In the calm before the storm, one month of ten-times gravity turns Vitelli into something the Saiyans aren't ready to face.
After the spar in the palace training grounds—the one that left Prince Vegeta's confidence cracked—the atmosphere around Vitelli's residence turned… delicate.
Strangers began appearing in nearby streets, coming and going like shadows. Their eyes carried curiosity, suspicion, and a hunger for answers.
And Raditz—with that unmistakable broom-like mane of hair—became a regular fixture.
Whenever Vitelli sat in quiet meditation in the backyard, or trained until sweat poured like rain, Raditz always found a spot at just the right distance. Sometimes he pretended to pass by. Sometimes he crouched on a rooftop and watched like a thief.
He recorded everything.
Vitelli's movements.
His rhythm.
The tempo of every punch.
Even the sound of his breathing when he pushed to failure.
Vitelli knew.
He simply didn't care.
Prince Vegeta's curiosity—no, the resentment that came from wounded pride—could do whatever it wanted. As long as those tails didn't step into his yard and disrupt his routine, they might as well not exist.
His life remained precise—machine-like.
Morning: sitting in stillness, feeling ki, letting mind and energy align.
Late morning: hammering the body under triple gravity, forging endurance and force.
Afternoon: refinement—compression, release, controlled bursts, repetition until instinct formed.
Night: sleep early, protect recovery, ensure tomorrow's training didn't weaken.
Servants delivered heaps of high-calorie food on schedule. Vitelli held his nose and devoured it, turning every unpleasant bite into raw growth.
A week later, the thing he'd been waiting for arrived.
A group of alien engineers—trembling in standard battle gear like men delivering a bomb—carefully transported a silver-gray metal capsule into Vitelli's backyard.
It was around ten meters across.
The surface was crowded with complex energy conduits and heat vents. At the center sat a thick, circular hatch, heavy enough to feel like a vault door.
"L-Lord Vitelli," the lead engineer stammered, voice quivering, "the gravity room you requested… built to spec… maximum output is ten times Planet Vegeta's gravity."
He held out a manual with both hands, as if presenting a sacred offering.
"All operating instructions are inside. P-Please… please use it carefully."
Vitelli accepted it.
His fingers slid across the capsule's cold metal, and the excitement in his chest nearly broke free.
Finally.
No more junk that died every time he pushed hard.
Ten-times gravity.
A real ladder upward.
"You did well," he said, keeping his face calm.
The engineers looked like they'd been pardoned from execution. They bowed and fled.
When the heavy hatch sealed behind him with a dull hydraulic lock, Vitelli stood in the center of the gravity chamber and inhaled slowly.
He moved his fingers across the control panel.
A few quick inputs.
Hnnnng—
A deep, stable hum answered him—stronger and smoother than that earlier prototype ever was.
Then pressure dropped onto him like the sky collapsing.
An invisible mountain slammed onto his shoulders.
"—Hrk!"
A muffled grunt tore from Vitelli's throat.
His knees bent slightly. His bones groaned. His muscles tensed so hard it felt like they might snap.
Ten-times gravity.
Ten times the planet's normal pull.
It was brutal.
It was magnificent.
Vitelli's eyes burned with raw, fanatic longing.
"Ten times…" he muttered through clenched teeth. "Come on."
Veins rose along his forehead. Ki ignited inside him like detonated fuel, surging to support his body against the crushing weight.
He forced himself upright.
Then, inch by inch, he raised an arm.
Stronger.
Stronger.
That thought wasn't a desire anymore.
It was a brand burned into his soul.
And it carried him into the new hell.
Every punch was like pushing a ten-thousand-ton ship.
Every kick was like fighting through molten steel.
Every breath crushed his lungs with pressure that didn't feel natural.
Sweat didn't drip—it poured.
A river of heat off his body turned it into mist almost as soon as it escaped.
Days passed in the roar of the gravity room, the screaming of flesh, and the steady upward climb of power.
Morning no longer belonged to the backyard.
Vitelli sat cross-legged in the center of the chamber under ten-times gravity, trying to empty his mind while the world tried to flatten him.
He recalled a vague teaching from his stolen memories—words from Kami to Goku.
Make your heart as clear as the sky.
Make your movement as swift as lightning.
Keeping the mind clean was hard enough.
Keeping it clean while ten-times gravity tried to crush every thought into noise was something else entirely.
Distractions fell like boulders.
He stripped them away.
Breath.
Ki.
Flow.
Again.
Again.
Again.
From after meditation until evening, he trained inside the chamber.
Not just strength.
Not just endurance.
He chased coordination under pressure.
He wanted motion that stayed fast—lightning-fast—even when gravity tried to glue him to the floor. That demanded perfect efficiency: muscles, bones, nerves, ki, all moving as one.
At night, after brief rest, he went deeper.
He switched between the chamber and normal gravity, testing how the change affected ki behavior. In normal conditions he compressed his aura lower and steadier. Under gravity he forced more complex internal circulation and sharper bursts.
The results were terrifying.
The scouter numbers climbed like they'd been shot from a cannon.
Fifteen thousand—and it didn't stop.
One month.
Under ten-times gravity, his base power crossed fifty thousand.
The first time he measured it, the scouter didn't even finish reading.
It sparked and died in an instant—blowing out like a cheap fuse.
Vitelli stared at the smoking device in silence, then had to dig up an older model just to keep checking himself.
Even for him, the speed felt dangerous.
Not just because it was fast—
Because something inside him was changing.
Punching. Dodging. Guarding.
The movements were becoming instinctive.
He no longer needed to calculate them in his head like he had in the beginning. His body began to "know" where to be before thought could catch up.
As if the constant pressure and extreme polishing had awakened a kind of combat intuition—an instinctive grasp of distance, timing, force, and self-condition.
That mattered more than the number.
It meant he wasn't just growing stronger.
He was becoming sharper.
Becoming efficient.
Becoming… real.
Maybe this was the outline of something higher.
Maybe this was the first shadow of that "divine realm" he'd heard whispers of in memories that weren't fully his.
Elsewhere—
"In the morning he sits on the ground like an idiot, staring into space? And he doesn't even start 'real' training until near noon?"
Deep within the palace, Prince Vegeta listened to Raditz's detailed report with a sneer.
"Lazy," Vegeta spat, dismissive.
Yet his eyes burned.
A flame that didn't match his words.
"If it were me, I'd start training before the sun rises. Twice the time. No—three times."
He clenched his fists, small knuckles white.
"Next time. Next time I see that bastard, I'll break the smug look off his face. I'll make him kneel and beg."
His mouth curled into a cold, confident arc—as if he could already see Vitelli broken beneath him.
Raditz lowered his head, barely daring to breathe.
He could feel it.
The prince's obsession had turned nearly mad.
After being "educated" by Vitelli, the noble Saiyan prince had started training like a low-class warrior.
Not just training—
Self-torture.
He doubled the intensity, then doubled it again. He even picked several high-class fighters with battle powers near five thousand and used them as sparring bags.
The result was predictable.
Those fighters were still lying in medical tanks.
"B-But… Your Highness," Raditz ventured carefully, voice tiny, "King Vegeta has already arranged our first mission. In one month, we depart for Planet Sofu… a mid-level world. The gravity room training—should we—"
"Shut up."
Vegeta turned like a blade.
His stare cut into Raditz so hard it felt physical.
"Are you questioning me? Or are you questioning my father's plan?"
Raditz dropped to his knees with a thud, cold sweat soaking his back.
"I-I wouldn't dare! Your Highness, forgive me! It's just… the mission is soon…"
"Hmph. A mission on a mid-level planet," Vegeta said with absolute contempt. "How much time will that take?"
He lifted his chin, voice thick with certainty.
"Go. Push them. Get the gravity room built. One month is enough."
His eyes narrowed, burning.
"If Vitelli can grow that fast with his lazy method, then I—who train harder—will surpass him."
He flicked a hand like Raditz was air.
"Now get out. Notify me when it's time to depart. Don't interrupt my training."
"Yes—yes, Your Highness!"
Raditz scrambled away, practically crawling, relief and dread mixing in his stomach.
And his resentment toward Vitelli deepened.
Because of that monster, the prince had become a living powder keg.
A month passed.
Vitelli trained in forgetful immersion.
Vegeta trained in furious self-destruction.
Raditz watched and reported with trembling caution.
Vitelli's residence became an island in the eye of a storm—quiet, untouched, almost unreal.
King Vegeta seemed to allow Vitelli's closed-off routine. Prince Vegeta drowned himself in obsession. No one disturbed the rigid, almost sacred daily cycle.
Until the calm finally snapped.
Ding-dong—ding-dong—
A sharp door chime pierced the thick walls of the gravity chamber, slicing through Vitelli's high-speed punching sprint.
He lowered his fists slowly.
Inside his body, power surged—fifty thousand, steady and alive, flowing like a river that refused to stop.
His brow furrowed.
It wasn't lunchtime yet.
He shut down the gravity system.
The crushing pressure retreated like a tide.
In an instant his body felt so light it almost seemed ready to float.
Vitelli opened the chamber hatch and walked to the front door, heat steaming off him in visible waves.
Outside stood Nappa, bald head shining with sweat.
The moment he saw Vitelli, Nappa instinctively stepped back half a pace, eyes flickering like a man standing too close to a beast.
"H-Hey… Vitelli," Nappa said quickly, rushing the words out as if speed could protect him. "The mission's here! You're assigned to assist Prince Vegeta—capture a mid-level planet called Sofu. Tomorrow morning, Universe Port, Hangar Three. Don't… don't be late!"
He finished in one breath, then stared at Vitelli like he expected a punch for delivering bad news.
Even as a high-class warrior, Nappa knew the truth.
Compared to Vitelli, he wasn't even in the same universe.
Vitelli's face remained calm.
He nodded once.
"Understood. Thanks for delivering the message."
Then he closed the door—clean, final—like he'd just handled something trivial.
Outside, Nappa released a long breath and wiped sweat from his scalp, not daring to linger.
He shot into the sky at full speed toward the palace.
He was one of Vegeta's sparring partners now.
If he arrived late…
The thought alone made him fly faster.
Inside, Vitelli didn't return to the gravity room immediately.
He walked to the window and looked toward the palace, gaze deep and unreadable.
It's time.
The last quiet days were over.
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