In the year 746 , the cold northern wind howled continuously, like sharp blades cutting against one's face, stinging with pain. Stretching endlessly before the eyes was a vast, boundless desert, its surface eroded by wind and sand, leaving behind grotesque rock formations standing chaotically, like deformed children of nature. Occasionally, dark, tangled tumbleweeds rolled across the barren land.
Apart from the endless yellow sand and naturally sculpted strange rock formations, there was nothing else in sight. Even insects and small animals were a rare sight. Not even the most ruthless real estate developers would waste their time and energy trying to develop this land.
Desolation and solitude were the defining traits of this region.
This place lay a hundred miles from the foot of the legendary Flaming Mountain, an infamous and mysterious desert region.
Rumors spoke of ruthless desert bandits dwelling in this land—menacing figures whose mere mention struck fear into the hearts of travelers. These outlaws thrived on plundering passersby, their greed insatiable, leaving a trail of robbery, arson, and brutality in their wake. Even a wild goose flying overhead would not be spared from being plucked of its feathers.
Amidst the western part of this desert, one rock formation stood out—a massive, towering monolith, significantly larger than the surrounding stone formations, making it an unmistakable sight.
Like the other stones, this giant rock bore countless holes and scars from erosion. However, upon closer inspection, its perforations did not appear naturally formed but rather bore traces of human craftsmanship, resembling a series of windows.
This massive rock was, in fact, not a natural formation. Through the gaps in the openings, one could vaguely glimpse simple furnishings inside, clear evidence that it served as a dwelling for someone.
Carved at the center of the massive rock were four large traditional Chinese characters: "Tempered a Thousand Times" (千锤百炼), leaving no doubt as to the significance of this place. The bold inscription stretched from top to bottom, covering almost the entire surface of the rock.
Standing beneath this colossal stone was a boy of about thirteen years old. His long, jet-black hair gleamed with an enviable luster, and his delicate, handsome features could make certain individuals with peculiar preferences scream in admiration.
Were it not for his somewhat lifeless gaze, he could truly be considered a charming and elegant young boy.
Though his eyes carried a firm determination, they seemed devoid of spirit—perhaps not in the literal sense, but rather in the way that some people are simply born with such an expression. His gaze resembled the dull eyes of a dead fish or the sharp, upward tilt of a noose-bound stare.
Around his neck, he wore a ragged, dirt-yellow scarf, tied in reverse. His outfit consisted only of a thin, sleeveless green vest, its design bearing traces of ancient Tang Dynasty influence. At the center of the vest, a large and striking "乐" (Le) character was prominently displayed. However, considering that autumn had already set in, bringing cooler temperatures, his light attire seemed rather unseasonable.
This boy was clearly no ordinary individual.
Of course, there was also the possibility that he was simply poor.
In the desert, the most common creatures were wolves. Living in such a harsh environment, the boy frequently fought against them. Through countless battles with these fearsome predators, he had observed and mimicked their attack patterns, eventually mastering a technique of his own.
Its name was—
'Wolf Fang Fist'
With a loud battle cry, the boy assumed a stance, gathering his strength. For a fleeting moment, a chorus of wolf howls seemed to echo in his ears. Behind him, the phantom of a ravenous, ferocious wolf emerged, its eerie green eyes locked onto the target ahead—greedy, vicious, and unwavering in its intent to tear its prey apart.
Had an ordinary person been in his place, they would have been so terrified that they might have wet themselves on the spot.
Wolves, whether in packs or alone, were the embodiment of brutality. At times, a wolf could be even more fearsome than the king of the mountains—the tiger.
In the next instant, the boy moved. His hands formed claw-like shapes as he launched a series of forceful strikes forward. Fierce winds howled with each blow. At the same time, the spectral wolf behind him also "moved." It bared its massive, bloodthirsty jaws and let out a piercing howl. The sound echoed through the stone forest, reverberating endlessly, as if countless wolves were responding in unison.
It was as if he was not accompanied by just one wolf, but an entire pack.
And he—he was their king.
"This is the Wolf Fang Fist!"
No one knew how much time had passed before the final strike was delivered. By then, the boy's body was drenched in sweat.
"Not enough… this is still not enough. Just executing the Wolf Fang Fist alone has already left me exhausted."
Clenching his sore and aching hands tightly, the boy muttered to himself.
From his words, it was clear—despite possessing strength that far surpassed most ordinary people, he remained deeply dissatisfied with his own power.
Even the terrifying Wolf Fang Fist—he dismissed it as nothing more than a mere trick.
Mastering the technique was one thing, but even if his strength were to increase tenfold, a hundredfold, or even a thousandfold, no matter how much he perfected the Wolf Fang Fist, it would still be insignificant compared to the figures that lingered in his memories.
Those people…
Golden hair.
Red hair.
Blue hair.
Even green hair.
The gap between them was simply too vast.
But… it was fine.
"Master Yamcha~"
Just as the boy was lost in thought, a soft, affectionate voice interrupted his memories.
A moment later, a small blue creature—somewhere between a cat and a fox—fluttered out from the window of the massive rock. Speaking in a distinctly human voice, it wobbled through the air before floating to the boy's side.
Yamcha. That was the boy's name.
But it was his second life.
Yes, that Yamcha—the infamous one from the Dragon Ball world. The early-series heartthrob, a side character with decent screen time, only to later become cannon fodder. The one whose dramatic death pose became an internet sensation, turning him into a tragic figure mocked by countless fans.
The boy was a reincarnator.
He no longer remembered how he got here—only that when he regained consciousness, he had become Yamcha, at the age of four.
Humans are surprisingly adaptable creatures. What once felt unnatural became familiar within a month.
Now, he was Yamcha.
"Oh, it's Puar."
Looking at the small blue creature, still sucking on a pacifier, Yamcha's initially disappointed expression softened into a gentle smile.
"When did you get back? Did the transformation kindergarten go on break?"
"I came back while Master Yamcha was practicing his punches. Today, a naughty kid named Oolong caused trouble in class—he secretly lifted the teacher's skirt and got kicked out of the classroom. So the teacher let us out early!"
Puar seemed quite happy, chattering away to Yamcha about everything that had happened that day. However, since the little creature still had a pacifier in its mouth, its words came out somewhat muffled.
Puar was five years old and a student at South Transformation Kindergarten.
The South Transformation Kindergarten was an elite school, open only to a very select number of beast-type humanoids. Its most famous subject? The art of limitless transformation.
In this strange and wondrous world, besides regular humanoid humans, there existed many anthropomorphic beings—tiger people, wolf people, even dinosaur people. They were all collectively known as beast-type humanoids. Possessing the same level of intelligence as humans, they lived on this planet just like everyone else.
In fact, the king of the very country Yamcha resided in was said to be a beast-type humanoid with the face of a dog.
Yes—the Dog-Head King.
If not for the fact that Yamcha himself lacked the necessary innate ability, he would have loved to attend the school alongside Puar and learn transformation techniques.
After playing around with Puar for a short while, Yamcha sent the little creature off to rest. After all, Puar was only five years old, and the long journey from the southern region to the desert had surely been exhausting. Even for a beast-type humanoid, Puar was still in early childhood—undoubtedly tired.
Once Puar was settled in, Yamcha turned his attention to preparing his breakfast.
His meal consisted of a large quantity of salted meat paired with an even larger quantity of steamed buns—a meal so simple that, in a world where cuisine was relatively advanced, it could hardly be considered anything more than plain rations.
Not because Yamcha was undergoing some kind of harsh warrior training.
No—it was simply because he was broke.
At the end of the day, Yamcha was still just a thirteen-year-old kid. There weren't many ways for him to make money. Sure, he was a desert bandit, so in theory, he could rob people.
But…
This stretch of desert was so barren that even birds couldn't be bothered to fly over it—let alone travelers.
There were wolves, lizards, scorpions, and, of course, annoying flies.
And with all the wild rumors about terrifying desert bandits spreading around, even fewer people dared to pass through.
To make matters worse, Yamcha was a bandit with principles—a rare breed.
He refused to rob the poor. Instead, he focused on robbing from the rich and… giving to the poor (himself).
At first glance, robbing the rich to give to the poor sounded like it should be quite profitable.
It wasn't.
The reality was that in this world—or any world, really—the real rule of banditry was this:
"You take 70% from the poor and return all of the rich man's money."
That was how most bandits actually survived.
But Yamcha? He refused to follow that logic.
To him, crossing that line was a one-way street—there was no middle ground. You either never crossed it, or you did it countless times.
He was strong enough to hold his own, and if he ever encountered someone stronger, well—he'd just avoid them.
And so…
The word "poor" became the most accurate description of his life.
Throughout the entire desert, aside from himself, not a single soul could be seen.
And to make matters worse, the technology of this world was bizarrely advanced—far beyond the world of Yamcha's previous life.
Among its many innovations was the Capsule Corporation's Hoi-Poi Capsules—a mind-boggling space-compression technology that allowed people to store massive objects in tiny capsules.
Because of this, finding alternative ways to make money was even harder.
And Yamcha—formerly Leping in his past life—was just an ordinary person in both worlds, with no special knowledge to take advantage of.
Even the salted meat he ate was just self-cured wolf meat from the animals he had hunted—tough, gamey, and utterly unappetizing.
At home, he also had scorpion paste and dried lizard, but their taste was… best left unspoken.
Still—having food at all was already a blessing.
As he thought about this, Yamcha swallowed the last bite of his steamed bun.
Then, rubbing his still-growling stomach, he walked into the kitchen and checked the dwindling rice barrel.
"I should try hunting something fresh next time to improve my meals."
At the thought of food, Yamcha's eyes sharpened with determination.
A struggling transmigrator, forced to fight for basic survival—especially in a world as brutally dangerous as this one.
Just thinking about it felt tragic.
As for his parents?
Yamcha had never seen them, not even once, since the day he could remember.
With no wine to drink and his meal leaving him unsatisfied, Yamcha walked into one of the small, rough-hewn stone rooms of his makeshift desert home.
Inside the room, there was one particular item—his only real means of growing stronger, aside from his current training in the Wolf Fang Fist.
(End of Chapter.)