A prince is born to be superior—until one "guard" shows him what real mastery looks like.
The palace banquet hall blazed with light.
Noise rolled in thick waves—Saiyans shouting, laughing, clanking cups, the whole room shaking with that brutal, feral energy unique to their kind. The air was heavy with the smell of roasted meat from some rare off-world creature, harsh liquor, and the sharp edge of bloodline arrogance.
This was a feast celebrating the birth—no, the arrival—of Prince Vegeta.
Mid- and high-ranking Saiyan warriors drank and bellowed as if the universe belonged to them, yet their eyes kept drifting toward the raised seat at the top.
There, on a specially made high chair, sat Prince Vegeta.
Only four years old, and already radiating a pressure that didn't match his size.
He wore a tailored child-sized battle suit, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the crowd with a disdain too practiced for any child. On his face was arrogance carved in stone—and a thin thread of impatience, as if the entire banquet was wasting his time.
Nearby, King Vegeta beamed, flushed with pride and drink, loudly introducing his "hope" to his closest loyalists like a man showing off a masterpiece he'd crafted with his own hands.
Nappa and Raditz—future guards—stood to the side, tense and stiff, trying not to breathe wrong.
And then there was Vitelli.
While the room celebrated like it had conquered a galaxy, Vitelli squatted in a corner with a plate in his hands, eating like a real four-year-old—if you ignored the build that looked like it belonged to a young monster.
He had no interest in this kind of place.
Too much performance. Too much flattery. Too much fake loyalty for people who would abandon each other the moment the power balance shifted.
So he did the only useful thing the palace offered:
He ate.
The palace chefs had done their best. The taste was still… difficult.
But the energy in the food was real.
He was still in a key growth phase. If the kingdom wanted to throw a banquet, then he'd take the fuel and thank them in silence.
"Hmph."
Prince Vegeta's eyes narrowed.
Vitelli's indifferent posture—especially the way he'd only given the prince a brief nod before going back to eating—felt like an insult carved into Vegeta's name.
Vegeta was a prodigy prince. Born with a battle power above 1,000. A genius by Saiyan standards.
And this "guard" dared to treat him like background noise?
Vegeta started to rise—already sharpening the trouble he intended to cause.
But at that exact moment, King Vegeta lifted his voice and announced the official start of the banquet, throwing the room into even louder chaos.
Nappa and Raditz immediately swarmed the prince, babbling compliments and exaggerated admiration, desperate to win favor.
In their small minds, earning the prince's trust meant a shortcut to the top.
Vegeta listened with icy patience.
But his eyes never left the corner.
"Raditz."
Vegeta's voice was small, but it carried command. Cold enough that the nearby noise faded without anyone realizing why.
He pointed subtly toward Vitelli.
"That one. What's his name?"
Raditz jolted upright and bowed quickly.
"Your Highness! His name is Vitelli. I've heard… his parents were both elite warriors. They died on a mission. He was born with a battle power of five hundred, a true high-class—"
Raditz hesitated, then added with faint disdain,
"—but he doesn't seem ambitious. He stays locked in his home training. He almost never goes out to challenge other warriors."
"Training?"
Vegeta's lips curled with contempt, a cruel smile that didn't belong on a child.
"Born at five hundred, and they call him high-class?"
He scoffed.
"A worm with that kind of power dares to act arrogant? An elite warrior who needs to train like a low-class? And he thinks he can look down on me—on Lord Vegeta?"
He stood.
The hall seemed to tighten around him.
"Raditz. Tell him—after the banquet, he reports to the palace training grounds. I'll show him what real power is."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
Raditz moved fast, heading toward the corner.
Nappa, confused, leaned in and muttered with his deep, blunt voice,
"Prince Vegeta, why bother? If you don't like him, I can just go crush him right now."
He cracked his knuckles, eager.
"IDIOT!"
Vegeta snapped his head around and roared.
The sound slammed through the hall like a cannon shot. Conversations died. Dozens of eyes snapped toward him.
Vegeta's small face was red with anger.
He stabbed a finger at Nappa.
"Use your brain! Use that scouter on your face that you treat like decoration—check his battle power!"
Nappa froze, then instinctively adjusted his scouter and aimed it at Vitelli.
Beep… beep… beep…
The reading jumped.
Then stabilized.
"Two… two thousand eight hundred?!"
Nappa shouted without thinking.
Sweat broke out across his forehead instantly.
He stared at Vitelli's back, disbelief twisting his features.
"I'm over twenty and I'm barely at three thousand… he's four years old and he's already almost three thousand?!"
A wave of fear hit him.
If he'd actually charged like he said he would, who would've died?
The answer was obvious.
He looked back at Vegeta with sudden gratitude and awe—thank the stars the prince was smarter than him.
Vegeta snorted, unmoved by Nappa's shock.
He sat again, face returning to cold calm. But deep in his eyes, something had lit.
Battle intent.
"Tell him," Vegeta said quietly, "I'll be waiting."
He rose and left the banquet hall without another glance, walking out of the noise as if the celebration no longer deserved his presence.
Nappa and Raditz exchanged looks and hurried after him, unease creeping into their throats.
Still—neither of them doubted the outcome.
Vitelli had almost three thousand, sure.
But the prince had been fighting and challenging since birth.
A "non-combatant" with three thousand wouldn't last a minute.
When Vitelli finally finished eating, he walked into the palace's private training grounds at an unhurried pace.
It was a wide, empty space of reinforced alloy and polished stone.
Vegeta was already there.
Small body. Back to the entrance.
Arms crossed.
A stance that screamed superiority.
Nappa and Raditz stood in the corner, respectful and tense, barely daring to breathe.
"You came, Vitelli."
Vegeta turned.
His eyes were cruelly calm as they pinned Vitelli in place.
"I heard you were born at five hundred. And now… three thousand. Not bad."
Then his lips split into a mocking grin.
"HAHAHAHA!"
"But you've never fought anyone, have you? How much of that power can you actually use? In front of me, your strength isn't even enough to warm me up!"
Vitelli looked at him quietly.
No anger. No arrogance. Barely any expression at all.
He gave a slight nod.
"You flatter me, Your Highness. May I ask why you summoned me?"
"Heh."
Vegeta's smile turned dangerous.
"Simple. I want to see what you're worth. Use everything you have and attack me. Show me what your ridiculous 'training' has actually accomplished!"
The moment the words left his mouth—
Vegeta vanished.
The air cracked with a sharp sonic boom.
He chose to attack first—fast, brutal, intending to destroy the guard's "boring self-respect" in one decisive strike.
A fist wrapped in crushing force tore through the air, howling straight for Vitelli's face.
Vegeta's eyes glittered with savage satisfaction.
He could already picture it—broken nose, blood spraying, Vitelli folding and begging.
He kept laughing, watching for panic.
Then—
His laughter froze.
Vitelli shifted.
Not back. Not away.
Just… slightly.
A subtle turn of the torso, a half-step—so precise it looked casual.
Vegeta's fist missed by a hair. The wind from the punch brushed Vitelli's hair and sent a few black strands fluttering.
"What—?!"
Vegeta's mind jolted.
But he didn't stop.
His second fist swung in, faster, harsher, a sideways smash meant to crush bone.
Vitelli moved again.
A smooth footwork adjustment. A minimal shift.
The strike passed empty.
Vegeta's face twisted.
"You're just going to dodge? You bastard!"
His fury detonated.
His speed jumped.
Punches and kicks became a storm of afterimages, a relentless barrage capable of shattering ground and tearing metal—everything poured toward Vitelli like a slaughter.
But Vitelli was like a leaf in a violent sea.
It looked dangerous.
It looked impossible.
Yet every time—every single time—he slipped aside at the last moment, dodging with a margin so thin it felt like mockery.
There was no wasted motion.
No panic.
Only precision—efficient, rhythmic, frighteningly controlled.
Corner-side, Nappa and Raditz stared with their mouths half open.
This wasn't what they imagined.
Where was the prince's crushing victory?
Why did it look like Vegeta was the one being toyed with?
Wasn't Vitelli supposed to never fight?
Then—
In the instant Vegeta's breath grew uneven—
In the instant his rhythm fractured and a small opening appeared—
Vitelli moved.
For the first time, he stepped forward.
His speed snapped into a different tier.
Vegeta's eyes only caught a blur.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
A string of heavy impacts fired off like popping beans, so fast the sounds nearly merged.
Vegeta's vision flashed white.
Pain exploded across his face, head, body—sharp, dense, humiliating.
Vitelli's fists were beyond his reaction limit.
Each strike landed precisely where defense was weakest, the force not massive, but penetrating, viciously efficient.
It wasn't a brawl.
It was dismantling.
"Ugh—!"
Vegeta staggered backward, helpless.
When he finally regained his footing, his head rang like a broken bell. Heat flared across his face.
He lifted a hand to his forehead—
And felt the swelling.
Several large bumps were already rising, red and angry, as if mocking him in real time.
Vitelli grinned—copying Vegeta's earlier expression exactly.
He tilted his head slightly, amused.
"Huh?" Vitelli said, voice light. "Why is your head so… pointy?"
"K-KILL YOU—!"
Vegeta's composure shattered.
His childish voice warped under rage and humiliation, cracking like metal under stress.
His eyes burned red.
He stared at Vitelli—at the slight smile, at the calm breathing, at the fact that Vitelli's ki hadn't even changed much.
"Why?!" Vegeta hissed, shaking. "Why are you this strong?!"
He couldn't process it.
He was the rare genius.
The prince.
Born superior.
And yet he couldn't hit this guard.
He couldn't even touch him.
That ghostlike movement, that terrifyingly precise timing—none of it made sense at three thousand battle power.
"Heh."
Vitelli casually shook out his wrist, as if he'd just done a warm-up set.
His smile remained faint.
"So strong," he said evenly, tone almost polite. "Prince Vegeta… that attack just now nearly injured me."
To Vegeta, it landed like the cruelest insult imaginable.
"VITELLI!"
Raditz finally snapped out of his shock and rushed forward, grabbing the wobbling Vegeta. He glared at Vitelli, forcing courage into his voice.
"You—how dare you disrespect His Highness! Do you know what you're doing?!"
Vitelli's smile didn't change.
But his eyes cooled.
"Disrespect?" he said quietly. "Raditz, don't accuse me."
His gaze slid to Vegeta—swollen forehead, trembling with rage.
Vitelli's voice carried a hint of amusement.
"I only followed Prince Vegeta's order and fought with my full strength."
He tilted his head slightly.
"After all, His Highness is a legendary genius. How could I possibly dare to hold back?"
Vegeta shoved Raditz away, forcing himself upright through dizziness and shame.
He stared at Vitelli like he wanted to tear him apart with his teeth.
"Strong? You call this strong?!"
He pointed at the swelling on his head, voice shaking violently.
"Tell me! What are you?! Your battle power is only three thousand! You've never fought anyone! How did you do this?!"
Vitelli looked at him.
A prince whose pride had been ground into dust.
His face was calm.
Inside, there was no triumph.
Only a flat certainty.
He shook his head once.
"I'm not worth a damn," Vitelli said mildly.
The sentence was light.
But it hit Vegeta like a hammer.
He'd just been beaten into bumps and ringing ears—
And Vitelli called that "not worth a damn."
Vitelli turned and walked toward the exit.
His steps were steady, unhurried, unshaken.
His suppressed ki still felt restrained, yet something about him—something in the way he carried himself—pressed on the air like a warning.
"Call me when there's a mission," he said without looking back, voice clear enough for all three to hear.
"Any other time…"
His tone chilled.
"Don't bother me."
Before the words fully faded—
Vitelli stomped.
Boom!
A deafening sonic boom tore through the training grounds.
His body launched like a cannon shell straight upward, ripping through the reinforced ceiling and leaving a massive human-shaped hole in the alloy roof.
Debris fell in clattering bursts.
Dust and smoke rolled through the empty space.
Then Vitelli was gone—reduced to a streak vanishing into the dim sky.
Silence swallowed the training grounds.
Vegeta stood there, clutching his aching face, staring up at the gaping hole with wide, stunned eyes.
His chest was full of humiliation—
and something else he didn't recognize yet.
Doubt.
And beneath it, deeper still—
hunger.
Nappa and Raditz dropped to one knee instinctively, not daring to speak, faces twisted with shock they didn't understand.
After a long moment, Vegeta's voice broke the silence, hoarse and strained.
"Raditz…"
He turned slowly, eyes reflecting something complicated.
"You said… Vitelli stays home… training?"
"Y-Yes, Your Highness!" Raditz answered immediately, voice trembling.
Vegeta stared into nothing for a moment.
His small fists clenched.
His nails dug into his palms.
The humiliation on his face didn't fade.
It transformed.
It hardened into obsession.
"Go," Vegeta said, voice turning sharp as ice. "Find out."
His eyes narrowed.
"Every method. Every place. Every tool. Every detail of how he trains."
He spoke like he was carving the order into stone.
"Dig it all up. Don't miss a single thing."
His gaze lifted again to the hole in the ceiling, as if he could see through it and chase the shadow of the one who'd humiliated him.
"I want to know," Vegeta whispered, a flame rising behind his eyes, "how he became that kind of monster."
"Yes, Your Highness!" Nappa and Raditz said together, hearts pounding, and bowed hard.
They didn't understand the full meaning of today.
They didn't understand that something had shifted.
But somewhere inside the young prince, the pain of crushed pride was already twisting into a new shape—
a desire so hot it could burn the world.
"Vitelli…"
Vegeta mouthed the name like a vow, eyes blazing.
"Wait. I'll beat you. I'll prove it."
"I'll show you… who the real genius Saiyan is."
Dust continued to fall, soft as ash.
The mess on the ground slowly disappeared beneath the settling haze.
But the wound in Vegeta's heart stayed open—
and the storm ahead, born from this single clash, began to form its first unpredictable waves.
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