DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story belong to their owners. I'm not making any money off this—just doing it for fun. If you like it, leave a review! Oh, and by the way, this chapter could've easily been called "Things Bulma Doesn't Know", but I didn't pick the title—Vegeta's the one calling the shots here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN – Only the Strong Burn

It was inevitable.

He could not waste his time.
No time for the woman with sea-glass eyes—
who dared look at him like he was more than what the stars had had purpose. A mission carved into his marrow long before her voice ever touched his ears.
He belonged to gravity now—to fire, and pressure, and pain.
To the echo of his father's silence.
To the throne that no longer existed.

The battle was calling.
A call he would never dare ignore.

The fire within him whispered—not gently, but with the demand of a god-star—that something greater loomed just beyond his reach.
He would seize it. He must.

The others were rising. Earth's warriors sharpening themselves into weapons, dull though they were.
And Kakarot...
Kakarot was somewhere out there, pulling impossibilities into his grasp with the ease of breath.

He couldn't afford sentiment.
Couldn't allow weakness.

And in that broken silence, he made a vow:

No more hesitation.
No more distractions.
No more damnable tenderness clinging to his thoughts like a weakness he couldn't shake.

He would become what he was born to be. A prince. A warrior. The inheritor of a legacy stolen by a tyrant. Because there was no other path. Not for him. He would break his limits, shatter them, burn through them like stars through the void.

He would become more—not for anyone, not even for her,

but because anything less would make his life a lie. A mockery of the pride his people had possessed. He had been born with a purpose, the Strongest of his race, the prodigy heir of royal blood destined to greatness before Frieza's boot crushed it all.

And without that?

Without reclaiming that birthright...

He was nothing.

And just as the silence seemed holy,
just as he dared to believe he had rid himself of weakness—

"Oh my… are you okay? You were staring off like some tragic prince in a space opera."

She was there again.

The woman.

She did not understand.

The stars above were a call to battle—and she mocked him.

Tch.

"No, really," she added, one brow arched in faux concern. "Should I get you a cape and a spotlight?"

"…Shut up."

Silence.

The woman had many of those.

He liked that—though he knew she used them to analyze him, the way she dissected machines.
As if she could take him apart and understand the pieces.
As if understanding made anything safer.

"You're leaving again."

It wasn't a question.

She knew. She always knew.
Even if she didn't understand basic survival.

But this time—she was right.

He didn't answer. Just kept staring at the sky.
There was nothing left to say.

She understood anyway.

"We've been through this before. You don't want distractions. You must become a Super Saiyan and beat Son-kun."

He flinched.

He hated that name—Kakarot—but he hated even more the way she said it.
Son-kun.

Like an old friend.

Like she expected him to spare the man for some foolish, sentimental bond.

There was a bond, of course. Their bond. But he would never speak of it.

The memory lingered.
As did the teasing. The insolence. The audacity.
It was maddening.

He hadn't been able to ignore her. Not until he reclaimed control. Proved himself.

(Why? Why should he prove himself to an insignificant Earthling?)

Her breath haunted the quiet.
The taste of her had lingered—intrusive and maddening.
And her laughter—like a battle drum—echoed in his skull like some ancient song meant to unmake him.

Then she'd appear again. At his door.
With some absurd excuse, some fabricated reason to see him.

To test him.

How dare she.

How dare she stand before him with defiance in her eyes, no fear in her step.
As though she wanted him.
As though he was meant to understand what that meant.

He didn't. Not really.

He had never known what it was to want someone—not in that sense.
Nor to be wanted.

He was a blade. Forged for conquest. Not affection.

And yet—her presence was a provocation.
A challenge wrapped in soft skin and sharper wit.

It had been like being invited to battle, and this time…
he would win.

And then—after—it would come.

That look.

That damnable look.
The flush on her cheeks.
The cocky whisper against his skin.
Her fingers, lazy and warm on his chest.

Her words were smug, but not unkind.
Her breath still fogged with steam and aftermath:

"Okay… let's say… you win this time…"

Foolish woman. She thought she was the one yielding there.

She'd collapsed against him, breath soft against his arm.

And he'd stayed.
He'd meant to leave. Had told himself he would.
But her warmth had pinned him like gravity—relentless, invisible.
Mocking.

Still. Watching. Listening to the silence roar in his ears—

—as if the battle had only just begun.

The worst part wasn't the heat between them.
Wasn't the memory of how she'd unraveled him with voice, with body, with hands.

No.

The worst part was the stillness afterward.
The calm that came only after ruin.

She lay there like some riddle the universe had written just for him—
indecipherable and infuriating.

Not a rival.
Not a pawn.
Just her.

Flawed. Fearless. Unbroken.

She had faced him with nothing but nerve and need and said:
Take me.

And he had.

His jaw tightened.

Something ugly and unfamiliar curled in his chest.
Hollow and loud.
A warning. A threat.

Damn you, woman. What have you done?

He hadn't meant to mark her.

It hadn't been calculated.
It hadn't been anything at all but instinct—
ancient, base, buried.

In the press of skin and Ki, in her voice breaking beneath him like surrender—
he had done what no Saiyan did without consequence.

He had marked her.

His claim lived now in her body.
Unseen. But undeniable.

A bond not of ceremony—but of truth.
Of will. Of need.

He would not let the bond rule him.
It might not be undone—but it could be ignored.
He would not indulge her games.

Would not let this softness unravel the last threads of who he was.

He was Vegeta.
A prince.
A warrior.
Not some Earthbound weakling poisoned by sentiment.

And yet—her voice.

"Earth to Prince Broody—do you copy, or are you busy narrating your tragic backstory to the clouds again?"

Tch.

She had the gall to mock him. Again.
Always with that grin, that insufferable tone, as though she weren't speaking to a killer of worlds.

"Say what you want," he muttered, eyes fixed forward, refusing to grant her the satisfaction of even a glance.

But she didn't push. Not yet.

"I didn't come here to pick a fight, okay?" she said, gentler now. "I won't even ask you to stay—or linger."
She shrugged, careless on the surface, but he'd learned enough of her mannerisms to know better.
"You have to go. I get that. It's your calling. Like when I can't let go of an idea until I see it through. When I don't sleep for days until I finish building something. Or when I come across something interesting and I can't stop poking at it until I understand."

Her eyes found him again. That gaze—sharper than it had any right to be. As though it might cut through flesh and bone and pride.

She was not talking about machines. Not now.

"I might never fully understand you," she said, softer now, "but I understand that you must go."

As if that settled anything.

But then—she said it. Carelessly. Too casually.

"I've been thinking about that kid from the future. He said everyone dies. That includes you too, right?"

He didn't think. He reacted.
"A stupid machine will never kill the Prince of the Saiyans."

His voice was a growl. His fist clenched, heat crackling faintly beneath the skin.

She didn't flinch.
"Good," she said simply. "That's the spirit."

Silence followed. But not the kind he preferred.
Not the clean, empty silence of space.
This one lingered—thick with unspoken things.

He glanced sideways.

She was staring again.

"…What?"

Her eyes dropped to his hand.

"Can I…?" she asked, reaching.

His body betrayed him. Flinch. Step back. Avoidance like instinct.

Not out of fear.

Never that.

But the touch of that woman was too much like gravity.
And gravity had already claimed him once.

She froze. Just for a second. Then her hand dropped.

"Wow. Okay," she said, lifting her chin with a crooked smile. "Touching denied. Message received. I'll alert the press."

Her voice was light. Joking. But there was a pause between the words where truth liked to hide.

She didn't understand. Not truly.
But she was learning.

"I mean, really," she continued, waving a hand like the whole moment was an afterthought. "Wouldn't want to interrupt your tragic anti-hero arc. Next thing I know, you'll be dramatically posing in the drizzle and whispering about vengeance."

He scowled. Not because she was wrong—but because she wasn't.

She turned her back to him, casually, like she hadn't just reached for something ancient and fragile and been burned by it.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Go punch some mountains or scream into a volcano. Or whatever it is your melodramatic kind do when you're avoiding your feelings."

She was walking away now. Not running. Never running.

It would've been easier if she'd shouted. Or cried. Or demanded something of him.
But she didn't.

She just walked. Quiet and sure. The way someone does when they've already decided not to look back.

And for reasons that made no sense and offered no comfort—he couldn't let her go like that.

"Bulma."

His voice caught her mid-step.

She turned slightly, brows raised—hiding surprise behind her usual mask of sass. He'd said her name, he's never spoke to her like that. Not with that tone.

He wasn't barking orders or biting back annoyance.
He was reaching, almost.
Carefully. Like the syllables might betray him if he wasn't precise.

He didn't look at her fully. Just enough.

"I won't die."

It wasn't a boast. Not this time.

It was a promise.
To himself. Of course.
Only that.

She blinked. Once. Slowly.

Then she smiled—but not the way she usually did. Not amused. Not smug. Not teasing.

Just… soft.

"Yeah," she said, quieter this time. "I know."

And she didn't touch him.

No hand on his arm. No attempt to coax him into gentleness. She left the silence between them unbroken—for once, she let him keep it.

He didn't look back. But he listened.
Tracked her steps until the last one faded.
Only then did he rise.

The sky cracked open around him as he flew—clean, immediate, absolute.
He hadn't said a word to anyone about his progress. No need. But… there had been a few moments where could feel the potential of his power. A shift.

He remembered the first time it had happened. Back then—after that fight, when he'd told her the fool she'd been for wanting him, all to prove something to himself. To punish her for seeing too much.

She had cried.

By the water, alone. Not because he frightened her. That would've made more sense. No, it had been worse than that.

She was hurt.
By him.

And something had twisted in his chest, tight and unfamiliar. It felt like a cramp in his lungs, like his own body had turned against him.

He hated it.

Weak. Human. Pointless.

He had left her behind that day, too. Launched himself into the sky, fists clenched so hard they could've cracked stone.

Rage followed him. Coiled around his Ki like a second current, darker than any gravity. He didn't run from it—he let it build, let it feed.

He found the nearest mountain and drove straight through it. Turned it to dust and smoke and rubble. Left nothing behind but a crater and a silence he couldn't stand.

And then he screamed.

Roared until his throat burned, until it felt like the whole world should split in half just to keep up with him. Electricity running through his body transforming into thunder, the clouds above him turned dark.

And for a moment—A flicker.

Gold. Sharp. Brief.

During the months he trained in space, he kept returning to that moment—over and over, until it burned itself into his memory. That was how he learned. Not through philosophy or blind instinct like Kakarot. He studied feeling the way a warrior studied technique: isolate, observe, repeat. The conditions of that day had been right. He was sure of it. Something in his state of mind had brought him to the edge.

Was it rage?

He dissected rage like a surgeon. Tried to recreate it, channel it. He thought of Frieza—the tyrant who'd chained him like a dog. Who'd shattered his pride, his birthright. He thought of Kakarot—the idiot savant who had no right to that golden power. A low-born, third-class joke. And yet he wore the title of Super Saiyan like it was his birthmark.

Sometimes, it worked. He could feel the surge again, for a few moments. But it always slipped away.

And then, that night. When he returned to Earth.

There she was.

Suspended in a healing tank, pale as bone. Her skin looked translucent, her body barely clinging to life. Wires snaked into her arms, tubes feeding her strength drop by agonizing drop. Her hair floated in the fluid like a silk cloud, her Ki a faint flicker under glass.

He'd felt that before—watched someone fade like that. Another woman.

Queen Shallot.

His mother.

She had been strong once. Royal. A fighter. But childbirth had gutted her. She never recovered from bearing him. Died giving life to his younger brother, a child whose Ki barely registered. A disgrace to the throne.

Another casualty of Saiyan bloodlines. Another mark of failure.

Weakness. He had seen too much of it. When his mother died. When his brother was cast out for being useless. When his father knelt to Frieza and let their entire race become servants.

Useless. All of them.

"Weak woman," he'd said.

And meant it.

The image wouldn't leave.

Not even after he trained himself to exhaustion. Not after he blew the chamber apart. Not after he rewrote his pain into muscle and bruises.

She just… stuck.

In that tank, looking like something half-dead. The wires, the pale skin, the stupid blue hair floating like she was some kind of ghost.

He hated it. Hated her for making him remember.

This wasn't rage. It wasn't pride. It wasn't anything useful.

It just hurt.

And he didn't have a name for it.

"That stupid, fragile woman," he growled through clenched teeth.

And still, she haunted him.

He was furious at her for being so weak.
Furious at himself—for marking her. For setting this in motion.

The voice had come to him then, sharp and cruel, a hiss echoing in his skull:

Guilt? You? Vegeta?

After everything. After the bodies. After the blood. Now you feel it?

Why should you care for a fragile Earthling? She brought this on herself. She poked the bear. She played with fire. Let her burn. One more casualty—what of it? What is she, to the Prince of all Saiyans?

He listened to that voice. Too long.
Let it settle in like rust. Let it rot whatever part of him still hesitated.

Sometimes, it sounded like Frieza—smug, hissing, wrapped in silk and blood.
Sometimes like Nappa, loud and stupid, echoing the kind of loyalty that gets you killed.
And sometimes—worse—it was his own voice. The one that never shut up. The one that knew every weak spot.

Let it settle into the corners of his mind like dust. Let it poison him slow.

And then that night—

The glow returned.

No explosion of power. No mountains torn asunder. The air didn't fracture. The world didn't shake.

It was quieter this time. No less dangerous.

A heat beneath the skin, slow and seething. A fury without theatrics. As if his very blood had begun to shimmer.

He had felt it. The nearness of it. That edge.

And then he'd fallen asleep.

Worn down. Hollowed out.

When he woke, it was gone.

But he remembered the state of mind. The contours of it. The silence it required.

Not battle. Not noise. Not even hatred.

Just the simmer.

He would find it again.

Alone.

He flew east until cities thinned, forests gave way to stone, and the air turned dry and sharp in his lungs. Eventually, he found it—an unclaimed stretch of arid wilderness, sun-scorched cliffs and jagged peaks like broken teeth, a river snaking below like a vein of silver. There were no humans here. No voices. No machines. Just the wind, the heat, and the grinding sound of stone beneath his boots.

Perfect.

He dropped the capsule case she'd given him—months ago, before his training on space—and it popped open with a hiss, unfolding a Spartan setup: a tent, a generator, dry rations. Tools. Nothing luxurious. Nothing soft. Just enough to survive.

He didn't need comfort. He needed silence.

The wilds did not speak.

They offered no language—only wind, sun, and silence. Days bled into nights, marked only by the slow rotation of stars and the rising ache in his bones. His tent stood rooted in a gorge between jagged cliffs, where the wind howled like a wounded beast and the river carved through rock like time itself.

No gravity machine. No artificial stimuli. No interruptions.

Only his mind.

The capsule case had everything he needed—food rations, field medicals, scanners—but the thing he used most wasn't in the schematics. It was a compact piece of alien alloy. A recording device.

Bulma's voice.

"...I hate you. I'll hate you forever for leaving me here. For making me feel this goddamn lonely..."

He knew every crack in her voice, every syllable that dripped hate and hurt. He could recite them. And yet he listened again.

No flinch. No scowl.

He needed it. Not because it gave him strength, but because it reminded him what his strength had cost.

You should hate me, he thought. Idiot woman.

Every time her voice cracked, it filled the air like the shriek of a Ki blast gone astray—one that had hit its mark.

He trained through the sound of it.

Barefoot, shirtless, his body streaked with sweat and mud, muscles screaming as he launched himself from cliff to cliff, each impact shaking stone loose. He blasted through boulders, meditated waist-deep in the freezing river, and struck at the sun as though it had mocked him.

It came again—just the shimmer. A spark across his back, a glow behind the eyes. Not enough. Not yet. But each time it flickered, it lingered longer.

He wasn't chasing rage anymore. He was studying it.

That moment—when the golden light had first burned through him—it hadn't come at Frieza's memory. Not even Kakarot's name had brought it back. But Bulma…

…pale in a pod, barely breathing.

He hadn't felt anger then.

He had felt something else.

Something worse.

"What?" he asked aloud once, his voice barely a rasp. "What is this?"

The wind didn't answer. The river didn't answer. The device, cold in his palm, did.

Click.

"...For making me…"

Silence.

He sat with it. Let it simmer.

If she hated him, she should have stayed away. If she had any pride, she wouldn't have needed him. But no. She was weak. Fragile. Foolish.

And she had said: "I need you."

The light in his chest pulsed again—faint, golden, wrong.

He dropped the recorder beside his boot and stood.

"I will master this," he growled to the wilderness. "Not for you. Not for him."

He didn't know who he meant—Kakarot? The brat? Himself?

Didn't matter.

He surged upward, aura blazing white-blue, teeth gritted, blood singing. The mountains cracked beneath him. He needed control. Total control. On command. As if it were breath.

Let her hate him.

Let her mean it.

He would become more than a soldier. More than a prince. More than the man who once knelt in the shadow of genocide and did nothing.

So he tried to feel it all at once.

The resentment—for Frieza, who carved obedience into him and called it loyalty.

The shame—for his father, who mistook silence for survival and made cowardice royal.

The disgust—for his mother and brother, whose deaths had barely registered. Names that echoed, but never cut deep enough to make him bleed.

The failure—for Kakarot, the lowborn miracle, who made the impossible look effortless.

And then the worst one—

That raw, insistent ache he couldn't kill.

Bulma.

Whatever she was, whatever she meant—it refused to die. A splinter beneath his skin, buried too deep to dig out. A quiet infection. Something that waited.

He let it all in.

The emotions he'd buried under ten thousand hours of battle.
The memories he'd outrun on a hundred ruined worlds.

He stopped resisting. Let the pressure crush him.
Let the storm inside his chest break open.

He felt them all—raw, molten, unrelenting.
And then he consumed them.

His body became the crucible.
The furnace.
Every ache, every humiliation, every phantom of the past—fuel.
The flame roared higher.

And from the wreckage, the light came.

It wasn't righteous.
It wasn't noble.

It was violence, refined into divinity.

His body convulsed—light pouring from his skin like his bones couldn't contain it. The cliffs below fractured. Trees bent away. The river turned white from heat.

He rose, hair blazing gold, aura crackling like thunder behind his teeth.

And for a heartbeat—a single, suspended instant—he felt untouchable.

Then it passed.

He hovered there, panting—fingers curled, jaw set, every nerve bristling with voltage.

The wind had died. The earth held its breath.

The transformation didn't soothe.

It scorched.

It burned through everything soft, everything slow.

It was raw force—undiluted, unchallenged.

Power without question. Purpose without doubt.

He didn't think. He didn't feel.

He was.

Lightning cracked behind his eyes.

And in the silence, he laughed.

A sound sharp enough to split mountains.

Not joy. Not madness.

Victory.

WRITER'S RANT:
OMG. This chapter. This pain-in-the-ass of a chapter is finally done. You have no idea how hard it was to pull it together. Finding Vegeta's voice in the narrative—his voice, especially at this point in the canon—was like dragging a planet uphill.

I wrote, like, fifteen pages of his biography. In his voice. Then re-read it and went: "Ugh." Just—ugh. He's too much. Probably that's how Bulma ended up sneaking into the chapter—I couldn't help it. XD

But then I thought, "Actually… this is what Bulma does in canon." She pokes at things until truth spills out. So, aside from her few sarcastic gems, I apologize for the angst and the drama—but it's not mine, I swear. It's Vegeta's. XD

That said, I really wanted to pin down the moment he becomes that Vegeta in the Androids arc. The one who's drunk on power, who feels like he's finally clawed his way back into control. To me, it's not progress—it's a relapse. A step back into something older. Colder.

He's not redeemed here. He's just… sick with power.