Dragon Ball if I was Goku

Morning sunlight spilled over the snowy village, its white rooftops glittering like they were dusted with diamonds. Word had spread fast that the strange boy who had driven off the Red Ribbon Army was leaving. By the time Goku stepped outside Suno’s home, half the village had gathered to see him off. They clapped and cheered, their breath visible in the cold air.

Suno ran up to him, cheeks pink—not just from the chill.
“Come back to see us,” she said shyly.

Goku tilted his head, thoughtful. “I’ll try.”

The village chief stepped forward, stroking his beard. “How will you travel now, young man?”

Goku scratched the back of his head. “Dunno. My Kinto’un got vaporized.”

An old man in the crowd perked up at the name. “Kinto’un? Those clouds are resilient. Try calling it.”

Goku blinked. “…Worth a shot.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Kinto’un!”

For a moment, nothing happened—then a golden blur streaked across the sky, swooping down with a whistle. The cloud swirled to a stop in front of him, good as new.

“Ha! You’re alive!” Goku grinned and hopped on, waving at the old man. “Thanks, gramps!”

Before he could take off, Suno’s mother approached. “Thank you for everything,” she said warmly, planting a kiss on his forehead.

Goku, flustered, just gave her a quick nod before launching into the air. The village waved until he was a speck against the horizon.

The snowy plains gave way to endless grasslands, and then—on the far horizon—a sprawl of metal and glass: West City. From above, its towers glinted in the midday sun, the streets teeming with cars, people, and noise. Horns blared. Construction crews shouted over drills. Neon signs flashed in every direction.

Goku grinned. “Damn… I missed this. Thirteen years.” In his past life, he’d been a city boy. One glance, and he could read the streets—spotting the hustlers eyeing tourists, the twitchy dealer on a corner, the undercover cop trying way too hard to look casual.

He dropped out of the sky, boots hitting pavement. The winter gear Suno had given him was stifling in the city heat. He scanned the streets for a clothing shop—but he was broke.

Luckily, luck found him.

A brawler was set up on the sidewalk, challenging strangers to fight for cash. Goku strolled over.
“I’ll fight you,” he said.

The man burst out laughing, joined by the crowd. “Kid, I don’t beat up children.”

“C’mon! Play with the kid!” someone in the crowd jeered.

With a roll of his eyes, the man finally squared up. “Alright. Try not to cry.”

They took their stances. The man lunged lazily, his punch so slow it was insulting. Something in Goku’s pride bristled. He swayed aside, flicked his wrist—whap!—and backhanded the man across the face. A tooth sailed into the crowd.

Holding back his real strength, Goku tilted his head and smirked, letting the man process what had just happened. When realization hit, sweat prickled down the man’s neck. But with the crowd watching, he had to keep his reputation.

Twenty seconds later, he was face-down, backside in the air. Goku crouched beside him, calmly counting bills.

Meanwhile…

On the other side of West City, Bulma sat slouched in the back row of a capsule-tech lecture hall. The professor’s voice droned on about micro compression formulas, but her pen had stopped moving ten minutes ago.