For Yamiru, the next few months blurred the line between witnessing the past and reliving fragmented memories in his mind.
---
Once the boy—Yamiru—realized this wasn't a dream, he had no choice but to accept his new reality.
He scavenged for food, struggled to learn the language, and did his best to blend in.
"Oh, not expired yet." Grubby fingers dug through the trash, pulling out an unopened loaf of bread. "Lucky day, boy."
For a brief moment, he savored the small victory—until his fingers brushed against something else in the garbage.
A tattered poster for the 17th World Martial Arts Tournament.
"Martial arts tournament, huh…" He chewed the last bitter bite of bread, muttering, "Cool…"
Above him, perched casually on a streetlight, the animal-masked figure observed in silence.
---
Under the pressure of survival, the boy's adaptability kicked in. Within two months, he'd pieced together enough of the world's language to get by.
But mastering an entirely new, coherent alien language didn't bring him joy.
Instead, sitting on the shore, staring at the unnaturally blue sea, the dam holding back two months of pent-up emotions finally broke.
Tears dripped onto the yellowed tournament poster, staining it dark.
"…" His eyes reddened, throat tightening as he fought back sobs. "Hah…" A deep breath in, a shaky exhale out.
Then—
"Yo! If it isn't the trash-scavenging wild boy!"
A group of thugs swaggered up, led by a wolf-headed punk who howled mockingly, "Ooooh, hoo hoo!"—mimicking the boy's earlier clumsy speech.
"You crying? No way!" The wolf-man sneered. "The legendary super-strong savage actually has human feelings?"
The boy wiped his face, tucking the poster safely into his pocket.
"I don't have money," he said flatly. "Guess that leaves 'sparring.'"
What followed was a one-sided brawl—though the boy took his share of hits, the thugs ended up sprawled on the ground, groaning.
Panting, the boy stepped forward. The bloodied wolf-man hastily pulled out his wallet, his lackeys following suit, stacking bills on the sand like an offering.
"Boss, heh, how about—"
The boy stared at the money, nostrils flaring.
Then—BAM!
A kick sent the wolf-man rolling.
"Fuck you."
Flipping them off, the boy slung his shirt over his shoulder and walked away.
From the shadows, the animal-masked observer watched, faintly amused.
So did an elephant-nosed dockworker, wiping sweat with a rag.
---
Thanks to the dockworker's referral, the boy started manual labor at the harbor.
His unnatural strength made him oddly suited for the job. The elephant-man expected complaints, but the boy never uttered a single gripe.
He was just… strange. Not antisocial, but prone to staring blankly at the distant sea, lost in thought.
Waves crashed, salt spray glinting against the masked figure's silhouette.
---
Day 90
Tired of living near others, Yamiru trekked far beyond the city, stopping only when he found a crumbling abandoned house.
"Cough! Cough!" Dust choked him as he swept debris aside.
Outside, the masked visitor lingered.
---
Day 100
At a rickety desk, Yamiru scrawled in a salvaged notebook:
"Day 100 in this world…"
He got no further.
Frustration boiled over. He clawed at his hair, slammed his forehead into the desk, then ripped the page out and shredded it.
The chair legs snapped as he toppled backward.
"Goddammit—"
Exhausted, he collapsed onto his makeshift bed, curling into a ball.
Late that night, the masked figure sat at the same desk, carefully reassembling the torn diary page…
---
"Hey, Yamiru! You live so far out—want me to hook you up with another job?"
A truck driver leaned out his window, calling to the sweat-drenched boy, who wiped his face with a grimy towel.
"What kind of job?" The boy tugged off the grimy towel.
"Uh… delivery for a logistics company?" The truck driver grinned. "You're tough—seems like a good fit."
The other dockworkers—all animal-people—chuckled knowingly. Sending a scrawny human into the beast-folk districts was a surefire way to lose both the cargo and the courier.
On top of the truck, the animal-masked figure lounged lazily, listening as the boy below shrugged. "Sure."
---
Day 156
"Still haven't figured out what kind of person I should be in this world. My body's around ten years old, but my strength surpasses a grown man's. If I grow up normally, maybe I could be an athlete? It'd be pretty funny—transmigrating into the Dragon Ball world just to become a sportsman…"
In his ramshackle hut, the boy scribbled in his journal.
As always, he burned the page after writing.
Melancholy settled over him. He stepped outside, sprinting down the deserted highway, as if outrunning his thoughts could silence them.
Above the hut, Yamiru's golden eyes flickered before he turned away.
His gaze locked onto the distant city—specifically, the park at its heart.
BOOM!
A brilliant white aura erupted around him.
The air trembled, the ground shaking under an invisible pressure.
Then—he vanished.
A streak of light blazed across the sky, passing the sprinting boy below in an instant.
Within seconds, Yamiru hovered above the park, scanning until he found his target.
On the grass, an old man in gray-green robes moved gracefully through a slow, deliberate kata.
"You…"
Yamiru descended like a wisp of light, stepping closer. "Who are you?"
His Golden Veil bore into the elder, but the man gave no response, continuing his movements as if alone.
"Old man!" Yamiru called again. Still, no reaction.
Just as he reached to remove his mask—
The elder's foot slid forward, his palm pushing outward in a motion so soft it seemed weightless.
WHOOSH!
An invisible force erupted.
The entire park's trees bent as one, leaves rustling violently.
Yamiru's breath hitched.
He looked down.
The old man's palm had phased straight through his chest.