The first thing I realized was that I couldn't breathe.
Not couldn't breathe—more like my lungs were doing it for me without asking. Air was being pushed in and pulled out in a slow, mechanical rhythm that didn't match my thoughts at all.
The second thing I realized was that my body felt… wrong.
Too light. Too small. Too weak.
I tried to move my arms.
They twitched.
That was it.
Panic bloomed in my chest as I forced my eyes open.
Green.
Everything was green.
Thick, translucent liquid surrounded me on all sides, faintly glowing as bubbles drifted upward past my face. The glass curved around my vision, warping the world beyond into distorted shapes and colors. Tubes ran across my chest and limbs, thin wires pressed against my skin, each one tugging slightly whenever I shifted.
…What the hell am I in?
I tried to gasp, only to realize something was strapped over my mouth and nose. An oxygen mask. Every breath hissed quietly as it fed me air, the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise sterile silence.
Beep… beep… beep…
The noise came from somewhere behind me. A machine. Monitoring something.
Monitoring me.
The thought made my stomach churn.
I tried to sit up.
Nothing happened.
My muscles didn't respond the way I expected them to. No strength. No coordination. It was like my brain was sending commands that my body simply… ignored.
That was when it hit me.
I'm small.
Not "weakened." Not "injured."
Small.
A cold, creeping dread slid down my spine as I shifted my gaze downward. The glass curved too sharply to see much, but what I could see—
Tiny hands.
Tiny fingers.
Short. Soft. Clumsy.
"…No," I thought weakly.
Footsteps echoed nearby.
Heavy ones.
Voices followed, muffled through the pod.
I strained to listen.
"Bardock," a woman's voice said. Soft. Calm. Almost gentle. "His power level is only ten."
Ten.
The number landed like a punch.
"He's going to struggle later on, won't he?"
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then a familiar voice—gruff, rough around the edges, carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier just hearing it.
"He's my son. Power level doesn't matter."
My blood ran cold.
…Bardock?
No. No, no, no.
That name didn't belong here. That name wasn't supposed to be real. My thoughts spiraled as memories slammed together in my head—spiky black hair, red headband, green armor, Planet Vegeta, Frieza.
Saiyans.
Pods.
Scouters.
The green liquid.
"Oh," I thought numbly. "Oh, this is bad."
The footsteps moved away. The voices faded.
I was alone again, suspended in glowing fluid, staring at my own tiny reflection in the curved glass.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
The pod hissed.
Pressure shifted around me as the liquid began to drain, the green glow dimming as it flowed away beneath me. Cool air rushed in, prickling against my skin. The oxygen mask lifted, leaving my mouth exposed.
I tried to take a breath on my own.
It worked.
Barely.
The glass split apart with a mechanical whine, opening like a shell. Hands reached in—large, rough, warm—and lifted me out.
The sudden change in gravity made my head loll uselessly to the side.
I hate this body.
I was cradled against something solid. A broad chest. Muscles like coiled steel beneath unfamiliar fabric. I couldn't lift my head enough to see his face clearly, but I didn't need to.
I could feel him.
Bardock.
The weight of his presence was overwhelming. Even holding back, even relaxed, there was something dangerous about him. Like standing too close to a loaded weapon.
"He's awake," the woman said, smiling. "Quiet, too."
Because I'm internally screaming.
Bardock grunted. "He's small."
Wow. Thanks. Incredible insight.
I tried to scowl.
It probably looked like a mildly annoyed potato.
As Bardock shifted his grip, I caught a glimpse of the room around us—metal walls, harsh lighting, other pods lining the chamber. Some empty. Some occupied. All identical.
This wasn't a hospital.
This was an assembly line.
And I was just another product.
The realization settled in slowly, heavily.
No system voice chimed in.
No gacha menu appeared.
No glowing stat window popped up to tell me everything was fine.
There was just me.
A full-grown mind.
Trapped in the body of a Saiyan infant.
On Planet Vegeta.
With a starting power level of ten.
"…This," I thought as exhaustion pulled at my consciousness, "is deeply unfair."
My eyelids drooped.
As darkness crept back in, one final thought surfaced—clear and terrifying.
If I don't get stronger… I'm dead.
And this time?
There wouldn't be a reset.
---
The first thing I learned was that Planet Vegeta hated me.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Gravity pressed down on everything like a constant, invisible hand. It wasn't crushing—Saiyan bodies were built for it—but it was relentless. Every movement took effort. Every step demanded intent. Even standing still felt like my muscles were quietly being asked, Are you sure?
As a baby, I'd cried.
As a toddler, I'd fallen.
As a five-year-old, I'd fall a little less.
Planet Vegeta didn't care how aware I was. It didn't care that my mind remembered a world where gravity was gentle, where moving your body didn't feel like you were wading through resistance.
Here, even breathing felt heavier.
Bardock used to say it was good for me.
"It builds strength," he'd grunt, arms crossed as he watched me struggle through basic exercises. "You'll get used to it."
I had.
That didn't mean I liked it.
Our home sat near the outskirts of a Saiyan settlement, close enough to civilization to hear the occasional roar of engines or shouting soldiers, but far enough away that nights were quiet. The ground was dark and rocky, stained red beneath the ever-present haze of the sky. The air smelled faintly of metal and dust, especially when the wind picked up.
Gine kept the house warm.
Not physically—Planet Vegeta didn't do warm—but emotionally. She moved softly through the rooms, her voice gentle in a world that prized shouting. She cooked when she could, even if Saiyan meals were more about calories than comfort. She asked questions Bardock never did. She watched me with a worried sort of attentiveness that told me she knew something was different about me, even if she didn't understand what.
Bardock came and went.
Sometimes he'd be gone for days. Sometimes weeks. When he returned, he smelled like blood, ozone, and space. He'd drop his armor by the door, scars fresh and eyes tired, and look at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't have the patience for.
My power level didn't help.
Five years old, and I was still below average.
Not weak.
But not impressive.
And on Planet Vegeta, that mattered.
---
Training started early.
Pain started earlier.
Saiyan children were expected to fight before they could properly read. By three, I'd been tossed into sparring rings with kids who liked the gravity, who moved like their bodies and the planet were in agreement.
Mine weren't.
Every punch felt too deliberate. Every kick required conscious thought. Where they moved on instinct, I hesitated—calculating angles, conserving energy, trying to apply logic to a body that wanted raw aggression.
It didn't work.
I got hit. A lot.
Gravity dragged my limbs down as I tried to dodge. My reactions were slower, not because my brain wasn't fast enough, but because my body lagged behind it. The disconnect was infuriating.
Saiyan kids learned by doing.
I learned by thinking.
That alone put me at a disadvantage.
Ki was worse however.
Everyone talked about energy like it was obvious. Like it was breathing. Like it was something you just did.
"Feel it," Bardock grunted.
"I am feeling it," I'd think angrily. "I feel everything. That's the problem."
My human mind wanted logic. Steps. Rules. Something to understand. Ki didn't care about understanding. It responded to instinct, emotion, survival.
When I tried to manipulate it consciously, it resisted me like water slipping through my fingers.
I could feel it inside me—hot, restless, alive—but directing it was another matter entirely. When I pushed too hard, it fizzled out. When I focused too carefully, it stagnated. Saiyans exploded outward. I hesitated inward.
The result?
Blasts that exploded in my face. Sloppy control. Exhaustion that came faster than it should've.
Bardock noticed.
He didn't comment much, but his eyes lingered longer when he watched me train. Sometimes his jaw tightened. Sometimes he'd bark harsher instructions than necessary.
Other times, he said nothing at all.
That was somehow felt worse.
Still, five years did change me.
My muscles grew denser. My bones hardened. Gravity stopped feeling unbearable and settled into something more like a constant weight I carried everywhere. I learned how to fall without breaking things. How to take hits without panicking. How to get back up even when my instincts screamed to stay down.
I adapted.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But I adapted.
Gine encouraged me when Bardock didn't. She smiled when I succeeded, however small the victory. She noticed things Bardock overlooked—how long I trained, how hard I pushed, how often I came home bruised but silent.
Bardock… trained me harder.
Not cruelly. Just realistically.
Planet Vegeta wasn't gentle and I hoped he was just preparing me for the worst. It always seemed like he was looking off into the distance at times.
---
On Planet Vegeta, if you were strong, you fought.
If you weren't, you worked.
There was no shame in labor—Saiyans respected effort—but there was hierarchy. And hierarchy was enforced with fists, words, and scouters that didn't care how hard you tried.
At five years old, I was old enough to be useful.
Not important. Not impressive.
Useful.
That was how Bardock put it, anyway.
"You're not ready for combat deployment," he said one morning, tightening the straps on his armor. "But sitting around won't make you stronger either."
Translation: You're behind. Do something about it.
So I ended up with a job where the facility sat near one of the outer supply hubs, a low, ugly structure built from dark metal and reinforced stone. Ships landed there daily—scouts, transports, refuelers—coming and going in roaring waves that shook the ground. The air smelled like fuel, dust, and overheated machinery.
My job was simple.
Carry crates. Sort supplies. Clean equipment.
Heavy equipment.
The kind that made my arms ache and my legs tremble under the planet's gravity.
Most of the workers were older kids or low-ranking adults. Saiyans who hadn't made the cut for elite squads, or who were recovering from injuries that might never fully heal.
They barely looked at me when I arrived.
That changed once someone checked my scouter.
"Six years old?" one of them scoffed. "What's your power level?"
I hesitated.
That alone was a mistake.
"…Low," I said.
Another scouter beeped.
The man barked out a laugh. "That's it?"
A few heads turned while a few eyes lingered.
And just like that, I understood something very important.
This wasn't a workplace but it was a pecking order.
The bullying didn't start immediately.
At first, it was just comments.
"Careful, runt, that crate might crush you."
"You lifting with your legs or just hoping gravity takes pity on you?"
"Hey, Bardock's kid, right? Thought you'd be… bigger."
Laughter followed those remarks, rough and sharp, bouncing off the metal walls.
I ignored it.
I had to.
Human instinct told me to argue. To snap back. To explain myself.
Saiyan instinct—what little I had—told me something else.
Rage.
I shook my head at that and focused on my work.
I hauled crates until my shoulders burned and my hands went numb. I cleaned scorched armor plates until my fingers cramped. I wiped blood off equipment without asking whose it belonged to.
Gravity dragged at me constantly, turning every task into resistance training I hadn't asked for.
By the end of the shift, I was exhausted and barely managed to drag myself home.