Dragon Ball: Taro Saga Chapter 2 - I’m in Dragon Ball?

It had been a week since he woke up in this hellhole, and despite the daily beatings, stolen food, and the general misery of life in the mines, Taro was adjusting.

His ribs still ached from Ruko's last "lesson," his lip hadn't fully healed, and he was constantly on the edge of starvation, but he was learning. Learning when to keep his head down, when to move fast enough to avoid a kick to the gut but not fast enough to be seen as a threat, when to snag extra scraps of food without getting caught. It was a delicate balance, but he was figuring it out.

And most importantly, his memories had settled.

When he first arrived, he had been too overwhelmed by the flood of Taro's past to think about anything else. But as the days passed, his mind became his again, and with it came a horrifying realization.

He was in the Dragon Ball universe.

Taro hadn't thought about Dragon Ball in years. It was something he'd watched as a kid, a nostalgic part of his past, but never something he obsessed over. He barely remembered half the plotlines. The last time he'd seen anything related to it, people were arguing over whether power scaling even made sense anymore. But the more he thought about it, the more undeniable it became. The power levels, the Saiyans, the sheer absurdity of the things he was seeing—it all lined up.

But there was one big problem.

He didn't know this planet.

Everything he remembered about Saiyan history said that weak Saiyan children were sent off-world to conquer planets, not thrown into a death mine to work themselves to death. Were the weak always thrown away like this? He had no memory of it. As far as he knew, the Saiyans sent their children out in pods, let them grow stronger through battle, and only the absolute weakest were outright discarded.

But clearly, that wasn't the whole truth.

It made sense in a brutal kind of way. The Saiyan race was built on strength. If you weren't strong enough to be a warrior, you weren't worth their time. The elites never even considered the low-class warriors people, so why waste resources on them? That meant Alecto wasn't an anomaly, it was just another part of Saiyan society that no one talked about.

And he was stuck here.

He tried not to let that thought consume him, but it was impossible to ignore. He had to find a way out.

But first, he had to understand himself.

The first thing he noticed after the initial shock wore off was just how strong he was. Even among the weakest of the weak, Saiyans were still naturally gifted in terms of raw physical ability. His muscles felt dense, compact, stronger than anything he had ever known in his old life. Even though he was weak here, compared to a normal human, he was a monster.

But what stood out to him more than his strength was his mind. His brain felt like it was running at a million miles a second. Thoughts came faster, clearer, more precise. He could recall details with terrifying accuracy, as if every memory he had—both Darren's and Taro's—were sitting right at the front of his mind, waiting to be plucked out and examined.

He was certain he had a photographic memory now.

This wasn't a Saiyan trait. Saiyans were dumb as rocks. They could strategize in battle, sure, but they weren't known for being intellectuals. There were a few exceptions, but intelligence among Saiyans usually only extended to fighting. Taro, on the other hand, felt like he could take apart a scouter and reassemble it into something better just by looking at it.

That had to be from his other half.

He still didn't know what his non-Saiyan heritage was, but if his intelligence was anything to go by, it was something a hell of a lot smarter than the average space monkey.

That meant he had an advantage.

It might not be strength, but intelligence was power in its own way.

By the third day, he stopped thinking of himself as Darren.

Darren was dead.

There was no going back. Even if by some miracle he returned to Earth, it wouldn't be his Earth. His old body was gone. His old life was gone. There was only Taro now.

It was surprisingly easy to accept.

Because Taro wasn't a completely different person. His memories, his experiences, his instincts—all of it had been absorbed. He hadn't just taken over this body. He was this body. Darren and Taro had fused into something new, and pretending otherwise would only hold him back.

And he couldn't afford to be held back.

Getting off this rock was the ultimate goal, but there were a lot of steps between now and then.

First and foremost, he needed to get stronger.

Right now, he was weak. Embarrassingly weak. Even if he somehow found a way to escape, he'd just end up getting captured or killed by someone stronger.

So, how did he increase his power level?

Saiyans got stronger through combat. Training, fighting, pushing their limits—that was how they grew. The problem? He had no one to train with. If he tried sparring with the others, they'd just beat him senseless again, and he doubted they'd hold back enough for him to learn anything.

Plus, training took time. He didn't have time.

Saiyans had a unique ability—if they survived a near-death experience, they got stronger. Zenkai Boost.

It was an incredibly stupid, overpowered ability, and it was the only thing working in his favor right now. But getting a Zenkai boost wasn't simple. It required nearly dying, and surviving. That meant he needed a controlled way to injure himself—badly—but not so much that he couldn't heal nor do the work that was required of him. Problem was, he didn't have access to healing pods or senzu beans. His body would have to recover naturally, and considering the state of the food and medical conditions here, that wasn't a great option.

Strength wasn't the only thing he needed.

He needed information.

He needed to know who ran this planet, what the structure of authority was, and whether there were any ships coming in or out. If he could steal a ship... no, that was too risky. Even if he found one, he'd need to guarantee it wouldn't be tracked or they wouldn't notice it disappearing.

Wait.

Could he build one?

The idea was insane, but with his newfound intelligence, it didn't feel impossible. He needed to get his hands on tech. If he could take apart a broken ship, scrap, or anything else remotely useful, he might be able to piece together something that could get him off-world.

Taro sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

One week. One week, and he had already compiled more information than most of these workers probably had in years.

But knowledge meant nothing if he didn't use it.

His first priority was strength. No matter how smart he was, this universe respected power above all else.

Which meant it was time to take his first real risk.

He turned his gaze toward the deepest section of the mine, where the raw power cores pulsed with unstable energy.

It was time to see if Saiyans really could adapt to anything.

...

Taro woke to the familiar damp stench of sweat and rock, his body aching from another night on the hard, uneven ground. His eyes opened to darkness, the faint glow of the mining lights outside their cavern barely illuminating the cramped space that served as their sleeping quarters. His ribs still throbbed from the last time Ruko and his goons decided to "remind" him of his place, but the pain had dulled to a manageable ache. He shifted, pushing himself up slowly, careful not to disturb the others. Around him, a dozen bodies lay sprawled out across the stone floor, wrapped in whatever scraps of cloth they could scavenge for warmth.

The weakest among the weaklings.

That's what they were.

Even in a place where everyone was disposable, there was still a pecking order. The strongest of the workers banded together, hoarding food, weapons, and whatever scraps of power they could grasp. Then there were those in the middle, the ones who worked hard enough to avoid beatings but not hard enough to challenge anyone. And then there was them. The bottom rung. The ones too weak to fight back, too sickly or injured to be worth the effort of bullying, not even worth enslaving to any of the stronger ones.

Taro let his gaze sweep over the cavern, memorizing the faces of those who shared his miserable existence. Most of them were nobodies, just unfortunate souls waiting to waste away, but two stood out. One was an old man, his back pressed against the farthest wall, his breathing slow and even. His name, if Taro's memories served him right, was Raejin. Unlike the rest of them, Raejin wasn't completely frail. His frame, though lean, carried a good amount of muscle. His face was lined with deep scars, his features hardened by years of suffering. His hair, once black, had faded into a coarse, graying mess that barely clung to his scalp. Taro knew little about him beyond what his memories provided. Raejin never spoke unless necessary, never got involved in anything that didn't concern him, and, most importantly, never lost a fight in the pit.

The pit was where disputes were settled in the mines. No weapons, no alliances—just brutal combat until one person couldn't stand anymore. It was also where you could earn extra food through betting.

And Raejin? He had never been put down.

Taro's memories had no record of him ever fighting at full strength, but despite that, no one had ever dared to try him twice. It was an unspoken rule. You didn't mess with Raejin. Though knowing this he had no idea why Raejin was here with the rest of them.

Taro made a mental note to keep his distance—for now.

Then his eyes landed on her.

Kale.

His breath caught for a moment as recognition slammed into him.

She looked younger than he remembered. Leaner. Her hair long and unkempt, fell over her face as she curled in on herself in sleep. Even under the dim light, he could see how fragile she looked—nothing like the walking catastrophe that had torn apart the entire arena in the tournament of power.

What the hell is she doing here?

The last time he had seen anything about Kale, she had been part of Universe 6, fighting alongside Caulifla in the Tournament of Power. She had power, she was the Legendary Super Saiyan having the kind that made regular Super Saiyans look like chumps.

And yet, here she was.

Taro clenched his fists, his mind racing.

This confirmed something he had suspected since the moment he realized where he was.

This wasn't the main Dragon Ball universe.

It couldn't be.

Too many things didn't line up. Saiyans weren't supposed to be dumped in mines to rot. There were no records of places like Alecto existing in the main timeline. And now Kale? A legendary Super Saiyan, reduced to one of the weakest workers in this hellhole?

There were a few possible explanations.

Maybe this was a timeline where Universe 6 and Universe 7 weren't separate. Maybe Saiyans evolved differently here. Maybe he was so far in the past that Kale hadn't even awakened her power yet.

Or maybe—

Maybe this was a completely different version of Dragon Ball altogether.

The thought sent a chill down his spine.

If that was the case, then everything he thought he knew about this world was unreliable. The Saiyans, the Frieza Force, the power scaling—all of it could be different.

But that wasn't a bad thing.

It meant opportunity.

If this was a new version of the universe, then the rules weren't set in stone. He could carve out something new. And if Kale was here, if she was truly the same person he remembered, then that meant she had the Legendary Super Saiyan mutation or whatever it was that made her special.

She was a walking nuke waiting to go off.

And she didn't even know it.

Taro's lips curled into the smallest smirk.

He needed to befriend her.

Not in a manipulative way, but strategically. If he could get close to her, help her awaken whatever monstrous strength was buried inside, then maybe—just maybe—he could survive long enough to escape this place. Of course, that was easier said than done. Kale wasn't like the others, but she wasn't weak, either. She kept to herself, rarely spoke, and flinched whenever anyone even looked at her the wrong way. She wasn't just weak—she was afraid, she seemed to be the antithesis of what made them all Saiyans.

That had to change.

Taro had a week to study her habits. She woke up earlier than most but never left the cavern before the others. She barely ate, and when food was stolen from her, she never fought to get it back. Did she know what she was capable of? Was it locked away deep inside, waiting for the right moment? Or was she just naturally weaker in this version of reality?

Too many questions.

He had to start somewhere.

But not now.

Now, he had work to do.

It was early—at least two hours before their shift began. Most of the workers wouldn't be up for a while, which meant he had time to himself.

Taro pushed himself to his feet, his muscles groaning in protest. His body was still adapting, still recovering from his last beating. But pain was temporary. If he wanted to survive, he had to train. Quietly, he slipped out of the cavern, stepping into the tunnel that led deeper into the mines. The air was cold and stale, the only light coming from the artificial glow of the old, flickering lamps lining the stone walls. This was the only time he had to push himself without anyone watching.

He needed to increase his power level, even if it was only by a fraction.

Dropping into a stance, he took a slow breath and started with the basics.

Push-ups.

Sit-ups.

Squats.

Forms.

He had no proper training, no guidance, but that didn't matter. He had his instincts. He had the sheer, unrelenting need to get stronger. Every movement burned. Every breath felt like a battle against his own body. But he kept going. Because in this world, strength was the only thing that mattered.

And he refused to stay weak.

He started with one-arm push-ups, not by choice, but because anything else barely made his muscles feel it. He dropped to the ground and slammed out five hundred reps on each arm, not rushing, not pacing himself—just pure exertion. His muscles burned, but he welcomed it. Pain meant progress. As soon as he finished, he flipped onto his back and started doing crunches—not just regular ones, but with his legs fully extended, forcing his entire core to engage. A thousand reps.

Each one felt like fire crawling through his gut, but that was the point. Saiyans had absurd levels of durability; their bodies needed intensity. He moved on to jump squats, but with an extra challenge—jumping to the ceiling and clinging to it. The cavern roof was nearly five meters up, and every leap took effort, every landing tested his reflexes, his precision, his balance. He jumped, latched onto the stone, and then pushed off, landing perfectly before repeating it. Two hundred times.

After that, speed drills.

He forced his body to move—darting across the cavern at full speed, twisting and redirecting momentum mid-run. It wasn't enough to be strong. Strength meant nothing if you couldn't hit your target.

His mind raced as he trained, cataloging his weaknesses.

I have power, but no control. I am weak and slow. My reflexes are slow. My footwork is garbage.

He needed real combat training, but there was no one to teach him. That meant he had to teach himself.

So he started hitting the air. Not random swings—full-force, full-body strikes, throwing his weight into every punch. Each punch cracked the air, sending sharp gusts of displaced wind through the cavern. He didn't stop. One thousand punches. Left. Right. Left. Right. Perfect form. Perfect impact.

Then he moved to handstand push-ups. Fifty wasn't enough. A hundred wasn't either. He kept going until his arms felt like they were going to snap.

His knuckles bled from impact drills. His legs throbbed from explosive sprints. His breath came in ragged gasps.

But he didn't stop.

Because stopping meant staying weak.

And weak was unacceptable.

By the time he was done, his body felt like it was on fire. Every limb shook. Sweat poured off him in rivers.

And still, he wasn't strong enough.

Tomorrow, he'd double it.

No. Triple it.

Though it seemed he wouldn't get anymore training done as a loud buzzer blared through the tunnels and signaled the start of the worst part of the morning. Taro exhaled through his nose and stretched his arms before rolling his shoulders and walking back toward the cavern where the others were already gathering. The air was thick with sweat and dust and the occasional groan of someone who had woken up too sore to move. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

They walked in a slow line toward the gathering point, the dim lights casting long shadows on the jagged walls as the familiar stink of unwashed bodies and exhaustion filled the corridor. At the front stood the supervisors. A dozen men, all Saiyan, all former warriors who had failed in one way or another and had been assigned here because they weren't fit for anything else. Not strong enough to be soldiers, not smart enough to be engineers, not valuable enough to execute outright. They were Saiyans who had disappointed the wrong people and were now stuck babysitting the dregs of their own kind.

Taro looked them over and felt nothing but contempt. Their power levels were pathetic, just a notch above Saibamen from what he could remember. He almost laughed at the thought. Saibamen. The little green goblins that some Saiyans actually used as substitutes for real fighters. Some warriors were so worthless they could literally be grown in the dirt. These guys were just barely above that.

One of the supervisors, a tall Saiyan with a missing ear and a deep frown, stepped forward and ran his eyes over them all like he was disappointed they were still alive. His voice was rough and thick with scorn when he spoke. "You wastes of space are dragging behind. You think the higher-ups care how tired you are? How hard you work? You get results or you get nothing. That simple. So starting today, your quotas are doubled. No excuses, no complaining, no stopping before the job is done. If you don't meet your quota, you can kiss your rations goodbye."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but no one spoke up. Complaining would get you beaten, and there was no point. It was how things worked. Taro clenched his jaw and exhaled slowly through his nose, already considering the implications. It was going to make things harder, but it wasn't all bad. More work meant more training. More stress on his body. More opportunities to push past his limits. If he played this right, he could use it.

The supervisor pulled out a remote, pressed a button, and the storage chute above them rumbled open before dumping its payload of ration bars onto the rocky ground in a pile.

Then hell began.

Bodies slammed together in an instant, arms clawing and fists swinging as everyone dove for the food. There was no order. No fairness. No guarantee of survival. The weak starved and the strong ate. Taro didn't hesitate—he threw himself into the fray with every ounce of aggression he had, swinging, elbowing, shoving, biting when necessary, his instincts on fire as bodies crushed against him from all sides. Someone grabbed his arm, so he twisted and drove his knee into their ribs before using their moment of pain to shove them aside. Another came at him from behind and wrapped an arm around his throat, so he threw his head back and smashed it into their nose and felt the crunch before they let go. His foot lashed out and connected with someone's shin. Another fist buried itself into his side and he barely had time to react before another struck his face. Blood filled his mouth but he didn't stop.

Hands grabbed, bodies flailed, bones snapped, screams echoed. Someone was on the ground, not moving. Someone else was already kicking them aside to get to the food.

Taro felt his ribs crack under the weight of a kick, but he ignored it. His nose was broken, blood pouring down his mouth, but he ignored that too. His left arm wasn't moving right. Dislocated. That was fine. That was nothing.

He pushed, he scrambled, he fought, and when he finally managed to snatch two ration bars from the pile and shove them into his waistband, he didn't linger. Staying meant getting pulled back in. He moved, slipping away from the main brawl and vanishing into one of the side tunnels before anyone noticed him leaving.

He found an alcove, a natural curve in the rock that gave just enough space for him to sit with his back against the wall. He slumped down, breathing hard, sweat and blood mixing on his skin, pain singing through every part of his body. He pressed his fingers against his dislocated arm, sucked in a breath, and yanked it back into place with a sharp pop. His vision blurred from the pain but he gritted his teeth and rode it out. It would heal.

He pulled one of the ration bars from his waistband and tore into it without hesitation, shoving it into his mouth and chewing even though it tasted like solidified dirt and metal shavings. He barely even noticed the taste. Food was fuel. Nothing else mattered. His body screamed for nutrients, every muscle begging to be fed after the punishment he had put it through that morning.

Saiyans had a ravenous appetite, easily four times that of a human. They needed energy, needed fuel, needed an intake that could keep up with how quickly their bodies burned through resources. And that was exactly why they were kept starving here. Food was just enough to survive, never enough to thrive. Never enough to build strength. It was one of the ways they were kept weak.

He swallowed the first bar, already reaching for the second, but then he heard a sound.

A rock shifting. A footstep.

His fist clenched before he even turned his head, his body already prepared for a fight.

But when he looked up, he saw her.

Kale.

She was standing at the edge of the alcove, frozen, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her lip split, her hair tangled with dust and dried blood. Her body was shaking, and her eyes darted between him and the ration bar in his hand.

She had tried to get food. And she had failed.

Taro stared at her, his body still tense, his instincts still screaming to be ready for an attack. He looked at her injuries. He looked at the way she barely met his gaze, how her shoulders curled inward, how her hands clutched at empty air as if trying to hold something that wasn't there.

Then he looked down at the ration bar in his hand.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Then he tossed it into her lap.

Kale flinched as if he had thrown a knife at her.

She didn't move. Didn't reach for it. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, shocked, unmoving.

Taro didn't say anything.

He just turned and walked away.

AN: Some of you may be wondering captainalfie my lad, will there be lemons, a bit of the ol romance. The answer is... of course there will be. If you think for a single moment that Taro will not be knuckle deep inside that muscle mommy Kale then you're in the wrong place my guy. Caulifa too hell yeah. In fact there are so many fine women in Dragon Ball. But anyway hope you enjoyed the chapter.