The moon was high over Orario, casting soft silver light through the small window of Zamasu's modest inn room.
The candles on his desk had long since burned low, reduced to pools of wax, but he had lit more, their flickering glow illuminating stacks of parchment, scattered quills, half-finished sketches, and splotches of wasted ink.
Zamasu sat hunched at the desk, toga loose around his shoulders, his silver hair slightly disheveled. His hand moved quickly—too quickly—as he began another iteration of the Z Broly design.
This was the fourth or fifth attempt, though he'd stopped counting after the ink had bled through another sheet and ruined a batch underneath.
He scowled, tossing the latest parchment into the growing pile of discarded drafts.
"This is harder than I thought," he muttered, reaching for a fresh page. "I've drawn Concept art of armor plates before. Battle gear. This shouldn't be so difficult."
But it was.
Reconstructing a legendary outfit from memory using backwater equipment was more challenging than anything he has done before.
Z Broly's outfit wasn't just aesthetic—it was made for war. Loose, breathable green pants, a sash that flowed with movement, and thick arm guards designed to withstand incredible force.
The chest was exposed, allowing freedom of movement, but the limbs were armored—reinforced. There was a method to the madness.
Zamasu tapped the edge of his quill on the table, eyes drifting across the sketch.
He had the proportions roughly right now, and the pants looked decent after three redrafts, but the metallic wrist and ankle cuffs?
That's where he kept stumbling.
"Steel won't be enough," he murmured. "It needs to endure impact and energy shock. Adamantite? No, too rare. That Mithril metal, perhaps… but even that might be too brittle for what I have in mind."
He sighed deeply and leaned back. "I don't need the originals. I just need something close."
He considered Dungeon-forged alloys—materials hardened by mana exposure and tempered in the forges of Orario.
They were rare, but obtainable. Perhaps in time he could create something better than the original arm guards.
As for the gems—those glowing stones embedded in Broly's cuffs and sash—Zamasu dismissed them outright.
"They were aesthetic. Maybe ki-enhancing in some versions, but I don't need them. Decorative fluff," he muttered, drawing an "X" through the part of the cuff where the gem should've gone.
And the shock collar? Zamasu let out a scoff.
"Absolutely not. I'm no slave. And keeping it on in battle would be difficult."
He erased it from the design entirely, sketching a clean neckline instead.
The finished version of the Z Broly outfit, while still crude and shaky in linework, now resembled something usable: thick, rugged pants tied with a cloth sash, bare-chested torso, reinforced boots, and heavy bracers at wrists and ankles.
"This outfit should give the impression that I'm powerful and primal, something that projected dominance without being ornate."
Zamasu then glanced at the dwindling pile of unused parchment. Only a few sheets left.
No rest yet.
"Next," he said aloud, forcing himself upright. "Zeno Goku."
This design required more precision. The high-collared gi with long sleeves, the dark sash across the waist, and black pants with matching wrist cuffs.
Sleek and modest, yet exuding an aura of authority and calm.
But something about the silhouette was hard to capture. The collar kept turning out uneven. The gi's fold at the waist looked bulky.
The proportions seemed too flat.
After three more failed sheets—one of which he accidentally tore when his hand jerked from frustration—he had to stop and breathe.
Zamasu ran a hand down his face.
"I used to be patient," he muttered.
He took a moment to regain his composure before returning to the drawing.
He redrew the top, paying special attention to the angled high collar and overlapping folds. The color scheme—charcoal black with a blue inner lining—was noted carefully in the margin.
Then came the weapon: the Power Pole.
Zeno Goku had carried it as a symbolic nod to his childhood days.
A mystic staff, expandable at will.
Zamasu paused, tapping the quill against the paper again.
In this world, such a weapon would be invaluable—if it could be recreated. But the actual mechanics of a magical, infinitely expanding staff were far from simple.
He frowned.
"Could I substitute it with a crafted weapon? A quarterstaff? A spear, perhaps?"
After all, he has plans to get formal training in martial arts, with the body, half god/half Saiyan— warrior race.
Might as well learn to wield every weapon possible.
A weighted staff was viable, but then it wouldn't be the same. Zamasu hesitated before drawing the staff lightly in the margin, adding a small note beside it:
Optional. Needs enchantment. Not essential.
He moved on to the boots and wrist cuffs, simpler than Broly's but just as functional.
He added slits in the pants for ease of movement, tightened the cuffs to reduce flaring, and made small adjustments to the belt's knot.
By the time the second design was completed, his hands were stained with ink, the candle wax was nearly dripping onto his desk, and only one half-sheet of parchment remained.
The floor around him was littered with curled-up drafts and torn scraps.
Zamasu leaned back and exhaled slowly.
He looked at the designs now laying side by side on the desk: one primal, rugged, built for unrestrained combat; the other clean, balanced, worn by a being of calm omnipotence. Two extremes.
And he had barely enough material left to start a third.
Worse, when he counted his remaining valis, his stomach dropped slightly.
He had spent almost all his remaining valis on the supplies—far more than he intended.
The inks, the extra parchment, the second round of quills after the first batch dulled or broke… it had added up quickly.
He sighed and sat back, arms crossed, surveying the mess he'd made.
"All that for just two outfits."
And that wasn't even counting the fabric or materials needed to bring the designs to life.
He'd need tailors, blacksmiths, enchanters—an entire team just to approximate what he wanted.
Even with compromises, it would cost more than he currently owned.
Much more.
Zamasu stood and began clearing the desk, carefully stacking the two finished designs to preserve them.
He gathered the empty ink bottles and tucked the half-dried quills into a cloth wrap.
"This was a necessary step," he muttered, though even to himself it sounded like an excuse.
The truth was, he had burned through the whole evening and night obsessing over these drawings, and now he had nothing left to work with.
He rubbed his temples.
"There are still the Fused Zamasu and Grand Priest designs… but not now."
No parchment, no ink, and no funds meant he couldn't afford to start the next design cycle.
Besides, if he didn't get more materials soon, the first two sketches might never see completion.
And there was only one place in Orario where a stranger like him could earn serious money fast: the Dungeon.
It was the most ideal.
His body was still stabilizing, his ki fluctuating in subtle ways.
But with raw strength alone, he had descended to the 15th floor before.
'And from what games taught me is that monsters should be stronger the deeper the floors.'
'And the monsters I've encountered on the 15th floor were weak, so I should be able to explore the floor next time.'
If he pushed deeper—and stayed cautious—he could earn enough to restock materials and start commissioning the first outfit.
He could feel it already: the small tug in his heart, telling me to 'fight,' urging him to descend once more.
He gathered the completed sketches and tucked them carefully into the side of a leather folder he had made by folding the stiffest of the unused parchment.
He placed the quill inside an empty ink vial, keeping it safe in case he needed it later.
He extinguished the last candle, then walked over to the window.
The first hints of dawn were painting the rooftops in pale orange light.
Another sleepless night.
'Haven't done this since high school.' He smiled.
He hadn't felt hunger since he came to this world, he clearly realized he did not need food, but not eating is not an option.
Another issue to solve—after he secured the valis.
He moved to his pack, checking supplies. His toga, still flawless, would have to suffice again. He adjusted it, tied the sash tighter, and clipped a leather pouch in his toga.
"Time to return," he murmured. "No more delays."
With quiet determination, Zamasu stepped out of the inn.
The streets were just beginning to stir—merchants raising shutters, early adventurers heading toward the Dungeon entrance in Babel, bakers setting out steaming loaves of bread.
He ignored the tempting smell and made a beeline for the Tower.
There was no more time to waste.
The Dungeon awaited.
And he had designs to fund.
Chapter 15 end