Eighteen years flew by in the blink of an eye.
Inside a hidden training hall tucked away within the skeleton of an old textile factory—its walls now reinforced with ballistic gel, punching dummies, weapon racks, and holographic tech—Smith Doyle stood calmly at the center of the ring.
Surrounding him in a wide circle were six elite assassins.
Mr. X, calm and calculating, his fingers twitching with residual reflex training.
Cross, intense and poised like a coiled viper, eyes locked on Smith with paternal focus.
The Butcher, wide-shouldered and imposing, twirling a knife between thick fingers.
The Mechanic, deceptively lean but lethal, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The Gunsmith, arms crossed, pistols holstered, but clearly ready to draw at the slightest hint of movement.
And Pesticide, masked and silent, a small, hissing bomb already spinning between his gloved hands.
They had him completely surrounded.
But Smith didn't show even a flicker of fear.
Had this been just a few days ago, he wouldn't have stood a chance. Not against them. Not against the six legends of the Assassin Brotherhood—each of whom had a body count in the thousands, and each of whom had helped train him to be the man he was today.
Up until recently, Smith Doyle was just a man—peak human perhaps, but still only human.
But today? Today was different.
He crouched low into a combat stance. Hands shaped into claws. Elbows tight. Legs coiled like springs. It wasn't a stance from the Brotherhood or any known martial art. It was wild—feral. It pulsed with energy.
Then—
FWOOOSH!
In a blur of movement, Smith lunged forward. The air cracked around him.
"Wolf Fang Fist!"
His speed was unreal—inhuman.
X and Cross reacted immediately. Both triggered bullet time—an ultra-rare enhancement that bent their perception of time itself. Their pupils dilated. Their brains accelerated. Everything slowed around them.
Normally, this gave them the edge. It let them dodge bullets mid-flight, react to punches before they were thrown, and even predict the arc of thrown blades.
But not today.
BAM.
WHAM.
CRACK!
A sonic boom echoed through the hall.
It was as if a wild beast had been let loose.
Smith's fists moved like a blur, his strikes carrying the weight of something far greater than muscle and training—they carried instinct, raw power, and years of restraint breaking free.
X flew backward, smashing into a padded wall with enough force to dent the steel behind it.
Cross caught a spinning heel kick to the temple and crumpled with a grunt, skidding across the mat.
The Butcher tried to counter with a wide swing of his blade—but Smith ducked under it, palm-striking him in the solar plexus with such force the man was lifted off the ground and slammed into the floor like a sack of meat.
The Mechanic darted forward, aiming to flank him with a joint lock—but Smith spun, dodged, and delivered a backfist to his jaw that echoed like a firecracker.
The Gunsmith didn't even get to draw.
Pesticide vanished in a cloud of gas, only to reappear behind Smith—but the moment his blade whistled through the air, Smith was already gone.
"Behind me?" Pesticide thought—but then he heard the whisper of breath.
Smith was upside down midair, parallel to the ceiling.
"Too slow."
With a twisting roundhouse kick, he sent Pesticide crashing into the ground.
And just like that, it was over.
One man stood. Six assassins groaned on the floor.
Off to the side, watching from behind the reinforced glass window, Fox's jaw dropped. Her usually cool composure cracked like an egg.
"Oh my god… Smith, you're insanely powerful."
Wesley, arms crossed and leaning on the wall next to her, let out a low whistle, eyes wide.
"That was insane," he muttered, half to himself. "God really is a god now."
Smith stood tall among his fallen mentors. His chest barely rose with breath. Not a single drop of sweat glistened on his forehead. A smile curved his lips—confident but respectful.
He looked down at his mentors—men who had once towered over him in both skill and stature.
"Uncles," he said, calm and composed, "I think we can call it a day."
The Butcher groaned, rolling onto his side as he clutched a bruised rib. "Ugh… Smith… yeah, we're done here," he wheezed. "Any more and I'll need a damned wax bath just to walk again."
"If it weren't for this belly," he added with a weak laugh, "my ribs would've snapped like twigs."
"At least when it comes to hand-to-hand combat," the Mechanic added, rubbing his jaw as he staggered upright, "you've already surpassed us."
Cross gave a slow nod from where he sat cross-legged, bruised but oddly proud. "You didn't flinch. Not once."
X, ever the stoic, pulled off his broken visor and dropped it to the floor with a sigh. "You win," he said simply.
One by one, the others gave him the same nod of acknowledgment.
"You've more than earned your title," said the Gunsmith.
"As far as combat goes," Pesticide added, still dazed, "you're the real deal, God."
Smith's smile grew—but behind his calm demeanor, he felt something swell inside him. Pride, yes, but more than that—certainty. This strength wasn't a fluke. It wasn't borrowed or temporary.
It was real. It was his.
Because two days ago… the system finally loaded.
The truth was—Smith Doyle wasn't from this universe at all.
His original name was Feng Yi, an ordinary guy from Earth. No special lineage, no hidden potential, no destiny. Just a dude who worked, studied, and stayed up late grinding on his phone.
The night it all changed, he'd been deep into a Dragon Ball mobile game—burning through stamina, hoarding Chrono Crystals, and rerolling for new characters. Exhausted, he'd fallen asleep with his phone on the pillow beside him, the screen still showing Goku mid-Kamehameha.
When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else entirely.
He'd woken up in a world that mashed together Marvel and other American comics—New York skyscrapers, Gotham shadows, and mutants lurking in the dark. It felt like the Wanted universe at first, but soon he realized something was… different.
There was no Sloan. The original leader of the Brotherhood? Gone.
The timeline was fractured. Cross hadn't sent his son to live as a civilian. Instead, he raised him in the heart of the Brotherhood itself.
And that son… was him.
As for the Dragon Ball game?
It had become something else.
His golden finger—his cheat—his system.
But for eighteen long years, it had just said:
Loading…
He thought it was broken. Or a cruel joke. Still, he never stopped hoping. While he waited, he trained.
The Brotherhood molded him.
From the Apothecary, he learned how to bathe in wax to control pain, adrenaline, and even bullet wounds.
The Gunsmith taught him to curve bullets mid-air.
The Mechanic trained him in combat, turning him into a martial artist deadlier than a navy SEAL on steroids.
The Butcher handed him a blade and taught him how to use it to split bullets in half.
Pesticide gave him a crash course in chemical warfare and explosive micro-weapons—including the infamous rat bombs.
X and Cross couldn't pass on bullet time without the right bloodline, but they trained him in every other way.
And he absorbed everything.
Wesley and Fox? They grew up alongside him. They weren't just friends—they were family. Teammates. Ride-or-die.
And yeah, he'd taken on a few Brotherhood missions along the way. Some would call it child labor.
In the Brotherhood, they called it training.
Then came his eighteenth birthday.
Along with cake, it brought something better.
The system finally loaded.
And it gave him three things:
Item Wish Lottery
Character Card Lottery
Companion Wish Lottery
Plus, a digital inventory to store any rewards.
There was no need for money. No Chrono Crystals. No ads. No grind.
Just one catch:
The seven Dragon Balls he was born with would scatter across the Earth the moment he made his first wish. He wouldn't be able to wish again until someone gathered them—and summoned the dragon.
Each year, only one real wish could be made with the Dragon Balls. But for Smith?
Every time someone made a wish, he would get three bonus draws.
And the stronger he became, the stronger the dragon would be.
Eventually, the balls could evolve—into Namekian Dragon Balls, Dark Star Balls, or even the Super Dragon Balls, capable of rewriting reality itself.
He was part warrior. Part world-builder. A cosmic variable wrapped in a human shell.
Now, it was time to make his first three draws.
First Wish: Item Lottery
Smith stood in the center of a shimmering void—his consciousness pulled into the system's unique summoning realm. Above him, a miniature celestial sphere hovered in orbit, glowing with streaks of energy and dotted with countless tiny icons. They sparkled like distant constellations, each representing a possible reward.
Some prizes he could make out clearly—others were hidden in flickering static or obscured by swirling mist.
Among the visible ones:
Saiyan Solo Pod
Namekian Star Cruiser
Ultra Holy Water
Dragon Radar
Battle Armor Gen 1 & Gen 2
Capsule Corp Capsules (Single & Boxed Set)
Scouter
Gravity Chamber
Senzu Beans
...and more—countless mystery items whose names hadn't yet been unlocked.
Smith raised a hand, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. "Let's start with something classic."
He summoned a blast of energy, his avatar inside the system mimicking the iconic stance. Blue light surged through his palm.
"Kamehameha!"
The energy wave roared upward, striking the spinning star of items.
One icon flared with light, bursting into radiant particles.
Congratulations! You've received a Generation 2 Scouter!
Smith blinked.
"A scouter?" he muttered, half-surprised, half-nostalgic.
It wasn't quite the life-saving Senzu Bean or the durable Battle Armor he'd hoped for—but it was still iconic. Childhood memories rushed back: Vegeta's first appearance, Frieza's troops scanning power levels, the infamous "It's over 9000!" moment.
Not a bad start.
He summoned the item into his inventory with a swipe, the digital device appearing in a transparent capsule bubble beside him. Red lens, reinforced frame, sleek casing—it looked upgraded compared to the old DBZ versions.
Second Wish: Character Card Lottery
No hesitation.
The next sphere appeared—this one pulsing with auras instead of icons. Each floating light carried the signature energy of a classic character. Their silhouettes moved like shadows in a nebula.
The roster looked familiar:
Kid Goku
Young Krillin (Pre-Kame School)
Bulma
Tien, Chiaotzu
Yamcha (Bandit Era)
Young Chi-Chi, Ox King
Nam, Launch, Master Roshi
All pre-Saiyan Saga. All raw potential.
Smith charged up another energy wave.
"Kamehameha!"
The beam slammed into one of the figures.
Congratulations! You've received: Yamcha (Pre-Roshi Training)!
The character card materialized—showing Yamcha in his desert bandit attire, wild hair and desert cloak flowing, a confident smirk across his face. He carried a curved blade and stood in a crouched stance, ready to pounce.
Two abilities lit up beneath his profile:
Wolf Fang Fist
Neo Wolf Fang Fist
Smith let out a short laugh. "Of course. The Wolf Fang Fist."
Despite the jokes people made about Yamcha later in the series, early Yamcha was no slouch. And this card let him absorb the bloodline and techniques permanently.
He could feel it already—his muscles remembering the moves, instincts sharpening. This wasn't cosplay. This was the real deal.
Third Wish: Companion Lottery
The final sphere appeared—a warm gold hue with swirling silhouettes inside. This time, the forms were more diverse. Smaller companions, iconic side characters, a few wildcards.
Puar
Oolong
Turtle
King Furry
Upa
Ox King
Bulla (from GT?)
Android 8 (Eighter)
Smith cracked his knuckles. "Let's see who's joining the team."
Another energy wave—another iconic Kamehameha blast.
The aura split apart, revealing a floating figure:
Congratulations! You've gained: Puar!
The blue-furred, shape-shifting cat hovered in place, smiling sweetly. The card highlighted Puar's two core skills:
Blade Whirl Slash
Puar's Aid
Smith checked the companion stats and found himself pleasantly surprised. In the mobile game, Puar was mostly support—but now, with real-world integration, that role could be mission-critical.
Puar could provide distraction, reconnaissance, and even transform mid-battle for surprise tactics. Not to mention those unique abilities. If he pulled a healer next time, he'd be set for solo missions or emergency backups.
With all three draws completed, the summoning realm began to collapse gently, the light receding.
But something else happened next—something Smith hadn't expected.
Across the planet, hidden in secret places, seven objects stirred.
Stone-like spheres—the original Dragon Balls—began to glow. Their rock disguises cracked and fell away, revealing orange crystal beneath. Each one now shimmered with one to seven stars inside.
They were back in play.
Scattered across the world, the Dragon Balls had officially reactivated—ready to grant a new wish to anyone who could gather all seven.
And when they were summoned?
Smith would once again receive three bonus limited-use draws—an exclusive privilege granted only to him as the Dragon Ball system's chosen host.
But there was a catch.
Each set of Dragon Balls had a one-year cooldown.
Only once per year could a wish be made.
And the more powerful Smith became, the more powerful the wish-granting dragon would become in turn.
The system even showed evolution tiers:
Earth Dragon Balls →
Namekian Dragon Balls →
Black Star Dragon Balls →
Super Dragon Balls
Someday, he might unlock the godlike dragons that could warp space, time, and reality.
For now, though?
The world had changed.
And so had he.
With the three draws complete, something changed.
All across the globe, the scattered Dragon Balls began to reactivate, their stone-like disguise melting away to reveal the orange-and-red stars of legend.
They were back in play.
And now, the real journey—the quest to find them again—had officially begun.
Smith felt the air around him hum with a strange energy, as if the world itself had shifted. The Dragon Balls, scattered far and wide, were no longer just relics of an ancient past. They were once again a powerful force, capable of altering the course of reality itself. The weight of what this meant settled on Smith's shoulders like a mantle.
This wasn't just a game anymore.
He glanced over at the three rewards he had drawn, each with a unique power that would help him on this journey: Yamcha's Wolf Fang Fist, Puar's shapeshifting abilities, and the Scouter—tools that would give him an edge in the coming challenges. But they were just the start. The real question now was where to begin.
The first of the Dragon Balls was already in play, a signal that the clock was ticking.
Smith moved toward his gear, gathering his supplies. He needed to act fast. There was no telling how long the Dragon Balls would remain unclaimed, and whoever managed to collect all seven would have the power to shape the world to their will. The urgency hit him like a sharp breeze.
But as he prepared to head out, a thought lingered in the back of his mind—what if he wasn't the only one searching for them? What if someone else had already begun their own quest?
"Doesn't matter," he muttered to himself. "I'm not going to waste time thinking about it."
With determination, Smith set out. He wasn't sure where the first Dragon Ball was located, but he knew one thing: this would be the start of something monumental. The Dragon Balls had reawakened, and now, so had the true adventure.
The world felt vast, and Smith knew that no matter what came his way, he had the tools, the skills, and the will to rise to the challenge.