The planet answered slowly.
Not with violence.
Not with submission.
But with pressure.
Raizen felt it before anyone else.
It began as a subtle shift—so faint that even Sarela nearly missed it. The air around them seemed denser, heavier in a way that had nothing to do with gravity alone. It pressed inward from all sides, not aggressively, but insistently, like a question that refused to be ignored.
Raizen's eyes opened.
He did not cry.
He did not stir in panic.
He simply became aware.
Sarela was seated just outside the shelter, back against a slab of jagged stone, Raizen resting against her chest as she sorted through ration packs. Her movements had become slow and deliberate over the days, guided less by routine and more by instinct—by the unspoken understanding that sudden motion could ripple outward in ways she could not fully control.
She felt it then.
The weight.
Her shoulders tensed instinctively, breath catching in her chest as if the atmosphere itself had thickened.
"What—" she murmured.
Raizen's fingers flexed.
The seal responded—but not immediately.
For the first time since his birth, it hesitated.
Not failing.
Assessing.
The pressure increased.
The ground beneath them groaned—not cracking, not shifting violently, but compressing, stone grinding against stone deep below the surface like tectonic plates leaning into one another.
The guards snapped to attention instantly.
"You feel that?" one hissed.
The pilot nodded grimly. "Gravity spike. Localized. Not natural."
Sarela's heart pounded as she looked down at Raizen.
His eyes were fixed on the horizon.
Not the storms.
Not the sky.
The ground.
Something in him responded—not with resistance, but recognition.
The fire inside him stirred, compressing inward, tightening like a core being forged under immense pressure. Heat spread evenly through his body, not flaring outward, not burning—circulating.
The seal shifted.
Not tightening.
Not loosening.
Reconfiguring.
Sarela gasped softly.
"What's happening to you…?" she whispered.
Raizen leaned forward slightly, his small body angling toward the ground as if drawn by something unseen. His fingers pressed against her chest, bracing—not clinging.
Engaging.
The pressure peaked.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still.
Then—
The planet answered.
Not with a quake.
With support.
The ground beneath Sarela's boots compacted further, stabilizing instead of fracturing. The oppressive weight dispersed evenly, spreading outward in a wide radius rather than concentrating around Raizen.
The pressure didn't vanish.
It balanced.
Raizen exhaled.
A long, steady breath.
The fire inside him settled into a denser, quieter state—no longer pushing against containment, but resting within it, like molten metal poured into a mold that finally fit.
Sarela collapsed back against the stone, chest heaving.
The guards stared in stunned silence.
One of them finally whispered, "The world just… adjusted."
The pilot swallowed. "Like it didn't want him to break."
Sarela clutched Raizen tighter, tears stinging her eyes.
No—she realized with a sharp, terrifying clarity.
Like it didn't want itself to break because of him.
Far above, beyond storms and stars, Whis watched with open fascination.
"Oh my," he murmured, staff resting lightly against the floor of the divine realm.
Beerus frowned, irritation sharpening into something more focused. "You're enjoying this."
Whis smiled. "Immensely."
Beerus's tail flicked. "Planets don't respond like that."
Whis inclined his head. "Most don't."
Beerus crossed his arms. "Then explain it."
Whis's eyes traced the ripple of probabilities spreading outward from the planet—tiny distortions stacking atop one another, subtle but undeniable.
"That world," Whis said softly, "has endured extraordinary pressure in its history. Cataclysms. Impacts. Forces that should have torn it apart."
Beerus snorted. "So have many worlds."
"Yes," Whis agreed. "But this one survived by learning how to distribute stress rather than resist it outright."
Beerus's frown deepened.
"And now," Whis continued, "it recognizes something similar in the child."
Beerus's eyes narrowed. "You're saying it sees itself in him."
Whis smiled faintly.
"I'm saying," he replied, "that he is not the first thing this world has had to carry."
Beerus went silent.
Back on the surface, the day unfolded uneasily.
The pressure did not return to normal.
It stabilized at a new baseline—heavier than before, but consistent. The guards adjusted reluctantly, muscles straining slightly as they moved, boots sinking just a fraction deeper into the ash-laced stone.
Raizen did not seem bothered.
If anything, he seemed calmer.
Sarela noticed it in the way he slept—deeper, more complete. His breathing no longer tugged at the seal unconsciously. The fire within him burned like a contained core rather than a restless flame.
He had found something he could lean against.
The world.
That frightened her more than any surge of power ever had.
Late in the cycle, as the storm clouds thinned slightly and the sky dimmed into a bruised twilight, Sarela sat near the edge of the shelter, Raizen awake against her chest.
She hesitated—then spoke.
"You know," she said quietly, "most Saiyan children cry when the world pushes back."
Raizen's eyes flicked to her face.
She swallowed.
"They scream. They fight. They rage until something gives." Her voice softened. "That's how we're raised."
Raizen made a small sound—not quite a coo, not quite a breath.
She smiled weakly.
"But you…" she whispered. "You listen."
The fire inside him pulsed once—low, controlled.
Sarela closed her eyes.
"You're going to be dangerous," she murmured. "Not because you're strong."
Raizen's fingers curled gently into her clothing.
"But because you won't waste strength."
As night fell again, the storms receded farther than they had since arrival.
The planet rested.
Not sleeping.
Watching.
Raizen slept deeply, his body heavy with grounded heat, the seal no longer screaming against his existence.
And somewhere in the fabric of the universe, a quiet calculation shifted.
Because this was no longer a child merely surviving divinity.
This was a child learning how to carry it.
And when something learns how to bear weight long enough…
…it eventually decides what deserves to be lifted.