The transit tunnel breathed differently from the fortress above.
Its air was thinner, colder, carrying the faint metallic tang of long-disused systems and stone that had not felt footsteps in decades. The walls narrowed as Sarela moved forward, her boots striking softly against the ground, each step measured, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet that now surrounded them.
Raizen was awake.
Not restless.
Alert.
His eyes tracked the shifting shadows cast by emergency lights embedded low in the walls. They pulsed at regular intervals, their rhythm steady, predictable. With each pulse, something inside him adjusted—minute, subtle, like a muscle learning tension.
Sarela felt it through her arms.
Not pressure.
Alignment.
"You feel it too, don't you?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Raizen's fingers tightened briefly in the cloth wrapped around her chest.
Behind them, the sealed passage remained silent.
Kaedor had not followed.
That fact weighed heavily on her mind.
They reached the end of the tunnel after what felt like hours but could not have been more than minutes. A reinforced hatch loomed ahead, its surface scarred by age and etched with sigils dulled by time. Beyond it lay the lower launch bay—an auxiliary facility built for evacuation and covert deployment.
The guards waiting there straightened as Sarela emerged.
Two Saiyans—both silent, armored in matte black plating with no clan insignia. Their eyes flicked immediately to the child, then away just as quickly.
They had been warned.
"Status?" Sarela asked quietly.
"All clear," the taller guard replied. "For now. Orbital traffic is… tense."
Sarela nodded once.
They moved quickly.
The launch bay was dim, illuminated only by strips of recessed lighting along the floor. A single vessel sat at the center—a compact transport ship, unremarkable in design, its hull dull gray and deliberately unadorned.
It was built to be forgotten.
As Sarela approached, Raizen stirred.
His gaze lifted, fixing on the ship.
The pressure inside him shifted.
Not resisting.
Not reaching.
Recognizing.
Sarela's steps faltered.
"What is it?" one of the guards asked, noticing her hesitation.
She shook her head. "Nothing."
But she knew better.
Raizen felt the open sky beyond the bay doors. The absence of stone. The thin boundary between world and void. His instincts—still primitive, still wordless—responded to the change.
The seal flexed.
Held.
Barely.
They boarded quickly. The interior of the ship was sparse—two seats, a narrow corridor, minimal systems. No comforts. No luxuries.
Sarela secured Raizen into a harness designed for infants, her hands steady despite the storm churning inside her chest.
"Easy," she murmured. "We're almost there."
Raizen did not cry.
He watched.
The ship's systems powered up with a low hum. External clamps disengaged silently.
Outside the bay, the fortress trembled.
Not from power.
From anger.
Alarms echoed faintly through stone far above them now—too distant to interfere, too late to prevent what was already in motion.
The pilot—one of the two guards—glanced at his console.
"They've noticed," he said flatly.
Sarela closed her eyes for half a heartbeat.
"Go," she said.
The ship lifted.
Smooth. Controlled. No dramatic surge.
The bay doors irised open, revealing the night sky beyond—stars scattered like cold embers against a vast, endless dark.
Raizen's breath caught.
The moment the ship crossed the threshold, the pressure inside him shifted violently.
Not outward.
Inward.
The seal tightened reflexively, compressing divine essence deeper than it had ever been forced before. The fire recoiled—not in pain, but in shock.
Raizen cried out.
The sound was sharp, startled, and real.
Sarela gasped, lunging forward instinctively.
"It's okay," she said quickly, voice trembling. "It's okay—you're just—"
The words faltered.
She felt it now.
The open sky.
The absence of containment.
Raizen's world had expanded beyond stone.
And something inside him did not like being reminded of how small his body was compared to the void.
The ship accelerated, angling away from the fortress.
Behind them, defensive grids flared to life.
Weapons charged.
A warning pulse rippled through space—a final demand to halt.
The pilot did not slow.
"Brace," he said.
A beam lanced past the ship—not aimed to strike, but to signal.
A threat.
Sarela's heart hammered.
"Kaedor—" she whispered.
As if in answer, the fortress' main arrays powered down.
Not disabled.
Withdrawn.
The warning beams ceased.
The ship slipped into open space.
Kaedor had held.
For now.
Inside the transport, Raizen's cry softened into a weak whimper. His breathing steadied slowly as the seal adjusted once more, learning how to exist without constant stone pressing in from every side.
Sarela leaned close, resting her forehead against his.
"You're under the sky now," she whispered. "A borrowed one, but still… sky."
Raizen's eyes opened again.
They reflected starlight.
Not brightly.
Deeply.
Something in him settled.
Far away, in a realm beyond distance, Whis watched the vessel's path curve away from the planet.
"Ah," he said softly. "He's tasted space."
Beerus snorted. "So what?"
Whis tilted his head. "Most beings feel small when they first leave their world."
Beerus frowned. "And him?"
Whis smiled faintly.
"I believe," he said, "he's learning how large the universe truly is."
The transport ship vanished into a thin band of stars, engines humming quietly as it entered a long, unremarkable trajectory.
Behind it, the fortress shrank into insignificance.
Ahead, an unregistered world waited.
Harsh. Isolated. Unforgiving.
Perfect.
Raizen's eyes drifted closed once more.
The fire within him did not sleep.
It adjusted.
And beneath a borrowed sky, the next phase of his existence began—far from clans, far from councils, far from gods who were already beginning to realize that something important had slipped through their fingers.