Dragon Ball Human

Even if it were just a random stranger collapsing in front of her due to severe illness, Tights would feel compelled to help. And this time, the boy who had just saved her life—albeit while feverish and delirious—made it impossible for her to walk away.

The boy, looking no older than eleven or twelve, had taken down the thug who had been holding Tights hostage. His weak yet frenzied demeanor during the fight caught Tights attention—especially the writer in her.

What kind of illness had brought him to this state?

How could a mere child possess such incredible strength?

Why had he cried while fighting, murmuring things like, "I don't want to die... I really don't want to die..." or "I still haven't... I haven't..."? What hadn't he done? And who—or what—was "Son Goku"? A place? A person?

Moreover, how had he managed to dodge five point-blank gunshots in his condition, was his golden eyes gleaming with a surreal light? Even seasoned martial artists or World Martial Arts Tournament champions couldn't achieve such feats. Yet, this boy had done it.

The novelist in Tights couldn't help but burn with curiosity.

This boy had a story worth uncovering.

Tights ignored the thug sprawled unconscious on the ground and knelt by the boy. She touched his forehead, only to recoil from the heat; his skin was burning. Checking his eyes, she saw bloodshot sclera and unfocused pupils. He wasn't waking up anytime soon. Placing a hand near his nose, she confirmed his faint but steady breathing.

She tried lifting him onto her back but couldn't budge him.

"He's so heavy..." Tights muttered. Though the boy looked small, his body was surprisingly dense. Resigned, she decided to call for an ambulance but hesitated at the thought of her dwindling funds and overdrafted bank account. Sighing, she mumbled, "Looks like I'll have to ask the family for help..."

---

Yamiru was utterly unconscious, completely bedridden.

No matter how much he racked his brains, he would never have imagined that his first life-threatening challenge in the Dragon Ball world would be... a severe case of the flu. The illness hit him like a mountain, exacerbated by days of wandering in freezing mountains and getting drenched in hours of rain. No matter how strong he was, his body couldn't withstand it.

Beating those kidnappers and rescuing the children had drained the last of his energy and willpower.

He had fought that battle with the mindset of leaving no regrets. If that was going to be his final moment of clarity, he couldn't ignore such a heinous situation. At the time, Yamiru thought, This must be how Goku felt when he used the Kaio-ken x4. Determined, selfless—like a true hero.

He didn't care about the cost. At least he could die as one.

What came after was a blur, his actions driven by sheer instinct.

Then came a string of dreams—fragmented, disjointed, oscillating between blissful and nightmarish.

"Beep."

"Beep."

In his semi-conscious state, Yamiru heard sharp, intermittent noises in the distance. The sound stirred something within him—an unwelcome familiarity that brought back memories of Dr. Gero's lab.

"Beep."

"Beep."

"No... no..." Yamiru's mind recoiled from the sound.

---

In the hospital room, Tights noticed him stirring on the bed and asked, "What's wrong with him?"

Yamiru, pale and gaunt, lay hooked to an IV, his brows furrowed as though resisting something in his dreams.

Bulma, who had sprawled herself across Tights lap with a book in hand, tilted her head back to glance at the boy. "Is he having a nightmare?"

Tights observed closely. Every time the medical equipment beeped, a flicker of pain crossed Yamiru's face. She hesitated before saying, "He seems... scared?"

"Scared?" Bulma wriggled awkwardly to keep from sliding off Tights' lap, then added, "He wasn't scared when those guys beat him half to death in South City. That's weird..."

Tights thought for a moment before saying, "For someone as strong as him to be scared, whatever he's afraid of must be truly terrifying."

---

"Get away! Stay away from me!"

Yamiru retreated into the darkness, but the relentless "beep, beep, beep" sound pursued him incessantly.

"Beep, beep, beep—beep your mother!" Yamiru finally stopped, glaring into the darkness ahead, swinging punches and kicking wildly as he roared in frustration.

"Don't bother. You're not a Saiyan."

A voice spoke from behind. Yamiru whipped around, only to see... himself. This doppelganger smirked disdainfully, saying, "If Dr. Gero really went off the rails and created some abomination of an android, what could you do about it? Who do you think you are? A Super Saiyan? A Super Earthling?"

"...Shut up," Yamiru snapped.

The other him laughed maniacally as his figure faded into the shadows. "Run, pathetic fool. Keep running. You'll never have the courage to face me..."

"Wake up, wake up..."

Someone was calling out to him. The voice was faint, intermittent, but insistent. Yamiru glimpsed the face of a golden-haired girl, her expression flickering in and out of focus, as if he were fast-forwarding through a time tunnel.

"Yamiru, Yamiru! Can you hear me?"

The voice became clearer.

Yamiru tried to process it sluggishly, thoughts drifting as if he were lost in space. Who is she? How does she know my name? What does she want?

But where was he now? The surroundings seemed strangely familiar.

"You might not understand this now, but someday..."

Suddenly, the voice of an old man cut through the cosmic void. Yamiru's memory jolted—this was the mysterious elder who had sent him flying into that surreal vision of the galaxy. Back then, the elder had seemed to speak, but Yamiru, dazed and overwhelmed, hadn't caught a single word.

"Remember this..." The old man's voice began to fade.

"Remember what?" Yamiru struggled, trying to grasp at the distant sound.

---

The surrounding stars streaked into lines of light, forming the golden hair and face of a girl. The vision sharpened until she was right in front of him, smiling. "You're awake, huh?"

Yamiru jolted, gasping for breath. His vision focused on the golden-haired girl leaning close to him. It hit him—he was lying on a hospital bed, the room stark white. He rasped out in confusion, "You... uh..."

His voice was dry, his throat raw as if filled with sandpaper.

The girl handed him a glass of water.

"Thanks..." Yamiru tried to lift his hand but found himself too weak. She helped him drink, and he exhaled softly, staring blankly at the ceiling. After a moment, he muttered, "Who am I?" Then, realizing how absurd that sounded, he corrected himself, "No, who are you? What happened?"

"You should be asking yourself that," the girl replied. "You've been unconscious for a whole week! It's a miracle you're still alive—my dad says so himself."

Yamiru processed her words slowly. "Your dad... is he a doctor?"

"Not exactly, but he knows a bit about everything," she said with a small smile. "Most importantly, he's rich."

"Oh..." Yamiru murmured, then added, "Well, thank you—and your dad—for saving me." He hesitated, frowning. "But... how do you know my name? I think I heard you calling it while I was out..."

She grinned. "Yamiru, right? The doctor suggested we call your name since you were unconscious for so long. As for how I know it—my sister told me."

"Your sister?" Yamiru's eyes widened. "Wait... your sister?!"

The girl laughed. "You guessed it. My sister is Bulma. She came with Dad to help, but once you were stable, he returned home."

"Yamiru, you're finally awake!"

At the doorway stood a girl with twin pigtails, carrying a bag of books.

Yamiru smiled faintly. "It's really you, Bulma. Nice to see you again." He turned to the older girl. "So, you're Bulma's sister..."

The golden-haired girl nodded. "Let's start fresh. I'm Tights, a writer."

Yamiru chuckled weakly. "I'm Yamiru. Don't mind how I look—I was aiming to become a martial artist."

Tights smiled. "I know. Bulma told me you're heading to Mount Paozu to find a master. Your skills are impressive. Once you recover, I'm sure you'll achieve your dream." Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Also... Bulma said you trained with an alien martial artist. Can you tell me about it?"

"Well... since I can't exactly run off right now, I might as well..."

Bulma set her bag of new books aside and climbed onto the bed. Tights helped her settle on the edge, then pulled out a notebook and pen.

"So," Bulma asked, "how'd you end up like this? You've only been gone from West City for a month and a half."

Yamiru sighed. "It's already been that long? Well... it's a long story."

"Take your time. You shouldn't move much for the next two weeks anyway." Tights clicked her pen, her notebook ready, smiling mischievously. "Think of it as repayment for your medical bills."

---

Three weeks had passed since Yamiru woke up.

In the hospital courtyard, Tights pushed Yamiru's wheelchair out into the sun.

"Don't you need to work?" Yamiru asked, exasperated.

Tights wheeled him to a bench in the garden, sat down, and said, "My work is writing, and listening to your stories counts as research!"

"My stories aren't that interesting," Yamiru replied. "I've already told you everything."

According to the tale he shared, Yamiru was an orphan from South City. By chance, he participated in the World Martial Arts Tournament, which inspired him to become a martial artist. Hearing of the legendary Master Gohan of Mount Paozu, he decided to travel overseas to seek apprenticeship. As for his severe cold, Yamiru simply said he got lost in the northern region, lacked proper clothing, and froze himself sick. It wasn't exactly a lie, but he left out the part about the Red Ribbon Army. Matters involving dangerous organizations weren't something he wanted to burden Tights with.

"What about Zeoran? Are you sure you don't have any way to contact him?" Tights asked. "Like... a communicator or something? Do you think he'll return to Earth?"

"I really don't," Yamiru said, basking in the warm sunlight. His body was still weak, and the sun's warmth was incredibly soothing. He closed his eyes and added, "The universe is vast... I doubt we'll ever meet again."

Tights sighed. "That's a shame... Oh! Didn't you say Zeoran gave you a sword? Where is it?"

"I lost it."

"You lost it?"

"I accidentally misplaced it..."

"That was an alien-tech sword!"

"Sorry..."

The two chatted idly. After three weeks together, they had grown as close as good friends. Yamiru didn't think much of it, but Tights occasionally found it odd—he was just a kid, yet she treated him like an ordinary peer. His maturity made it easy to overlook his age. Martial artists were truly peculiar.

After soaking up some sun, Tights wheeled Yamiru back to his room. Though he wasn't entirely immobile, his body remained weak and unsteady. While he needed a wheelchair, he could at least climb into bed on his own without Tights' help.

Once back in the room, Tights pulled out her notebook and began writing. Yamiru lay on his bed, first staring at the scenery outside, then turning to watch the focused girl.

"Hmm?" Tights noticed his gaze. "What is it? Are you thirsty?"

"Nothing..." Yamiru looked away. But as he listened to the sound of her pen scratching against paper, his eyes drifted back to her. He observed how she would pause mid-sentence, furrow her brows in thought, blink, and glance around before finding inspiration and resuming her writing. Suddenly, she stopped again, raised her eyebrows, and glanced at him.

"Hmm?"

Yamiru smiled. "Do you have any oranges? I feel like eating one."

A moment later, Tights was peeling an orange.

As Yamiru ate, he asked, "Where's Bulma?"

"She went home a while ago," Tights replied.

"Oh."

They fell silent, though the atmosphere remained pleasant.

Tights clapped her hands, brushing off the orange peel, then asked, "You once said that before participating in the World Martial Arts Tournament, you were uncertain about becoming a martial artist. It wasn't until the tournament that you finally made up your mind. Why? Was it such a hard choice? I mean... since it's always been your passion, why hesitate?"

Yamiru was silent for a moment.

"The difficulty," he finally said, "is that I know\... even if I don't become a martial artist, with my current skills, I could still live a comfortable life. Perhaps even more comfortable than if I pursued a path as a martial artist—a path that I know offers no real prospects."

---

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