, hitting my shoulder with pride.
Selia watched me from the other side of the table, her gaze thoughtful. "Strength is taking you far," she said, "but don't forget the mind. The universe is not conquered with fists alone."
"I know, Mother," I said, and she nodded, satisfied.
One afternoon, under the reddish sky of the field, I sat alone to reflect while the other children fought among themselves. Eleven years remained until 737, the day Freezer would destroy everything. I needed a ship to escape, allies for my future empire, and strength to face him. I thought of Yardrat and its techniques, of Namek and its potential, of Earth and the Dragon Balls. I would save the Saiyans because they deserved more than to be slaves or stardust, and I would be the leader who would guide them to greatness.
Zorn interrupted me, walking towards me with heavy steps. "You have fire in your eyes, Varek," he said, stopping beside me. "What are you looking for, little one?"
I looked at the horizon, the sun sinking behind the rocks. "Everything," I replied, my voice full of certainty. "I want everything."
He grunted, a mixture of approval and defiance. "Then keep fighting. The universe doesn't give anything away."
I stood up, brushing the dust off my hands. I knew the road would be long, but I was ready. I was Varek, son of Taro and Selia, and nothing would stop me.