Merun walked back toward his hut in silence, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his thoughts louder than the gravel beneath his feet.
Was it really a good idea to let the Beggar Sage know that I know… things?
From what he remembered in the novel, the man was insane—paranoid, sharp, obsessive. But beneath all that madness, there was something consistent about him.
He cared.
Not about order. Not about power. About the weak. About humanity as a whole.
If worst came to worst, Merun could always trade information. He could just pass off modern day technology, concept and inventions as "from Planet Vegeta". Maybe Saiyan physiology. Knowledge like that was priceless in this world. He could leverage it later—when he understood the board better.
For now, though, the old man was sus as hell.
What kind of tasks are you planning for me, Beggar Sage?
He hadn't gone far when he stumbled upon a group of villagers struggling to lift a collapsed cart from a ditch. Without thinking, Merun stepped in, braced his legs, and lifted.
The cart came up far more easily than it should have.
The villagers stared. Thanked him profusely. Someone pressed food into his hands. Another bowed too deeply.
As he walked away, he felt it again.
Eyes on his back.
The peasant girl from earlier—today's "victim"—trailed behind him at a distance, hesitating every few steps.
Merun pretended not to notice.
A shout came from the shore. Two fishermen were arguing over a broken boat, its hull split cleanly along the side, seawater still sloshing inside. One of them kicked the sand in frustration.
"Net's ruined too," the older man muttered. "It just gets worse and worse."
Merun walked over, crouched beside the boat, and ran his fingers along the crack. The wood was warped, stress-fractured from being dragged onto shore too fast.
"Got rope?" he asked.
They stared at him.
A minute later, Merun was knee-deep in water, holding the boat steady while the fishermen tied it off. He pressed his shoulder against the hull and lifted just enough for them to seal the crack with pitch. It took longer than it should have. He deliberately didn't make it easy.
When it was done, the men bowed repeatedly, thanking him like he'd done something extraordinary. Merun waved it off and kept walking.
Further inland, an elderly woman struggled to pull a basket of fish toward a drying rack. One of the legs had collapsed, spilling half the catch into the dirt. Merun righted the rack, reinforced it with a broken oar he found nearby, then rinsed the fish in the shallows before handing them back to her.
She pressed a salted fillet into his hands despite his protests.
Near the edge of the village, children were dragging debris away from a collapsed hut. One of them slipped, scraping his knee badly on a broken plank. Merun knelt, tore a strip from his sleeve, and tied it tight.
"Don't move too much alright," he said. "You'll reopen it."
The kid nodded, and hobbled away.
Merun stood and looked around.
This wasn't dramatic.. Just small, quiet fixes to problems that never should've existed in the first place.
Behind him, the girl stopped pretending she wasn't following him anymore.
She watched as Merun wiped his hands on his pants and stared out at the sea, jaw tight, eyes distant.
She felt she understood more about him, and followed him all the way back to his hut.
Merun stopped at the door and turned.
"Hey," he said. "This morning. The corpses. The children."
She froze.
"…Were they real?" he asked. "Or was all of that just a setup by the Beggar Sect to indoctrinate me into becoming some kind of hero?"
Her shoulders slumped.
"…Damn it," she muttered under her breath.
Then she sighed and walked closer.
"Yes," she said. "We're sorry. That was fake, but it did happen... We just wanted you to see firsthand what it looked like."
She looked genuinely annoyed—at herself more than anything.
"But—" she stepped forward and placed her hands on his cheeks, earnest and warm. "I'm sorry if it seems insincere now, but we're grateful for everything you've done."
Merun stiffened.
She continued quickly, as if afraid he'd pull away. "The Beggar Sage approached me the next morning. After you saved me. He said you were… different. So we prepared everything. The scene, the timing. To groom you into becoming someone who'd step in when others wouldn't."
Merun blinked.
"…Great," he said flatly. "I don't really mind. I still think things aren't right in this country."
Then he gently pushed her hands away.
"Can you remove your hands now? You know I'm just eleven, right?"
She froze.
"…What?"
Her face went red instantly.
"Eleven?! I— I thought—" she gasped, yanking her hands back. "You're just a kid!"
"It's fine," Merun said, already turning away. "My kind turns into an adult at an early age (lie)."
There was an awkward pause.
"…What's your name?" he asked.
"Iro," she said. "I'm seventeen."
She hesitated, then added, "I'm an orphan. If not for the Beggar Sect, I'd still be working as a waitress in a tavern somewhere. But now… it's like having a new family."
She smiled softly.
"People who care about you. Who look out for each other. I feel like I finally found my purpose."
Merun looked down at his hands.
Purpose, huh?
Why was he reincarnated? Why as a Saiyan? Why here, in Sekigahara of all places?
Was it coincidence? Fate? Some cosmic joke?
Or was he supposed to do something?
"…Huh," he muttered. "All this thinking is making me crazy."
Iro watched him for a moment, concern flickering across her face.
"I know it's a lot," she said gently. "I'll go for now. See you tomorrow, Merun."
He waved as she left, then slumped onto the couch inside his hut.
Silence.
Plans began to form whether he wanted them to or not.
His family was safe—for now. That mattered most.
Next… maybe joining the Kinzoku. Or at least aligning with them. He could ask the Beggar Sage for training resources. Techniques. Knowledge. If he was going to be tested, he might as well be prepared.
…Also, he'd been putting it off long enough.
Maybe he should finally learn to read and write.
Merun sighed and stared at the ceiling.
"I want my lazy village life back."
But deep down, he knew.
That life was already gone.