Legend and Finale

Whis nodded, the crystal ball atop his staff swirling with starlight as if responding to the thoughts in his mind.

"So, Lord Beerus, you believe the Saiyan who caused such a commotion on Vampa is likely the infant who was exiled all those years ago?"

"It is merely a possibility." Beerus's voice dropped, and even his tail went limp.

"It has been decades. Vampa... that godforsaken place, even the hardiest cockroaches in the universe couldn't survive there. Whether an abandoned infant could have even made it through the first day is hard to say."

Whis took over, his tone remaining calm, though a meaningful glint appeared in his eyes.

"But what if he did survive? What if, in such an extreme, energy-depleted environment, he relied solely on himself to reach the level he is at now—strong enough to give Goku and Vegeta a headache, perhaps even exceeding the limits of 'Super Saiyan Blue'..."

He didn't continue, merely watching Beerus with a faint smile.

Beerus understood exactly what remained unsaid.

If such a person truly existed, having broken through his limits on a forgotten hellscape like Vampa through sheer instinct and resilience to reach such heights—he was either a genius or a legend incarnate.

"Hmph..." Beerus remained silent for a long time before a rare, excited smile, tinged with anticipation, tugged at the corners of his mouth.

A light seemed to ignite within his crimson eyes.

"I thought there wouldn't be anything to interest me before the Tournament of Power. Who would have thought there was such a 'surprise' hidden away."

He uncrossed his arms and pointed toward the distant corridor of swirling light. "Whis, don't dawdle, hurry up!"

"As you command, Lord Beerus." Whis replied with a smile, tapping his staff once more.

As the tip struck, the space rippled violently, like a stone hitting the surface of a pond.

Instantly, the light within the hyperspace corridor surged, stretching the starlight into dazzling torrents that enveloped them, whistling toward Vampa.

Meanwhile, on the forgotten, desolate landscape of crimson and gray—Vampa.

Broly stood silently, looking like a bronze statue, his muscles taut, his green combat suit long since tattered.

The rock beneath his feet, once somewhat intact, was now covered in cracks and scorch marks—the remnants of the fierce battle that had just transpired.

The thin, frigid atmosphere, laden with endless dust, swirled around his massive frame, whistling incessantly.

The battle had long since ended; the boiling blood had slowly cooled, and the rage that could tear through stars had receded, leaving behind only bottomless exhaustion and a silence bordering on the void.

He began to clear the wreckage of his own making, his movements slow and even a bit clumsy.

Not far away, the soil at the edge of a rift still bore signs of being freshly turned.

Paragus—the man who had given him life, yet trapped him in chains his entire existence—was gone.

Using hands capable of crushing stone, Broly dug a deep pit beneath the hardest layer of rock in the rift.

There was no coffin, no tombstone, not even a word of farewell.

He simply lifted the cold corpse, his movements surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his raw, brute strength.

Then, he placed the body into the pit and covered it, handful by handful, with soil mixed with gravel.

Finally, he used his massive palms to pack the earth down, making it look no different from the cracked ground around it, as if nothing had ever happened.

No markers, no rituals; just like the stones buried by the wind and sand on Vampa every day, it returned silently to the desolation and eternity.

After finishing, Broly stood motionless.

His green eyes gazed across the land that had accompanied him for decades—cruel yet familiar—looking toward the perpetually dim sky on the horizon and the dull star that stared down like a cold, indifferent eye.

The wind picked up, whipping his wild hair and tattered cape, but it could not blow away the thick, inseparable loneliness that clung to him.

He was like the planet itself: powerful, desolate, scarred, and forgotten by the entire world.

He didn't actually know why he had done this.

Perhaps forty-one years of companionship had etched certain habits into his bones; perhaps the instincts remaining deep within his body were still guiding him; or perhaps he simply needed a reason—any reason—to continue doing something, rather than standing frozen like a stone statue in this dead, silent wasteland.

Broly slowly looked up, his black hair dancing in the dry, hot wind.

He stared at the sky, his gaze piercing through Vampa's perpetual, dust-choked, orange-red atmosphere.

Beyond that deep, dark void of space, on the edge of his beast-like, keen perception, something was disturbing the void.

It wasn't a sound, nor was it light, but an encroaching sense of presence.

It was as if someone had thrown a stone into a calm lake, and the ripples were spreading at an astonishing speed, aimed directly at his location.

"An illusion..." he muttered in a low, gravelly voice, nearly swallowed by the wind.

He shook his head, trying to cast off the inexplicable sensation.

Forty-one years of solitude were enough to make one's senses dull and suspicious.

His thick soles crushed a piece of weathered rock, and he prepared to turn back toward the crude cave he had chiseled into the cliffside.

But the moment his muscles tightened and his center of gravity shifted—

A light tore through the firmament without warning.

It did not come from Vampa's dying star, but erupted suddenly from outside the atmosphere.

At first, it was just a blinding point of light, then it swelled violently, transforming into a silver-white flame that was impossible to look at directly.