Dawn spilled across the skyline of West City in long, golden strokes. I stood atop one of the tallest corporate towers, gazing down at the city that had been my cradle for the last twelve years.
Modern architecture in the Dragon Ball world was... peculiar. Buildings shaped like capsules, domes, and towers that curved upward like glass mushrooms. Unconventional, even to me. But beautiful in their own way.
In my pocket was a gift from my mother—her way of letting go, even if she wouldn't say it aloud.
A Capsule Corp. portable home.
"Comfort matters," she had said with that same serious look she wore before surgery. "You're not a wild animal."
I thanked her. Not with words. Just a nod.
The morning breeze touched my face as I looked toward the sun. A flare of light crested over the distant mountains.
Then I vanished.
Not a blur. Not a flash.
Just gone.
To the average human—with combat power ranging from 1 to 10—it was untraceable.
Even trained martial artists with combat levels approaching 200 would only feel a gust of wind.
I had long surpassed them.
Combat Power: 2079.
And with mastery over the Navy Six Style's Shave and Geppo, and years of training in the Selfless State, I moved like a ghost across rooftops and clouds.
Within seconds, I had cleared the outer limits of the city.
It was Monday morning. The streets were quiet. A few early risers stepped into cafés or boarded airbuses. None of them noticed the ripple in space that marked my passage.
But I wasn't just running.
I was tracking.
Bulma Briefs.
We had crossed paths once—at a medical expo her father funded. I had been too absorbed in my studies to initiate contact, but I had memorized her Ki signature.
Bright. Curious. Unfiltered genius.
Now, she was headed east. Toward the mountains.
My guess: the point in time when she would meet Son Goku.
So I followed.
By the time I arrived, I perched quietly atop a thick pine tree, high above the forest floor. Below, a curved blue car zipped around a bend—Bulma's voice echoing faintly as she fiddled with the controls.
Then it happened.
Just like the show.
She crashed.
The car flipped sideways after colliding with something—someone.
A small boy stood there, frowning and dusting himself off.
Spiky black hair. A wooden staff was slung on his back.
And a tail.
Bulma screamed. Raised a pistol. Fired three rounds into him.
They struck, but didn't pierce. Goku only flinched, rubbing his shoulder.
Bulma's jaw dropped. Her gun wavered.
I watched, hidden in the canopy above.
History was aligning itself.
But it was time I entered the script.
With a breath, I stepped off the branch.
There was no sound as I landed. Just presence. Calm. Clean.
Goku and Bulma turned sharply.
She raised her pistol again. He held his staff at the ready.
I said nothing for a moment, letting the tension coil.
Then, casually, I looked at Bulma.
"It's a crime," I said evenly, "to open fire on a child—especially when you're the one who crashed."
She blinked. "Wait—who are you?"
Goku tilted his head. "You don't feel like a bad guy. But… you move funny."
I smiled faintly.
"My name is Lyraen. I'm just... passing through."
The first encounter had begun.
And the story of Dragon Ball... had welcomed a new player.