Time flowed on, and roughly seventy years passed.
It was now year 737 on Earth.
---
In a corner of the galaxy, there existed a planet with gravity ten times that of Earth in the North Galaxy.
The original name of this planet no longer mattered—what did matter was that it had been conquered by a notorious band of interstellar outlaws, a race so savage, bloodthirsty, and battle-crazed that even the Emperor of the Universe, Freeza, had forcibly conscripted them into his army.
The Saiyans.
A warrior race.
This was how the Saiyan wanderers who had settled on this planet referred to themselves—a creed that defined their exile and survival. But… to the rest of the galaxy's civilizations, they were little more than Freeza's vicious monkey soldiers.
Within Saiyan society, there existed an ingrained culture of worshipping strength. After acquiring advanced technology capable of accurately measuring a lifeform's combat power, they had taken this hierarchy to an extreme, categorizing their warriors from birth.
Lower-class. Middle-class. Upper-class.
The majority of Saiyans were lower-class, a smaller portion were middle-class, and only a rare few were born as upper-class warriors. These elites were almost exclusively found within the royal bloodline.
The cruelest aspect of this system? Your fate was sealed the moment you were born.
If you were labeled a lower-class warrior, that title would haunt you for life.
Even someone as formidable as Bardock—whose power had grown to rival that of the Saiyan King, Vegeta—was still branded a lower-class warrior. No matter how strong he became, he would never receive the respect reserved for the upper-class.
This worship of strength had gradually morphed into a rigid caste system. Perhaps this was King Vegeta's foresight at work—ensuring that no non-royal Saiyan, no matter how exceptional, could ever overshadow the monarchy.
But even so, there were rare geniuses—non-royals—who displayed such extraordinary potential at birth that they were deemed upper-class warriors.
Like…
The man before them now.
The avian alien scientist assigned by Freeza's forces checked the healing pod's display before opening it. The bio-fluid inside drained away, revealing the naked, black-haired Saiyan within.
The man opened his dark eyes and stepped out.
Despite being a battle-hardened Saiyan warrior who should have been long accustomed to this routine, there was a flicker of curiosity in his gaze as he surveyed his surroundings. His attention lingered for a moment on the residual bio-fluid in the pod before finally settling on the avian scientist waiting before him.
"Your injuries have been fully treated, Lord Burely," the avian said respectfully to the upper-class warrior. "As per protocol, we must conduct a post-recovery power level scan."
"Hn."
The black-haired Saiyan—Burely—gave a curt grunt in response.
His eyes swept the room once before he strode toward the exit.
The avian scientist activated the scanner just as Burely passed through the doorway. Moments later, the results flashed onto the display.
"O-One… hundred?!"
The scientist's beak fell open in shock. An upper-class warrior with a power level barely scraping triple digits? That was impossible! If this got out, Burely would be the laughingstock of the entire army!
"M-Must be a machine error…"
After a long pause, the avian decided to blame the scanner. To avoid the wrath of the notoriously short-tempered Burely, he quickly inputted the usual numbers into the record.
Then another oddity struck him.
"Huh? Why didn't Lord Burely change into his battle armor?"
He glanced at the tight-fitting combat suit and reinforced shoulder armor resting on the nearby rack, then back at the empty doorway.
Burely was already gone.
Wait… Did Lord Burely just walk out bare-assed naked?!
---
"A power level of… one hundred?"
"Is this really the legendary upper-class warrior, Burely?"
"I heard he suffered severe injuries on his last mission, causing irreversible damage to his combat power… Hah! How pathetic!"
"This is perfect! I've always hated that guy. 'Upper-class warrior'? Pfft—now he's weaker than me, a mid-class warrior! Let's see him act tough now! Don't stop me, I'll say it loud—what's he gonna do? Fight me? I'd crush him!"
A bald Saiyan teenager shook off his companion's restraining hand and deliberately raised his voice.
This was the main street of Planet Vegeta's capital city—once home to another civilization that coexisted with the Saiyans, now reduced to mere history. Since becoming Freeza's auxiliary force, all Saiyan warriors were dispatched on missions from here.
And of course, the Saiyan royal family resided in this very city.
As the black-haired, cold-faced young Saiyan walked down the street, countless warriors turned to stare.
Saiyans lived for battle, so their portable scouters were rarely removed. Even those who had taken theirs off quickly dug them out upon noticing the commotion. Dozens of lenses focused on the lone figure strolling ahead as if nothing were amiss.
The readings couldn't be wrong.
And even if one scouter malfunctioned, surely not all of them would glitch simultaneously? So… Burely, the "Miracle Warrior" born from lower-class blood yet recognized as upper-class—his power level had truly plummeted to a measly 100?
Suddenly, the subject of their gossip stopped walking.
Many immediately removed or deactivated their scouters, while the bolder ones—those who considered themselves superior—kept theirs on, openly scrutinizing him. Some even met his gaze with smirks or aggressive glares.
The bald teen from earlier deliberately tapped his scouter and laughed loudly:
"Hey, let's see… What's Lord Burely's power level today? Oh wow—100? Heh, am I seeing this right?"
The crowd erupted in mocking laughter.
Burely—no, Taro—turned slowly. An enigmatic smile played on his lips as he pointed at the tail-wrapped, armor-clad bald teen.
"If I recall correctly… your name is 'Nappa,' isn't it?"