The sun hangs high in the sky, a white disc that scorches the green grass in front of my house. I am sitting in the backyard, sweat sticking to my skin after a morning of training in the upscale field. Three months have passed since my encounter with King Vegeta, three months since I found that strange device in the arid lands of the north. It is early May of 731, and the air carries a dry heat that makes the horizon shimmer.
My base power has risen to 7250, an increase I owe to the brutal sessions in the training field, where Zorn makes us fight until the ground is filled with craters. I have also made progress in my ki control: now I can lower it to 4000 when I train, and then raise it quickly to my maximum, or even beyond, with techniques like the Kamehameha. I am not trying to hide my power on the planet; that would raise questions I cannot answer. How would I explain that a 10-year-old Saiyan can control his ki, a skill that even elite warriors do not master? My goal is different: to use this control to increase my power in combat without the scouters from the Planetary Trade Organization detecting me as a constant threat. If I keep my ki at 7250 normally, but I can raise it to 9250 with a Kamehameha in an instant, I will have an advantage that no one expects.
The Kamehameha is the only technique I have perfected: when I unleash it, my power rises to 9250, a blue burst that can split a hill in two. I have practiced it until my hands tremble, until the hum of ki feels like an extension of my body. But the Kienzan and the Taioken are a disaster. I have spent hours forming ki discs that fall apart halfway, or attempting a blinding flash that barely illuminates one meter. Each failure burns inside me, and yesterday, after another failed attempt, I let out a scream that echoed in the clearing and hit a rock until my knuckles bled.
"I need more control," I murmur, looking at my hands, the palms reddened from the effort. It's not just strength; it's precision, something that Saiyans don't understand. It's no wonder that most of the warriors here, and the soldiers of the Planetary Trade Organization, only use basic attacks: ki blasts, energy balls, simple explosions. Techniques like the Kienzan or the Taioken require a mastery that almost no one possesses. Not even elite Saiyans, like my father, think about that. For them, power is everything, and subtlety is for the weak.
That thought leads me to another I cannot ignore: I need to go to Earth. If I want to master my ki, I have to learn from the best. Kami-Sama, Roshi, even Piccolo... they know how to control their energy, how to create techniques that go beyond brute strength. And the Dragon Balls... they could give me an advantage that no Saiyan has ever had. But it's an impossible dream for now. My fame chases me like a shadow: I am Varek, son of the famous commander Taro, a high-class warrior known for my victory in the Saiyan tournament years ago. If I try to escape the planet, someone will notice. The guards at the port, the scouters, the spies from the Organization... there's no way to go unnoticed.
I shake my head, the heat making my armor feel heavier, and I stand up. I need to clear my mind. The great Saiyan metropolis is just a few hours from here, a city of 3 million inhabitants, the most populated on the planet. They say there are about 10 million Saiyans in total, and this city is the heart of our race: a chaos of middle-class warriors, some from the lower class with exceptional power, and a melting pot of Saiyan culture that I have never explored in depth. Maybe walking through its streets will help me organize my thoughts.
I sling a light backpack over my shoulder, with some food and water, and head out along the paved path. The central region shines under the sun, the white houses reflecting light like mirrors, and the air carries the sweet scent of flowers growing near the stream. I pass by the training field, where a group of high-class children is practicing, their tails whipping through the air as they hit each other. One of them, a boy with short hair and a scar on his cheek, greets me with a quick gesture before unleashing a blast that pushes his opponent back. I smile a little, but I don't stop, my steps firm as I leave the central region behind.
The road to the metropolis is long, and the landscape gradually changes. The green grass becomes scarcer, and the terrain is filled with rocks and dust, a reminder of the arid lands where I trained months ago. The sun is at its highest when I reach the outskirts of the city, and the noise hits me like a punch: shouting, laughter, the rumble of a distant explosion. The metropolis stretches before me, a mass of white and gray buildings, some tall and curved like those in the central region, others low and crude, made of stacked stone. Spherical ships buzz in the sky, leaving white trails behind, and the air is filled with dust and the smell of burnt metal.
I enter one of the main streets, the paved ground cracked, and the chaos envelops me. Middle-class Saiyans walk around me, their armor worn from missions, their tails moving restlessly. A group of warriors is gathered in front of a food stand, devouring pieces of raw meat that drip with blood, their laughter echoing as one of them throws a bone to the ground. "That idiot didn't last a minute on Planet Borat!" shouts a Saiyan with long hair, and the others laugh, slapping each other on the shoulders. Saiyan food is simple: raw meat from beasts hunted on the planet, sometimes roasted over campfires, but almost always uncooked. There are no spices, no variety, just protein to keep us strong. In the distance, a liquor stand attracts a group of Saiyans, the dark liquid served in metal jugs, and one of them, clearly drunk, stumbles, spilling the drink on his armor before falling to the ground, unconscious.
As I move forward, I notice how the middle-class Saiyans look at me. Some nod their heads in a gesture of respect, while others murmur among themselves, their scouters blinking as they read my ki. I am a high-class warrior, and here that means something. The Saiyan hierarchy is strict: the middle-class dominates the metropolis, their armor slightly newer, their scouters more accurate, but everyone knows that the high-class are above them. The lower class, on the other hand, is few and keeps to the margins, their armor broken, their tails sometimes cut off as punishment.
I arrive at the central market, an open space filled with stalls and Saiyans shouting. Traders sell used armor, repaired scouters, and pieces of meat hanging from hooks. A thin Saiyan with a scar on his eye offers me a scouter, its green lens blinking. "The best in the market, sir! Only 300 coins!" he shouts, his tone respectful as he notices my high-class armor. I ignore him with a wave of my hand, pushing my way through the crowd. There is a stall of trophies—heads of beasts hunted on other planets—and another selling cut-off tails, a symbol of humiliation for defeated Saiyans. A middle-class warrior, with scratched armor, is bargaining for one of those tails, his voice filled with contempt. "This is from a weak lower-class warrior. It's not worth even 50 coins," he grunts, and the trader shoots him an angry look before dropping the price.
The market is chaotic, but there's an order to it: Saiyans buy what they need to fight, to survive, to prove their strength. There is no room for luxuries, for unnecessary things. Everything here has a purpose, and that purpose is combat. As I walk, I think about how this city reflects what we are: a race built on violence, pride, and survival. But there's also something more, something I want to understand better. I decide to head to the mission center, a place where middle and lower-class Saiyans seek work for the Organization, and where I might find useful information for my future plans.
The mission center is a large building made of white stone with curved columns, and the interior is filled with warriors, some shouting as they negotiate missions, others checking boards with holograms displaying planets and rewards. I approach a counter at the back, where a disheveled middle-class Saiyan with short, messy hair is sorting through a pile of data tablets. His armor is filled with scratches, and a scouter hangs from his belt, turned off. He looks at me as I approach, narrowing his eyes, and his tail flicks once—a sign of curiosity.
"What do you want, sir?" he asks, his voice rough but respectful, slightly bowing his head as he notices my status.
"I'm just looking," I say, shrugging, and lean against the counter, pretending to be interested in a tablet that shows a mission on a planet called Zoon. "Do you handle the missions?"
He nods, putting down the tablet he was examining. "I'm Kren. I record the missions, assign ships, those kinds of things." He pauses, studying me more closely, and his scouter blinks for a moment before shutting off. "You must be Varek, the son of Commander Taro and his wife Selia, right? I saw you at the tournament years ago. It was... impressive."
I feel a knot in my stomach, but I keep calm and force a smile. "That was a long time ago. Now I'm just another warrior."
Kren lets out a dry laugh, tapping the counter with his fingers. "I don't believe that, sir. Those of your kind don't stay idle." He pauses, and his voice drops a bit, as if he doesn't want to be overheard. "If you ever need anything... information, a record that gets 'lost'... I'm your Saiyan. Everything has a price, of course."
I look at him, evaluating. He doesn't seem like a strong warrior, but there's a cleverness in his eyes that tells me he knows more than he shows. He could be useful, especially if I want to escape to Earth one day. "I'll keep that in mind," I say, stepping away from the counter with a gesture of thanks, feeling his gaze on my back as I leave the mission center.
The sun begins to set, tinting the sky a soft orange, and I decide to explore the outskirts of the metropolis, where I've heard some middle-class Saiyans perform a hunting ritual. I walk along a dusty path that leads to a clearing surrounded by rocks, where a group of about ten Saiyans has gathered. Their armor shines under the sun, and their tails whip the air in anticipation. One of them, a Saiyan with long hair and a scar on his chest, leads the hunt, his voice booming as he gives orders.
"The Kragthar is near!" he shouts, and the others roar, preparing for the hunt. I stay off to the side, watching them from a high rock, and see how they move with precision, surrounding an area where the ground is filled with fresh tracks. The leader launches a ki blast into the sky, an explosion that lights up the heavens, and the Kragthar responds with a roar that shakes the ground. The beast emerges from a crater, its body covered in black scales, its red eyes glowing with fury. It is enormous, larger than any animal I have ever seen, and its claws slice through the air as it charges at the Saiyans.
The hunt is a chaotic mix of screams and explosions. The Saiyans work together, something rare in our race, launching ki blasts to weaken the Kragthar while evading its attacks. One of them, a younger Saiyan, is too slow, and the Kragthar's claw slices his arm, eliciting a scream of pain. The others do not stop; instead, they roar even louder, and the leader finally brings the beast down with a direct punch to the skull, his fist glowing with ki. The Kragthar crashes down with a thud, and the Saiyans celebrate, cutting pieces of its flesh to take as trophies. The injured young warrior is ignored, left behind as he crawls, bleeding. This is what we are: the strong thrive, the weak are forgotten.
The ritual leaves me thoughtful, and as the sun sets, I return to the metropolis, my steps slower now, my mind filled with images of the hunt. There is something about the way the Saiyans come together to hunt, in the brutality of their celebration, that makes me want to understand more of our culture, beyond the violence. I decide to head to a dirtier area of the city, where the buildings are cracked and the air smells of decay, to see how the Saiyans who don't have the privilege of high class live.
In a corner, I see a Saiyan girl, roughly my age, around 10 years old, standing alone. Her armor is torn, barely covering her body, and her short hair is dirty, stuck to her face with sweat. Her eyes are empty, and her tail is coiled around her waist, a sign of submission. It's not the first time I've seen something like this in the metropolis: it's known that some lower-marginal class girls—the weakest and most desperate—turn to prostitution to survive, selling their bodies to warriors who have no respect for them. Saiyans have no morality like humans; here, strength dictates everything, and the weak are used or discarded. But seeing her churns my stomach.
A middle-class Saiyan approaches her, his armor shining under the sun, and his smile is a cruel cut. He is tall, with long hair and a scar that crosses his lip. He smells of liquor, his steps unsteady, and he grabs the girl by the arm roughly. "Come here, little one," he growls, dragging her toward an alley. She tenses but does not resist, her body trembling as he pushes her against the wall, his hands already on her torn armor. I hear her whisper, "Please, no…" but he laughs, a sound that chills my blood.
I do not think; I just act. I run toward the alley, my ki rising without my ability to stop it, and I grab him by the shoulder, turning him around with force. "Let her go!" I roar, my voice echoing in the narrow space.
The Saiyan looks at me, his eyes clouded by liquor, and his scouter blinks, reading my ki. "7250..." he murmurs, and his face pales, fear crossing his gaze. "A... a high-class warrior..." His voice trembles, and he takes a step back, releasing the girl, who falls to the ground, trembling. But the liquor betrays him: his fear turns to rage, and his face contorts. "Damn it, I won't take orders from a kid!" he shouts, and he throws a punch directly at my face, his movement clumsy from drunkenness.
I easily dodge the punch, feeling the air cut past me, and I return the blow to his stomach, my fist sinking into his armor. He doubles over, the air escaping him in a gasp, and I drive a knee into his chin, the crack of his jaw echoing in the air. He falls backward, blood dripping from his mouth, and I look down at him, my breath coming in quick bursts. "Don't cross my path again," I say, my voice cold, and he groans, too drunk and hurt to respond.
I turn to the girl. She is curled up against the wall, her eyes filled with fear, and she says nothing. I kneel in front of her, my voice softer. "Are you okay?" She nods, barely a movement, and murmurs, "Thank you…" Her voice is a thread, and she gets up, running into the street without looking back. I watch her disappear into the crowd, feeling a weight in my chest. This is what we are: a race that crushes the weak, that knows no compassion. But I am not like that. Not entirely. My past weighs on me, memories of a world where people helped each other, where children didn't have to sell themselves to survive.
The incident leaves me unsettled, and I decide to find a quieter place to think. I walk towards a less crowded part of the metropolis, where a small food stall is run by an elderly Saiyan. His hair is white, his armor so old it looks like it might crumble, and his tail is cut off, a stump hanging from his waist. His eyes are cloudy, but there is a strength in his posture that draws me closer. "Do you want to eat, sir?" he asks, his voice hoarse, and offers me a piece of meat on a stick, bowing his head in a gesture of respect.
I nod, sitting on a rock in front of him, and take the meat, the juice dripping on my hands. "Thank you," I say, biting into a chunk, the raw and strong flavor filling my mouth. "How long have you been here?"
The old man lets out a dry chuckle, turning another piece of meat over the fire. "Longer than I remember. I'm Gorzod, an old man who can no longer fight." He pauses, looking at me with a squinted eye. "You are Varek, the young man who won the last tournament, right? I saw you there years ago. You have a great future, sir."
I don't respond immediately, chewing the meat as I observe him. "That was years ago," I finally say, shrugging. "Now I'm just trying to survive."
Gorzod nods, his gaze lost in the fire. "Surviving is what we do. But it wasn't always like this." He pauses, and his voice lowers, as if sharing a secret. "I was here when the Tsufur still lived. We were wild, but free. We hunted, fought each other, lived as we wished. Then the Tsufur came, with their machines and their cities, and pushed us into the arid lands. We fought, of course, and we won. We killed them all, took their planet. But that wasn't the end."
I frown, leaning forward. "What happened next?"
"King Cold," he spits, his voice filled with venom. "He and his Organization arrived shortly after. They offered us a deal: work for them, conquer planets, or be destroyed. We had no choice. Now we're dogs, sir. Dogs with collars that fight for scraps." His hand trembles as he turns the meat, and his gaze hardens. "Some say something worse is coming. New leaders, more cruel. I don't know if I will see it, but you… you could."
His words hit me like a punch. I know what's coming: Freezer, in one year, and the destruction of the planet in 739. But I can't say it. "Maybe," I say, my voice low, and finish the meat, leaving the stick on the ground. "Thank you for the food, Gorzod."
He nods, and I stand up, feeling the weight of his story on my shoulders. The metropolis is alive around me, a chaos of violence and pride, but Gorzod's words remind me that Saiyans weren't always this way. There was a time when we were free, before the Organization turned us into weapons. I want to know more, understand more, so I decide to visit a place I've heard mentioned: a Saiyan temple, a rare site where some honor fallen warriors.
I walk toward a quieter area of the city, where the temple stands among the buildings. It's a structure of black stone, with carvings of tails and ki blasts etched into the walls. Saiyans are not religious, but some, especially the older ones, pay tribute to fallen warriors in places like this. I enter, the air cool and dark, and I see a group of Saiyans kneeling in front of a statue: an unknown warrior, his armor broken, his fist raised to the sky. A plaque at the base reads: *"For those who fell with honor."* An elderly Saiyan, with a gray cloak covering his armor, murmurs something, his voice low and reverent. "May their strength guide us in the next battle," he says, and the others nod, their tails still as a sign of respect.
I linger for a moment, watching, and feel a knot in my chest. Death for Saiyans is not an end but a step: the strong are remembered, the weak forgotten. But there's something in this place, in the stillness, that makes me think about my own life. If I die here, will I be remembered? Or is my destiny on Earth, where I can change things? I leave the temple, the sun already low, and decide to return to the poorer area of the metropolis, where lower-class Saiyans live, as the incident with the girl had prevented me from properly exploring that area.
I arrive at a neighborhood of dilapidated buildings, the walls cracked, the ground covered in dust. Lower-class Saiyans walk with their heads down, their armor torn, their scouters old and cracked. A group of three young Saiyans sees me and approaches, their eyes shining with admiration. "Sir Varek!" says one, a skinny boy with messy hair, bowing his head. "We saw you at the tournament years ago. It's an honor to meet you."
I smile a bit, although their enthusiasm makes me uncomfortable. "That was a long time ago," I say, shrugging. "What do you want?"
The skinny boy lowers his gaze, his voice trembling slightly. "We wanted… to ask you for advice, sir. We are lower class, but we want to become stronger. How do you do it? How did you get so far?"
I look at them, their armor patched, their faces hardened by daily struggles, and I feel a mix of pity and respect. They don't have the advantages I have, but their hunger for power is real. "Train," I say, my voice firm. "Fight every day, even if you lose. Strength doesn't come easily, and there are no shortcuts. But don't let others trample you. If you fall, get back up and keep fighting."
They nod, their eyes shining with determination, and the skinny boy bows his head again. "Thank you, Sir Varek. We won't forget." They walk away, their voices filled with excitement as they plan their next training session, and I continue on my way, feeling a strange weight in my chest. They see me as an example, but I don't feel like one. My mind is elsewhere, on a future I still cannot reach.
The moon is already high when I arrive at a tavern, a low building with stone walls and the smell of liquor wafting through the door. I enter; the air is thick with smoke and laughter, and I sit at a table in the back, ordering a pitcher of Saiyan liquor. The dark liquid burns my throat but helps me relax. Around me, Saiyans are talking, their voices loud and rough. A group of middle-class warriors is at a nearby table, recounting stories of missions. "In Tycor, I killed a giant lizard with a single blow," one brags, thumping his chest, and the others laugh, clinking their jugs.
Another group, closer to me, talks about rumors. "They say a lower-class Saiyan, Bardock, took Planet Minok in a day," murmurs a short-haired Saiyan, his scouter blinking as he drinks. "When he came back, he had a power of 8,000, and it keeps rising. That guy is a demon."
An older Saiyan, with a scar running across his eye, nods, his voice low. "He's an example for those of the lower class. But it won't last. The Organization doesn't allow those like him to rise too high." The others nod, their faces stern, and I feel a chill. I know what awaits Bardock, but I can't say it.
As I listen, several Saiyans glance at me from their tables, some bowing their heads in respect, others whispering among themselves. "Is Varek, the famous child prodigy," I hear one say, and another nods, his scouter flashing as he watches me. My status protects me, but it also isolates me. Here, I am a high-class warrior, someone who is respected, but also someone who is envied. I don't stay long; the liquor has relaxed me, but I don't want to tempt my luck.
I rise, leaving some coins on the table, and exit the tavern, the cool night air filling my lungs. The metropolis is quieter now, the streets almost empty, and I walk aimlessly, letting my thoughts settle. Saiyan culture is a cycle of violence and pride, of strength and survival. But there are cracks in that cycle, cracks I saw in the girl from the alley, in the lower-class Saiyans who dream of being more, in Gorzod's stories about a time when we were free. I don't know if I can change this, but I know I don't fully belong here. My future lies on Earth, and with Kren as a potential ally, maybe I have a chance.