The deep quarters had been carved long before Raizen was born.
They were not prisons, though prisoners had screamed within their walls. They were not sanctuaries, though relics deemed too dangerous to destroy had slept there for centuries. The stone was darker here—dense, layered, infused with minerals that dampened ki and swallowed sound. Even footsteps felt heavier, as though the fortress itself wished to discourage presence.
The woman lowered herself onto a stone bench carved directly from the wall, her arms trembling as she adjusted the child against her chest.
Raizen did not cry.
That, more than anything else, unsettled her.
Most newborns screamed until exhaustion claimed them. Hunger, cold, fear—infants knew nothing else. But Raizen lay still, eyes open, gaze unfocused yet strangely steady, as if he were listening to something beyond the room.
She swallowed and brushed a thumb gently across his cheek.
Warm.
Too warm.
Not feverish—no, she knew fever. This was different. A steady heat, deep and contained, like coals buried beneath ash. It did not radiate outward violently anymore. The seal had done its work.
But it had not extinguished the fire.
"Easy," she murmured, though she wasn't sure who she was comforting. "You're safe. For now."
The words tasted false.
She adjusted the cloth wrapped around him—thick, layered fabric woven with suppression threads normally reserved for unstable ki weapons. They had been rushed, improvised, but better than nothing.
The chamber was small. No windows. No decorative banners. Only bare stone, a low ceiling, and a faintly glowing rune circle etched into the floor—dormant now, but ready to activate at the first sign of another surge.
She had seen warriors brought here after battles gone wrong. Men and women whose power had spiraled beyond control, whose bodies had begun to tear themselves apart. Most of them hadn't left.
And now… a child.
Her jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't have to be here," she whispered.
Raizen's fingers twitched.
The motion was small, almost unnoticeable, but it sent a chill through her spine. His hand opened slowly, clumsy and uncoordinated, then closed again—not around her finger, but around empty air.
As if grasping something she couldn't see.
She pulled him closer instinctively.
"No," she said softly. "Nothing for you to reach yet."
The rune circle beneath her feet flickered faintly, responding to her elevated heartbeat more than the child's ki. She forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly, counting the seconds the way medics were taught during battlefield triage.
One. Two. Three.
Her name was Sarela.
She had delivered children on ships under fire, in caves collapsing from orbital bombardment, in tents pitched between rival clan territories where a scream could draw blades. She was not weak. Fear had never stopped her hands from doing their work.
But this was different.
This was not the fear of death.
This was the fear of importance.
A faint tremor passed through the fortress—subtle enough that most would miss it, but unmistakable to someone trained to feel stone and structure.
Sarela stiffened.
They're already moving, she thought.
Outside the deep quarters, the fortress roared with controlled chaos.
Clans did not arrive quietly.
The Varkuun banners were first—black cloth edged in silver, marked with the symbol of a split sun. Their ships settled into orbit without requesting permission, heavy cruisers bristling with cannons disguised as "escort vessels." Their warriors disembarked in full armor, tails wrapped tight, expressions sharp with anticipation.
The Solari followed soon after—sleeker ships, fewer in number, but far more advanced. Their banners shimmered gold and white, their leaders smiling as they walked, as though arriving for negotiation rather than confrontation.
And then there were others.
Minor clans. Satellite factions. Opportunists.
All of them had felt it.
Not the full pressure—not the crushing divine weight that had bent stone—but a ripple. A tremor in the fabric of ki that whispered the same message in a hundred different ways:
Something rare has been born.
In the council chamber, voices clashed like blades.
"You had no right to seal him without consensus!"
"You felt it too—don't pretend otherwise!"
"If he belongs to anyone, he belongs to the strongest clan!"
Kaedor stood at the center of it all, unmoving.
His arms were folded across his chest, ceremonial armor catching the flicker of overhead lights. He listened. He always listened. Letting others speak was a luxury afforded only to those who understood how to wait.
The braided-tail elder paced furiously.
"You can't hide him," he snapped. "Not from this. Not from them."
Kaedor's gaze slid toward him slowly.
"I'm not hiding him," he said. "I'm deciding his future."
"That's the same thing!"
"No," Kaedor replied. "Hiding implies fear."
His eyes hardened.
"This is caution."
A Solari representative—tall, slender, hair bound in a formal knot—stepped forward, palms open in a show of peace.
"We are not here to take the child," she said smoothly. "Only to ensure balance. A being of such… unusual birth could destabilize relations if mishandled."
"Mishandled?" the Varkuun leader scoffed. "You mean if he doesn't end up under your supervision."
The Solari smiled thinly.
"I mean if he ends up dead."
The word rippled through the chamber.
Kaedor's tail flicked once.
"He lives," he said. "That much has already been decided."
"And after?" demanded the Varkuun leader. "When he grows? When his power awakens? Do you intend to raise a god in secret and hope the rest of us simply accept it?"
Kaedor leaned forward slightly.
"I intend," he said, voice low and carrying, "to raise a Saiyan."
Silence fell, sharp and tense.
"God or not," he continued, "he will bleed. He will struggle. He will earn every step forward like any of us. And if he cannot survive that… then no title will save him."
The Solari representative studied him carefully.
"And if he can?" she asked.
Kaedor did not answer.
Because the truth was too dangerous to say aloud.
Deep below, Raizen stirred.
His breathing shifted—still steady, but slower now, deeper. Sarela watched his chest rise and fall, relief warring with unease.
Sleep, she realized.
He's sleeping.
It should not have been remarkable.
But she felt it anyway—the faint settling of the pressure, the way the room seemed to grow quieter, heavier, as if something immense had folded inward and decided to rest.
She dared to relax her grip slightly.
That was when the heat flared.
Not outward. Not violently.
Inward.
Raizen's tiny brow furrowed. His fingers twitched again, more insistently this time, curling and uncurling as if caught in a dream too large for his mind.
Sarela's breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "Not again."
The rune circle beneath her feet pulsed faintly.
Not alarm.
Response.
She felt it then—not pressure, not heat—but resistance.
The seal was holding.
Barely.
Inside the infant, something pushed—not with intent, not with malice—but with instinct. Like a flame seeking oxygen. Like divinity brushing against confinement and learning, for the first time, what restraint felt like.
Raizen's lips parted.
A sound escaped him—not a cry, not even a whimper.
A breath.
And with it, the air in the chamber shifted, thickening as though saturated with unseen weight. The torch along the wall dimmed, then flared back to life, its flame briefly tinged red.
Sarela reached for the emergency glyph carved beside the bench, fingers trembling.
Then she stopped.
The pressure faded.
Raizen's face smoothed. His breathing returned to normal. The coals beneath his skin settled once more, banked but not extinguished.
She slumped forward, heart pounding.
"That's it," she whispered hoarsely. "That's enough."
She didn't know who she was pleading with—the child, the seal, or the universe itself.
Above, negotiations continued to sour.
Threats were implied, then spoken.
Clans argued over guardianship, over rights, over bloodlines and precedent. Some suggested moving the child off-world. Others argued for immediate training. A few whispered about more permanent solutions, their eyes cold.
Kaedor listened.
And chose.
"The child will remain here," he declared. "In the deep quarters. Under my protection."
"You cannot guard him forever," the Varkuun leader said.
Kaedor's lips curved faintly.
"No," he agreed. "But I can buy him time."
Time.
It was the most dangerous gift of all.
Far away—so far that distance lost meaning—Whis watched.
Not directly. Never directly.
He observed the way one might observe ripples spreading across a pond, noting their patterns, their speed, their interference with other waves.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Beside him, Beerus stared into space, irritation slowly giving way to something else.
"This feeling," the god muttered. "It's subtle… but persistent."
Whis tilted his head.
"Do you find it unpleasant?"
Beerus bared his teeth slightly.
"I find it annoying," he said. "Like an itch you can't scratch."
Whis smiled.
"It will likely grow worse," he said pleasantly.
Beerus shot him a glare.
"If this turns into a problem," he warned, "I'll erase it."
Whis's smile did not change.
"Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps… you'll find it erases something else instead."
Beerus growled, but said nothing more.
Back in the deep quarters, Sarela finally allowed herself to sit fully, exhaustion crashing over her like a wave. She cradled Raizen carefully, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the faint twitch of his fingers as he dreamed.
Dreamed of what, she could not imagine.
Fire? Stars? Nothing at all?
She didn't know.
What she did know was this:
The fortress above them was already shifting. Alliances would form. Wars would follow. Blood would be spilled in arguments that all traced back to this quiet, sealed room.
And at the center of it all slept a child who did not yet know what he was.
Sarela tightened her grip just a little.
"Rest," she whispered. "While you still can."
Raizen slept on.
And the embers waited.