Turning five was like pulling the trigger of a gun that had been loaded in my mind for years. I knew that time was a luxury that ran out quickly—eleven years until Frieza reduced Planet Vegeta to a pile of rubble floating in the void—, and I wasn't willing to stand idly by. The next five years passed like a whirlwind of sweat, punches, and plans that I kept locked in my head, away from prying eyes. I lived with Taro and Selia in our stone house, a routine that became my refuge: waking up to Taro's roar shaking my bed, chewing on a piece of dried meat that tasted like old leather and dirt, and walking through the dusty streets to the training ground under a reddish sky that seemed to burn with promises.
The training ground was my personal battlefield. Zorn, that seasoned Saiyan whose skin looked like a map of past wars, pushed me until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned. I ran endless circuits, the dust sticking to my sweaty legs; I punched sandbags until my knuckles bled and the fabric tore; I fought against older kids who growled like wild animals, their eyes full of Saiyan fury. My power grew like an avalanche: from 2000 at five, it jumped to 3500 at seven, and then to 5000 at nine. It wasn't just brute strength; I used my head, remembering the tactics from my past life as Alexander Kane—quick boxing dodges, precise krav maga attacks, even a couple of dirty tricks I had learned in dark alleys. The other children fell one after another, and soon they stopped seeing me as an equal and began to look at me as something else.
At eight, the Young Saiyans Tournament arrived, an event that gathered the children of the upper class in a circular stadium surrounded by roaring stands. The air was heavy with sweat, blood, and the metallic smell of armor heated by the sun. The stone floor was stained with dark marks from past battles, and the audience—Saiyan warriors with cloaks and scars—shouted like a storm. I faced ten opponents, one after another, from a skinny kid who fought with rage to a nine-year-old brute who almost tore my arm off. I took them down with a mix of speed and strategy that left everyone silent before they exploded in cheers. My last blow, a ki-charged punch that sent the brute to the ground, made the stands tremble. When I raised my fist, with my hair stuck to my forehead from sweat and blood dripping from a cut on my cheek, I heard Taro roar from the stands: "That's my son, goddammit!" I was given a stone trophy carved with angular lines, and I put it on a shelf in my room, where I still look at it sometimes when I need to remind myself what I'm capable of.
I wasn't alone in those years. I made friends, something I didn't expect in this world of fists and pride. Kalia came first, an upper-class girl with short, midnight-black hair, cut into a messy fringe that fell over dark eyes full of sarcasm. She was fast, cunning, and always had a crooked smile that said the universe was a joke that only she understood. Renz came later, a stocky boy with spiky hair and a laugh that could shake the stone walls. He was a wall of muscle, but his easygoing attitude made him more human than many Saiyans I knew. The three of us became inseparable on the training ground, fighting together, sharing blows and jokes under the scorching sun.
At home, Taro trained me in the backyard, teaching me how to channel my ki into small bursts that shattered rocks and left smoking craters in the ground. "Stronger, Varek!" He would shout, hitting my back with a hand that felt like a hammer. Selia, on the other hand, took me to her work corner, full of tools and devices that buzzed and blinked. She showed me how Saiyan ships worked, how to calibrate a ki meter, even how to assemble a basic communicator with spare parts. My power reached 7000 at ten, a number that made Taro laugh with pride and Selia look at me with a mixture of awe and something that looked like concern.
One night, while Selia was adjusting a meter on the table, I asked her something that had been on my mind for days. "Mother, how much power does King Vegeta have? I always hear rumors, but nobody says a clear number."
She put down the device and looked at me, her eyes shining under the dim light of the lamp. "I measured it once, years ago, in a demonstration," she said, her voice low. "20,000. And that was before he kept training."
I froze, the piece of meat I was chewing forgotten in my mouth. "20,000?" I repeated, almost whispering. In my past life, I had read that King Vegeta had around 10,000, a number that was already impressive but attainable. 20,000 was something else. "Are you sure?"
"Completely," she replied, returning to her work as if she hadn't just dropped a bomb. "He's the king for a reason, Varek."
I swallowed, my mind racing. If King Vegeta had 20,000 in this universe, what else had changed? I remembered every detail of Dragon Ball: Frieza with millions in his final form, Vegeta reaching 18,000 on Namek, Goku surpassing him later. Was this an anomaly, or were there more differences that I hadn't noticed? I had no way of knowing yet, but the idea unnerved me. With my 7000, I was close to Taro (8000), but the king was an abyss that reminded me how much I lacked. I shook my head. It didn't matter. My plan was still in place: grow, escape, build something bigger.
It wasn't all combat and numbers, however. There were nights when I would sit on my bed, the tournament trophy beside me, and look out the window at the stars that dotted the sky of Planet Vegeta. I thought about my past life, about things I didn't tell anyone. I remembered the smell of stale coffee in the military base, the sound of my comrades' laughter as we played cards under a flickering lamp, the nights watching Dragon Ball with a notebook full of doodles and theories. Here, in this world of stone and blood, I missed those simple things: a conversation without calculating every word, a moment of peace without the weight of a future that only I knew. I wondered if I would ever have that again, or if I was doomed to always be the strategist, the genius, the leader who couldn't let his guard down.
At ten, everything changed. One night, as the wind whistled against the walls of the house, Taro called me to the courtyard. He was standing under the light of a crescent moon, his armor gleaming as if he had just polished it. "You're ready for more," he said, his grave voice cutting through the silence. He held out a Saiyan communicator, a small disc that buzzed in my hand like a living insect. "Tomorrow I'm taking you on your first mission. A weak planet, Klyon, just to test you. You will lead."
My heart leaped, and a smile escaped before I could control it. "Really?" I asked, clutching the communicator.
"Really," he replied, hitting my shoulder so hard I almost lost my balance. "You're my son. Make me proud, Varek."
That night, I stayed awake staring at the stars, the communicator in my hand like a piece of my future. Seven years until 737. This mission would be my test, the first brick of my Saiyan empire. And I wasn't going to fail.
Dawn arrived with a roar of engines that shook the hangar floor. I stood in front of the assigned ship, a structure larger than I expected, not the classic spherical Saiyan capsules I had seen in the series. This was a group transport ship, a rectangular model with rounded edges, its grayish hull covered with wear marks and rivets that gleamed under the amber light of Planet Vegeta. It was about fifteen meters long, with a wide ramp that descended from its belly and two short wings that protruded from the sides, designed for rapid maneuvers in dense atmospheres. The interior, visible from the ramp, was full of metal panels, exposed cables, and padded seats with straps for four passengers. It wasn't an individual capsule because this mission required a team: the four of us, plus basic equipment and space to move around. The capsules were for lone warriors, fast but limited; this ship was for coordinated operations, something Selia had once explained to me while disassembling an engine at home. "More space, more control," she had said, and now I understood.
My black armor—designed by Selia with angular lines and reinforced plates—shone under the rising sun, and my messy black hair fell over my eyes, but I brushed it aside with a quick motion, adjusting the communicator on my wrist. Taro was a few meters away, watching me with his arms crossed, his cape fluttering slightly in the breeze. He said nothing, but his gaze said enough: "Don't disappoint me."
My team was already gathered, three Saiyans who would follow me as leader. Kalia jumped off the platform with a lazy stretch, her short hair moving like a liquid shadow. "Well, boss," she said, leaning against the ship with a hand on her hip and that crooked smile she never lost. "First mission. Are you going to yell at us like Zorn or what?"
"No need," I replied, crossing my arms. "Just stay alive and listen. Klyon is small, but the rebels have decent cannons. We're going to crush them fast."
Renz landed with a thud that kicked up a cloud of dust, laughing as if he had just won a bet. "That sounds like fun!" he exclaimed, nudging me so hard I almost fell. "Are you sure you know how to handle this thing, Varek? I don't want to crash because of you."
"If we crash, it'll be because you broke something with that fat ass," I replied, and Kalia burst into laughter that echoed through the hangar.
"That's right, Renz!" she said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Stop eating so much or you won't fit in the next ship."
Torzod stepped silently behind them, his slender figure contrasting with Renz's bulk. His grayish hair fell over one eye, and his low-class armor was worn, but clean. "I trust him," he said, his voice low but firm. "We'll do well."
I looked at Torzod, grateful for his calm. Kalia and Renz were loud, loyal in their own way, but Torzod had something different: a stillness that reminded me of myself in my darkest days on Earth, when I planned missions alone at my desk. "Thanks, Torzod," I said. "Get ready. We're taking off."
We climbed up the ramp, and the interior of the ship hit me with a smell of hot metal, fuel, and a slight trace of ozone that stuck in my throat. The walls were covered in gray panels, some dented from years of use, and loose cables hung from the ceiling like vines. The seats, four in total, were lined up against one wall, with worn leather straps that creaked when touched. A central console dominated the front, full of blinking buttons, holographic screens, and levers that buzzed with contained energy. I sat in the pilot's seat, my hands sliding over the controls that Taro had taught me in home simulators. The others took their places: Renz dropped with a thud that made the floor shake, Kalia settled in cross-legged as if she were at home, and Torzod sat in the back, checking his armor with quick fingers.
The engine roared as I tightened the controls, a deep sound that vibrated in my bones like the echo of a tank in my past life. The ship rose with a jolt that pressed me against the seat, and I looked out the front window, a curved screen that showed the reddish sky of Planet Vegeta fading into the black of space. For a second, I saw a helicopter taking off on a night mission, the lights of the base shining below, the voice of my friend Marcos joking over the radio about my bad coffee. I shook my head. This was different, but the knot in my stomach was the same.
Klyon appeared as a grayish sphere on the horizon, covered in dense clouds that flashed with lightning and swirled in furious eddies. I landed the ship on a rocky plain, the metal legs crunching against the ground as the cold wind whistled outside like a lament. I went out first, my tail swinging behind me, the cutting air filling my lungs with a smell of ozone, wet stone, and something else: a faint trace of smoke and burnt flesh that floated from the east. The rebels of Klyon were not simple savages, as I had assumed when reading Taro's report. They were a humanoid race, the Klyonites, with grayish skin covered in fine scales that shone like mica under the dim light of their dying sun. Their eyes were large, a dull yellow, and their slender bodies were wrapped in ragged robes dyed red and black, colors that, according to Selia's data, represented their resistance against Freezer. They had been a mining people, exploiting energy crystals in the depths of their planet, until Freezer's empire enslaved them. Now, those who remained fought with stolen weapons and a desperation that made them more dangerous than they seemed.
Kalia jumped to the ground, stretching with a crack of joints that sounded like small gunshots. "What an ugly place," she said, kicking a stone that rolled across the plain and fell into a crevice. "I hope they at least fight well, because this looks like a graveyard."
Renz landed with a thump that kicked up dust, laughing as if he had just told a joke. "If they don't fight, I'll make them fight," he exclaimed, pounding his chest with a fist that echoed off his armor. "I need something to hit after that trip!"
Torzod emerged silently, his boots barely making a sound against the rocks. He surveyed the terrain with narrowed eyes, then pointed to a column of grayish smoke rising in the distance, twisting against the stormy sky. "They're to the east," he said, his tone calm but sure. "The smoke marks the way."
"Good eye, Torzod," I said, assessing the situation. The Klyonites had energy cannons, metal barricades, and a camp they had probably built with the remains of their mines. They weren't Saiyans, but their resistance made them worthy of some respect. "Let's go east. Kalia, you and I flank on the left. Renz, Torzod, go right. We meet in the center and crush them."
"What if they shoot us?" Renz asked, raising an eyebrow as he scratched the back of his neck.
"Dodge, genius," Kalia replied, giving him a shove that made him stagger. "Or use your thick skull as a shield. It's big enough."
Renz grunted, annoyed, and the group split up, advancing among the rocks with a synchronicity we had perfected in years of fights and laughter in the field.
Walking with Kalia beside me was like having an echo of my own energy, but lighter, less calculated. The Klyon wind whistled through the rocks, kicking up dust that clung to my armor, and the ground crunched beneath our boots as if it were alive. She whistled a strange tune, something she did when she was bored or nervous, and the sound pulled me from my thoughts.
"What's that you're whistling?" I asked, jumping over a crack in the terrain.
"Something I heard on a mission with my father," she replied, shrugging as she dodged a loose rock. "He says they sing it on a water planet, all blue and bright. I like it because it calms me down."
"Better than listening to Renz snore," I said, and she let out a laugh that echoed in the cold air.
"By the stars, yes!" she exclaimed, giving me a gentle nudge. "The last time we slept in the field, I thought an earthquake was going to swallow us."
I laughed, a sound that surprised me by how genuine it was. For a moment, I remembered a night on Earth, playing cards with my friends under a flickering lamp. One of them, Javier, had made a bad joke about my aim, and we all laughed until our stomachs hurt. I missed that, those weightless laughs, and having Kalia around was the closest thing I had found here. "You're weird, Kalia," I said, smiling. "But I'm glad you're here."
She looked at me surprised and then smiled more broadly. "You're weird too, Varek. But I wouldn't trade you for anything."
We continued to advance, the terrain becoming more irregular, with deep cracks and sharp rocks that looked like broken teeth. The smoke was getting thicker, and soon we saw the Klyonite camp: rusted metal shacks lined up in a semicircle, built with plates torn from crashed ships and remains of mining machinery. The cannons, mounted on low towers, hummed with energy, their barrels glowing with a sickly green. The Klyonites ran between the shacks, about thirty in total, their red and black robes billowing as they loaded energy rifles stolen from Freezer's empire. Some wore masks carved with angular symbols, probably an echo of their mining culture, and their voices echoed in a guttural language that I didn't understand but sounded like defiance.
"Time to work," I murmured, and launched a ki blast that shattered a tower before it could aim. The rumble filled the air with the smell of burning metal and dust, and the Klyonites screamed, scattering like rats. One of them, taller, with a mask adorned with broken crystals, raised a rifle and fired a burst that scorched the ground to my right. It wasn't a blind attack; there was aim in that shot.
Kalia launched into the attack, dodging shots with a grace that seemed like a deadly dance. "Come on, Varek!" she shouted, knocking down two enemies with a spinning kick that sent them flying against a shack. I joined in, my body moving by instinct: a punch to the solar plexus that left one breathless, an elbow to the neck that knocked another down. I remembered my training on Earth, the sound of gloves against a bag, sweat dripping into my eyes. But these were not bags; they were living beings, fighting for something they believed in, and for a second I hesitated. Then I saw Kalia take down another, and the Saiyan instinct took over. In minutes, our half of the camp was a chaos of fallen bodies, acrid smoke, and the echo of missed shots.
From the other side, Renz charged like a mad bull, laughing as shots bounced off his armor as if it were rain. "This is fun!" he shouted, lifting a Klyonite by the neck and throwing him against a barricade with a dry crack. The humanoid, with his twisted mask, tried to get up, but Renz crushed him with a stomp that echoed across the plain. Torzod followed him, more methodical, firing small but precise ki blasts that pierced the enemies like needles. His face was calm, almost serene, as chaos exploded around him.
"Don't destroy everything, Renz!" Torzod shouted, dodging a shot that scorched the edge of his armor. "Varek said to crush them, not pulverize them!"
"It's the same!" Renz replied, but he slowed his pace, letting Torzod take the lead. The lower-class boy was quiet, almost invisible amidst the noise of Kalia and Renz, but his precision and loyalty to my orders were undeniable. He took down a Klyonite trying to flee, a young man with a torn robe and a broken crystal hanging from his neck, and then looked towards the center of the camp, awaiting my signal.
The four of us found ourselves in the heart of the camp, surrounded by defeated rebels and smoking structures. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the air thick with dust and the metallic smell of blood. The Klyonites lay scattered, some still groaning, others motionless under their torn robes. The leader, the one with the crystal mask, was on his knees a few meters away, his rifle broken beside him. His yellow eyes looked at me with something that wasn't just hatred: there was despair, a weariness that went beyond this fight. "Why?" he croaked in the universal language, his voice broken. "Why won't you leave us alone?"
I didn't answer. There were no words that would change what we were: Saiyans, tools of Frieza, sent to crush what he wanted dead. "Good job," I said to my team, ignoring the Klyonite. "I thought Renz was going to eat a cannon like an idiot."
"Hey!" Renz protested, crossing his arms, but Kalia interrupted him with a laugh that cut through the air.
"He would have if Torzod hadn't saved him," she said, nudging the big guy, making him grunt.
Torzod smiled extremely slightly, something rare for him, and adjusted his armor quickly with a movement. "Just following orders," he said, looking at me with a respect that needed no words. "You lead well."
"Thanks," I replied, and I felt a warmth in my chest that I wasn't expecting. These three—Kalia with her laughter, Renz with his strength, Torzod with his calm—were more than a team. They were mine, and for the first time in this world, I didn't feel so alone.
Back on the ship, the journey home was a chaos of jokes and shoves. Renz tried to tell a joke about a rebel who mistook his fist for a rock, but he got so tangled up that Kalia shoved a boot into his face to shut him up. "For the stars, shut up!" she yelled, laughing as he narrowly dodged.
"Give that back, crazy!" Renz exclaimed, lunging after her, and the ship filled with shouts and laughter as Torzod and I watched from our seats. The interior vibrated with the hum of the engine, and the air smelled of sweat and hot metal. I leaned back in my seat, looking at the console, and thought about the Klyonites. They weren't strong, but they had fought with something more than weapons: a spark of hope, perhaps, or just the instinct not to give up. They reminded me of myself, planning against a destiny that seemed inevitable.
"They're idiots," I murmured, but I smiled. Torzod nodded, and for a second, our eyes met in silent understanding.
When we landed on Planet Vegeta, Taro was waiting for us in the hangar, his imposing figure silhouetted against the setting sun. "Report," he said, his voice curt.
"Camp destroyed," I replied, straightening up. "No casualties. The rebels didn't stand a chance."
He grunted, satisfied, and slapped me on the back, making me stagger. "Good job, Varek. The first of many."
That night, in my bed, I looked at the tournament trophy and thought about the future. Seven years to 737. A ship, allies like these, strength for Frieza. My Saiyan empire was closer, and this mission had proven it. I closed my eyes, listening to the wind against the window, and for the first time in a long time, I slept without dreaming of battles.