Silence, Raizen would one day learn, was never empty.
It pressed.
Not like the heat that lived inside him—no, this was different. This silence was thick, layered, heavy with things unsaid and unseen. It wrapped around him in the deep quarters, sinking into stone and shadow, settling into the very air as if the fortress itself were holding its breath.
For now, he did not understand it.
He only felt.
Darkness came and went in drifting fragments. Sleep was not a single thing but a tide—rising, falling, carrying him between moments of sensation. Warmth. Stillness. The faint vibration of a heartbeat not his own. The subtle hum of runes beneath stone.
And beneath all of it… the fire.
It did not rage anymore.
It waited.
Raizen's dreams—if they could be called dreams—were not images. They were impressions. Pressure without form. Vastness without direction. A sense of being stretched thin, like something immense folded into something impossibly small.
Sometimes, there was light.
Red, not bright but deep, like the glow behind closed eyes. It pulsed in slow rhythm, synchronized with his heart. Each pulse sent a faint ache through his tiny frame, not painful enough to wake him, but enough to remind him that something inside him did not belong.
He stirred.
His fingers twitched, brushing against fabric woven too thick and too heavy for a newborn. The cloth resisted him, threads tugging back gently, suppressing, calming. His instincts pushed, curious, unfocused.
Why can't I—
The thought was not a thought.
It was a pressure against a boundary.
Raizen's brow furrowed. A small sound escaped his lips, barely louder than breath.
Nearby, Sarela woke instantly.
She had learned to sleep like a soldier—lightly, alert to the smallest change. Her eyes opened to darkness, her senses flaring as she checked the chamber instinctively.
No alarms.
No glow from the rune circle beyond its faint, steady pulse.
Only the child.
She leaned forward, heart easing only slightly as she saw his small chest rising and falling. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even fully awake. Just… restless.
"That's it," she whispered, shifting him carefully. "Easy."
Her fingers brushed his back, gentle but deliberate, grounding him. She could feel the heat through the cloth—steady, controlled, contained.
For now.
She glanced toward the sealed door, half-expecting it to shudder open at any moment. But the stone remained still. Thick. Silent.
Too silent.
Above them, the fortress did not sleep.
News traveled faster than ships.
By the time the second rotation of the planet's moons had passed, every major clan knew the rumors. They differed in detail—some said the child glowed like a sun, others claimed the sky had bled red for hours—but all agreed on one thing:
Something unprecedented had been born.
In the halls beyond the deep quarters, warriors gathered in small knots, voices low but charged. Scouts reported increased traffic in orbit. Sensor arrays picked up distant signatures—ships lingering just outside weapons range, pretending coincidence.
Kaedor walked among it all without haste.
His presence alone quieted rooms.
He had removed his ceremonial armor, favoring plain black battle attire instead. No symbols. No banners. Just scars and authority.
He stopped beside a young guard stationed near the inner corridors.
"Anything?" Kaedor asked.
The guard straightened immediately. "No incursions, Elder. But… they're watching."
Kaedor nodded.
"Let them."
The guard hesitated, then spoke again. "Sir… some are saying the seal won't last."
Kaedor's gaze sharpened, but his tone remained even. "Some say many things."
"Do you believe it?" the guard pressed, unable to stop himself.
Kaedor looked down the corridor that led deeper—toward stone, toward silence, toward the child whose existence had already begun to tilt the world.
"I believe," he said slowly, "that seals do not exist to last forever."
The guard swallowed.
Kaedor continued on.
In a council chamber stripped of ceremony and cleared of all but essential members, the elders argued again—this time in whispers.
"He cannot remain untrained," said the braided-tail elder. "Every cycle that passes increases the risk."
"And training him risks awakening it," the white-haired elder snapped back. "You would gamble the fortress on curiosity?"
"He's a Saiyan," another cut in. "Strength is not optional—it's survival."
Kaedor stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, listening.
"What do you propose?" he asked at last.
The braided-tail elder met his gaze. "Controlled exposure. Small stimuli. Gradual conditioning."
"A child," Kaedor replied flatly.
"A weapon," the elder corrected.
The room chilled.
Kaedor stepped forward.
"He will be neither," he said. "Not yet."
"And when?" the Solari representative asked quietly from her seat. She had remained silent for much of the debate, observing. Measuring. "When the clans grow tired of waiting? When one of them decides patience is weakness?"
Kaedor's eyes flicked to her.
"Then," he said, "they will learn what restraint looks like."
The Solari's lips curved faintly.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Below, Raizen woke.
Not fully.
Just enough.
His eyes opened to darkness, unfocused, pupils wide. He did not cry. He did not flail. He simply stared, absorbing impressions without understanding.
Stone.
Cold.
A presence nearby—warm, steady, familiar.
Sarela.
He did not know her name. He did not know what names were.
But something in him recognized her as anchor.
His tiny hand lifted, fingers curling weakly. They brushed against the air, then against her sleeve.
The contact sent a faint pulse through him.
Not outward.
Inward.
The fire stirred.
Raizen's breath caught. His heart skipped—then beat harder, faster. The seal responded instantly, pressure tightening, compressing the divine presence like a fist closing around flame.
His face scrunched, discomfort blooming.
Sarela felt it at once.
She shifted him, drawing him closer, murmuring softly, her voice low and rhythmic. Not words meant to teach—just sound meant to soothe.
The pressure eased.
Raizen relaxed.
Something inside him learned.
Not consciously.
But deeply.
Touch brings resistance.
Resistance brings pain.
Stillness brings calm.
The first lesson.
Hours later—or moments, time meant little in the deep quarters—Kaedor arrived.
The heavy door slid open with a muted grind, runes flaring briefly before dimming again. Sarela looked up sharply, tension flooding her posture until she saw who it was.
"Elder," she said, bowing her head slightly.
Kaedor waved it away and approached, his steps slow, deliberate.
He looked down at Raizen.
The child's eyes were open again, dark and reflective, following movement without tracking. His gaze passed over Kaedor's face, lingering for half a heartbeat longer than it should have.
Kaedor felt it.
That weight again.
Not pressure.
Expectation.
"How is he?" Kaedor asked quietly.
Sarela hesitated. "Stable," she said. Then, after a moment: "But… responsive."
Kaedor raised an eyebrow.
"He reacts," she explained. "To touch. To sound. Not like other infants. It's as if he's… listening."
Kaedor studied Raizen more closely.
"Listening to what?" he asked.
Sarela shook her head. "I don't know."
Neither did Kaedor.
That unsettled him more than he liked.
He reached out slowly—not touching yet—watching carefully for any reaction.
Raizen's fingers twitched.
The seal tightened, invisible but unmistakable.
Kaedor withdrew his hand.
"Good," he murmured. "It's learning too."
Sarela frowned. "Learning what?"
Kaedor straightened.
"Restraint," he said. "Before hunger."
Sarela looked down at the child again, unease creeping into her expression.
"And if restraint fails?"
Kaedor's jaw tightened.
"Then," he said, "we adapt."
Far above them, beyond fortress walls and planetary skies, a ripple passed through the void.
Whis noticed.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was consistent.
"Ah," he said softly. "Already."
Beerus grunted, irritated. "Already what?"
"The child," Whis replied. "He's adjusting."
Beerus scowled. "To what?"
"To limits," Whis said.
Beerus's frown deepened.
"Nothing adjusts to limits forever."
Whis smiled, eyes glinting faintly.
"No," he agreed. "But some learn how to carry them."
Back in the deep quarters, Raizen drifted back toward sleep.
The fire inside him settled once more, coiling tighter, denser, like a star compressed into a seed.
Outside, clans maneuvered.
Above, gods watched.
And beneath layers of stone and silence, a child learned his second lesson without words:
The world pushes back.
And one day, he would push back harder.
But not yet.