1.1 The New Dawn
The first thing Aarav felt wasn't the pain of rebirth or the blinding light of the delivery room. It was the simple, overwhelming sensation of gravity. The oppressive, familiar weight of Earth's atmosphere felt strangely intensified, a subtle reminder of the power simmering beneath his skin.
He was no longer Aarav Sharma, the quiet bookworm from Patna. He was now Aarav 'Ronin' Sharma, born in the heart of Queens, New York, in the vibrant, bustling neighborhood of Jackson Heights—a little India transplanted onto American soil.
His parents were a perfect blend of old-world charm and New World ambition. His father, Rakesh Sharma, ran a moderately successful import-export business, dealing in spices and silks. His mother, Mira Sharma, was a passionate, slightly chaotic homemaker whose cooking could summon homesick NRIs from three states away. They were, as he had wished, a medium family—comfortable, not rich, with enough space and opportunity to grow.
The year was 1998. Tony Stark was still a party-hopping playboy, Captain America was a popsicle, and the concept of an alien invasion was reserved for Will Smith movies. Aarav had a decade of calm to prepare for the storm.
But his most immediate, defining feature in this new life was his sister.
Anya Sharma.
She was five years old when he was born, and the moment he saw her face—glowing with the sheer, unadulterated joy of having a 'chota bhai' (little brother)—Aarav knew his journey wouldn't just be about saving the world.
Anya, with her slightly taller frame, glossy black hair that fell in a perfect, silky cascade, and large, intelligent hazel eyes, was indeed beautiful and pretty. She quickly adopted the role of his self-appointed guardian, mentor, and chief tormentor. She would drag him around in a squeaky red wagon, reading him English-language fairy tales mixed with Hindi nursery rhymes, often interrupting to correct his baby babbling with mock sternness.
"No, Ronin! Say Jalebi, not jabay-bee! It's important for cultural immersion!" she'd lecture, even as she secretly slipped him the sweet, sticky pastry.
Aarav, even as a baby, had his full adult memories and the encyclopedic knowledge of Goku's training regime. It made the first few years a surreal blend of cosmic destiny and mundane diaper changes.
1.2 The Genesis of Training
The challenge was immense. He was a Saiyan—a latent one. His body was that of a normal, healthy Indian-American boy. He needed to activate the gene, and according to the internal "database" of Goku's knowledge gifted to him by the Auditor, the path to Super Saiyan was paved with relentless, high-intensity training and facing life-or-death danger when his base power was high enough.
He couldn't use gravity training yet; his tiny bones would snap. So, his training began subtly, hidden in plain sight.
From the age of five, when he was finally out of his mother's immediate grasp and able to go to school, Aarav began his physical routine.
Phase 1: Foundation (Ages 5-8)
In the early morning hours, long before the New York sun began to filter into the Queens streets, Aarav would sneak down to the family's finished basement.
His routine was deceptively simple: endurance, flexibility, and muscle memory.
He started with push-ups and sit-ups—hundreds of them, slowly, deliberately. He focused not on reps, but on form, channeling the perfect body control of Master Roshi. When his parents thought he was playing on his Game Boy, he was actually practicing the low, coiled stance of the Turtle School, adapting it for a human child's body.
"Ronin, what are you doing under the ping-pong table?" Anya asked one morning, catching him in a deep, stretching split that should have been impossible for an eight-year-old.
Aarav, panting slightly, fabricated his first believable lie. "I'm practicing for my new favorite sport, parkour! Gotta be flexible to climb those walls, Anya-di!"
Anya, always impressed by her little brother's eccentric hobbies, simply shrugged. "Just don't break Mom's vase. And if you're doing parkour, you should also be studying Wuxia novels for the best jumps. I have one with a flying sword you'll love."
She walked away, completely accepting his explanation. Saiyan training disguised as a weird hobby. Excellent.
1.3 The Gate's Whisper and the Noble Phantasm of the Playground
The Gate of Babylon was his second, more immediate challenge. The Auditor had said it would open "bit by bit," initially offering only common items.
Aarav, now eight, finally figured out how to call upon it. It didn't manifest as golden portals yet. It was more like an instinctive reach into an adjacent, invisible armory.
One afternoon on the school playground, a bully named Marco was tormenting a smaller Korean boy, kicking sand over his elaborate Lego castle. Marco was armed with a long, heavy wooden stick—a common piece of playground debris.
Instinctively, Aarav didn't rush in. He reached.
Gate of Babylon: Utility Level 1 Unlocked.
In a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer that only Aarav could see, a better weapon materialized in his hand—not from the air, but like it had been there all along.
It was a perfectly balanced, smooth Ash-wood Quarterstaff, far superior to Marco's splintered stick. It wasn't a mythological artifact; it was just a High-Quality Common Item—an early, practical Noble Phantasm.
Aarav faced the bully. "Leave him alone, Marco."
Marco laughed. "What are you gonna do, short stuff? Poke me with your fancy broomstick?"
Aarav said nothing. He simply adopted the ready stance of a Niten Ichi-ryu sword master, the stance of a warrior who knew exactly how to wield his weapon. He didn't need to be strong; he just needed skill.
He waited for Marco's swing and, with a quick, blur-like deflection taught to him by the internalized knowledge of Goku's staff training, he simply tapped Marco's wrist, forcing him to drop his stick. He then stepped back, holding the staff ready, but not threatening.
"It's not a broomstick," Aarav said, his voice quiet but steady. "It's a staff. And this playground is a neutral zone."
Marco, shocked and nursing his throbbing wrist, backed off. The smaller boy, wide-eyed, grabbed his Legos and ran.
As the adrenaline faded, the staff dissolved back into the Gate, leaving behind a subtle metallic scent.
Progress Report: The Gate is a resource, not a crutch. Use skill to compensate for the lack of power.
Aarav realized the beauty of the lock. He couldn't summon Gungnir or Ea, but he could summon the perfect common weapon for any situation, forcing him to rely on his innate Saiyan knowledge and growing skills.
1.4 A Kitten and a Future Spider
Aarav's primary focus remained on training, but the seeds of his destined relationships were already being sown in the chaos of his New York life.
When he was ten, his parents agreed to let him adopt a scrawny, coal-black kitten he found abandoned behind the spice shop. He named the kitten Nimbus, naturally.
Nimbus, being a kitten, had a penchant for climbing things. One unusually warm autumn afternoon, the cat scaled a towering, dead oak tree in the local park, only to get stuck and start wailing.
Aarav, who had been practicing his low-altitude jumps and landings—a poor man's Buku-jutsu (Floating Technique)—was about to scale the tree himself.
"Don't worry, Nimbus, I've got you," he muttered, flexing his calf muscles.
"Wait! Don't move!"
A voice, high-pitched and urgent, called out. Aarav looked up.
Perched precariously on a high branch, dangling her legs with casual, terrifying ease, was a girl with striking platinum-blond hair and large, expressive eyes. She was about his age, maybe eleven.
"I got this," the girl announced, her eyes completely focused on the shivering cat. She wasn't climbing up the tree. She was crawling out on a thin limb, her movements possessing a strange, effortless grace. She looked like a dancer trying a dangerous new pose.
She scooped up Nimbus in one fluid motion, then, instead of climbing down the way she came, she took a look at the six-foot drop, grinned, and jumped.
Aarav watched in stunned silence as she hit the ground, rolled perfectly, and popped up without a scratch, presenting Nimbus to him with a proud flourish.
"Here you go. He's a cutie. You shouldn't name him Nimbus, though. He's totally a Black Cat."
The girl's eyes sparkled with mischievous energy. She was wearing a slightly worn leather jacket and had a smattering of dirt on her cheek.
"I'm Felicia Hardy," she said, offering a hand that was surprisingly rough. "And you owe me a soda for the rescue, Ronin Sharma."
Aarav stared, his inner fanboy screaming at the sheer, beautiful synchronicity of it all. Felicia Hardy. The Black Cat. The first piece of his romantic destiny, saving his cat.
"I... I'm Aarav," he stammered, his Saiyan composure momentarily shattered. "And I'd be happy to buy you a soda, Felicia."
A few months later, at the start of middle school, a new girl moved into his block in Queens. She was shy, brilliant, and wore large, nerdy glasses that somehow made her look even more adorable. She was also surprisingly athletic, though she always looked slightly too tired.
Gwen Stacy.
She was always reading, sitting on the steps of her father's patrol car—Captain Stacy, a tired-looking but honest NYPD cop.
She waved at Aarav once, a tentative, sweet gesture. Aarav returned the wave, a quiet resolve settling in his heart.
The stage is set. Training is underway. The girls are here.
As Aarav walked back to his house, the afternoon sun casting long, heroic shadows, he felt the familiar, low burn in his gut. The need for more. He dropped down into the basement and began his weighted squats. Five hundred of them.
He had a world to save, a harem to build, and a destiny to earn. And it all began with simple, back-breaking, heroic work.