The planet did not welcome them.
It rose from the dark like a scar—jagged continents split by ash-colored seas, storms crawling across its surface in slow, grinding spirals. Lightning stitched the clouds together in dull flashes, not bright enough to inspire awe, only warning. The world's gravity well tugged at the transport ship unevenly, its pull rough and impatient, as if the planet itself were testing whatever dared approach.
The pilot swore under his breath.
"Atmosphere's unstable," he muttered, fingers dancing across the controls. "Magnetic interference too. This place doesn't like visitors."
Sarela tightened her grip on Raizen's harness straps.
"Can we land?" she asked.
"We can fall," the pilot replied grimly. "Landing is optimistic."
The second guard glanced back at them. "Hold on."
The ship pierced the upper atmosphere.
Turbulence slammed into them instantly—not violent enough to tear the vessel apart, but relentless. The hull groaned. Warning lights flickered amber, then red, then steadied as systems fought to compensate.
Raizen stirred.
The moment the ship crossed from vacuum into atmosphere, something inside him reacted sharply. The pressure of air, gravity, heat—all of it struck his senses at once, overwhelming in a way stone never had.
The seal tightened hard.
Too hard.
Raizen cried out.
The sound cut through the cockpit, sharp and piercing. The fire within him recoiled, compressed brutally by containment that had not yet learned how to account for planetary gravity.
Sarela felt it immediately—his body heating against her chest, muscles tensing, breath hitching.
"Easy," she whispered urgently, one hand cupping the back of his head. "Easy, you're safe."
The words were not entirely true.
The ship bucked violently.
"Brace!" the pilot shouted.
They hit denser air.
The transport screamed as atmospheric drag tore at its frame. Panels rattled loose. The lights flickered wildly, then cut out completely for half a heartbeat before emergency power kicked in.
Raizen's cry broke into a ragged gasp.
And then—
The seal adjusted.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
The pressure redistributed, spreading along the fracture that had formed days earlier. The fire compressed—not into pain, but into a tighter, heavier core. The heat stabilized.
Raizen's breathing slowed.
Sarela let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"He's… adapting," she whispered.
The second guard glanced back again, eyes wide. "To this?"
The pilot grimaced. "Hold on anyway."
They punched through the cloud layer.
The sky below was a sickly gray-green, thick with ash and moisture. Jagged mountain ranges jutted upward like broken teeth, their peaks lost in swirling storms. Vast plains of blackened rock stretched between them, cracked and uneven, scarred by ancient impacts.
No cities.
No energy signatures.
No signs of life.
The ship's descent steepened.
"Engines won't stabilize!" the pilot barked. "We're going down hard!"
"Pick a clear zone," the guard snapped.
"There is no clear zone!"
The ground rushed up to meet them.
Sarela curled protectively around Raizen as the pilot fought the controls, angling the ship toward a relatively flat stretch of obsidian-colored terrain near a canyon edge.
The impact was brutal.
Metal shrieked. The hull crumpled. The world flipped sideways as the transport skidded across stone, sparks and debris trailing behind it.
Then—silence.
Broken only by the hiss of cooling metal and the distant rumble of thunder.
For several long seconds, no one moved.
Sarela's ears rang. Her body ached. She forced herself to breathe, then immediately checked Raizen.
He was awake.
Not crying.
His eyes were wide, reflecting the dim emergency lights. His chest rose and fell quickly, but steadily.
Alive.
She sagged with relief.
"We're down," the pilot said hoarsely. "Ship's… not flying again."
The second guard unbuckled, already moving. "Then we secure the perimeter."
They disembarked quickly.
The air outside was heavy and acrid, tasting of ash and ozone. Wind howled across the plain, carrying fine black dust that stung exposed skin. Gravity pressed down unevenly, stronger than standard, tugging at muscles and bones.
Sarela staggered slightly as she stepped onto the planet's surface.
Raizen reacted instantly.
The moment his body felt the planet directly—unfiltered by hull and artificial gravity—the fire within him settled.
Not resisted.
Anchored.
The pressure inside him redistributed again, this time syncing with the planet's pull. The seal did not tighten. It relaxed—just a fraction—finding equilibrium against something immense and constant.
Raizen went still.
Too still.
Sarela frowned, studying his face.
"What is it?" she murmured.
Raizen's tiny hand lifted slowly, fingers spreading clumsily.
The air around them shifted.
Not violently.
Subtly.
Dust lifted from the ground in a faint ring, hovering for a heartbeat before settling again.
The guards froze.
The pilot swallowed. "That wasn't the wind."
Sarela felt it too—a sense of weight changing, like the planet itself had acknowledged the child's presence and adjusted in response.
She pulled Raizen closer.
"No," she whispered. "Not now. Please."
The pressure faded.
Raizen's hand fell back to his chest. His breathing evened out.
The guards exchanged looks.
"This place…" one muttered. "It's reacting to him."
Sarela didn't answer.
She was staring at the horizon.
Storm clouds rolled endlessly, but beneath them, the land felt… old. Not ancient in years alone, but in experience. This world had endured violence, impacts, tectonic upheaval—and survived.
It was a world that understood pressure.
Kaedor's choice made sudden, terrible sense.
They established a temporary shelter using the wrecked ship's intact compartments, sealing breaches and reinforcing walls with emergency plating. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't safe.
But it was isolated.
Night fell quickly.
The planet's sun dipped below the horizon with unsettling speed, plunging the world into a dim, storm-lit darkness. Lightning flashed constantly in the clouds above, painting the landscape in stark, colorless relief.
Sarela sat inside the shelter, Raizen sleeping against her chest once more.
Sleep, this time, looked natural.
His breathing was deep. Steady.
The fire inside him burned lower—denser, quieter, like a furnace built into bedrock rather than air.
She stroked his hair gently.
"You like it here," she whispered, realization creeping in. "Don't you?"
Raizen did not answer.
But the seal remained calm.
Outside, one of the guards stood watch, eyes scanning the horizon.
"I don't like this," he muttered. "This world's wrong."
The other guard snorted. "All worlds are wrong. That's why we fight over them."
The first guard shook his head. "No. I mean… it feels like we've stepped into something unfinished."
Above them, far beyond storm and stone, Whis observed the planet's faint reaction.
"Oh my," he said softly.
Beerus frowned. "What now?"
"That world," Whis replied, eyes gleaming with interest. "It's doing something rather rare."
Beerus crossed his arms. "Spit it out."
"It's accepting him," Whis said.
Beerus's eyes narrowed. "Planets don't accept anything."
Whis smiled. "Most don't. But some… remember."
Back on the surface, Raizen slept on.
The storm raged.
And beneath an alien sky, on a world that understood endurance better than mercy, the child's fire found its first true anchor.
The universe shifted its weight once more.
Not in alarm.
In recognition.
Because Raizen had not merely arrived on a new world.
He had fallen into a place that could hold him.