Chapter Text
In the beginning, before the tapestry of existence was woven and the stars took their eternal positions in the heavens, there was only the One—a primordial essence of infinite potential, neither light nor shadow, chaos nor order, but the boundless seed from which all would spring. Within this singularity, the twin forces of Za’reth and Zar’eth were born, opposites that were never meant to be enemies but partners in the eternal dance of creation. Za’reth was the wild energy of genesis, the spark that ignited stars and unleashed rivers, the chaos from which innovation blooms. Zar’eth, its counterpart, was the architect of form, the boundary that transformed chaos into beauty and preserved the integrity of all things. Together, they wove the first threads of the multiverse, an infinite expanse that echoed with their balance.
As the first realms coalesced, the One’s will took shape in the form of the Cosmic Sages—immortal stewards of balance, chosen to safeguard the fragile harmony between Za’reth and Zar’eth. These luminous beings were endowed with unparalleled wisdom and power, embodying the principle of Shaen’mar, the eternal reconciliation of opposites. From their celestial sanctuaries, the Sages nurtured the multiverse’s fledgling realms, cultivating peace not through domination but through Ikyra, the struggle to coexist. But even among the divine, pride can fester. One Sage, Saris, grew impatient with harmony’s slow and tenuous progress. To him, the endless dance of creation and control was an inefficiency, a flaw to be corrected.
Discontent became rebellion. Saris rallied followers among the Sages, promising a new order where the chaos of creation would be shackled under absolute control. Thus, the Fallen Order was born. They wielded the principles of Zar’eth as weapons, bending existence to their vision and casting aside the delicate equilibrium the One had intended. In their pursuit of dominance, they uncovered forbidden knowledge—ancient prophecies etched in the stars themselves. These writings foretold of warriors whose strength would shape the destiny of existence, whose stories would echo across the multiverse like the toll of a great bell.
To the Fallen Order, these were not mere prophecies but a divine mandate. They declared the existence of Toriyama, the True Cosmic Sage, whose texts chronicled the rise of Goku, Vegeta, and the Z Fighters as more than myth—they were chronicles of a cosmic experiment. “The Saiyan wars, the Namekian resurgence, the battles of gods—these are not chance,” the Order proclaimed. “It is we who set the stage, who pulled the strings, who wrote their fates.”
From this distorted theology, the Fallen Order found their greatest ally: Zaroth, the Lord of Control. His Dominion of Invergence, later reshaped as the Bastion of Veil, was a colossus built on the foundation of unyielding order. Zaroth believed that the multiverse’s natural state was chaos, and only through strict control could its survival be ensured. Kaida, his consort and a master of cosmic balance, tempered Zaroth’s grand ambitions with the wisdom of Za’reth. Their union produced three heirs, each embodying a different facet of their philosophies: Saris, the idealistic pragmatist who sought to unite his parents’ legacies; Malakar, the shadowed enforcer who embraced Zar’eth’s darkest extremes; and Annin, the renegade who rejected the Dominion and sought refuge in the teachings of the Cosmic Sages.
Annin’s departure marked the first great fracture in Zaroth’s empire. Her defiance inspired a counter-movement that would later become the Twilight Alliance—a coalition of rebels, sages, and warriors dedicated to restoring balance to the multiverse. Annin, once a scion of control, became its fiercest advocate for freedom, carrying with her the embers of the Cosmic Sages’ ancient wisdom.
Meanwhile, Earth, a seemingly unremarkable speck in the multiverse’s grand design, became the focal point of these cosmic struggles. The Pangea Convergence, a cataclysmic event, reshaped its continents and timelines, weaving myth and history into a single thread. Artifacts of immense power—the Dragon Balls—reemerged, awakening ancient warriors and drawing the attention of the Fallen Order. Through manipulation and propaganda, they sought to rewrite Earth’s history, framing themselves as the architects of its legends. Goku, Vegeta, and their kin became pawns in a narrative designed to cement the Order’s dominance.
But the multiverse was not without its defenders. From the ashes of the Cosmic Sages’ fellowship arose a prophecy that whispered of three chosen warriors: a father and son, bound by destiny, and a mystic who bridged the realms of mortal and divine. These champions, the prophecy claimed, would rekindle the light of creation and weave a new harmony from the frayed threads of existence. Among them was Solon, the son of Annin and a reluctant heir to the legacies of both the Sages and the Dominion. A being torn between conflicting destinies, Solon became a symbol of hope and reconciliation.
As the multiverse teetered on the edge of annihilation, the stage was set for a final confrontation. Zaroth’s Bastion and the Fallen Order sought to impose their vision of control upon all realms, while the Twilight Alliance fought to preserve the fragile beauty of freedom. Earth, caught in the crossfire, became the proving ground where mortals and gods alike would choose their fates.
And so the saga begins—a story etched in the fabric of stars and whispered through the currents of eternity. It is a tale of creation and destruction, of families divided by ambition yet united by love, of warriors who dare to defy prophecy and forge their own paths. In the eternal dance of Za’reth and Zar’eth, the multiverse’s greatest truth is revealed: that power lies not in absolutes, but in the struggle to find harmony amidst chaos.
Starting Groundbreaking at Age 783 — A Welcome Note from Zena
Hi, friend—welcome in. If you’re starting Dragon Ball Super: Groundbreaking right at Age 783 (two weeks after the events of DBSSH), you’re exactly where I meant new readers to land. This is a bridge chapter in the larger saga: it honors canon, then pivots into our AU’s long arc about creation, control, and how people heal inside systems. I also write with English Kai Dub terms alongside manga/subtitle wording for accessibility—so if the rhythm feels like the dub sometimes, that’s on purpose.
Below is a spoiler-light guide to help you settle in and catch the cadence.
1) Where you’re landing (timeline basics)
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Start point: Immediately after the “Super Hero” period; the fight happened, the dust’s still in everyone’s lungs, and we begin the slow inhale into something bigger.
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Continuity promise: Groundbreaking blends official material with original threads; you’ll see familiar beats reframed, then widened into our own philosophical lane. Also: expect Kai Dub + manga/subtitle terminology for clarity across audiences.
2) Why the early chapters “tell” so much
If the opening feels narrator-forward, a little bossy, and very “let me say the point out loud,” that’s by design. I was deliberately emulating the DBS dub cadence—the over-explained villain speeches, the stagey sincerity, the way characters sometimes perform meaning for the room. I was also inspired by the Star Wars opening crawls, the "long before time had a name" spiel from LEGO Ninjago, the storybook-style Disney openings, and the Christian Bible. The early voice is control-coded on purpose; it’s there to make you feel the weight of rules and recap before the prose loosens up and starts breathing on its own. Later, the style breaks and shifts toward presence. Think of it as moving from command to conversation.
Reading tip: if you bump into a block that feels “tell-heavy,” imagine you’re hearing it in a booth mic with that familiar dub urgency. It’s a signal, not a slip.
3) How to read the signals in the prose
Groundbreaking hides (and shows) a lot through format:
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Italics = breath. When a paragraph tips into full italics, that’s a paced inhale/collapse/exhale—an emotional or psychic swell meant to slow you down. It’s not a detour; it’s part of the structure.
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Context is emotional, not logistical. Instead of “it was a dream,” look for repeated images, colors, or phrases; the feeling marks what matters more than a timestamp ever will.
If you catch yourself asking “wait, did that literally happen?” you’re reading it right. Sometimes memory is doing philosophy.
4) Your theme compass (spoiler-light)
From page one, the AU is tuned to a dialectic I call Za’reth (creation, opening) and Zar’eth (control, shaping). The linguistic frame for that tension—Ver’loth Shaen—isn’t just vocabulary; it’s how we think about power, choice, and care. You’ll feel those forces tug in the voice, the scenes, the fights, and eventually the institutions.
Reading tip: when a scene “tightens,” you’re likely in a Zar’eth beat; when it “opens,” that’s Za’reth. Keeping that compass in mind helps the early chapters click.
5) The dub-first confession (how my ear shaped the opening)
I watched the dubs first. That theatrical, make-it-legible tone taught me to treat exposition as performance. So yes: the opening sounds like a broadcast. Over time, the mic moves closer, the room gets quieter, and the cadence softens. If you notice the prose “relax” later, that’s intentional—form mirroring character growth.
6) A few canon-alignment notes (for orientation)
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ToP → Broader Echo: The Tournament of Power is present but extended/reframed across our continuity.
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Broly → Reworked Context: Broly’s material exists, but it’s altered by the wider wars/timeline mechanics.
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Super Hero → On-ramp: We merge its aftermath directly into the AU’s start—again, your exact landing spot.
You don’t need a perfect recall of every episode to enjoy the ride; the story re-teaches what matters in the moment.
7) “But the first chapters feel… strict.” Good—here’s why.
Early narration is supposed to feel structured—even a little oppressive. I used “telling” as a law-voice, so when the story starts choosing “showing,” you feel the release. In other words: the style shift is the plot. Characters will start winning arguments against systems with syntax, not just fists.
Reading tip: if a passage ever feels “too explained,” note who benefits from that explanation. Control always serves someone.
8) Practical reading rhythm (how to pace yourself)
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Chunk your sessions. The opening is dense on purpose; read in short bursts and let the voice settle.
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Skim for anchors, then reread for breath. First pass: track who’s in the room and what they want. Second pass: watch where the prose loosens/tightens—those are thematic hinges.
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Let the dub cadence carry you. If a paragraph sounds like a speech to the back row, try reading it aloud; it often unlocks the beat the text is aiming at. (And later: you’ll hear the mic drop closer.)
9) What to watch for (without spoiling anything)
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Creation vs. Control in small moments. A teacup placed just so, a training correction framed as care, a joke that defuses heat—every tiny choice sits somewhere on that axis.
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Format tells. Italic swells, repeated motifs, small phrases that won’t stop echoing. These aren’t flourishes; they’re plot.
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Father–son fluency. The early stretch sets up a more mature, mutually intelligible Goku–Gohan dynamic you’ll see pay off later. Keep an ear on how their languages converge.
10) FAQ-style quick answers
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Do I need to memorize the cosmology now? Nope. Just remember “opening” vs “shaping” (Za’reth vs Zar’eth). The rest will teach itself in motion.
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Why does the narration sometimes feel like it’s lecturing me? Because it’s modeling control before it lets the story breathe—so you can feel the difference when the rules loosen.
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Will fights still be cool? Yes—but the choreography serves philosophy. Expect breath, stance, and intention before spectacle.
11) If you want one line to carry with you into Chapter 1
“Let the voice sound like television at first—then listen for the moment it remembers to breathe.”
See you on the other side of the opening monologues. You’re exactly on time.
Public Statement: How We Portray UMC Events (and Why)
From the Groundbreaking team and Zena Airale (Groundbreaking AU author)
Over the last few chapters, readers have noticed that major Unified Multiversal Concord (UMC) beats often appear off-screen and are then discussed by characters in dialogue, banquets, press scrums, porch talks, or kitchen scenes. We want to share—in one place—why we do this, what it means for the story, and how to follow the action without needing private docs.
Why some UMC scenes are off-screen
1) Survivor-centered storytelling.
Groundbreaking treats pacing like a nervous system. Some crises and procedures are deliberately shown as receipts, minutes, and debriefs rather than spectacle. This prevents retraumatization, keeps the focus on care over shock, and aligns the narrative with our in-universe ethics.
2) Governance by listening, not spectacle.
The UMC is built on witness, consent, and process. Its most important outcomes are policies, safeguards, and audits—not always camera-ready set pieces. We mirror that by letting characters talk through decisions after the fact, so readers see how law becomes lived practice.
3) Privacy and safety.
For personal and community safety, a large portion of supplementary materials stays private. Public chapters therefore carry the load through commentary and dialogue, plus visible in-scene signals (see below). You are never expected to chase hidden documents to “really get it.”
How to read UMC events on the page
You’ll see these cues woven into scenes. Treat them as official outcomes:
- “Silent stadium.” An event is recorded for the archive but not broadcast. You’ll get on-site commentary and a post-scene debrief instead of full spectacle.
- Badges, ribbons, signage. “No Scripts / No Nudges,” “Ask before touch,” “Numbers over faces,” broadcast toggles—these are the story’s policy receipts.
- Mandala / Games mentions. A line like “This goes to Mandala” or “logged with the Games board” means a decision has moved to a consent-first process.
- Gates & quiet corridors. Movement routed through Gates, or a shift into Quiet-Hours, signals de-escalation by design—a choice, not a fade-out.
What you can expect going forward
- Big decisions, human scale. We will continue to surface decisions through dialogue that does work—banquets, briefings, porches, kitchens—because that’s how the UMC itself operates.
- Receipts, not rematches. Where earlier eras solved problems with duels, the UMC solves them with procedures you can see and feel: signage, consent checks, simulations, and aftercare.
- Selective transparency. We’ll keep releasing public-facing lore where it’s safe and kind to do so, while protecting private materials for privacy and survivor safety.
FAQ
“Are you skipping the hard parts?”
No. We’re relocating the hard parts into receipts and debriefs so harm isn’t turned into entertainment. The stakes are present; the delivery is ethical.
“Do I need hidden PDFs to understand the plot?”
No. If a policy matters, you’ll see its effect in dialogue and in-scene signals. The prose is designed to be self-sufficient.
“Why so much talking?”
Because in this era, talk is action: testimony moves votes; debriefs change rules; kitchen law prevents coercion. The conversation is the mechanism.
We’re grateful you’re reading with care. If you take one idea with you, let it be this: our story treats safety, consent, and quiet as visible victories. When a chapter ends with a clear boundary kept, a rule followed, or a room that refuses to coerce—that is the point.