Kengan Godzilla
When Bai Tangjing faced Tokisada Ohma's fist, he couldn't help but reminisce about the days not long ago, when he had participated in the Kengan Annihilation Tournament. Back then, the fighters battled with every blow landing solidly, pure and unadorned. But now... "You little street rat! You dare get distracted while fighting me?! Take my Fifty Thousand Beasts’ Strength: Double Tiger Exploding Fist!" — Tokisada Ohma "You weakling! Just fifty thousand is nowhere near enough for me to take you seriously. You’re still far from qualified! One Hundred Thousand Strength: Atomic Breath!" — Bai Tangjing ~~~~~~ Being reborn in 2008’s Land of the Sun was a blessing. Fantasizing about a future drenched in neon lights and decadent pleasures, discovering he’d gained a golden finger was an even greater fortune. Yet, lost in dreams of the days to come, Bai Tangjing had no idea that, in just a few minutes, a blood-written fate reading from Mud Buddha of "Storm Riders" would show him just how chaotic this world could truly be.
Kengan Godzilla
“You little brat! How did you get yourself this filthy? Always making trouble for others!” An irate scolding in Japanese rang out by his ear.
What’s this? Scolding me right off the bat?
But before the newly reborn traveler could react, a large hand seized his slender arm with irresistible force and dragged him into the bathroom.
The showerhead was turned to full blast, and the torrent of water poured over him as though washing livestock. Reflected in the bathroom mirror, he could see the boy being handled and scrubbed like a rag doll by his foster mother.
No matter how his body was turned or scrubbed, his eyes remained fixed, vacant, staring into the mirror. After all, any twenty-something adult suddenly finding themselves in the body of a child not yet ten would be struck by bewilderment and alarm at their new form.
The boy in the mirror had delicate features, but there was a softness, almost a weakness, between his brows. The muddy footprints and filth smeared across him were clear traces of bullying from his peers.
Enduring the constant scolding, he was finally sent back to his room and made to lie on his bed before his senses slowly returned. Still dazed, the boy noticed a name tag on the schoolbag beside him.
“Shirado Kagami, second grade... only eight years old?” Perhaps due to the melding of souls, the former youth of the Republic could now read Japanese fluently.
He nodded at the name on the bag. “Not bad—a name that rolls off the tongue in both Chinese and Japanese.”
Now settled in this unfamiliar place, the
