Dragon Ball Human

Three years later, at the outdoor training grounds of the "Martial Arts Hall," disciples clad in white uniforms with the character "Martial" stood in unison, their faces numb as they watched the intense sparring match between two figures at the center. 

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! 

Piccolo and Mutaito exchanged fierce blows, trading punches and kicks in rapid succession. 

"These two are monsters…" one disciple muttered. 

"Senior Brother Mutaito is already insane, but this Piccolo—how can he match him after only three years of training?" The other disciples found the situation unbelievable. 

It wasn't just the students who felt this way—even the master of the Martial Arts Hall was deeply frustrated. Teaching someone like Mutaito was already exhausting, but the giant Mutaito had picked up three years ago was even more of a freak. Though his talent made training him exhilarating, the master never expected that, in just over two years, he would have nothing left to teach either of them. 

Having such disciples made the Martial Arts Hall's master painfully aware of his own mediocrity. 

Thud! 

Piccolo and Mutaito landed simultaneous punches, forcing them apart. Piccolo, with his longer reach, clearly struck harder. 

As he flipped midair, Mutaito gathered his strength, bent his knees, and kicked off the ground like a spring, launching himself at Piccolo before he could land. 

"No time to adjust…" Piccolo frowned, turning his head. His palm instinctively shot out toward the incoming Mutaito. 

"Enough!" The Martial Arts Hall master barked, halting the fight. 

Mutaito stumbled, his head skidding across the ground, carving a shallow trench. 

BOOM! 

Piccolo redirected his palm at the last second, striking the empty space beside them. A monstrous gale erupted, sending dust and debris flying as if the very air had been forcibly expelled from the area. 

Mutaito pulled his dirt-covered face out of the ground and laughed. "Piccolo, you bastard, you were holding back!" 

Piccolo remained silent, extending a hand to help him up. 

"Damn it, I hate falling behind you," Mutaito grinned, his tone oddly cheerful despite his words. 

Piccolo was puzzled—why did this guy sound so happy while admitting defeat? 

"You two—Mutaito, Piccolo." The Martial Arts Hall master called his two most outstanding disciples forward, his voice filled with emotion. "I have nothing left to teach you… Leave the Martial Arts Hall. The world is vast! With your talents, you will forge your own paths." 

Mutaito blinked in surprise, then grinned carefreely. "Alright!" 

"The world is big, and so is the world of martial arts," the master said solemnly. "You've already surpassed me, so I can't give you much advice—I don't want to cloud your own judgment. I only hope that, as you see more of the world, you never forget why you began training. Martial arts is not a tool for bullying the weak. Its true purpose is to understand yourself and improve yourself." 

Mutaito nodded seriously. 

Piccolo, as usual, kept his face cold. 

At their farewell, the master smiled one last time. "Do you remember the creed of our Martial Arts Hall?" 

"Be yourself," Mutaito said brightly, his travel pack slung over his shoulder. 

Beside him, Piccolo—similarly dressed for travel—remained silent. 

The master glanced at this disciple he had known for only three years, as if he wanted to say something more, but held back. 

"Go," he finally said, waving them off. 

"See you all later!" Mutaito called out, utterly carefree. 

Piccolo had already turned and walked away. 

Mutaito walked backward, waving cheerfully at his master and fellow disciples under the bright sun until they faded from view. 

---

And so, their journey began. 

They were martial artists far beyond ordinary humans, their skills so refined that bullets and artillery meant nothing to them. Traveling the world would pose no difficulty. 

With Piccolo—who had already traveled alone for over a decade—by his side, Mutaito found this journey quite enjoyable. 

Though he couldn't help but think… 

Are people outside really this weak? 

They hadn't encountered a single decent fighter. 

Is this the "vast world" Master spoke of? Mutaito couldn't help but doubt. Or did we just go the wrong way? 

---

Nightfall, wilderness. 

"Piccolo, you're so pitiful!" Mutaito roasted a tiger over a fire. "You only drink water… Are you a plant?" 

Piccolo, as if deaf, sat farther away, blending into the night. Only his upturned eyes, gazing at the stars, held a faint yellow glow. 

Suddenly, he spoke: "Mutaito, have you heard of the gods?" 

"Gods?" Mutaito blew on the scorching-hot tiger meat, chewing noisily. "You mean like deities? I think I've heard some stories… Oh, right. When I was a kid, there were tales about divine saviors." Noticing Piccolo shifting closer, actually interested, he was surprised—this cold, aloof genius really cared? So he recounted the legends of gods who fought to save the world. 

Grease smeared across his face and hands, Mutaito mumbled, "But they're probably just fairy tales, right? I mean, come on—flying in the sky? Fighting world-ending demons? Punching continents apart? Wiping out all monsters in the blink of an eye?" He shook his head, chewing. 

And those stories claimed beast-men and monster-kin were remnants of some ancient demonic disaster? Ridiculous. People were just born different. Blaming it on monsters was downright rude. 

"Korin Tower…" Piccolo murmured the term Mutaito had mentioned. "Do you know where it is?" 

Mutaito paused mid-bite. "You actually believe that stuff?" 

"I've met a god," Piccolo said calmly, as if stating a fact. "He could fly. He even learned…" The Namekian genius frowned slightly, "a language only I knew, in seconds. I suspect he had mind-reading abilities." 

Is he delirious? Mutaito blinked—then grinned. "Alright! Then it's settled. Next stop: Korin Tower!" 

He pointed his tiger leg toward the stars. 

The greasy meat in Mutaito's hand reflected in Piccolo's yellow eyes, the dripping fat morphing into streaks of blood. A flash of savagery and madness flickered in his gaze— 

Piccolo shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

---

Three months later, the two walked through the streets of a more modern-style town. 

"Nobody's even heard of Korin Tower!" Mutaito scratched his head in frustration. 

Over these months, they'd visited countless towns, seeking out dojos, fighting schools, and all sorts of mystics, masters, and monks—yet no one knew its location. A few had tried to scam them, earning brutal lessons from Piccolo. (One might've been torn in half if Mutaito hadn't intervened.) 

Suddenly, a commotion ahead. 

A crowd had gathered. Piccolo, tall enough to see over them, allowed Mutaito—with zero shame—to hop onto his shoulders. (The weight meant nothing to him anyway.) 

At the center stood a purple-haired girl in what looked like legit sorceress garb, clutching a crystal ball, putting on a show for the onlookers… fortune-telling? Mutaito licked his lips. They'd seen plenty of these charlatans lately—especially while hunting for Korin Tower. 

But Piccolo nudged his attention away from the girl. 

Look elsewhere. 

Wallets, coins, and trinkets silently floated out of pockets, bags, and pouches—as if tugged by invisible hands—all drifting toward an unremarkable wooden box in a shadowed corner, lining up neatly inside. 

"Another fraud!" Mutaito snatched his floating wallet mid-air. Watching the "sorceress", he now noticed her sly glances toward the box, the subtle cunning beneath her performance. 

Piccolo's voice was icy. "But she does have real power."