The Arrival of the Prince

  The city was alive with celebration, a vast metropolis of golden towers and pristine marble streets stretching beneath the twin suns. It was a place of beauty and discipline, where Saiyans walked with pride, yet beneath the elegance, deep-rooted discrimination thrived. Nobles in flowing robes scoffed at the sight of the lower classes, their sharp eyes filled with quiet disdain. Merchants peddled their wares, casting nervous glances at the armored enforcers who patrolled the streets. Even among their own kind, Saiyan society was divided—only strength dictated worth.

  Above the grand capital, Castle Asraioth stood, a monument to power and lineage, its spires piercing the heavens like the fangs of a dragon. Within its highest chamber, Bumma gently stroked the head of her young son, Gogeta, her lips curling into a soft smile.

  "Wow, you're growing," she murmured.

  Gogeta, only a child, blinked up at her with wide, determined eyes. "I’m gonna be strong, mama!"

  She chuckled, ruffling his wild hair. "I know you are."

  Then, as if fate had scripted the moment, a deep tremor ran through the city. The ground quaked, and the sky darkened as a colossal space fleet descended, casting an endless shadow over the kingdom. The silence before the storm.

  Then—deafening roars.

  "THE PRINCE HAS COME!"

  Hundreds of millions of Saiyans filled the streets, voices rising in a symphony of war cries and praise. Banners unfurled from the towering buildings, each bearing the sigil of the royal house—the crest of Asraioth—a black dragon wreathed in golden flames. From the flagship, an army of warriors descended, their armor gleaming in the sunlight.

  At the forefront was Zeelthar.

  Slim, yet undeniably powerful, his presence commanded absolute respect. His emerald eyes burned with the fire of conquest, and his dark hair was bound in warrior’s knots. Draped in an obsidian cloak, he carried a single trophy in his grasp—a frost demon’s severed head.

  But he was not alone.

  Behind him, hundreds of millions of elite warriors followed, and at their feet lay mountains of severed heads, each belonging to their greatest rivals. Among them was a single bald warrior, his muscular frame wrapped in jagged battle scars. His name was Gairok, a legend among warriors. He stepped forward, gripping a head twice the size of the others.

  “I have slain a king-level Frost Demon,” he declared, his deep voice carrying across the masses.

  A hush fell upon the city.

  Then, eruption.

  Saiyans screamed in triumph, fists raised to the heavens, their war cries shaking the very foundations of the castle. "WE GO, PRINCE! WE GO, PRINCE!"

  But among them, Bumma stood frozen, her breath catching in her throat. Her grip on Gogeta tightened.

  This was no ordinary return.

  She flared her energy, soaring into the air, clutching her son protectively as she made for the castle gates. She had to see him. She had to see Zeelthar.

  The grand garden of Castle Asraioth, a place of tranquility with cascading waterfalls and endless stretches of emerald grass, was now a stage for war’s aftermath.

  Zeelthar stepped forward, kneeling before the throne, his warriors following suit. Their heads bowed, their faces hidden in shadow.

  "Grandfather, I have brought you the heads of our enemies, our greatest foes, to offer to the most powerful lord—Lord Gogito."

  The King, Asraioth, leaned forward, his golden eyes gleaming with pride. A long silence stretched before his voice rang through the chamber.

  "You have honored our bloodline with your devotion." His voice was as heavy as the weight of the cosmos itself.

  Zeelthar did not move. He remained kneeling, his head still low. He had not expected what came next.

  The King rose from his throne, stepping toward his grandson. Then, placing a firm hand atop Zeelthar’s head, he declared:

  "You are the next king of the throne."

  Silence.

  Then—shock.

  Every warrior, every noble, every Saiyan present reeled.

  Even Zeelthar’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the severed head in his grasp.

  The celebration turned into a storm of emotions.

  Some warriors cheered. Others clenched their fists, resentment flashing in their eyes. Jealousy seeped into the air like poison.

  And then Gairok stepped forward, his voice unwavering.

  "I have slain a king. A king-level Frost Demon."

  He lifted the severed head, its frozen expression forever twisted in agony.

  The King’s eyes darkened.

  "Then you shall be rewarded with gold, diamonds, and the finest of women. You have proven yourself."

  Murmurs spread through the warriors. Some of them seethed in envy. Others averted their gaze, knowing they could do nothing.

  Then, King Asraioth lifted his hand.

  "We shall have a festival. A festival for the greatest warriors of our race."

  The warriors exploded in triumph, their cries shaking the castle walls.

  "WE ARE THE STRONGEST IN THE MULTIVERSE!"

  "KING ZEELTHAR! KING ZEELTHAR!"

  The city shook beneath their voices.

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  And among them, Bumma watched in stunned silence.

  She turned to her son, Gogeta, who gazed at the scene, his expression unreadable.

  His eyes did not shine with admiration.

  They shone with curiosity.

  And in that moment, Bumma knew—something had awakened within him.

  This was only the beginning.The Asraioth Legacy – Chapter 2: The Lost Prince

  A tale of innocence shattered.

  1. The Festival & Gogeta’s Escape

  The Grand Festival of Asraioth was in full swing.

  Golden pyres burned high, casting flickering shadows over towering statues of legendary warriors. Embers drifted into the black sky like tiny souls ascending to the gods. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilled wine, and burning incense.

  Saiyan warriors laughed, smashing their cups together in drunken merriment, while nobles in flowing robes observed from the grand balconies, watching the celebrations with practiced grace. It was a night of triumph, a night where the strong reveled in their power and the weak tried to disappear.

  But in the heart of it all, a small boy fidgeted uncomfortably in royal attire.

  Gogeta.

  His mother, Bumma, had warned him not to wander.

  "Stay close, gogeta," she had whispered earlier, adjusting his ceremonial sash. Her blue hair shimmered under the firelight, and her piercing eyes swept the crowd with quiet intensity. "Don't wonder off to far stay close to me okay ."

  But Gogeta was curious.

  And curiosity was stronger than fear.

  So, when the warriors grew rowdy, and his mother turned to speak with a councilman—

  He vanished.

  He weaved through the crowds, slipping beneath feasting tables, dodging drunken Saiyans, and finally leaping over the palace walls.

  The night air filled his lungs, and a grin spread across his face.

  For the first time in his life—he was truly alone.

  And he had no idea what awaited him.

  2. The Lower Districts

  The moment Gogeta entered the lower districts, he felt it.

  The air was thicker, like it carried the weight of something unsaid. The roads were cracked, littered with debris and puddles of murky water. Unlike the golden halls of the palace, there were no banners here, no flowing silks—just crumbling stone walls and flickering torches barely holding back the darkness.

  And the Saiyans here—they looked different.

  Their armor was rusted, their faces hollow, their eyes sunken with exhaustion.

  Women whispered among themselves, clutching their children close as they passed. A small girl, barely five, stared at Gogeta’s fine red and gold robes, her lips dry and chapped. She reached out a trembling hand, as if to touch the silk—

  Her mother smacked it away.

  "Don’t!" the woman hissed, dragging her child back.

  Gogeta froze.

  And then—he heard shouting.

  3. The Fight in the Dirt

  A group of Saiyan children were brawling in the street.

  But this wasn’t training.

  This was real.

  Blood dripped from cracked lips. Fists struck with the desperation of survival. There were no rules, no techniques—only pain.

  Gogeta took a step closer—and the moment they saw him, they attacked.

  A boy, no older than Gogeta, lunged at him.

  Instinct kicked in—Gogeta dodged.

  The boy stumbled, eyes wide in shock.

  Then—the others rushed in.

  Five against one.

  Punches. Kicks. Wild swings.

  But Gogeta didn’t strike back.

  He weaved through them effortlessly, dodging every blow like it was a game.

  He was confused.

  "Why are you fighting?!

  Then—one of the boys snapped.

  Tears ran down his face as he charged again.

  "I’ll make you pay for what you did!"

  Gogeta hesitated.

  Then—his fist moved.

  CRACK.

  The boy’s body flew across the street.

  He hit the ground hard.

  Silence.

  His sisters screamed, running to him.

  "Please! Don’t kill us!"

  Gogeta’s hands shook.

  What had he done?

  For the first time in his life, he had hurt someone.

  And he hated it.

  4. The Guards Arrive

  "What’s going on here?!"

  Saiyan guards.

  They stormed forward, their black armor gleaming under the torches. Their scouters beeped, scanning the scene.

  They looked at the unconscious boy—then at Gogeta.

  "What are you doing here, kid?"

  Gogeta didn’t know what to say.

  Then—the boy woke up.

  And he snapped.

  "I’LL KILL YOU ALL!"

  He rushed at the guards.

  A single backhand.

  He collapsed.

  Gogeta froze.

  "Where are you taking him?!" he shouted.

  A guard scoffed. "Screw off, brat."

  The boy suddenly woke up again—screaming.

  "PLEASE! HELP ME! PLEASE!"

  Something inside Gogeta broke.

  He grabbed the guard’s arm.

  The guard stiffened.

  This child—was too strong.

  Then—the guards ambushed him.

  They lifted him up—and beat him.

  Fists struck his small body.

  Pain.

  Mocking voices.

  "Think you’re tough, little prince?!"

  "This is what happens to weaklings!"

  Gogeta cried.

  "Why?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!"

  Then—he bit down.

  The guard screamed.

  A gun fired.

  PAIN.

  Gogeta’s leg exploded in agony.

  For the first time—he saw blood.

  His own blood.

  He fell.

  And then—she arrived.

  ---

  5. Bumma’s Wrath

  A shadow loomed.

  The guards turned—and paled.

  Bumma.

  She stood still as stone.

  But her eyes burned.

  "What happened here?"

  Gogeta sobbed.

  "M-Mama… they hurt me..."

  The guards realized who she was.

  They lied.

  "He attacked us first,He—"

  They didn’t see her move.

  One moment—she was standing.

  The next—a guard flew across the street.

  The others powered up.

  It didn’t matter.

  She was too fast.

  A flicker of movement.

  The ground shattered.

  Five guards hit the dirt—broken, beaten.

  She knelt, pulling Gogeta into her arms.

  "There, there, my little warrior… don’t cry."

  He sobbed into her chest.

  Then—he whispered.

  "Mama... take the boy... and his sisters too."

  Her heart softened.

  She nodded.

  She flied grabbing the two kids Then they went home

  Chapter Title: The Unspoken Truth

  Bumma’s Home – The Weight of a Mother’s Choice

  The festival drums echoed in the distance, their rhythmic booms carried by the evening breeze. The sky outside Bumma’s home burned in deep orange and purple hues, painting the landscape in an otherworldly glow. Inside, the warm glow of a dimly lit lamp cast soft shadows over the small bed where Gogeta slept, breathing steadily, his tiny chest rising and falling.

  Bumma knelt beside him, brushing a few stray locks of hair from his forehead. He was so peaceful—so unaware of the weight she carried in her heart.

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced his cheek.

  "Should I go?"

  The thought made her pause.

  She hadn’t been to a festival in years. Not since Kael. Not since… everything.

  She wasn’t just going for herself—she knew that deep down.

  She was going because for the first time in forever, she wanted to see Zeelthar.

  Not just hear about him. Not just imagine his face. She wanted to see him.

  Her throat tightened as she whispered, "Sleep well, my son," before pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. She hesitated again, then pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

  Then, quietly, she turned away and left, stepping into the night.

  ---

  Zeelthar’s Table – The Drunken Confession

  The great hall of Asraioth’s festival was bursting with chaos—Saiyans laughing, fighting, drinking, and shouting over one another. The air was thick with the scent of fire-roasted meat and the faint bitterness of fermented Saiyan ale.

  At a long table, surrounded by warriors draped in pelts and battle-scars, Zeelthar sat among his closest comrades, his expression darker than the ale swirling in his cup.

  One of his friends, Vekel, a burly Saiyan with a jagged scar running across his jaw, slapped a hand on the table.

  Vekel (grinning): "Brother, you’ve had more than a few drinks. What’s on your mind?"

  Zeelthar scoffed, tilting his head back. His crimson eyes flickered toward the firepit at the center of the hall, but he wasn’t really looking at it. He was seeing something else.

  Something long buried.

  Something he never spoke of.

  Zeelthar (quietly): "Bumma."

  Silence.

  The rowdiness of the table faded for a moment as his warriors exchanged glances.

  Another Saiyan, Raigor, a leaner warrior with sharp features, leaned forward with an amused smirk.

  Raigor: "Bumma? Haven’t heard that name in years. Still got a thing for her, Prince?"

  Zeelthar exhaled sharply, his grip on the cup tightening.

  Zeelthar: "You don’t understand."

  Vekel leaned in, the teasing tone in his voice softening slightly.

  Vekel: "Then tell us."

  Zeelthar’s jaw clenched. The flickering light from the fire cast deep shadows over his face, emphasizing the weight in his eyes.

  He slammed his drink down onto the table, causing a sharp clatter.

  Zeelthar: "I never told her."

  His voice cracked slightly, and for a moment, he looked… vulnerable.

  Raigor: "...What?"

  Zeelthar: "I never told her. I never confessed. And you know why?"

  The warriors sat in uncomfortable silence.

  Zeelthar’s breathing was heavy, as if every word was dragging something out of him that he had kept locked away for too long.

  Zeelthar: "Because she loved someone else. And I… I was too proud. Too much of a damn coward to tell her."

  His hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms so hard they nearly drew blood.

  Zeelthar (bitterly): "I should have been the one. I should have fought for her. But I just— I just stood there and watched. Like a fool."

  His voice dropped to a whisper, almost broken.

  Zeelthar: "She was the most beautiful woman on this planet. The strongest. And I let her go."

  The warriors exchanged glances again, but this time, there was no teasing. No laughter. Just the unspoken weight of regret.

  Vekel, normally the loudest of them, exhaled and shook his head.

  Vekel: "You’re the Prince of Asraioth. No woman is out of your reach."

  Raigor (grinning slightly, trying to lift the mood): "Hell, if you’re not gonna take her, maybe I will."

  Silence.

  Raigor froze when he saw the look on Zeelthar’s face.

  Zeelthar (low, dangerous): "I dare you."

  The air changed.

  The table trembled.

  A deep rumbling filled the hall, as if the entire ground itself had awakened.

  Then—

  BOOM.

  The festival came to a dead stop.

  The music cut off. Conversations died mid-sentence.

  A gust of pressure ripped through the great hall, sending dishes clattering and banners whipping against the walls.

  People gasped and stumbled back, their instincts screaming danger.

  Zeelthar’s aura had flared violently—not in an explosion, but in a slow, suffocating wave of power that gripped the entire room.

  Raigor swallowed hard, his confidence gone.

  Vekel (quickly, trying to de-escalate): "Alright, alright, brother. No one’s taking her. Calm down."

  Zeelthar’s red eyes burned, his muscles tense, his breathing heavy.

  For a moment, it looked like he might tear the entire hall apart.

  Then, slowly… he exhaled. The pressure faded.

  Zeelthar closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, his jaw tightening.

  Zeelthar: "...I need another drink."

  ---

  Bumma Arrives – The Unspoken Reunion

  Outside t

  Nohe festival, Bumma stood at the entrance, her breath caught in her throat.

  She had felt that pressure. That terrifying, suffocating power.

  She knew it instantly.

  Zeelthar.

  Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to take a step forward.

  As she walked into the festival, the energy still lingered in the air. Saiyans were whispering. Staring toward the hall where the pulse had come from.

  Bumma ignored them.

  Her feet moved before her mind could catch up.

  She was here.

  And soon, he would see her.