In the dimly lit, pulsating nightlife, a man named Bunshichi had built a reputation as a charismatic charmer, an untouchable playboy. With his sharp wit, charming smile, and an intellect that could manipulate the most complex of situations, he had risen to become a feared and respected figure in the city's underbelly. Yet, his greatest strength was also his most dangerous weakness—his insatiable appetite for women.
Bunshichi, with his confident stride and smug demeanor, could seduce any woman he desired. He played the field with reckless abandon, never committing to one, always moving from one conquest to the next. Single women, those in relationships, and even married ones—none were off-limits to his silver tongue and skilled hands. He prided himself on his ability to please, leaving a trail of satisfied but heartbroken women in his wake.
On a winter night, Bunshichi found himself at an exclusive nightclub, surrounded by the usual entourage of admiring females. He was in his element, sipping on expensive liquor, and whispering sweet nothings into the ear of a young woman who, unbeknownst to him, was not as innocent as she seemed.
As the music thumped and the crowd swayed, a sudden hush fell over the club. The doors burst open, and a man stormed in, his eyes wild and filled with rage. His face contorted with pain and anger, and in his hand, he clutched a pistol. The woman beside Bunshichi froze, her eyes darting between the gun and her companion.
Bunshichi, ever the showman, maintained his composure, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "And who might you be?" he drawled, his voice cutting through the silence.
The intruder's voice cracked as he replied, "You... you fucked my wife!" The accusation hung heavy in the air, and the club seemed to shrink around Bunshichi. He had played this game countless times, but something about this man's desperation and fury made his usual tactics seem inadequate.
In a fleeting moment of clarity, Bunshichi's mind raced through the countless married women he had seduced. "Which one, fri-" His sentence was cut short by a deafening loud bang. The pistol barked once more, and a bullet found its mark, lodging itself in Bunshichi's head.
Time seemed to slow as the playboy's eyes widened in shock, his smirk fading. The woman beside him screamed, and chaos erupted in the nightclub. As Bunshichi slumped to the floor, his empire of seduction and manipulation crumbled, taking with it the life of a man who had lived by his own rules, until that fateful night when his greatest weakness became his undoing.
Bunshichi lay on the cold, blood-stained floor of the nightclub, his body heavy, his mind foggy. The world around him was a blur of chaos—screams, shouting, the distant thump of bass that now sounded like a heartbeat fading away. His hand twitched weakly, fingers brushing against the slick pool of blood spreading beneath him. He was still alive, but barely. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, now flickered with faint remnants of life, like dying embers in a forgotten hearth.
"What happened...?" he whispered to himself, the words barely audible even to his own ears. "I died... no, I got killed. I got what I deserved. I can't complain." His voice was a raspy echo, devoid of the charm and confidence that had once defined him. For the first time, Bunshichi felt the weight of his actions, the consequences of a life built on manipulation and desire.
As his thoughts spiraled, the air around him began to distort. The neon lights of the club warped and twisted, like reflections in a cracked mirror. The noise of the crowd faded into an eerie silence. Bunshichi's vision blurred, and when it cleared, he was no longer in the nightclub.
He was in the void.
The space was infinite, dark, and cold, yet not unbearably so. It was as if the universe itself had paused to examine him. Bunshichi remained lying on the ground, his body still, his blood now a dark stain against the nothingness. Around him, cracks began to form in the air, thin lines of light that splintered and spread like spiderwebs. With a soundless shatter, the void fractured, leaving only Bunshichi suspended in the emptiness.
"Now I can rest..." he murmured, his voice calm, almost relieved.
As the words left his lips, his body began to change. The blood dissolved into starlight, scattering like diamonds across the void. His flesh shimmered, breaking apart into particles of dust that glowed softly, each one a fragment of his life, his memories, his sins. The dust swirled, coalescing into shapes that seemed to rewind time itself.
First, the dust formed the outline of an elderly figure, then collapsed into the shape of a middle-aged man, and further still into the frame of a young adult. The transformation continued, the shapes becoming more fluid, more primal. Bunshichi watched, detached yet fascinated, as the dust rearranged itself into the form of a child, then a toddler, and finally, a fetus curled in on itself, suspended in a glowing, amniotic aura.
The embryonic shape hovered for a moment, perfect and innocent, unburdened by the weight of his past. Then, it dissolved once more, the dust reforming into the image of a baby, its eyes closed, its breath steady. The baby floated in the void, untouched by the chaos Bunshichi had left behind.
After an eternity in the void, a blinding light erupted, chasing away the darkness like a dawn breaking over an endless night. It was as if the universe itself had decided to reset, to begin anew. The light was intense, overwhelming, and a voice—raw and unfiltered—cut through the brilliance.
"Aaaah, my eyes!!! Turn the fucking light off!!!"
Slowly, the light softened, like eyes adjusting to a new world. The darkness receded, revealing a landscape of towering mountains, vast plains, and rivers that sparkled under a golden sun. The voice, now calmer but still disoriented, spoke again.
"Wait... what? I got shot... Was it a dream? Where am I? I can't move my hands... My head is so heavy..."
Before he could process more, a figure approached. It was an old man, kind-faced and weathered, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a simple robe. He knelt beside the baby, his eyes warm and curious.
"Where are you from, little one?" the old man asked gently.
The baby—for that was what Bunshichi had become—lay on the soft grass, his tiny fists clenched, his eyes squinting at the unfamiliar world. He tried to speak, to protest, but his mouth only formed silent shapes. In his mind, however, the thoughts were clear and furious.
"Little one!? Bitch, I'm 6'3! Look at me!"
Bunshichi—now a baby—tried to respond, but his voice was trapped in his mind. The old man smiled.
"I guess your family abandoned you," he said softly, picking up the baby. "But don't worry. You will become my son."
As the old man lifted him into the air, Bunshichi felt a strange sensation at the base of his spine. He looked down and saw—to his astonishment—a small, curly monkey tail protruding from his diaper. The old man laughed, a deep, joyful sound.
"Hahaha! Your name is now Goku, Son Goku!"