As the sun dipped behind the jagged mountains of this vast and untamed world, the sky bloomed with shades of amber and violet, casting a warm glow over the forest. Leaves rustled as a gentle wind stirred, filling the air with the earthy scents of soil, grass, and a hint of something mystical that lingered in every corner of Dragon Ball's wild landscape. In the midst of this, a young boy sat alone, framed by the tranquil yet untamed world around him. James – once just an ordinary human from a "real" world – blinked, still grappling with the impossible truth: he was now in the body of Goku, a character from a world he'd only known in tales and cartoons.
But this wasn't the carefree Goku of his memories. Grief sat heavy on his chest, its weight suffocating, and it wasn't just James's grief alone. Goku's memories surged within him too, memories tainted by the tragedy of Grandpa Gohan's lifeless form lying just a few steps away. James could feel each vivid detail, as if he were living Goku's pain – the loving smile of a grandfather who had given everything, the gentle eyes that now lay closed forever, and the brutal realization that it was his own hand, his own transformation, that had caused this loss.
Two lives, two histories, were melding in his mind. Goku's innocent warmth met the raw, unrelenting instinct of Kakarot, a Saiyan born to a warrior race. It was overwhelming, this whirlpool of emotions and instincts, all crashing into James's consciousness. Sitting on the forest floor, the scent of fresh soil clinging to him, he realized he was no longer just James. He was no longer just Goku or Kakarot either. He was something caught between, a fusion of innocence, fury, and fierce determination.
James's Saiyan eyes traced every line of Grandpa Gohan's face, now serene and still. The old man who had been his guide, protector, and teacher was gone. The sob that caught in his throat wasn't the simple, shocked cry of the ordinary boy he'd once been. It was deeper, more visceral, touched by the primal guilt and remorse of Kakarot's Saiyan soul. He remembered the uncontrollable power of his Ōzaru form, the monstrous transformation under the full moon's influence, and how it had brought him to this tragic end.
A growl from his stomach cut through the silence, a reminder of his Saiyan appetite – relentless even in sorrow. The ache in his chest grew, hollow and raw, with hunger only adding to the turmoil. He wiped his eyes, feeling a strange, unfamiliar determination rising from within.
"I'm sorry, Grandpa," he whispered, voice trembling as he began to dig. His Saiyan strength made the task almost effortless, each handful of earth feeling heavier with the weight of his guilt. "I… I couldn't stop myself. I wish I could've saved you." As he worked, his mind drifted to the life that awaited him here, in this new world where he'd have to find his own place and forge his own path.
When the grave was finally finished, he knelt beside it, his body drained yet oddly relieved. He traced his fingers over the mound of fresh soil, picturing Grandpa Gohan's kind smile, his steady voice. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the earth, a silent, aching farewell.
"May Yemma have mercy on your soul… and on mine," he murmured, voice catching in the night air. The weight of love and loss felt like a constant presence in his chest. For the first time since this journey began, he allowed the tears to fall freely, flowing with the full depth of his pain and regret.
"Grandpa, I'll find a way to master myself, to control that… beast," he vowed softly. "I'll become stronger than ever before. But I'll do it in your memory." The words hung in the air, a promise, an oath he would carry with him through whatever came next.
As he rose, the forest was bathed in the last, golden light of day, and for a fleeting moment, he felt a warmth, a subtle peace, as if Grandpa Gohan's spirit was still watching over him. With newfound resolve, he turned, his heart ablaze with determination, ready to step forward – for his world, for his grandfather, and for every unknown soul he might meet along the way.
The weight of the day bore down on him as he made his way back to the quiet house. Each step through the forest was heavy, as though nature itself shared his grief. The silence of the home was almost deafening, pressing into every corner, each shadow reminding him of Gohan's absence. He set to cleaning himself, washing away the dirt and sweat from the day's work, though no amount of scrubbing could erase the ache in his heart.
When he finished, he turned his attention to Gohan's belongings. Or rather, his belongings now. The thought settled bitterly, a quiet sadness creeping through him. Each familiar item he picked up seemed like a whisper of the life Gohan had left behind – the life he'd shared with James. One by one, he examined them, a mix of reverence and loss clinging to each touch.
He reached for the small, round Four-Star Dragon Ball, its faint, soft glow flickering in the dim light. Holding it in his hands, he felt a strange warmth, as if this tiny orb connected him to something far greater. Next, he found a stack of well-worn martial arts books, their covers faded, pages yellowed. The titles were oddly mystical, yet strangely fitting: "The Way of the Flowing Ki," "Mastering the Empty Fist," and "Secrets of the Soaring Crane." He imagined Gohan reading these in his quiet moments, and he set them aside, intending to study them in his own time.
Digging further, he came across a few DynoCaps. Small, thumb-sized capsules with a smooth metallic finish and faint symbols etched on them. He turned each one over, squinting to make out what might be inside without pressing them. A faint house symbol on one, a fire on another, and a pot-like mark on the last – clues that hinted at shelter, warmth, perhaps a meal or supplies within. He tucked them away, knowing their contents could be invaluable in a pinch.
And then, his hand closed around something firm, familiar – the Power Pole. He gripped it, its weight feeling just right in his hand. Without hesitation, he equipped it, feeling the staff extend naturally as if it were an extension of himself.
With the pole in hand, an unexpected thought bubbled up from James's memories – a strange "meta" knowledge of this world. The Power Pole wasn't just a relic of Gohan's past; it was also the key to Kami's Lookout, a path Goku was fated to take. The realization made him pause. He had choices now, more than Goku would have. A grin crept onto his face as he entertained the thought: he could forge his own story, diverge from canon itself, and live by his own rules.
But what next? The question lingered in the air. He wasn't truly Goku, nor was he Kakarot, with the Saiyan's raw instincts and power. He wasn't even fully James anymore. He was something between all three. "Hmm," he murmured, gripping the Power Pole a little tighter, feeling the quiet thrill of this uncertainty. For the first time, he felt like he could shape his own destiny.
And with that, his mind wandered to Bulma. It wasn't just desire, but something deeper, a magnetic pull toward her intelligence, wit, and adventurous spirit. She was someone he wanted by his side, a thought that warmed him. And the possibility of more – perhaps a harem, filled with the incredible women of this world, each with her own strength, beauty, and quirks – danced in his mind. If he was in this world, why not dream big? The "S-tier waifus" here were more than characters; they were part of this life he now claimed as his own.
Examining the DynoCaps once more, he felt the temptation to press one and reveal the mystery within. But he held back, knowing these little capsules, gifts of Grandpa Gohan's foresight, might serve him best in a moment of true need.
With morning's first light, he stepped into the forest, its canopy filtering the sunlight into dappled beams. His stomach growled, a reminder of his Saiyan appetite. The forest felt alive, buzzing with faint sounds – birds, leaves rustling, and perhaps, deeper in, the subtle footsteps of potential prey. Moving quietly, he let his senses sharpen, each sound and scent becoming vivid, primal.
His eyes soon spotted a wild boar, oblivious, snuffling at the ground in search of food. He crouched low, watching its every move, feeling the thrill of the hunt rise within him. In one swift, fluid motion, he leaped forward, his Power Pole striking with deadly accuracy. The boar didn't stand a chance; it fell with a single, echoing thud.
As he stood over his catch, a strange satisfaction filled him. This hunt, this life – he was truly a part of it now, more connected to this world than he had ever been to his own. Slinging the boar over his shoulder, he began the walk home, the scent of wild game mingling with the earthy forest air. And for the first time, the future felt like his to shape.