The classified Tuffle schematics were a work of art. Their energy shields weren't simple barriers; they were multi-layered, frequency-hopping marvels that adapted to kinetic and energy impacts. Their combat drones used predictive algorithms and swarm logic. To the average Saiyan warrior, they were frustrating, impenetrable puzzles. To Astra, with his [Stellar Forge] and [Appraisal], they were complex but solvable equations.
He spent the next several cycles not as a warrior, but as a cryptographer. He sat on his cot, the data pad glowing in the dim light, his mind diving deep into the flow of circuits and energy matrices. He didn't just find one vulnerability; he found dozens. But he was careful. He wouldn't give the King a master key. He would give him a single, specific lockpick.
He identified a flaw in the primary shield generator's cooling system. Under sustained fire, a specific harmonic resonance could be induced that would cause a cascade failure, overloading the core and creating a localized shield collapse for 1.7 seconds. It was a tiny window, but for a Saiyan warrior, it was an eternity.
He compiled his report, phrasing it in the blunt, functional language of a military briefing. He offered the solution—the exact frequency and power output needed—but omitted the underlying theory. Let their own technicians puzzle over the "how"; they only needed the "what."
Borg delivered the data chip to the royal command. The response was swift and silent.
Two days later, Borg returned from a mission. His armor was scorched, he had a fresh scar across his brow, but there was a grim, satisfied light in his eyes. He tossed a small, blackened component onto Astra's cot. It was the cooling core from a Tuffle shield generator.
"It worked," Borg said, his voice a low grunt of pure shock. "The shield fell. We wiped out the entire outpost. Losses were... minimal."
He looked at Astra not as a freak or a burden, but as a piece of high-value military hardware. The King's scalpel had just drawn first blood.
The rewards began to flow. The first was tangible: a small, personal nutrient synthesizer was installed by his cot. It produced a high-calorie, nutrient-dense paste that was a universe away from the slop in the mess hall. It was the kind of fuel reserved for elite warriors. His body, constantly straining under the 10x gravity field, devoured it, and his growth accelerated.
[Power Level: 330 -> 380]
The second reward was access. His security clearance was quietly upgraded. The data pad now linked to a restricted section of the planetary network. He couldn't access everything, but he could now call up schematics for Saiyan warships, planetary defense grids, and even historical data on conquered worlds.
He was being fed information, and he consumed it voraciously. He studied Saiyan ship designs, identifying their strengths and—more importantly for his own future plans—their weaknesses. He studied the planetary defense grid, the very system that would one day fail against Frieza's attack. He filed every byte of data away, a hoarder preparing for a long famine.
But the most significant change was in how he was treated. The wary silence in the barracks transformed into a guarded, almost superstitious respect. Warriors would no longer meet his eyes directly. They would sometimes leave small offerings—a spare energy cell, a captured Tuffle data crystal—by his cot, as if appeasing a spirit that could bring them victory or doom. He had become a totem of a new kind of warfare.
This new status granted him his greatest boon yet: solitude. Borg, now busy leading more frequent and successful raids using Astra's intelligence, was often gone. The other warriors gave his corner a wide berth. For the first time, Astra had prolonged, uninterrupted periods alone.
He used them to push his limits. He waited until the barracks were empty, then activated the Dampening Field Generator. Satisfied the energy was masked, he took a deep breath and reached into his inventory.
He summoned the Gravity Forge.
The obsidian obelisk felt cold and impossibly heavy in his hand, a sliver of contained singularity. He didn't dare activate it fully. Instead, he used the [Stellar Forge] to interface with it, to draw upon a fraction of its power. He focused on increasing the intensity of the personal gravity field he maintained around his body.
He pushed it from 10x to 15x.
The effect was immediate and brutal. His [Dense-Body Constitution] groaned under the strain, but held. His muscles burned, his Ki flared in protest, but he held the field steady. He began his Void Fist katas, his movements becoming slower, more deliberate, each shift of weight a monumental effort. This was no longer just training his body; it was training his will. It was forcing his mind to maintain perfect technique under soul-crushing pressure.
He practiced for an hour, pushing his mana and Ki to their limits, before collapsing, deactivating the field and stashing the Forge away. He lay on his cot, drenched in sweat, his body thrumming with the aftershocks of extreme exertion.
[Power Level: 380 -> 395]
[Dense-Body Constitution has improved. Gravity Resistance (Lv. 2) Acquired.]
He was evolving. Adapting. The scalpel was sharpening itself in secret, using the resources provided by the very hand that wielded it.
A new data packet arrived on his pad, marked with the highest priority he'd seen yet. It wasn't a schematic for a shield or a drone. It was the blueprint for a Tuffle planetary command center, a fortress-city known as the "Iron Nest." The King's note was simple.
[Find me a way in.]
Astra looked at the complex schematics, a city of layered shields, automated turrets, and labyrinthine corridors. This was not a test. This was a live operation. The stakes were higher than ever.
He was no longer just an analyst. He was a strategic asset. And he knew that the more invaluable he became to the Saiyan war machine, the more freedom he would have to build the tools for its eventual salvation—or its destruction. The King's scalpel was being honed for a greater cut, and Astra would ensure he was the one holding the handle when the time came to turn it.