***
I guess that's all I remember from my meeting with God. Honestly, not too shabby overall—though I did wish I got some more overpowered abilities. Still, considering my past life and how things went back then, I should probably count myself lucky to have gotten any powers at all.
So here I am, sitting on top of a tree overlooking the vast forest in front of my adopted parents' house—or rather, mansion. I regained consciousness the moment I arrived in a Saiyan pod, hurtling through space before crash-landing on Earth. That's when I was found by two kind, elderly folks living in the countryside, deep in a secluded forest with no neighbors around. Yep, it's the pirated version of Superman's origin story, except my parents were rich and in their seventies.
Apparently, they never had any children, nor any living relatives. I don't really know why, but thanks to that, they ended up adopting me—who could resist this handsome face, after all? Did I mention I'm handsome? No blemishes, no beauty spots, silver hair, and a silver tail. I'm a literal mix of Goku, Trunks, and Gohan at their peak. Thank God I didn't inherit Vegeta's hairline, or I'd have cried.
Anyway, backstory time. The Saiyans in this universe come from Planet Sadala, not Vegeta. They used to be a proud warrior race until a brutal civil war between hybrids and pure-bloods nearly wiped them out. The survivors, mostly pacifists, swore off warfare and lived peacefully for the next two millennia—until their sun went unstable and exploded, turning the planet into cosmic toast.
Enter me—the last Saiyan standing. The war had left them with little technology, just scraps of knowledge. That was until a Kryptonian ship crash-landed on Sadala. Its passenger didn't survive, but the remaining Saiyan scientists managed to repair the ship and study its technology. Unfortunately, they couldn't replicate it, only rebuild it. It could carry one passenger. Just one.
So, guess who they chose? Me—a newborn prince who had barely stopped breastfeeding. Why me? Because my parents, the king and queen, refused to abandon one another. The Saiyans, compassionate as they'd become, decided I should live on their behalf.
As for how I know all this if I was just a baby back then—simple. The scientists reprogrammed the Kryptonian AI to guide and educate me. Of course, I named it J.A.R.V.I.S. I mean, it sounded just like him, so how could I not?
Fast-forward to Earth: my adoptive parents, Lucian and Melissa Braveheart, took me in. (Would've been hilariously ironic if Mom was named Martha too.)
They gave me the name Leon Braveheart. It's been 14 years since my arrival, and things have been good so far. I showed up a bit late though—the Justice League is already formed, four years post–White Martian invasion. Darkseid hasn't arrived yet, and Young Justice doesn't seem to exist in this timeline. Fine by me—I barely remember that show anyway, other than Zatanna and Robin's flirting and Speedy's ego issues.
Sadly, my adoptive parents passed away last month. At least they went peacefully of old age, not because of some villain's scheme. Before they died, they left everything to me—house, money, everything. Somehow, despite having no papers or ID, I have a legal bank account, courtesy of their wealth and connections.
Now, about my powers: no system, no cheat menus, no instant stats—just me learning through effort. I can fly, shoot Ki blasts, and, yes, perform the Kamehameha. Every Dragon Ball fan's dream, right? Though fun fact—the Kamehameha isn't hot or explosive like a bomb. It's more like a raging torrent of energy forcefully pushed through a small space, more impact than flame. Ki bombs, on the other hand, can cause real explosions.
Ki, or Chi, is essentially natural energy you absorb, refine, and channel outward. I studied tons of anime and martial arts concepts—chakra, Ki cultivation, meditation—to help me master control. Took me about three years to learn the Bukujutsu (flight), but hey, I got there.
For combat, I made my own fighting style instead of following traditional martial arts. I call it Reflex and Manual Fighting Arts. Reflex means dodging instinctively, sensing danger like a sixth sense—not Ultra Instinct level, but close enough. Manual fights focus on deliberate strikes—targeting weak points, attacking smart.
Back in my past life, I was bullied a lot until I stopped caring and started fighting back. Over time, I learned how to take a beating and give one back harder. The biggest lesson? It's not about how many hits you give; it's about how many you can take before landing the decisive blow. Sure, that might sound reckless, but when fear freezes you, experience teaches you to move forward.
My body now heals faster—about five times quicker than a normal human—and my reflexes, strength, and mental clarity are way better than before. I'm considering sword training too. It looks cooler, and hey, variety never hurts.
So, I jump down from the tree and head into the basement, my makeshift gym and training dojo. I'm not ready for the world yet. Peaceful life or not, power brings conflict. And if I can't avoid it, I'll be ready.
*Cue the training montage.*
***