Armed with complete knowledge of Dragon Ball, I transmigrated as a Saiyan, thinking I could clear the story perfectly: save my race, win over powerful enemies, and put an end to every tragedy before it happened.
But I was wrong. The universe has its own cold balance. Every person I save means someone else dies from “the backlash of cause and effect.” I changed Planet Vegeta’s fate, only for Namek to pay the price. I helped my friends break through with ease, but robbed them of the chance to rise from the ashes. Power came at a heavy cost: Broly’s loyalty required a pact of eternal guidance, Frieza’s armistice concealed the emperor’s cold calculations, and Cell began asking me what it meant to exist.
As I led Earth’s warriors beyond their limits, as Krillin touched the realm of the gods in his mortal body, as Goku and Vegeta pursued each other along entirely new paths... an even greater shadow began to emerge. We were no longer facing a specific enemy, but “the inevitability of narrative” itself: the supreme law that decreed every story must be filled with regrets.
And so the final battle began. This time, it wasn’t about surpassing anyone. It was about proving that every soul has the right to write a complete tale of its own, even in an imperfect universe.
“I’m not here to repeat a myth.” Facing the shadow of the “author,” I raised my fist, with everyone whose fate I had changed standing behind me. “I’m here to prove that we can write our own story.”
