Dragon Ball Human

The scene was almost identical to the previous morning. The old man was standing far from everyone else, calmly and slowly practicing his martial arts with his eyes closed.

But this time, as Yamiru approached, the old man finished his movements.

The elder opened his eyes and exhaled softly. Yamiru glanced skeptically at the nearby woods, thinking, No way this old man's wind weaves could make the trees sway like that, right? At this stage in the Dragon Ball timeline, such monstrous abilities shouldn't exist…

However, as Yamiru's eyes darted around in suspicion, the old man had already turned and started walking away, not sparing him a second glance.

Yamiru hurried to follow.

The old man's pace was fast. He appeared to be walking, but his speed was almost unnatural. Yamiru tried everything—from brisk walking to jogging—but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't close the gap between them. He finally broke into a sprint, pushing himself to his limits, but the elder's figure only grew smaller. Eventually, the old man turned a corner at the park's edge and disappeared from sight.

"Pant… pant…" Yamiru slumped onto a bench, gasping for air.

He, a self-proclaimed long-distance running expert who covered dozens of kilometers daily, was utterly drained after chasing the old man for a few laps around the park. The thought made him feel both embarrassed and exhilarated. Clearly, that old man was no ordinary person.

"So fast… such an arrogant old man…"

As Yamiru's breathing steadied, he pulled out the two coins from his pocket, letting them flip and dance between his fingers.

"Are all experts like this, always ignoring people? Or… was I just specifically dismissed?" he murmured to himself. But his heart thumped wildly in his chest, and his eyes flickered faintly with a golden hue. Unconsciously, his lips curled into a small smile.

"He's definitely not a Saiyan… but he seems pretty strong…"

"Next time, I have to catch up with that old man!"

"Yeah, tomorrow, I'll try again."

For some inexplicable reason, Yamiru felt a renewed sense of purpose. He clenched the two coins tightly before slipping them back into his pocket. After some light exercise in the park, he headed off to work at the logistics company.

\---

"You're watching that match again, huh?"

Yamiru had just changed into his uniform and moved a few packages when he noticed the faint sound of cheering coming from the small television in the station where his coworker, a dog-faced humanoid, was stationed.

"Yep, yep," the coworker muttered, eyes glued to the screen.

Yamiru glanced at the TV and saw two fighters on a ring exchanging fierce blows without any protective gear. One of them, a man with a black afro who was taking a brutal beating, looked strangely familiar...

The deliveries were the same as usual, with most packages destined for the streets in the animal-human district.

Although Yamiru wasn't particularly tall, he was incredibly strong and had boundless stamina. This job, which many others found exhausting with its heavy loading and unloading, not to mention the risk of being attacked in the animal People zone, was just another workout session for him. After all, Master Roshi once made Goku and Krillin dig trenches and haul bricks at construction sites as training. Delivering packages felt comparatively easy.

As for being attacked? While Yamiru often criticized himself, the truth was that he had yet to encounter any Earthling who could push him to his limits.

When Goku first set out with Bulma to gather the Dragon Balls, his power level was likely about the same as Yamiru's current level. And yet, Goku managed to wander across the planet without running into anyone who could defeat him. The only one who could put up a bit of a fight was Yamcha, but even he didn't last long once Goku had a full stomach.

This just goes to show that while Earth had its fair share of martial arts experts, they were few and far between. Figures like Master Roshi, the "God of Martial Arts", lived in seclusion on remote islands, nearly impossible for ordinary people to find. In the original story, the werewolf fighter from the World Martial Arts Tournament also trained alone in the wilderness. And others, like TienShinhan, Yamcha, and Krillin, often retreated to desolate places to hone their skills while Goku tackled higher-level challenges on his own.

Clearly, true masters preferred solitary training and had no time to engage in flashy battles or pointless power displays.

Having spent the past five months wandering around South City, Yamiru had yet to cross paths with any significant martial artists.

Perhaps some of the professional fighters in those televised tournaments were skilled...

Yamiru stopped his small delivery truck and glanced at a massive poster plastered on a wall. The poster advertised the Professional Fighting League, its bright colors and bold fonts making it stand out. In contrast, the World Martial Arts Tournament poster was small, plain, and unassuming—just like the martial artists themselves, who seemed more interested in honing their craft than promoting it.

Yamiru muttered to himself, "If I run into that guy with the afro again, maybe I should spar with him. See how I stack up now."

The pig-headed man who had bizarrely asked for a photo the day before was nowhere to be seen today. Yamiru didn't give it much thought and, after having a late lunch back at the company, clocked out.

As he walked toward the outskirts of town, digesting his meal, he eventually broke into a run.

Tomorrow morning, he thought, maybe he'd see that strange old man again. This time, he'd run faster.

With a tangible goal in front of him, Yamiru temporarily pushed aside thoughts of the impending, world-shaking battles that lay ahead in the Dragon Ball timeline. Those concerns could wait. Right now, all that mattered was proving himself to that eccentric old man.

The feeling reminded him of school days—being scolded harshly by his math teacher, only to grit his teeth and swear he'd ace the next test to redeem himself.

"Ahhhh!"

Yamiru sprinted full speed, attempting to mimic Goku's signature running pose with his arms stretched straight out. However, he quickly realized it didn't improve his speed at all and only made him feel incredibly awkward. Frustrated, he abandoned the idea.

Reaching the dilapidated little house in the countryside at an even faster pace than usual, Yamiru collapsed onto the ground in the yard, gasping for air. After a brief moment of silly laughter, he pounded his sore limbs and back before heading to the nearest stream. There, he joyfully doused himself with cold water, taking a refreshing shower before changing into a clean tank top and shorts.

"If Goku weren't a Saiyan and knew what kinds of enemies Earth would face in the future, would he give up on martial arts?"

Sitting at his desk, Yamiru muttered to himself while staring at a crude sketch of Super Saiyan Goku on the back of an old poster. He locked eyes with the childhood idol he had drawn.

Setting the poster down, he threw a few punches in the air and closed his eyes, imagining, "What would it feel like to fly using the Flight Technique?"

Opening his eyes again, he glanced at a newer promotional poster for the 18th World Martial Arts Tournament. He noted the date. "May 7th on Papaya Island… Today's the 4th already."

After a short afternoon nap, Yamiru woke up, tidied himself, and made his way back to South City.

Sometimes he even amazed himself with his endurance, running back and forth twice a day. 'Man, if I were back on Earth, winning marathon gold medals would be a piece of cake,' he thought. 'Then again, if I went back, I'd probably lose all these superhuman abilities…'

As random thoughts swirled in his head, Yamiru continued his routine.

That evening, after finishing his part-time job, he walked home under the starlit sky. However, this time he treated every step with care, analyzing how to make his running technique more efficient to conserve energy and maximize speed.

He began experimenting with the angle at which his feet hit the ground and coordinating the strength of his strides. Every detail was scrutinized, from the push-off to the balance of power between his front and rear legs.

This self-motivated study even spilled over into his part-time waiter job that evening, where his steps seemed light and swift, almost as if he were gliding.

Once home, Yamiru quickly showered and, with a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction, fell into bed and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, as the first light of dawn crept into the sky, Yamiru's eyes snapped open. He leapt out of bed with a burst of energy, glancing at his watch. "Hmm, 4:43. One minute earlier than usual. Progress."

Ignoring the notebook on his desk, he eagerly washed up, got dressed, and let out a series of excited yells as he dashed toward the faint silhouette of South City beneath the morning glow.