A year had passed on Vesper. In the accelerated time of The Cradle, it was a century. Astra's power had grown, his understanding deepened, but his focus remained split between godlike study and mortal governance. First Stone was now a true city, a marvel of geomantic engineering and communal spirit, housing over 300 souls as a few births blessed the colony. The Pioneer's Resolve effect made every endeavor flourish.
But the core of his Mandate remained unfulfilled. The Saiyans.
He stood once more in the Cradle, the temporal dilation a familiar pressure. It was time to take the next, most dangerous step: infiltrating Planet Vegeta not as a hidden ghost, but as a savior, to hand-select the seeds of his new race.
The System chimed, its interface cool and logical beside the Cradle's organic wonder.
[Multiverse Jump Available.]
[Destination: Planet Vegeta. Timeline: 8.5 years pre-destruction.]
[Objective: Initiate Phase 1 of Saiyan Exodus. Recruit a minimum of 200 viable candidates.]
[Warning: High probability of detection by King Vegeta and Frieza Force observers.]
He didn't need the warning. He knew the risks. But he was no longer the infant with a Power Level of 15, or even the Technologist of 2,150. He was a being who had spent subjective centuries mastering cosmic forces. His current Power Level was a formidable 45,000. He was now, by the standards of his people, a force of nature.
He emerged from a carefully calculated jump in the deep void just beyond Planet Vegeta's sensor range. The familiar blood-red world hung in space, a teeming anthill of brutal ambition. He could feel the chaotic swirl of Ki signatures—millions of them, most weak, a few blazing like torches. King Vegeta's aura was a familiar, brooding sun. And there, in the royal palace, a smaller, but incredibly dense and sharp aura—Prince Vegeta, already a prodigy.
He wouldn't land. He wouldn't step foot on the soil. This was a harvest, not a negotiation.
He activated the [Circlet of the Architect], its power syncing with the vast, Saiyan-wide network he had helped create. He bypassed all security, all firewalls, and sent a single, targeted, psychic broadcast. He did not send it to the King. He did not send it to the elites.
He sent it to the low-class warriors. The grunts. The farmers. The technicians. The ones deemed expendable. The ones with just enough power to be useful, but not enough to be proud. The ones who might still remember fear, and thus, understand the value of hope.
The message was a data packet, containing three things:
1. A Vision: A glimpse of Vesper. Of First Stone. Of purple fields under a double moon, of clean air, of children laughing without the constant threat of culling or deployment to a death world.
2. The Truth: A compressed, undeniable data stream. Astronomical observations of Frieza's fleet movements. Power level readings of his elite soldiers. The simple, brutal math of their inevitable annihilation.
3. An Invitation: A set of coordinates to a remote, barren moon in a nearby system. A time, exactly 24 hours from now. And a single, clear directive: [If you wish to live, and to build something that lasts, be there. Tell no one. Come alone, or with only those you trust with your life.]
It was a sledgehammer to their entire worldview. It was treason of the highest order. It was also, for any Saiyan with a shred of self-preservation, an irresistible lure.
He cut the transmission and vanished, jumping to the designated moon to wait.
He didn't have to wait long.
Ships began to arrive within hours. Not warships. Rusty personal transports, battered scout pods, even a few stolen cargo haulers. They came alone, or in pairs, their pilots nervous, their Ki signatures buzzing with a mixture of terror and desperate hope.
Astra stood before them on the desolate lunar surface, his form radiating a calm, immense power that made their own feel like campfires before a star. He said nothing. He simply used Cosmic Energy to open a massive, stable portal directly to a hidden landing zone on Vesper, far from First Stone.
One by one, the ships, filled with silent, awestruck Saiyans, flew through the gateway to their new home.
He screened them as they passed. His [Appraisal] scanned not just their Power Level, but their intent, their loyalty, their potential for growth and integration. He turned away a few—those whose hearts burned only with a desire for dominance, who saw this not as salvation but as a new territory to conquer.
By the end of the 24-hour window, over 280 Saiyans had passed through the gateway. They were mechanics, low-level warriors, farmers, and even a handful of curious scientists. They were the foundation of a new Saiyan culture—one built on community, not conquest.
As he prepared to close the portal, a final, familiar signature approached. A single Saiyan pod, its design marking it as a mid-class warrior.
It was Borg.
The pod landed roughly. The hatch hissed open. Borg stepped out, his armor scuffed, his face a mask of complex emotions. He looked at Astra, no longer a child, but a being of impossible power.
"You," Borg said, his voice rough. "The King... he knows. The transmission was too wide. He's purging anyone he suspects of disloyalty. It's chaos down there."
Astra met his gaze. "And you?"
Borg looked at the shimmering portal, then back at the distant red speck of Planet Vegeta. "I'm a soldier. I follow strength. You showed me a strength I didn't know existed. I'm not following a king anymore." He gestured to the portal. "Is there... a place for an old soldier there?"
Astra gave a single, slow nod. "There is a place for those who wish to build. Go."
As Borg's pod disappeared into the gateway, Astra closed it. The first harvest was complete. He had his Saiyans. He had sown the seeds of salvation deep within the heart of the empire, and reaped those who dared to hope for more. The Scion of Salvation had returned, and he had stolen the future from the past.