The silence of space pressed in around him, but Mori didn't feel peace.
He floated alone, arms curled around his legs, drifting with no aim as the stars moved around him like quiet witnesses. He had tried to push it down—what happened on that planet.
The fear in their eyes.
The screams.
The energy that lashed out from within him, wild and merciless.
The way everything… died.
His teeth clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.
But it wouldn't leave him.
No matter how far he flew, how fast he tried to escape, it clung to him like a ghost on his shoulders. The more he forced it to the edge of his mind, the more it bled through the cracks. His chest ached. His breath hitched. He hated it. He hated this power.
It made him a monster.
Not a child.
Not a friend.
Not someone worthy of smiles.
He drifted for what felt like hours in agony, whispering apologies to no one.
"I didn't want to… I didn't mean to… I didn't want to…"
And slowly, reluctantly, the pain didn't vanish—but he accepted it. What he'd done, what had happened. He couldn't run from it anymore.
But his power? The force that made it happen?
He wanted nothing to do with it.
Something inside him responded.
Unseen, a dormant piece of ancient Frost Demon code woven deep in his DNA awoke—an instinctual defense mechanism for those who'd lost control.
His ki flared. His body tensed. His aura began to shift.
He gasped as pain flashed through his limbs, not external, but internal—like pressure being shoved into a bottle too small to hold it. And then...
Five symbols ignited across his body.
On his right hand, a purple triangular seal emerged at the tip of his knuckles, two ram-like horns curling beneath it, a glowing line stretching down to the base of his palm.
On his left hand, a blue circular seal formed—five layered rings, pulsing faintly like ripples on still water.
Over his left chest, a black square seal, harsh and sharp, with lines stretching from every corner, etched across his skin.
On the right chest, a green diamond seal, filled with tiny, intricate triangles, each pulsating slowly like breathing lungs.
And on his stomach, the final—the largest—seal. A swirling combination of every shape: triangle, circle, square, diamond, and more. It spun slowly, locked in a pink hue, like a sealed vault holding something immense.
And just like that… Mori's ki dimmed.
His energy felt smaller. Quieter. Contained.
He floated there in stunned silence, unaware of what he'd just done—but knowing something was different. He didn't understand the seals. Couldn't see them clearly. But deep inside, he knew one thing:
He was weaker now.
And for once… he felt safer that way.
Five days passed.
The boy didn't smile. But the tears had stopped.
He drifted quietly through the stars, watching planets spin in the distance, ignoring the aching weight in his chest. He had decided to keep going, no matter what. Not because he knew where he belonged… but because staying still hurt even more.
Eventually, a familiar blue and green orb came into view.
Earth.
Or as he called it… Whistler.
But before descending, Mori floated gently toward a nearby, silver-gray body. The moon.
It was quiet here.
No one to yell. No one to fear him.
Just rock. Cold windless silence. And stars.
Mori sat at the edge of a crater, legs dangling, gazing down at the glowing planet below. He pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin atop them.
His voice was small, unsure, but hopeful.
"…Maybe this one'll be different."
Across the vastness of space, through nebulae painted in stardust and clusters of blazing suns, the universe itself stirred. Not in a violent quake or a world-ending rupture, but in something more ancient and elusive—a trembling pulse, felt not by mortals or machines, but by the few cosmic sentinels who dwelled beyond the perception of time.
The Sacred Planet of the Kais, nestled between dimensions and set far above the affairs of mortal worlds, basked in quiet serenity. The trees here bore fruits that shimmered like galaxies. The grass hummed when touched by the light wind. And in the middle of this celestial sanctuary, two divine beings sat in conversation—one ever calm, the other burdened by quiet wonder.
The Supreme Kai, a short lavender-skinned deity with white mohawk-like hair, sat cross-legged on a large, stone platform, his expression tense. Floating beside him, ever at ease, was Whis—angel attendant to the God of Destruction, staff in hand, eyes watching the stars with that timeless, unreadable smile.
"You felt it too, didn't you, Whis?" the Supreme Kai finally said, his voice no louder than a whisper, yet filled with heavy realization. "The universe shifted again."
Whis tilted his head, tapping his staff lightly against the air, conjuring a miniature model of the universe in glowing blue light. The energy trembled subtly, like a held breath.
"Yes," Whis said with a gentle nod, his voice melodic and amused. "It was faint, but unmistakable. A resonance."
The Kai turned, his brow furrowed.
He rose to his feet, walking toward the edge of the platform and looking out across the vastness of space. "Each time the universe has trembled, it's always been tied to... them."
Whis's smile faded into something more curious. "The children."
The Supreme Kai nodded. "The ones not born of coincidence. The ones fate itself seemed to lean toward."
He raised his hand, palm outward, and summoned images of four individuals, bathed in ethereal light, each frozen in a moment of raw innocence—as infants.
"The first," the Supreme Kai began, pointing to an image of a tiny, fierce-eyed child swaddled in royal cloth, his small brow already creased in anger. "Prince Vegeta. Born to the Saiyan throne, forged in pride. When he came into the world, the universe shifted on a scale of six."
"The scale?" Whis asked lightly.
"A way to measure the cosmic impact," the Kai explained. "A tool I devised long ago. The higher the number, the more violently the threads of destiny were altered."
Whis chuckled softly. "How very analytical of you."
The Kai ignored the tease and pointed to the next image. It split into two as the forms of two babies emerged—one wrapped in a deep crimson cloth, the other in forest green. Their auras flickered even as infants, wild and untamed.
"Cumber and Broly. Twin Saiyans. Born mere minutes apart. The universe trembled twice that day, though in a fluid form—more like waves than a quake. Their scale measured at four."
Whis blinked slowly. "Interesting. A double-shift, yet not as disruptive."
"Because they were bound," the Supreme Kai nodded. "Their power was staggering, but interlinked. Yin and yang of primal fury."
He turned to the third image. It was the smallest of the four—a tiny child with a wide forehead, wild hair, and a warm, innocent smile.
"Son Goku," the Kai murmured. "Or rather... Kakarot."
Whis raised an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. The low-class warrior."
The Supreme Kai's face was solemn. "Born the weakest Saiyan in recorded history, and yet... the universe responded as if a storm had cracked open the heavens. Scale eight."
Whis's calm demeanor wavered for the briefest of moments. "Eight, for one so weak?"
"Not weak," the Kai corrected. "Pure. Untouched by violence at birth. His potential—his destiny—it was greater than any before him."
Finally, the Kai moved his hand, and the last image unfolded.
This one was different.
The child was sleeping, cradled in a strange metallic cradle unlike anything from known space. Tubes and monitors surrounded him. But his aura—his essence—flickered in a thousand colors, untamed and violent. His form shifted subtly, as if unsure what it was.
"And the last," the Supreme Kai whispered. "Mori."
Whis's eyes gleamed.
"Ah, the anomaly."
"Yes. The universe did not shift in one quake, or even two. It pulsed. Repeatedly. As if confused. As if frightened. The child—not born of natural means. Created in the womb but tampered with. Injected with DNA from the strongest races in the cosmos. Saiyan. Namekian. Frost Demon. Even..."
He paused.
"Even Majin."
Whis closed his eyes for a moment. "Dangerous."
"The scale," the Supreme Kai said quietly, "cannot measure him. The scale does not know how."
The angel floated closer, gently placing a hand on the Kai's shoulder.
"And now, as we speak," Whis said, "two of them have entered the same vicinity. The child of wrath and pride... and the anomaly."
The Kai exhaled deeply. "The universe shuddered. As if bracing itself."
Whis waved his staff, and two dots began to converge on the holographic model of the galaxy.
"Earth," Whis said simply. "The gathering place."
The Kai turned toward him, concern etched on his face. "Should we intervene? Perhaps warn Lord Beerus? If these powers meet in battle—"
"No."
Whis's voice, though calm, was absolute.
"Do not interfere. Not yet."
The Kai blinked. "But why?"
"Because the story is still being written," Whis said softly. "These children... they are not accidents. They are threads in the loom of fate. Pull too hard on one, and the entire tapestry could unravel."
The Supreme Kai looked back to the images of the four children, now glowing faintly in the hologram.
"Then what do we do?"
Whis turned back to the stars, his eyes distant.
"We watch. We listen."
Above them, the stars shimmered. And somewhere, on the moon overlooking a small blue planet, a child with seals glowing softly on his skin sat in silence, unaware of the divine eyes watching his every breath.
And the universe?
It held its breath again.
Waiting.