Its Saturday morning, 3 January 2000. Zaboru was jogging near ZAGE Tower, starting from his home and letting his feet carry him wherever the streets felt calm. The air was cold and clean, the kind of winter morning that made the city feel quieter than usual. Even after running for a while, he barely broke a sweat. His Enlightenment Body made light jogging feel almost effortless, and it was strange sometimes, moving like a normal person while his body refused to show normal weakness.
He wasn't chasing a record. He just wanted to enjoy the scenery, clear his head, and listen to the rhythm of his own breathing. He ran past familiar corners, past the road that led to ZAGE Tower, then kept going. At some point, without even planning it, he drifted farther, all the way toward the old ZAGE offices, the place that still held the smell of early days and impossible deadlines.
From there, his feet made the decision for him. He turned toward his favorite gyoza shop, an early-morning habit he allowed himself when he wanted something warm and simple. The streets near the shop were still half asleep, and when he pushed open the door, he expected an empty room, maybe only the owner cleaning tables.
But there was already someone inside.
Zaboru stopped at the entrance, surprised.
"Whoa… Bruce Lee."
Zaboru smiled, half amused and half genuinely surprised. Bruce Lee smiled back like it was the most normal thing in the world, then gestured casually for Zaboru to sit across from him, right at the small table near the window.
Zaboru slid into the seat with a chuckle. "Hehehe, Mr. Lee. This is the second time we meet in this gyoza shop, isn't it?"
Bruce laughed and nodded. "Yeah. I went to Japan again this week, and of course I wanted to visit this shop. But meeting you here again? That's unexpected." He tilted his head, studying Zaboru's face. "Do you come here often?"
"Yeah," Zaboru said, nodding. "I think… if i'm in Japan its twice or once a week."
Bruce whistled softly, impressed. "That's loyalty."
The owner, already wide-eyed from recognizing both men in the same room, hurried over without being asked and placed down two steaming plates of gyoza. The smell hit immediately, hot oil, garlic, and crisp dough. Zaboru didn't even need to order. The old man already knew.
They started eating while talking casually, the kind of light conversation that didn't need a topic to be meaningful. Bruce asked about Japan, Zaboru asked about travel, and somehow it drifted into stories about food, busy schedules, and the strange feeling of being recognized everywhere you go.
Zaboru came here often enough that the owner opened earlier whenever he heard Zaboru was coming. It wasn't because Zaboru demanded it. Zaboru had simply helped the shop over time, quietly. He would praise the food without exaggeration and say, "Your dumplings are really worth this much," then tip far more than anyone expected.
Sometimes it was 100.000 yen.
The owner always tried to refuse it, but Zaboru would laugh it off, claiming he ate an unfair amount anyway. The truth was simpler. The dumplings were delicious, the place felt honest, and Zaboru liked helping people who worked hard without making noise about it—even if the meal itself was worth far less than what he left behind.
While eating, Bruce Lee kept observing Zaboru. It wasn't an obvious stare, more like the calm attention of someone who had spent his whole life reading bodies the way other people read faces. Zaboru's posture was relaxed, but every small movement was clean. The way he lifted a dumpling, the way his shoulders stayed balanced, the way his wrist turned without wasted motion. It was the kind of natural control you didn't get from gym muscles alone.
Bruce knew trained bodies. He knew fake strength too. And what he saw in front of him wasn't only training, it was talent mixed with something sharper, like Zaboru's body had been built to learn faster than normal.
Finally, Bruce leaned back slightly and spoke like he was offering a cup of tea.
"You don't want to be my disciple, Zaboru?"
Zaboru's eyes widened. "Your disciple…?"
Bruce laughed and nodded. "Yeah. You seem to have crazy good talent. Back then we trained together a little, but right now you seem stronger. Your body is full of potential. I can tell you're holding back without even trying."
Zaboru went quiet, mind racing. If he rejected Bruce Lee's offer, it would sound insane, like he was spitting on a treasure. In any normal circumstance, saying no would make him look like an arrogant fool, like someone who didn't understand what he was being handed. Bruce Lee was an absolute legend, and Zaboru had been a fan long before they ever met in this life. The fact that Bruce didn't die young here, that he was still healthy and standing in front of him, almost fifty and still sharp, made the offer feel even heavier.
But Zaboru also knew a truth he couldn't explain to anyone.
His body wasn't normal.
It wasn't only that he trained. It wasn't only that he had discipline. His Enlightenment Body made him a cheat, and he hated admitting it even to himself. He could copy movement too quickly, understand timing too fast, and refine techniques in a way that would take a normal person years. With the abilities he already had, he could replicate Bruce's moves, the footwork, the rhythm, the crisp control, the efficiency. Not perfectly in spirit, maybe, but close enough that it felt wrong.
And that was the problem.
If Bruce Lee trained him seriously, it wouldn't be a fair teacher-student relationship. Bruce had spent his entire life sharpening his craft, earning every improvement with sweat, pain, and obsession. Zaboru, meanwhile, could absorb too much too easily. It would be like letting Bruce pour years of wisdom into a cup that was already overflowing, while pretending it was normal.
Zaboru's admiration twisted into guilt. He respected Bruce too much to take advantage of him like that.
He swallowed and forced himself to think like a decent human, not a greedy fan. He wanted to say yes. Every part of him wanted to say yes. But he also knew the truth: his life was already packed with responsibility, and martial arts, at Bruce's level, wasn't something you did halfway. If he accepted the title of disciple, he would have to commit with honesty.
And he couldn't.
Not without making it unfair.
So with a heavy heart, Zaboru decided he had to refuse.
"Mr. Lee… I'm beyond honored, but…" Zaboru exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. "I really want to focus on making games. I don't think I can dedicate myself to martial arts the way you deserve."
He didn't say the rest. He didn't say that his body was unfair. He didn't say that learning from Bruce would feel like stealing. Instead, he kept it simple, respectful, and honest.
Bruce Lee laughed, not offended, and nodded like he expected the answer. His eyes stayed sharp, as if he could see the truth Zaboru didn't speak. "Hahaha, of course. Do what you want, Zaboru. I'm not the type to chain someone to my path."
He leaned forward slightly, voice calmer. "Still… I can't help it. Seeing your potential makes me want to push it. You move like someone who's already past the beginner stage, but your mind is still hungry. That combination is rare."
Zaboru smiled awkwardly, then lowered his gaze to the plate like it could hide his guilt.
Bruce's tone shifted, smooth, like he was changing the subject on purpose. "Anyway," he said, tapping the table once, "it's been a while. You want to make video games of me, don't you?"
Zaboru's head snapped up. He already knew what was coming, and his heart sped up anyway.
Bruce raised an eyebrow, amused. "You want my rights?"
"Yes, yes!" Zaboru nodded fast, the businessman and the fan merging into one. "I want it. I really want it."
This wasn't new. Zaboru had brought it up before, more than once. Every time, Bruce had postponed it with a laugh or a vague promise, like he was waiting to see what kind of person Zaboru truly was. And now, sitting in the same gyoza shop again, Bruce finally brought it back on his own, like the decision had already been made in his mind.
"I'll allow it, Zaboru." Bruce Lee smiled, calm and certain, like he had been weighing the decision longer than he let on. "Your games bring joy. I used to think video games were just excuses for people to avoid responsibility. A way to hide from life."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, not in anger, but in honesty. "But I guess I was wrong. I saw what you did. You brought those games to sick children in the hospital. You didn't do it for applause. You did it because you meant it. That moved me."
Bruce gave a small nod, like sealing a deal with respect instead of paperwork. "So yeah. You can use my rights."
Zaboru blinked, genuinely caught off guard. "Huh? How do you know? I didn't do it with cameras. I didn't invite anyone."
Bruce's smile widened, amused by Zaboru's surprise. He lifted his chopsticks and pointed them toward the TV in the corner of the shop.
"It's already all over the news," Bruce said. "Someone filmed you bringing gifts to the children. Not a staged clip. A real one."
Zaboru's eyes widened as the TV showed the headline: "Zaboru brings gifts to sick children." Then the footage played.
It showed him inside a ZAGE Foundation hospital, handing out ZGBAs to child patients one by one. And the strangest part was how real it looked. There were no clean camera angles, no perfect lighting, no staged smiles. The video shook a little, like the person filming was trying to stay invisible.
The clip started from outside. Zaboru arrived by car early in the morning, wearing a simple disguise, trying to look like just another visitor. He pulled a large trolley from the trunk, packed with ZGBA boxes and toys. The trolley wheels squeaked faintly as he pushed it through the entrance, and the camera kept distance, hiding behind corners and doorframes like someone afraid of being noticed.
Then it cut to the hallway scenes. Zaboru went room to room, stopping at each door, knocking gently, and entering with that calm smile. He handed the gifts carefully, like he didn't want to treat them like cheap giveaways. He crouched down to talk to the kids at eye level, encouraging them, joking with them, and calling them "tough" like they were heroes instead of patients.
The footage caught small moments too: a kid hugging the box like it was treasure, a parent wiping tears fast so the child wouldn't notice, a nurse turning away for a second because her eyes went wet. And through all of it, Zaboru never once looked like he was performing. He didn't pose. He didn't check for cameras. He didn't act like a celebrity.
That was what made it hit harder.
Because the fact it was secretly recorded only proved one thing—Zaboru was genuine.
"What? So it was recorded?" Zaboru stared at the TV again, still half shocked. "But by whom though… I didn't feel a thing back then."
Bruce Lee laughed, the kind of laugh that carried both amusement and respect. "You underestimate journalists, Zaboru. Some of them can really blend into an environment. Honestly, it's an impressive skill."
He lifted his chopsticks and pointed toward the screen again. "Look at the angle. Look at the distance. Whoever filmed you knew how to stay invisible. That isn't luck. That's practice."
Zaboru exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "So they followed me all the way inside…"
"Probably," Bruce said simply. "And they didn't want to disturb what you were doing. That's why it looks real."
Zaboru's eyes narrowed, not angry, just uneasy. "I hate that they recorded sick kids without permission."
Bruce nodded once, understanding. "Yeah. That part is dangerous. But the world is going to see something important because of it." He paused, then smiled again. "And because I saw it, I'm allowing the rights. Just make sure I'm still badass in the video game, okay?"
Zaboru's mood shifted instantly. He nodded with a confident smile. "Obviously, Mr. Lee. I will."
Bruce laughed and shook his head. "Stop calling me Mr. Lee. We're eating dumplings together. Just call me Bruce, Zaboru."
Zaboru grinned, the tension easing out of his shoulders. "Okay, Bruce. Will do."
Then Bruce Lee grinned. "We should spar after this. You seem to underestimate me too much, and my offer to be my disciple still stands."
Zaboru's eyes widened. "Underestimate you? Never, Bruce. You're a legend. I love your movies."
Bruce laughed, clearly enjoying the sincerity. "Movies are one thing. Hands are another." He leaned forward slightly, voice playful but confident. "I'm not going to let you walk away thinking you can copy everything just by watching."
Zaboru raised both hands in surrender, smiling. "Hey, hey. I didn't say I could beat you. I just said I respect you."
"Good," Bruce said, grin sharp. "Then show it. A clean spar. No ego. Just movement."
Zaboru nodded, but his heart beat a little faster. Sparring with Bruce Lee was the kind of moment that felt unreal even in this world. "Okay then," he said. "After we finish eating."
Bruce pointed at the plate like it was the real priority. "Exactly. First gyoza. Then fists."
Zaboru finished a few more gyoza, then went with Bruce Lee to spar in the ZAGE gym.
Meanwhile, the world's reaction was warm after seeing Zaboru secretly visit the hospital and encourage the children. People weren't only praising the gifts. They were moved by the way he acted: no grand speeches, no staged smiles, just quiet care that felt real. The footage spread fast, and even viewers who didn't care much about ZAGE consoles still admitted one thing—it was hard not to feel your heart soften watching it.
Soon, more stories surfaced. A nurse from another cancer hospital supported by the ZAGE Foundation spoke to reporters and confirmed what many fans had only guessed.
"Zaboru really comes often," the nurse said. "He often visits to give children toys, or sometimes he upgrades the facilities using his own money. He doesn't want this to spread. He just wants to help those children. Honestly, he doesn't act like a billionaire at all. He's really humble and kind."
Hearing that made the public reaction even stronger. It wasn't just a one-time visit caught by accident. It sounded like a habit, a routine he kept returning to when he could. If he had time, he came every Friday. If his schedule was too full, he still tried to appear when he "just wanted to," like the hospital was one of the few places where his title didn't matter.
And for Zaboru, it wasn't complicated. He didn't call it heroism. He didn't treat it like a duty. Helping and making those children smile gave him a quiet kind of satisfaction, the rare feeling that his power could do something simple and human. Even if he couldn't cure them with money, he could give them a reason to laugh today, and for him, that was worth coming back again and again.
To be continue
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