Dragon Ball: Legend of the Saiyan God

The night Yamoshi was born, the skies over Planet Sadala were unlike any other. Two moons hung in perfect alignment, their silver light bathing the harsh, rocky landscape in an ethereal glow. To the Saiyans, the moons were a symbol of strength and chaos—objects that could drive them into unstoppable frenzies or mark the birth of warriors destined for greatness. But on this night, there was no howling or rage. The Saiyan race was silent, almost as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

In a small, isolated village far from the bustling power struggles of Saiyan warlords, a young woman named Eira screamed in labor. Her mate, Toren, a battle-hardened warrior, stood helplessly outside their modest home, fists clenched. Saiyans were trained to face death without flinching, but in this moment, he felt powerless.

Inside, the village midwife worked tirelessly. "She's strong," the midwife muttered to herself, beads of sweat dripping down her forehead. "Stronger than most. But this child..." She paused, glancing at Eira's rounded belly. The aura emanating from the unborn baby was unlike anything she had felt before. It wasn't just powerful—it was pure, a stark contrast to the primal, violent energy most Saiyans carried.

Eira let out a final scream, her body convulsing as she pushed with all her might. Moments later, the cries of a newborn filled the room. The midwife held the child in her arms, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. The baby's hair was thick and black, a common trait among Saiyans, but his eyes—golden and glowing faintly—were anything but normal.

Toren burst through the door at the sound of his son's cries. His eyes locked onto the baby, and for a moment, his hardened expression softened. "A boy," he whispered, kneeling beside Eira. She was exhausted but alive, her face pale yet glowing with pride.

"He's... different," the midwife said hesitantly, handing the baby to Eira. "His energy—it doesn't feel like ours."

Eira cradled her son, her trembling fingers brushing against his tiny cheek. "Yamoshi," she whispered. "His name is Yamoshi."

Toren frowned, sensing the same thing the midwife had. Saiyan infants were born strong, their energy fierce and wild, but this child's energy was calm, and controlled. It felt... gentle. It made Toren uneasy. "Different isn't always good," he muttered under his breath.

The first few years of Yamoshi's life were relatively quiet, though his uniqueness became harder to ignore as he grew. While other Saiyan children reveled in fights and displays of dominance, Yamoshi often shied away from conflict. He preferred exploring the rocky cliffs and forests near the village, marveling at the simple beauty of the world around him. His parents noticed his reluctance to embrace the warrior's path and worried about how he would fit into Saiyan society.

At the age of five, Yamoshi's difference became undeniable. It happened during a village brawl—a common occurrence among Saiyans. A group of older children, eager to prove their strength, began picking on a smaller boy. The boy cried out for help, but the adults merely watched, some even laughing. In Saiyan culture, weakness was a crime, and mercy was a sign of failure.

Yamoshi, who had been playing with a stick nearby, dropped it and ran toward the commotion. "Stop!" he yelled, placing himself between the bullies and the victim.

One of the older boys sneered. "What are you going to do about it, softie?"

"I'll stop you," Yamoshi said, his small fists clenched. He didn't want to fight, but he couldn't stand by and do nothing.

The older boy laughed and swung his fist, aiming to knock Yamoshi to the ground. But before the punch could land, a burst of golden energy erupted around Yamoshi, sending the older boy flying. The crowd gasped. Saiyan children were known for their strength, but this was different. This was a different kind of power, smooth yet fast, chilling yet fierce.

Toren, who had been watching from a distance, rushed over and grabbed Yamoshi by the arm. "That's enough!" he barked, dragging his son away. The villagers whispered among themselves, their eyes filled with suspicion and fear.

That night, Toren confronted Yamoshi. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" he growled. "Saiyans respect strength, but they fear what they don't understand. You've painted a target on your back."

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," Yamoshi said quietly, his golden eyes brimming with tears. "I just wanted to help..."

Toren sighed, his frustration giving way to a pang of guilt. "You need to be careful, Yamoshi. Power like yours... it's dangerous."

"But isn't power supposed to protect people?" Yamoshi asked, his voice trembling.

Toren had no answer.

As Yamoshi grew older, the whispers in the village turned into open hostility. The other children avoided him, and their parents warned them to stay away from "the cursed boy." Even the elders of the village, who were usually too concerned with their own affairs to meddle in the lives of others, began to take notice. They saw Yamoshi as a threat to the established order, a boy whose power and compassion made him unpredictable.

The injustice followed him like a shadow, ever-present and suffocating. As young as he was, Yamoshi couldn't help but internalize the blame, the whispered accusations swirling in his mind. 'Why can't I just be better?' he wondered, his chest heavy with shame. All the while, his family's strained smiles masked their silent despair, their eyes darting nervously to the threat of exile.

The village was a patchwork of crumbling homes and vibrant fields, a cruel contrast of beauty and decay. Every glance from a neighbor felt like a silent judgment, every whispered conversation an accusation. The thought of leaving this place—the only home his family had ever known—filled Yamoshi with a dread he couldn't quite name.

"Yamoshi," his mother called softly, her voice like a balm to his restless heart.

"Come here, my child," she said, pulling him into a warm embrace. Her arms wrapped around him protectively, and her gentle hand smoothed his disheveled hair. "Do not yield. You are strong, my son. You are different, yes, but not in the way they say. They fear what they don't understand."

"But, Mom..." Yamoshi's voice wavered as tears welled in his golden eyes. "They hate me. I don't want to be different. I just want to be like everyone else, to play with them, to belong."

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