'Why can I still think?'
"….."
There was no pain. No body. No breath. Just awareness—thin, fragile, yet stubbornly present.
'I should have died. I didn't see memories flashing by. No light. No tunnel. Am I still alive?'
"Yes, youngling. You are right both times—and wrong both times. Perspective is the deciding factor."
The voice was calm. Old. Not echoing, yet everywhere.
'Hello? I don't feel my body, so I must be thinking. How can there be another voice? Is he—'
"Yes, I am."
There was no malice in it. No warmth either. Just certainty.
"Let me get straight to the point. I can grant you two options. One is reincarnating you in your own world, but you will lose your memories. The other is reincarnating you in another world of your choosing—with your memories intact and some additional aid."
'….. I choose the second option, but can you tell me what happened to the girl and boy?'
"Indeed. The children were adopted by a nurturing family. Rody, the boy, matured into a robust man.
He trained in various martial arts and achieved victory in numerous amateur tournament bouts."
I held onto every word like it could change the past.
"He became a police officer, then a detective, and saved many lives—until criminals took revenge on him. He died a hero and became the role model of hundreds of other policemen and women."
My thoughts went quiet.
"The girl, Lisa, grew up and almost became a scientist, then a doctor, but settled on practicing criminal law. Much like her younger brother, she was justice personified"
A strange warmth spread in my mind, like something unclenching.
"In her later life, she married and had two boys and a girl. One boy was named after Rody. The other… after you."
'Wow… I'm speechless. I never thought my life could have such an impact.'
"Youngling, what world will you be choosing?"
'I broke my head many times over this unlikely scenario. A regular world… or a dangerous world. I will choose the Dragon Ball universe.'
"I see. I will choose the time and place—according to what you truly need, not only what you want."
The voice softened, just slightly.
"Farewell, youngling. I wish you happiness and prosperity."
---
When I opened my eyes again, I was inside a space pod.
Cold metal. Tight space. A window in front of me.
Through it, I saw two people outside—both wearing armor. Both with black spiky hair… and brown tails.
Saiyans.
The woman raised a trembling hand.
"Goodbye, Yamo." (Yams not Yamoshi)
'Yamo... that's my new name?'
The man crouched near the pod, his face hard but his eyes… not cruel. He held the pod steady like it was his son itself.
"I hope you will become strong, just like our ancestor, Yamoshi."
He pulled out a remote and pressed a button.
The space pod lifted and began to levitate, then shot upward. The planet shrank quickly beneath me.
'Yamoshi is my ancestor, huh? The Super Saiyan God… Yamoshi.'
The pod began to sway, shaking me inside. Then it lurched harder—like something grabbed reality itself.
A tear in space opened.
A wormhole.
'You've got to be kidding me.'
---
A month later
A man driving an old car stopped abruptly.
A "shooting star" had crashed into the street right in front of him.
He stepped out cautiously, staring through the smoke until it cleared.
A round, white pod sat in the crater—smooth, alien, with a small window.
The hatch hissed.
A baby crawled out and started crying.
The man froze.
Then he turned his head and shouted for someone—voice cracking like he didn't know whether to run or pray.
That was how I gained my new parents. Ben and May.
They didn't look at me like a weapon. Or a miracle. They looked at me like I really was their child.
Later—once the shock settled and the adoption became real—they brought me home.
And because fate has a sick sense of humor… I grew up under the same roof as Peter Parker.
Same school. Same grade. Same age. Same friends, Harry Osborn and Mary Jane.
Like the universe wanted us tied together.
---
Fifteen years later
5:00 a.m. The alarm started to ring.
Yamo woke up, and fifteen minutes later he was outside running and throwing newspapers door to door while Peter pedaled the bike, pulling a trailer with five giant stacks of newspapers.
"Huff… huff… Yamo, I don't understand how you have so much stamina," Peter said, sweating.
Yamo grabbed another three newspapers and threw them left and right toward the houses. They landed perfectly before the doors.
"You know how much I eat, right? If I wasn't working and eating leftovers at the pizzeria after school, then we'd be homeless, haha."
'I was joking… but not really.'
'Mom and Dad try their best, but they were poor even before Peter joined the family a decade ago. The cost of raising another child and one who eats like a monster—is too much for a normal household to bear.'
'That's why I stopped training so hard. The food afterward is the real price. The more I train, the more I eat'
'It's a cheat to restore so much energy from eating, but if you're poor, it becomes a burden instead of a blessing.'
'Right now, I'm strong enough. I can't turn Super Saiyan, and I can't go Oozaru after I asked Dad to remove my tail… but I'm fifteen, same as Peter, and I can bench roughly one ton.'
'If I was in the Dragon Ball world, I wouldn't have slacked off like this.'
'But my knowledge of the Marvel universe is incomplete—full of holes… and compared to Saiyan life, it's peaceful.'
"Hey! What are you thinking about?" Peter asked, looking back and seeing Yamo in deep thought.
"Breakfast," Yamo grinned.
"Pfft." Peter chuckled.
'His smile is just like Dad's.'
Yamo smiled brightly as he threw newspapers.
'After Peter gains his powers… it's about time we tell him the truth.'
**
An hour later
Peter was showering while Yamo went to his room, unlike Peter, he barely broke a sweat.
He sat in his room, which used to be the pantry, a tiny space, barely two by one and a half meters, just enough for a thin mattress and a corner to sit in without stretching his legs.
When Peter's parents had died, they slept in the same room without ever talking about it, but once Peter turned fifteen, Yamo moved here on his own.
Officially it was because Peter snored in his sleep, but in truth, Yamo wanted Peter to have his original room back, his privacy, and eventually the freedom to come and go without questions once things changed.
'When he becomes Spider-Man, he'll need somewhere to disappear to.'
Except for sleeping, Yamo rarely stayed in this room, but right now he sat cross-legged on the mattress, eyes closed, back straight, breathing slow and measured.
He had meditated like this since the moment he arrived on this planet, back when his body was smaller and his control far worse.
'I figured out how to fly, how to shoot ki blasts, and even the Kamehameha, which is really just a spinning, compressed ki beam once you strip away the theatrics.'
'But techniques like Kaioken, Genkidama, teleportation, Solar Flare, or anything involving external energy are on a completely different level.'
What bothered him most wasn't the difficulty, but the missing piece.
'I can't sense other people's ki.'
'Ki, chakra, aura—they all follow the same principle: intent, flow, control.'
'I can control my own perfectly, but others might as well not exist.'
His brow furrowed slightly.
'I'm almost stronger than Captain America by every measurable metric I know, but once Peter gets his powers and starts casually lifting ten or twenty tons, I'll fall behind whether I like it or not.'
The thought didn't scare him so much as it annoyed him.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
The sound of a spoon hitting a pan echoed from the kitchen, and Yamo opened his eyes immediately. A second later, he was already sitting at the table, posture straight, appetite fully awake.
Just like his last life, he loved food, but unlike before, his body was lean and defined, muscles dense rather than bulky, a quiet contradiction to the amount he ate.
Ben sat down across from him, Peter came last, still drying his hair with a towel, and May placed the dishes on the table without ceremony.
Omelets, chicken strips, and salad for everyone except Yamo. In front of him were three large bowls of rice mixed with kidney beans, cheap, filling, and efficient.
Ben and May always felt a little guilty about it, but for Yamo it was simple logic. He needed fuel for the entire day, and dinner would be leftover pizza from customers anyway, which wasn't great but good enough.
Compared to his previous life, he was far less picky, and more importantly, this was only temporary.
He had plans. Today he would finally strike it rich.
After school, he would move a full year's worth of savings. Most of it had already gone to Ben and May, but little by little, he had kept some aside, enough to finally stop just surviving.
Yamo left earlier than Peter, like always, and stopped by his favorite store on the way. He spent a hundred dollars on candy and soda, slipped into an alley, and closed his eyes, feeling for movement, attention, anything out of place.
Nothing.
He lifted straight up and flew low and fast toward school, careful to stay out of sight.
'I really don't know why I never thought of this in my previous life.'
He whistled softly as he walked through the corridor and stopped in front of the vending machines, opening them with practiced ease.
Bills went into his pants, coins into a thick sock, and the shelves were refilled quickly and cleanly.
Yamo currently owned six vending machines within the school premises: three on the ground floor, two on the upper floors, and one inside the teachers' break room, which only needed refilling once a week.
The others were almost empty every day, and ten percent of the income went straight to the school in exchange for permission.
The principal hadn't allowed it at first, not until Yamo explained honestly how poor their household was and he threatened to quit school to start working full time.
The conditions were simple: his grades couldn't suffer, and he had to occasionally play football for the school.
'If I could split myself like Tenshinhan, I'd work three full-time jobs instantly and never have to do this.'
He shook his head. 'Never mind. Everything changes today.'
After finishing the last machine, Yamo chatted briefly with a few students and teachers before heading to class.
Math, English, Physics and then the last lesson before lunch – Chemistry.
Yamo sat next to Peter while the teacher droned on about reactions and formulas that most of the class barely followed.
Yamo didn't either, but his attention drifted naturally to Peter, who was writing with complete focus, pages filling steadily.
'I know what it feels like to be stabbed, what it's like to die, to fly, to grow strong. But having one of the highest IQs in the world… that's a different kind of pow.er entirely.'
Thwack.
A paper ball hit Peter in the back of the head, and Yamo turned slowly. He glared down the person who targeted his brother.
Flash Thompson.
Flash met his stare and casually flipped him off, smirking like this was a game.
Peter leaned closer and whispered, "It's alright. It doesn't bother me."
It did, but what bothered Peter more was his brother always stepping in, always handling things alone.
Peter may not look like it, but he was very prideful, but Yamo was oblivious to Peters feelings and didn't notice.
He smiled, picked up the paper ball, squeezed it until it was barely a fifth of its original size, and flicked it forward as if tossing a marble.
Flash laughed.
CRASH.
The chair flew back with him, and the classroom went dead silent as Flash hit the floor and his head, the tiny paper ball lying beside him like an accusation.
Peter stared at Yamo, half shocked, half impressed, while Yamo leaned back in his chair with a faint smirk, already thinking about what came next.
The silence after the crash lingered long enough to become uncomfortable.
Flash lay on the floor, his chair tipped over, blinking as if the ceiling had personally offended him, while the teacher stared between him and the small paper ball on the ground like the universe had just broken one of its own rules.
"Flash Thompson," the teacher finally said, tired rather than angry, "sit up and stay in your seat. Carefully."
Flash muttered something under his breath as he pushed himself up, shooting Yamo a glare so sharp it could've cut glass, but nothing else came of it.
No accusations. No punishment. Just a tension that crawled under the skin and refused to leave.
When the bell rang a few minutes later, it felt like an escape alarm.
Students flooded into the hallway, voices rising instantly, the incident already mutating into rumors.
Yamo slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped out, immediately aware of eyes on him, whispers following just a second too late.
Harry Osborn was waiting nearby, leaning against the lockers with his usual careless posture, grin already in place.
"So," he said, eyes gleaming, "did Flash finally lose a fight to office supplies, or is this a new school sport?"
Peter winced. "It wasn't like—"
"Oh, it absolutely was," Mary Jane interrupted, appearing beside them with a smile that suggested she enjoyed chaos far too much.
"I blinked and suddenly he was on the floor. Very symbolic." She said in a playful tone.
Yamo sighed. "Can we not make this a thing?"
MJ laughed and shoved a thick stack of envelopes into his chest. "Too late. Also, your fan club dropped these off. Again."
She tilted her head. "Honestly, it's rude how many of them don't even pretend to stalk you."
Peter stared. "Those are… all for you?"
"Twelve today," MJ added sweetly. "Different girls. Different handwriting. One of them sprayed perfume on the envelope, which feels aggressive."
Harry snorted. "You should see my dad's interns. Same energy. Less subtle."
Yamo tucked the letters away without looking at them, already feeling the familiar disconnect settle in as they started walking together.
Peter head hung low as he walked. 'I really hope he doesn't develop a complex. He has MJ and Harry as his friends. While I'm the topic most talked about, I' still rather detached from them'
Yamo chuckled 'This reminds me of an anime comment section. The main character was called a pedophile because he reincarnated and dated younger girls.
The comments back then defended him by saying that puberty hormones make you act like your age. It doesn't matter how old your mind is when your body is one of a teenage boy.
Ha! I bet no one wonder about how lonely it would feel to keep pretending to be younger. It's more tiring. All this drama and forcing to fit in while nobody is really Independent'
Yamo walked alongside the other three in deep thought.
People moved aside for him instinctively, a few girls waved, someone called his name, and the contrast only made the group feel stranger.
Like he was orbiting them instead of standing with them.
Halfway down the hall, Flash suddenly stepped sideways, foot hooking out sharply, trying to trip Yamo.
A couple girls watching Yamo gasped, but nothing happened. Yamo didn't even stumble.
"Watch it," Flash snapped, straightening himself and trying to recover whatever dignity he had left.
His voice was loud enough to make sure people nearby heard it, the way bullies always spoke when they needed witnesses.
Yamo stopped walking and turned around slowly, looking at Flash with calm curiosity, as if he were trying to remember where he had seen him before.
"You should," he replied evenly. Then he tilted his head just a little. "Bench sitter."
For half a second, there was silence—then the hallway erupted in laughter. It wasn't subtle or polite; it was the kind of laughter that sticks and doesn't let go.
Everyone knew why Flash messed with Yamo and Peter. Whenever Yamo played, Flash sat on the bench, watching from the sidelines while the coaches pretended it wasn't awkward.
No matter how loud Flash was in the halls, on the field he was just another backup, and Yamo had just reminded everyone of that.
Harry watched him go, amused. "Wow. That was pathetic. If I did that, my father would call it a failed hostile takeover."
MJ smirked. "At least he tried. Some people just write stuff on his locker."
Peter slowed, glancing between them, then at Yamo. "Hey… about earlier."
Yamo looked down at him. "Yeah?"
"That throw," Peter said carefully. "It didn't look like luck."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Oh, here we go."
"I'm serious," Peter continued. "You're always stronger than you should be. You don't get tired. And Flash literally bounced from being hit by a paperball"
Yamo shrugged lightly. "Some people peak early."
MJ studied him, eyes sharp, smile teasing. "You know, for someone everyone wants to date, you're weirdly distant."
Harry chuckled. "Yeah. You don't belong with us, man."
Not unkind. Just factual.
Yamo smiled anyway. "That obvious?"
"Very," Harry said. "Tomorrow might help. Oscorp trip. My dad loves showing off. Lots of labs. Lots of boring stuff. Very on brand."
Peter's eyes lit up. "Tomorrow's important."
Yamo nodded slowly, the certainty settling deeper. 'Tomorrow is when Peter's life changes, but mine's today'
"Alright, see you later" Yamo walked away waving.
While everyone else headed toward the cafeteria, voices already rising with complaints about food and plans for the afternoon, Yamo turned the other way and slipped down a quieter corridor that led to the stairwell almost no one used.
At the very top was a locked metal door, dull with age, the kind of place students didn't even think about existing. He pulled a small key from his pocket, slid it into the lock, and twisted.
Miss Brown trusted him. Or rather, she trusted the arrangement. Her favorite chips were always stocked in the vending machine inside teachers' lounge, never sold out, never replaced with cheaper brands, and in exchange she gave Yamo a copy of the rooftop key.
It was a simple deal, one that made life a little quieter and easier for both of them.
The door creaked open, and fresh air hit his face as he stepped out onto the roof.
Yamo walked to the edge and sat down, legs dangling freely over the side, the drop far enough that it made most people nervous but did nothing to him.
From up here, the school looked small, and the city beyond it stretched endlessly, rooftops blending into streets, streets into noise, noise into something almost comforting.
'My life really changed.'
Not all at once, not dramatically, but piece by piece, until the person he used to be felt more like a story he remembered than someone he had been.
He was different now, stronger, calmer, more patient in some ways and more detached in others.
Even small things had changed. He didn't watch anime anymore, not because he didn't want to, but because there was no phone at home, no computer, no time to sit around wishing for worlds he already knew were real.
This world wasn't that different from his last one on the surface. People still worried about money, grades, love, and tomorrow.
But underneath it all were cracks filled with strange things—mutants hiding in plain sight, magicians bending rules that weren't supposed to bend, technology so advanced it blurred into fantasy, holograms where billboards should be.
And danger.
Not constant, not personal, but frequent enough to feel normal. A few times a year, something happened that made the news feel unreal.
New York was huge, though, and unless you were at the center of it, life went on. Armed robberies, distant fights, sirens at night—you noticed them, then kept walking.
'I haven't been involved in anything yet.'
Yamo leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes, the wind tugging at his hair.
'But today changes that.'
Not tomorrow. Not someday. Today.
'Today is the day I turn things around for us.'
For Ben. For May. For Peter. For himself.
And then, deep inside his awareness, something stirred.
[System activation scheduled for midnight.]
'So this was the aid He had spoken of. Funny that it arrives today'
Yamo smiled faintly, eyes still closed, feet swinging over open air.
'Finally. Today I will step into the world and show the might of a sajyan warrior'