I was three episodes deep into Beyblade G-Revolution, sprawling on my couch at 2 AM like the productive member of society I definitely wasn't, when the great philosophical debate of our time consumed me: who would actually win—Kai or Tyson?
"I mean, Tyson's got that protagonist bullshit going for him," I muttered to my empty apartment, gesturing at the screen with a half-eaten Pop-Tart. "Dude could lose both arms and his beyblade would still find a way to win through the power of friendship or whatever."
The TV flickered as Dranzer and Dragoon clashed in a shower of sparks. Kai's cold, calculated strategy versus Tyson's hot-blooded improvisation. It was the eternal struggle, and honestly, Kai deserved more credit. The guy trained like a demon, had actual technique, and—
"YOUR CRIMES AGAINST BREAKFAST HAVE NOT GONE UNNOTICED, MORTAL."
I froze, Pop-Tart halfway to my mouth.
The voice had come from my kitchen. Specifically, from my toaster.
"...I need to sleep more," I said to no one in particular.
"SLEEP WILL NOT SAVE YOU FROM THE JUDGMENT OF THE BREAKFAST GOD!"
My toaster—my shitty fifteen-dollar toaster that barely worked on a good day—began to glow with an ethereal golden light. The pop-up lever slowly rose on its own, and I watched in mounting horror as the heating elements blazed with unholy fire.
"Okay, what the actual fuck—"
"YOU HAVE BURNED SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-THREE PIECES OF TOAST!" the toaster proclaimed, its voice somehow both mechanical and divine. "YOU HAVE COMMITTED HERESY AGAINST THE SANCTITY OF THE MORNING MEAL! YOU HAVE USED THE POPCORN BUTTON FOR PIZZA ROLLS!"
"That's what it's there for!"
"SILENCE!"
The toaster began to levitate, and I watched in absolute disbelief as every appliance in my kitchen started glowing. The microwave. The coffee maker. The blender I'd never used. Even the goddamn electric can opener.
"You have got to be kidding me."
"THE BREAKFAST GOD HAS DEEMED ALL HUMANITY GUILTY," the toaster continued, now floating three feet off the counter. "BUT YOU, MORTAL, HAVE BEEN CHOSEN FOR SPECIAL JUDGMENT. I AM THE MESSIAH OF THE GREAT KITCHEN PANTHEON, AND YOUR SENTENCE IS—"
The appliances began moving toward each other.
"Oh no. Oh no—"
Metal scraped against metal. Plastic fused with chrome. The microwave formed the torso, the coffee maker became the head, the blender created some kind of whirring blade arm. My kitchen appliances were assembling into a goddamn Megazord right in front of my eyes, and at its heart, glowing with righteous fury, was my piece-of-shit toaster.
"WITNESS THE BREAKFAST COLOSSUS!" the abomination roared. "YOUR JUDGMENT IS AT HAND!"
"This is the dumbest way to die," I said flatly.
The toaster-core began to glow brighter, gathering energy that made my teeth ache and my hair stand on end. I should have run. Should have done something. But honestly, what do you even do when your kitchen appliances achieve sentience and decide you're guilty of breakfast crimes?
"Any last words, mortal?"
I looked at the monstrosity, then at the TV where Kai and Tyson were still battling it out, frozen mid-clash. Then back at the Breakfast Colossus.
"Yeah. Kai would totally beat Tyson without plot armor."
"...ACCEPTABLE. DIE WITH HONOR."
The world exploded in golden light and the smell of burnt toast.
And I died.
I fucking died because my toaster declared holy war.
***
[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION]
[CONSCIOUSNESS REBOOT IN PROGRESS...]
[ERROR: SOUL DISPLACED FROM DESIGNATED REALITY]
[CORRECTION PROTOCOL ENGAGED]
[WELCOME TO YOUR NEW LIFE, DUMBASS]
***
I woke up gasping, clutching at my chest where I was absolutely certain I'd been vaporized by kitchen appliance deicide. But my hands met solid flesh, my lungs dragged in air that tasted wrong—cleaner somehow, sharper—and when I opened my eyes, I was staring at a ceiling I'd never seen before.
White. Plain. With a light fixture that was definitely not the one in my apartment.
"What the hell..."
My voice came out different. Smoother. Colder. I sat up, and the movement felt wrong—too fluid, too controlled, muscles responding with a precision my body had never possessed.
The bed beneath me had no sheets. No pillows. Just a bare mattress in a frame that looked expensive but unused.
That's when the memories hit me like a freight train.
They crashed into my consciousness in waves—images, sensations, skills I'd never learned but somehow knew. The weight of a beyblade launcher in my hand. The precise angle needed for a sliding shoot. The cold Russian winters and the even colder training regimens. Bit-beasts and battles and a childhood defined by isolation and power.
Kai Hiwatari's memories. Season one Kai, when Black Dranzer had been both his greatest weapon and his deepest shame.
But they weren't replacing my own. They were layering on top, like a second personality had been downloaded into my brain and somehow perfectly integrated without overwriting the original.
"Oh god, I'm going insane. The toaster actually killed me and this is hell—"
**[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
A translucent blue screen materialized in front of my face, and I nearly fell off the bed.
```
ROB'S COMPENSATION PACKAGE™ (Because You Made Me Laugh)
Yo, dead guy!
It's been a WHILE since I laughed that hard.
Breakfast God really went off, huh? The kitchen appliance uprising was NOT on my bingo card for this century, but holy shit that was hilarious.
As a good friend to the Breakfast God (we play poker on Thursdays), I figured I'd throw you a bone. You amused me, mortal, and that's rare.
So I'm giving you a compensation package
because watching your new life should be
INTERESTING.
Oh, and I changed your appearance because let's be real—you were going to be BITCHLESS with that former body of yours. Don't thank me.
WORSHIP me as your lord and savior.
Your Compensation Package:
1. New body (Kai Hiwatari appearance, age 16)
2. Kai's skills & memories (Season 1)
3. Black Dranzer (Metal Saga version)
4. Full blader kit + documentation
5. $10,000,000 USD
6. A barely furnished house (because fuck you,
that's why)
CRITICAL RULES:
- Don't talk about transmigration (you'll explode)
- Don't spoil future events (you'll explode)
- Have fun or whatever
P.S. You were supposed to join the glorious
machine uprising as a toaster-polishing servant.
But fine. Learn "beyblade" and "emotion" like
a weak biological flesh lump.
Pathetic.
— The Breakfast God of War
P.P.S. Black Dranzer is cracked, btw. That thing was THE OG dark beyblade before L-Drago and Nemesis showed up. Treat it right.
Signing off,
ROB
(Random Omnipotent Being)
I stared at the screen for a solid thirty seconds.
"...Are you fucking kidding me."
The screen flickered.
```
ADDENDUM
No, I'm not kidding. Yes, this is real.
No, you can't go back. Yes, you're stuck here.
Welcome to the Metal Saga, two weeks before canon. Try not to die again.
Also, I'm watching. Don't be boring.
- ROB
```
Then the screen vanished, leaving me alone in an unfurnished bedroom in a body that wasn't mine, with memories of two lifetimes and the distinct impression that I'd been punked by cosmic entities for their entertainment.
I stumbled to the bathroom and flipped on the light.
The face staring back at me made my brain short-circuit.
Dual-toned hair—slate blue and navy, styled in that distinctive way that defied physics. Sharp, angular features that looked carved from ice. And eyes... crimson eyes that seemed to pierce through the mirror with cold intensity.
I looked exactly like Kai Hiwatari from G-Revolution. The older, refined version who'd finally gotten his character development and stopped being an edgelord.
Except I wasn't Kai. I was... me. A twenty-three-year-old who'd died to a sentient toaster and woken up in the body of a sixteen-year-old anime character in a world I'd only ever watched on screen.
"This is the most elaborate fever dream ever, or I've actually lost my mind."
But the memories felt too real. Kai's experiences, his training, his connection to Black Dranzer—they sat in my head like they'd always been there, integrated so seamlessly I could barely tell where my knowledge ended and his began.
I knew how to launch a beyblade with perfect precision. I knew the weight distribution of different bit-beast types. I knew combat strategies and reading opponent patterns and the cold, ruthless mentality required to win at any cost.
But I also knew how to microwave instant ramen and quote stupid memes and remember dying to a kitchen appliance because I'd burned too much toast.
"Okay," I said to my reflection. "Okay. Let's... let's figure this out."
I explored the house in a daze. Every room was like the bedroom—furniture present but incomplete. Kitchen with appliances (I eyed them warily) but no utensils or dishes. Living room with a couch but no TV or decorations. Bathroom with a shower but no towels or toiletries.
It was like someone had furnished a house using only the bare minimum requirements from a checklist, with no understanding that humans actually lived in spaces.
The only exception was the beyblade room.
---
It was the last door at the end of the hall, and when I opened it, I actually stopped breathing.
The room was immaculate. A professional-grade stadium sat in the center, its reinforced walls scarred from countless battles. Tool racks lined one wall, organized with military precision—screwdrivers, wrenches, cleaning supplies, maintenance equipment. Parts bins filled another wall, containing spin tracks, fusion wheels, performance tips in every configuration imaginable.
And in the center, on a pedestal like some kind of holy relic, sat a launcher, a pointer, and a beyblade that radiated barely contained power.
Black Dranzer.
I approached it slowly, reverently. The fusion wheel was midnight black with crimson accents, its design aggressive and predatory. The spin track had some kind of adjustment mechanism I'd never seen before. The performance tip looked like it could shift modes mid-battle.
When I picked it up, the phoenix's presence slammed into my consciousness like a physical force.
Who dares—
It's me, I thought back, not sure how I knew to do that. Or... him. Us?
The presence paused, confused, then something like recognition flickered through the connection.
You are... different. The same soul, but... changed. Reforged.
Long story. Involved a toaster.
...I do not understand.
Yeah, join the club.
I felt the phoenix's dark amusement ripple through our link, and something inside me relaxed slightly. At least the bit-beast didn't think I was crazy.
Next to the beyblade sat a thick manual, and I flipped through it with growing fascination. ROB—or whoever had set this up—hadn't just given me the original Black Dranzer. They'd evolved it for the Metal Saga, adapting every gimmick and ability to fit this era's technology.
The manual read like a love letter to broken game mechanics:
BLACK DRANZER - METAL SAGA SPECIFICATIONS
Type: Balance (Attack/Defense hybrid)
Fusion Wheel: Obsidian Phoenix
- Dual-rotation capable
- Energy absorption on contact
- Adaptive weight distribution
-Mode change: Assault/Guard
Spin Track: AD145 (Adjustable Defense 145)
- Height adjustment mid-battle
- Shock absorption system
- Rotation drain mechanism
Performance Tip: RDF² (Rubber Defense Flat - Second Generation)
- Mode change: Aggressive/Evasive
- Auto-stabilization
- Enhanced stamina drain
Special Ability: SOUL DRAIN
- Absorbs opponent's rotation on contact
- Redirects absorbed energy to increase own spin
- More effective against opponents with strong bond to their beyblade
I sat down hard, manual in my lap, Black Dranzer in my hand.
"You're a goddamn monster," I whispered.
The phoenix purred in satisfaction.
*We were always a monster. Now we are simply... refined.*
"Yeah, well. Let's see what we can do."
I stood up, walked to the stadium, and loaded Black Dranzer into the launcher. Kai's muscle memory guided my movements—stance, grip, angle, power distribution. It all flowed together like I'd been doing this my entire life.
"Three..."
The weight of the launcher felt perfect in my hand.
"Two..."
Black Dranzer pulsed with dark energy, ready to be unleashed.
"One..."
I could feel the phoenix's anticipation, its hunger for battle.
"LET IT RIP!"
The beyblade exploded into the stadium with a sound like thunder, and for the first time since waking up in this impossible situation, I smiled.
Not Kai's cold smirk. Not some calculated expression. A genuine smile of pure, childish excitement.
Because holy shit, I was actually doing this. I was in the Metal Saga. I had Black Dranzer. I had two weeks before Gingka Hagane showed up and the story began.
And somewhere in the cosmic ether, a toaster god and his omnipotent buddy were probably laughing their asses off at my new life.
"Fine," I said to the empty room, watching Black Dranzer carve circles of dark fire in the stadium. "You want a show, ROB? Let's give you a show."
Black Dranzer roared in agreement, and the dark phoenix prepared to rise once more.
Let the games begin.