Prologue: Between Worlds
The void between life and death was neither cold nor warm. It simply was.
Andrew—or whoever he had been before—floated in that vast nothingness, consciousness flickering like a dying star. Memories of his previous life scattered like ash: a normal existence, unremarkable, ending far too soon in a way he couldn't quite remember anymore.
Then came the voice. Ancient. Cosmic. Amused.
"A soul unmoored, potential untapped. How… fortuitous."
Light exploded around him—ki energy in brilliant gold, magic in shimmering silver. Two forces that should never meet, colliding, merging, reshaping.
"Two worlds shall be your cradle, young warrior. One of magic, steeped in secrecy and wonder. One of strength, where gods tremble and universes hang in balance."
"What… what are you?" Andrew's voice—his new voice—echoed in the emptiness.
"A being of chance, perhaps. Of fate, maybe. Does it matter? You have been given a gift: knowledge of what is to come, power waiting to be claimed, and a tail that marks you as something this world has never seen."
A tail. The word resonated through his very soul.
"The blood of warriors flows through you now—Saiyan, they are called. Born for battle, rising beyond limits that would crush lesser beings. But you are also human, child of Earth, and that world needs you more than you know."
Images flashed before him: a young girl with brilliant violet eyes and messy black hair, magic crackling around her small hands. A pink-faced man with a cruel smile. Snakes, basilisks, dark lords rising. Then others: orange spheres of wish-granting power, martial artists soaring through clouds, tyrants who destroyed planets with a finger.
Dragon Ball. Harry Potter. Two stories he'd loved, now somehow real, somehow merged.
"Your path will not be easy, Andrew. The story has changed with your arrival. Fate itself bends. But remember—power means nothing without the will to protect what matters."
The light grew blinding.
"Now wake, little Saiyan. Your new life begins."
September 1989 - Little Whinging, Surrey
Andrew opened his eyes to consciousness for what felt like the first time—truly, genuinely conscious. He was four years old, sitting in a modest backyard, and wrapped around his waist, hidden beneath his shirt, was a brown furry tail that twitched with his emotions.
Holy shit. It's real.
The memories flooded back: two lives, two sets of experiences. His past life's knowledge of anime, manga, movies. And his new life's four years of living as Andrew Chen, son of Margaret and James Chen, a British-Chinese family living three streets away from Privet Drive.
Three streets away from her.
He'd met Violet Potter—he caught himself, Violet, not Harry, because in this world the Girl-Who-Lived had messy black hair, her mother's bright violet eyes, and a lightning-bolt scar on her forehead—exactly twice. Once at the local park when they were both three, where she'd shared her swing with him. Once at the grocery store, where her massive aunt had yanked her away when Violet smiled at him.
But he knew. He knew what was happening behind the door of Number 4 Privet Drive. Knew about the cupboard under the stairs, the neglect, the casual cruelty.
And now he had the power to eventually do something about it. Eventually. When he was stronger.
Because he also knew what was coming: Raditz, Vegeta, Frieza, Cell, Buu. And on the magical side: Quirrell, the Basilisk, Death Eaters, Voldemort.
Two apocalypses bearing down on one world.
Andrew stood up, wobbling slightly on four-year-old legs, and punched the air experimentally. Weak. Pathetically weak. But somewhere inside him, buried deep, was Saiyan potential. The ability to grow stronger with every battle, to break limits, to achieve transformations that would make him a god.
He just needed to train. Needed to find the right teacher.
Roshi, he thought, remembering the legendary Turtle Hermit from Dragon Ball. If this world had merged the two stories, then somewhere out there, the old master existed. Maybe in Japan, where Andrew's father had family. Maybe…
"Andrew! Dinner!"
His mother's voice called from inside. Andrew tucked his tail more securely under his shirt—his parents thought it was a birth defect, something the doctors said would need surgery eventually, but he'd thrown enough tantrums to keep it for now—and headed inside.
But he cast one last glance toward Privet Drive, toward where a violet-eyed girl was probably being sent to her cupboard without dinner.
Hold on, Violet. I'll get stronger. Strong enough to protect you. Strong enough to protect everyone.
I know what's coming. And I'm going to change everything.