“He didn’t wish to escape,” Piccolo said quietly. “He didn’t wish to beat Frieza. He wished for us to be somewhere else. And the Dragon Ball answered.”
Krillin, Gohan, and Piccolo felt their bodies lifted from the ground. Not by gravity, but by something warmer—like a mother’s hand. A sphere of light enveloped them, and in an instant, they were gone. Transported not to Earth, but to the edge of the galaxy—to a small, unremarkable planet where Bulma’s emergency signal had been detected hours ago.
Goku said nothing. He looked past Frieza, toward the ruined Namekian village where his friends lay beaten. Vegeta, dead by Frieza’s hand. Piccolo, barely conscious. Gohan and Krillin, huddled behind a rock, their energy signatures flickering like candles in a storm.
“I wish…” he whispered, not to the dragon, but to the ball itself. “…for them to live.”
Goku’s golden aura flickered and faded. His hair returned to black. His muscles softened. He was no longer a Super Saiyan. He was just a man. A father. A friend.
Because Goku wasn’t going to summon Porunga.
