I want to ask something, and I need your honesty. It will only take a moment, though its answer may linger far longer than you expect.
What does it mean to live?
Not in the mundane sense of inhaling and exhaling, of existing in a body that functions according to predictable laws of biology. That is easy. Life is movement, growth, and decay, governed by the blind rhythm of physics and chemistry. Every living thing shares it. The question is not what life is, but what it demands from those who recognize it.
Some claim that living is to feel, to experience joy and suffering, hope and despair. Yet feeling can be a curse. Schopenhauer called life the will to live, and with will comes pain, for to want is to encounter disappointment. Emotions, so often treated as proof of vitality, can betray, manipulate, or deceive. Can one say that a creature who does not feel is any less alive, or merely alive in a different, quieter way?
Others insist that life is choice. To choose, to act despite instinct, is to assert existence over circumstance. Kant argued that morality is the framework for our choices, the rational path to act as though our decisions were universal law. Yet life often grants no such clarity. Choice is messy, limited, fraught with forces beyond our control. Sometimes even rebellion against circumstance is only another form of submission. And still, to refuse to act is, in its own quiet manner, to act.
There is, of course, growth. Darwin wrote that life survives through adaptation. Nietzsche suggested that man is something to be overcome. If life is measured not by the mere beating of a heart but by the strength of one's evolution—physical, mental, or otherwise—then stagnation is death in slow motion. Yet progress is never linear. It is violent, chaotic, unpredictable. It asks of us more than survival: it demands strain, discomfort, even suffering.
Perhaps, then, life is not merely survival or sensation, but the struggle to surpass oneself. Viktor Frankl observed that humans endure suffering when they find purpose within it. To endure without purpose is to merely exist; to endure with purpose is to shape existence itself. The act of survival becomes intertwined with meaning. And yet, meaning is often a mirage, a construct we chase as desperately as any predator chasing prey.
Some philosophers have argued that connection is central to life. Love, friendship, loyalty. The threads that bind us to others give texture to existence. Sartre once remarked, 'Hell is other people,' and perhaps he was right. Bonds can sustain us, but they can also restrict, suffocate, or betray. The life that is tethered is never entirely free, yet the untethered may drift alone into emptiness.
And what of instinct? The body remembers what the mind may have forgotten. Animals know hunger, thirst, fear, and the taste of survival. Even humans, no matter how abstract or refined, cannot fully escape these primal currents. They rise, unbidden, shaping choices, guiding reflexes, whispering truths we cannot always admit. Perhaps this is why a Saiyan, instinctively drawn to battle, feels the pull of challenge and struggle so profoundly: not because they desire it, but because life itself presses against them, demanding exertion and confrontation.
Science offers another perspective. Life is information, a pattern of energy and matter persisting across time. We can alter it, replicate it, extend it artificially. Yet the question persists: is existence defined by the material, or by the consciousness that perceives it? Descartes wrote, 'Cogito, ergo sum,' and even in a universe of machinery, cells, and energy, that awareness remains the peculiar hallmark of life that reflects on itself.
Anime, too, has explored these questions, often in ways more candid than philosophy. Shows speak of rebirth, training, sacrifice, and the pursuit of impossible goals.
They dramatize the tension between choice, power, and consequence, showing that even fictional worlds grapple with the same patterns that govern our reality. In some stories, a warrior's strength grows only through trial and pain, echoing truths as old as evolution itself.
So perhaps living is not about comfort, nor about passively enduring the currents of existence. Perhaps it is about engagement: the conscious effort to confront challenges, to shape circumstance, to strain against limits. Perhaps it is about choice, suffering, growth, and reflection all in unison—a recognition of mortality, a measure of one's own capacity to act within it.
And yet, even in this recognition, life remains unresolved. It is not a question with a single answer, but a canvas of endless contradictions:
Freedom and constraint.
Pleasure and pain.
Isolation and connection.
Growth and stagnation.
We navigate it, often without clarity, making decisions that ripple far beyond comprehension. Perhaps that, in itself, is the essence: not to define life, but to wrest meaning from it, however fleeting, however fragile, however incomplete.
So I ask again: what does it mean to live?
———
The fluorescent lights of the library were a sterile, unblinking glare, a stark contrast to the warm, golden sun of the late afternoon outside. My fingers flew across the keyboard, the rhythmic clatter a familiar comfort.
The screen in front of me was a cascade of equations and philosophical inquiries, a self-imposed crucible to pass the time. It was the only thing that felt real, a puzzle with a correct answer in a world full of ambiguous questions.
I was 18, in a high school library full of people who saw me as an enigma. The "random" transfer student from Japan who shattered academic and athletic records with a detached ease that bordered on the unsettling.
They whispered about me in the hallways, their voices a low hum of curiosity and a little fear. I didn't blame them. I was different. I was a ghost in their midst, a perfect replica of a human being with all the necessary parts but none of the emotional software. Or so I thought.
A new email notification popped up. Subject: "The New Test." I already knew what it was. A new problem from the Clay Mathematics Institute. They had been sending me these for a year now, ever since I solved the first of the two Millennium Prize Problems I had decided to tackle.
They didn't know I was a high school student. To them, I was just "Kura," the mysterious genius who responded in curt, precise paragraphs. A falsified online identity. I opened the email and a diagram of a complex gravitational wave interference pattern filled the screen.
A new challenge. I felt a flicker of something, a slight interest in the newest puzzle. It would take time to solve, of course. A familiar, clean sensation that was a welcome respite from the usual void.
But before I could even begin, a girl named Sarah plopped down in the chair across from me, a heavy textbook and a can of iced tea in her hands. She was a rarity, one of the few who tried to befriend me. She was loud, messy, and wore her emotions on her sleeve. I had no idea why she bothered.
"Hey, Tsukiko," she said, her voice a little too cheerful for the hushed environment. "You're still in here? The swim team is going out for pizza tonight. You should come."
I didn't look up from the screen. "I have work to do."
"You always have work to do," she sighed, taking a long drink from her tea. "Seriously, what are you even working on? It looks like a bunch of alien scribbles."
"It is a complex solution to a theoretical physics problem. You wouldn't understand," I said, my voice as flat as the library table.
Her face fell slightly, but she quickly recovered. "Okay, rude. But you know what? Fine. I'll ask you about something else. My history paper. I have to write about the impact of the Industrial Revolution on European society, but I can't find a good thesis. You're a genius, right? Help a girl out."
I sighed internally. This was the deal. She provided the human connection I was supposed to be curious about, and I provided the answers. A simple transaction, one I had grown used to. I glanced at her textbook, the highlighted sections and scribbled notes a mess of unfocused effort.
"The Industrial Revolution was not a singular event but rather a series of interconnected societal, technological and economic shifts," I began, my mind already pulling from the vast database I had stored. "Your thesis should focus on a specific aspect.
Take the commodification of time, for example. The rise of the wage-labor system shifted the perception of time from a natural, cyclical rhythm to a measurable, finite commodity. Or the new definition of family and gender roles as the domestic sphere became less a site of production and more a site of consumption."
Sarah's eyes widened, and she scrambled for a pen. "Wait, wait, say that last part again! That's perfect!"
As she scribbled, I returned to my own work, my mind already moving on from her problem. The feeling of helping her was not a sense of accomplishment or altruism. It was just... efficient. I had information she needed, and I provided it. It was no different from a computer running a search query.
And yet, as I watched her jot down my words with such genuine excitement, a different flicker of sensation stirred within me. It was not the cold, clean interest of a new problem. It was something softer, a quiet warmth that was alien to me. It felt like a small, unexpected victory to me.
I had been trying to understand emotions ever since Takina helped me flee that place. Not that I was thinking about her at this very moment.
"I need a pizza with everything on it," Sarah spoke with a grin stretching across her face as she put the pen down. "And I'm not just saying that to be dramatic. You just saved my life, Tsukiko! This paper was a disaster."
I offered a small, almost imperceptible nod and returned my focus to the screen. "It was an efficient use of information."
She laughed, a bright, unrestrained sound that made a few people glance our way. "You and your 'efficient use of information.' You know, Tsukiko, I've never seen you smile before."
"I have no reason to," I responded honestly.
Sarah's grin didn't falter. "Everyone has a reason to smile. Even if it's just for pizza. Come on, just this once. The team would love it."
"I have work," I repeated. The gravitational wave equations beckoned, a more comfortable, predictable reality than the messy, unpredictable world of human connection.
She sighed, but it was a warm, understanding sound. "Alright, fine. You win. But don't be a stranger, okay? I'll text you the group chat link later. We miss you when you're not around."
I felt that flicker again, the soft, warm alien feeling in my chest. 'We miss you when you're not around.' The words were simple, but their weight was immense. They held a truth I didn't fully comprehend, a foreign concept that went beyond logic or utility.
She didn't want me around because I was useful. She wanted me around because she... cared?
The concept was baffling.
"I will consider it," I said, a small lie to make the transaction—the confusing, irrational transaction—more palatable.
She beamed, a genuine, joyful expression that was far more potent than any complex formula. "Great! See you later, Tsukiko!"
With a final, friendly wave, she was gone, leaving a faint scent of iced tea and a lingering sense of warmth in her wake. I turned back to my screen, but the equations seemed less sharp, less clean. My mind was no longer on gravitational waves but on the baffling, inexplicable nature of humanity.
'Why do they care? Why do I want to be around them?'
The questions were a new kind of problem, one that couldn't be solved with logic or mathematics. It was a problem that had no right answer, only a series of messy, illogical choices. It was a problem I was starting to realize I wanted to solve. It was a beautiful, terrifying, and utterly human problem. And for the first time in my life, I was genuinely curious about the answer.
I packed up my things, the unsolvable problem of humanity swirling in my mind. The library was starting to empty out, the soft murmur of conversations and the clatter of keyboards giving way to a hushed silence.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A new email. Subject: "Security Alert: Possible Breaches", had appeared, it was a warning from my personal security system.
Something I had built from the ground up, a network of cameras and sensors I had strategically placed around my estate. An estate I had bought. I had learned a long time ago that my father's "care" was a form of control, and that my life was not my own. I had no illusions about the safety of my new life.
This was a temporary reprieve; one of borrowed time.
I walked home, the setting sun painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. The beauty of it was a visual fact, a quantifiable phenomenon of light refraction, but the feeling it evoked in me was something new and strange. It wasn't the cold satisfaction of solving a problem; it was something softer, a quiet ache that was almost... pleasant.
I arrived at my estate, the grand, imposing structure a stark reminder of the fortune I had accumulated. I bypassed the main entrance, opting for a discreet side door that led directly to my security command center. The screens were a grid of live feeds from every angle of the property.
The room was dark, a fortress of glowing screens and humming servers. A single chair sat in the center, and I dropped into it, my hands flying across the keyboard. The main screen flashed to life, a grid of live feeds from every angle of the property. I cross-referenced the feeds with my motion sensors, searching for an anomaly.
Twenty signatures. All in the dead zone of my property—a blind spot I had intentionally built into the system to test its limits. They had bypassed the main gate, scaled the back wall, and were now moving with a chilling precision toward the main house.
Professionals.
A surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp, coursed through my veins. Not fear. Just the clean, exhilarating rush of a challenge. I had trained for this—that place had prepared me for every possible physical confrontation.
I armed the house. The windows and doors sealed shut with a series of metallic clicks. A network of pressure plates and tripwires activated throughout the estate. I had no illusions.
These measures were only a delay, a way to funnel them to me, to force them into a confined space where I could deal with them on my terms. And pick off a few of them.
I watched them on the screens, a black-clad team of 20. Their movements were fluid, their coordination flawless. They moved in perfect unison, a human weapon designed for a single purpose.
'So that man has finally sent his soldiers out, at last?' I thought, standing, knowing that not all of them would die to my traps.
Likely ten to fifteen. Not all.
I walked to my personal armory, a small, soundproofed room hidden behind a bookshelf. I didn't need a gun; those were loud and even suppressed guns could be heard by trained assassins.
Especially those that knew about that place.
No, I needed to be precise, silent, and efficient.
I grabbed a pair of butterfly knives, their blades a mirror-like sheen under the dim light which were practically weightless.
I moved with purpose to where I would fight. The main hallway.
The first one came at me with a combat knife, his movements a series of rapid, calculated thrusts. He was fast, but I was faster. I sidestepped his first attack, my knife a silver flash in the dim light. I blocked his next strike, the clatter of metal on metal a deafening roar in the silence.
My knife slid up his arm, a clean, precise slice that severed the tendons in his wrist. He dropped his knife, a look of shocked pain on his face. I didn't give him a chance to recover. My second knife plunged into his neck, a single, swift motion that silenced him forever. I didn't even flinch. It was a transaction. He came to kill me; I killed him first.
The second one was already there, a blur of motion as he came at me from the side. He was bigger, stronger, a human tank. He swung a heavy fist, a blow that would have shattered my ribs. I ducked under his arm, then my knife came up in a rapid, upward arc, a line of silver that cut a precise path through the flesh of his inner thigh.
He gasped, his leg giving out. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide with surprise. I ended him with a clean strike to the throat, the knife a cold whisper of finality.
Two down. Three to go.
The remaining three were still on the screens. They had heard the commotion and were moving in, their pace quickened. They were no longer being cautious. They were coming for me, their movements a clear declaration of their intent to kill.
I moved to the next room, a large, open space with plenty of cover. I had the advantage of knowing the layout of the house, of knowing where every piece of furniture, every shadow, and every blind spot was. This was my domain, my battlefield. I was an artist, and this was my canvas. The only medium was death.
The third and fourth attackers came in together, a coordinated assault from two different angles. The third one, a woman, came at me with a pair of steel batons, their movements a whirlwind of blows that would have broken a lesser person's bones. I met her strike for strike, my blades a streak of silver against her steel.
I ducked under a wide arc, my knife a clean line of light that cut a path across her cheek. The fourth attacker, a man, tried to get behind me, but I anticipated his move. I spun my back to him, my left knife plunged into his chest.
He gasped, a look of pure shock on his face as he fell. The woman hesitated, a flicker of fear in her eyes. It was all I needed. My knife was swung in a jagged arc, the final strike to her carotid artery that ended the fight.
Four down. One to go.
BANG!
Right as I was standing up, a gunshot echoed through the room. I barely registered the sound before the searing pain came from behind my eye, a sudden, brutal intrusion into my perfectly controlled world. I fell to the side, the butterfly knives clattering uselessly on the marble floor. My body, a finely tuned instrument of death, was no longer under my command. The last thing I saw was the fifth figure emerging from a shadow, his weapon still smoking.
He had hidden while I was distracted. Why hadn't the others used firearms? It would be expected… unless they only planned to test my abilities first?
Well guess that didn't matter right now.
Considering where I was shot, I'd be dead within the next 2 minutes.
As I thought that, I thought back to my life so far.
I thought of my first foray into an American high school, a world of bright colors, loud music, and confusing social cues. I had observed them like an anthropologist studying a foreign tribe, noting their strange rituals and illogical friendships.
But then I found anime, manga and a door had opened. The emotions of some of those characters had somewhat affected me, their rage, loyalty, determination, even their motivations had color painted on the white board that was my heart. And yet, some of them were horrible, downright terrible characters who had no growth, and it made me… mad? I think that was the correct word to describe that feeling.
Either way, in my final moments on this planet, I thought of Sarah, with her messy hair and her unabashed enthusiasm. She had been the most baffling of all. She had offered friendship without expectation, a connection without a price. She didn't want anything from me.
She just… wanted me.
The simple truth of it was more complex than any physics problem I had ever encountered. The fact that she would miss me, that my absence would leave a small, unfillable void in her day, was a revelation. It was a reason to exist.
And now, this fragile, newfound humanity was being snuffed out, not by some complex, calculated assassination, but by a simple, brutal bullet to the head. The irony was not lost on me. I had survived a crucible of inhumanity, only to be killed just as I was beginning to learn what it meant to be alive.
The void was coming, but it was not the empty, sterile darkness I was used to. This void was filled with the echoes of laughter, the ghost of a warm sensation in my chest, and the faint, lingering scent of iced tea. It was a void that I now, paradoxically, feared.
For the first time, I felt and understood my own emotions. As I think back to Sarah once more, I realized I was in grief for what would be and was now lost, anger at its theft and a quiet, unbearable sadness.
'If only I had a second chance… maybe I'd have been a better friend to her,' were my last thoughts before the world turned black.
———
"Here check this one," a strange voice registered into my mind.
"Seems her name's Tsukari. Power Level, 5. Low Class."
"Weak," the second voice grunted. It was deeper, gravelly, vibrating through the strange, thick fluid coating my ears. "Standard for a low-class, I suppose. Is she compatible with the infiltration parameters for Ruxas?"
"Checking... yes. Atmosphere is similar to Vegeta. Gravity is significantly lower. Inhabitants average a Power Level of thirty. She should be able to wipe the population within a few years once the Ōzaru transformation is triggered."
Vegeta? Ōzaru?
The data points hit my mind like lightning strikes. I tried to move, to stand, to assess the threat, but my body refused to obey. My limbs were heavy, rubbery, and uncoordinated. I flailed, a pathetic, jerky motion that resulted in nothing but a splash of liquid.
Motor control: nonexistent. Muscle density: negligible.
"She's feisty," the first voice noted, sounding bored. "Get her out of the incubator. The launch window is in twenty minutes."
Rough hands grabbed me. The sensation was overwhelming—calloused skin against my own raw, sensitive flesh. I was hauled out of the warm liquid and into the biting cold of the room. The air smelled of ozone, antiseptic, and something metallic—like dried blood.
I forced my eyes open, fighting against the harsh, artificial lighting.
The world was a blur of steel and glass. I was in a sterile laboratory, but it lacked the pristine whiteness of my childhood. This place was utilitarian, industrial, and cruel. Pipes hissed steam along the ceiling; monitors flickered with jagged alien text that, inexplicably, I could read.
Katakana? No... similar, but distinct. A dialect?
And then, I saw them.
Two giants loomed over me. They wore armor—strange, flexible chest plates with flared shoulder guards. But it was the appendages whipping behind them that froze my analytical mind.
Brown, furry tails.
Hypothesis confirmed.
I tried to twist my head, to look at my own body. There, curling involuntarily around a small, chubby leg, was a tail. My tail.
Dragon Ball. The fictional universe created by Akira Toriyama. I have been reincarnated into a race of intergalactic warmongers.
Panic threatened to rise, illogical and chemical, but I crushed it. Panic was inefficient. Observation was key.
"Wipe her down," the deeper voice commanded. "Don't bother with the intricate grooming. She'll be in stasis for 36 months."
A rough cloth was scrubbed over my skin, scraping away the slime. I didn't cry. Crying expended energy and provided no tactical advantage. I simply watched them, recording their faces, their armor, their callous disregard for a newborn.
"Quiet one, isn't she?" the one wiping me observed, pausing to look me in the eye. "Usually the brats are screaming their lungs out by now. Look at those eyes. It's like she's... analyzing me."
"Don't anthropomorphize the merchandise, Nappa. Just load her up."
'Nappa?' The name filed itself away in my memory. The one named Nappa hoisted me up by the back of my neck, much like one would carry a kitten. The indignity was immense, but I lacked the strength to snap his wrist.
This body was significantly weaker than my previous one turns out.
He carried me toward a spherical craft sitting on a launch pad. It was white, compact, with a red glass viewport. The Attack Ball.
"Deployment coordinates set," the other scientist announced, tapping at a console. "Life support green. Hibernation gas ready."
Nappa dropped me into the seat. It was too big, padded with a shock-absorbent material that smelled of synthetic leather. The restraints clicked into place automatically, pinning my small arms and legs. My tail was unceremoniously shoved into a groove in the seat.
"Have a safe trip, kid," Nappa muttered, though his tone suggested he didn't care one way or the other. "Try not to die before you conquer the planet."
The hatch hissed. The red glass descended, sealing me in.
The sound of the outside world was cut off, replaced by the low hum of the pod's internal systems. The space was claustrophobic, illuminated only by the blinking lights of the dashboard.
[Objective: Survival. Location: Space Pod. Destination: Planet Ruxas.]
I took a breath, the recycled air tasting stale.
Alone again.
A hissing sound filled the pod, and a sweet-smelling gas began to vent from the headrest.
Sedative. Hibernation sequence.
My eyelids grew heavy. My thoughts, usually racing at light speed, began to slow.
I need... to understand... this body...
As consciousness began to fade, a blue holographic screen flickered into existence directly in front of my closing eyes. It wasn't part of the ship's console. It hovered in the air, projected directly into my retina.
No… it was in my mind?
The screen read: "Loading sequence initialized…" before it added, "sequence complete."
'Huh?' I responded mentally, my mind analyzing the strange text box.
["Oh it appears you are awake :). I am the system. A gift from the one who reincarnated you."]
A soft, computer-esque voice entered my mind, my mind reeling with the fact that someone could reincarnate, and apparently grant a gift… no, upon some thought of course someone had to have reincarnated me.
A goddess perhaps.
["Your name is Tsukari, a pun on zucchini. You have been deemed too weak by the Saiyans and have thus been sent off world to the swampy jungle planet Ruxas in order to commence Genocide against its sentient life to prepare it for sale. -_-"]
I felt a flicker of something odd at the fact my system seemed to like using emoticons to do things, and seemed rather alive.
["Would you like to hear the tutorial? (Yes/No) *Note, this action generates a Quest.*"]
I stared at the floating text. The hibernation gas was already clouding the edges of my vision, making the blue light blur. My brain felt sluggish, but the prompt remained crisp.
'Yes,' I thought. 'That would be good.'
["Okey-dokey! :D Let's break down how you're going to survive this universe without dying immediately. Which, statistically, is very likely for you right now. >_<"]
The voice was gratingly cheerful. It sounded like a digital assistant programmed by a teenager.
["First up: Power Level (PL). This is the big number everyone cares about. It's calculated based on your Stats and your Tier. Right now, yours is 5. That is... adorable. A farmer with a shotgun has a PL of 5. You are essentially a vegetable with a tail. :("]
I ignored the insult. 'Explain the calculation.'
["Simple math! :3 Every Stat Point you gain increases your PL by 5. Every Level you gain adds 15 to your PL. And every Tier you rank up adds a whopping 100 to your PL! Exception: Magic does not increase PL. Magic is special. It's for the cool kids. B)"]
Magic being separate from Ki was canon. Magic uses an entirely different energy. My mind went back to when I read the Wiki on it reciting word for word what I read.
Magic is primarily used for supportive techniques, such as healing, conjuration, transmutation, or sealing. Magic techniques can also replicate several techniques achievable through use of ki, such as flight. The Dragon Balls are themselves magical, created by various Namekians skilled in the magical arts. Some magic can be used offensively to manipulate energy, such as Moro's ability to drain energy from his surroundings and redirect it into attacks. Magic is, however, completely distinct from ki, and so while a magic user may possess low ki power, they could easily possess immense magic abilities - as the two energies are not related to each other.
My consciousness was slipping faster now. The cold of the pod was replaced by a numbing nothingness.
'Continue,' I say within my mind.
["Two ways! 1. Leveling Up: You kill things, you get EXP. You're Level 1 right now. Each Level gives you 3 Stat Points to distribute.
Training: You sweat, you bleed, you grow. But here is the kicker, Tsukari... you're a Saiyan. You have Saiyan Power (Zenkai). If you get beaten to a pulp and survive? You get stronger. It's a percentage boost to your PL. So... try to almost die, but don't actually die. Okay? ;P"]
'And the stats... tiers...' my thoughts were becoming disjointed.
["Right! Stats cap at Level 10. Once a stat hits MAX, you spend 2 Stat Points to Rank Up to the next Tier. This resets the stat to Level 1 but makes it fundamentally stronger. You are currently Tier 0 in everything. You are weak. But you have potential! <3"]
The blue screen began to fade as the hibernation sequence took full effect. The last thing I heard wasn't the hiss of the ship or the hum of the engine, but that synthetic, overly-enthusiastic voice echoing in my mind.
["Quest Tutorial Complete +20 EXP, you have leveled up."]
Darkness took me then.