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This article, Dragon Ball: Damned - Ep. 1: Primal Instinct, is the property of SweetZ1997. |
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a passion project of mine, hoping that someone could adapt this onto YouTube (if they have the time). But let's be honest here, this is a Dragon Ball show characterized by extreme brutality, high-stakes, and peak animation, likely reshaping the franchise into a modern, mature, action-horror-infused spectacle rather than a Saturday morning cartoon. My intention is to satisfy long-time fans craving for the gravity of the Saiyan/Frieza sagas, likely resulting in a TV-14 or TV-MA rating.
"Dragon Ball: Damned" Series by SweetZ1997[]
"Finally," Frieza murmured, his voice silky, carrying no emotion other than a chilling, serene apathy. "No more Namekian tricks. No more Saiyan infestations. Just… perfection."
His army was absent. No Dodoria, no Zarbon, not even the Ginyu Force. He had learned that allies were merely weaknesses waiting to be exploited. He needed no one. He was the universe, and soon, the universe would be him. Frieza hovered up, positioning himself in the center of the seven gargantuan Super Dragon Balls. He raised his hands, the golden energy from the Dragon Balls reflecting in his cold, obsidian eyes. He spoke in the language of the gods, a tongue that warped the air around him, making the very atoms of the planet scream.
“Appear, Shenron, and grant my decree!”
The darkness above surged, coalescing into a dragon so large it dwarfed the planet itself. Its eyes were twin suns of brilliant, uncaring light.
“I AM HERE,” the dragon’s voice boomed, not in the air, but directly into Frieza’s mind, rattling his thoughts. “NAME YOUR DESIRE. I SHALL GRANT ANY WISH, NO MATTER THE MAGNITUDE.”
Frieza smiled, a slow, predatory expression. "I have grown tired of this reality, Shenron. It is cluttered with hope, filthy with friendship, and polluted by 'heroes' who believe in a tomorrow." He spread his arms wide, welcoming the immense pressure of the magical aura. "I wish for a new universe to be born," Frieza declared, his voice echoing across the void. "A reality where the weak are extinguished at birth, where mercy is a forgotten word, and where I, Lord of the Universe, am their god. I want a world where evil does not merely prevail—it is the only law."
The dragon waited, its light flickering. “THIS WISH WILL ERASE YOUR CURRENT EXISTENCE. THE CONSEQUENCES WILL BE IRREVERSIBLE. YOU WILL BE THE SOLE ARCHITECT OF A DARKNESS THAT NEVER ENDS.”
"That," Frieza chuckled, the sound chilling and final, "is exactly what I am paying for."
“SO BE IT.”
The world vanished. Frieza felt his body dissolve, not into pain, but into sheer raw, cosmic energy. The grey planet below him shattered into dust, and then that dust dissolved into nothingness. Then came the darkness. It was a cold, absolute vacuum. Frieza’s consciousness was everywhere and nowhere. He saw the birth of stars, not bright and vibrant, but cold, burning in shades of bruised purple and sickly green. He watched planets form, twisted and jagged, populated by nightmare creatures born from his own subconscious cruelty. He was reshaping reality. He wasn't just creating a world; he was molding a nightmare.
_____
The boy—or the thing that looked like a boy—sat perfectly still in the center of the clearing, perched on a boulder, his breath a rhythmic, icy fog in the mountain dawn. He did not move, not even to brush away the frost accumulating on his ragged blue gi. His black, chaotic hair was plastered with sweat from hours of pre-dawn movement.
Keep calm. Calculate. Adapt.
That was the mantra. Or rather, that was the correction his panicked mind forced upon his instinctual desire to simply tear everything apart.
His name was Goku, a name given by the old man who found him, but inside, a colder voice referred to him only as survivor. Two weeks ago, the full moon had triggered something… primal. A blinding rage. A transformation that shattered his small mind, leaving him only with fragmented images of a giant, furry monster, the scent of blood, and the final, crushing scream of Grandpa Gohan.
He didn't cry. Saiyans didn't cry. They adapted. And when Gohan's body was found, the child’s brain, far more intelligent than any human toddler, immediately began simulating scenarios of how he would survive the winter alone, and more importantly, how he would prevent such a loss from happening again. He had learned his lesson. Evil was a variable. It was a threat to be eliminated.
Goku opened his eyes. They were obsidian-black, void of the child-like innocence they once possessed. They were analytical. He leaped from the boulder, landing without a sound. He had been sparring with the waterfall for three hours, attempting to punch through the cascade without letting the water touch his skin. The spray was a constant, shifting enemy.
Punch. Right foot pivot. Core torque. Speed = 0.5 seconds.
He missed by an inch. The water splashed his face.
Insufficient.
He didn't scream in frustration. He simply increased the power output, feeling the burning ki within him—the same energy that had fueled his transformation—and pushed it into his fist.
Punch.
The waterfall vanished. Not just stopped—it was torn apart by the localized shockwave, the water atomized into a fine mist that hung in the air. The river behind him roared, suddenly redirected. Goku looked at his knuckle. It was scraped. He stared at the wound, his brain immediately calculating the force required to break his own skin. He didn't feel pain; he felt a data point.
"Need stronger skin," he muttered, his voice raspy from disuse.
He turned his attention to the forest. He could hear a pack of mountain wolves circling his campsite, smelling the faint scent of blood lingering from his training. He didn't run. He walked toward them. The alpha wolf, a massive beast, snarled. It didn't know it was dealing with something that had the strength to lift a mountain. Goku did not use a move he had learned from Gohan. He was tired of conventional martial arts. He was creating a new, ruthless discipline. As the wolf lunged, Goku did not dodge. He met it with a headbutt that cracked the creature’s skull instantly. The rest of the pack hesitated.
Goku looked at them, his eyes glowing faintly. "More."
The fight was an execution. Within minutes, the clearing was quiet. Goku stood in the center, his chest barely rising. He was unsatisfied. He looked up at the sky. He had to be stronger, because he was a weapon, and weapons must be sharp. He would tear down any obstacle—mountain, monster, or man—to achieve that peak.
Tomorrow, he thought, already mapping out a training regime that would kill a normal human child in minutes. I start climbing the mountain, again. With more weight.
He was a Saiyan. He was alone. And he would never be weak again.
The stench of the 22nd World Martial Arts Tournament was not of popcorn and celebration. To Goku, standing silently in the tunnel, it smelled of sweat, fear, and the metallic tang of blood already spilled on the stone tiles. He was not the cheerful, naive boy the crowd expected. His eyes seemed to absorb the light, locked in a state of absolute focus—a thousand-yard stare directed at nothing but the eradication of threats.
"You're shaking, Goku," Krillin whispered, standing beside him, his voice trembling.
Goku never said a word.
He walked out into the blinding stadium light. On the other side of the arena stood Tien Shinhan. The Crane School student looked imposing, his three eyes narrowed, radiating arrogance. But Goku didn’t see a rival; he saw an obstacle to the eradication of evil. He saw the person who had brutalized his friend.
"Final match! Son Goku versus Tien!" the announcer shouted.
Goku didn't take a stance. He didn't smile. He simply stared, observing the minute twitch in Tien’s left calf, the slight shift in his balance. Left-handed fighter. High guard. Overconfident in his speed. The information processed instantly, a brutal, superior intelligence stripping away the mechanics of his opponent.
The bell rang. Tien moved, intending to dominate with a swift strike. But Goku wasn't there. Without a sound, Goku had moved, appearing inside Tien’s guard. It was not a jump or a dash; it was a blur of violence. Goku’s hand, rigid as a blade, slammed into the soft tissue of Tien's throat—not with the intent to knock him out, but to disable his ability to channel energy. Tien gagged, staggering back, his eyes wide with shock.
"Too slow," Goku whispered, a chilling, dead-eyed statement.
Tien roared, growing two extra arms to create the Four Witches technique, a desperate attempt to overwhelm him. But to Goku, it was merely more limbs to dismantle. As Tien swung, Goku moved with inhuman precision, maneuvering between the arms. He grabbed two of them, snapping them backward with a sickening crack, not killing him, but breaking his offensive capacity. The crowd screamed, a mix of horror and shock.
Tien, in a panic, tried to leap high for a Dodon Ray. He floated, feeling safe. Goku didn't fly. He looked up, his gaze intense, and then, in a terrifying display of power, leapt. He soared high into the air, far surpassing human capabilities. He appeared above Tien, not with a grin, but with a cold, unforgiving expression.
"Going somewhere?" Goku whispered.
He didn't fire a blast. He brought both fists together and struck down on the back of Tien’s neck with the force of a falling meteor. Tien plummeted, smashing into the stone tiles of the arena, creating a crater. He did not move. The, arena floor was pulverized. Goku landed softly on the edge of the crater. He didn't raise his arms in victory. He just stared down at the broken body of his opponent, his mind already assessing the next threat, his gaze scanning the crowd for the next sign of evil.
The announcer was silent. The entire stadium was silent. Goku turned, his cold, black eyes locking onto Krillin, and for the first time, he smiled.
"Who's next?"
The penthouse office on the seven hundredth floor was silent, save for the hum of the city’s power grid, a grid that Bill Denim the Sixth owned entirely. Bill sat behind a desk carved from a single, polished obsidian slab, his Caucasian skin hairless, pale, and taut over a lean, muscular frame. He wore custom tailored blue silk, a suit for a man who found the pleasantries of life inefficient. He was a multi-trillionaire, but he did not enjoy his wealth. Food held no pleasure for him; he consumed high-protein sludge only for sustenance, focused entirely on the accumulation of power and absolute control.
He never smiled. His blue eyes were calculating, surveying holographic data streams detailing international market collapses he had orchestrated to eliminate competitors. He was not just a businessman; he was a silent destroyer.
Whis, a tall, impeccably dressed man in a black suit, placed a tablet on the desk. Whis was the handler, the strategist, and the only person who understood the terrifying, methodical genius of his master.
"The tournament, sir," Whis said softly. "The boy. Son Goku."
Bill looked at the screen. It displayed not a martial artist, but a young man who had just systematically dismantled Tien. The boy's eyes were a cold, haunting focus, born of deep-seated, unresolved trauma. He had shattered the man not with rage, but with precise, calculated force.
"A Saiyan," Bill said, his voice a low, chilling monotone. "I don't see much of them anymore."
"Indeed," Whis replied. "It is rather... peculiar that one survived."
Bill picked up a sleek, black smartphone. He dialed a number he rarely used. Master Roshi answered, his breathing heavy, his voice shaking. He had just witnessed the fight. He had seen the way Goku looked at him afterwards—not with respect, but with a terrifying, blank assessment.
"Roshi," Bill said, skipping pleasantries.
"Bill," Roshi’s voice was shaky. "I... I hope you saw what happened."
"I did."
"That boy," Roshi whispered. "He... he isn't normal. He felt no remorse. He just broke him and is now demanding to fight another opponent. He just won't stop!"
Bill stared at the holographic image of a young, terrified Tien being carried off. "That," Bill said, his expression never changing, "is exactly what I need."
"You... you can't be serious. He's dangerous."
"Power is always dangerous, Roshi. That is why it must be managed." Bill leaned forward, the darkness in his eyes deepening. "I'll be coming over to pick him up tomorrow morning. If he can break a man, I can teach him how to break entire civilizations."
Bill hung up. He did not enjoy the prospect, but it was logical. He was looking for a weapon to solidify his dominion.
"Whis," Bill said, looking at the silent, sprawling city below.
"Yes, Master Bill?"
"Begin the acquisition of the tournament venue. I want it sanitized by morning."
"As you wish," Whis bowed, his smile now equally chilling. "It will be done."
The tea in Roshi’s cup shivered. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass of his secluded island estate, the tide had gone silent. Roshi didn’t need to look at the security monitors to know the perimeter had been breached. There were no alarms for a man like Bill. Alarms were for thieves; Bill was an inevitability. Bill Denim, Roshi thought, was a name whispered in the hallowed halls of high finance and deep-state logistics—a man whose shadow fell over every central bank on the planet.
Roshi wiped a bead of cold sweat from his brow, his hands trembling. Behind him, in the sunken library, sat Goku.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the heavy oak doors. Knock. Knock. Knock.
"He’s here," Roshi whispered, his voice cracking.
The doors slid aside with a click of calculated timing. "Pull yourself together, old man," Bill said. "You are three minutes behind your scheduled panic."
Roshi stood, his knees knocking. "He’s just a boy, Bill. He has no interest in fame or money. He’s seen enough. He’s been through—"
"He has been through the necessary refinements," Bill interrupted, his eyes fixing on the back of Goku’s head. "That child you're trying to protect is merely a scalpel. My empire is vast, and the variables are becoming... untidy. I require his trauma. It grants him clarity that the well-adjusted cannot comprehend."
Bill walked toward Goku. He didn’t place a hand on the boy's shoulder—that would be an emotional gesture, and Bill had no use for them. He simply stood over him, a cold monolith.
"Goku," Bill stated. "The bridge in West City. If the CEO is assassinated at 4:00 PM, what happens to the steel futures by 4:02?"
Goku didn't look up from his papers. His voice was small, hollow, and frighteningly fast. "The panic triggers an automated sell-off. The algorithms will over-correct. The market drops 4%. If you buy the dip at 4:03, you own the infrastructure by sunset. But you won't do that. You’ll wait for the riot at 4:10 to devalue the land itself."
A ghost of a shadow passed over Bill’s face. It was the look of a mechanic finding a perfect part.
"Pack his things," Bill said, turning on a polished heel. "The world is messy, and I am going to use him to make it logical."
Roshi watched them go, two silent figures walking into the dark, leaving nothing behind but the cold scent of ozone and dread.
_____
The sky of Namek was a bruised purple, mirrored in the quiet, undisturbed pools of water surrounding the Grand Elder’s hilltop. It was peaceful, a stark contrast to the silent, golden-haired child standing at its center.
Broly—barely a teenager, yet bearing the weight of a thousand lifetimes in his gaze—simply breathed, his aura a subdued, flickering green flame that seemed to consume the ambient light. Across from him, young Piccolo, having recently arrived on his home world to unlock his potential, stood in a fighting stance, his cape billowing.
"You are not of this world, Saiyan," Piccolo stated, his voice calm, assessing the raw, terrifying energy pulsating from the boy. "Your power... it is undisciplined. A waste."
Broly tilted his head, a small, polite smile playing on his lips. "Disciplined? Perhaps. But discipline is merely a restriction placed upon the inevitable, Namekian." His voice was soft, conversational, yet it echoed with a chilling, detached intelligence. "You fight for this rock. I fight because the universe demands an equilibrium. You are a variable that needs to be removed."
Before Piccolo could process the statement, the air simply... vanished.
There was no sudden rush, no desperate scramble. Broly simply was in front of him. A single, palm-strike, precise as a surgeon's blade, hit Piccolo in the sternum. It didn't launch him away; it paralyzed him. Piccolo gasped, his regeneration failing to keep up with the pure, crushing pressure.
"Existence," Broly mused, his hand remaining on Piccolo’s chest, "is a fragile construct. Why do you struggle against the inevitable?"
With a cold, rational efficiency, Broly grabbed Piccolo by the arm and tore it from its socket with the dispassionate curiosity of a child pulling petals off a flower. Piccolo shrieked, green blood spraying onto the tranquil landscape. He attempted to counter, a Masenko aimed point-blank at Broly’s face.
Broly simply tilted his head, the beam passing harmlessly to the side. "Pointless."
Broly swung his arm, launching the Namekian into the side of a nearby ravine. The impact caused the very foundation of the cliff to buckle. Without waiting for the dust to clear, Broly appeared again, holding Piccolo by the throat.
"I have seen the future, Piccolo," Broly whispered into the Namekian's ear, his voice calm, almost tender. "It is bright, and it is green, and it is empty. You do not belong in it."
With a swift, downward motion, Broly brought his knee up, smashing it into the base of Piccolo's spine with such brutality that it rendered the Namekian instantly unconscious, his body broken and limp. Broly stood over the broken form, not a single breath out of place. He watched as the Namekian's body sluggishly began to repair itself, but he knew the psychological trauma would linger. He felt no pride in the win, only a sense of completion.
"Rationality dictates that you do not fight the sun," Broly said to the unconscious warrior. "And yet, you did."
He turned away, looking at the distant, twin sunset of Namek, quiet, terrifying, and waiting for a challenge that could never truly arrive.
Thud.
A Saiyan pod, far more advanced than the standard models, smashed into the violet soil a kilometer away. Broly didn’t blink. He felt the familiar, arrogant aura long before the hatch hissed open. Prince Vegeta, barely taller than Broly and wearing the elite armor of the Frieza Force, stepped out, followed closely by a towering, scarred Nappa.
"This is it, Vegeta?" Nappa grunted, surveying the landscape. "Just another wet rock?"
"Quiet, Nappa," Vegeta snapped, his eyes locking onto the lone child sitting amidst the ruins of a small village. "I felt it. A power level that makes my skin crawl."
They walked toward him. Broly didn't move. He continued to watch a small reptile chew on a carcass.
"You," Vegeta said, stopping a few feet away, his hand resting on his scouter. "You are a Saiyan. Identify yourself."
Broly turned slowly, his gaze calm—too calm, a look that belonged to a sage. "I am Broly. And this is not a place for you, my prince."
Nappa laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "The freak talks back, Vegeta!"
"I am aware of your... reputation, Broly," Vegeta said, stepping closer, ignoring Nappa. "My father, the King, was afraid of you. I am not."
"Fear is a logical reaction to the unknown, Vegeta," Broly replied, his voice unnervingly polite. "You should be afraid. Your strength is finite. Mine is… a curious variable." He stood up, towering over the prince. "When I was born, I saw the end of things. I felt the cold."
Nappa moved to intercept, but Vegeta raised a hand. "I heard a story from the Frieza Force archives," Vegeta said, his voice dropping. "About the nursery on Planet Vegeta. The day you were exiled."
"Ah," Broly said, tilting his head. "The noise maker."
"Kakarot," Vegeta spat the name. "They say he cried so hard the walls vibrated. Intense, screaming, untamed. They said he looked at us not with fear, but with a blind, brutal hunger."
"He was not normal," Broly said, a flicker of something dark passing over his eyes. "I remember the frequency of his screams. It was trauma. A chaotic, desperate force. I think... he was trying to break the universe simply by existing."
"He was low-class trash," Nappa grunted.
Broly smiled softly. "I'd say he was a mirror, Nappa. You and the Prince destroy because you are told to. You destroy to rule. Kakarot? He destroys because he does not know how to exist without tearing the world down. He is more monstrous than any of us, because he does not rationalize his brutality. He lives it."
Vegeta stared at him, the silence of Namek suddenly heavy. He hated this child. He hated that this child was right, and that he was stronger.
"Why are you here, Broly?" Vegeta asked.
"I am waiting," Broly said, looking up at the green sky. "I am waiting to see if Kakarot destroys himself, or if I have to do it for him. It is a simple equation."
Nappa looked at Vegeta, uneasy. The Prince didn't speak. He just looked at the boy who held the fate of their race in a gaze that was far too old, and far too cold, for anyone to handle.
"Don't get in my way, my prince," Broly said, turning back to the ruins. "The universe is already cold enough."
_____
The penthouse suite of Babel Holdings loomed over West City, casting a permanent, sharp shadow. Inside, there was no warmth, no joy, only the sterile scent of ozone and pristine marble. Bill sat at a desk. "The Red Ribbon Army is becoming... resilient, Whis," Bill murmured.
"Shall I initiate the hostile restructuring, Master Bill?" Whis inquired softly, his eyes reflecting the same lack of emotion.
"No. We need something more… final." Bill stood, walking to the panoramic window. "Bring the boy in."
Whis nodded, tapping his staff. Seconds later, the heavy iron doors slid open. Goku moved with an unnatural disciplined precision.
"Whis just told me you’ve perfected the technique," Bill said, not looking at the boy.
"Yes," Goku replied, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "The Red Ribbon representative will not be a problem anymore."
"Good," Bill said, turning slowly. "Levity is the luxury of the weak. Do not make me repeat myself. Go."
Goku bowed, a sharp, mechanical motion, and departed.
The silence returned to the office, heavier than before. Minutes later, the doors opened again, but this time it was different. A woman with bright blue hair walked in, holding a tablet, looking confused. Bulma Briefs, the chief technical officer of Capsule Corp, one of the few companies still resisting Bill's conglomerate.
"Bill, I thought we had an appointment, but I..." She paused, looking down the hallway where the young boy had just disappeared.
She stopped, her breath catching. She was a brilliant scientist, observant and intuitive. She hadn't seen the boy's face, only his back, but she felt it—a chilling void of emotion. A young boy who looked like he had seen the end of the world and was trying to recreate it.
"Who was that, Whis?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "That kid... he felt like..."
Bill did not answer. He just stared at her, his blue eyes unblinking, his gaze promising a silence that lasted forever. "You are here to discuss the hostile takeover, Miss Briefs. I suggest you sit down."
Bulma looked from the silent butler to the terrifyingly calm, hairless man behind the desk, and realized she was not just in a boardroom, but in the center of a nightmare.
Bill was focused on the only thing that mattered: pure, absolute control. "So, what Roshi explained to me this morning. He has no interest in fame? Money?"
"None," Whis replied smoothly. "He is an introvert. Martial arts is his only pursuit. However, he channels his past trauma—the loss of his family—into absolute, iron-willed focus. He treats combat as a pure, intellectual tool, sir. Of course, he is currently dismantling the Red Ribbon conglomerate using only legal, strategic, and physical martial arts pressure."
On the wall-sized screen, they watched a young man, Goku, flawlessly dismantling a security team with precision that was terrifying, not graceful. It was efficient extermination.
"Excellent," Bill mused, his voice devoid of any emotion, a calm monotone that frightened people more than shouting ever could.
Bulma spoke up, her voice slightly trembling. "Bill... maybe we could use him for good? He’s clearly skilled. A protector?"
Bill slowly turned his gaze to her. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "A protector?" he repeated, the word tasting strange in his mouth. He leaned forward, placing his manicured hands on the desk. "Bulma, you still think in terms of human morality. I do not. Um, Whis, would you care to explain to Miss Briefs the nature of the Saiyan race?" Bill asked, snapping his fingers and looking back at the screen where Goku was calmly standing over his defeated rivals.
"Of course, sir," Whis said. "You see, Miss Briefs, the young man you see is a 'Saiyan'—a classification for a specific genetic anomaly, a warrior race, which, through generations of blood and war, conquered billions of planets. They do not understand 'good' or 'peace.' They are, by nature, tools of destruction. They have been trained to turn their trauma into power, and that power into domination."
Bill picked up a stylus and clicked it, once, with sharp precision.
"To use a Saiyan for 'good' is like trying to use a typhoon to water a garden," Bill said. "They do not protect. They conquer. And once they start, they do not stop until there is nothing left to break. I don't want his 'goodness,' Miss Briefs. I want his capacity to eliminate my competitors—completely and without mercy."
He stood up and looked out the window at the city below, a man who saw everything as a game piece, a world waiting to be brought to its knees, devoid of joy, light, or laughter.
"And if he ever dares to show levity," Bill added, walking toward the elevator, "well... would you mind looking at the screen?"
Bulma did as she was told, with Whis showing footage of an island filled with people. She eyes the screen, not knowing what Bill had in mind if Goku dared to do good. Whis pressed a button and all that Bulma could do was watch, as every civilian on that island was blown to bits. Whis had dropped a bomb on the island, a warning for Goku that if he ever betrays Bill, there would be hell to pay.