I woke up to the sensation of silk against my skin. It was cool, smooth, and utterly alien compared to the scratchy wool of the Iron District.
I stared at the high, vaulted ceiling of my quarters in the Garl estate. The chronometer on the wall blinked the date in sharp red digits.
Today was my birthday. I was eight years old.
In a different life, this morning would have smelled like sugar and candle wax. There would have been a cake, wrapped boxes, and the chaotic noise of a party. But that life was a fading dream, obscured by years of red dust and blood.
I didn't miss the cake. I didn't wish for presents. I simply noted the date, cataloged my age, and swung my legs out of bed. The assimilation was complete.
I dressed quickly, pulling on the black bodysuit and latching the bronze-gold plating of the Garl Elite armor. It was heavy, reassuring.
I found Ruca in the private courtyard. It was a secluded space, walled off by high stone barriers to block the wind. She was stretching, but her movements were jerky. Her eyes kept darting toward the upper windows of the estate, checking for her father.
"Stop looking," I said, stepping onto the grass. "If he's watching, looking guilty makes it worse."
Ruca flinched, then scowled at me. "Easy for you to say. You're the shiny new toy. I'm the daughter who helped you lie to the King."
"We need to train," I stated, ignoring her anxiety.
She hesitated, her tail curling tight against her waist. "Here? In the open? My father checks the logs, Cress. If he sees us sparring, he will know about us."
"If we sit around eating grapes and polishing our armor, that's when he'll get suspicious. Soldiers fight. So fight me."
She stared at me for a second, then let out a sharp breath. The logic held.
"Fine," she snapped. "But don't cry when I bruise that fancy new armor."
She lunged.
Months ago, this would have been a desperate struggle for survival. Ruca had been my ceiling, a force of nature I could barely deflect.
Not anymore.
She threw a high kick aimed at my temple. I raised my forearm and caught it.
WHAM.
The impact shook the air, but my arm didn't buckle. I stood rooted.
Ruca's eyes widened. She tried to retract her leg, but I stepped in, driving a palm strike toward her chest. She barely managed to cross her arms in time. The force of the blow sent her skidding backward across the grass, carving deep furrows in the pristine lawn.
"You're slow," I noted calmly.
"Shut up," she hissed, launching herself back into the fray.
The dynamic had shifted violently. Her power level had grown to a respectable 3,200, a testament to our secret sessions. But I was sitting at 3,800. The gap wasn't massive, but it was absolute. The student had surpassed the master.
We traded blows for an hour. Every strike I threw forced her to adapt, to move faster, to think sharper.
By the time we finished, she was gasping for air, sweat dripping from her nose. I was barely winded.
"You're a monster," Ruca wheezed, sitting on the grass. "A month ago, I was carrying you."
"Things change," I said, tossing her a towel. "Get stronger, Ruca. Or you'll get left behind."
It was harsh, but it was the only language we spoke now.
--
Leaving the Royal Sector felt like stepping out of a sanitized airlock directly into a smelter.
I landed near my old housing block. My boots crunched on the metal grate.
The locals stared. Laborers hauling scrap, low-class warriors nursing injuries, they all stopped to look. It wasn't just the Garl crest on my chest; it was the pristine condition of the armor. In the Iron District, everything was dented, scratched, or stained. I looked like a diamond dropped in a pile of coal.
I ignored their gazes and punched the code for my old unit.
The door hissed open.
The apartment was exactly as I remembered: cramped, grey, and smelling of stale nutrient paste.
Sela was sitting at the table, disassembling a blaster rifle. She didn't look up immediately.
"Karr is deployed," she said, her voice flat. "Sector 4. Cleaning up a resistance cell."
"I figured," I said, stepping inside. The room felt smaller than before. Or maybe I just took up more space now.
Sela finally looked up. Her sharp eyes scanned the black and gold armor, lingering on the crest. There was no motherly warmth in her gaze, no smile. But the disdain was gone. In its place was a cold, professional appraisal.
"So," she said, snapping the barrel of the rifle back into place. "The rumors were true. You climbed out."
"I was promoted," I corrected. "Special assignment."
"An Elite unit," she observed, standing up and wiping oil from her hands. "Under Garl. That's a high placement for a runt born with a power level of two."
She walked around me, inspecting the armor like a quartermaster checking inventory. She tapped the chest plate. Solid.
"You proved to be a high-yield asset," she decided. "We invested resources in keeping you alive, and you generated a return. Good."
That was it. That was the extent of her pride. I wasn't her son; I was a stock that had performed well.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Sela gestured to the back room. "Packing."
I walked to the small alcove.
Lett was there.
My brother was one year old. He wasn't crawling. He was floating two feet off the ground. He was currently trying to rip the leg off the metal bedframe.
I tapped my Scouter.
120.
I stared at the number. Goku was born a 2. I was a 2. At one year old, without training, without technique, Lett was already stronger than most human martial arts masters. He was a natural-born destroyer.
"He leaves tomorrow," Sela said from the doorway. "The Mid-Class collection crew is coming. They scanned his birth records. He's being fast-tracked to a forward operating base."
I looked at the infant. He had the same spiky hair, the same tail thrashing behind him. He looked at me, his black eyes filled with aggressive curiosity. He didn't know who I was. To him, I was just a stranger with a high power level.
"He's going off-world?" I asked.
"He's strong enough," Sela shrugged. "Better to put him in a pod than keep him in a cage. He broke three ribs on a neighbor's kid yesterday."
I looked at Lett one last time.
There was nothing I could do for him. He was a Saiyan. His path was set.
"Good luck," I said quietly.
I turned and walked out of the room. I didn't say goodbye to Sela. There was no need.
The walk back to the spaceport was quiet. The second sun was dipping below the smog line, painting the Iron District in bruised purples and bloody oranges.
I kept my head forward, my cape stirring in the toxic wind. I wanted to get back to the estate. I wanted to wash the smell of this place off my skin.
"Hey! Look at this!"
The voice came from an alleyway to my right.
I stopped.
A group of teenagers, maybe four of them, were lounging on a stack of shipping crates. They wore standard Mid-Class armor, scuffed and ill-fitting. They were drinking cheap ale, laughing loud enough to echo off the metal walls.
One of them hopped down. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick scar running down his chin.
Taro.
The bully from the supply depot. The boy who had slapped me when I was four years old. He was twelve now, fully grown by Saiyan standards, but he was still here. Still loitering in the slums. Still drinking cheap booze.
He stepped into my path, a sneer plastered on his face.
"Fancy armor for a tourist," Taro jeered. "You get lost on your way to the palace, pretty boy?"
I looked at him.
I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel fear. I felt... bored.
"Move," I said.
Taro blinked. The voice triggered something. He squinted, leaning in closer. His eyes widened as recognition dawned.
"Wait..." Taro muttered. "I know that face. You're the runt, Two. The box-carrier from the depot."
His friends hopped down, circling us. They smelled like weakness.
Taro laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "It is you! I heard rumors you were polishing boots for the Elites now. Is that where you got the armor? Did you steal it from your master's laundry?"
He stepped closer, blocking my path completely. He tapped my chest plate with a dirty finger.
"Taking off the mechanic jumpsuit doesn't change what you are, Cress. You're a Low Class. You're a power level of two. You think wearing gold paint makes you one of us?"
I sighed.
It was pathetic. He was stuck in a loop, reliving his glory days of bullying toddlers because he had stagnated. He hadn't grown. He was just trash rotting in the same heap he was born in. Stagnant water.
"I'm not one of you," I said calmly.
Taro's face twisted in rage. "Watch your mouth, runt!"
He shoved me.
Or he tried to.
He put his hand on my chest and pushed. I didn't budge. It was like he was trying to push a mountain.
Taro frowned, confused. He pulled his arm back to shove again, harder this time.
I moved.
I didn't use a technique. I didn't use a Ki blast. I didn't even flare my aura.
I simply reached out and caught his hand.
My grip closed around his palm.
"What—" Taro started.
I squeezed.
The sound of metacarpals grinding together was sickeningly loud in the quiet street. Taro's eyes bulged. He tried to pull away, but he was anchored.
"You haven't changed, Taro," I said softly.
I twisted my wrist.
CRACK.
The sound of his shoulder socket snapping echoed off the metal walls.
"AAAAHH!" Taro screamed, dropping to his knees. The pain was absolute. His arm hung at a grotesque angle.
His friends froze. They looked at their leader, the strongest among them, reduced to a whimpering mess in a second. They looked at me, saw the Garl crest, saw the cold look in my eyes.
They didn't attack. They backed away.
I looked down at Taro. He was clutching his ruined arm, tears streaming down his face, looking up at me with pure terror.
I remembered being four years old. I remembered the stinging slap. I remembered the humiliation of being powerless.
That boy was dead.
I released his hand. He slumped into the dirt, sobbing.
"You're in my way," I said. "Trash."
I stepped over him.
I didn't look back. I didn't savor the victory. It wasn't a victory. It was just taking out the garbage.
--
I stood on the edge of the Royal Sector, the wind whipping my cape around my legs.
Behind me, the Iron District was a dark, smog-choked pit. Ahead of me, the Palace stood gleaming and white, reaching for the stars.
I had climbed out of the mud and placed myself in the halls of power. I clenched my fist, feeling the hum of my own power coursing through my veins.
3,800.
It wasn't enough. It was a joke.
SIX YEARS LATER...
--
Since this is the end of the first arc, I kept the chapter brief. I'll update tomorrow too but if I can't find the direction I want to go you will have to wait till I'm ready. It may take a few hours or a few days.
If you have any ideas or things you want to see happening or things you don't want to see, it's time to say it.