The low-class warrior barracks were a testament to the Saiyan caste system. It was a cavernous, echoing hall carved from the planet's bedrock, filled with rows of bare cots and dented footlockers. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, ozone from poorly maintained equipment, and a constant, simmering aggression. Here, there were no nurturing robots, no safety protocols. This was a place of pure function and brutal hierarchy.
Borg tossed a thin blanket onto a cot in the farthest, darkest corner. "This is yours. Don't cause trouble. Don't speak to anyone unless I tell you to. You eat when I eat. You train when I say you train." His tone made it clear this was not a guardianship; it was a custodial sentence.
Astra's new life was a study in controlled performance. By day, he was Borg's silent shadow. He followed the warrior to training grounds, to mess halls, to ship bays. Borg, under the King's orders, began his "tests." They were crude, violent affairs.
"Punch this meter," Borg would order, shoving Astra towards a force plate. Astra would comply, delivering a blow calibrated by his [Stellar Forge] and [Energy Harmonization] to read a Power Level of 30, then 35, then 40—slow, believable growth for a "mutant" infant.
"Take this hit," Borg would grunt, backhanding him across the room. Astra would use [Mind's Eye] to minimize the impact, tumbling with the force, letting his [Dense-Body Constitution] absorb the blow without showing it. He would then feign injury, only to show a slightly higher power level the next day, a "Zenkai" that fit the Saiyan model, but was carefully controlled.
He was crafting a narrative: a physically resilient infant with a low, but slowly growing, power level. Unremarkable in potential, but uniquely durable. A curious specimen, not a future rival.
The other low-class warriors largely ignored him. He was Borg's freak, the King's pet project. They saw the tests, the casual brutality, and wrote him off. In their eyes, he was already broken, a thing to be pitied or scorned.
But within this prison, Astra found his freedom. The barracks were a treasure trove of discarded technology and unsupervised moments. While Borg slept or was on duty, Astra worked.
His first project was secrecy. Using scrap wiring and a shattered scouter lens, he used [Stellar Forge] to create a simple Dampening Field Generator. It was a crude device, but when hidden under his cot, it created a localized zone of scrambled energy readings, masking the energy signature of his next, most crucial project.
The Gravity Forge was too dangerous to activate fully. But he didn't need to. He used the [Stellar Forge] to analyze its principles at a low power setting. He learned to project a subtle, localized gravity field around his own body—a constant, invisible 10x gravity suit he wore at all times. It was a relentless, draining effort, but it meant his body was always training, always adapting, even while he was sitting still, playing the part of the weak infant.
His power began to climb, steadily, secretly.
[Power Level: 255 -> 290 -> 330]
The real training, however, happened in the gaps. He observed the low-class warriors constantly. He saw their brawls, their training regimens, their techniques. With [Mind's Eye] and [Appraisal], he didn't just see their movements; he saw their flaws. The wide, telegraphed swings, the inefficient Ki usage, the reckless over-extension.
He began to practice the Void Fist in the dead of night, his movements silent and precise in the 10x field. He visualized his barracks-mates as opponents, his [Mind's Eye] highlighting the "voids" in their imagined defenses—the open flank after a wild punch, the unbalanced stance after a kick, the split-second delay in Ki gathering.
He was no longer just accumulating power; he was honing a razor's edge. He was becoming a master of a style designed to dismantle the brute-force approach of his entire race.
One evening, a commotion broke out. A larger warrior, Power Level 850, was bullying a smaller one, demanding his rations. Borg was away on patrol. The bully, named Garr, backhanded the smaller Saiyan, sending him crashing into a row of cots near Astra.
Garr's eyes, blazing with drunken aggression, landed on Astra. "What are you looking at, little freak?" he slurred, stomping over. "Think you're special 'cause the King knows your name?"
He reached down to grab Astra. It was a test, not from the King, but from the brutal ecosystem of the barracks itself.
Time seemed to slow. Astra's [Mind's Eye] activated. He saw the opening. Garr was overconfident, his balance forward, his guard non-existent. He saw the "void."
As Garr's hand descended, Astra didn't flinch or cower. He moved. A minimal, almost imperceptible shift of his body, guided by the principles of Void Fist. He didn't meet force with force; he redirected it. His own small hand came up, not to block, but to guide Garr's wrist, using the warrior's own momentum against him.
It was a whisper of a touch, but it was perfectly timed and placed.
Garr's eyes widened in shock as his own lunge was twisted, sending him stumbling head-first into the solid rock wall beside Astra's cot. There was a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor, unconscious, a trickle of blood matting his hair.
The barracks fell silent. All eyes were on the infant, who had returned to a seated position on his cot, his expression blank, as if nothing had happened.
He hadn't thrown a punch. He hadn't used a Ki blast. He had used a principle. He had created a void where Garr's attack should have been, and Garr had fallen into it.
The smaller warrior Astra had indirectly helped stared, his mouth agape. The others looked at Astra with new eyes. Not with pity, but with a wary, confused respect. The King's pet wasn't just durable. There was something else there. Something they didn't understand.
Borg returned later to find Garr being dragged to the infirmary and a new, unspoken tension in the barracks. He looked at Astra, who met his gaze with the same neutral expression.
"What happened?" Borg demanded.
Astra projected a single, simple thought. "He fell."
Borg stared at him for a long moment, then grunted, a sound that could have been disbelief or acceptance. The narrative was holding, but it was becoming strained. The Ghost of the nursery was gone. In his place was something taking root in the crucible of the low-class, something that was learning to fight back without ever seeming to throw a blow. The path of the shadow was closed, but the path of the paradox was just beginning.