A faint buzzing. That was the first thing he noticed.
Not light. Not sensation. Not air.
A buzzing, like a fluorescent lamp flickering awake after years asleep.
Then came awareness—slow, reluctant, like gravity struggling to pull fog back into a shape. A name surfaced, but it dissolved before he could clasp it. Memories skidded through him like papers scattered by wind—work deadlines, dreary commutes, an apartment that always felt slightly too cold, slightly too dim. All of it faint. All of it distant.
He remembered being painfully average. Maybe painfully forgettable. There had been nothing heroic about him. He had never won a fight, never lifted anything heavier than a box of bottled water, never made a decision worth carving into anyone's memory.
And then… something happened. Something he couldn't recall.
The buzzing crescendoed. Vision returned violently.
He found himself lying on a patch of dirt.
"Hey! Hey, kid, are you alive?" a voice shouted.
His eyes snapped open fully. He was outdoors—bright sky, open fields, the scent of grass. Above him leaned a man carrying a stack of fishing equipment. Tanned skin, short black hair, a slightly oversized shirt.
The man blinked a few times. "You don't look like you're from around here."
He pushed himself up, head throbbing. "I… I'm fine. Probably."
"You probably fine?" the stranger repeated. "We got a philosopher on our hands, huh?"
The man offered a hand, and he took it. His muscles felt… lighter. Or maybe simply younger.
"My name's Haru," the man said. "What's yours?"
His mouth opened—nothing came out. A pause stretched before he managed, "I… don't know."
Haru scratched his cheek. "Well, that's not ominous at all."
He looked around. The terrain was unmistakable: rolling hills, blue sky, that almost surreal vibrancy of color, and a distant silhouette of a structure that looked remarkably like a Capsule Corporation outpost.
His heart skidded.
No way.
No. Way.
But before panic could settle, Haru clapped him on the back. "Come on, kid. You're in the middle of nowhere. Village is this way. We'll let the elder figure out what to do with you."
He followed, still dazed, still trying to connect the impossible dots. He kept glancing at his hands—they were smaller. He felt shorter. He felt lighter.
He felt… young.
As they walked, Haru kept talking. "You must've wandered here from another settlement. Folks around my village don't dress like that." He pointed at the shirt and pants the protagonist now wore—plain, simple, rural. "Looks new, though. Weird."
"I don't remember buying them," he said honestly.
"Could be amnesia," Haru offered. "Had a cousin like that. Forgot everything except the taste of spicy stew."
"Sounds… inconvenient."
"Tell me about it. Poor guy keeps crying every time he eats."
Despite the confusion, he couldn't help snorting.
The village came into view—wooden homes, dirt roads, children running with sticks pretending they were training. But what caught his breath was the air itself. There was a subtle hum everywhere. A vibrational quality. Something he had never felt in the world he remembered.
Haru waved to a few villagers. "Found this kid collapsed by the river! Seems harmless!"
Someone shouted back, "Harmless is the best kind! Bring him in!"
Haru pushed open the door of a medium-sized home. A warm scent drifted out—stew simmering, herbs, hot stone.
Inside sat an older woman, gray hair tied into a bun, sharp but kind eyes. She looked him over the moment he entered.
"Another stray, Haru?" she asked.
"Hey now, Elder Nima, he's not a stray. Probably. Maybe."
Nima approached him slowly. "What's your name, child?"
He swallowed. "I… don't remember."
She hummed thoughtfully. "What do you remember?"
He hesitated. "I remember being… average."
The old woman tilted her head. "That's an unusual memory to cling to."
"It's all I have," he admitted softly.
She gestured for him to sit on a cushion. "Very well. We'll start from the beginning, then. You woke up here. You remember no family. No birthplace."
He nodded.
"No injuries, Haru?"
"None that I could find," Haru answered.
Nima leaned close, studying his eyes. "Your spirit feels… muted. But not empty. Like a fire under ash."
"Is that… bad?" he asked.
"Not at all. It means you can rebuild from the ground up. Some say that's the best foundation a soul can have."
He wasn't sure why, but those words sent a ripple through him.
Nima continued, "You can stay here until we figure out more about you. But I do have a question."
He braced himself.
"Do you feel… energy inside you? Even faintly?"
Her choice of words made his heart jolt. "Energy?"
"Life energy," she clarified. "The kind that people around here train with."
He froze.
This was real.
This was Dragon Ball.
And he was a human in it. A human starting at zero.
He closed his eyes, trying to sense anything. There was a warmth—soft, flickering, barely there.
"Something," he whispered.
Nima smiled. "Good. That means you're not broken. You're simply dormant."
Haru crossed his arms. "If he's dormant, does that mean he can awaken it with training?"
Nima nodded. "If he wishes. It will be difficult. But not impossible."
Haru patted his shoulder. "Well, kid? How about it? Everyone here trains something. Except me. I fish. Mostly because I'm lazy."
"I… don't know what I want yet," the protagonist admitted.
"Then you'll figure it out," Nima said. "For now, rest."
---
By evening, the villagers gathered around a long wooden table for dinner. He was given a seat between two siblings—both loud, cheerful, and eager to interrogate him.
"I'm Miro!" the older brother announced. "I'm twelve! I'm gonna be strong enough to punch a boulder someday!"
"I'm Tali!" the younger sister shouted immediately after. "I bet I can punch TWO boulders!"
"You cannot!" Miro yelled.
"Can too!"
"Cannot!"
"Can too!"
He blinked. "Are… boulders common targets here?"
Miro gave a proud grin. "Only if you're strong enough!"
Tali whispered, "I once kicked a small one and hurt my toe."
"Tali!" Miro hissed.
"What? It's true!"
He felt a laugh rise inside him, unexpected and warm.
Across the table, an older man leaned over. "So, boy, Haru says you don't remember much."
"That's right."
"Well," the man said, "forget the past then. Here, we only look forward."
A woman added, "And forward means working. We don't keep loafers."
Another man called out, "Unless they're Haru!"
"HEY!" Haru protested.
Laughter spread around the table.
He watched them all—these ordinary humans living in a world where terrifying cosmic forces existed—and yet they were warm, vibrant, alive.
For the first time since waking, he felt anchored.
Nima asked from the head of the table, "What will we call you, child? Until your memories return."
He hesitated. A new life needed a new name. Something simple.
"…Ren," he said finally. "I think that's right."
"Ren it is," she affirmed.
The villagers raised cups of tea.
"To Ren!"
He stared at the cup placed before him, warmth seeping into his fingers. He felt something stir again—that soft inner warmth. Not strength. Not yet. But something.
A spark.
---
Later that night, Ren sat outside under the open sky. Stars glittered, impossibly bright. The air felt alive, as if the world itself breathed with unseen rhythms.
Footsteps approached.
It was Nima.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Not really."
She sat beside him, hands folded. "Tell me what troubles you."
Ren hesitated. "Everything feels… bigger than me."
"Everything is bigger than all of us," Nima replied calmly. "But we grow into it."
He stared at the ground. "I don't know where to start."
"You start where everyone starts," she said. "With a step."
He exhaled. "What kind of step?"
"A choice. Decide one thing you want to become tomorrow that you're not today."
Ren looked into the distance. "Is that enough?"
"For the first night," she said gently, "it is."
Miro suddenly burst out of the house, yelling, "REN! REN! Come here!"
Ren stood. "What's wrong?"
Miro waved frantically. "Come quick!"
Ren rushed after him, heart pounding—only for Miro to point proudly to a tiny insect crawling on a log.
"Look! It glows when you poke it!"
Tali ran out after him. "DON'T POKE IT TOO HARD! It'll explode!"
Ren blinked. "Will it?"
"Maybe!" both children shouted.
Nima pinched the bridge of her nose. "Children, stop terrorizing glowing beetles."
Ren laughed again. It came easier now.
Tali tugged his sleeve. "Ren, if you learn to use energy, will you teach me someday?"
Miro shoved her aside. "No! Teach me first! I'm older!"
"No, me!"
"No, me!"
Ren held up his hands. "I don't even know what I'm doing yet."
Miro crossed his arms. "Guess that means you gotta learn fast then!"
Tali added, "Yeah! So you can teach us!"
Ren blinked. "Since when is this my responsibility?"
"Since now!" Miro declared proudly.
Nima chuckled. "Children have spoken."
Ren exhaled through his nose, overwhelmed and amused at once.
Haru stepped outside next with a lantern. "Hey, Ren. Before you sleep, I wanted to say something."
Ren faced him. "What is it?"
Haru rubbed the back of his neck. "This place? It's tough. We work every day. We train. We farm. We rebuild. You don't have to be great, you know. Just honest effort is enough."
Ren nodded slowly. "I think… I can do that."
"Good!" Haru said. "Because tomorrow, I'm teaching you how to fish."
Tali gasped. "Fishing! That's so boring!"
"Hey!" Haru yelled. "Fishing is noble! Quiet! Peaceful!"
Miro whispered to Ren, "He only says that because he can't fight."
"I CAN HEAR YOU!" Haru shrieked.
Ren couldn't stop smiling.
---
Night deepened. Stars drifted. The world grew quiet.
Ren lay on a simple futon in a small room the villagers prepared for him. He stared at the ceiling, mind turning.
He replayed everything—voices, faces, laughter, warmth. This world was terrifying, vast, unpredictable. But this village… it was grounding.
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
That tiny warmth from earlier flickered again. Weak. Barely noticeable. But real.
He breathed slowly, trying to feel it more clearly. And in that moment, he sensed the smallest shift—an almost imperceptible widening, like a door cracking open a fraction.
No burst of power. No glow. Nothing dramatic.
Just awareness.
A beginning.
A whisper of potential.
Ren exhaled softly.
He didn't know how far he could go.
He didn't know what threats the world held.
He didn't know if he would ever remember his past life completely.
But he knew one thing:
Tomorrow, he would rise.
And he would take one step.
Then another.
And another.
Outside, the wind carried faint distant sounds—someone practicing strikes, children arguing, elders speaking quietly.
Ren heard it all, breathed deeply, and finally felt sleep come to him.
The new world waited.
And he would meet it head-on.