Dragon Ball: Taro Saga Chapter 1 - Taro the weak

Synopsis:

A sleep-deprived university student dies in the most anticlimactic way possible-falling down the dorm stairs-and wakes up in the body of a Saiyan. Unfortunately, he's not on Planet Vegeta but some backwater mining colony where low-power Saiyans are dumped to dig until they drop.

His new body is stronger than his old one, but that's not saying much when even the local toddlers could beat him in a fight. With no battle experience and a power level barely above zero, he quickly realizes that brute force won't get him out of this hole-literally. If he wants to escape, he'll have to outthink a species that considers "strategy" an afterthought.

Darren's last thought before he died was I should've slept more.

It wasn't a dramatic death. No truck barreling toward him, no act of heroism, not even some profound moment of realization. Just a set of stairs, a misplaced foot, and gravity doing what it did best. One second, he was trudging down from his dorm room, groggy from another all-nighter spent cramming for an exam he didn't even care about. The next, he was tumbling forward, too fast to catch himself, and then—snap.

Then nothing.

He expected—hoped, really—that he'd wake up in a hospital, bandaged and bruised, with some doctor scolding him for his stupidity. Or maybe he wouldn't wake up at all, just slip into that eternal nothingness everyone always talked about. Either way, it should've ended there.

But it didn't.

Instead, he was floating.

There was no ground beneath him, no ceiling above. Just a vast, endless void stretching in every direction, pressing against his senses like a weightless ocean. He wasn't cold or hot, wasn't anything, really. Just a thought, drifting. His body was gone. His mind was quiet. There was no pain. No hunger. No time.

Is this it?

The thought barely existed before it was swallowed up by the void.

Then, something shifted. A pull, like an unseen force yanking at his very essence. He had no shape, but he was being dragged, funneled through a space that didn't exist. He tried to resist, to fight against whatever was happening, but it was like trying to swim against a black hole.

And then—

Pain.

It crashed into him all at once, searing and crushing, like every nerve in his body had been set on fire. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed. His skin felt raw, coated in something thick and grimy.

He gasped, sucking in hot, metallic-tasting air.

His eyes flew open, and the first thing he saw was rock.

Jagged, uneven stone surrounded him, forming rough walls, a ceiling so low he could reach it if he stretched, and a floor littered with dust and debris. Dim lights flickered from a metal strip bolted into the stone, barely illuminating the narrow tunnel beyond the open doorway. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and something acrid that made his nose itch.

Panic clawed at his throat.

This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't anywhere he knew.

He pushed himself upright, and that's when he noticed his hands.

They weren't his.

Thicker fingers, rough skin, calloused palms. Hands built for labor, not the soft, ink-stained ones he remembered. He flexed them, and they obeyed, but they felt wrong. His breath hitched. He scrambled to his feet, legs shaking, and that's when he felt it—this entire body wasn't his. His arms, his chest, his legs—everything was different. Stronger. Bigger. His clothes were nothing but rags. A rough, tattered shirt that barely clung to his frame, stiff with dirt and sweat, and pants that were little more than scratchy fabric tied at the waist with a frayed rope. The worst thing was the brown rope that was wrapped around his waist that he quickly realised was a tail.

His heart pounded.

What the hell is this?

His breath came faster, shallower. His head spun. This wasn't right. This wasn't—

Then the memories hit.

Like a dam breaking, they flooded into him all at once, slamming into his mind with the force of an avalanche.

A name—Taro.

Not Darren. Taro.

Sixteen years. A life of struggle, of labor, of survival.

Born weak. Measured power level. Judged. Tossed aside.

Sent here.

Alecto. A wasteland of stone and heat, deep in the far reaches of space. A mining world, home to those who weren't strong enough to matter to the empire. A place where low-class Saiyans and other so-called "failures" were sent to work until they collapsed. The weak weren't executed—not right away. No, that would be wasteful. Instead, they were used.

The mines stretched deep, clawing into the planet's core, where massive energy crystals lay. Power cores. The lifeblood of starships, fueling fleets, weapons, entire civilizations. Mining them was dangerous. The radiation alone was enough to kill if you spent too long down there, and that wasn't even counting the collapses, the cave-ins, the sheer exhaustion that came from working until your body gave out.

Thousands were here. Mostly Saiyans, but also other low-tier races. The ones too weak to fight, to conquer, to be of any real use to the war machine that ruled the stars.

Taro had been sent here when he was ten.

His power level had been seventy three.

If it had been just a little higher, if he had been just a little stronger, he wouldn't have ended up here. He wouldn't have spent the last six years choking on dust, swinging a pickaxe until his hands bled, fighting for scraps just to see the next sunrise. Darren—no, Taro—staggered back, pressing his hands to his head. The weight of it all crushed him, drowning him in memories that weren't his but were at the same time. His stomach twisted, a deep, gnawing hunger clawing at his insides. His throat burned, dry as sandpaper. His limbs ached with a dull, constant exhaustion that told him he had been running on empty for years.

He wanted to scream.

But he couldn't.

Because deep down, something told him that if he showed weakness, if he drew attention to himself, it would only make things worse. A voice cut through the air, echoing down the stone corridor outside his cramped sleeping hole.

"Shift starts in five minutes! Move it or lose your rations!"

Taro barely had time to register the words before a flood of footsteps filled the tunnel.

The others were already moving. Saiyans, they all looked like shit, some barely looking awake, emerged from similar holes carved into the walls. No one spoke. No one complained. They just moved, dragging themselves toward the mine entrance like it was another day, another routine.

And for them, it was.

Taro's body moved on instinct. His mind screamed at him to stop, to question, to fight against it, but the memories were stronger. He knew what happened to those who did that and it was not good.

He staggered forward, falling into step with the others, his bare feet scraping against the rough stone.

The tunnels opened into a vast cavern, so massive it made his head spin. Scaffolding and wooden walkways clung to the rock walls, leading down to deep pits where dozens—no, hundreds—of workers toiled under dim artificial lights. Conveyor belts rumbled, carrying chunks of glowing crystal toward reinforced containment units. The air was electrified with raw energy, static crackling in the distance where exposed power cores pulsed with unstable force.

A rusted pickaxe was shoved into his hands.

"Get to work, runt," a towering Saiyan growled, his scarred face twisting into a sneer.

Taro didn't argue.

He turned to the rock face, lifted the pickaxe, and swung.

The impact jolted up his arms. A chunk of stone crumbled away. He swung again. And again. His muscles burned, but his body knew this. It had done this a thousand times before. He wondered how the rock was even this tough.

As he worked, his thoughts raced.

He wasn't Darren anymore. He wasn't a student, worrying about exams and sleep schedules.

He was Taro.

He was sixteen.

He was weak.

And if he didn't figure out a way to change that, he was going to die in this hellhole, just like everyone else who had been thrown away.

...

The hours passed in a blur of dust, sweat, and the dull ache of labor. The pickaxe felt heavier with every swing, and the raw hunger clawing at his stomach only made it worse. Every strike against the stone sent jolts of pain through his arms, his hands already blistered and raw from years of abuse. His body remembered this work, but Darren—no, Taro—wasn't used to the pain. Not yet. The miners around him barely spared him a glance. Some worked in silence, their faces hollow and dead-eyed, while others muttered curses, pausing only to wipe sweat from their brows. No one helped each other. That wasn't how this place worked.

The first time Taro let his exhaustion slow him down, a boot slammed into the back of his knees.

He hit the ground hard, his pickaxe clattering against the stone as pain shot up his legs. Laughter echoed around him.

"Still working like a damn weakling, huh, mongrel?"

The voice belonged to Ruko, a broad-shouldered Saiyan with a permanent scowl and a scar running down his left cheek. He wasn't the biggest or strongest, but here, in the mines, he was someone. He had been here longer, had fought harder, had broken enough bones to make sure everyone knew their place.

Taro knew his place.

On the ground.

He gritted his teeth, pushing himself up, but Ruko's boot came down on his back, shoving him into the dirt again.

"Stay down, runt," Ruko sneered, his voice thick with disgust. "Or should I remind you how things work down here?"

Taro's breathing was ragged. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, to snarl and bare his teeth like the Saiyan he was supposed to be. His fingers dug into the dirt, his body trembling, but he didn't move.

Because the memories told him exactly how this would end.

It wasn't the first time.

Wouldn't be the last.

"Pathetic," another voice muttered. "No wonder they threw you down here. You ain't even a real Saiyan."

The words sent a different kind of pain through him, one that burned in his chest.

Mongrel.

They called him that a lot.

Because he wasn't a full Saiyan.

The realization hit like a slow-moving avalanche, memories falling into place one by one. He had never thought about it before—Taro hadn't had the luxury of thinking about his past. The mines didn't care where you came from, only that you could work.

But now, with Darren's mind inside him, piecing it all together, it was clear. His tail was thinner than the others. His hair, though still dark and spiky, was softer, less wild. He had been smaller as a child, slower to develop the raw, instinctual aggression that made Saiyans what they were. His power level had been low from the start, barely measurable compared to others his age.

He wasn't a full Saiyan.

But he didn't know what his other half was.

His mother—who had she been? Taro had no memories of her, only vague flashes of a face he couldn't place. She had never been part of his life. Saiyan children were raised in pods, tested, and sorted before they could even speak. If they weren't worth keeping, they were discarded.

Like him.

Ruko pressed down harder, grinding Taro's ribs into the dirt. "Don't go quiet on me, half-breed. You got somethin' to say?"

Something inside him snapped.

Maybe it was the way Ruko said half-breed, like it was worse than being weak. Maybe it was the way his tail twitched, his instincts flaring to life, telling him that no self-respecting Saiyan would let himself be stepped on like this.

Maybe it was just anger.

Taro twisted, ignoring the pain, and shoved himself upward with all the strength he had left.

It wasn't enough to throw Ruko off, but it was enough to surprise him.

The boot slipped, and Taro moved on instinct. His fist lashed out, aiming for Ruko's gut. He wasn't thinking—Saiyans didn't think in fights, they moved.

But Ruko was thinking.

He caught Taro's wrist before the punch could land, his grip like iron.

Then he smiled.

"You dumbass."

The first punch smashed into Taro's jaw, sending him sprawling. Pain exploded through his skull, but he barely had time to register it before another kick slammed into his ribs.

Then another.

And another.

The other Saiyans didn't join in, but they didn't stop it either. This was just part of life here. No one cared what happened to the weak.

Taro curled in on himself, arms shielding his head as best he could. His breathing was ragged, his vision swimming. He had made a mistake.

Again.

By the time Ruko was done, Taro could barely move. His lip was split, one of his eyes already swelling shut, and every breath sent sharp pains through his ribs.

Ruko crouched beside him, gripping a fistful of his hair and yanking his head up so their eyes met.

"You think just 'cause you got a tail, you belong here?" Ruko growled. "You ain't a Saiyan. You're just a mistake."

Then he let go, letting Taro's head drop back to the ground.

"Next time, stay down."

He left after that, the other Saiyans following, their footsteps fading into the hum of the mine.

Taro lay there, dust and sweat clinging to his skin, every inch of his body screaming in pain.

He wanted to hate them.

But a small, bitter part of him knew that this was how it worked. Saiyans didn't pity the weak.

And right now, he was weak.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit up. His arms shook, his vision blurred, but he wouldn't stay on the ground. His entire life, he had survived by keeping his head down. By working just hard enough to avoid being killed, but never hard enough to be noticed. He had accepted that this was his fate.

But Darren didn't.

Darren had spent his life studying, trying to prove himself in a world that demanded results. He had been powerless in his old life, just like he was here.

But unlike Taro, he hadn't been born powerless.

He had let himself be powerless.

The realization sent a slow, smoldering heat through his veins.

Saiyans got stronger when they survived near-death experiences.

And right now, he felt like he was dying.

He pushed himself to his feet. It took every ounce of strength he had left, but he stood.

His ribs ached. His vision swam. His head pounded.

But he was still alive.

And that meant he could still get stronger.

Taro spat blood onto the ground, his fingers clenching into fists.

They thought he was nothing.

They thought he was trash.

They thought he didn't belong.

But Saiyans had a habit of defying expectations.

And one way or another, he was going to prove them wrong.

However.

Taro didn't rest.

He couldn't.

Not here.

Not when weakness was a death sentence.

He stumbled back to the rock wall he'd been working on and picked up the pickaxe. His grip faltered at first—his fingers were swollen, his palms raw—but he forced them to tighten. Every breath hurt, every movement sent waves of pain through his body, but he kept going. He had to. If the overseers saw him idle, they'd take his rations, or worse. And if Ruko saw him on the ground again, he'd finish what he started.

The pickaxe rose and fell.

Sparks flew as metal met stone, and the glowing veins of the power crystal shimmered beneath the surface, mocking him with their beauty. Taro didn't care. He wasn't here to admire the scenery.

He was here to survive.

Again and again, he swung the pickaxe. His muscles burned, his vision blurred, and blood dripped from his nose. The pain never stopped, but after a while, it changed. It dulled. Became something distant, like it belonged to someone else. His body moved without thought, a machine running on fumes and rage. He didn't know how long he worked—time had no meaning here—but eventually a loud, blaring siren echoed through the cavern. The overseers barked orders from the upper walkways, their scouters glowing faint green as they scanned the workers below.

"Shift change! Drop your tools and return to your sector!"

The words were like a bell at the end of a round. A few miners collapsed where they stood, others stumbled away. No one celebrated. There was nothing to celebrate.

Taro let the pickaxe fall from his hands. His arms hung limply at his sides, trembling with exhaustion. He turned and joined the slow, broken line of workers heading back to the sleeping tunnels. The walk back was harder than the shift itself. His body screamed for rest, for food, for anything other than more pain.

As they passed the overseer post, one of the guards—a tall, yellow-skinned alien with a breathing mask and a whip curled at his belt—watched Taro with narrowed eyes. His scouter beeped softly, reading power levels as the workers passed.

"Seventy-five," the overseer muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Still garbage."

Taro kept his head down and kept walking.

Back in the sleeping tunnels, the cells were barely large enough for one person, nothing more than holes carved into the stone. He collapsed inside his, his back hitting the wall with a thud. For a long moment, he didn't move. His whole body felt like it was on fire.

But his mind was racing.

Seventy-five.

Two points higher than when he'd arrived here six years ago.

Saiyans grew stronger through battle and survival—but only if they pushed past their limits. Yet after being placed in this hellscape six years ago and being forced to fight and survive day after day his power level had only risen by 2? There was something wrong here. Taro may not of knew it but Darren did.

But he was too tired to think at the moment.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to feel it. There was something deep inside his chest. A flicker. A pulse. A tiny ember of power, buried beneath all the weakness. It wasn't much, but it was there.

And if it was there, he could build it.

He heard footsteps outside his cell. For a moment, he tensed, expecting Ruko, expecting another boot to the ribs.

But it wasn't him.

A shadow loomed in the doorway, and a moment later, a thin figure stepped inside. Another Saiyan, but smaller, wiry, with a long scar across his neck. He looked about the same age as Taro, maybe a little older. His eyes flicked around the cell, then landed on Taro's face.

"You alive?" the boy asked.

Taro didn't answer.

The boy crouched beside him and tossed something onto his lap. A strip of dried meat. Rough and stringy, but food.

"Don't get excited. I didn't do it for you. Just don't want Ruko thinking he beat you to death. Gets too full of himself when no one fights back."

Taro stared at the meat, then back at the boy.

"Why?" he asked hoarsely.

The boy shrugged. "Because one day, someone's gonna kill him. And who knows it could be you."

He stood and turned to leave.

"What's your name?" Taro asked.

The boy paused.

"Kael," he said, not looking back. "Try not to die before shift tomorrow."

Then he was gone.

Taro stared at the food in his lap. His stomach growled, and he didn't hesitate. He tore into it like an animal, chewing and swallowing even though it hurt his cracked lips and swollen jaw. Every bite was fuel.

Every bite was survival.

After he finished, he leaned back against the wall again. His body wanted to shut down, but his mind wouldn't let it. He kept thinking about Kael. About the look in his eyes.

Kael was like him.

Not strong. Not important.

But not broken, either.

Taro had thought he was alone in that.

Maybe he wasn't.

He looked down at his hands—calloused, cracked, bruised—but still his. Still capable. He flexed them slowly, wincing at the pain.

Then he reached to his waist and touched his tail.

It twitched at his touch, and for the first time, he truly noticed the weight of it.

Saiyans trained their tails. Strengthened them. Most full-blooded warriors had full control over theirs, using them for balance in flight, or even in combat. Taro's was just... there. A weakness.

But it didn't have to stay that way.

He grabbed it near the base, ignoring the sharp wave of nausea that came with the touch. The pain shot up his spine, and he nearly blacked out.

He gritted his teeth and held on.

Again.

Then again.

Every time he touched it, the pain lessened—just a little.

He didn't stop until he passed out.

When he woke, it was to the sound of the siren blaring once more. Another shift. Another day.

Another chance.

He stood.

He picked up his pickaxe.

And this time, when he walked out of the cell, he didn't feel like prey.

He felt like something waking up.

Something dangerous.

And he knew, in the back of his mind, that if he kept pushing, if he survived long enough, then one day, they would regret sending him here.

One day, the empire would remember his name.

Taro.

(AN: Excuse the low quality it was written a long time ago, I'm a Huge Dragon Ball Z fan and tbh there is a lack of fics out there that are brave enough to diverge from canon. Those that do are amazing, so I wanted to try my hand at it. I like writing fights and dragon ball is the quintessential fighting anime. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this.)