Chapter Text
The screech of tearing metal, the blinding flash of red and blue sirens, and the satisfying crunch of a police cruiser hitting his getaway car. That was the last thing he remembered. He had been a king in the digital world—a famous pro-gamer whose reflexes were legendary—and a ghost in the real world, a meticulous mass murderer who treated human lives like a high-score counter. He hadn't felt fear when the cops finally cornered him. He had only felt irritated that his streak was being cut short.
Then came the darkness. And then, a searing, brilliant light.
He blinked, expecting the cold iron of a prison cell or the sterile white of a hospital ceiling. Instead, his vision adjusted to reveal a strange, fluid-filled pod. Green liquid sloshed around his face, but he wasn't drowning. He looked down—or tried to—and saw a pair of tiny, chubby hands.
What the hell? He thought, trying to flex his fingers. They moved, but they were the hands of an infant.
Suddenly, a sharp, mechanical ping echoed directly inside his brain. A translucent, glowing blue screen materialized right in front of his eyes, bobbing gently in the green fluid.
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STATUS WINDOW
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Name: Verdan (Saiyan Designation: Trash)
Race: Saiyan (Low-Class)
Age: 0
Power Level: 1
Titles: None
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[Attributes]
Strength: 1
Agility: 1
Vitality: 2
Intelligence: 45
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[Perks/Traits]
* Gamer's Mind: Immune to psychological trauma. Mentally detached.
* Sadistic Pleasure: Healing and power growth accelerate when inflicting pain.
* Masochistic Drive: Power increases significantly after surviving near-death trauma.
Verdan stared at the screen, his tiny infant mouth curving into a grotesque, jagged grin that completely warped his baby features. Saiyan? Power level? A status window?
He knew this world. He had spent hundreds of hours watching it, analyzing it, playing its games. This was the Dragon Ball universe. A cosmos built entirely on the law of the jungle. A world where might made right, where entire planets were wiped out on a whim, and where the body count could reach into the billions.
A manic, silent laughter bubbled up in his chest, sending ripples through the incubation fluid. In his past life, he had to hide his art. He had to plan, skulk in the shadows, and blend in with the NPCs of society just to enjoy a little slaughter. Here? Slaughter was the currency of the universe. He could kill, torture, dominate, and bleed, and the universe would only reward him for it.
There truly isn't a god, Verdan thought, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, unhinged euphoria. Because why would I of all people be given everything I have ever wanted? A paradise tailored just for me... Unless... I am the one chosen by god!
His tiny fist clenched in the fluid, a dark, suffocating aura briefly flickering around his minuscule body.
I am god!