Ages 0–3:
The first two years were a haze—mostly just sleeping and being a baby. By the time I was three, though, things took a turn. This older man, who I came to know as my "master," suddenly tried to cut off my tail. No explanation, just grabbed scissors like it was an everyday thing. I managed to stop him—somehow. Even at that age, I had a way with people.
And from there, life got... complicated.
Age 4:
Turns out, the old man was some kind of martial arts legend. And for reasons I still don't fully get, he decided I was going to be his next great student. So, at just four years old, I was thrown into daily training—intense, relentless, exhausting.
We lived far from town, more like hermits than anything else. Our food came from hunting and village donations. It wasn't glamorous, but I got stronger fast. Still, not exactly the childhood I'd pictured.
Age 5:
Eventually, I got tired of the isolation. I heard the village women bathed in the river during summer, and I thought I could sneak off and pull a classic "lost kid" routine to get some attention. I never made it.
He caught me before I even got close. The punishment? Let's just say the old man doesn't play around.
Age 6:
Training continued. The same musty gi, the same routines. I asked him for some money to buy better clothes. His answer: "Earn it."
Dickhead... But his right.
So I did. This region respected strength above all else, and there was this guy in the village who claimed no one could even touch him. Most couldn't. But I did. Easily.
Hate to admit it, but the old man's strong, and he made me strong. Bought myself some decent clothes with the money. Finally, something that didn't look like it came from a thrift store's reject pile.

After that, I started asking questions. Looked in the mirror and realized: pointy black hair, tail, the name "Goku"—it's like I've stepped into some Dragon Ball fanfic. What the hell? I didn't know anything about it. Only thing I remembered was him going blonde and shooting blue beams—something I'd seen from that nerdy girl with the impressive hips. Damn it, focus, Goku!
---
And that's when I noticed—I'm calling myself Goku, not Bunshichi. Is my past self being erased? Or am I just forgetting? Either way, doesn't change my situation. So that night, I went outside and tried every gesture I could think of to shoot a beam. Hours of frustration, but I made one last try—both hands pointed at the sky.
Felt this boiling sensation inside, and a small ball of light formed between my palms. Focused on it, and it grew. Ecstatic, I instinctively wanted to shout "Son Gohan's name!" Figured the old man would be proud, right? But no sound came out. Vision blurred, and I passed out.
Woke up in my bed. He told me I'd passed out from lack of ki—poured all my energy into that ball... Guess I need more training.
*Meanwhile...*
Gohan went outside after letting Goku rest. He observed a big hole in the ground where the ki blast had struck.
"He has a lot of potential," he chuckled to himself. "Fu fu fu..."
That fateful day, I lay in bed, my mind consumed by thoughts of Dragon Ball and the frustrating blank spots in my memory. "Damn it! I can't recall a thing about it, not even when she was raving on and on! ...Curse her and her mesmerizing hips..." Yet, amidst the mental turmoil, a clear realization emerged: the enemies were drawing closer, and the characters on the show were fighting for their lives. At that instant, I knew my path—I sought out Gohan and pleaded with him to intensify my training.
**Age 12:**
The following six years were an unending cycle of grueling practice, with no respite. I see it in his eyes, he knew I was not kid, but Gohan never treated me differently than the day he found me as an infant, but he never let on. I like him. I was twelve now, with a iron body. The feeling of growing stronger was exhilarating.
One evening, as we were training, Gohan abruptly stopped our session and instructed me to go inside. It was unusually early, and my desire to continue was strong, but there was something unsettling in his tone. I complied, though the change in routine left me uneasy.
In the middle of the night, I found myself unable to sleep, my body buzzing with energy. Defying exhaustion, I snuck out to train some more. Gazing up at the breathtaking full moon, I suddenly felt drowsy. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, the sun was blinding me, and our home lay in shambles, a massive crater—resembling a colossal footprint—gaping nearby.
Panic-stricken, I screamed for Gohan, my heart pounding as I frantically searched for him. I found him on the floor, lifeless, an arm missing, his body drenched in blood. Tears welled up in my eyes for the kind-hearted old man who had taken me in as a baby. "I won't forget you," I whispered, "and I'll avenge your death."
Months passed, and Goku continued his training, driven by the memory of Gohan. One day, he ventured out to hunt for food, the sound of a car engine pierced the silence.
"A car? Never seen one around here before..."