The night sky roared with an eerie, otherworldly glow as Shenron loomed above, his massive serpentine form coiling through the heavens like a living storm. His crimson eyes burned with an ancient power, casting an ominous light over the ruined battlefield below. Amid the debris of shattered stone and broken bodies, a lone figure stood, his green skin illuminated by the dragon's glow.
King Piccolo.
The demon king sneered, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp nails digging into his biceps. He had won. The brat with the monkey tail—dead. That bald fool who tried to guard the Four-Star Dragon Ball—crushed beneath his might. And Roshi, the last fool who thought he could stop him? He was nothing more than another corpse on the path to his reign.
"Fools," he muttered, his voice like gravel, filled with the weight of his centuries-long grudge. "All of them, fools."
Yet, as he stood basking in his triumph, the final steps toward his absolute rule within reach, another voice rang out.
There was a sudden cry.
"I wish for....."
Chiaotzu's voice was cut short in an instant as Piccolo's outstretched fingers twitched. A crackle of energy. A heartbeat later, the small fighter crumpled, lifeless, falling like a discarded puppet.
Piccolo sneered, unfazed, barely sparing a glance at the boy's motionless form. "Pathetic."
And then he heard it.
"I wish for King Piccolo, Goku, and all their allies to be sent away! To a world where they can never return!"
The words struck him like a physical blow. His eyes widened in disbelief before narrowing in pure fury.
"You little—!"
But it was too late.
Shenron's eyes glowed brighter, the night trembling with a force older than time itself. His deep, resounding voice echoed across the sky.
"Your wish shall be granted."
Piccolo lunged toward Pilaf, rage twisting his features, fingers outstretched to rip the betrayer apart.
And then the world around him shattered into light.
A howling wind engulfed him. The battlefield, the dragon, the corpses, everything blurred into a swirling vortex of golden energy. The last thing he saw before everything disappeared was Pilaf's face, twisted in triumph.
Then—nothing.
The Dragon Balls, now lifeless, shot across the sky, scattered once more.
And King Piccolo, along with Goku and the others, was gone.
_________________________________________
IN A PLACE, SOMEWHERE ELSE
Bulma groaned as she pushed herself up, her head throbbing painfully. She winced, pressing a hand to her temple, trying to steady herself as the world spun around her. The ground beneath her palms felt rough and uneven, covered in patches of grass and dry leaves. Where the hell were they?
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to focus. The first thing she noticed was the thick trees surrounding them, their dense canopy filtering the golden sunlight. Wherever they were, it was nothing like the city or the wastelands they had just been in. The air smelled fresher, cleaner, but none of it mattered—not when her body ached and the pounding in her head made it hard to think.
She turned her head, and that's when she saw him.
Goku.
He lay beside her, his orange gi torn and bloodied, his small body unnaturally still. But even in unconsciousness, his fingers remained tightly curled around his Power Pole, his grip unyielding. She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was burning up. How much had he gone through? How much pain had he endured before they were thrown into this place?
Her chest tightened. He was just a kid. A stupidly strong, impossibly tough kid—but a kid nonetheless. He had fought harder than any of them, and now, even in whatever unconscious world he was lost in, he was still holding onto his weapon, still ready to fight.
Bulma bit her lip.
She didn't know what had happened. She didn't know how they had ended up here. But she knew one thing—if King Piccolo was still alive, then Goku needed to wake up. He was their only hope.
But Goku wasn't the only one here.
Bulma's gaze shifted, and her breath caught when she saw another familiar figure sprawled on the ground. Oolong.
The shapeshifting pig wasn't moving, his clothes dirtied and torn, his face unusually slack. He didn't look good. His usual cocky expression was gone, replaced by something empty, something unnerving. But she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest—he was alive. Barely.
Her eyes moved again, this time to the tall, muscular figure lying a little further away. The three-eyed guy. Tien.
Bulma hesitated, her stomach twisting uncomfortably.
She remembered him. She had seen him fight before. She had seen him break Yamcha's leg without hesitation, his expression cold, merciless. He was strong—there was no denying that—but she hadn't forgotten what he had done. Even now, lying unconscious, his face looked severe, like he could wake up at any moment and snap someone's bones without a second thought.
And yet… she had also seen him turn against the Crane School. He had fought against King Piccolo's minions. He had tried to stop them.
Was he an ally now? Could she trust him?
Bulma exhaled slowly. It didn't matter right now. They were all in the same situation. And whether she trusted him or not, they needed all the help they could get.
Her fingers clenched into fists.
Because Yamcha wasn't here.
A lump formed in her throat as she squeezed her eyes shut.
Yamcha was dead.
Killed. Just like that.
She had seen him fall, had felt something break inside her when his body hit the ground, lifeless.
He had always been a reckless idiot, always rushing into fights he had no business being in, always trying to be the hero. And yet…
Bulma let out a shaky breath, forcing herself to open her eyes. There was no time to cry. Not now. Not yet.
And then she saw him.
King Piccolo.
He lay motionless, his green skin standing out starkly against the earth. His long limbs were sprawled unnaturally, his chest eerily still.
Bulma's breath caught. Was he dead?
She wanted to believe it. Desperately. But she had seen what he could do. What if his species didn't breathe like humans? What if he was just unconscious, waiting to wake up and finish what he started?
They couldn't take that risk.
Her heart pounded as she turned back to Goku.
If there was one person who could stop King Piccolo, it was him.
"Goku," she whispered, shaking his shoulder. "Come on, wake up."
No response.
Her throat tightened.
"Goku, please," she said, louder this time, shaking him harder. "We need you!"
A small noise escaped him—a faint, barely-there groan.
Bulma's heart leaped.
"Goku!" She shook him again, and this time, his fingers twitched around the Power Pole. His brow furrowed, his face contorting in pain before his eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused.
For a second, he just lay there, blinking sluggishly. Then, realization dawned in his tired eyes.
"Bulma…?" His voice was hoarse, weak.
Relief flooded her.
"You're okay," she breathed. "Thank God, you're okay."
He tried to sit up, only to wince, his body protesting the movement.
Bulma grabbed his arm, steadying him.
"There's no time to rest," she murmured, glancing over at King Piccolo's still form. "We don't know where we are… and we don't know if he's dead."
Goku followed her gaze, his expression sharpening.
Whatever exhaustion had clouded his eyes moments ago was gone.
And in its place—determination.