Welcome to DBZ Love Garden

Warrant Officer Trunks gripped the cold, metal whistle tightly in his trembling hand. The relentless rain hammered down, plastering his lavender hair to his forehead, blurring his vision and soaking through his uniform. The biting cold of the steel pressed against his lips, a harsh reminder of the grim task ahead. As he stood there, poised to give the signal, a memory surged unbidden to the forefront of his mind—a memory of the early days of the war, when arrogance and overconfidence had led him and his comrades into a disastrous assault. Back then, they had charged out of the trenches with foolhardy zeal, determined to reclaim a hill that had seemed so important at the time, only to lose it again three days later. How naive they had been, thinking victory was assured, rushing forward without even waiting for the cover of fog, the dim light of dawn, or the support of artillery.

He could still see the faces of his fellow officers, friends who had charged ahead, driven by a misguided sense of glory. They hadn't hesitated, not even for a moment, and many had paid the ultimate price—cut down by the merciless fire of enemy machine guns, incinerated by flamethrowers, their bravery leading them straight to their deaths. Trunks himself had only survived by sheer chance, shielded by a promotion-hungry officer who had rushed in front of him, hoping to claim the glory of a swift victory. That man had unknowingly taken the bullets meant for Trunks, his ambition costing him his life.

Trunks scanned the faces of the men before him, each one a reminder of past failures. He had sent soldiers to their deaths before, but this time, the weight felt different—heavier, almost unbearable. How many would make it back? A handful, if they were fortunate. They didn’t know yet. But they would soon. The realization was a knife twisting in his gut. The battlefield they were about to enter would strip away that determination in seconds, just as it had done to Trunks and his comrades so many times before.

Trunks hesitated, the cold metal of the whistle a harsh reminder of his duty. Trunks moved like a shadow through the grim tapestry of decay, his dulled senses barely registering the screams, the scattered remains, or the stench of death around him. He pressed on anyway, driven by a warrior’s spirit that refused to break. "Leadership had become an unbearable burden, the weight of each lost life pressing down on him—something had to change. He could feel the presence of his father—distant, commanding—in every decision he made, but unlike the king, Trunks had chosen to walk among his men, to understand their pain. This war wasn’t about winning; it was about enduring—a brutal test of who could outlast the other in this endless cycle of attrition.

He drew a deep breath, steadying himself. “May God be with you,” he shouted, his voice hoarse and strained, as he blew a sharp, shrill note on the whistle. The battlefield erupted immediately, bullets tearing through the air, cutting down the brave men who had stood so resolute just moments before. Their determination, their lives—snuffed out in seconds.

As he moved, the bitter thought crossed his mind—this war, these battles, they had a way of changing you. He had seen it in others, felt it in himself. The more you fought these monsters, the more you risked becoming one yourself. He had gazed into the abyss of war for so long that he could feel it gazing back into him, its darkness creeping into his soul, threatening to consume him whole.

Trunks trudged through the red-stained mud. Each step was a battle against the treacherous earth, his boots sinking deeper as he moved like a phantom through a world of death, using fallen branches or bodies as makeshift stepping stones. What had once been a dense, thriving forest was now a desolate wasteland of death. The vibrant green of the forest was long gone, replaced by the sickly brown of decay, with the occasional tree trunk jutting from the maroon sludge as a grim testament to the life that once flourished here. The air was thick with the mind-numbing cacophony of war—the relentless rattle of machine guns, the desperate cries of the wounded, and the earth-shaking booms of artillery shells. Trunks hated it.

Bullets whizzed past him, kicking up mud and flesh, spattering his face with blood and filth. But he kept moving forward. There was no other choice. This battle had dragged on for two grueling months, the same two armies locked in a brutal stalemate over the same stretch of land. The men on the field were nothing more than pawns in a deadly game, their lives sacrificed to keep the enemy’s numbers down. The officers knew that the Frieza Force held the advantage, perched high on a ridge where the Saiyan soldiers couldn’t reach them. So the Saiyans had dug, carving out long, winding tunnels that would eventually allow them to strike from behind enemy lines. But someone still had to attack from the front, to maintain the illusion, and that was where Trunks and his battalion came in.

A shell hole appeared just ahead, and Trunks dove into it, the bottom filled with muddy, blood-stained water that reached his knees. He didn’t care; at least he was out of the line of fire. Leaning against the wall, he caught his breath. A dead Saiyan lay in the hole with him, Another life lost. Another soldier whose story would end here. He reached out and took the man’s dog tag and rank insignia—a small token to return to his family, a small piece of closure in a world where closure was a rare luxury.

This war was no longer about glory; it was a brutal struggle for survival, a grim reminder of how the once-mighty Saiyans were now barely holding on, their strength tested to its limits. Trunks glanced at the horizon, where the sky met the battlefield, and wondered how long they could endure. The Frieza Force was vast in number and nearly equal in strength—something the Saiyans had never encountered before.

He raised his eyes to the sky, where bullets whizzed past like harbingers of death, a reminder that survival here was fleeting, dictated by split-second decisions and sheer luck. A memory flashed before his eyes—the palace, bathed in the warm glow of sunset, its marble floors gleaming, the air scented with jasmine. There, everything was clean, orderly, a reflection of the might and confidence of the Saiyan race. Decisions were made with calm deliberation, with the luxury of time and the guidance of reason. Here, on the battlefield, there was no time to think, only to react, to survive. The stark contrast between his life at the palace and the horrors of war hit him like a physical blow, a reminder of the life he had left behind.

A young soldier, maybe nineteen, suddenly flopped into the hole beside him, curling into a ball in the blood-filled water. He held his hands on either side of his face, taking deep breaths and wailing in terror as he exhaled. The noise cut through the chaos, jarring Trunks out of his thoughts.

“Pull yourself together, Private!” Trunks snapped, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the boy’s panic. “Making a noise like that will get you killed.” He felt for the boy—he really did—but there was no room for breakdowns here. Not if they wanted to survive.

Trunks crouched beside him, his tone softening slightly. “What’s your name, soldier?”

The boy looked up, his large, almond-shaped eyes filled with fear, tears leaving tracks down his dirt- and blood-smeared face. He glanced at Trunks’ insignia and seemed to straighten up a bit.

“Private Cabba, sir, Third Battalion,” he stammered, his voice shaky.

Trunks locked eyes with him, determination steeling his voice. "Alright, Cabba, I’m going to get you out of here, but you need to stay calm and do exactly as I say. "Understand?"

“Sir, yes, sir,” Cabba replied, nodding quickly. The terror in his eyes subsided slightly, replaced by the tentative hope that came with following a strong leader.

Trunks glanced over the ridge of the crater. The commotion had quieted down somewhat—the screaming had mostly stopped, the fallen either taken by medics or claimed by death. The gunfire had slowed, with only sporadic bursts of fire echoing across the battlefield. But the scene remained just as grim. Inches from where Trunks peered over, another young soldier lay in the mud, his eyes open and blinking but otherwise unmoving. One of his legs had been blown off, leaving only a mangled stump. Trunks knew the truth of it: There was little chance of survival. If the blood loss didn’t kill him, the infection from the filth would. But Trunks couldn’t just leave him there.

Against his better judgment, Trunks grabbed the young man’s arm and dragged him into the hole just as one of the Frieza Force soldiers spotted the movement and opened fire, bullets raining down around them, the mud erupting in tiny geysers inches from the man’s head.

Both men dropped back into the shell hole, panting heavily. Trunks quickly examined the wound, his mind racing.

“What’s your name, soldier?” he asked, though he wasn’t surprised when he received no response. The man had lost a lot of blood and was losing more by the second. Trunks reached into his trouser pocket, feeling for the ball of string he kept there.

“Cabba, check his tag,” he ordered as he began wrapping the string tightly around the man’s thigh. If he could stop the bleeding and get him back to a medic, there was a slim chance he might survive. With only one leg, he’d be sent home—if he made it that far. Trunks worked quickly, binding the leg tight, ignoring the blood that spilled onto his hands and soaked into his sleeves.

“His name is Nion, sir,” Cabba muttered, reading the dog tags. His face was ashen as the blood from the wound pumped out, mixing with the water and mud, the smell intensifying with each fresh gush.

“Nion, can you hear me?” Trunks called out. Nion didn’t answer, but his eyes slowly moved to meet Trunks’. He was at least half-conscious. The pain and adrenaline had likely rendered him speechless, but he still knew where he was. Poor guy.

“Nion, I’m Officer Trunks. Cabba and I are going to get you back to safety,” Trunks said, his voice steady and reassuring. He needed to be strong for these men; they needed something solid to hold onto in this chaos.

He covered the worst of the wound with a handkerchief he kept in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but it was better than leaving it exposed to the elements. Trunks dreaded to think what kind of bacteria thrived in this filthy water.

“Cabba, we’re going to get on either side of him and help him back to the trench. We need to move fast. You ready?” Trunks asked, glancing at the smaller man. Cabba was trembling but nodded, his bravery shining through his fear.

“Good man. Come on, Nion, let’s get you home,” Trunks said, grabbing the injured man’s arm and hoisting him up. Nion’s one remaining leg struggled for purchase on the slippery ground, but Cabba quickly grabbed his other arm, steadying him.

“Straight to the trench, men. Don’t stop for anything,” Trunks ordered. They scrambled out of the hole and ran as fast as they could toward the safety of the trench. Other soldiers noticed them and provided cover fire, easing their path just a bit.

Bullets hit the ground around them as they fought their way toward safety, the trench looming ever closer.

“Keep going, Cabba. We’re almost there,” Trunks yelled, his voice filled with desperate hope as they neared the trench’s edge. He could hear the cheers of other soldiers as they approached. But just as they were about to reach safety, a shell exploded a few feet away, the blast shaking the ground and sending them tumbling into the mud. Cabba scrambled to his feet, his face caked in brown sludge as he reached for Nion. He froze. Nion was no longer saveable. A piece of shrapnel from the blast had embedded itself in the back of his neck, nearly severing his head. Blood oozed from the wound in slow, sickening bubbles, and Trunks watched as the life drained from Nion’s eyes, leaving only an empty shell.

For a moment, Trunks just stared, the loss hitting him harder than he had expected. Every time Trunks dared to hope, it was torn away—leaving him questioning the purpose of this endless bloodshed—was it all just a senseless means to occupy the enemy?

“Officer Trunks, what now?” Cabba’s voice cut through his thoughts, panic evident.

“Get to the trench. NOW,” Trunks commanded, his voice firm. He yanked Nion’s dog tag free from the severed neck and shoved the blood-soaked ID into his pocket. He and Cabba then moved quickly into the safety of the trench, where they were met by soldiers offering water and blankets, murmuring condolences for the man they had tried to save.

Cabba was taken away by medics, who suspected he was in shock. Trunks was left alone with his thoughts. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply—a filthy habit picked up here, but one he didn’t care about anymore—anything to calm his nerves, anything to stop the shaking. How many men had died under his command? Not just today, but over the last two months? How many terrified soldiers were still out there, cold and alone on the battlefield, scared to move? How many had followed his orders, running to their deaths because of him? Hundreds? Thousands?

Just then, a soldier jumped into the trench beside him—a woman. There were few women in the Saiyan army; though it was frowned upon, they had demanded equality, and here they were. She leaned against the wall, wiping blood from her hands, though she didn’t seem to be injured.

“You alright, soldier?” Trunks asked. She turned to him, noting his insignia, and quickly saluted.

“Captain Caulifla, sir. I’m fine. Glad to see you made it back,” she replied with a small smile. She seemed less affected by the horrors of war than many of the men.

“Here, you’ve earned this,” Trunks said, offering her a cigarette and a sip of whiskey.

“Thank you, Officer,” she said, accepting both. “Captain Caulifla, Third Battalion, 265th Division,” she added, ensuring her rank was noted. “Hey, we’ll get through this. We’ll win soon,” she assured him, her voice filled with a certainty that Trunks envied. She turned to leave, and Trunks could only hope she was right.

Before he could dwell on his thoughts, a young messenger appeared, covered in mud and out of breath. He handed Trunks a sealed envelope, the royal seal still visible despite the grime.

“Urgent message, sir,” the boy panted.

Trunks took the letter, his heart sinking as he felt the weight of its contents even before he broke the seal. A chance to escape the battlefield, to find refuge in the familiar luxury of the palace—but at what cost? What new burden awaited him there? And how could he face returning to this hell after tasting peace?

He turned the envelope over in his hands, the royal insignia staring back at him. No matter what this letter holds, it will change everything. And when he saw his father, they would have much to discuss—not just the war, but the voices of the men who fought in it, voices that Trunks would make sure were heard.