The First Second of Becoming a Saiyan: This dream is so exhilarating. The Second Second: Wait, it's not a dream?

Saiyans.

In the world of Dragon Ball, anyone who heard those three words would shudder.

They were universally recognized as the strongest warrior race in the cosmos—warlike, vicious, born to live for battle.

Among this race, whether man or woman, old or young, what flowed in their bones was scalding battle blood.

They possessed the highest average combat talent in the entire universe.

Every Saiyan was born a killing machine.

Aside from fighting, they looked down on everything else.

Having children?

That stuff was nothing but a pain in the ass that got in the way of fighting.

So no matter how powerful the Saiyans were, their population was pitifully small.

All told, there were only around ten thousand of them.

Placed in the boundless universe, they could not even make a splash.

Their numbers were few, but their quality was terrifying.

To make up for their lack of quantity, the Creator had given them heaven-defying individual combat power.

Even an old Saiyan on the verge of dying of age, with all his teeth fallen out, as long as he had a weapon in hand, looked no worse than a young man when he charged in to risk his life.

Their home was called Planet Vegeta.

The gravity on this planet was ten times that of Earth!

Pressed under this gravity year-round, the Saiyans' bodies were packed with rock-hard muscles, piece after piece, like stone.

Here, skinny people simply could not survive.

Beneath every inch of skin hid enough power to blow the sky apart.

They dared to call themselves "the strongest in the universe."

But no one had expected that such an arrogant, badass race would ultimately be wiped out completely in an especially ridiculous, especially pathetic way.

They were clearly hunters, yet in the end they became prey.

They clearly looked invincible, yet they were erased cleanly from the history of the universe.

Who, in the end, had touched the lifeline of this pack of lunatics?

There was only one answer.

Frieza.

That fiend who called himself the Emperor of the Universe held a vast Galactic Army in his grasp.

Wherever he went, not a blade of grass survived.

It was he who personally plotted the destruction of Planet Vegeta.

He blew this planet that had raised countless powerful warriors into a handful of ash in space.

Outsiders all said that the reason Frieza dealt such a killing blow was because he was afraid.

He feared the legend passed down in the Saiyans' bloodline.

Super Saiyan.

It was said that once a Super Saiyan appeared, even a big shot like Frieza would be trampled underfoot.

Recently, Frieza had been growing more and more panicked, because several "genius" monsters had emerged among the Saiyans one after another.

That made Frieza feel as if he had swallowed a fly—disgusted and miserable.

In the end, he simply went all the way and wiped out the entire planet.

But did that reason really make sense?

Bullshit!

No matter how amazing the Saiyans were, in their normal state, their combat power topped out at just over ten thousand.

But Frieza?

In his ordinary state, that guy already kept his combat power suppressed at five hundred and thirty thousand!

Five hundred and thirty thousand against ten thousand—how was that any different from a grown man beating up a kindergarten kid?

Frieza would be afraid of that ten thousand combat power?

Say that out loud, and even a passing dog would laugh itself into convulsions.

So the threat of the legend might have annoyed Frieza, but it definitely was not enough to make him commit genocide.

Then what was the real motive?

The reason was complicated, but the most central thread pointed to an existence even Frieza had to kneel and serve.

God of Destruction Beerus.

That god who had been sleeping all along had long since quietly handed the Saiyan race's power over life and death to Frieza.

Deals between the big shots at the top were not something the little ants at the bottom had any right to interrupt.

And for Frieza, who had long found the Saiyans an eyesore, this was practically a pie falling from the sky.

Since even the god had tacitly allowed it, what was there to fear?

With a single order, all Saiyans were recalled to Planet Vegeta.

Just one short month later, this once-glorious warrior race was gone.

The survivors could be counted on one hand.

Kakarot, Vegeta...

Only a few names like that were left, becoming the last sparks of the Saiyans.

Which brought up the question.

Why was I rambling on here about the Saiyans' background?

Had I suddenly gotten fired up and wanted to launch into an impassioned speech?

Or had inspiration struck, leaving me unable to hold it in unless I said it?

Of course not.

Because—I had become a Saiyan too.

In front of the full-length mirror stood a tall, burly, muscular man, quietly staring at himself.

Who was that?

That was me.

The light in his eyes was especially sharp, as if it could see straight through the air.

A messy head of black, hedgehog-like spikes—that was the Saiyans' signature hairstyle.

No matter how it grew, it would always look this defiant and unconvinced.

His face could not be called handsome, even a little ordinary, but anyone who glanced at him would be certain: this was a Saiyan.

Looking closer, although this body was young and the flesh was firm, the broad shoulders and chest were crisscrossed with scars.

Paired with that messy hair that looked as if it had never once been combed, his whole person gave off a wild "don't mess with me" aura.

Mm, very Saiyan. Extremely Saiyan.

A thick tail swayed lightly behind his waist, the unique pride of a warrior race.

"Tch, so this is my identity this time?"

Judging by the face alone, it was passable.

But this hairstyle was seriously aggravating.

It was said that a Saiyan's hairstyle was innate; unless they went bald, they could never change it for the rest of their life.

He stared at the pile of black hair in the mirror that looked like a bird's nest and sighed helplessly.

Forget it. He could not be bothered to fuss with it.

His brows furrowed, and his gaze swept over himself from top to bottom.

In any case, the people he would meet in the future would all be fellow Saiyans, so there was no need to care too much about his appearance.

What did bother him were all these scars. What had this guy done before he died?

How had he ended up in such a miserable state?

He turned around and plopped down onto the broken iron-frame bed behind him.

"How long do I have to sleep this time before I wake up?"

Outside the window, a huge meteor dragged a long fiery tail across the sky.

Logically speaking, if an ordinary person encountered something like this, they should have rolled their eyes, foamed at the mouth, and fainted on the spot.

But he was absurdly calm.

Why?

The reason was simple.

Wasn't this just a dream?

Anyone could figure it out with their toes. One second he had been asleep, and the next he opened his eyes and had become a Saiyan from Dragon Ball.

How could something this ridiculous possibly be real?

Other than dreaming, what other explanation was there?

It was not like he had never had dreams like this before.

Last time, he had dreamed that he became a small soldier in the Frieza Force, and during a tug-of-war battle to seize Earth, he was blasted to pieces by an energy blast that came from who knew where.

The pain had woken him up on the spot.

That feeling really was awful.

But this time was different.

Since he had become a Saiyan in his dream, there was plenty of fun to be had.

Although he did not know when this dream would end, at least for this stretch of time, he had the capital to swagger around unchecked.

Compared with last time, when he had inexplicably given himself away for nothing, this time he could finally enjoy himself.

In any case, no matter what happened, even if Frieza killed him in the dream, it would only end with him waking up in shock.

It was not like he would lose a piece of flesh, and he could even experience the thrill of being one of the strong.

Why not?

Thinking of this, the corners of his mouth lifted, revealing a playful smile.

Whether it was Saiyans or Frieza, none of it mattered. It was nothing but a fleeting dream, gone when dawn came.

He silently raised his right hand and slowly clenched his fist.

Bang!

His muscles tensed in an instant, and an explosive force traveled along the bones of his arm through his entire body.

The feeling was too real, as if countless streams of heat were rampaging through his blood vessels.

Suddenly, that unprecedented sense of reality made him freeze.

"Wait... is this really a dream?"

This was not an illusion, nor was it wild imagination.

That tightly clenched fist, those bulging blue veins, those muscles rising and falling with his breathing.

And the metallic tang and smell of blood drifting in the air.

Everything was frighteningly real.

By instinct, he pinched his thigh hard.

A sharp pain shot straight up.

"What? Hold on, is this really a dream?"

If this was a dream, then it was far too real.

If this was not a dream...

Then did that not mean he had really become that Saiyan who was about to face the catastrophe of his race's extinction?

Become one of that race trembling beneath the shadow of death cast by Frieza?