Li Wei, male, twenty-two.
He had just graduated from college and recently passed the internship interview at a big company he'd been dreaming of joining.
On a bright, sunny afternoon, he was full of ambition, mapping out his future—already thinking about what he'd buy with his first paycheck for the younger kids at the orphanage.
Then fate's gears started turning.
At a fateful intersection, a runaway hundred-ton "Dayun" truck slammed into him and sent him flying.
The searing pain lasted only an instant before endless darkness swallowed his vision whole.
No life-flashing-before-his-eyes montage. No near-death memory rewind. Only the brutal sensation of his soul being torn apart and crushed.
"Damn it… my job… guess that's for the next life…"
That was his last thought before his consciousness sank.
After that came a long, murky journey.
He couldn't feel his body at all. He was like a wisp of leftover awareness, drifting in a cold, viscous liquid.
The liquid carried a strange, indescribable smell—something like metal mixed with living energy.
His awareness flickered on and off like a bad signal. Sometimes he could clearly sense the fluid flowing over his "body." Other times he fell into dead, empty silence.
During those brief lucid moments, he occasionally "heard" indistinct, distorted voices, as if separated from him by a thick wall:
"…life force… stable…"
"…this kid… the numbers… unexpectedly strong…"
"…beep… battle power… five hundred… confirmed…"
"Battle power five hundred?" A thread of absurd clarity cut through his haze. "What the hell? A game? Or… a hallucination after death?"
Before he could think further, his awareness was dragged back into the thick black abyss.
Time lost all meaning here—maybe a moment, maybe years.
He felt like a forgotten seed forced into hibernation, passively being altered and nourished.
Shattered memory fragments that weren't his—images of battle, roars, planets being destroyed in savage storms—invaded his Earth-born mind like a virus. They came with splitting headaches, only to be smoothed away by the icy liquid seconds later.
Half-awake, half-asleep, caught in a tug-of-war between consciousness and chaos, he nearly forgot who he was. Forgot his past. Forgot the damned accident.
Then, with the sound of large amounts of fluid draining away and a sudden weightlessness, his back slammed hard into something cold and solid.
A muffled groan burst from his throat.
A harsh metallic glare pried his heavy eyelids open.
His vision cleared. The first thing he saw was a smooth, silver-gray metal ceiling, crisscrossed with complex, unfamiliar pipes and indicator lights.
The air was dry, with a sharp disinfectant tang—nothing like the slimy world he'd been drifting in.
He was lying at the bottom of an empty metal pod. Pale green viscous residue clung to the walls, slowly dripping down the slick surface.
"W-where… am I?"
Li Wei tried to sit up, but his body felt strangely heavy and unfamiliar—like he'd just rented it and it hadn't learned to obey yet.
At that moment, a voice full of shock and reverence sounded beside him. It was a language he'd never heard before, yet somehow he understood every word:
"Y-you… you're awake?! Lord Vitli!"
Li Wei whipped his head around.
Standing by the pod was an alien about five feet tall, gray-green skin, huge bulging eyes, and a frog-like face. It held a faintly glowing tablet. Flustered, it shoved the tablet under one arm and bowed so deeply its posture looked drilled into muscle memory—respectful to the point of fear.
"Lord Vitli! Welcome back to consciousness! This is the Upper-Class Warrior Awakening Chamber!"
The frog-alien's voice trembled.
"I am your awakening guide, Kamm. Your battle suit and the newest model of battle power scanner have already been prepared. Your private residence coordinates are in the system, and someone will take you there shortly. If there's anything unsatisfactory, you may request a replacement at any time!"
Lord Vitli? Vitli?
Li Wei (Vitli?) was utterly stunned. His brain crashed.
He looked down at himself. He was wrapped in a thin membrane-like bodysuit, but the body beneath it was absurdly muscular, packed with explosive strength. This sure as hell wasn't the soft, delivery-food-and-all-nighters physique he used to have.
Reincarnation? Transmigration? Aliens? Saiyans?! Upper-class warrior? Me?!
Information shards detonated in his mind.
A lifetime as an orphan, plus having read a million web novels, let him forcibly suppress the tidal wave of panic and shock.
He took a deep breath, tried to imitate those cool, stoic protagonists from dramas, and replied as calmly as he could:
"…Mm. I understand."
Bracing his hands on the icy pod wall, he clumsily climbed out and stood barefoot on the cold floor.
The body was heavy, but a brand-new sense of power coursed through his limbs. Following Kamm's gesture, he looked toward the open metal corridor on one side of the room.
Seeing that the newly awakened Lord Vitli wasn't angry or picky, Kamm visibly relaxed, bowed again until its forehead nearly touched its knees, and said:
"Safe travels, Lord Vitli! May your martial fortune flourish!"
Only after Vitli's figure vanished down the corridor did Kamm dare straighten up.
Wiping sweat from its brow, it muttered shakily, "Lived… thank goodness this lord seems calm. Not like the one last month who almost tore the awakening chamber apart… Now, who's next to wake up…"
The corridor lighting was softer. Vitli walked with a stiff, unfamiliar gait.
The mirror-smooth walls reflected him as he passed: short black spiky hair, a youthful but sharply defined face, eyes hiding a storm of confusion and caution… and a young body brimming with violent strength.
"Vitli… Saiyan… battle power five hundred… prince's guard…"
He chewed on those keywords. Combined with the awakening pod, Kamm's attitude, and the stray Saiyan memories forced into his head, a conclusion surfaced—unbelievable, but crystal clear.
"Dragon Ball world… Planet Vegeta… I became a Saiyan? And I'm supposedly an upper-class warrior?"
He stopped, leaning against the cold metal wall, trying to digest the impact.
"An orphan… in both lives…"
Fuzzy memories of this life came up too—his parents had died storming some high-grade planet while he was still in the nutrient tank.
A faint, familiar ache of identity surfaced—then got drowned by an even sharper survival instinct.
"Prince Vegeta… waking in a year… battle power at least a thousand… I'm his guard?"
Vitli's gaze snapped razor-sharp.
"You've got to be kidding me. Guarding that brat Vegeta? If he gets annoyed, he could crush me like a bug without blinking. I have to get stronger. Before Vegeta comes out, I need to become stronger than him."
The goal had never been clearer: get strong first. Then live as comfortably as possible.
He pushed off the wall and strode toward the corridor exit.
Outside lay his new world as Saiyan Vitli—dangerous, unknown, and full of possibility.
Step one: check out his assigned "home," then train like his life depended on it.
Vitli sat cross-legged on the cold metal ground of his backyard, breathing slowly, steadily.
A month of nonstop sensing and controlling ki had finally let him grasp the basics.
The wild torrent inside him was partly tamed now. With intent alone, he could crudely guide and compress it.
"I can power up too!"
He sprang up, delighted, stretching his limbs as his joints popped.
Inside his simple, rugged Saiyan-style house, he picked up the oddly shaped scouter. The cold device fitted around his ear and temple, its lens glowing softly.
He stood before a huge metal mirror, focusing on his reflection.
Short black spiky hair, sharp eyes, a dark-blue basic battle suit, and a body thrumming with raw force.
"Ha…" He exhaled slowly.
Numbers flickered across the scouter lens: 510… 650… 800… 1150… 1480… 2002!
It peaked at 2002—an increase of fifteen hundred in just one month.
A surge of emotion he couldn't describe flooded his chest.
His path was right. Physical training raised the baseline—but ki awareness and control were the real key to unlocking Saiyan potential.
Then he tried doing the reverse.
He imagined compressing that scorching energy inward, binding it tight.
The readout plunged: 2000… 1500… 800… 554!
He managed to compress it down to 554.
Vitli let out a low roar, his first truly genuine smile since arriving in this world.
The control was still rough, the fluctuations huge—but this was ki manipulation, for real.
It meant he could hide his true strength. More importantly, he'd found the route upward: precise energy use.
He'd built the foundation for powerful techniques from the original story—maybe even sensing others' ki. That mattered far more than chasing raw numbers.
With that confidence, his short-term goal felt even more solid.
First small goal: within a year, surpass Vegeta—at least ten thousand battle power.
He could already see the hope.
The days that followed became more regular… and more insane.
Morning: meditate in the backyard, sense ki flow, practice finer control—aiming to compress lower and steadier, while guiding ki to circulate continuously inside his body.
He often replayed scraps of teachings he remembered—Master Roshi, Korin, and their talk about ki.
Sometimes he tried focusing a tiny spark in his fingertip, watching a weak light flicker there.
Late morning to afternoon: hellish physical training.
Saiyan toughness and recovery let him withstand burdens no Earth human could.
He set up crude but heavy barbells for squats, deadlifts, bench press. Then endless high-intensity shuttle runs, frog jumps, push-ups, sit-ups—training until his muscles tore and his bones screamed, squeezing out the last drop of strength before stopping.
Soaking his suit with sweat and leaving puddles on the ground became normal.
Evening: after a brief rest, he returned to ki recovery and flow training.
He found that after intense physical strain, his ki sensing became sharper instead of duller.
Night: studying the battle suit and scouter, trying to understand their principles. He barely grasped anything, but thinking about their limits helped him plan ways to train more efficiently.
The servants' food still tasted awful, but it came in huge portions and was packed with nutrients.
Vitli forced it down every time. He could feel it turning into heat, nourishing his wrecked body, speeding muscle repair and power growth.
As an upper-class warrior, those resources were his by right.
He rarely left his house. Saiyan society's love of brawling and conquest didn't interest him at all.
Occasionally, other Saiyan warriors would pass by, sense that this four-year-old already had around two thousand battle power, and—remembering he was the prince's guard—only stared with awe or envy. No one dared provoke him.
Vitli liked the peace. He lived by one rule to the extreme: lie low.
In the royal palace, King Vegeta sat on his throne, tapping an icy armrest. His gaze swept coldly over the officials below.
"That Vitli—Mett and Zor's child. How is he lately?"
His voice was quiet, but absolute.
The intelligence officer stepped forward. "Your Majesty, Lord Vitli remains in his residence. The servants report that he… almost never goes out. He spends all his time… training."
"Ha! Training?" King Vegeta's lips curled in sharp contempt.
"An upper-class warrior born with five hundred battle power, thinking he can get stronger with that clumsy, low-class method? Ridiculous. If not for his father Mett's great service to our people, he wouldn't even have the right to look at my son, Prince Vegeta."
His tone chilled. "Keep watching him. He won't stir up anything. As long as he doesn't cause trouble, let him be."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
King Vegeta's eyes turned to a more serious topic. "Any clearer intel on Cold and his son, Frieza?"
A flicker of wariness ghosted through his eyes when he said Cold's name.
The officials bowed lower. The lead intelligence officer braced himself.
"Your Majesty, our apologies. We only learned his name: Frieza. Lord Cold calls him… a rare genius among the Frost Demon clan. As for his battle power and temperament… our spies cannot obtain anything. Anyone who tried to probe deeper…"
His voice trembled.
King Vegeta slammed the armrest, pride and rage erupting.
"Him?! My son Vegeta, the greatest Saiyan prince, will awaken in a year and descend as a king! That is true genius—none in the universe can compare!"
His roar echoed through the hall. The officials went deathly still.
After venting, he drew a breath and regained his icy calm.
"When will Cold's group arrive?"
"The date is confirmed, Your Majesty," another official hurried to answer. "Three months from now. Lord Cold will personally bring his son Frieza to formally visit Planet Vegeta and… pay you his respects."
He emphasized "pay respects."
King Vegeta seemed pleased. His tight expression loosened into a satisfied snort.
"Good. Prepare the welcome properly. Show the might of Saiyan spirit. No mistakes."
"Understood!"
After they left, King Vegeta walked alone to a huge nutrient tank guarded by layered energy shields.
Inside floated the curled, tiny body of the still-sleeping Prince Vegeta.
King Vegeta pressed a broad palm to the cold glass, eyes feverish with hope.
In a whisper only he could hear: "My son… Vegeta… soon… very soon…"
He stared at that small form as if seeing a boundless future beyond it, his voice sinking into near-obsession:
"You will be the legendary Super Saiyan. You will lead our people to conquer the stars. Any obstacle—Cold… that Frieza… all will kneel at your feet!"
His eyes burned with ambition.
While Prince Vegeta was still asleep, another calm month passed. Vitli increased his training again.
He was no longer satisfied with basic conditioning.
Using a few low-status alien engineers, he had a crude gravity room built in a corner of his backyard.
It was primitive, small, and unstable—only covering a limited area. Gravity fluctuated between 1.5 and 3 times Planet Vegeta's normal pull.
But Vitli treated it like treasure. It was far more efficient than plain weighted training.
Now he was shirtless inside, working under about 2.5x gravity.
Each punch and kick came with violent muscle contraction and heavy air-splitting shockwaves.
His sweat had nearly dried out. His skin ran red with heat; steam rose from his head.
His focus was terrifying.
"Not enough. Give me… more!"
He forced more ki into his limbs, resisting the crushing pressure and pushing his body into a stronger eruption.
He could feel his power boiling, hammered and compressed into something denser under high pressure.
The gravity generator groaned. Gravity spiked toward 3x.
"Haah—!"
Vitli seized that instant of extreme strain, condensed everything into one punch, and drove it out.
The air detonated with a deep explosion. A shockwave expanded from his fist, rattling fine metal debris off the ground.
At that moment, he felt an invisible gate inside him snap open.
A torrent of power—far larger and more refined than before—surged from deep within.
His scouter numbers went berserk: 2100… 3200… 5500… 6200… 6800… 7200!
It stopped at 7200.
"Ha… ha… ha…"
Vitli panted, staring at the number in disbelief.
Two months. From five hundred to seven thousand two hundred. Even he was shaken by the pace. Crude gravity plus extreme compression and ki guidance worked insanely well.
"At this rate I won't just hit ten thousand. I've got about ten months of freedom left…"
He smiled. With this growth, he was confident he could reach fifty thousand or more by the time Vegeta awakened.
"Next, I just keep it steady. Once Vegeta goes out on missions… I'll fake my death and disappear. Straight to Earth."
Earth's martial arts heritage would help him a ton. And there was also Bulma, the genius scientist. If he wanted fast growth, why wouldn't he go to her family?
Besides… Planet Vegeta wasn't safe.
He'd planned everything. So long as he didn't do anything stupid, he could leave before the planet's destruction and head for that remote backwater: Earth.
"Age 737… and it's Age 731 now. Plenty of time."
Planet Vegeta getting destroyed? Not his problem.
One sentence: don't come blaming me—we're not close.