Morning did not arrive gently.
The planet's sun clawed its way above the horizon like an intruder, its light filtered through layers of storm cloud and ash until the sky took on a bruised hue—gray streaked with sickly gold. The air warmed unevenly, pockets of heat colliding with lingering cold, creating currents that howled across the plain in unpredictable gusts.
Sarela woke to the sound of stone grinding against stone.
For a heartbeat, panic flared—memories of collapsing corridors and sealed doors flooding back. Then she realized the sound was distant, rhythmic.
Tectonic movement.
The world was never still.
Raizen slept against her chest, heavier than he had any right to be. Not physically—though gravity here did pull at him more insistently—but existentially, as if the planet itself pressed a fraction more weight into his small frame.
She adjusted her position carefully.
The seal did not protest.
That alone sent a chill through her.
Outside the shelter, the guards were already awake. One stood near the edge of the wreckage, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes. The other knelt beside a makeshift sensor array assembled from salvaged parts, its display flickering with static.
"Anything?" Sarela asked quietly as she stepped out.
The kneeling guard shook his head. "No ships. No energy signatures beyond natural interference."
The standing guard grunted. "This planet hides things well."
Sarela followed his gaze.
The landscape seemed unchanged—blackened stone stretching endlessly, broken by jagged ridges and deep fissures that disappeared into shadow. But there was a sense of motion beneath it all, subtle and constant, like a creature shifting its weight in sleep.
Raizen stirred.
Not awake.
Reacting.
The moment his breathing shifted, the ground beneath them answered.
A low tremor rippled outward, barely strong enough to feel through boots—but unmistakable. Dust lifted in thin sheets, swirling briefly before settling again.
The guards froze.
"That's… not coincidence," one said.
Sarela's heart hammered. She knelt instinctively, lowering herself closer to the ground as if that might shield the child.
"Raizen," she whispered. "Easy."
His tiny fingers curled.
The seal tightened—then stopped.
Not fully.
The tremor faded.
Sarela stared down at him, dread creeping in alongside awe.
He's not pushing.
He's listening.
The pilot emerged from the shelter, rubbing his jaw. "Engines are dead," he said flatly. "Power cells are intact, but the hull's warped. Even if we wanted to leave, this planet isn't letting us."
The standing guard snorted. "Maybe that's the point."
They didn't speak again for several minutes.
The wind carried the distant rumble of thunder, but there was no rain—only ash drifting lazily through the air. The sky remained restless, clouds folding over one another like slow waves.
Sarela sat back against the shelter wall, Raizen awake now, eyes open and reflecting the broken sky.
He wasn't frightened.
That scared her more than anything else.
Most infants cried at unfamiliar sounds, clung tighter when the world shifted. Raizen did neither. His gaze followed the movement of clouds, the flicker of lightning, the way dust danced in the wind.
The pressure inside him moved in response—never flaring, never surging—just adjusting.
A pattern was forming.
"He's syncing," one of the guards murmured, as if afraid to speak louder.
Sarela shook her head. "He's a child."
"Yes," the guard replied. "And this world is teaching him something."
She didn't ask what.
She already felt it.
The day passed slowly.
They rationed supplies, set up perimeter markers, and mapped the immediate area. The terrain was unforgiving—jagged rock, unstable ground, sudden drops masked by ash. But there was something else beneath the surface, something the sensors couldn't define.
A density.
Not energy.
Resistance.
Late in the day, it happened again.
Raizen fussed—not crying, just shifting uncomfortably as hunger and fatigue tugged at him. Sarela adjusted him, murmuring softly, trying to soothe him the way she had so many times before.
The seal tightened reflexively.
Too much.
Raizen's face scrunched, discomfort flashing across his features. His breathing hitched.
And then—
The ground pushed back.
A sudden jolt knocked Sarela sideways. She cried out, clutching Raizen tightly as the earth beneath them shifted violently, a localized quake that sent cracks racing outward from where she knelt.
The guards shouted, scrambling for balance.
It lasted less than a second.
Then stillness.
Silence crashed down hard enough to make her ears ring.
Sarela lay frozen, heart pounding, staring at the cracked stone inches from her hands.
Raizen had gone still.
Not limp.
Focused.
The seal trembled.
Not breaking.
Negotiating.
She felt it then—clear and undeniable.
The planet was not responding to his power.
It was responding to his distress.
"Raizen…" she breathed.
Slowly, carefully, she adjusted her hold, easing the pressure around him, loosening the cloth that bound him too tightly.
The seal relaxed.
The cracks in the stone stopped spreading.
The world exhaled.
The guards stared at the fractured ground in stunned silence.
One of them finally spoke, voice low. "This place… it's acting like a brace."
The pilot swallowed. "Or a cage."
Sarela shook her head slowly.
"No," she said. "A counterweight."
The realization settled heavily in her chest.
The fortress had sealed Raizen to prevent destruction.
This world was doing something else entirely.
It was balancing him.
As night fell again, the storms intensified. Lightning crawled across the sky in endless webs, thunder rolling like distant artillery. Yet within the shelter, the air felt steadier than it had anywhere else since his birth.
Raizen slept deeply.
For the first time, his dreams did not tug at the seal.
The fire inside him burned lower, denser, quieter—no longer pressing outward in search of release, but folding inward, rooting itself against gravity, stone, and pressure.
Sarela sat awake long into the night, watching the storms rage beyond the shelter walls.
Kaedor had bought them time.
This world was giving them structure.
And somewhere far above, beyond storms and stars, Whis regarded the planet with open fascination.
"Well now," he murmured. "That's unexpected."
Beerus frowned. "What is?"
"That world," Whis replied. "It's not merely enduring him."
Beerus's eyes narrowed. "Then what is it doing?"
Whis's smile was slow and thoughtful.
"It's teaching him the first law of survival," he said. "That power without grounding destroys itself."
Beerus snorted. "Mortals learn that all the time."
Whis inclined his head. "Yes. But very few learn it before they learn how to dominate."
Back on the planet's surface, the storm reached its peak.
Lightning struck a ridge not far from the shelter, shattering stone and sending debris cascading down the slope.
Raizen stirred in his sleep.
The seal tightened instinctively.
The world answered—not with violence, but with weight.
The pressure settled.
Raizen relaxed.
Sarela closed her eyes, tears slipping free despite her efforts.
For the first time since his birth, she allowed herself to believe something fragile and dangerous:
This world might keep him alive long enough to grow.
And that thought, more than any god or clan, terrified her.
Because a child who learned endurance before strength would not grow into something easily controlled.
The storm raged on.
The planet pushed back.
And Raizen slept—rooted, balanced, and unknowingly taking his first steps toward a future that would one day shake more than stone.