Marvel: The saiyan

After the fight, Shallot slipped out of the arena with his usual calm, ignoring the buzzing energy of the crowd still lingering inside. He didn't bother waiting for a car or even calling his coach back—he preferred the solitude. He walked for miles, letting the city lights blur around him, his mind elsewhere. It wasn't until he reached the outskirts of the city, far from prying eyes, that he took off into the night sky.

Flying home was faster than anything this world had to offer. The cool night air rushed past him as he soared above the darkened forests and quiet roads, and in minutes, he landed softly in front of his secluded house.

The next day,

The smell of breakfast filled the kitchen as Shallot stood by the stove, flipping eggs onto a plate stacked with bacon, sausage, and toast. Saiyan appetites were no joke, and his post-fight hunger demanded nothing less than a feast. He devoured the meal in minutes, savoring the rush of energy it gave him, then headed outside to warm up.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting golden light across the forest as Shallot ran through his drills. Quick strikes, shadowboxing, and precision ki-blasts tore through the air as he pushed his body to shake off the stiffness from yesterday's fight. By the time he was finished, his muscles hummed with energy, his body a finely tuned engine ready for another day of training.

Shallot sat cross-legged on the grass, his tail swaying idly behind him as he stared out into the forest. The peaceful setting contrasted sharply with the storm brewing in his mind.

Training had been going well—great, even. He'd mastered ki sense, fine-tuned his ki blasts, and developed a solid grasp of ki waves and barriers. And with his MMA experience, he'd built a solid foundation of martial arts, blending the techniques of this world with his Saiyan instincts.

But it wasn't enough.

Not for this world.

"This isn't just a place where strong people throw punches," Shallot muttered to himself, frowning. "This is Marvel. There are people here who could rip through dimensions, wipe out armies with a thought, or crush planets in their hands. If I can't match that power, I'm dead."

He clenched his fists, his ki flaring around him for a brief moment before he forced it to calm down. Technique was important—no doubt about it. But in this world, raw power was just as critical. The fights he'd been in so far had been nothing more than warm-ups, distractions to keep him busy while he built a life here. He needed something more.

And there was one tool that could give him the edge he needed.

'I need a gravity chamber,' Shallot thought, the idea snapping into focus like a burst of light. It wasn't just a want—it was a necessity. Saiyan bodies were uniquely adapted to thrive under pressure, and gravity training was one of the most effective ways to push his limits.

Under heavier gravity, his muscles would grow denser, his endurance would skyrocket, and his reflexes would sharpen to levels even he couldn't imagine. It was the key to unlocking the exponential growth Saiyans were known for.

The problem? Building one wasn't exactly simple.

Shallot frowned, running a hand through his spiky hair as he considered his options. A gravity chamber required advanced technology. He'd need materials, expertise, and, most importantly, a brilliant mind to design and build it.

And in this world, there was one name that stood above the rest when it came to technology: Tony Stark.

Shallot's gaze sharpened as the beginnings of a plan took shape in his mind. He knew Tony Stark's story well—his rise as Iron Man, his brilliance as a billionaire inventor, and his transformation into one of the Marvel Universe's greatest heroes. But none of that had happened yet.

As far as Shallot knew, Tony was still living the high life, coasting on his wealth and arrogance. The moment that changed—the moment that defined Stark—was his abduction in Afghanistan. It was there, in the crucible of danger and desperation, that Tony created the first Iron Man suit and began his journey as a hero.

And that was exactly the moment Shallot planned to intervene.

"I save Stark from his abductors," Shallot muttered, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. "And in exchange, I get him to build me a gravity chamber—or better yet, something that takes my training even further."

It was a bold plan, one that carried its fair share of risks. Intervening in such a pivotal moment could have unforeseen consequences, not just for Stark but for the entire timeline. Still, Shallot wasn't one to shy away from risks. The rewards far outweighed the potential dangers.

Of course, there was one glaring issue: the timeline.

Tony's abduction was still years away, and Shallot didn't have the luxury of waiting. He needed to grow stronger now.

"Damn it," he muttered, crossing his arms. "There's gotta be another way. Another mind."

Shallot's thoughts raced as he considered his options. This world was filled with geniuses—people whose intellect rivaled or even surpassed Stark's. Bruce Banner, Hank Pym... but finding one of them, convincing them to help him, and getting the resources they'd need was an entirely different challenge.

For now, Stark remained the best option.

Until the time came to put his plan into action, Shallot had no choice but to continue grinding. His training intensified over the following days.

He doubled his focus on ki techniques, pushing the limits of his control and power. His energy blasts grew stronger, more destructive, their range expanding with each session. Ki barriers became impenetrable, able to withstand the full force of his strikes without faltering. He even started experimenting with flight-based combat, combining aerial agility with precision strikes.

Physically, he pushed his body harder than ever. Weighted sprints, cliffside climbs, and sparring sessions against targets of his own making became his daily routine. The scars on his knuckles and the sweat dripping from his brow were constant reminders of his progress.

And through it all, his power level continued to climb.

For now, Shallot would bide his time, sharpening his skills and building his strength. But the moment Tony Stark's fate began to unfold, he would be ready.

"If I can't boost my strength right now, then I'll just train what I've been avoiding until now," Shallot muttered, his voice carrying a sharp edge of determination as he stretched out on the sofa. The cushions barely sank under his weight—Saiyan durability came with its perks.

For months, he'd been skirting around this particular avenue of power, keeping it tucked away in the back of his mind like a forbidden fruit. Not because it wasn't useful, but because it carried risks. Risks he wasn't sure he was ready to handle. But now? Now, he could feel his limitations pressing in.

Sitting up, Shallot ran a hand through his spiky black hair and stared out the window, his tail twitching impatiently behind him.

The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast expanse of wilderness that had served as his training ground, his sanctuary, and his solitude. It was the perfect place for someone like him—strong, fast, and constantly on edge. But it wasn't just a playground anymore. It was a proving ground.

"I've been holding myself back," Shallot said aloud, leaning forward as his tail coiled tightly around his waist. "The Oozaru form… I've been avoiding it for too long."

The Oozaru form was a cornerstone of Saiyan biology, an untamed beast of power that slumbered within every Saiyan born with a tail. Under the light of a full moon—or an artificial substitute—a Saiyan transformed into a towering ape-like creature, multiplying their power level tenfold. It was raw, feral, and terrifyingly effective.

But it was also unpredictable.

Shallot had seen enough Dragon Ball to know what the Oozaru form could do to an untrained Saiyan. The loss of control, the destruction, the chaos. It wasn't just a power boost—it was a gamble. And in this world, with so many unpredictable threats lurking in the shadows, Shallot couldn't afford to lose control.

But if he could master it…

If he could harness the Oozaru form without letting it consume him, it would make him a force to be reckoned with. And it wouldn't stop there. Shallot's thoughts drifted to the Ikari form—an evolution of the Oozaru's power, compacted into a smaller, more controlled state. The potential was staggering.

"If I can unlock the Ikari form," Shallot said, standing and pacing the room, "then I'll have a power boost without losing my mind in the process. It's risky, but I need this. I need to stop holding back."

The decision made, Shallot knew he couldn't go into this unprepared. Transforming into an Oozaru required two things: a tail (check) and the light of a full moon—or an artificial substitute.

The moon wasn't going to be full for another couple of weeks, but Shallot wasn't about to sit around waiting for nature to do its thing. He remembered how Saiyans like Vegeta used artificial moonlight to transform when needed, creating a "Power Ball" by channeling their ki into a sphere that mimicked the light of the moon.

"Guess it's time to put my ki control to the test," Shallot muttered, stepping outside and taking a deep breath of the cool morning air.

The forest around him was quiet, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Shallot closed his eyes, focusing inward. His ki pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a familiar hum that had grown stronger and sharper over the past months.

The Power Ball technique wasn't complex in theory, but it required precision. Too little energy, and the sphere wouldn't emit the necessary light. Too much, and he risked creating an explosion instead.

Shallot raised his hand to the sky, gathering his energy into his palm. A faint orb of light began to form, flickering like a candle before stabilizing into a steady glow.

"Focus," he muttered, narrowing his eyes as he concentrated on shaping the ki. The orb began to expand, its surface shimmering like molten silver. Shallot poured more energy into it, feeding the sphere until it reached the size of a basketball.

Finally, he launched it into the sky. The Power Ball hovered above the forest, casting its pale light across the trees.

Shallot felt it immediately—the primal pull of the moonlight surging through his body, igniting something deep within his Saiyan blood.

His tail twitched violently, the fur standing on end as a wave of heat swept over him. Shallot gritted his teeth, his muscles tightening as his heart raced. The transformation was happening faster than he'd expected.

His body began to grow, his muscles bulging as his height increased exponentially. The seams of his clothes strained, then tore, as his skin darkened and thickened with coarse fur. His breathing grew ragged, his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears.

And then, it hit him—the surge of power, raw and unfiltered.

Shallot roared, the sound echoing through the forest like a thunderclap. He felt his consciousness slipping, the beast inside him clawing to take control. Memories of Saiyans losing themselves in this form flashed through his mind, but Shallot wasn't about to let that happen.

"Focus," he growled, his voice guttural and distorted as he dug his claws into the ground. "You're not an animal. You're in control."

He forced himself to breathe, steadying the chaotic rhythm of his heart. The Oozaru form wasn't just a curse—it was a tool, and like any tool, it could be mastered.

Hours passed as Shallot wrestled with the Oozaru's power, forcing himself to remain conscious and aware. Every instinct screamed at him to let go, to give in to the primal rage bubbling beneath the surface, but he refused.

By the time the Power Ball's light began to fade, Shallot was drenched in sweat, his massive form trembling with exhaustion. But he had done it.

He had maintained control.

As the transformation reversed and his body shrank back to its normal size, Shallot collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily. His muscles ached, and his mind was foggy, but he couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I've still got a long way to go but I did it, I didn't lose control," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The Oozaru form was no longer a fear—it was a weapon. The thought sent a thrill through him.

The path ahead was clear. Shallot would train relentlessly, alternating between pushing his base form to its limits and refining his control over the Oozaru's power. He'd experiment with ways to trigger the transformation without relying on external light sources, preparing for the day when he'd need to use it in a real fight.

But more than that, he'd push himself toward the Ikari form. He didn't just want strength—he wanted control.

As Shallot stared up at the sky, the faint glow of the fading Power Ball lingering in the clouds, he smirked.

After that night with the Oozaru transformation, I fell back into my routine—fights for money, relentless training, and the constant pursuit of power. The days blurred into weeks, and then months, each one filled with purpose.

Surprisingly, none of it was as monotonous as I'd feared. Every day brought a new challenge, a new hurdle to overcome. Whether it was refining my ki blasts, testing my strength with new techniques, or fighting in the ring to earn cash, I found myself enjoying this journey to power more than I expected.

Each step forward felt fulfilling. There was something intoxicating about feeling my body, mind, and energy grow stronger every day. What started as a necessity for survival had become something more—a passion, a drive, a hunger that only Saiyan blood could truly understand.

2 Years Later

Two years. That's how long it took for everything to change.

By now, I'd mastered the Oozaru form. After three grueling months of transforming under artificial moonlight, wrestling with the beast inside, and pushing my control to the absolute limit, I'd finally done it. The primal rage of the Oozaru no longer controlled me—I controlled it.

At first, maintaining consciousness in the Oozaru form had been like trying to walk a tightrope during a hurricane, with every instinct in my body screaming for chaos and destruction. But now, the transformation was seamless. I could activate it at will and wield its immense power with precision.

Once I'd conquered the Oozaru form, I moved on to the next step: the Ikari form.

The Ikari form wasn't just a transformation—it was a refinement of the Oozaru's raw power. Instead of expanding into a massive ape, the Ikari form condensed that primal energy into a humanoid state, amplifying strength and ki far beyond the base form without sacrificing control or speed.

The journey to mastering Ikari wasn't easy. The power was more compact, but it was also volatile, like trying to contain a nuclear explosion inside a glass jar. It took months of grueling effort, trial and error, and more than a few close calls.

The key wasn't just brute strength or even pure ki control—it was balance. Ikari wasn't about suppressing the beast—it was about merging with it, letting the Oozaru's instincts and rage exist alongside my rational mind. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

By the time I'd mastered it, my power level had skyrocketed. I didn't even need the scouter anymore to know I'd surpassed the limits of my old self. The power that once felt unattainable was now mine to command, and it felt incredible.

With both the Oozaru and Ikari forms under my belt, I turned my attention back to the basics.

I spent hours each day refining my ki control, working on precision, range, and efficiency. I practiced my barriers until they could withstand even my strongest blasts, and I tested the limits of my flight capabilities with high-speed aerial drills.

But there was a problem: weights.

Human weights had become a joke. No matter how much I stacked or how heavy I went, it was never enough. Even the custom-made equipment I'd ordered months ago felt like paperweights now.

"Damn it," I muttered one day, tossing aside a 1,000-pound barbell like it was a twig. "This isn't even a warm-up anymore."

I needed more. Not just heavier weights, but real challenges. Something that could push my body to its breaking point again.

With physical training hitting a plateau, I turned my attention to mastering techniques I'd only dreamed of before.

One that fascinated me the most was the Multi-Form Technique, a move Tien used in Dragon Ball to split himself into multiple copies. At first, it felt ridiculous—like trying to copy a move from a manga, something that shouldn't even be possible.

I stood in the middle of my training room, staring at my reflection in a mirror. "How the hell do you split yourself in two?" I muttered, my brow furrowed in concentration.

It took weeks of trial and error. I started small, focusing on multiplying individual limbs instead of my entire body. My first breakthrough came when I managed to create a second set of arms—awkward, clumsy, and barely functional, but they were there.

I stared at the extra arms in amazement, moving them experimentally. "Hah! I did it!" I grinned, though the technique drained more ki than I expected. Within seconds, the extra arms flickered and disappeared, leaving me panting.

"Alright," I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow. "That's a start. Now let's see if I can take this further."

With time and practice, the extra arms became more stable, more precise. Eventually, I was able to use them in combat drills, landing punches and blocking attacks with all four arms at once.

Splitting my entire body into multiple clones was still beyond me, but I could feel myself getting closer. The Multi-Form Technique was no longer just a fantasy—it was within reach.

Sitting on the porch one evening, watching the stars, I couldn't help but marvel at how far I'd come. I was just a normal guy before I was reincarnated.

Oozaru. Ikari. Ki mastery. Advanced techniques. Every piece of the puzzle was falling into place. Once i became super saiyan a power beyond that will await me.

But I wasn't done yet. Not even close.

As I stared up at the stars, my tail flicking lazily behind me, I thought about what lay ahead. The Marvel Universe wasn't going to wait for me to reach my peak. Sooner or later, the threats I'd been preparing for would come knocking, and I needed to be ready.

"Let's see what the scouter has to say about my power level," I muttered, standing in the middle of my training ground, the faint hum of the forest surrounding me. My tail flicked lazily behind me as I held the scouter in my hand, its cool metallic surface glinting in the sunlight.

The scouter had been a constant companion over the past few years. It was an antique by Saiyan standards, but it served its purpose. However, I remembered all too well how scouters had a nasty habit of breaking in Dragon Ball—not from poor craftsmanship, but from the sheer force of rapid power spikes.

So, I did what any person with common sense would do: I released all my power before turning the scouter on.

Closing my eyes, I focused inward, feeling the coiled energy that had become so familiar over these years of training. My ki surged as I let it flow freely, an aura shimmering faintly around me. The ground beneath my feet cracked, small stones floating upward from the sheer pressure as I allowed my full power to surface.

Once the forest stilled again, I clipped the scouter over my left ear, its green lens flickering to life with a series of beeps.

I smirked as I pressed the activation button, watching the numbers climb rapidly.

"80,000," I muttered aloud, the scouter settling on its final reading.

I couldn't help but grin. That number was a long way from where I'd started two years ago—back when I couldn't even break past 3,000. 80,000 was leagues beyond the average Saiyan warrior and more than enough to obliterate most of the threats I'd encountered in the Marvel Universe so far.

But the grin didn't last long.

I crossed my arms, staring down at the scouter's display as it beeped faintly in the background.

'Hmm, I should be happy,' I thought, feeling a strange mix of pride and disappointment. 'But I'm still very far from Namek Saga Goku—at least when he fights Frieza.'

It wasn't lost on me how pathetic 80,000 would've been on Planet Namek. Goku's power level when he first fought Frieza was well over 3 million, and his Super Saiyan transformation had shattered every expectation, leaving numbers like mine in the dust.

But this wasn't Namek.

This was the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and in this world, 80,000 wasn't just strong—it was overwhelming. It made me stronger than most of Earth's mightiest heroes. Captain America? A joke. Black Panther? Too slow. Iron Man? His armor might've withstood missiles, but I could break it apart with a flick of my wrist.

Only gods like Thor or entities like the Hulk could give me a challenge if they weren't oblitarating me, even dr strange would eat me alive. But the others are like insects.

And that realization made me… uneasy.

"It feels wrong," I muttered, turning the scouter off and unclipping it from my ear. "What's the point of being this strong if there's no one to push me further?"

The thought lingered as I gazed out into the forest, the light of my ki fading into the background. My whole life here had been about the grind—pushing myself to grow stronger, to survive, to thrive. But now that I'd reached this level, it felt like the world was shrinking.

I thought about the fights I'd had so far. They were fun in the moment, but none of them had come close to testing me. No one had pushed me to dig deep, to truly fight with everything I had. And now, with my power at 80,000, it felt like I was leaving everyone behind.

"Hulk really is a chance," I said aloud, the corner of my mouth twitching into a faint grin. "His strength only goes up the angrier he gets. He could actually be a worthy training partner."