Born of Chaos

The room was silent. 

Not the kind of silence that brings peace—but the kind that tightens chests and freezes breath. An artificial womb floated in the center of a metallic chamber, bathed in green light. Tubes twisted like vines across the fluid, blinking with faint pulses of energy. Around it, twelve scientists stood still, as though motion itself might disturb the delicate balance they had worked so many years to maintain. 

It was time. 

They called it Subject Omega, but never once did they agree on what it actually was. A being, yes. A lifeform. But nothing about it was ordinary. No natural birth, no predictable evolution. Just an unholy convergence of DNA from the strongest species in existence—stitched together within a single, fragile host. 

"We are witnessing the synthesis of the impossible," muttered High Scientist Kirel, his voice breaking the silence at last. "Prepare for emergence." 

One by one, the others nodded, their silver robes reflecting the lights of the monitors. Robotic arms whirred into position. Nutrient feeds slowed. Neural suppressors flickered out. 

Inside the chamber, the child stirred. 

The birth wasn't violent—but it wasn't gentle either. 

A surge of chaotic ki blasted through the chamber, short-circuiting several machines before emergency dampeners kicked in. Static danced across every surface. The energy was unreadable—its signature scrambled, like a dozen species screaming over each other in one unstable voice. 

And then— 

The pod split open. 

A splash of fluid hit the floor. The child fell into the scientist's arms, limp, small, breathing. 

Alive. 

He looked… normal. 

Skin pale but warm. Hair dark, soft, tangled with strands that seemed to shift ever so slightly in hue under the lights. No horns. No tail. No physical signs of mutation. If someone had found him on a random planet, they might've assumed he was just another hybrid species. 

But to those present, he was the culmination of forbidden knowledge. 

He opened his eyes. 

Not red. Not gold. But... Blue-white, wide with innocence. 

The chamber, once heavy with tension, now felt impossibly quiet. 

No one spoke. 

No alarms sounded. 

No explosions. 

Just breathing. 

But deep within the newborn's ki—beyond the outer shell of dormant Majin resilience—something simmered. Something unformed. Untethered. Like a hurricane waiting for wind. 

"Vitals are stable," said Researcher Noen, voice trembling. 

"Ki suppression holding," added another. 

But then… Kirel stepped forward. 

He did not carry a monitor. 

He carried a small orb—pulsing with faint silver light. A relic. A fragment from a fallen species known for its sensitivity to life energy. When exposed to high ki signatures, the orb would react. 

It didn't glow. 

It shattered. 

The pieces hit the ground, smoldering. 

Everyone froze. 

The child blinked. 

For a second, only a second, the air in the chamber folded. A rush of chaotic ki burst outward—not an explosion, but a pulse. Like a scream without sound. 

The walls cracked. 

Noen screamed and collapsed. 

Two other scientists staggered, ears bleeding. 

And then—it stopped. 

The child yawned. 

Later, in the command dome… 

"…this isn't what we prepared for," said Juil, her eyes locked on the data stream flickering across the screen. 

"There were no signs of instability until the orb," another added. "Maybe it was—" 

"It wasn't the orb," Kirel interrupted. He turned from the observation window, where the child now rested in a sterile cradle. "It was him. He sensed it. Reacted to it." 

"Impossible," Noen whispered from his seat, pale. "He has no ki control. No awareness." 

Kirel said nothing. 

Because he wasn't sure anymore. 

The child had no awareness—but he had instinct. And whatever was buried in those instincts… it wasn't normal. It wasn't natural. 

It wasn't something they could control. 

Meanwhile, on the surface of the planet, far below the laboratory— 

The winds stirred for the first time in decades. 

Lightning danced unnaturally between clouds with no rain. 

And across the galaxy, far from the sterile halls of the Xalurei's station… a Kaioshin meditating in the Sacred World of the Kais paused, eyes opening. 

Something had shifted. 

Back in the nursery chamber, the child lay still. 

Breathing. 

Dreaming. 

But his dreams were not peaceful. 

In the quiet of his mind, he was somewhere else. 

Floating. 

Watching. 

The sky was blood-red. The ground was scorched, cracked, pulsing with energy that smelled like death. He didn't know what this place was—only that it shouldn't exist. It was destruction incarnate. 

And then… he saw it. 

Him. 

A creature. 

Short. Childlike. But monstrous. 

Kid Buu. 

Laughing as he leapt through the air, a wild blur of motion—pure chaos wrapped in pink flesh. He screamed joyfully as he tore through beings cloaked in divine light—tall, calm figures who fought with grace. One by one, they fell. The Kais. 

Buu impaled one through the back and threw another into the sky before vaporizing him with a single, gleeful beam. 

The child watched it all. Unmoving. Uncomprehending. 

Until the carnage stopped. 

Kid Buu stood in a crater of gods' remains, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling with erratic rhythm. And then— 

He turned. 

Slowly. 

And looked directly at him. 

The child. 

Their eyes locked. 

No words. 

Just… awareness. 

As if the dream wasn't a dream. 

As if Buu saw him. Knew him. 

And smiled. 

He awoke with a small gasp. 

A brief ripple of energy surged from his chest—barely enough to shake the cradle. 

But enough to make Kirel glance over from the console, eyes narrowing. 

Several hours later… 

In the heart of the station's private archives, two of the scientists debated under dim lighting. 

"If this continues, the anomaly will outgrow containment protocols before it even walks," said Noen. "It's already triggering multidimensional flux. What happens when he learns to speak? Think? Choose?" 

"You fear what we created." 

"I fear what we never meant to create." 

Silence. 

Then, Kirel entered. 

He didn't join the conversation. He walked straight to the observation deck and stared out at the stars. 

"We're not gods," he said at last. "We're scientists." 

"And sometimes… creation outpaces the creator." 

Back in the chamber, the child stirred again. 

His hands curled into fists. 

And in the shadow of the station, the planet groaned. 

Something ancient had indeed shifted. 

But no one—not even the ever-curious Xalurei—understood what had truly been born. 

Not yet. 

But soon… the universe would know.