Chapter 1: The New World
The first sensation was not one of sight or sound, but of a profound, bone-deep stillness. It was the quiet of a life that had ended, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, he was nothing at all. Then, a rush of sensory data overwhelmed him.
The air smelled of woodsmoke and ancient incense, a scent so foreign it made his nose tingle. He lay on a thin, straw mat, its coarse texture a stark contrast to the soft mattress he remembered from his old life. He was small, so incredibly small, with thin arms and legs that felt foreign and uncoordinated. He was a child again, and the worst part was, he remembered everything. The blare of a truck horn, the sharp pain, the suffocating darkness… and then, this. This new reality.
He was Haruki. A four-year-old boy in a strange, mountainous temple. The monks called this place the Orin Temple. They moved with a serene grace, their faces calm and unreadable. He had been with them for as long as he could remember in this life, yet his mind was a battlefield of two existences: the one he was living and the one he had lost. He missed the internet, the infinite knowledge and entertainment just a click away. He missed his family, the simple warmth of a home, and the comfort of knowing what was coming next. Here, he had only questions. Where was he? Why was he here? And what was he supposed to do?
His new life was a grueling routine of physical labor and martial arts training. He was a wisp of a child, and the lightest tasks felt impossibly heavy. He would strain to lift a bucket of water, his face turning red with the effort, while other children his age carried two without breaking a sweat. He couldn't hold a proper stance during kata practice; his legs would tremble and give out after just a few minutes. Every punch he threw lacked the snap and power of the others. He felt like an imposter, a fragile doll among true warriors in the making.
One morning, as the sun began to paint the sky in fiery oranges and soft purples, a fellow young monk approached him. He was a year or two older than Haruki, with a small but sturdy frame. The most striking thing about him was his completely bald head, and the six distinct dots tattooed on his forehead.
"You're struggling with the punches," the boy said, his voice surprisingly confident. "You're just using your arm. You've gotta put your whole body into it."
Haruki looked at him, feeling a vague, unsettling familiarity. The boy held out his fist, and something in the gesture, combined with his appearance, stirred a long-dormant memory in Haruki's mind. A faded image of a cartoon he had loved as a child, a silly show about fighting and aliens. He tried to shake the thought away; it was just a strange coincidence.
"My name is Krillin," the boy said, offering a small, kind smile. "My master told me about you. He says you're very determined."
The name hit Haruki like a physical blow. Krillin. The name of a character in that old cartoon. He felt his heart begin to pound against his ribs. He wanted to dismiss it as a coincidence, a silly game his mind was playing. But then Krillin began to talk.
He spoke of his old master, a legendary figure with a shell on his back who lived on a distant island. He mentioned a strange, flying yellow cloud that his master had once promised him. He spoke of the Turtle Hermit, of the Kame School of Martial Arts, and a boy named Goku.
As Krillin's words poured out, a terrifying realization washed over Haruki. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place with a sickening finality. The strange, mountainous temple, the legendary martial arts, the ungodly power of some of the older monks he had seen performing incredible feats. This wasn't just another world. This was the world of Dragon Ball. The cartoon from his childhood.
A cold wave of dread swept over him, far more intense than any fatigue from training. He was no longer just a confused boy in a new world. He was a fragile human in a world full of beings who could level mountains and destroy planets. The villains of this universe weren't just bad guys; they were literal gods of destruction. And he was a background extra, a piece of set dressing for the real heroes. He was a character destined to be a victim, a footnote in a larger, more violent story.
He felt the cold sweat on his brow, the trembling in his hands. He was destined to be weak. Destined to be helpless.
No. He wouldn't accept that fate.
As Krillin went back to his own practice, Haruki stood alone in the courtyard, staring at his own small, trembling hands. He had no power. But he had time. He had a secret. He knew what was coming. He knew the threats and the heroes. He had no choice but to fight his fate. He would not be a background character. He would train, and not for the sake of the monks or his daily chores. He would train for himself. He would push his body to its limits and beyond. He would become stronger, slowly but surely. He would survive this new world.
The morning bell rang, a call to arms for his new life. He was in a world of impossible power, and he was the weakest person in it. He knew what he had to do. He would train, and he would not stop.