Who Says Transmigration is Good?

That was no mere beam; it was a torrent of green energy five meters in diameter.

Wherever it passed, space seemed to twist, light warped, and even time grew viscous.

The Armor-Rock Giant Elephant, whose thick hide could withstand the bombardment of starship cannons, was as brittle as paper before this torrent—torn apart instantly and reduced to gas.

There was no explosion, no agonizing cry, only the faint "hiss" of matter decomposing.

A second passed, and the green torrent vanished.

A bottomless circular hole remained in the rock mountain, its edges so smooth they reflected a person's silhouette, still radiating a faint, dark-red heat.

The passage pierced straight through the entire mountain, and one could see the daylight spilling in from the far end.

As for the giant beast that had dominated this region for centuries, not even a scrap remained.

Broly withdrew his hand, the green light on his body slowly fading away.

He walked to the edge of the hole, crouched down, and pried a small piece of crystallized flesh from the molten rock.

This was one of the few parts of the giant elephant not completely vaporized, baked by the intense heat and pressure into a strange "food" somewhere between rock and barbecue.

He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

His face remained expressionless, as if he were mechanically completing a step for survival.

After eating, he looked up at the sky.

Through the thin atmosphere, the star was slowly sinking in the west, painting the sky a strange, blood-and-rust-mixed red.

Further away, the stars began to twinkle into existence.

One of them was in the direction of Planet Vegeta from all those years ago.

Broly squinted slightly.

Deep within those green pupils, a ripple stirred for the first time.

"Another day gone..." he muttered to himself, his voice as raspy as gravel grinding against metal.

Yesterday's brief, vivid dream had once again dragged him back to the world called "Blue Star," back to the version of himself named "Zhang Yang."

In the dream, the glass of skyscrapers reflected the dazzling sun, traffic flowed like a river of light along wide roads, the clamor of human voices, the hum of electronic devices, and the scent of afternoon coffee from his memories... all so real, yet so distant.

And those Dragon Ball fan-fiction novels he had stayed up late reading—those authors always wrote with such certainty, describing how transmigrators relied on foresight to grow strong, toyed with original characters, and strode down a path of invincibility... Now that he had truly experienced it himself, he found those fantasies naively ridiculous, even tinged with a cruel irony.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed that long-forgotten bitterness.

Then, he moved.

His crossed legs uncoiled slowly like a giant python being unsealed.

With his movement, the massive black rock beneath him let out a faint groan, as if it could no longer bear the weight.

Broly stood up; his movements were not fast, but as steady as a moving mountain.

For forty-one years, he hadn't just been living on this hellish planet; he had been tempering this Saiyan body in the most brutal way imaginable.

The high temperatures, radiation, thin and toxic atmosphere of Vampa, and the endless stream of ferocious beasts had long since become a natural part of his life.

He didn't even need to focus his "senses"; his body's instincts—or rather, the fighting talent in his Saiyan blood—allowed him to clearly "see," or rather, "touch," everything within a thousand miles: every scorpion hidden in a rock crevice, the footsteps of every giant beast wandering in the distance, their heartbeats, muscle contractions, and even the blood and energy flowing within them... it all reflected directly into his consciousness like an unfolded scroll.

Twelve thousand.

The number flashed through his mind—not a record, but an instinctive tally.

This was the total number of beasts he had killed with his own hands on Vampa.

When he first arrived, these monsters treated him as easy prey, swarming him with teeth and claws, trying to tear his flesh apart.

The result? Massacre after massacre.

Broly's fighting grew from initial clumsiness to something increasingly efficient and lethal.

His fists could shatter the hardest skulls, and a single energy blast would evaporate a giant beast into ash.

Blood seeped into the sand at the bottom of the valley, only to be baked dry by the heat into layers of dark, brown, hard crust.

After countless failures, the surviving beasts finally had fear etched into their very genes.

Beneath his bronze-colored skin, his muscles were as taut as steel wires, containing the power to split mountains and shatter rocks.

He looked up at the eternally burning star, his gaze complex.

It held both indifference toward the fate of his past life and the accumulation of his experiences in this one, but mostly, it was a calm assessment of the future.

This mythical bloodline at the start was a gift from heaven, but also a curse.

The road he imagined leading to the peak was destined to be filled with more thorns than the sands of Vampa.

At this thought, Zhang Yang just wanted to spit on the ground and curse, "To hell with 'transmigration is great! Transmigration is wonderful!'"