He didn't awaken it through tragedy… but through pure, unbearable frustration.
Time slipped by like sand between fingers. After months passed in a quiet blur—
One afternoon, the sun was warm and bright. Bulma sat in the courtyard in an elegant wicker chair, a cup of steaming black tea in hand, enjoying a rare moment of peace.
Then the heavy alloy door of the gravity chamber slid open with a faint metallic scrape.
Bulma turned, surprised.
Vitelli stepped out.
And instead of being drenched in sweat and radiating heat—ready to throw himself straight into another round—he wore an expression she almost never saw on him.
Annoyed.
Frustrated.
And somehow… defeated.
He walked toward her without a word.
"Oooh~ now this is rare," Bulma said, setting her cup down, sapphire eyes wide with curiosity. "You're out before dinner? What, did the sun rise in the west? Or did you finally break the gravity chamber with your obsession?"
She tried to make it playful, but a thin thread of worry tugged at her chest.
Vitelli dropped into the seat beside her with a heavy, irritated sigh. Then—without even asking—he picked up her tea, drank several large gulps, and exhaled hard.
"Don't even start," he muttered, frowning. "I think I hit a wall."
His voice sounded lower than usual. Even his usual bright edge had dulled.
"No matter how hard I grind in your gravity room, it feels like punching cotton. My growth's basically stopped. My body's not getting tougher. My strength isn't moving."
"A wall?" Bulma straightened instantly, all teasing gone.
She knew him better than anyone. Training wasn't just a habit for Vitelli—it was his addiction, his certainty, his comfort. If his power wasn't increasing, it wasn't just annoying.
It was torture.
"What's going on?" she pressed, already thinking in technical terms. "Is the gravity room hitting its design limit? Or is it… your body? Something biological?"
Vitelli shook his head, elbow on the armrest, chin propped in his palm as he stared off into space.
"No idea…" he murmured. "Let me think…"
His mind raced through everything he remembered from Dragon Ball—King Kai's training, the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, near-death breakthroughs, Guru unlocking hidden potential…
"King Kai?" he muttered, then immediately dismissed it with a grimace. "Too much hassle. And the Kaio-ken doesn't really solve my problem…"
His eyes brightened for a split second.
"Or… maybe I ask Kami about borrowing the Hyperbolic Time Chamber?"
Then they darkened again.
"No. That place is a trump card. I can't waste it just to brute-force a bottleneck."
Bulma stayed quiet. She didn't interrupt his spiral. She simply watched him—gentle, steady—because she believed in him more than she believed in her own genius.
Whatever method he chose, she'd back him.
With technology.
With resources.
With trust.
Minutes passed in silence.
Then Vitelli suddenly stood, a decision hardening behind his eyes.
"I've got a method," he said, turning to her. "I need to go out. I might not be back for dinner—don't wait for me."
Bulma nodded immediately. "Okay. Be careful."
Vitelli didn't waste a second. He launched upward, his body becoming a streak of light as he shot toward the east—toward the towering pillar of Korin Tower.
The speed alone stirred a small whirlwind through the courtyard.
Only after his figure vanished into the blue sky did Bulma blink, her face tightening with a brand-new seriousness.
"Vitelli… just said he might miss dinner."
Her voice rose as if she'd said something blasphemous.
"This is bad. This is really bad."
She stared into the sky in horror.
"If something is serious enough to make a Saiyan lose interest in eating… then it's at least ten times more serious than I thought!"
—
Vitelli arrived at Korin Tower in a blur and landed on the top platform like he'd done it a hundred times.
Korin stood there with his staff, white fur bristling, giving Vitelli a look that was equal parts wary and resigned.
Vitelli waved casually, already pulling out a capsule.
"Yo, Korin. Same deal. Fish in the capsule. You got the senzu ready?"
He tossed the capsule like this was routine grocery shopping.
Korin stared at it, whiskers twitching, then—after a long, defeated sigh—walked to a jar in the corner and counted out ten bright green senzu beans.
He handed them over with the expression of a cat who had accepted that the universe was unfair.
Vitelli pocketed them without lingering.
Then he stepped forward—straight through the invisible boundary above the tower—and shot upward into the sky beyond, toward the floating sanctuary hidden in the clouds.
The Lookout.
Kami and Mr. Popo were already waiting at the edge of the immaculate white plaza, standing like statues carved from time itself.
Compared to the first day Vitelli appeared on Earth—when they'd been braced for disaster—their expressions now were almost calm.
Not because they trusted him.
Because he'd shown up so many times that "extreme alert" had eventually been replaced by something more realistic.
Habitual caution.
Vitelli landed lightly on the gleaming floor.
Kami's green face remained unreadable. Only his eyes moved—deep, ancient, and sharp.
He didn't waste time.
"You came to Earth… for what purpose?"
He'd held that question in his chest for months. Vitelli's actions seemed harmless, but his strength was a shadow hanging over the planet.
Vitelli rolled his eyes so hard it was almost theatrical.
"Oh, come on," he said, spreading his hands. "What purpose? I'm here to invade your weak planet? For what—your outdated tech? Your Dragon Balls that make you bargain like merchants whenever someone asks for a wish?"
He gestured at the Lookout with a dry smirk.
"Or am I here because it's quiet and I like staring into the clouds?"
The bluntness hit Kami like a slap.
Because… annoyingly…
It made sense.
Vitelli wasn't hunting the Dragon Balls. He wasn't building an army. He wasn't causing trouble. He stayed with Bulma and trained like a man possessed.
Kami went silent for a moment. A fraction of the tension eased—only a fraction.
Then he asked, voice calmer.
"Then why did you come today?"
Vitelli's grin returned, teeth bright.
"Simple. I need a place that's sturdy. Really sturdy. I want to go all-out and test my ki for a bit."
His eyes flicked downward, as if he could see the world below.
"Down there, if I screw up control, I might flip a tectonic plate. I'd rather not crush people… or Bulma's flowers."
Kami listened, then nodded once, a faint hint of pride hidden beneath restraint.
"The Lookout is formed through divine power and Earth's most resilient materials," he said. "It can endure your strength. If you must release it, do so here."
Vitelli's mouth curled with amused skepticism.
"Oh? You sure?" he asked lazily. "Because if I break something, I'm not paying."
Kami's face didn't change.
"It is acceptable."
He signaled Mr. Popo to retreat farther back. Kami remained where he stood, eyes fixed on Vitelli—silent permission and silent warning.
Vitelli stepped to the center of the plaza and closed his eyes.
The world went still.
Only the wind at that altitude could be heard.
He clenched both fists at his waist, sank his mind inward, and touched the vast furnace of power buried in his limbs—molten, heavy, endlessly churning.
By his own estimate…
He had already surpassed five million.
In theory, that was more than enough to meet the basic threshold for a Super Saiyan.
But "transforming" wasn't just math.
It was a lock.
And the lock required a key.
Vitelli had never truly transformed before. So he could only grope forward with memory and instinct.
First, he tried a method he remembered from later stories—concentrating power into a point in the upper back, treating it like a switch.
"Focus… condense… imagine it as the trigger… flip it…"
He directed the raging ki like rivers converging into a single flood channel, forcing it toward the space between his shoulder blades.
He felt heat gather there. Pressure. Swelling muscle. A fierce density building—
And then…
Nothing.
A thin barrier—delicate as silk, stubborn as steel—refused to break.
He slammed against it again and again.
Still nothing.
It was like water at a full boil that somehow couldn't tip into steam.
Just one degree short.
"Damn it," he cursed inwardly, frustration grinding his teeth.
He opened his eyes and exhaled sharply, the breath carrying pure irritation.
"In every novel I read, the guy gets a system. Or he's born with perfect Super Saiyan blood. He yells once and boom—gold hair."
His expression turned sour.
"Me? No system. No cheat. And turning Super Saiyan feels like trying to take a dump with a brick lodged in me."
He stared at the empty air, offended by the universe itself.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"Fine. If the 'back switch' doesn't work… then I'll use the classic way."
He closed his eyes again.
Anger.
That was the original key.
He dug into his memories, searching for something that could truly ignite him.
The orphanage—older kids stealing his only candy.
…That just felt sad now. Almost funny.
School—being mocked as the "parentless stray."
…He'd punched that kid so hard the nickname died on the spot. The anger was gone.
College—his first girlfriend dumping him.
…He'd been miserable for two days, then met someone prettier in the library. Hard to stay mad.
Planet Vegeta—being assigned as Prince Vegeta's guard.
…Vegeta was the one he'd embarrassed. And Vitelli had skipped out to Earth anyway. Where was the rage supposed to come from?
He sat in the emptiness of his own mind—and realized something horrifying.
He was too stable.
Too over it.
Too… calm.
The more he tried to summon anger from the past, the more absurd it felt.
And the more absurd it felt—
The more frustrated he became.
His chest tightened.
His thoughts started snapping like overloaded wires.
"Why is it so easy for everyone else?" his mind screamed. "They sign in, they level up, they drink a potion, they get a bloodline, they're done!"
His teeth clenched hard enough to ache.
"Why do I have to grind like a lunatic?! Why is even transforming this hard?!"
His breathing sharpened.
"Is this transformation mechanic specifically designed to mess with me?!"
A pressure rose inside his skull.
And then it tipped over into something raw, irrational, and violently sincere.
"LOOK AT ME, YOU PIECE OF—"
That anger—born not from tragedy, but from the sheer humiliation of being stuck—splashed into his core like a match thrown into an oil drum.
BOOM—!!!
A gold eruption exploded out of Vitelli like a volcanic detonation.
A pillar of light shot upward, swallowing him, slamming into the sky like a beam meant to connect Earth to the heavens.
The shockwave blasted outward in a ring.
Kami and Mr. Popo didn't even have time to react.
The force struck them like a moving wall.
Kami let out a short, startled cry as his old body was ripped off his feet and hurled across the plaza. He slammed into a distant wall with a heavy crash, his staff flying out of his grip and skittering away.
Mr. Popo was caught too—lifted, spun, and thrown across the floor before crashing down hard.
The Lookout itself groaned.
A deep, sustained hum rolled through the structure as if the entire divine palace was being forced to endure a judgment. The white tiles trembled. Fine dust rained down from the ceiling. Decorative structures rattled like they were about to shake themselves apart.
It felt like divine punishment.
And in the center of that pillar—
Vitelli roared.
A raw, tearing scream that sounded like he was trying to split his own ribs open.
His black, spiky hair rose higher and higher, driven upward by invisible force—then began to bleach, strand by strand, until the darkness was erased and replaced with blazing gold.
His eyes snapped open.
For an instant, the pupils disappeared beneath the surge—only pale, terrifying whites remained.
Veins bulged across his forehead. Muscles swelled to their limit. His bones cracked with sharp, violent pops.
"DAMN IT—HAAAAA!!!"
The final step slammed into place.
The light tightened.
The aura didn't vanish—it condensed into a raging cloak of gold flame wrapping his body, surging and snapping like a living inferno.
His hair was fully golden now, spiking upward like a crown of fire.
His eyes settled into a cold, vivid green—hard as polished emerald.
And the pressure that rolled off him—
It wasn't just "strong."
It was oppressive.
A storm given a human shape.
Super Saiyan.
Vitelli hovered half a foot above the floor, staring down at his own hands as golden energy crawled around his fingers like lightning.
Inside his body, power surged like an endless ocean—violent, overflowing, dozens of times greater than before.
The bottleneck that had tormented him for months?
It wasn't gone.
It was erased.
For a moment, pure elation swallowed him whole.
Then the elation twisted into something strange.
Something almost stupidly philosophical.
He had finally transformed.
But the reason he transformed…
…was because he got furious about not being able to transform.
Vitelli hovered there, golden hair lifting in the aura, green eyes drifting across the wrecked plaza—then landing on Kami, who was struggling up from the floor, filthy and wide-eyed like he'd just seen a ghost.
Vitelli's mouth pulled into a smile that didn't know what emotion it belonged to.
"…So it really works like that?" he muttered.
Angry because he couldn't get angry enough…
…and that anger finally made him angry enough.
He stared at his hands, then at Kami again, and the only thought that fit his face was one that felt too ridiculous to be real.
This… actually counts?!
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