Chapter 1: Visions of Ruin

“I just struck you using a technique that gives you knowledge of the future through visions. You will see the fate of your people, and I’ll warn you now: you have no future except that which is cursed.

“As you did to my people, there will be nothing but destruction for yours! Agonise over the sight—that is the fate to which I condemn you!”

After a fateful encounter on Planet Kanassa, Bardock is cursed with mysterious visions of the future and haunted by memories that aren't his own. When he discovers a plot to exterminate the Saiyan race, Bardock must make a choice that will forever alter his destiny.

Rather than accept the fate revealed in his visions, Bardock takes matters into his own hands. He begins his rebellion against the tyrant Frieza on a world scarred by conquest, challenging not just an empire, but the very nature of what it means to be Saiyan.

— — —

Visions of Ruin

— — —

The healing fluid drains from around me, viscous and green. I claw at consciousness like a drowning man grasping for air. My mind is a battlefield of disjointed memories—some mine, some not. Some from a future yet unwoven. And as I become conscious of the thought that my comrades are dead, I pray that the words reverberating within my skull are false.

Before ambitions, a part of me denies these memories of the future and past so interwoven in my mind, headache-inducing as they may be. It’s easier to reject them than to accept the weight they carry. The visions could be hallucinations, side effects of the healing tank, or the lingering curse of that damned Kanassan warrior. They must be. Because the alternative—

I close my eyes again, but it only makes the images sharper. My team. My brothers and sister in arms. Their bodies broken and scattered across crimson soil like discarded puppets. Tora’s face frozen in shock. Fasha’s armour cracked open like an eggshell. Borgos and Shugesh fallen where they stood. The sight of my friends’ corpses is seared into my mind, a brand more painful than any battle wound I’ve ever suffered.

No. I refuse to believe it. Not them. Not my crew.

I blink away the remnants of regenerative liquid, my muscles screaming rebellion at every movement. The med techs haven’t bothered to wait for my revival. Why would they? I’m just another damn war dog to them, one more blunt instrument in Frieza’s arsenal.

My armour—still stained with dried blood and caked with grime from the Kanassan campaign—hangs on a wall-hook opposite the healing chamber. I pull it on, wincing as the cold material makes contact with my still-damp skin. The familiar weight settles on my shoulders, but comfort is distant today. The scouter clicks into place over my eye, its digital readout a comforting anchor amid the chaos of my thoughts.

My pod awaits in the launch bay. I input the coordinates without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding my fingers across the console. Planet Meat. Where my team was dispatched while I recovered. The visions pound against my skull with each heartbeat—memories of a future that hasn’t happened mixing with fragments of a life I never lived. I push them down, focusing only on the immediacy of reaching my comrades, though something deep within me already knows what I’ll find.

The journey passes in a blur of hyperspace and silence. I have faced death a thousand times, have dealt it a thousand more. Fear is not an emotion that Saiyans permit themselves to acknowledge. And yet, as stars streak past my viewport, something coils in my gut that I cannot name—something cold and leaden that makes each breath an effort.

When my pod crashes into the surface of Planet Meat, I’m already halfway out before the hatch fully opens. The air hits me first, thick with the aftermath of violence I know all too well, but always as its perpetrator, never its witness.

I advance across the ravaged landscape, every sense heightened, scouter beeping feebly as it searches for familiar power signatures. I find Tora first, crumpled against a rock formation. His usually immaculate armour is shattered, blood caked around the edges. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, stare unseeing at the alien sky.

“Tora,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. My fingers find his neck, searching for a pulse I know is fading. “Who did this?”

One by one, I find the others. Borgos, with his massive frame sprawled across a crater of his own making. Shugesh was half-buried in rubble, having fought to his last breath. And Fasha, fierce Fasha, surrounded by enemies she took down with her.

These weren’t just comrades. They were family. The only real connection I had in this bloodthirsty existence. And now they’re gone, slaughtered like animals.

A groan—so faint my ears barely catch it. Tora’s fingers twitch.

“Bardock...” His voice is a ragged whisper as I lift his head.

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.” Empty words. We both know he’s dying.

“It was... a setup.” Each word costs him visibly. “Frieza... he’s afraid. Of us.”

“Frieza did this?” The question is rhetorical. Deep down, I already knew.

Tora’s laugh turns into a wet cough, blood speckling his lips. “Dodoria... and his squad. Said... Frieza’s orders. Exterminate... all Saiyans.”

The visions flare like solar flares behind my eyes. Vegeta, our homeworld, shattering like glass. Our people burning. Extinction.

“He’s going to... kill everyone,” Tora continues, each word fainter than the last. “Planet Vegeta... destroy it...”

“I won’t let that happen,” I promise, though the words sound hollow even to my ears.

Tora’s bloodied hand finds my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for a dying man. “Bardock... you’ve always been... too soft.” His lips quirk in a final smile. “That’s why... you’ll save us.”

His hand falls away. His eyes, once so keen and alive, grow dull. The last of my crew, gone. The scouter at my feet crackles to life, the discarded tech picking up voices—familiar, sneering tones that make my muscles tense involuntarily.

“Readings coming from the eastern quadrant,” says one voice. “Power level... wait, that can’t be right.”

“It’s one of the monkeys,” another replies. “Must have survived somehow.”

“Dodoria said no witnesses,” a third voice adds. “Let’s finish this quickly.”

I don’t move. Don’t need to. Let them come. The rage building inside me needs an outlet, and these bastards have just volunteered. Three silhouettes appear on the horizon—sleek, armoured figures against the blood-red sky of Planet Meat. Dodoria’s elite squad, the butchers who slaughtered my team. They hover momentarily, scanning the battlefield, then descend like vultures toward my position.

I remain kneeling beside Tora’s body, head bowed as if in prayer. Let them think me broken. Let them underestimate what’s coming for them.

The first one lands twenty paces away—the tall one with ridged purple skin and a scouter glinting gold in the fading light. “Well, well,” he says, mandibles clicking with amusement. “Looks like we missed one.”

His companions touch down beside him—one squat and reptilian with oversized forearms, the other thin and pale with four eyes set in a face that seems constructed entirely of angles.

“That’s Bardock,” the four-eyed one says, a note of caution in his voice. “Rumour has it he conquered Kanassa with just his crew.”

“And look where his crew is now,” the purple one laughs, gesturing to the bodies scattered across the landscape. “Rotting meat on a dead world.”

I feel something snap inside me—not a loss of control, but rather its opposite. A perfect, crystalline clarity descends. Time seems to slow as I raise my head to look at them, and I know my eyes reflect something that makes the four-eyed one step back.

“You talk too much,” I say.

The purple one’s mandibles click in irritation. “Dispose of him,” he orders his companions. “Lord Dodoria is waiting for our report.”

The squat one charges first, overconfident and sloppy. I don’t rise to meet him. Instead, I wait until he’s committed to his trajectory, then pivot at the last possible second. My elbow connects with his throat as he passes, cartilage giving way with a satisfying crunch. He staggers forward, choking, but I’m already moving.

I drive my fist into his kidney, the impact sending shockwaves through his armour. He doubles over, and I grab his head with both hands, twisting sharply. The crack of his neck breaking echoes across the wasteland as I drop him like garbage.

“Zarbon!” the four-eyed one shouts, panic rising in his voice. “His power level—it’s spiking!”

The purple one—apparently sharing the same name as the commander of the Frieza Force and clearly in charge here—snarls and launches himself at me, more cautious than his fallen comrade. He’s faster, more disciplined, throwing precise strikes aimed at vital points. I block the first flurry, the impacts jarring my forearms, then catch his fist in my palm.

“You bastards killed my team,” I say, squeezing until I feel bones grinding against each other. “So, tell me… which one of them did you kill?”

He screams, trying to pull away, but I hold him firm. With my free hand, I hammer a punch into his elbow joint, bending it backwards with a wet pop. The sound of his agony is music to my ears. The four-eyed one circles warily, firing an energy blast that singes the air as I dodge. I release the purple one’s mangled arm and slam my forehead into his face. Mandibles crunch inward, ichor spraying across my chest. He stumbles back, and I press forward, battering through his guard with quick, brutal strikes.

He tries to create distance, launching upward in a desperate bid for escape. I don’t waste energy flying after him. Instead, I leap, catching his ankle, and use his momentum to swing him in an arc that sends him crashing back to the planet’s surface. The impact creates a small crater and billows dust outward.

Before the dust settles, the four-eyed one attacks from behind, wrapping thin but surprisingly powerful arms around my throat. I feel clawed fingers digging for pressure points, seeking to render me unconscious. I drive my elbow backwards, connecting with his sternum. His grip loosens just enough for me to reach up and grab a fistful of his stringy hair. With a savage jerk, I pull him over my shoulder and slam him face-first into the rocky ground.

“Please,” he gasps, blood bubbling from his ruined mouth. “We were just following orders.”

“So was I, you ugly son of a bitch,” I reply, placing my boot on his throat. “For too long.”

I apply pressure slowly and watch the life fade from his four eyes. When it’s done, I turn back to the purple one, who’s attempting to crawl away, leaving a trail of dark fluid behind him.

“Where is Dodoria?” I demand, grabbing him by the back of his armour and lifting him to eye level.

“Gone,” he spits, blood and broken teeth spraying my face. “Back to Lord Frieza. You’re too late, monkey. Your planet is already dead.”

A cold smile spreads across my face. “We’ll see about that.”

I slam him into the ground, straddling his chest as I rain down blow after blow. Each impact is for one of my fallen comrades—for Tora, for Fasha, for Borgos, for Shugesh. His face caves in beneath my fists, but I don’t stop until my knuckles scrape against the stone beneath his pulverised skull.

Rising slowly, I survey the carnage around me. Three of Frieza’s elite soldiers, broken and dead at my feet. It should feel like victory. I look down at my hands, slick with alien blood, then up at the stars where my home planet still hangs, unaware of its impending doom. As I stand amidst the bodies of my squad and my enemies alike, the visions return stronger than before, impossible to ignore.

I see Frieza’s men—Dodoria and his squad—ambushing my team. I hear their laughter as they cut down the finest warriors I’ve ever known. And I see Frieza himself, that pale demon, hovering above our planet, finger extended, a miniature sun growing at its tip. Genocide made casual. My people screaming into the void as our world shatters. Gine pushing her cleaver through slabs of meat only to look up and see the sky dyed a hellish orange.

But layered beneath that horror lie stranger visions still. A world of colours and sounds—a planet called Earth, but not the Earth I know. Concrete jungles and digital screens. Books with stories about... warriors like me? Fiction. Entertainment. Bloodsport for the mind rather than the arena.

The memories fragment. In them, I was someone else. Someone who watched my life as a story, who knew my fate before I lived it. Someone who mourned for me, for my team, for my son, all while sitting in the comfort of a life without consequence.

Blood drips between my fingers. I’ve been clenching my fists so tightly my palms are punctured by my own nails. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look up at the alien sky. Dodoria’s energy signature is still detectable, moving away from the planet. The coward thinks his work is done.

My scouter beeps—an incoming transmission. I accept it, knowing what I’ll hear.

“Bardock.” A cold, precise voice. One of Frieza’s administrators. “Your presence is required immediately. Return to base for reassignment. Lord Frieza’s orders.”

Of course. Call us back like obedient hounds, then slaughter us all at once.

“Understood,” I lie, voice steady despite the rage boiling in my veins.

The connection ends. I stare at the scouter, this technological leash that’s kept us tethered to Frieza’s will for so long. With a savage gesture, I tear it from my face and crush it beneath my boot. The symbolic act brings a fleeting satisfaction.

I return to Tora’s body, gently removing his bloodied armband. My squad’s blood is still warm on the cloth as I secure his armband around my forehead. A memorial. A promise. A final gift from the closest thing to a family I’ve ever known.

The contradiction of my dual memories tears at me like an internal wound the healing tank couldn’t touch. My team is dead. Frieza betrayed us. And somehow, in some other life, I already knew this would happen.

The questions form unbidden: how many worlds have I helped destroy? How many civilisations crushed beneath my boots to satisfy the appetites of our frost overlord? Why should I fight against that which I have done to others being done to me? The questions burn like acid. In those other memories—the ones that feel ancient yet impossibly distant—I was no conqueror. I was... ordinary. Weak. A cog in a system I never questioned. Reading tales of rebellion and combat while living a life without consequence.

“Bardock.” The name feels both mine and not mine. A designation for a weapon rather than a person.

Yet today, this weapon has found a new target.

I should return to Vegeta, warn my people of what’s coming. Rally them against Frieza’s treachery. But the fragmented memories—as quickly fading as they are sobering—tell me it’s futile. That my warning will fall on deaf ears, met with mockery and disbelief from a race that has grown fat on conquest and is blinded by pride. That I’ll die alone, defiant but ultimately ineffective, as our world burns around me.

No. There must be another way.

The memories from that other life hold knowledge of what might be averted if I act differently than the Bardock whose story was already written. And those memories point to a place: Planet Cereal. A world my team and I razed years ago, another civilisation sacrificed on the altar of Frieza’s empire. A genocide I participated in without question. But two survivors remain—one being a Namekian who owes me a debt of gratitude.

I find the ship Dodoria’s squad used to get here perched on a cliffside by moving in the direction they had come from, and its autopilot accepts the new coordinates without complaint as I plot a course for Cereal. The journey will be short; the planet lies in the same system as Meat. As stars streak past the viewscreen, I close my eyes and stretch my legs in a ship that’s far less packed than my attack pod, trying to untangle the knot of memories within my mind.

The Kanassan’s “curse” wasn’t just about visions of the future. Somehow, he reached across time and dimensions, planting fragments of another existence within me. A life where my story was already written, already known. A life where my death, my failure, my son’s triumph—all of it played out for entertainment.

I see my demise with perfect clarity. Standing alone against Frieza’s might, a futile last stand. Obliterated along with my planet, my people, my legacy. In those other memories, I’m a footnote. The father who failed. The warrior who died to give his story pathos. A stepping stone for Kakarot’s—no, “Goku’s”—rise to greatness.

But what if that story could be rewritten?

The ship shudders as it breaks atmosphere over Cereal. Once a verdant world of forests and fields, now a graveyard of my making. The readouts show a single life sign, isolated in the planet’s northern hemisphere.

Landing the pod, I step onto soil I last walked when it was soaked with blood. Gargantuan Great Ape footprints and the site of our massacre in the distance. The air still smells of ash, years after the fires died out. Another sin to atone for, if atonement is even possible for creatures like me.

The trek to the Cerealian’s dwelling takes hours. I could fly, but I walk instead, a self-imposed penance for every life I took here. With each step, the disjointed memories settle further into a coherent narrative—a tapestry of what was, what is, and what might be.

I was a monster. In many ways, I still am. But monsters can be redirected. Weaponised against greater evils.

The structure comes into view as the sun begins to set—a modest dwelling built from the ruins of a once-great civilisation. I sense the inhabitant’s presence inside, weak by Saiyan standards but vibrating with a different kind of power that I only sense now. Perhaps because of the Kanassan’s curse, but there was no real way for me to know.

I don’t bother with stealth. He knows I’m here. Likely knew I was coming before I did. So, I continue walking.

The door opens before I reach it. A figure stands at the threshold, tall and slender, with green skin and wells for eyes that pin me to the ground upon which I stand. One of the Namekians who found refuge on this planet, now the last of his people here after surviving the chaos my own people and I brought to these lands.

“Bardock.” His voice is calm, tinged with caution. Shame flashes hot across my nape. I don’t remember his name. “The Saiyan who spared us.”

I stop several paces away, aware of the blood that stains my legacy. Things I’d likely go to hell for if I died, as in my visions. “You know who I am.”

“I am Monaito—and yes, I remember what you did during the purge.” Monaito’s gaze shifts to the bloodied headband. “Your actions that day... they confused me.”

“Frieza plans to destroy my planet and my people.” The words burn my throat. Begging for aid does not come easily, even with the curse’s influence upon me. But I am nothing if not desperate. “I need your help. I need the power of those wishing orbs, old man.”

The Namekian’s expression hardens. “The destroyer seeks salvation. The weapon turns against its master. Why should I aid one of those who razed this world?”

“Because Frieza is worse.” A simple truth, unembellished. “And I’m trying to be better.”

“For you, perhaps, but not for us.” He steps aside despite his words, gesturing into the dwelling. “Come inside, Saiyan. The night brings predators even the mighty should fear.”

The interior is modest but functional. A small Cerealian child sleeps in the corner, his breathing shallow but steady. Granola—the survivor I couldn’t bring myself to kill. His mother, the one I couldn’t save. The reason why Tora marked me as soft, even as he and the team distracted Leek and the rest, so I could bring them to Monaito.

I chew against the inside of my cheek to hold back the grief; it’s easy to when I see the building’s other inhabitant.

“You saved him,” I say, nodding toward the boy.

“As you spared us both,” Monaito replies, settling cross-legged on a woven mat. “Though I still don’t understand why.”

I remain standing, unwilling to claim comfort in this place of my sins. “Something changed in me during the attack. I saw...” I hesitate, unsure how to explain the curse, the visions, the memories that aren’t mine. “I saw what we truly are. What we could be instead.”

Monaito studies me with renewed interest. “And now you seek the Dragon Balls. For what purpose, Saiyan?”

“To transport every production-and-service-class worker and low-class warrior from Planet Vegeta to Planet Cereal. To save them from certain destruction.” I meet his gaze steadily. “And to forge them into something better than what we’ve been.”

“You would lead them?” Monaito asks, scepticism evident.

“I’m the strongest among the low-class. They’ll follow my strength, if nothing else.” The plan forms more clearly as I speak it aloud. “Away from Frieza, away from the elites who keep us chained, we can build something new. Become strong and put an end to his tyranny.”

“And if they resist this... transformation you envision? Or you replace Frieza’s iron fist with your own?”

“I won’t. And if they don’t listen…” My lips curl into a grim smile. “Then I’ll beat the lesson into them until it sticks. We understand strength, Monaito. It’s the only language some of my people speak.”

The Namekian rises, moving to where the child sleeps. “And what of Granola? What happens when he wakes to find his world filled with the very warriors who slaughtered his people?”

“He’ll see Saiyans who chose a different path.” I cross my arms. “Who better to teach him that people can change?”

I say that, but I’m equally prepared to take on his hatred for the rest of my life. I won’t lay down my life at his feet, but if he grows strong enough to kill me, then so be it. Something tells me the old man won’t like that answer, so I keep quiet.

Monaito’s silence stretches, weighted with decision. Finally, he says, “The Dragon Balls are scattered across Cereal’s southern continent. It will take time to gather them.”

“Time I don’t have,” I reply. “Frieza moves against Planet Vegeta soon.”

“Then we begin now.” Monaito glances at the sleeping child once more. “But understand this, Bardock: if your people threaten this child or continue their destructive ways, I will find a way to stop you. Namekians are peaceful, but we are not powerless.”

I nod once, respect blooming for this elder who stands firm before someone who could kill him as easily as sneezing. “Fair terms.”

As Monaito prepares for our journey, I find myself drawn to the sleeping child. When I close my eyes, I see another child, one with my features but none of my scars, growing into a warrior unlike any Saiyan before him. Kind, where we are cruel. Merciful, where we are ruthless. Strong in ways that transcend mere power, becoming something no Saiyan has ever been.

A defender, not a destroyer. Perhaps that’s still possible. Perhaps we all have that potential.

The ship’s corridor stretches before me in memory, cold and metallic. My reflection in the polished surface shows a face crossed with scars—proud markers of battles survived. Yet the eyes that stare back hold something new. Something dangerous.

Purpose.

In this reality, I won’t send my son away alone. I won’t die futilely against Frieza’s might. Instead, I’ll gather my people—the overlooked, the underestimated, the downtrodden—and forge them into something the universe has never seen.

Saiyans who protect rather than purge.

“Ready yourself, Bardock,” Monaito calls, breaking my reverie. “The first Dragon Ball lies to the east, in the ruins of what was once our greatest city.”

I follow the Namekian into the night, my scouter—a replacement I found in the pod—chirping with an incoming transmission.

“Bardock.” The same cold voice as before. “You are ordered to return immediately. Failure to comply will be considered treason.”

I crush the device in my hand, letting the pieces fall to the ground. While its battle-power sensing capabilities were useful, and I mourn their loss, the Scouter is a symbol of our slavery to the Cold family.

“Treason implies loyalty,” I murmur to the darkness. “And my loyalty is to a future worth fighting for.”

Monaito’s shoulders relax at my words. I didn’t expect him to hear me, but over the hum of the ship’s engine, my voice is loud.

The universe has given me a glimpse of what may come—both the horrors and the glory. But destiny isn’t fixed. It can be carved anew with sufficient strength and will. And I am Bardock, son of a race of warriors, father to sons who deserve better than the path I’ve walked. I am the harbinger of a tyrant’s fall. I am the breaker of chains that bind my people.

As if my life till now was some vague nightmare, and only now am I awake, Monaito guides me to that which will change everything.

— — — — — — — — —

The journey to find the Dragon Balls begins at dawn. The reddish sun of Cereal crawls over the horizon, painting the devastated landscape in hues that remind me too much of blood. Fitting that this broken world now mirrors my fractured mind—memories of destruction I wrought collide with glimpses of what could have been and still might be.

“There are only two,” Monaito explains as we set out. “Created by our guardian before the calamity. Small, but powerful.”

“Two?” I scoff. “The ones on Namek number seven.”

Monaito gives me a sharp look. “How would you know of Namekian Dragon Balls, Saiyan?”

I tap my temple where the Kanassan’s “gift” still pulses. “Let’s just say I’ve seen things I shouldn’t know.”

The Namekian studies me with renewed suspicion but says nothing more as he leads me across terrain I once helped decimate. The first Dragon Ball we find nestled in the hollow of what was once a ceremonial tree, now nothing but petrified wood and ash. Small as a ping pong ball, its surface glints with inner light.

“The first,” Monaito says, reverently cradling the tiny sphere. “The second lies northward, in the ruins of our Royal Hall.”

By midday, hunger gnaws at my gut. I spot a creature skittering between ruins—something reptilian with too many legs. Before Monaito can blink, I’ve blasted it with a precise ki shot and retrieved the smouldering carcass.

“Lunch,” I declare, dropping the creature between us.

Monaito’s face wrinkles with distaste. “I sustain myself through other means.”

I shrug, tearing into the meat with bare hands. “More for me then.”

As I eat, the disjointed visions dance through my mind again. Frieza’s supernova consuming Vegeta. The elites and mid-class warriors—their arrogance, their blind loyalty to a king who serves a tyrant. Would it really be so wrong to leave them to their fate? The thought has plagued me since we began this journey. Practical. Efficient. They’ve never shown mercy to those beneath them—why should I extend what they’ve never given?

But then that other voice, the one planted by the Kanassan curse, whispers of better paths. Of breaking cycles rather than perpetuating them.

“You seem troubled,” Monaito observes, breaking my reverie.

I toss aside the picked-clean bones. “Just planning what comes next.”

“And what does come next, Bardock? You save your people—then what? Conquest? Revenge?”

The question hangs between us as I rise. “First, we save them. Then we’ll see.”

By early afternoon, we reach the Royal Hall—a tomb of twisted metal and shattered stone. I recognise this place. I remember crushing its spires beneath Great Ape feet, the screams of dignitaries as they fled what they thought were monsters. They weren’t wrong.

As I follow Monaito through the wreckage, something catches my eye—a mural, somehow still intact amidst the devastation. It depicts a great dragon coiled around a planet, bestowing blessings upon the people below. Beneath it, words in a language I cannot read but somehow understand: “Power serves those who serve others.”

I scoff at the sentiment even as something within me—that piece planted by the Kanassan—resonates with it.

“The second ball,” Monaito announces, lifting a small sphere from beneath rubble that once formed a throne. “Now we can proceed.”

Under the late afternoon sun, Monaito places the two ping pong-sized balls side by side on a flat stone. Their surfaces gleam with internal light, pulsing like heartbeats in rhythm with one another. Two tiny stars, waiting to birth a god.

Monaito glances at me, hesitation evident in his ancient eyes. Then, deliberately, he turns away and leans over the Dragon Balls. His voice drops to a whisper—words in a language I cannot understand sliding past lips barely moving. The password, kept from my ears. A small reminder that trust between us remains as fragile as the peace I hope to forge.

I say nothing. His caution is warranted. After all, I am still the destroyer of his adopted world.

The Namekian steps back, and I look at the Dragon Balls, these artefacts of power that could reshape destiny. In those other memories—the ones fading with each hour but still there like phantom limbs—I know dragons grander than this one. Shenron. Porunga. Names that taste like legends on my tongue, though I’ve never spoken them aloud.

The skies darken as if night has fallen twice. The tiny Dragon Balls pulse once, twice, three times—then erupt in blinding light that stretches toward the heavens. From that pillar of radiance emerges a serpentine form, colossal despite the diminutive size of the balls that summoned it. Scales the colour of burnished ivory gleam as the dragon’s body coils in the air. Eyes like molten gold fix upon us with ancient wisdom and indifference.

“I am Toronbo,” the dragon’s voice reverberates through my chest rather than my ears. “Speak your wish, and if it is within my power, I shall grant it.”

Monaito steps aside, gesturing toward me. “The wish is his to make.”

The moment stretches taut as a bowstring. My fist clenches around Tora’s bloodied armband, still tied around my forehead. I know what I planned to say. Save the low-class warriors and service workers. Build my army. Strike back at Frieza. Simple. Clean. Efficient.

Yet as the words form in my throat, they catch like thorns. The curse of foresight shows me what I would become—another tyrant, another Frieza, merely with Saiyan skin instead of pale chitin. Power corrupts, and I have tasted enough of both to know the truth of it.

And yet before power, I yield to selfishness. My throat wobbles as I make my request. “Bring back my team—Team Bardock—back to life.”

“That I cannot do. I can only resurrect one being at a time. You must choose…”

I grit my teeth. All the little annoyances that I cursed at, I wanted back in a heartbeat. I fight the urge to blast this dragon out of the sky. Rage curdles my blood like milk, yet deep down, I know that I can't choose between them. And every moment I waste anguishing is one that Frieza could have spent obliterating my planet.

In the end, impatience and fear spur me forward.

“What troubles you, warrior?” Toronbo’s voice cuts through my hesitation. “Speak your desire or dismiss me.”

Monaito watches me, eyes narrowed with suspicion and something else—hope, perhaps. Hope that the monster might prove himself something more.

“I wish,” I begin, my voice steady despite the war raging within, “for all the people of Planet Vegeta to be transported here, to Planet Cereal.”

Toronbo’s eyes flash, and for a moment I think it’s done—that simple. Then the dragon’s voice rumbles again:

“This wish cannot be granted as spoken.” The dragon’s tail lashes against the darkened sky. “There are those whom I cannot force here, for they are simply too powerful. Your wish, I’m afraid, is beyond my reach.”

A wry grimace twists my lips. Perhaps fate has a sense of humour after all.

“Then bring those you can,” I amend, looking the dragon dead in its molten eyes. “The low-class warriors, the production class, the service workers. Bring them all here, before me. And the nursing pods—all Saiyan children in incubation.”

I add that last part with a sudden clarity. Kakarot. The memories of that other life flash before me—my son, raised on a different world, becoming something no Saiyan has ever been.

“This is within my power,” Toronbo acknowledges. “Your wish shall be granted.”

The dragon’s eyes blaze like twin suns. The air around us thickens, charged with energy that makes my hair stand on end. For a moment, nothing happens—then the fabric of reality itself seems to tear open, an invisible curtain pulled aside.

And they appear.

Hundreds at first, then thousands. Materialising in waves across the ruined landscape—confused, disoriented, some mid-task with tools still in hand or food halfway to mouths. Saiyans in tattered battle armour, service workers in simple garments, all looking around in bewilderment at their sudden displacement.

The Dragon Balls rise in unison, shooting high into the sky. I launch myself after them, rocketing upward with a burst of ki that leaves the ground cratered beneath me. At the apex of their ascent, just as they begin to separate, I snatch both from the air in one fluid motion. They’re warm to the touch, vibrating with residual power.

Instead of descending, I hover high above the gathering masses, tucking the balls into the fabric of my armband. They may prove useful again. From this vantage point, I survey what I’ve done—thousands of bewildered souls displaced from their dying world to this broken one. A bold gambit, perhaps an arrogant one. But better than extinction.

Below, I see Monaito staring upward, undisguised shock on his aged face.

From my aerial position, I scan the growing crowd, searching for one face among thousands. One person whose presence would make this mad gamble feel less like a leap into darkness.

And then I see her.

Gine stands among a cluster of meat processors, her work apron still stained with blood, cleaver clutched in one hand like she’s prepared to fight whatever new threat has appeared. Her dark eyes dart around, confusion evident even from this height.

I don’t hesitate. With a burst of speed that makes the air crack around me, I dive toward her, landing with enough force to send dust billowing around us. The nearby Saiyans and workers stumble back, startled by my sudden appearance.

“Gine,” I say, her name like a talisman against doubt.

For a heartbeat, she simply stares, disbelief warring with recognition. Then her face transforms—joy breaking through confusion like sunlight through storm clouds.

“Bardock!” she exclaims, dropping her cleaver without care.

Before she can move, I close the distance between us, pulling her into my arms. Her lips meet mine in a kiss that burns away doubt. I taste the salt of tears—hers or mine, I can’t tell—as I hold her tight against me, an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

When we finally break apart, her hands frame my face, thumbs tracing the scars that map my battles.

“How?” she whispers, eyes searching mine for answers. “Why are we here? What’s happening?”

“No time to explain,” I tell her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “But I need you with me.”

With a burst of ki, I launch us both into the air, soaring back to where Monaito stands waiting. Gine clings to me, her warrior’s reflexes keeping her balanced despite the sudden flight. I land us both beside the Namekian, who regards Gine with cautious curiosity.

I keep my gaze carefully averted from Cereal’s three moons hanging low on the horizon. The last thing we need is a Great Ape transformation among thousands of disoriented Saiyans.

Around us, the transplanted population of Vegeta watches with expressions ranging from confusion to outright hostility. From this vantage point beside Monaito, I see the divide now, in a way I never allowed myself to before. The low-class Saiyan warriors stand apart from the service workers, many of whom aren’t even Saiyan at all but conquered peoples pressed into servitude. The production class—mostly Saiyans deemed too weak for combat—huddle in their own groups, as uncertain of where they belong in this new arrangement as they were on Planet Vegeta.

Near what was once a fountain, I spot a cluster of incubation pods, their lights still blinking, systems somehow operational despite their transportation. Medical technicians hover around them, confused but still performing their duties. There, in one of those pods, lies Kakarot—my son, no longer destined for Earth. The future reshapes itself with each breath.

My eyes catch on another familiar face—Paragus, a soldier I knew in passing. In my fractured memories from that other life, I see flashes of his fate, his son’s power, the danger and potential they represent. A desolate planet, and my only living friend, Leek, shot through the chest inside a ship with a ray gun. By Paragus no less. The thought sets my jaw taut until I look for Leek and find his round, scarred head and the grin he flashes my way. I look to Paragus. He stands protectively beside his son, Broly, and is very unaware of the extraordinary power he possesses.

Even his inkling is way off the mark.

He’s perhaps as old as Prince Vegeta but so much stronger. That my son would rival his strength makes me wonder if I’m going mad. But then, Planet Vegeta is a caste system built on power and the false purity of bloodline. A mirror of Frieza’s own empire, just on a smaller scale. The realisation sours in my gut.

“Frieza plans to destroy Planet Vegeta,” I announce, my voice carrying across the stunned crowd. “Every one of you would be dead within days had you remained.”

Murmurs ripple through the gathering. Disbelief. Anger. Fear masquerading as defiance.

“Why would Lord Frieza destroy us?” calls a voice from the crowd. “We’re his most valuable warriors!”

“We’re his slaves,” I correct, the truth bitter on my tongue. “And he fears what we might become.”

Gine’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight. She knows me better than anyone—knows the weight of the words I speak.

“We start anew here,” I continue, looking out over the thousands of faces. “Away from Frieza. Away from the elites who kept their boots on our necks while licking the boots above them.”

More murmurs, but different now. Considering. Calculating. Saiyans respect strength above all else, and here I stand—the orchestrator of their salvation, whether they recognise it yet or not.

“What of King Vegeta?” someone shouts. “The Prince?” It’s Paragus. Hatred—as real as my own against Frieza—flashes hot in his voice.

“Beyond our reach,” I answer simply. “As they’ve always been.”

The irony doesn’t escape me. For all my planning, for all my desire to save our race, I’ve managed only to save those deemed expendable by our leaders. The unwanted. The forgotten. Yet looking at them now—these thousands who would have perished in Frieza’s purge—I see something the elites never did.

Potential.

I see Gine’s face turned up toward mine, trusting despite the madness of our situation. I see Monaito watching from the sidelines, judging whether his trust was misplaced. I see the sleeping child in his hut, who will one day awaken to find his world populated by the very species that destroyed it.

And I see the path forward—difficult, bloody, but possible.

“Tonight,” I tell them, “we rest. Tomorrow, we begin. We build. We train. We become what Frieza fears.”

As the crowd disperses—some to explore, others to establish makeshift shelters—Gine pulls me aside, her eyes searching mine.

“What happened to you?” she asks quietly. “This isn’t the Bardock who left for Kanassa.”

I touch the bloodied headband, Tora’s final gift. “I saw the truth. And I couldn’t look away.”

Her fingers intertwine with mine. “Then I’ll face it with you.” She glances toward the incubation pods where medical technicians attempt to establish a perimeter. “Kakarot—he’s here.”

“Yes,” I confirm, following her gaze. “All the nursing pods came. No child left behind.”

Paragus approaches, his son looking around in quiet fascination, totally unaware of the power that marked him for exile.

“Bardock,” Paragus acknowledges. “You’ve always been a maverick, but this...” He gestures to the transplanted population. “This exceeds even your reputation.”

“Get used to it,” I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “You’re looking more dishevelled than everyone else. Don’t tell me you went out to lead a suicide charge against Frieza with your son.”

“No.” Hatred sizzles in his dark eyes. “King Vegeta banished my son to a desolate world. I brought Leek with me to save my son, and as soon as we found him, we blinked and were here. What did you do?”

“Everything changes from today, Paragus, believe in that.”

He holds my gaze and smiles a menacing smile. “We’ll see.”

My eyes move towards the swathes of people as Paragus walks away. I yell as loud as I can and hope what I say is passed on by word of mouth. “This goes without saying, but do not look at the moon. If you do, I will beat you into submission. Unlike you all, I can control my transformation.”

Monaito clears his throat behind me. I turn around to see his hands held forward and a look of concentration on his face. Sweat beads on his wrinkled forehead, and motes of light fade into existence in front of his hands. I cover my eyes against the flash of light to see a small mountain of brown fabrics.

“For your eyes,” the old Namekian huffs. “Cover them… at night.”

I nod, picking three out of the bunch for Kakarot, Gine, and me. “Alright, people. Grab one and don’t be Saiyans about it!”

That, at least, gets a chuckle out of everyone—Monaito included.

The evening glare settles around us as my people—this ragtag collection of warriors and workers, the unwanted and overlooked—begin to claim this ruined world as their own. Not with conquest but with necessity. Survival first. Redemption, perhaps, to follow.

I look toward the horizon where Cereal’s three moons hang like sentinels, carefully avoiding direct sight of their glowing surfaces. Somewhere beyond them, Frieza still waits, still rules. Somewhere out there, my son Raditz serves among the elites, unknowing of his people’s fate. But here, my youngest son remains within my reach, his destiny now unwritten.

I decided to bring him out of his pod in the afternoon. I don’t know why. Some instinct, strange as it is, that I want to hold him. He nestles into my chest, still sleeping, and the sight of his face brings an unbidden smile to my lips.

Two sons, two paths. One shaped by cruelty, one by possibility. One beyond my reach, one with me now. But here, on this world we destroyed and might yet rebuild, a new chapter begins. Not just for me, but for all of us who were deemed dispensable. The forgotten who might yet forge themselves into something the universe will never forget.

Gine’s head rests against my shoulder as we watch our new beginning unfold beneath alien stars. Tomorrow brings challenges I can scarcely imagine. The destruction of our race before we wake up in the morning.

But tonight, for the first time since the Kanassan’s curse, I feel something dangerously close to hope, despite the grief and rage over my crew nestled deep within me.

— — —