The void shuddered as Broly screamed.
It wasn't a roar of victory. It wasn't even rage. It was… empty. A scream that clawed out of him because nothing else could. The sound tore through the black, ripping across star systems. Moons cracked and fell apart like brittle stone. Planets split in half, their cores vomiting magma into the void before going dark.
And still he screamed.
His throat burned, his jaw snapped open so wide it ached, but the noise wouldn't stop. And then—without knowing why—water trailed from his eyes. Not sobbing, not wailing. Just… leaking, as if his body had betrayed him.
What was this? Happiness? Sorrow? Triumph? Grief?
None of those.
The closest thing was instinct. It was like when a starving coyote finally sinks its fangs into a rabbit after days of chasing, its body collapsing from exhaustion as the rabbit's blood finally touches its tongue. The hunger was fed. The hunt was over. There was no joy in it, no meaning—only the animal release of survival. That was Broly's victory.
The voices were gone. The cries, the defiance, the flickers of light that had kept resisting him—gone. No more Goku, no more Vegeta, no more screaming little worms clinging to survival. The rabbit was dead.
But the hunger inside him didn't vanish.
It was worse.
The emptiness spread, yawning, a black hole that devoured his chest. He didn't even know if he was relieved, or enraged, or simply nothing.
So he flew.
Through starfields, across asteroid seas, tearing through nebulae lit like dying embers. His green aura bled against the void until finally—finally—he saw it.
The Planet Lirae
It spun at the edge of a forgotten system, bathed in a sun that glowed pale-gold instead of white. Its surface shimmered with colors not of Earth, not of Vegeta, not of any world he knew.
The skies were swirled blue and amber, clouds rolling thick like spilled paint. The ground wasn't stone but crystal—jagged pillars of sapphire-blue jutted like the bones of giants, glowing faintly from within. Between them grew strange trees: translucent, their trunks like glass, their leaves sheets of molten-gold shimmer that swayed without wind.
Rivers ran too—not water, but mercury-yellow metal that reflected the sky like shattered mirrors. When the currents struck the crystal spires, they rang with hollow music that echoed for miles.
It was beautiful. It was empty.
No birds. No beasts. No footprints.
A world waiting for life that never came.
Broly landed hard, his boots cracking a pillar that sang as it broke. The sound echoed through the valley, a hollow dirge across the crystalline expanse.
He staggered forward, chest heaving. His hands flexed, his aura spat sparks. His body screamed for resistance, for something to fight, for prey to chase. But there was nothing.
No rabbit. No hunter. No hunt.
The rivers whispered. The crystal trees swayed. The sound mocked him.
And slowly—finally—his body shrank. The green fire burned out. His hair fell back to black. His chest rose, fell, then steadied.
Broly collapsed against a golden tree, its strange glass-bark cool against his skin. His fists unclenched for the first time since his birth.
His eyes closed.
On Planet Lirae, time blurred. Four days. Five days. It could have been weeks. The crystal trees swayed, the mercury rivers sang, and the skies remained forever dim—an endless night lit by a pale-gold sun so far away it was little more than a star. For Broly, it was not beauty. It was silence.
He did not speak. He did not train. He did not hunt.
He sat by the glass-like trees, staring into rivers that reflected his warped, scarred reflection. He pressed his fist into the crystal ground just to hear the hollow ringing, again and again. Sometimes he lay on his back, staring at the sky. Sometimes he stood, cracked his knuckles, stretched his arms, then sat down again.
Nothing changed. Nothing challenged him.
And boredom to Broly was not like boredom to others. It was not a fidget or a sigh. For him, boredom was agony. His body screamed for resistance, for strain, for something to break. The power inside him clawed like a caged beast with nowhere to go.
Finally—on the fifth day—he could not bear it.
The ground split as he leapt from the surface, the shockwave ripping entire valleys apart. Golden trees shattered like glass. The mercury rivers scattered into droplets that hung in the air before raining back down as molten shards. Lirae sang its death cry behind him as he broke free into space.
He left it without looking back.
Broly drifted at first. Then he roared, the sound vibrating even in the void as his aura flared green. He shot toward the nearest star system.
The first planet he landed on was no challenge. A dusty sphere of rock and sand, with only simple microbial life clinging stubbornly in its oceans. His boots cracked the crust, and he sighed—more in frustration than relief. Raising one hand, he ended the world with a flick of emerald light. The planet cracked and burned, swallowed by fire until nothing remained but ash floating through space.
No satisfaction. No thrill. Only silence.
He flew on.
The second planet had more. Forests, oceans, beasts that roared and clawed. Creatures the size of mountains lumbered across the plains. For a brief moment, Broly's pulse quickened. He waited for one to attack. It did. A massive beast charged, its jaws wide, claws ripping the earth.
Broly barely twitched his wrist. The creature disintegrated into dust.
The rest of the herd fled. Broly watched them scatter, his face blank. He destroyed the planet out of boredom, blasting its core until the land folded in on itself.
And so the cycle began.
Days turned into months. Months into a year.
Broly scoured systems. Planet after planet. Each one carried hope for a challenge—and each one ended in disappointment.
One world had insectoid beings with crude weapons, clicking and hissing as they tried to swarm him. They fought with bravery, stabbing with spears tipped with crystal. Their armies gathered by the thousands, blackening the hills. Broly stood among them like a mountain, expression flat, arms limp at his sides.
Their blades snapped against his skin. Their fire burned no hotter than candlelight.
He slaughtered them all with a single shockwave, their bodies crumbling like sand. As their cities fell and their hives burned, he frowned—not in rage, but in sorrow. Not for them, but for himself.
Another world had an empire of warriors, clad in steel and riding machines that split the skies. They had kingdoms, fleets, weapons that pierced atmospheres. Their rulers shouted speeches of courage, their fleets rallied against him. Broly allowed them to fire. The sky lit with firestorms. He didn't move. When the smoke cleared, he exhaled—just a sigh. And their fleets fell apart like toys in his hands.
He crushed their palaces. He burned their armies. He left their homeworld a scar of molten stone. And still he felt nothing.
Each world fell the same way. Sometimes in seconds, sometimes in minutes.
He learned to recognize disappointment instantly. The moment he set foot on a planet, when he felt their life force—weak, flickering, fragile—he knew. And yet he stayed. He always stayed, because maybe one would surprise him. Maybe one would give him what he wanted: a fight, a real fight.
But none did.
The irony crushed him more than the silence. Each time he destroyed a world, his heart ached, not for them, but for the battle that could never happen.
Broly's destruction was not rage. It was boredom. It was sorrow. A sorrow so vast that even he, who had no words for such things, began to feel its weight. His fists killed because they had nothing else to do. His blasts burned because there was no other outlet. His roars shattered stars because silence was worse.
And yet, in rare moments, as he hovered over a broken world, staring down at its lifeless ruins, water would sting his eyes again. He didn't know why. He didn't understand tears. He only knew they came when he remembered the chase.
The chase that ended with the rabbit dead.
The hunger fed.
The hunger still gnawing.
Once, he found a planet teeming with life that almost felt strong. Their warriors were tall, their armor gleaming, their cities sprawling across continents. They sensed him coming. They gathered every fighter, every weapon, every ounce of courage.
Broly descended among them. The ground cracked beneath his boots. Thousands of them charged.
For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—Broly felt the spark. Maybe this is it. Maybe finally…
But when the dust cleared, they were gone. Their strongest warrior screamed in defiance as Broly's hand crushed him like clay. Their fleets scattered before his eyes. Their world burned faster than the others.
Broly stood in the ashes, his aura fading. He whispered nothing. He thought nothing.
He only moved on.
By the end of the year, Broly had destroyed more worlds than he could count. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Some had creatures. Some had empires. Some had nothing.
The void stretched forever, and he tore through it like a storm with no end. His face never changed. His eyes never brightened.
His power only grew. Each destruction, each roar, each scream into the void sharpened him. He had no training. He had no master. But his body—his cursed body—evolved without effort. Every fight that wasn't a fight, every massacre that wasn't a battle, made him stronger.
And that was the greatest hell of all.
The stronger he became, the less chance he had of ever finding what he wanted.
So he screamed again, his roar cracking suns, scattering comets, shaking planets to dust. The universe trembled at a sound that carried no joy, no rage, no meaning—only hunger.
Four years passed.
Time had no meaning in the void, but Broly could feel its weight anyway. His body changed, hardened, sharpened. His aura burned brighter, his veins thicker with ki than ever before. The endless screams, the endless destruction, the endless hunger—these were his years. Worlds burned by the thousands. Fleets shattered like glass in his palms. Kingdoms, empires, civilizations crumbled to dust beneath his boots. And still he was bored.
But he had learned one thing: boredom could not kill him.
So, he adapted.
Floating in the ruins of another shattered world, debris scattering like embers through the black sea of space, Broly sat cross-legged among the rubble. His green aura pulsed faintly, illuminating the fragments of stone around him. He was… meditating.
At first, it was clumsy. His body twitched, his energy flared uncontrolled, his instincts screamed at him to destroy. But day by day, week by week, he forced it down, breathing through the storm, forcing himself to sit still. And when the storm quieted, when the hunger retreated even slightly, he found something new: he had opponents. Not real ones, but shadows inside his mind.
Goku.Vegeta.Gohan.
In his meditation, he faced them. Not as they were, but as his mind demanded them to be—stronger. Always stronger. He imagined them surpassing him, their fists breaking his guard, their roars shattering his aura. And he fought back. Again and again. Sometimes they killed him in his mind. Sometimes he crushed them. But always, always, he came back stronger.
And it worked.
Each time he opened his eyes, he found himself more in control. His energy bent smoother to his will, his movements sharper, his transformations steadier. The Legendary Super Saiyan inside him—the raging, uncontrollable monster that once devoured everything—was now his weapon. He wielded it without hesitation. He had ascended further, beyond his father's chains, beyond his own instincts.
He had mastered Legendary Super Saiyan 2.
His muscles no longer swelled uncontrollably, his mind no longer lost in the green haze of madness. The raw storm of power that once made him tremble now flowed like a second heartbeat, pulsing in harmony with his flesh. He could summon it at will, stand tall within it, and unleash it with precision.
Yet… he felt it. Deep inside. A whisper of something further. A transformation crouched at the edge of his being, waiting to be claimed. A form beyond the storm. But what use was it? There was no enemy. No rival. No one strong enough to demand it.
So, Broly left it untouched.
He drifted. He destroyed. He meditated. And the cycle went on.
Until one day, he found alive, interesting one at that.
Broly's body crashed into a world like a meteor, tearing through its atmosphere in a blaze of green fire. His boots dug into the soil of a wide plain, shockwaves flattening forests, craters blooming beneath his weight. He rose slowly, brushing smoke from his shoulders, and for the first time in years, his eyes widened.
This world was not empty.
Before him stretched towers of stone and steel, vast spires glistening in the twilight. Great cities rose across the horizon, medieval in shape—arched bridges, walled keeps, banners fluttering high—yet mixed with technology. Floating vessels hovered above streets, ships of silver and crystal darted between planets visible in the sky. There were thousands of voices, thousands of lives, and they were not primitive.
The people themselves looked human, but not quite. Their ears stretched long and elegant, their eyes bright with unnatural colors. They moved with grace, clad in silver armors and flowing robes, carrying blades that hummed faintly with energy. They were… like elves, yet harder, sharper, alien.
And not only this planet.
As Broly's eyes rose, he saw the skies dotted with other spheres—neighboring planets, close enough to see oceans, forests, cities with the naked eye. Each carried the same people, the same empires, the same fleets. It was not one world. It was a system, united and vast, bigger than anything Broly had seen in all his years of wandering.
For the first time in years, his chest stirred.
This one…
The corner of his lip twitched into something almost like a smile. He cracked his knuckles, the sound like thunder across the plain.
"I'll have fun here."