The Netherrealm was not a place of rest. It was a place of grinding, geological patience.
I floated in the void—a torso and a head, drifting amidst islands of grey rock and oceans of black tar. There was no pain here, only a cold, numb awareness of my own failure.
"Status," I projected the thought into the abyss.
Critical, Saibot replied. My shadow clone was here too, a tattered wisp clinging to my ruined form. Physical vessel destroyed. Reactor core shattered. Reconstruction at 2%.
I closed my mental eyes. I had miscalculated. Badly.
I had treated this world like the anime I remembered. I assumed power levels were static numbers I could game. Raditz was 1,200. Nappa was 4,000. Vegeta was 18,000. I thought if I hit 1,000 early, I was ahead of the curve.
But the Butterfly Effect had bitten my head off.
By eating Cymbal, I corrupted King Piccolo's magic. By interfering with the Dragon Ball wish, I inadvertently created a Super Namekian with a power of 3,000. And his son—Ma Junior—was born at 2,500.
"That's stronger than Raditz," I realized, panic setting in. "Piccolo Jr. is already stronger than Raditz. If he trains for three years... he could be 10,000 by the time the Saiyans arrive."
And if the villains were scaling up... what about the others?
A terrifying thought struck me.
If King Piccolo's magic was corrupted by my Netherrealm energy... did that corruption spread? The Dragon Balls are connected to Kami. Kami is connected to the wider universe of divine magic.
What if the "glitch" I introduced wasn't local?
Scenario Analysis:
Frieza: If the ambient evil of the universe is heightened, Frieza might not be content in his first form (530,000). He might train. A training Frieza means Golden Frieza. If Golden Frieza shows up on Namek... we are all dead.Vegeta: If Raditz detects Piccolo's power level of 3,000 on Earth, he won't come alone. He'll bring Nappa and Vegeta immediately. And Vegeta... if he feels threatened, he might unlock Super Saiyan early.Broly: The Legendary Super Saiyan. If the chaotic energy waves ripple out far enough, they might wake him up early.
"I broke the game," I whispered. "I turned on Hard Mode."
I looked at my shattered body. The grey skin was knitting together slowly, millimeter by millimeter. At this rate, it would take decades to heal.
"I don't have decades. I have three years."
I needed a new body. A better body.
My eyes drifted to the black ocean below. It wasn't water. It was Soul Mud. The concentrated essence of the damned.
In Mortal Kombat, Noob Saibot was created by Quan Chi using sorcery. But here, I was alone. I had to be my own sorcerer.
"I need to rebuild," I said. "Not as a scavenger. Not as a battery."
I remembered the cyborgs. I remembered Mecha-Frieza. I remembered the Androids.
"I need technology," I realized. "But I am in hell."
Then, I saw something drifting in the distance.
A jar.
A white ceramic rice cooker with a talisman slapped on the lid. It was bobbing in the soul mud, radiating angry green sparks.
King Piccolo.
I had thrown him here. He was sealed inside, alive but trapped.
An idea formed. A twisted, desperate idea.
Piccolo Senior had wished for eternal youth. His body was flooded with regenerative magic.
"He is a source of biomass," I mused. "Namekian cells regenerate. If I graft them..."
I willed my broken torso to drift toward the jar.
"Saibot. Open it."
Dangerous, Saibot warned. He is 3,000.
"He is in the Netherrealm," I countered. "Here, I am God. Here, gravity is my will."
Saibot floated to the jar. He ripped the talisman off.
BOOM.
The lid flew off. Green smoke erupted.
"FREE!" King Piccolo roared, rising from the smoke. He was massive, glowing with power. "I AM FRE—"
He stopped. He looked around at the grey void. He looked at the black ocean. He looked at me—a floating torso with a shattered chest.
"Where is this?" Piccolo demanded. "This is not Earth."
"Welcome to the bottom of the well," I said.
Piccolo sneered. "You? The broken wraith? You brought me here?"
He raised a hand to blast me.
I stared at him.
Gravity: 100x.
"KNEEL."
The void obeyed. The gravity around Piccolo increased instantly.
"GAAH!"
Piccolo was slammed face-first into the invisible floor of the void. His bones creaked. The soul mud grabbed his legs, pulling him down.
"How?!" Piccolo struggled. "My power... is absolute!"
"On Earth, yes," I said, drifting closer. "But this is my soul. You are a foreign contaminant."
I hovered over him.
"I need parts," I said coldly. "And you have plenty to spare."
I reached out with a spectral claw. I didn't attack his Ki. I attacked his biology.
I began to rip.
I tore into his shoulder. I ripped away chunks of his magically enhanced, youthful Namekian flesh.
"AAAAAGH!" Piccolo screamed. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
"Harvesting," I said.
I took the green flesh and pressed it against my own ruined chest.
Assimilation.
The Namekian cells fought me. They burned. But the Netherrealm corruption overpowered them. My black blood seized the green cells, killing them, then reanimating them.
My chest began to close. The ribs knit together, stronger than bone. The grey skin grew back, but it was no longer just grey. It had a faint, sickly green tint.
I didn't stop. I took his arm to replace my missing one. I took his legs.
Piccolo shrieked as I dismantled him. He regenerated, of course—he had eternal youth—but I was eating faster than he could heal.
"Stop! STOP!" Piccolo begged. "I'll give you anything! Power! The world!"
"I don't want the world," I said, attaching a new Namekian-hybrid arm to my socket. I flexed the fingers. They were green at first, then faded to charcoal black as my corruption took hold. "I want durability. I want regeneration."
I worked for what felt like months in the timeless void. I ate him, piece by piece, rebuilding myself into a chimera of Wraith and Demon.
When I was finished, I was whole again.
I stood on the rock island. I was taller. My armor was natural now—calloused plates of Namekian-like skin that were hard as diamond. My eyes weren't just green fire; they had the purple rings of a corrupted Namekian pupil.
And King Piccolo?
He was a husk. A shriveled, tiny form floating in the jar, drained of almost all his power. I had left him just enough life to keep regenerating, so I could use him as a snack later.
"Power Level..." I checked myself.
2,800.
It wasn't 10,000. But I had something better.
I cut my arm with a Sickle.
Sshhh.
The wound closed instantly. Namekian Regeneration.
"Yes," I breathed. "Now I can use the Chaos Cannon without destroying myself. I can use the Tri-Beam and heal the damage."
I looked up at the "sky" of the Netherrealm.
"Saibot," I said.
My shadow clone emerged. He was huge now—hulking, spiked, looking like a venom symbiote.
"We have three years," I said. "And I have a new workout plan."
I pointed to the ocean of Soul Mud.
"We are going to drain this entire dimension dry."
I didn't know if Broly was coming. I didn't know if Frieza was gold.
But when I returned to Earth for the 23rd World Tournament... I wasn't going to be a ninja anymore.
I was going to be a Raid Boss.