Dragon Ball Z: The Beast Within - CH62

[Escarot POV]

My eyes snapped open to the smooth blue glow of the healing fluid.

For a moment, I just floated there—weightless, suspended, and… honestly? Feeling fantastic.

The ache, the cracks, the internal screaming of every bone in my body were gone. Mostly.

I had no idea how long I’d been inside the pod. Minutes? Hours? Days? Weeks?

But when I stretched my fingers, then rolled my shoulders—

Yeah.

I felt good.

I reached forward, pressing the internal release panel. The pod hissed open, draining the liquid as I stepped out onto the cold metal floor. My bare feet slapped softly, steam rolling off me like I’d just stepped out of a sauna designed by someone who hated me slightly less than usual.

I cracked my neck.

Pop-pop-pop.

Ahh. That was satisfying.

And then—something I hadn’t noticed before—scars traced across my chest and arms. Faint, but visible. Jagged, uneven lines where Beerus’ claws, palms, and general disregard for mortal anatomy had slammed into me.

I blinked, then chuckled.

“Nice. I’m gonna look badass when I’m older.”

Assuming I lived long enough to be older.

That thought led to another.

When do Saiyans grow, anyway? Goku stayed fun-sized for half his life, Vegeta looked tiny for…ever… hmm.

Was I stuck like this until I hit seventeen? Eighteen?

I needed to ask one of the scientists. Preferably one that didn’t faint every time I raised an eyebrow.

But that could wait—

Because something was rushing toward me. Fast.

A nervous, jittering ki signature—a familiar one.

“My King!!”

The door slammed open so hard it nearly bounced back onto the poor guy’s face. One of the palace guards skidded inside, panting, eyes wide, tail puffed up like a frightened animal.

“Yes?” I asked, tilting my head. “Why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

He looked like he wanted to pass out.

“You—you have a visitor!”

I blinked.

“…Okay?”

“He—he is awaiting you—in the throne room!”

A visitor.

I wonder who.

“I can’t sense anyone strong nearby,” I said, mostly thinking out loud. “Not even someone above the late King. So who—?”

The guard swallowed, face draining of color.

“L-Lord Cooler.”

I inhaled.

Choked.

Coughed.

Gagged on my own spit like an amateur.

“WH—what!?”

He flinched like I had yelled.

Which I hadn’t… maybe a bit.

“Lord Cooler arrived three days ago!” the guard rambled, hands shaking. “He requested an audience with you specifically!”

Fuck me…

But not only that, if he was here, and I couldn’t sense him it meant he was capable of controlling his ki… and that made faking everything harder than it had to be.

God fucking damn it!

I wiped my face with my hand, groaning.

“I need to approach this carefully…”

The guard stared, trembling. “My King, how shall we proceed?”

I exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to scream into the nearest pillow.

Cooler wasn’t like Frieza.

Frieza was emotional.

Egotistical.

Easy to manipulate if you hit the right buttons.

Cooler, though?

Cooler was calculated.

Patient.

Strategic.

If he was here, he wanted something. 

And unlike Frieza, Cooler rarely made… theatrical messes. If he wanted someone dead, if he wanted me dead, I would be dead.

I rubbed my eyes.

“…Escort me to the throne room,” I said finally.

The guard nodded frantically, relief washing over his face. “Y-yes, my King!”

I stepped forward—

Then paused.

“Did he say why he’s here?” I asked.

“No, my King. Only that he wishes to speak with you directly.”

I cracked my knuckles.

No point putting this off.

Time to face another galactic tyrant with a polite smile and a prayer that he didn’t decide today was a good day to commit regicide.

I sighed.

“Perfect,” I muttered, sarcasm dripping.

“Let’s go.”

And with that, I followed the terrified guard down the hall, heading straight toward a throne room containing the most dangerous visitor I could’ve asked for— besides the God currently using me as a punching bag.

Cooler.

—------------------------------------------------------

[Cooler POV]

I stood at the foot of the Saiyan throne—hands clasped neatly behind my back as I examined the crude architecture around me. Saiyans had always lacked refinement, but this throne room was… functional.

I heard the doors open long before they finished sliding apart.

Footsteps. Even, steady. No fear in them.

Interesting.

Escarot entered the room.

The new "King" of the Saiyans.

A child in body, but—if the recordings, intelligence and my own conclusions were correct—far from one in ability.

I let my eyes sweep over him, taking in every detail.

His posture was steady.

His breathing controlled.

And most importantly…

He was suppressing himself. Hiding his true power.

Quite impressively, too.

A Saiyan with restraint—now that was rare. Most of his kind broadcast their power like moronic peacocks flashing feathers. Instead, he hid it beneath the surface, coiled tightly, deliberately.

That alone told me more than any scouter could.

“My, my,” I said, smiling faintly. “King Escarot, at last we meet.”

He bowed.

He bowed well.

Low enough to be respectful, but not groveling. A careful balance. Calculated.

“Lord Cooler,” he said.

I took a step forward, slow and languid, observing him the same way one studies an unfamiliar weapon—beautiful, dangerous, and perhaps flawed in ways not immediately obvious.

From the moment he entered the room, his energy was… quiet. Muted. Too neat.

A Saiyan hiding his power so carefully?

That meant one thing.

His true power was enough to be noticed.

Enough to be considered a variable.

Enough to eventually make my little brother uncomfortable.

But not enough—yet—to pose a direct threat to Frieza or to Father.

If I had to guess… yes. Likely in the low seven figures when at full power.

Perhaps a million or two.

He certainly wasn’t the strongest being I’d encountered, but among Saiyans? He was an anomaly—a pearl dropped into a cesspool.

I allowed myself a small clap, the sound echoing sharply across the chamber.

“Bravo,” I said smoothly. “You didn’t disappoint.”

He lifted his head slightly, wary.

“Your act—this restrained little performance—may fool others. But me? No.”

I tilted my head, studying the tension gathering in his shoulders.

“You hide your true strength admirably, King Escarot. It’s almost offensive how well you play the subservient role of a dog. Bowing. Lowering your ki. Pretending to be obedient.” I smiled wider. “In a culture of brutes, you are… unusual.”

His jaw shifted slightly, but he held himself still.

That must take an incredible amount of discipline. 

“I’m beginning to see,” I continued, “why Lord Beerus took an interest in you.”

There it was—the smallest flicker in his eyes.

Confirmation.

He didn’t want that mentioned aloud. Didn’t want the connection acknowledged.

A wise instinct.

I stepped closer, examining him as though he were a puzzle box.

“Your restraint is admirable,” I said. “Truly. But this little charade—hiding your true power from me—it’s insulting, King Escarot. So please…” I gestured lazily with one hand. “Drop it.”

He tensed further.

“My lord,” he began carefully, “I assure you—”

I sighed softly, shaking my head.

“If you must insist.”

One moment I was standing across the room. The next I was behind him, fingertips poised at the back of his neck with deadly precision.

Just enough power in the strike to kill him outright—if he failed to react.

Let us see what the God of Destruction found so fascinating.

Escarot turned just in time.

Fast enough to intercept my hand with his forearm, bracing his stance to absorb the blow.

The impact cracked the tiles beneath his feet.

And yet—he held.

His eyes widened slightly.

Mine warmed.

I let the pressure dissipate instantly and stepped back, giving him space.

“Was that so difficult?” I asked, smiling.

In truth, I had learned more in that single blocked strike than in any surveillance report.

He did not flinch.

He did not panic.

He reacted on instinct—polished instinct—far sharper than any Saiyan had any right to possess.

Yes.

Lord Beerus’ interest made perfect sense now.

This boy was not bound by the limitations of his race.

He was something else.

A deviation.

A mutation of potential that the Saiyans themselves were too stupid to recognize.

I clasped my hands behind my back again, posture relaxed.

“Good,” I continued. “Very good.”

He straightened slightly, confusion merging with caution in his expression.

I let silence hang in the air for a few seconds—long enough to unsettle, not long enough to frighten.

Then I added:

“Now that the pointless pretense is out of the way… let us speak honestly, shall we?”

Escarot had far more to offer me than he realized.

—------------------------------------------------------

[Bardock POV]

The mission had been long, bloody, and boring—three things that normally didn’t bother me. But this time… something was wrong.

Ever since that damned alien touched me—stabbed me, cursed me, whatever the hell he did—my head hadn’t been the same.

Visions.

Flashes.

Things I shouldn’t be seeing.

My boots hit the landing pad, and my squad—Tora, Fasha, Borgos, Shugesh, Leek, and Taro—filed out behind me. Normally, I’d already be thinking about the debrief, turning in the scouter logs, maybe grabbing a few hours of rest.

But ever since that alien shoved something into my skull, I hadn’t felt like myself.

Images hit me at random.

Planet Vegeta burning.

A bright flash swallowing everything.

Our people screaming, then nothing.

And over it all—a tyrant laughing, laughing.

Then something else: a warrior, glowing gold, radiating power I’d never felt before. A monster of a fighter, tearing into Frieza like he was nothing.

Killing him.

And after that… more flashes. Too fast to follow. The end of something. The start of something else.

“Bardock?” Tora nudged my shoulder. “You spaced out again.”

“Yeah,” Fasha added. “You sure you’re alright? You’ve been acting strange since that last mission.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

I wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

I needed a doctor. Someone who could tell me whether I was sick or cursed—or both.

We headed toward the palace. Standard procedure: return from an elite mission, report to King Vegeta.

“At least the briefing will be quick,” I said. “Let’s report to King Vegeta—”

A passing Saiyan barked a laugh.

“Ha! There’s no King Vegeta anymore!”

All seven of us stopped like we’d walked into a wall.

“…What?” Fasha asked.

The Saiyan grinned, far too amused considering the subject. “You guys must’ve been off-world for a while. The King’s dead.”

Borgos blinked. “Dead? What do you mean dead?”

“Killed,” the Saiyan repeated. “Right there in the throne room. In front of everyone. Got the shit beat out of him.”

That didn’t make sense.

King Vegeta wasn’t unbeatable, but no one on this planet should’ve been able to just kill him easily or alone. He was the strongest amongst us.

“By who?” I asked.

The Saiyan shrugged. “Escarot.”

“…Who?” Tora said.

“You know, Escarot! Saiyan kid. Seven? Eight? Hard to tell. Mean little bastard. Strong as hell.”

We stared.

A kid?

A child killed the King?

“That’s impossible,” Shugesh muttered.

But the Saiyan shook his head. “Nope. Saw it myself. He flattened him. King Vegeta never stood a chance. Pop! Like a fruit.”

Fasha looked at me. “Holy shit, Bardock…”

My stomach tightened.

My visions suddenly didn’t feel like fever dreams anymore. They felt like pieces of a puzzle falling out of order.

Planet Vegeta destroyed.

A golden warrior killing the tyrant.

Could it be him?

Tora let out a low breath. “So… what now?”

I exhaled slowly.

“I guess we report to him,” I said after a moment. “King Escarot.”

I needed to see him for myself.

—-------------------------------------------------------

[Cooler POV]

The young King stared at me, without saying a word.

I folded one leg over the other, reclining comfortably in the throne room chair the Saiyan servants had nervously offered me. Escarot stood several feet away, body tense, expression unreadable. 

His eyes darted over me—not fearfully, but calculating. Measuring. He was trying to determine why I was here, what I wanted, and why he wasn’t dead yet.

A sharp child. Dangerous, even while pretending not to be.

“Please,” I said, gesturing toward the throne with a casual wave, “do take a seat.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

Straight to the point. Sensible. Saiyans usually attempted intimidation first.

He chose caution. I approved.

“A business relationship,” I replied, lifting the cup of wine one of his trembling attendants had brought me. I took a sip—poor quality, but drinkable. “Relax. If I were here to kill you, you would not be asking questions.”

He didn’t relax.

Not even an inch.

“I fail to see,” Escarot said slowly, “what I could offer you… that you can’t simply take.”

An astute observation. Brutally honest, too.

Another point in his favor.

I smiled, swirling the wine in my glass. “A fair assessment. Most Saiyans don’t realize how replaceable they are. You, however…” I let my gaze drift deliberately across him, “you understand leverage.”

His jaw tensed. He still didn’t sit.

“We both share a common obstacle,” I continued. “And I believe an alliance can be mutually beneficial.”

“And what obstacle,” he finally said, “do you imagine we share?”

I leaned back, resting my elbow on the armrest. The wine glass touched my lips, but I didn’t drink yet.

His eyes stayed on me.

Waiting.

Trying to read me.

“Come now,” I said softly. “Surely you can already guess.”

I watched the realization begin to stir behind his eyes.

Confusion.

Suspicion.

And then—

Yes.

Realization.

Before he could speak, before he could confirm or deny the conclusion forming in his mind…

I set my glass down.

And smiled.

“Tell me, Escarot,” I said, my voice low and calm, “how long do you really think you can survive once my brother notices what you’re becoming?”

His eyes widened—just slightly, but enough.

I continued before he could answer, “And more importantly…”

I leaned forward.

“…what will you do when he comes for you?”