CHAPTER 29: THE PRICE OF POWER

The twin moons of Idun bathed the desolate landscape in their pale, eerie glow. The quiet stillness that had settled over the planet after Gohan’s vision was heavy, laden with the weight of what he had just experienced. His breath still trembled slightly as he sat cross-legged, trying to steady himself after the disorienting flood of memories. Truffle, who had stayed by his side the whole time, gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“You’ve been out for quite a while,” Truffle said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “We started looking for you once Broly realized you hadn't returned.”

Gohan blinked, disoriented, but slowly regained focus. He turned to Truffle and the others who had gathered around him: Vegeta, Tarble, and Broly. His eyes still held the remnants of the vision he had seen, the weight of it pressing heavily on his chest. Slowly, he rose to his feet, standing tall yet weary.

“I…I saw everything,” Gohan’s voice was steady, but there was a gravity to it that made everyone around him go still. “The visions—the history—they weren’t just flashes. They were... alive. I lived through them. From sensing that presence back on Vornis to what I just saw now.” He paused, catching his breath as the weight of his revelation began to settle. “I experienced it all through the eyes of a Saiyan named Yamoshi. He was there with Turles on Sadala, at the very center of everything. I watched Turles rise to power, and it wasn’t just about power—it was about breaking away from the old ways.”

Vegeta raised an eyebrow, his disbelief palpable. “Yamoshi? That’s impossible. Yamoshi was around thousands of years ago. You expect me to believe this is all connected to Turles?”

Gohan shook his head slowly, his eyes distant as he tried to make sense of everything he had witnessed. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” he replied, his voice steady but filled with resolve. “I felt the power, the connection. This Yamoshi…I believe he was real. And he was there with Turles. This grave,” he gestured toward the distant marker in the moonlight, “it’s meant for him. That’s the energy I felt, the same energy I sensed all throughout the vision.”

Tarble, still processing everything, exchanged a look with Vegeta. 

“Turles needs to be stopped,” Gohan said, his voice now filled with urgency. “What I saw—it wasn’t just a thirst for power. He’s after something much greater. If he succeeds in what he’s trying to do, it won’t just change the Saiyan race—it’ll change everything.”

***

Turles stood in the clearing beneath the towering Tree of Might. His expression was stoic, his focus unwavering. The ritual was nearing completion, the immense power within the tree pulsing and crackling like a storm ready to break. Goku’s cries of pain reverberated through the air, his body pinned to the tree as Turles’s energy flowed into it, linking Goku’s divine energy with the tree’s roots.

With every scream from Goku, the tree’s power seemed to surge. The tree itself began to pulse with a divine aura, changing color, glowing with an unearthly golden light that seemed to stretch out into the atmosphere.

As Turles completed the ritual, his mind slipped into the past, to a time long before this moment—the time of the Great Saiyan War. His thoughts were consumed by memories of Sadala in its final days, when the war had torn their once-proud civilization apart, and the future of the Saiyan race hung in the balance.

The planet had burned as Turles and his followers waged a bloody revolt, determined to overthrow the remnants of the old order. With each city that fell, with each stronghold they razed, Turles’s methods grew more ruthless. His heart hardened with every battle, his resolve unshaken by the destruction and bloodshed around him. He would see the old hierarchy crushed, no matter the cost.

Yet, in the midst of all this chaos, there was one who stood against him—Yamoshi.

Yamoshi had once been a friend, a comrade, a brother in arms. They had fought side by side in their early days, both seeking a better future for their people. But where Turles saw the only way forward through violence and dominance, Yamoshi had always believed there was another path. He believed the Saiyan race could rise without shedding the blood of their own people. He fought for peace, for unity, for the survival of their people without the need to destroy what they had once been.

As the war escalated, their once-shared vision of the future had splintered. Yamoshi had rallied a small group of Saiyans who opposed Turles’s tyranny, speaking out against the brutality of Turles’s followers and trying to unite the people through protection and diplomacy. But Turles had seen only weakness in Yamoshi’s approach. He called it naïve, unworthy of the power the Saiyan race needed. Yamoshi’s calls for unity were drowned by the roar of the battlefield, the cries of those who had already chosen sides.

It was in this dark time that Turles planted the seed of the Tree of Might. He stood over the barren ground, a solemn expression on his face as he drove the seed into the soil, his mind set on the future. The Tree of Might would give them the power to reshape the Saiyan race, to finish what they had started. With its fruit, they could end the war and establish the dominance that Turles craved. He didn’t care for the old traditions or the peace Yamoshi sought—he was determined to build a new era, one where strength was everything.

As the sapling began to grow, word came that Yamoshi and his followers had been located. Turles had known it was only a matter of time before his former friend would make his move. But Turles was patient. He could wait. The time for battle would come, but not yet. He had bigger plans.

"Wait until the tree bears fruit," Turles had ordered his followers. "Only then will we have the power to finish this war."

He knew the tree needed time to reach its full potential. He needed that power to be in his hands before confronting Yamoshi and his group of misguided idealists. Yamoshi was a threat, yes, but not one that could stand against the power of the Tree of Might.

Turles’s followers, led by the Crushers—Amond, Avoca, Cacao, Daiz, Rasin, Lakasei, and Cumber—stood by his side, their loyalty unwavering. As the tree grew, so did their faith in Turles. He was their king, their leader, the one who would bring them victory. The tree would grant them the strength to reshape the galaxy, to bring about the future they all craved. And once it was ready, once the fruit was ripe, there would be no stopping them.

But as the ritual came to an end, Turles’s mind returned to the present. The power he had just unleashed was immense. His vision of a new Saiyan era was within his grasp. The Tree of Might had been transformed, its branches now glowing with a divine aura, the first golden fruit hanging from them like a beacon of power. Turles stood tall, his heart racing with anticipation as he reached for the fruit, ready to ascend to a new level of strength.

It was then that a shout interrupted his thoughts. His eyes snapped to the horizon, and there, standing against the growing light of the tree, was Vegeta, Gohan, Truffle, Broly, and Tarble. They had come.

“Finally,” Turles muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. “It’s about time you showed up, Vegeta. Come, bear witness to the power of the new era. The future of our race begins today.”

Vegeta’s eyes burned with fury as he took in the sight of Goku, bound and writhing in agony, pinned by the eternal tendrils of the tree. His fists clenched, his anger rising like a storm.

"Dad!" Gohan shouted, his voice tinged with desperation.

Turles smirked, the golden fruit now in his grasp. “You should be thanking me, Prince. This is what will save our race. This is what will take us beyond the limits of even the gods.”

“You’re insane!” Vegeta roared, his power flaring.

Turles’s expression hardened. “Am I? Or am I simply doing what is necessary to reshape our broken race?”

“Deal with them.” With a wave of his hand, Turles ordered the Crushers to deal with the newcomers. Amond, Daiz, Cacao, Rasin, and Lakasei all powered up, their Super Saiyan forms flaring to life, their auras flaring with golden light, their power surging to incredible heights. The battle was about to begin.

Truffle, without hesitation, turned to Gohan. “I’ll try to free Goku. You four—focus on stopping them.”

The battle raged on, a savage clash of power and wills. At first, it was a chaotic brawl—Gohan, Vegeta, Broly, and Tarble against Avoca, Cumber, Amond, Daiz, Rasin, Lakasei, and Cacao. The air was thick with the roar of energy blasts, the earth trembling beneath the force of their strikes. The Crushers, though highly trained, were still adjusting to the intensity of the fight against the combined might of their opponents. The battle seemed to shift with every blow, the fighters pushing their limits as the tide of the fight wavered.

Broly, ever the wild force of nature, locked eyes with Cumber, a familiar intensity igniting between them. Without a word, they surged toward each other, energy crackling in the air around them. Broly’s power roared like a tempest, his Super Saiyan form rippling with uncontrolled might. Cumber, grinning, welcomed the challenge, his dark power flaring as he matched Broly’s ferocity blow for blow. Their fight was a brutal, fast-paced exchange, each one trying to outlast the other as their immense strength collided, sending shockwaves through the battlefield.

Meanwhile, Gohan found himself face to face with Avoca, her speed and agility making her a difficult opponent. Her strikes were swift and precise, but Gohan’s experience allowed him to anticipate her moves. With each clash, Gohan’s power flared, pushing back against the onslaught. Avoca, realizing she couldn't overwhelm him with brute force, began to use her speed and cunning, trying to outmaneuver Gohan in ways that kept him on the defensive.

But it wasn't just Avoca he had to worry about. Rasin and Lakasei were closing in, their attacks timed perfectly to catch him in a two-on-one situation. Rasin, with his overwhelming strength, sought to break through Gohan’s defenses with heavy blows, while Lakasei’s deceptive agility allowed him to strike from unpredictable angles. Together, they made a relentless team, keeping Gohan on his toes.

Gohan’s mind raced as he calculated his moves. Avoca was fast, but if he could land a solid hit on her, she would be forced into a defensive position. He blocked a strike from Lakasei, his senses honed to the task, then twisted to dodge Rasin’s powerful punch aimed at his side. He was pushed back, but Gohan's resilience kept him steady. He needed to maintain control—his goal was to take down these three without allowing the battle to overwhelm him.

Using his speed, Gohan created distance, momentarily separating himself from Avoca and the others. His focus sharpened, his energy surged, and he readied himself for the next wave of attacks. He needed to fight smart, taking advantage of every opening, especially when the team worked in tandem.

Vegeta took on Amond, the two Saiyans exchanging blows with precision and deadly intent. Amond was strong, no doubt, but Vegeta’s years of training and unyielding will were evident. Each blow he landed was a testament to his experience, and though Amond’s power was formidable, Vegeta’s relentless attacks began to wear him down.

Tarble faced off against Daiz, their fight an intricate dance of energy blasts and hand-to-hand combat. Daiz’s deceptive speed was his advantage, but Tarble’s careful control of his energy gave him the edge, countering each of Daiz’s moves with calculated precision. The two Saiyans clashed in a series of rapid exchanges, neither willing to give an inch.

As the battle raged on, Tarble’s attention was split as Cacao charged at him from the side. The two foes attacked simultaneously, forcing Tarble to quickly adjust his stance. He dodged a wild blast from Cacao and redirected it toward Daiz, forcing the fighter to momentarily retreat. Cacao’s relentless assault kept Tarble on the defensive, his energy flaring with each strike that came too close. Tarble’s movements became a blend of evasive techniques and calculated counterattacks, keeping both of his opponents at bay for the time being. With one opponent fast and unpredictable, and the other strong and unrelenting, Tarble had to stay sharp to avoid being overwhelmed. He managed to duck a punch from Cacao, spinning quickly to land a solid blow on Daiz’s side before turning back to face Cacao, who was already charging again with a roar.

As the chaos unfolded, Turles stood apart from the fight, watching with a smug grin as his Crushers fought with brutal efficiency. The divine power of the Eternal Tree of Might was beginning to course through him, but he remained focused on the battle before him. His mouth watered at the thought of the fruit’s full potential, but he wasn’t ready to make his move just yet. He wanted to savor this moment—watching the heroes struggle as the war for the future unfolded before him.

Vegeta, unable to contain his rage any longer, yelled across the battlefield, his voice filled with fury. “This isn’t a spectator sport!”

Turles smirked, lifting his gaze to Vegeta. The moment had arrived. As the battle raged around them, Turles took the final bite of the divine fruit, the energy surging through him in an explosive rush. The world seemed to shift around him, his power reaching new, unimaginable heights. His form radiated with a golden, divine aura, the fruit’s power fueling his every movement. The taste of the fruit lingered on his lips as he felt his strength grow exponentially.

Vegeta, seeing Turles’s transformation, knew that this was no longer just a fight for control of their race—it was a fight for the very soul of the Saiyans. Turles was no longer just an adversary; he was a force that could challenge even the gods themselves.

The battle intensified, the energy around them crackling with raw power. Vegeta, now fully aware of the danger they were in, roared and charged at Turles. “Let’s see if you can match this!” he shouted, powering up as he met Turles head-on.

The clash of their powers reverberated through the battlefield, shaking the ground beneath them. Turles, unfazed by the challenge, smirked. The true battle was about to begin, and the fate of the Saiyan race would be decided here, in the heart of the fight.

___________

Writer’s Note:

Wow. What a way to end Part 2 on a cliffhanger, right? When I decided to split this story into three parts, this felt like the natural stopping point as we lead into Part 3. At this stage, Turles has finally tapped into the true divine power of the Tree. By transferring divine energy from Goku into the Tree, it was able to produce fruit as it was meant to—unlike the fruit he had back when he fought King Vegeta II.

Back then, he didn’t gain any divine power for one simple reason: the fruit East Kai ate wasn’t ready, which is why it was bitter. But now? This golden, sweet, succulent fruit is ripe, and Turles has consumed it to unlock its true potential.

When I redeveloped the story, one major reason I brought Broly into the mix was for this: I wanted to see him and Cumber face off. I mean, who wouldn’t? We’ve seen why Cumber sat out most of the present-day story, but in Part 3, we’re going to get more action from him.

Part 2 was all about Turles’s ascension—not just as king, but as someone rising to powers that can rival the gods themselves.

Stay tuned for Part 3: Legacy.

CHAPTER 28: WHAT'S A MOB TO A KING?

The morning sun stretched its golden rays across the massive arena, casting long shadows that danced along the metallic walls. The structure itself seemed alive, humming with the energy of thousands of Saiyans who had gathered for the event of a lifetime. Their chants, a rhythmic crescendo of names and battle cries, reverberated through the air, shaking the very foundations of the arena. The atmosphere was electric, a mixture of bloodlust and anticipation that crackled like a storm waiting to break.

In the Crushers’ dugout, the tension was palpable. Amond sat with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd as though trying to gauge their favor. Daiz leaned back against the wall, fidgeting with a stray piece of fur, his usually cocky demeanor subdued. Cacao remained silent and unmoving, his glowing eyes focused on the battlefield as if mentally preparing for the chaos to come. Rasin and Lakasei exchanged a few quiet words, their typical bickering replaced by an air of unease.

Further down the dugout, Rukon stood with his arms resting on his knees, his tail flicking behind him in agitation as he stared at the arena entrance, clearly impatient for the match to start. Soya leaned against a pillar with her arms folded, her expression unreadable, though the way her fingers tapped against her bicep betrayed her nerves. Verno sat in the corner, his eyes half-closed as if meditating, though the occasional twitch of his tail suggested otherwise. Kaleen paced back and forth, her boots echoing softly against the stone floor, her sharp gaze flicking between the arena and her comrades. Taro remained seated, his hands clasped tightly together as he muttered under his breath, a prayer or a strategy, no one could tell.

Despite their varied reactions, one thing was clear: the absence of their leader and the heart of their group hung heavy in the air. Yamoshi and Turles were nowhere to be seen, leaving the Crushers to sit with their thoughts, their unease mirroring the charged anticipation of the crowd above.

Beneath the arena, hidden from the deafening roar of the crowd, Turles sat alone in the barracks. The dimly lit room was a stark contrast to the grandeur above. The air was thick and still, broken only by the faint hum of machinery and the occasional distant cheer that filtered through the walls.

Turles sat on a crude stone bench, his head bowed, his shoulders tense. In his hands rested the divine fruit, its smooth, otherworldly surface glowing faintly with a pulsating energy that seemed alive. The light from the fruit cast an eerie glow on his face, highlighting the storm of emotions in his eyes. His fingers tightened around it, his knuckles whitening as his thoughts spiraled.

Anger and vengeance had fueled him for so long, burning like a wildfire that consumed everything in its path. But now, as the decisive moment loomed, that fire wavered. Doubt seeped in like a shadow creeping across his mind. What would this fight truly accomplish? Could he trust the power he believed would come from the fruit? Was he doing this for his people—or for himself?

He exhaled sharply, his breath hitching as he fought to steady his resolve. The weight of the fruit in his hands seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, as if it bore the burden of the decision he was about to make. Above him, the crowd roared louder, the sound pressing down on him like a physical force.

Still, he remained seated, the fruit pulsing steadily in his grip, its glow casting long shadows that flickered against the cold steel walls. Turles’s mind churned, caught between the man he was and the man he had yet to become.

The faint footsteps getting closer broke his trance. Turles quickly hid the fruit within his pelt as Yamoshi stepped in, his expression soft yet concerned. “You alright?,” Yamoshi began, leaning against the doorframe. “The match is starting soon.”

Turles hesitated before speaking, his voice unusually subdued. “I’m fine. Just…thinking.” He looked up at Yamoshi, his hardened gaze softening. “About yesterday…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

Yamoshi waved a hand dismissively, offering a faint smile. “Don’t worry about it. I know you’ve been carrying a lot on your shoulders. If you hadn’t stepped in, I’d probably be in your shoes right now.”

Turles chuckled bitterly. “Maybe. But part of me is just…tired, Yamoshi. Tired of all this fighting. I want to believe this is our chance to make things right.”

Yamoshi placed a hand on Turles’s shoulder, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “It is. We’ve been through hell together, and if anyone deserves a chance to fix things, it’s you. Just promise me one thing—make it out alive. And as much as we both hate King Vegeta, remember, there’s always another way.”

Turles looked away, his jaw tightening. “I’ll try,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction. Yamoshi sighed, knowing his words hadn’t fully reached his friend. He gave Turles’s shoulder a firm squeeze before leaving.

As Yamoshi left, Turles pulled the fruit from his pelt. For a long moment, he stared at it, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. Finally, with a deep breath, he bit into the fruit.

***

The arena erupted into cheers as Turles stepped onto the battlefield, his presence commanding attention. Saiyans roared his name, their fists pounding the air in unison. Turles stood tall, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on the royal balcony. King Vegeta II sat at its center, flanked by his son Vegeta III, his wife Queen Lyssara, and the ever-loyal Avoca.

The king rose to his feet, his crimson cape billowing as he levitated down to the arena floor. The crowd’s cheers grew deafening as he landed gracefully before Turles. He smirked, his arms spread wide. “So, you’ve chosen today to die. I commend your audacity, if nothing else.”

Turles didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to die.”

King Vegeta chuckled darkly. “You’ve given the low-class fools something to cheer for, I’ll admit. But this ends here. Only the strong shall rule, and the weak will wither. Let me show them why.”

Without another word, the fight began. The two Saiyans collided in an explosion of speed and power, their fists a blur as they exchanged devastating blows. The air itself seemed to ripple with the force of their strikes, and the arena shook as the combatants darted across its expanse, trading hit for hit.

King Vegeta’s strength was monstrous, his punches landing with a concussive force that echoed across the battlefield. Each blow sent shockwaves through the ground, cracks splintering across the arena floor as the crowd roared in awe and bloodlust. Turles gritted his teeth, his body trembling with each impact as he absorbed the King’s relentless assault.

With every strike he countered, Turles fought back with every ounce of strength he could muster, his movements quick and calculated, but it was clear he was struggling. Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he evaded another crushing blow, his muscles burning with effort. King Vegeta smirked, his confidence growing with each passing moment.

“You’re slowing down!” the King bellowed, his voice cutting through the roar of the crowd. “Is this all you’ve got? After all that bravado?”

Turles didn’t respond, focusing instead on keeping his footing. He ducked under a powerful swing, pivoting to deliver a counterpunch to the King’s ribs. It landed with a satisfying thud, but King Vegeta barely flinched, retaliating with a knee to Turles’s gut that sent him skidding backward across the arena floor.

As the minutes dragged on, Turles’s breathing grew heavier, his movements more sluggish. His mind raced, frustration gnawing at him like a wild beast. Why hasn’t the fruit’s power kicked in yet? he thought, his hands clenched into fists. He had taken the bite, felt the energy faintly stir within him, but now, in his most desperate moment, it remained dormant.

The crowd’s cheers became a distant echo as doubt began to creep in. Was this all for nothing? Had he placed too much faith in the fruit’s power? Was he destined to fall here, a failed warrior at the feet of King Vegeta II?

With a roar of determination, Turles surged forward again, refusing to give in, refusing to fall. But deep down, a sliver of fear remained—fear that he wasn’t strong enough, that the power he so desperately needed might never come.

From the dugout, Yamoshi watched with growing concern as Turles struggled against the king. The Crushers shouted encouragement, their voices drowned out by the crowd. King Vegeta sneered, taunting Turles with every strike. “You should’ve stayed in the shadows where you belong!”

As Turles groaned on his knees, gasping for breath, Yamoshi’s voice cut through the noise. “Get up, Turles! Don’t give up!”

Something inside Turles snapped. A sudden surge of energy erupted within him, the fruit’s power finally taking hold. His muscles tensed, his chest expanded, and his aura flared with newfound intensity. He rose to his feet, his gaze locking onto the king with a newfound resolve.

King Vegeta’s smirk faltered. 

Turles gestured for him to attack. “Come on, your majesty. Show me what else you’ve got.”

The King’s aura flared, a fiery burst of power surging around him as he charged forward like a raging bull. His movements were a blur, his fist cutting through the air with enough force to create a shockwave. But as the blow hurtled toward Turles, something shifted.

Turles’s hand shot up with lightning speed, catching the King’s fist effortlessly in his palm. The impact created a thunderous clap, the ground beneath their feet trembling under the sheer force of the collision. The crowd gasped, their deafening roars momentarily silenced by the sight.

For a brief moment, they stood locked in place, King Vegeta’s face twisting in shock and rage as he tried to push forward. But Turles didn’t budge. His grip tightened, veins bulging along his forearm as he held the King in place with an unyielding strength.

“You’ve ruled with fear and strength for long enough,” Turles growled, his voice low and steady, carrying across the arena. “But today, you’ll see what true power looks like.”

In one swift, fluid motion, Turles twisted the King’s arm and stepped in close, driving his fist forward with a force that seemed to shake the air itself. The blow connected squarely with the King’s chest, the sound of the impact echoing like an explosion throughout the arena.

The King staggered back, his eyes wide as he gasped for air, clutching at his chest. His proud and defiant demeanor crumbled in an instant as pain and disbelief flickered across his face.

Turles didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, his movements sharp and unrelenting. Each strike landed with brutal precision, his fists a blur as they hammered into the King’s defenses. Every blow forced the King back, his once-imposing presence reduced to a struggling warrior trying to regain his footing.

The arena was silent now, the crowd holding its collective breath as they watched their mighty King falter under the onslaught. Turles’s attacks were methodical and punishing, each one calculated to break his opponent down piece by piece.

The King stumbled, his aura flickering as he struggled to summon his strength. And yet, Turles pressed forward, his eyes burning with a determination that couldn’t be stopped.

King Vegeta fell to his knees, blood dripping from his mouth as he glared up at Turles. The arena was silent, the crowd stunned into disbelief. Turles loomed over the fallen king, his hand glowing with energy. But as he prepared to deliver the final blow, his gaze shifted to Yamoshi in the dugout.

“There’s always another way.”

With a deep breath, Turles lowered his hand, his eyes no longer on the battered King before him but on the silent, stunned crowd. The air felt heavy, as if the entire arena was holding its breath. He took a step back, his expression unreadable.

“This fight isn’t worth my time,” he said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of finality. Turles turned away, walking toward the edge of the arena, his back to the fallen King.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Turles’s footsteps. Then, a sharp hiss broke through the silence.

From behind him, a blinding energy blast hurtled toward his back. Gasps rippled through the crowd, and even Yamoshi shot to his feet, alarm flashing across his face.

Without turning, Turles calmly raised his hand. The energy blast collided with his palm, its violent light illuminating his silhouette. He didn’t flinch. Slowly, his fingers curled, crushing the energy until it fizzled out into nothing.

The crowd erupted into whispers, disbelief sweeping through them like a wave. Turles turned, his expression cold as he met the King’s wide-eyed gaze, stunned that his blast had been dissipated in an instant. “How does it feel being beaten?” he asked, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

Before the King could respond, Turles fired his own blast. The attack was swift and devastating, striking with an intensity that left the King scorched and motionless on the ground. Smoke rose from where the blast had landed, the once-proud ruler now a broken figure.

The arena fell silent again, the weight of the moment sinking in. All eyes were on Turles as he approached the fallen crown. He bent down, picking it up with deliberate care. For a brief moment, he studied it, the symbol of power and oppression gleaming faintly in the sunlight.

He raised the crown high above his head, his voice booming across the arena. “NO MORE!” The words echoed like thunder, reverberating through the stunned crowd.

With a sharp motion, his fingers tightened around the crown. A deafening crack echoed through the arena as the crown shattered in his grasp, the fragments scattering to the ground like broken chains. Each piece seemed to carry the weight of generations of oppression.

Turles stood tall in the center of the arena, the shattered remains of the crown at his feet. His chest rose and fell with steady, deliberate breaths, the silence around him almost deafening after the chaos of battle. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the thousands of Saiyans watching from the stands, their faces painted with a mixture of awe, confusion, and unease.

“It’s time for change!” Turles declared, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. His words hung in the air, a challenge, a promise, and a call to arms all at once.

“For too long, we have lived under the shadow of a corrupt and cowardly king!” Turles’s voice thundered across the arena, fierce and unyielding. “A king who valued power over honor, fear over unity. But no more! Today, I have broken the chains of tyranny—not for myself, but for all of us. This is about our future—our survival, and our pride as Saiyans!”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “We are Saiyans! A proud race. A strong race. But we are more than tools of destruction, more than pawns in a game played by kings and tyrants! It’s time we take back control—time we decide our own destiny. No more will we be divided by class or birthright. True strength lies not in the blood we inherit but in the resolve we forge with our own hands!”

For a moment, the crowd remained frozen, as if unsure how to respond. Then, a single voice broke the silence.

“Turles! Turles!”

It was Avoca. She descended from her place among the elites, her piercing gaze locked on him. As she landed in the arena, she strode confidently toward Turles, her expression one of respect and resolve. When she reached him, she knelt on one knee, her head bowed slightly.

“You’ve proven yourself,” she said, her voice carrying to the farthest reaches of the arena. “The strength to challenge, the vision to lead. You are worthy. Lead us.”

Her words ignited the crowd. Saiyans began chanting Turles’s name, their voices rising like a tidal wave.

Vegeta III, standing beside his mother, watched in horror as the crowd turned against them. The Queen’s face was pale, her composure slipping as she clutched her son’s arm. “We have to go,” she whispered urgently. 

Without hesitation, they fled, retreating from the arena as the chants of Turles’s name grew louder. His words struck deep, and the crowd began to split. Some cheered louder, their voices full of hope and fervor. Others muttered amongst themselves, doubt and fear creeping into their minds.

In the dugout, the Crushers exchanged uncertain glances. Amond was the first to stand, his imposing figure drawing attention as he raised his fist in the air. “Turles!” he shouted, his voice booming.

Cacao and Daiz quickly followed, their loyalty evident as they joined the chants. Rasin and Lakasei hesitated for only a moment before standing as well, their voices adding to the growing roar.

But not everyone was swayed.

Yamoshi stood in the dugout, his arms crossed, his face shadowed by conflict. He watched as his comrades—Rukon, Verno, Soya, Kaleen, and Taro—remained seated, their expressions mirroring his own unease.

“This isn’t right,” Soya muttered, her eyes fixed on the arena. “This isn’t what we’ve bled and fought for all these years.”

Turles turned to Yamoshi, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the two friends locked eyes, their silent exchange speaking louder than words. The roar of the crowd raged on around them, but in that moment, it was as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

Yamoshi’s gaze held a mix of concern and sadness, silently asking the question his lips dared not voice. Turles’s eyes, hardened and resolute, offered no comfort, only a quiet conviction that cut through the unspoken tension like a blade.

“This is the necessary path,” Turles finally said, his voice calm yet unwavering, the weight of his words heavy.

Yamoshi’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as his expression shifted to one of quiet defiance. At what cost? his eyes seemed to ask.

Turles turned away without answering, the silence between them deafening. He faced the crowd once more, his shoulders squared as though preparing to carry the weight of the Saiyan race upon them.

Above the murmurs of the gathering, Avoca stood, raising her hand high. Her voice rang out like a bell, clear and commanding. “All hail King Turles!”

The cry spread like wildfire. Amond, Daiz, Cacao, Rasin, and Lakasei quickly followed, their chants growing louder and more fervent. The roar of the crowd intensified as more Saiyans joined in, their voices shaking the very foundation of the arena.

But not everyone moved.

Yamoshi, Rukon, Verno, Soya, Kaleen, and Taro remained silent, their stillness a striking contrast to the chaos erupting around them. Yamoshi’s gaze never left Turles, his heart heavy as he watched his closest friend transform into something unrecognizable.

This isn’t the Turles I knew, Yamoshi thought, a pang of both pride and dread tightening his chest.

The division among the Saiyans had begun, and with it, the dawn of a war that would change their history forever.

***

Gohan’s eyes fluttered open, the world around him still cloaked in the eerie glow of the twin moons. His heart raced as he pushed himself up, the faint whispers from his vision lingering in his ears like an echo from another time. He blinked, disoriented, his gaze shifting to the weathered grave and the staff that stood as its silent sentinel.

“Gohan!”

The familiar voice jolted him fully awake. As his vision cleared, he saw Truffle kneeling beside him, concern etched on her face, with Vegeta, Tarble, and Broly standing around him, surrounding him on all sides. Their expressions ranged from worry to confusion, their footsteps kicking up clouds of dust in the moonlight.

“What happened?” Truffle asked. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Are you alright?” Vegeta added, his usual stern demeanor giving way to genuine concern.

Gohan hesitated, his mind still reeling from what he had experienced. His hand instinctively went to his chest, where he could still feel the faint remnants of that overwhelming energy. He glanced back at the grave, the staff’s silhouette stark against the dim light.

“I…” he began, his voice hoarse. He paused, struggling to find the words. “It wasn’t a dream. It was…something more.”

The others exchanged uncertain glances.

“A vision. A memory…” Gohan hesitated, taking a steadying breath. “Everything I saw… everything I felt… it was connected to our history. To Saiyan history,” he said quietly, his gaze drifting back to the grave. “I don’t fully understand it yet, but this place, this grave, it’s important. And whoever rests here… they were trying to show me something. Something that could change everything we thought we knew.”

___________

Writer’s Note:

All Hail King Turles

This chapter has always been part of the story since the beginning. Part 2 is called Ascension for a reason, and Gohan was given a glimpse of that through the eyes of Yamoshi, who was there when it all happened. I wanted the final moment to feel powerful—kind of like that joke floating around the internet: “How I look at bro after we get superpowers and he says ‘let’s fix the world’ instead of ‘let’s save it.’” That’s exactly the dynamic between Turles and Yamoshi—two people who want what’s best for their race but differ in how to achieve it.

I also wanted to show that, for a brief moment, Turles genuinely considered Yamoshi’s plea to spare King Vegeta if he defeated him—because if he didn’t, wouldn’t they be no better than the king himself? But, of course, King Vegeta’s pride wouldn’t let that slide. His spiteful, sneaky move after being beaten sealed his fate.

That moment where Turles asks King Vegeta that final question before blasting him into oblivion was inspired directly by the movie—except this time, it wasn’t Piccolo. I wanted to repurpose that iconic moment in a way that felt just as impactful, where those words hit just as hard as they did when Piccolo’s Special Beam Cannon was blocked at point-blank range.

What we witnessed here is the rise of a new king—and the might he will bring. But with that comes the Great Saiyan War, the very conflict that will lead to Sadala’s fall.

The next chapter closes out Part 2. Let’s see how this all comes to an end.

CHAPTER 27: THE CATALYST OF CHANGE

The Crusher’s bond had only grown stronger over the years. Despite the brutal environment of the arena, their shared motivation—to survive and fight together—had kept them alive. Onnio, once timid, now stood more confident, his growth a reflection of Turles's influence and the steady support of his fellow Crushers. The camaraderie among them was undeniable, and for the first time, they felt like more than just fighters; they were a unit.

On the morning of their next fight, the barracks buzzed with energy. The Crushers readied themselves, wrapping their fists and forearms tightly with strips of worn cloth and pelts, a ritual as familiar as the battles they fought daily. The faint scrape of fabric and the low hum of voices filled the air. Some adjusted the makeshift bindings on their feet, while others flexed their hands, testing the strength of the wraps.

"Make sure it's tight," Soya muttered, checking the knot on his wrist. "Last thing you want is it coming undone mid-fight."

Onnio nodded, fumbling with his own bindings. “Right...wouldn’t want to give them an easy target.”

“It’s just another fight,” Soya muttered, glancing at Onnio, who was double-checking his gloves. “Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

Onnio nodded, though his hands trembled slightly. “Yeah... just another fight,” he said, forcing a smile.

Turles stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, exuding calm authority. “Stay focused. Stick to what we’ve trained for. We’ve survived worse than this,” he said, his voice steady and commanding. The Crushers took his words to heart, the tension in the room easing slightly.

But the moment was shattered when the heavy doors swung open with a groan. Every head turned as King Vegeta II entered, his imposing frame and crimson cape making the air feel heavier. Beside him stood his teenage son, Vegeta III, whose sharp, youthful features mirrored his father’s. The boy’s smirk carried the arrogance of royalty, his eyes gleaming with curiosity and amusement as he surveyed the room.

The Crushers snapped to attention, their movements stiff and wary. Even Turles straightened, though his dark eyes remained sharp with unspoken defiance.

King Vegeta II’s gaze swept over them with cold indifference, as though inspecting livestock. “These are the famed Crushers,” he said, his deep voice carrying a sharp edge. “The so-called pride of the lower class. Fighters bred for survival, clawing their way through the filth of the arena.”

Vegeta III stepped forward, his smirk growing as he looked at the group. “They don’t look like much,” he remarked, his tone dripping with mockery. His hands clasped behind his back, he walked among them, his eyes lingering on each warrior. “I’ve heard stories of their victories. But tell me—have they ever fought a true saiyan elite?”

King Vegeta II raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his son’s comment. “No,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “They have not.”

Vegeta III stopped, turning to face his father with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Then let’s test them,” he declared. “Have one of them face one of my elite guards. It’s the only way to see if they’ve truly earned their place here.”

The King’s lips curled into a faint smile, his pride in his son evident. “A good idea,” he said, nodding approvingly. “A future king thinks like this.” He looked at the Crushers again, his gaze almost entertained by the prospect. “Avoca,” he called, summoning his advisor. “Prepare one of them for the match. Let’s see what these ‘warriors’ are truly capable of.”

Avoca stepped forward, her expression neutral as she awaited her orders. The King gestured toward Turles. “Him,” he said. 

But Vegeta III interjected, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “No, not him,” he said, his sharp eyes scanning the group. “I want him.”

He pointed directly at Onnio.

The room fell deathly silent. Onnio froze, his wide eyes betraying his shock. Around him, his comrades exchanged uneasy glances, trying to process the prince’s unexpected choice.

King Vegeta II raised an eyebrow, surprised but amused. “An interesting choice,” he said with a nod. “Very well. Prepare him, Avoca.”

Avoca gave a curt nod, turning to Onnio. “Come with me,” she said briskly.

Onnio hesitated, his legs feeling like they were made of lead. He glanced at Turles, who stepped forward, his voice firm. “We’ve trained for this,” he said, locking eyes with Onnio. “Trust in yourself.”

Yamoshi nodded in agreement. “You’ve grown strong, Onnio. Remember that,” he said, his voice quieter but no less encouraging.

Taking a deep breath, Onnio nodded and squared his shoulders. “I’ll do my best,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

As he followed Avoca out of the barracks, the remaining Crushers gathered in hushed concern.

“What do we do now?” Soya whispered, his voice low.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Rukon replied grimly. “This is out of our hands.”

But Turles remained calm, his voice steady as he addressed the group. “He’ll be fine. Onnio’s stronger than he thinks. We’ve all seen it. He just has to believe in himself.”

Yamoshi added, “And no matter what happens, we’ll be there, watching and supporting him.”

The group fell into a tense silence as they waited, the weight of the moment pressing down on them.

***

The arena was alive with thunderous cheers as the crowd surged with anticipation. Onnio stood in the center of the vast battlefield, his fists bound with worn cloth, his breath steady despite the weight of countless eyes on him. Overhead, King Vegeta II sat in his grand seat, his son Vegeta III lounging beside him with a smug grin plastered across his face.

“He won’t last five minutes,” Vegeta III mused, his tone dripping with disdain. “But it’s a necessary lesson—both for him and the rest of his ilk.”

King Vegeta II chuckled, his arms crossed. “Perhaps.”

In a dugout-like section just off the arena floor, the Crushers huddled together, separated from the roaring crowds but positioned close enough to witness every blow. Onnio caught sight of his comrades, drawing strength from their presence. Turles leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and met Onnio’s gaze, nodding firmly. His expression was unreadable but carried a quiet confidence. “He’s got this,” Turles said, his tone sharp with determination, as though willing Onnio to believe it.

“He’s stronger than they think,” Yamoshi added, leaning forward, his fingers steepled under his chin. “Five years of hard training will show them what he’s made of.”

But the tension among the group was still thick. Soya shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how strong he is. They’ll stack the deck.”

The massive gates at the far end of the arena rumbled open, revealing a hulking silhouette. The crowd roared in approval as Cumber stepped into the light. Bare-chested and towering, his muscles rippled with raw power. His wild mane of hair framed a face that held nothing but savage amusement.

In the dugout, the Crushers froze.

Avoca’s eyes widened in disbelief as she turned to Vegeta III. “You chose him? Your personal bodyguard?”

Vegeta III smirked, utterly unbothered by the reactions. “Of course. If they’re going to prove themselves, it’s only fair to test them against the best. Cumber will show them what real power looks like.”

Onnio stared at his opponent, his nerves tightening like a vice. He was dwarfed by Cumber’s sheer size, the disparity reminiscent of David and Goliath. Yet, he didn’t back down. His gaze flicked to the Crushers one last time. Turles gave him a nod, his calm demeanor unwavering.

“You’ve got this,” Yamoshi muttered under his breath, though his fingers dug into the stone ledge in front of him.

Cumber smirked as he stepped into the arena, his towering frame casting a shadow over Onnio. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing ominously in the tense silence before the crowd erupted again. “You’re not just fighting me,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “You’re fighting the last thing you’ll ever see.”

Onnio swallowed hard but refused to back down, his fists tightening as he locked eyes with the monstrous Saiyan.

Cumber wasted no time. With a feral roar, he charged, the ground trembling beneath his feet. His first punch was a blur of motion, and Onnio barely dodged it, the force of the missed blow sending a gust of wind rippling through the arena.

Onnio countered with a swift series of strikes, aiming for Cumber’s ribs and legs. His blows landed, but they might as well have been raindrops against a mountain. Cumber laughed, his voice booming. “That's all you’ve got?”

The hulking Saiyan retaliated with a brutal kick that Onnio narrowly avoided, rolling to the side and springing back to his feet. The crowd erupted in cheers at the display of skill, but it was clear who they were rooting for.

“He’s holding his own,” Yamoshi said, his tone hopeful.

But Turles’s eyes never left the fight. “That monster’s not taking this seriously yet,” he muttered darkly.

As if to prove him right, Cumber stopped to crack his neck, his grin widening. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But spirit won’t save you.”

He surged forward with blinding speed, catching Onnio off guard. A vicious elbow slammed into Onnio’s gut, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing into the dirt. The Crushers flinched as one, the sound of impact echoing through the arena.

Onnio staggered back to his feet, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t back down.

“You’re braver than expected,” Cumber admitted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Let’s see how much more you can take.”

The next exchange was brutal. Cumber’s strikes came faster and harder, each one sending shockwaves through the ground. Onnio tried to dodge, but exhaustion and pain slowed him. A massive punch connected with his ribs, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.

“Get up!” Yamoshi muttered, his voice tight with desperation.

Onnio’s body trembled as he tried to push himself up, but his strength was gone. Cumber stood over him, laughing. “Stay down, worm. It’s where you belong.”

Yamoshi’s fists clenched, his body vibrating with barely contained rage. “This has to stop,” he hissed, his voice shaking.

But the crowd roared louder, hungry for more violence.

Onnio’s broken body lay unmoving, his breaths shallow. Yamoshi couldn’t take it anymore. He vaulted over the barricade, sprinting into the arena.

“Yamoshi, stop!” Turles shouted, his voice sharp with warning.

But Yamoshi didn’t listen. He slid to his knees beside Onnio, cradling his friend in his arms. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Cumber sneered. “Two worms in the dirt. Fitting.”

Yamoshi rose slowly, his fury radiating off him like heat. “You think this is strength?” he snarled. “You’re nothing but a bully.”

Cumber’s grin widened. “Care to join him?”

Before Yamoshi could answer, Turles stepped into the arena, his expression grim. “No,” he said coldly. “You’ll fight me.”

The arena fell silent for a moment, the tension crackling like electricity.

Cumber’s grin grew feral.

Turles’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yamoshi, get him out of here,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Yamoshi hesitated, then nodded, carrying Onnio away as Turles faced Cumber. The crowd erupted once more, eager for the next brutal clash.

This time, however, the Crushers weren’t just watching a fight. They were watching the moment that would define their rebellion.

The tension in the arena was electric as Turles stood face-to-face with Cumber, the air between them thick with animosity. Cumber’s towering figure loomed over him, but Turles didn’t flinch. His fists clenched, and his eyes burned with an intensity that even Cumber couldn’t ignore.

“You think you’re ready to take me on, low-class trash?” Cumber sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “I’ll break you like I did your friend.”

Turles’s lip curled into a snarl. “You talk too much,” he said coldly, his gaze flicking momentarily to King Vegeta II and his son. He could feel their eyes on him, watching intently from their elevated perch. Turles knew this fight wasn’t just about Cumber—it was about sending a message.

King Vegeta II raised a hand, stopping Avoca mid-command as she nearly called for the guards to seize Turles. “Let it play out,” the King said with a smirk. “This one interests me.”

Vegeta III leaned forward, eager to see how this fight would unfold. “Father, this one’s different,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and intrigue.

Cumber cracked his neck, stepping closer. “I’ll make this quick,” he said, the ground shaking slightly as his energy flared. But Turles didn’t wait for him to make the first move.

With a primal roar, Turles struck first, his fist colliding with Cumber’s jaw in a thunderous impact that sent the elite Saiyan stumbling back. The crowd gasped, the sound of the blow reverberating through the arena. Cumber wiped his mouth, shocked to see blood on his hand.

“You’re going to regret that,” Cumber growled, his energy spiking as he lunged at Turles with a flurry of punches. But Turles had been watching every move Cumber made during his fight with Onnio. He dodged and countered with precision, his movements sharp and calculated.

Turles’s strikes were relentless, each one fueled by his anger and grief. He ducked under a wide swing from Cumber and landed a crushing blow to his ribs, forcing a grunt of pain from the elite guard. Cumber’s frustration grew, and with a roar, he began firing energy blasts wildly around the arena, each explosion shaking the stands.

The crowd roared with excitement, but Avoca was on edge. “We need to stop this! People are going to get hurt!” she urged, but King Vegeta II remained unmoved.

“Let it continue,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he watched Turles with growing interest. “If he survives this, it will be worth the risk.”

Turles dodged the energy blasts with ease, deflecting one directly toward the royal box. The crowd gasped as the attack hurtled toward King Vegeta II and his son. With a flick of his wrist, the King raised a barrier, shielding himself and Vegeta III from harm.

“That was intentional,” Vegeta III remarked, his voice laced with amusement.

As the dust settled, Turles closed the distance between himself and Cumber. With a final, devastating blow to the side of Cumber’s head, he sent the elite guard crashing to his knees. Bloodied and defeated, Cumber glared up at Turles, but the fight was over.

The arena erupted into chaos, the crowd roaring in disbelief. Turles turned, his chest heaving, and his gaze fell on Yamoshi and the others. They were gathered around Onnio, their voices desperate as they called his name.

Turles’s heart sank as he saw Yamoshi cradling Onnio’s lifeless body. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut. Onnio was gone. The first Crusher in years to fall in the arena, and the pain of that loss ignited a new fire within Turles.

He turned his attention back to King Vegeta II, pointing a bloodied hand at the ruler. “This is on you!” Turles roared, his voice echoing across the arena. “You sit there, watching us die for your amusement. I challenge you, King Vegeta! Face me yourself if you think you’re worthy of your throne!”

The crowd fell silent, stunned by the audacity of Turles’s words. King Vegeta II’s expression darkened, but there was a glint of interest in his eyes.

“You dare challenge me?” the King said, his tone calm but laced with menace. “Very well. If you wish to die by my hand, I will grant you that honor.”

Turles didn’t flinch. “You’ll regret everything you’ve done,” he vowed.

The Crushers were escorted back to the barracks under heavy guard, the weight of Onnio’s death heavy on their hearts. Turles followed behind in silence, his fists trembling with rage. 

“I’ll kill him,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “For Onnio, for all of us, I’ll end this.”

***

That night, the barracks were filled with grief. The Crushers sat in silence, their minds heavy with the loss of Onnio, their fallen comrade, and their brother. His absence was felt deeply by every one of them, the weight of his death like a leaden cloud that seemed to suffocate any hope of freedom.

Amond, Cacao, Daiz, and the others huddled together, speaking in hushed tones as they reminisced about the moments when Onnio had been alive. They spoke of his growth, how he had started as a weak Saiyan who couldn't hold his own in a fight, and how he had earned his place among them, proving his worth by holding his own against Cumber, an elite warrior. He had fought until the end, never backing down.

"We thought he'd make it," Daiz murmured quietly, a bitter edge to his words. "He was so much stronger than when we first met him... But what’s the point, huh? We keep fighting, and for what? To stay trapped in this hell, to keep dying for their amusement?”

Amond, his voice laced with frustration, slammed a fist onto the ground. “We’re not going to win. Not like this. The King’s got his foot on our necks, and there’s nothing we can do to shake him off.”

“There has to be another way,” Cacao said, though doubt was evident in his tone. "Maybe we can organize… find a way to take back control, get rid of the King and his elite."

The conversation paused as the weight of the thoughts hung in the air. Their future seemed uncertain, and for the first time in a long while, the Crushers seemed unsure if continuing the fight was even worth it. But the one thing they knew for certain was that Turles would never back down. And that brought them to the uncomfortable realization that Turles might be their only hope—and their only threat.

“Where is Turles?” Rukon asked quietly, looking around the dimly lit barracks. “And Yamoshi?”

Meanwhile, far from the others, Turles and Yamoshi walked in silence, their steps heavy. Yamoshi’s voice broke the stillness first, low and filled with concern. “Are you out of your mind, Turles?! Do you think challenging the King will solve anything? If you lose, it’s over for all of us.”

Turles’s expression darkened, eyes hard as stone. “What else can we do? Do you think the King cares about us? About anything other than his own power? You saw the grin on his face. That was a message. He’s not just killing us. He’s sending a message to anyone who dares to rise up. And we let that happen.”

Yamoshi clenched his fists, trying to reason with his friend. “That’s exactly why we need to stay vigilant and think this through. Fighting him directly—challenging the King—it won’t change anything. It’s just a death sentence. You’re better than that, Turles.”

Turles’s voice grew colder, his gaze hardening. “You’ve always believed in unity and peace, Yamoshi. But it’s too late for that now. We watched Onnio die today and they cheered. This—this isn’t about unity anymore. It’s about survival. It’s about strength. We can’t keep waiting for a miracle. The only way to change things is by forcing it. And I’m not going to sit back and wait for someone else to decide when we die.”

The two men stood facing each other, the tension between them palpable. Yamoshi shook his head, a heavy sigh escaping him. “I don’t believe this is the way, Turles. We don’t have to lose ourselves in anger to win.”

But Turles was already turning away, not willing to listen anymore. “I don’t have time for speeches, Yamoshi. Tomorrow, I fight the King. And if I die, then at least I’ll die on my own terms.”

Yamoshi made a move to stop him, but Turles was already gone, slipping into the shadows through a small hole he’d created in the wall of their barracks years ago. Alone in the quiet of the night, Turles wandered out, his mind spinning with thoughts of anger and revenge. He needed a way to win. His power alone might not be enough to face the King, but perhaps there was something else that could give him the strength he needed.

After the chaos of the fight and the pain of losing Onnio, Turles wandered into the night, his mind a swirling storm of anger and grief. He had never felt so helpless. How could he possibly face King Vegeta II in battle? His power alone was no match for the King’s elite strength. The image of Onnio’s lifeless body haunted him, fueling a growing hatred that twisted in his chest.

Seeking solitude, Turles slipped into the shadows, far from the barracks and the others. He needed to think, to clear his mind, but the pain from losing Onnio only burned brighter the longer he brooded. In the quiet darkness, the weight of everything threatened to crush him. What did it all mean? What was the point of fighting if this was the result?

As he walked aimlessly, lost in his thoughts, a strange gleam of light caught his attention in the distance. Intrigued, Turles followed it, moving silently through the darkness. He crept closer, his senses sharp and his heart pounding with curiosity.

It wasn’t long before Turles stumbled upon the source of the light: two strange figures standing under its faint glow. He crouched low behind a boulder, his instincts kicking in as he watched them cautiously. Even in the dim light, he could tell they weren’t from Planet Sadala—their appearance alone made that obvious.

One was tall, with light pink skin and an air of arrogance, wearing pristine white Jackie Ohh sunglasses that glinted faintly in the darkness. The other was short and dumpy, an odd contrast to her companion, with red Jackie Ohh sunglasses perched on her nose and a blonde wig that sat awkwardly atop her head.

Turles crept closer, careful not to make a sound, his sharp eyes locked on the two. He hoped to overhear their conversation without being detected. Whatever brought them to this desolate part of Sadala wasn’t ordinary, and his instincts told him they were important.

“Well, this is a waste of time,” a sharp voice—East Kai—sounded, laced with annoyance. “Sadala is nothing but a wasteland. A savage planet, full of primitive beings.”

South Kai, less bothered by the place, sighed. “It’s hardly worth our time, but orders are orders. Let’s just finish up and move on.”

East Kai groaned dramatically, adjusting her blonde wig as she crossed her arms. “I know it’s orders from the Supreme Kai, but I finished my census ages ago. Why do I have to be here with you? I could be on my jet bike, racing across the cosmos! This backwater rock is the last place I want to be.”

South Kai chuckled, an air of calm about him despite her complaints. “Maybe if you spent less time joyriding and more time working, you wouldn’t be here now.”

East Kai shot him a glare. “Excuse me?! I do my job, and I do it fabulously, thank you very much. Unlike you, who spends forever on every detail. What are you even doing now?”

South Kai ignored her tone and gestured to his clipboard. “Plant life. The Supreme Kai wanted a thorough catalog of life on Sadala. Though after observing the Saiyans, I see no reason to interact with them. Primitive, war-hungry creatures. Hardly worth divine intervention.”

“Ugh.” East Kai rolled her eyes and reached into her sash belt, pulling out one of their divine fruits—the very same fruit from the Tree of Might. She bit into it and immediately grimaced, her face scrunching in disgust. “Ugh! Bitter! I thought this was supposed to be sweet!” She held the fruit up in frustration. “I need to talk to Zalama about this. His new fruit needs serious work.”

Turles, crouched low behind the boulder, watched the exchange intently. As the two Kais bickered and bantered, something clicked in his mind. Their otherworldly presence, their dismissive attitude toward the Saiyans—it all pointed to one undeniable truth. These weren’t ordinary beings. They were gods. Real gods.

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt, leaving him stunned. Gods, here on Sadala, conducting some mundane task for the Supreme Kai? And that fruit…

“Maybe if you stopped stuffing your face with every divine creation…” South Kai muttered under his breath as he finished his notes, ignoring her.

East Kai didn’t seem to hear him. She glanced around, visibly bored. “Are we done yet? Because if we’re done, we can finally leave this dump.”

South Kai slapped his pen to his clipboard with a nod. “Yes, I’ve got what I need. It’s time to go.”

East Kai practically beamed. “Finally! Let’s get out of here.” In her excitement, she tossed the remainder of the fruit aside without a second thought. The half-eaten divine fruit landed carelessly on the ground, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

South Kai and East Kai turned, their forms beginning to glow with divine light as they prepared to leave. “Finally, I’m free!” East Kai cheered, practically skipping as they vanished into the shimmering light, leaving Sadala behind.

Turles’s eyes locked onto the discarded fruit. A divine fruit, casually tossed aside like it was nothing—and now, it lay right in front of him.

This was it. His chance.

The Kais had vanished in a shimmer of light, their dismissive remarks still echoing in Turles’s mind. The wasteland they saw, the primitive beings they mocked—it didn’t matter. What mattered was the fruit they had left behind.

Without hesitation, Turles moved swiftly, snatching the fruit from the ground. Its faint energy pulsed beneath his fingers, sending a jolt through his body. This was no ordinary fruit—it was divine, a gift from the gods. To Turles, it was more than that. It was a sign, a beacon of the power he desperately needed.

Hiding the fruit in his pelt, Turles slipped back into the shadows. His mind raced with possibilities, his heart pounding as the weight of his decision settled in. Tomorrow, he would face the King and he would fight with the power needed to win. And if he died, he would die with the strength to make a difference.

Unbeknownst to him, Yamoshi had been following from a distance, quietly observing. Concern clouded Yamoshi’s mind as he watched his friend retreat into the darkness. Whatever Turles had found, whatever path he had chosen, it was one Yamoshi feared would lead to ruin. The fight for survival—against the King and the system—was about to begin.

___________

Writer’s Note:

Rest in peace, Onnio.

Well, that was a lot to unpack. Cumber’s introduction as King Vegeta III’s (present-day Vegeta’s father) personal bodyguard was a choice I wrestled with while developing this chapter. Originally, I was going to have Cumber be a member of the Crushers, but with his strength and ferocity in this era, it just made more sense for him to be an elite. His brute power fits perfectly within King Vegeta II’s harsh hierarchy and caste system.

Having him be the one Onnio faces felt brutal, but it delivered the message I needed: to show just how ruthless King Vegeta II truly was. It also served to shatter any hope the Crushers had that their bond as a family could somehow make a difference from within the system. No matter how strong they grew or how long they survived, they weren’t going to earn their freedom. They were destined to die in the arena—and that realization pissed Turles off.

Losing Onnio was emotional, not just for the Crushers but for Turles personally. That rage he unleashed on Cumber wasn’t just about revenge; it was about grief, about the weight of loss, and about standing up for Yamoshi—because that’s what brothers do when they’ve bled and fought side by side in the arena.

Now, about how Turles stumbled upon the divine fruit—that’s something I’ve had in mind for a while. I always imagined it wasn’t just lying around waiting to be found. I thought, What if it was a Kai who casually snacked on it and discarded it, completely unaware of the ripple effect it would cause? The identities of those Kais didn’t solidify until I worked out where Sadala fits within the universe. Ironically, this entire mess ties back to South Kai and East Kai—their actions set everything in motion, even though South Kai had no idea it would come back to haunt him in the present.

The original movie never explained how Turles got the fruit—or the seed, for that matter. But this version feels right to me. It fits without breaking canon, offering a believable explanation for how a fruit of the gods could end up in the hands of a mortal.

Now… get ready. The main event of Part 2 is next!

CHAPTER 26: THE CRUSHERS

A few days passed, and the barracks remained tense as ever. The stale air was thick with unease, broken only by the distant echoes of clashes and cheers from the arena.

Yamoshi was jolted awake by Turles’s voice, low but insistent.

“Wake up, Yamoshi,” Turles said, shaking his shoulder. “Looks like the king’s parading in a few scarless.”

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Yamoshi sat up, brushing off the remnants of restless sleep. “Scarless?” he muttered, already feeling the weight of the day ahead.

Turles didn’t wait for a response and turned toward the entrance of the barracks. Yamoshi followed, pulling himself together as they joined the growing crowd of curious gladiators gathered near the heavy stone gates.

The sound of footsteps, gruff commands, and the clanking of chains echoed ominously from beyond the gates. The metallic groan of the gates opening sent a ripple through the crowd. On the other side, a group of ragged Saiyans stumbled forward, their wrists still shackled and their bodies covered in fur pelts that hung loosely, barely offering any protection. The pelts were worn and frayed, a stark reminder of how far these warriors had fallen.

“Keep moving, you low-class scum,” one of the guards barked, shoving a burly Saiyan forward with the butt of his staff. “Enjoy your new life as Crushers. If you survive, maybe you’ll be worth something.”

The guards’ mocking laughter filled the silence as one of them barked a command. Rough hands reached out, unlocking the shackles from the newcomers’ wrists with sharp, metallic clicks. The restraints clattered to the ground, but the freedom offered little relief. The guards smirked, stepping back toward the gates with an air of satisfaction.

One by one, they filed out, their boots echoing against the stone floor. The newcomers stood frozen for a moment, rubbing their raw wrists as their wary eyes scanned the room. The cold, calculating gazes of the other gladiators bore down on them like predators sizing up their prey.

Yamoshi noted the tension in the air—the way the new arrivals instinctively sized up their surroundings, the barely concealed fear in their eyes. As they shuffled further into the barracks, Daiz stepped forward from the gathered crowd, his sly grin practically gleaming as he sized them up.

“Well, well,” he said, spreading his arms dramatically. “Scarless! Let me be the first to say welcome. I’m Daiz, and I guess you could call me the local ambassador for newcomers.” He let out a short laugh, glancing at the rest of the Crushers before returning his gaze to the ragged group. “I’ll tell you right now—this place doesn’t really do warm welcomes, so take what you can get.”

The newcomers exchanged wary glances, clearly unsure of how to respond. Daiz didn’t give them a chance to linger in silence. “Why don’t we make this simple? You’ve got names, don’t you? We’re all friends here. For now.”

One of the newcomers, his eyes sharp and calculating, stepped forward first. “Name’s Cacao,” he said, his voice gruff. “Guess this is home now.”

“I’m Rasin,” said the second, carrying himself with a quiet but dangerous confidence.

“And I’m his brother, Lakasei,” added the third, smirking as his gaze swept across the gathered Saiyans, clearly sizing up potential allies—or threats.

The others followed suit, each stepping forward in turn. A burly warrior with a perpetual scowl growled his introduction. “Rukon,” he said, his piercing eyes betraying a sharp mind beneath the rough exterior.

“Verno,” added a sharp-featured, wiry Saiyan, his quick movements and alert posture marking him as someone who knew how to stay one step ahead.

Two female Saiyans stood out from the group. Soya, with short, spiked hair and a steady gaze, spoke confidently. “Soya,” she said simply, her voice even. Kaleen, standing beside her in battle-worn armor, followed. “Kaleen,” she said, her voice steady and tinged with a quiet determination.

Next was a wiry Saiyan with a deep scar running along his jawline. He stepped forward briefly. “Taro,” he said, his tone short and clipped.

Finally, a nervous figure at the back hesitated before stepping forward. His wide eyes darted nervously between the crowd. “I...I’m Onnio,” he stammered, his voice shaking. His stance betrayed his inexperience, earning a few quiet chuckles from the onlookers.

Daiz, however, didn’t laugh. Instead, his grin widened as he addressed the group again. “Well, that’s a fine lineup, isn’t it?” he said, his tone dripping with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Welcome to the Crushers.”

Cacao frowned. “Crushers?”

Daiz let out a short laugh, glancing around at the rest of the gladiators before turning back to the newcomers. “We call ourselves Crushers not because we crush the competition... but because that’s what this place does to us. It crushes us—grinds us down until there’s nothing left. If you’re still standing after all that, maybe you’ll get a taste of what it’s like to actually win around here.”

The grim reality of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. Daiz’s smirk faded as his tone turned more serious.

“You’re here because you weren’t strong enough, or fast enough, or obedient enough for the ones up top,” he said. “They tossed you in here because they think you’re worthless. The only way to prove them wrong is to survive.”

The newcomers stood in tense silence, their expressions a mix of anger, determination, and fear. Finally, Rukon stepped forward, his scowl deepening. “Not strong enough?” he growled. “They’re lucky I didn’t take more of them down with me.”

Kaleen crossed her arms. “One mistake. One failed mission. That’s all it took for them to throw me in here.”

Onnio, still looking nervous, hesitated before speaking. “I... I’ve never even fought before,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “They said I was too weak to be useful.”

Daiz raised an eyebrow, glancing at Turles. “Well, looks like we’ve got a real fighter here,” he said with a sarcastic edge, earning a chuckle from a few of the others.

Turles, however, wasn’t laughing. “Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise. “You’re here now. Weak, strong—it doesn’t matter. Fight, or die. Those are your only options.”

His words hit hard, and the barracks fell silent again. Even Daiz didn’t have a comeback this time.

The tension lingered until one of the new arrivals, Soya, finally broke it with a sharp laugh. “Guess we’d better figure out who’s worth fighting alongside, then,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the group.

The others muttered in agreement, and the newcomers began to settle in, some introducing themselves more formally to the rest of the Crushers while others remained quiet, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

Yamoshi watched the interactions unfold, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. Every new arrival was a reminder of how many Saiyans had been deemed expendable—thrown into this brutal system to fight and die for the amusement of those in power.

Still, he couldn’t deny the flicker of hope he felt. With every new fighter that entered the barracks, the Crushers grew stronger. And maybe, just maybe, they could turn that strength into something more.

Before anyone could respond, the barracks doors slammed open again. Two of King Vegeta II’s elite guards strode in, their armor made of crude yet imposing black plating, marked with scratches and dents that told of countless battles. The jagged edges and rough-hewn design gave them an almost primal appearance, as if forged more for intimidation than refinement.

Behind them, a Saiyan woman with a commanding presence entered—Avoca, the king’s advisor and enforcer. She wore a sleeveless mantle of animal hides draped over her shoulders, fastened with a metal clasp bearing the royal crest. Her sharp eyes swept over the room with an air of authority before she spoke.

“You, you, you, you, and you,” she said, pointing at Turles, Daiz, Onnio, Kaleen, and Verno. “You’re coming with me.”

The chosen Saiyans exchanged tense glances but stepped forward. The guards shoved them into motion, leading them out as Avoca followed.

“Where are they taking them?” Soya asked, her voice low.

“Only one place they’d go,” Amond replied grimly.

Yamoshi didn’t hesitate. “Amond, keep watch here.” 

Without another word, he turned and moved toward the far wall of the barracks. A small group exchanged glances before silently following him.

He slipped through a hidden passage—a narrow tunnel chiseled into the rock by the crushers over time. The uneven walls closed in around them as they pushed forward in single file, the faint scent of damp stone filling the air.

“Stay quiet,” one of the crushers behind him muttered to the newcomers that followed, though the warning wasn’t needed.

The passage opened into a concealed viewpoint, a jagged opening that overlooked the arena. Yamoshi crouched low, his sharp eyes scanning the scene below.

The arena stretched out beneath them, its sunlit sands glowing with an almost blinding intensity. The distant roar of the crowd rose like a wave, and the chosen Saiyans were now being ushered into the center of the battleground.

The group watched in silence, their breaths shallow, as the next brutal chapter of survival began to unfold.

The golden sands of the arena stretched wide under the harsh, unforgiving light, shimmering faintly with the heat. Towering walls enclosed the battleground, and rows of spectators filled the massive stone seats above. The roar of the crowd was deafening, filled with excitement and bloodlust as Saiyans cheered, jeered, and demanded carnage.

Turles, Daiz, Onnio, Kaleen and Verno stood in the center of the arena, their expressions tense as their eyes swept across the space. The arena felt like a pit of doom—unyielding, merciless, and alive with danger. Their bare feet shifted uneasily in the burning sand.

Above it all, King Vegeta II stood on a raised podium carved from dark stone, adorned with the insignia of the Saiyan royal family. His imposing figure was framed by the harsh light, his crimson royal cloak billowing lightly in the warm breeze. Beside him stood Avoca, her piercing gaze fixed on the fighters below.

The king raised his hand, and the crowd's frenzied roar quieted to an expectant hum. His voice boomed across the arena, carried by the power of his commanding presence.

“My loyal Saiyans!” King Vegeta’s tone dripped with pride, his sharp eyes scanning the sea of faces in the stands. “Today, you are graced with a spectacle worthy of our mighty race. We, the pinnacle of warriors, have been challenged—not by our peers, but by a lesser species that dared to trespass on our sacred world!”

The crowd erupted in boos and curses, shouting their disdain for the nameless intruders.

King Vegeta II let the noise swell before raising his hand once more, silencing them. “These pathetic creatures thought they could conquer us, thought they could rival the strength of Saiyan blood! But as you will see, they failed, and only these pitiful survivors remain!” He gestured toward the far gate, his lip curling in disdain.

He turned back to the crowd, his voice rising again. “And now, we shall witness whether even the weakest among us—the lowest of our kind—can crush these invaders! Let this battle prove the unyielding superiority of the Saiyan race!”

The crowd erupted once more, their chants shaking the very stones of the arena. “Saiyan supremacy! Saiyan supremacy!”

As the noise thundered in their ears, Turles glanced briefly at the others, his jaw clenched. He said nothing, but his stance shifted slightly, preparing himself for the fight to come.

The heavy groan of iron filled the air as the gate across the arena began to rise. Sand spilled from the opening as the darkened space behind it was revealed, and a faint, unsettling hiss echoed forth.

From the shadows emerged their opponents—tall, sinewy figures with ash-colored skin that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Their eyes glowed an eerie green, their movements unnaturally fluid as they stepped forward. These creatures seemed almost spectral, their lean frames betraying no weakness, only a strange, alien grace.

The crowd’s jeers faltered into a murmur of intrigue and disgust.

“What are those things?” Onnio whispered, his voice shaky as he stared at the advancing figures.

Daiz didn’t answer, his focus locked on the creatures. Turles’s lips curled into a faint sneer, his hands tightening into fists as he muttered under his breath, “Doesn’t matter what they are. We just have to take them down.”

The alien beings spread out, their movements predatory as they encircled the Saiyans in the center of the arena. Their glowing eyes fixed on their prey with an almost clinical detachment, and the tension in the air became suffocating. They moved with unnatural grace, their glowing eyes fixating on the Saiyans.

From above, King Vegeta II’s booming voice cut through the heavy silence: “Let the battle begin!”

“What’s the plan?” Kaleen whispered.

“No idea,” Turles said, his voice steady. “Stay sharp.”

The aliens struck first, moving faster than anticipated. One of them lunged at Onnio, its elongated fingers grasping his arm. Onnio froze in panic as the alien’s hands began to glow, and his energy visibly drained from his body.

Turles acted instantly, delivering a crushing kick to the alien’s side and breaking its hold. Onnio collapsed, gasping for breath.

“They can drain our energy!” Turles shouted. “Don’t let them grab you!”

The fight intensified as the Saiyans adapted. Daiz’s speed proved invaluable, allowing him to evade the aliens’ grasp and strike from unexpected angles. Kaleen and Verno, though initially caught off guard, quickly found their rhythm, coordinating their attacks to keep the aliens on the defensive.

Amid the chaos, Verno leaped back to gain distance, her hand instinctively charging with energy. She was about to release an energy blast when Daiz caught her wrist mid-motion, his grip firm and his eyes blazing with urgency.

“Are you insane?” he hissed, shoving her hand down. “We’re not allowed to use energy attacks!”

“What?” Verno snapped, confusion and frustration flashing across her face.

“The Crushers fight with strength alone!” Daiz growled. “It’s how we prove we’re better than the low-class label they stuck on us. You fire that blast, and they’ll execute you on the spot!”

Verno’s eyes widened as the weight of his words sank in. She nodded quickly, her energy fading as she refocused on the fight.

“Stick to your fists, or we’re all dead,” Daiz added sharply before darting back into the fray.

The group adjusted their strategy, their strikes becoming more precise and coordinated. Kaleen delivered a powerful uppercut to one alien, sending it reeling, while Turles tackled another to the ground, his movements calculated and ruthless. Though shaken, Verno redirected her frustration into raw strength, landing a decisive blow that sent an opponent sprawling into the sand.

Turles, as always, led by example. His strikes were precise and devastating, his instincts honed by years of survival. He shielded Onnio from another attack, driving his elbow into an alien’s head and sending it sprawling.

“Get up, Onnio!” Turles barked. “Fear won’t save you! Fight, or die!”

Onnio, trembling, pushed himself to his feet. Summoning his courage, he lunged at an alien, landing a clumsy but effective punch that sent it reeling.

The battle reached its climax as the aliens, sensing their advantage slipping, fought more desperately. Their tactics shifted, and Turles quickly realized they were focusing on him and Daiz, clearly identifying them as the biggest threats. The aliens darted toward them with alarming speed, their glowing hands reaching out in an effort to drain their energy.

The crowd roared with excitement, the sound reverberating through the arena as the battle intensified. High above, King Vegeta II leaned forward in his throne, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he watched the chaos unfold.

From his hidden vantage point, Yamoshi clenched his fists, his heart pounding as he observed the fight below. The golden sands of the arena were a blur of motion, and his sharp eyes tracked Turles’s every move. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration—and fear—for the younger Saiyan.

“He’s holding his own,” one of the Crushers watching beside Yamoshi muttered.

Yamoshi nodded, his gaze fixed. “He’s not just holding his own. He’s learning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Turles is reading them,” Yamoshi said, his tone laced with a mixture of awe and urgency. “Look at how he’s moving. He’s watching their techniques—how they drain energy. He’s figuring out how it works, trying to replicate it himself.”

Down below, one of the aliens latched onto Turles, its hands glowing as it began to siphon his energy. Turles gritted his teeth, his vision blurring as his strength ebbed away.

“Turles!” Daiz shouted, leaping in with a devastating kick that knocked the alien off of him. Turles staggered but quickly steadied himself, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination.

He didn’t retreat. Instead, he lunged back into the fight, deliberately allowing another alien to grab at him. But this time, when the alien tried to drain his life energy, Turles countered, his hand snapping forward and mimicking the movement.

The technique didn’t fully work—Turles’s attempt to siphon energy only destabilized the alien slightly—but it was enough to put his opponent on the defensive. The alien recoiled, its confidence shaken.

Turles smirked, his voice cutting through the din. “Push in now!”

The Saiyans rallied behind him. Kaleen and Daiz attacked in tandem, their strikes perfectly timed to overwhelm one alien. Onnio, who had been faltering earlier, found his courage, inspired by Turles’s resolve. With a yell, he landed a clean blow that sent another alien crashing into the sand.

Yamoshi watched from above, his chest tightening. He could see the strain on Turles, the way his movements were slowing, but there was no denying his ingenuity—or his tenacity.

The aliens, now on the defensive, fought desperately to regain control, but the Crushers pressed harder. With one final coordinated effort, the Saiyans overwhelmed the remaining attackers. Daiz and Kaleen delivered the finishing blows, while Onnio, emboldened by his newfound confidence, struck down one of the last aliens.

By the end, the arena was silent except for the ragged breathing of the victors. All but one of the aliens lay dead, their bodies dragged away by guards.

High above, King Vegeta II leaned back in his throne, his expression unreadable. “It ended too quickly,” he said.

Avoca, standing beside him, replied, “They’re getting stronger. But they need more challenges.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, their roars echoing through the arena as the victorious Saiyans stood amidst the carnage. Onnio’s wide eyes darted around, his body still trembling from the adrenaline of the fight. He stared at his hands, barely able to comprehend that he had landed a decisive blow.

Daiz clapped a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his daze. “Hey, don’t look so shell-shocked, kid,” Daiz said with a sly grin. “You made it through your first fight. That’s more than some can say.”

Onnio blinked, his breath coming in short gasps. “I...I didn’t think I’d survive.”

“You didn’t just survive,” Daiz said, shaking him slightly to emphasize his words. “You fought, you stood your ground, and you came out alive. That’s something to feel pumped about. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you now—filled with more fights, sure, but you’ll get better. Stronger.”

Onnio managed a small nod, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “Yeah...yeah, I guess you’re right.”

The guards marched into the arena, their sharp commands cutting through the lingering cheers of the crowd. “Move!” one barked, gesturing for the Crushers to follow.

The group began their slow walk back to the barracks, their bodies worn but their spirits holding steady. Turles lingered at the rear of the group, his pace faltering slightly as he glanced upward toward the royal podium.

There, high above, King Vegeta II leaned forward in his throne, his sharp eyes locking onto Turles. The two stared at each other, neither breaking the intense gaze.

The crowd’s noise seemed to fade into the background for Turles as he studied the king’s face. It was the face of the man who had built this brutal system, who had deemed Saiyans like him unworthy. Yet, at that moment, Turles didn’t feel like a victim. He felt defiance burning in his chest.

King Vegeta II’s expression remained impassive, though there was a flicker of recognition—perhaps even curiosity—in his eyes.

“Keep moving!” a guard growled, stepping toward Turles and raising his hand as if to shove him.

Turles snapped his head toward the guard and, with a measured glare, began walking again, his shoulders squared and his chin held high. He didn’t need the guard’s push—he had already made his point.

The group disappeared through the gates, leaving the arena behind as the crowd’s cheers continued to echo in the distance.

***

The group returned to the barracks, bruised but alive. The others greeted them with cheers, their survival a small victory in an otherwise bleak existence. The barracks buzzed with energy, the seasoned fighters mingling with the newcomers over the day’s matches.

Daiz stood at the center of the room, gesturing animatedly as he recounted the fight in vivid detail. “And then Onnio, out of nowhere, lands a strike that takes the alien down!” he exclaimed, grinning broadly.

The others erupted into cheers, their voices loud enough to echo through the stone walls. The new Saiyans—Cacao, Rasin, Lakasei, Rukon, Verno, Soya, Kaleen, and Taro—stood among the crowd, gradually easing into the camaraderie. Onnio, sitting off to the side, flushed at the attention but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face.

“Come on, Onnio!” Kaleen nudged him, her tone playful but encouraging. “You were amazing out there. Don’t act like you didn’t feel it!”

Onnio hesitated, then, encouraged by the group’s cheers, stood up. “I… I couldn’t have done it without Turles,” he admitted, his voice steadying as he went on. “He kept us together out there. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have survived.”

The group turned their attention to Turles, who sat nearby eating beside Yamoshi. He didn’t look up from his meal but responded coolly, “You’re still alive because you fought. That’s all that matters. Remember that for the next fight.”

“Still, you were fierce out there,” Rukon chimed in, leaning forward. “Those moves… you fight like you’ve been doing this for decades.”

Turles shrugged. “You either learn fast, or you die. I prefer the first option.”

The conversation shifted as one of the newcomers, Verno, glanced at Yamoshi. “Hey… your name’s Yamoshi, right? Like the myth?”

Yamoshi nodded, setting his plate aside. “My parents named me after him.”

The room quieted slightly, curiosity hanging in the air. “So, what do you think about it? You believe the legend’s true?” Rasin asked, his brow furrowed as he leaned closer.

Yamoshi took a moment before replying. “I do. Not because I was named after him, but because I believe he stood for something. He was a symbol of unity—a Saiyan who fought against the darkness in our hearts. If we don’t have something to believe in, what’s the point of all this?”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the group. “Unity?” Taro scoffed lightly. “It’s just a fairytale told to younger Saiyans so they’ll believe in a power they can’t achieve in a lifetime.”

“It’s not about power,” Yamoshi replied. “It’s about hope. If someone like him could exist, it means we can change. We can build something better—a brighter future for Sadala.”

Soya, one of the newer Saiyans and an older fighter, crossed her arms. “But don’t forget the end of the legend,” she said grimly. “Yamoshi lost control. His power destroyed him and everything around him. That’s the part no one likes to talk about.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Soya’s words hanging over them.

Turles stood, brushing off his hands. “Fairytale or not, it doesn’t matter. Power’s the only thing that counts in the end.” He walked toward the window, staring out at the moonlight that bathed the barren landscape outside.

The others resumed their chatter, debating the legend, but Yamoshi stood and made his way to Turles. The two stood side by side, their reflections faintly visible in the window.

“You don’t actually believe in it, do you?” Turles asked without turning his head.

“I do,” Yamoshi replied softly. “Not just because it’s my name, but because I feel it. In my heart, I know we can change things. We can rise above this. But we need something to push us forward—something to believe in.”

Turles glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Belief doesn’t win battles. Power does. You’re too idealistic—that kind of thinking will get you killed.”

“Maybe,” Yamoshi said, meeting Turles’s gaze. “But if we don’t believe in something greater than power, then what’s the point of surviving?”

Turles looked away, his tone blunt. “Fear is a weakness we can’t afford.”

“It’s not about fear,” Yamoshi countered. “It’s about strength. Real strength. And real strength doesn’t come from destroying—it comes from protecting.”

For a moment, Turles was quiet, his sharp eyes fixed on the moonlit horizon. When he spoke, his voice was lower, almost reflective. “You talk like that, but you’re still here—fighting, surviving, like the rest of us. Protecting what?”

“I’m protecting hope,” Yamoshi said, his voice firm. “Even if it’s a small light in all this darkness, it’s worth holding onto.”

Turles exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. But his voice softened, and he glanced briefly at Yamoshi. “Still, I’m glad you’re here. In all this madness, maybe you’re the only one who makes sense.”

Yamoshi smiled faintly. “Like we always say—we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The fire crackled softly as the two Saiyans stood in silence, their shared burden heavier than words could express. After a moment, Yamoshi stepped back, giving Turles space, and rejoined the others by the fire.

The room was alive with conversation, the Crushers—new and seasoned—debating the legend with renewed vigor. Turles stayed by the window, gazing at the moon. His face was unreadable, but for a fleeting moment, doubt—or perhaps hope—flickered in his eyes before fading into the quiet of the night.

___________

Writer’s Note:

So in this chapter, a lot is going on that I hope has been picked up on. First and foremost is the meaning behind the Crusher Corps in the present day. I know that was the original name of Turles’s crew in the movie, but I wanted to give it more depth—where did the name come from, and why? I debated how it could fit into the story, and eventually, I decided it originated from their gladiatorial days, becoming a symbol of their origins and the hardships they faced in the arena.

We’ve got some new faces here—some you might recognize, and others I created specifically for this story. With the aliens, I wanted to show how Turles learned the life-draining technique and how, during fights, he observes and adapts, attempting to replicate techniques himself. He’s a survivor, a fighter who’ll do whatever it takes to live—but he’ll also protect the people he cares about.

The Crushers are like a family now, bound by their shared past, sticking together as they’re forced into battles against beasts and prisoners of war brought to Sadala. I didn’t dive too deeply into the politics of that, but it’s clear Sadala attracts all kinds of visitors—many of them hostile. Under King Vegeta II’s rule, Saiyans are primal, fierce warriors who refuse to submit to anyone they see as inferior.

Now, the biggest takeaway: Yamoshi. There’s a lot I want to say about the choices I’ve made with his character, and I’ll definitely break it down more by the end of the story. For now, I’ll leave it with you—give it some thought, and let’s see what happens next.

CHAPTER 25: CENTURIES AGO

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a chaotic symphony of cheers and jeers that echoed across the massive stone coliseum. Sadala’s lone sun hung high in the sky, its unrelenting heat baking the bloodstained sand of the arena floor.

At the center of the chaos, a lone Saiyan stood, breathing heavily. His bare torso was covered in scrapes and bruises, the sheen of sweat glistening against his dusky complexion. His muscular frame was lean rather than bulky, his movements precise and controlled. His sharp features were framed by wild, dark hair tied loosely at the back of his neck, and his piercing golden eyes glinted like molten steel.

A tattered fur pelt was draped over his shoulders, its edges darkened by blood and grime, swaying slightly as he adjusted his stance. He gripped a staff in both hands—a crude weapon, worn but sturdy, its surface splintered from countless battles.

Circling him was a hulking beast, one of Sadala’s native predators. Its sinewy body was covered in coarse black fur streaked with crimson markings that seemed to pulsate faintly in the sun’s light. Its elongated limbs ended in razor-sharp claws, and its maw bristled with jagged teeth. Its glowing yellow eyes were filled with primal rage as it bared its fangs and let out a guttural snarl that reverberated through the arena.

The creature crouched low, its powerful hind legs coiling like springs before it lunged with terrifying speed.

The Saiyan darted to the side at the last moment, his movements almost feline. He spun his staff in a blur, deflecting the beast’s claws and countering with a precise jab to its ribcage. The beast howled in pain, staggering back, but the Saiyan didn’t relent. He moved with a fluidity that belied his battered state, his staff a blur as he struck again and again.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy, their bloodlust palpable.

“C’mon, Yamoshi!” a voice rang out, cutting through the noise.

The Saiyan’s golden eyes flicked toward the voice—Turles, fighting his own battle nearby. The younger Saiyan darted away from the snapping jaws of another beast, his movements quick and precise. With a sharp kick to the creature’s flank, Turles created an opening, glancing over his shoulder as he shouted again.

“Stop holding back!” Turles’s voice was calm but commanding, even as he dodged another swipe of razor-sharp claws.

The Saiyan—Yamoshi—gritted his teeth. He knew Turles was right. Holding back might save the creature’s life, but it could also cost him his own. And yet, giving his all under the watchful eyes of King Vegeta II, who sat in the highest viewing platform, was a dangerous gamble.

His moment of hesitation was punished. The beast’s massive paw slammed into Yamoshi’s side, sending him flying across the sand. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Blood dripped from his mouth as he struggled to rise, his vision swimming.

“Get up!” Turles called again, his voice sharper now. He delivered a brutal punch to the beast’s midsection, dropping it to the ground with a yelp, and then turned his full attention to Yamoshi.

Before Yamoshi could react, his opponent charged again, its massive shadow looming over him. Yamoshi braced himself for the blow, but it never came.

Turles dashed forward, intercepting the attack with a perfectly timed kick to the beast’s side. The creature stumbled, giving Turles enough time to grab Yamoshi by the arm and haul him to his feet.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Turles muttered, his voice low enough for only Yamoshi to hear.

Yamoshi coughed, blood staining his lips, but a faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I had it under control,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Sure you did,” Turles replied dryly, stepping back to stand beside him.

Their combined opponents regrouped, growling in unison. The beast Turles had been fighting stood beside Yamoshi’s opponent, both snarling as they crouched low, readying for another charge.

Side by side, Yamoshi and Turles readied themselves, their postures unwavering as the creatures lunged toward them.

The beasts lunged simultaneously, their claws gleaming under the harsh sunlight. Turles and Yamoshi moved in perfect synchronization, their years of fighting together evident in their seamless coordination.

Turles darted low, ducking under the snapping jaws of one beast before delivering a sharp elbow to its flank. The creature stumbled, but its momentum carried it forward. Turles twisted, using its own weight against it as he slammed his knee into its midsection, sending it skidding across the sand.

Yamoshi, meanwhile, spun his staff in a blur, deflecting a wild swipe from the second beast. With a quick sidestep, he brought the weapon down hard on its leg, forcing it to collapse with a pained howl. Before the beast could recover, Yamoshi struck again, this time aiming for its jaw, the impact echoing across the arena.

One of the beasts regained its footing, its furious roar shaking the air as it charged at Turles. The younger Saiyan remained calm, dodging its frenzied attacks with precision. He leaped into the air, planting his foot on the creature’s back and using it as leverage to flip behind it. With a smirk, he slammed his fist into the back of its head, sending it crashing face-first into the sand.

"Turles, now!" Yamoshi shouted, driving his staff into the chest of the second beast as it lunged for him.

Turles responded immediately, darting forward to deliver a spinning kick to the same spot. The combined force of their attacks sent the beast crumpling to the ground, motionless.

The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer, their chants of "Yamoshi! Turles!" echoing across the coliseum.

Breathing heavily, Yamoshi leaned on his staff for support, blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow. Turles stood beside him, equally battered but with a sharp glint in his eyes. His gaze wasn’t on the crowd, though—it was fixed upward, toward the highest platform.

There, King Vegeta II stood, his crimson cape billowing in the breeze. His facial features were strikingly similar to Vegeta’s, though his face was framed by a thick, flowing beard that reached his chest. A jagged scar ran diagonally across his left eye, adding to his imposing presence. His crown, forged from dark metal and encrusted with gleaming jewels, sat atop his head, while his garb—a collection of fur pelts dyed deep crimson and gold—set him apart as unmistakably royal.

The king’s piercing black eyes betrayed no emotion, but his interest was clear as he watched the two Saiyans below. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, leaning slightly on the armrest of his stone throne.

Yamoshi followed Turles’s gaze, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. The king’s silent scrutiny felt heavier than the heat of Sadala’s sun, but neither Saiyan looked away.

A moment passed before King Vegeta II rose from his seat, turning and disappearing into the shadows of his viewing platform without a word.

“Guess he’s impressed,” Turles muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.

Yamoshi let out a breathless chuckle, though pain flashed across his face as he clutched his ribs. “Not exactly the audience I wanted to impress.”

Their brief exchange was interrupted as the heavy gates to the arena floor creaked open. A pair of guards clad in battered armor approached, their expressions stoic. One gestured for the Saiyans to follow.

“Back to the pens,” the guard barked.

Turles smirked faintly, glancing at Yamoshi. “Another day, another death match to come.”

Yamoshi didn’t respond, his mind still on the king’s gaze as they were escorted toward the dark corridors beneath the arena.

The holding area was dimly lit and damp, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. The roar of the crowd faded as they descended, replaced by the distant sound of chains rattling and faint groans from other fighters recovering from their own battles.

As the heavy gates slammed shut behind them, Yamoshi leaned his staff against the wall and sat down heavily, his golden eyes scanning the room. Turles sat across from him, his usual smirk replaced by a pensive look.

Yamoshi broke the silence first. “You think he’s going to call for us?”

Turles leaned back against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes briefly. “If he does, it won’t be for anything good.”

Yamoshi nodded, his grip tightening on his staff. Whatever awaited them, they both knew the fight wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

It was a dim, cramped space filled with the stench of sweat and despair. Dozens of other warriors—prisoners like them—sat in various states of exhaustion.

Turles leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze distant. Even now, after their victory, his expression was unreadable.

“You saved me back there,” Yamoshi said, breaking the silence.

“You would’ve been fine,” Turles replied. “Eventually.”

Yamoshi chuckled, sitting beside him. “Still, thanks. I owe you one.”

Turles didn’t respond immediately. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces of their fellow prisoners. “Look at them,” he said finally. “Strong, desperate, willing to do anything to survive. And still, they’re nothing more than tools for the king’s entertainment.”

“We’re all tools, Turles,” Yamoshi followed his gaze, his expression softening. “But we don’t have to stay that way. If we keep fighting, keep getting stronger, we can—”

“Getting stronger takes time,” Turles interrupted, his tone bitter. “Time we don’t have. There has to be another way. A faster way.”

Yamoshi frowned. “You’re always looking for shortcuts.” He placed a hand on Turles’s shoulder. “Power isn’t just about strength. It’s about the will to use it for something greater. And no matter how we do it, we’ll get there together. Like we always have.”

For the first time, Turles’s stoic mask cracked, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Together,” he echoed.

The sound of heavy footsteps drew their attention. The other prisoners fell silent as a group of elite Saiyan guards entered the room, their armor gleaming. Behind them, a regal figure strode in, his crimson cape billowing. King Vegeta II.

The king’s presence was commanding, his piercing gaze sweeping over the room. “My champions,” he said, his voice carrying an air of authority. “You have proven your worth yet again. But remember, your strength is mine to command. Serve me well, and you may yet earn your place among the elite.”

Turles’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Yamoshi bowed his head respectfully, though his eyes remained defiant.

King Vegeta II’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before he turned to leave. The guards followed, and the room buzzed with whispered conversations as the tension dissipated.

Later that evening, the prisoners gathered around a large fire pit in the barracks. Plates of roasted meat and jugs of crude ale were passed around as they celebrated their survival.

The holding area beneath the arena was dimly lit, its walls carved from rough stone that still bore the scars of past battles. A faint light seeped in through cracks above, illuminating the grimy, bloodstained floor. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of sweat and iron. Along the walls, crude benches lined the space, and scattered troughs of water reflected the flickering light from torches.

In the far corner, Daiz leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed as he exchanged sharp words with another fighter, their conversation muffled but tense. His violet hair, disheveled from the earlier fight, framed his angular face, his piercing gaze darting between the other warrior and the entrance as though always ready for trouble.

Amond sat across the room, his massive frame draped over a bench as he tore into a chunk of meat, his brow furrowed. He looked up as Turles and Yamoshi entered, nodding slightly in acknowledgment.

“You fought well out there,” Amond said, his voice a low rumble, before standing and walking to another bench further away, where he sat to eat in silence.

Turles and Yamoshi dropped onto a bench near one of the troughs, their exhaustion evident in the way they slumped against the wall. A tray of food—barely appetizing but enough to restore their strength—was placed between them. Turles grabbed a piece of bread, tearing into it with little ceremony. Yamoshi followed suit, though his movements were slower, his bruised and bloodied hands trembling slightly as he reached for his food.

For a moment, neither spoke, the background murmur of Daiz’s conversation and the distant sounds of chains filling the space. Then Turles broke the silence.

“Nearly two years in this hell,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of both exhaustion and reflection. “Hard to believe we’re still alive.”

Yamoshi chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. “Harder to believe we’re still ourselves.” He leaned back, letting his head rest against the cool stone wall. “I keep thinking…what if we don’t make it out? What if this is it—our lives reduced to survival in a pit, fighting to prove we deserve to breathe?”

Turles smirked faintly, though his golden eyes darkened. “We’ll make it out. We didn’t survive the first year just to die here. If there’s one thing we Saiyans do, it’s adapt. And when we do get out, we’ll make sure no one ever has to live like this again.”

Yamoshi turned his head to look at him, studying his expression. “Still dreaming of freedom, huh? Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything,” Turles replied, his tone firm. He pulled a small, battered piece of armor from his belt—a shard they had split nearly a year ago, a reminder of a vow made in the darkest of times. He ran his thumb over its jagged edge, lost in thought. “We’ll make them see, Yamoshi. We’ll make them all see.”

Yamoshi’s gaze softened as he reached for his own shard, tied to a strip of leather around his wrist. It was a crude symbol, but it was theirs—a testament to their shared struggles and dreams.

“We said we’d do it together,” Yamoshi murmured, his voice barely audible.

“And we will,” Turles replied without hesitation. “No matter what it takes.”

For a brief moment, the weight of the arena, the societal system that had cast them into this pit, and the oppressive rule of King Vegeta II faded into the background. In its place was a shared history, a bond forged in blood and hardship, a promise of a future neither was sure they’d live to see.

But the faint tension in their words hinted at cracks forming beneath the surface. Their shared dreams still bound them, but the means to achieve them—those paths might not align forever.

Yamoshi’s gaze shifted to Daiz, who was now laughing quietly with his companion. “Think they even care about anything beyond the next fight?”

Turles shrugged, tearing another piece of bread. “Maybe. Maybe not. Some people need something to fight for. Others… they just need to fight. Doesn’t matter to me, as long as they stay out of my way.”

Yamoshi frowned, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he looked down at his shard of armor, his thumb tracing its edges. “One day,” he said softly, “we’ll walk out of here. Not as gladiators. Not as pawns in some twisted system. But as Saiyans. Free Saiyans.”

Turles’s smirk returned, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “One day,” he echoed, though his tone carried a note of uncertainty that Yamoshi didn’t miss.

As the guards barked orders for the fighters to settle down, the two Saiyans sat in silence, their battered bodies and weary minds finding a fleeting moment of solace in the shared promise of a dream they both longed to make real.

As the fire crackled and the stars of Planet Sadala glimmered above, Turles’s mind was elsewhere. The king’s words echoed in his head, mingling with Yamoshi’s. Power. Freedom. Salvation.

There had to be a way to have it all.

___________

Writer’s Note:

Welcome to Sadala—the original Saiyan homeworld, before it all went to hell during the great war. This setting has been a crucial part of the story’s development from the very beginning. I figured, what better way to tie Turles’ origins than having him be a Saiyan from a time when Sadala was still thriving?

Now, yes—that is Yamoshi! Before the questions start flying, I suggest reading the next chapter to find out more. This concept has been part of my original vision, and Yamoshi is the presence that reached out to Gohan. There’s something important he wants to show.

Since little is known about Sadala, I envisioned it not as primitive, but more primal—a harsh, gladiatorial society. Under King Vegeta II, a brutal system was created where low-class Saiyans—or those considered weak and “unworthy”—were forced into gladiator battles to prove their right to live. These fights served as both survival trials and entertainment for the king and the elite classes.

This system is terrifying, and Turles has been trapped in it alongside Yamoshi for two years. Their shared struggle forged a bond—not by blood, but by the hardships they’ve survived together. I wanted their dynamic to feel like that of brothers, shaped by pain, resilience, and defiance against a system that tried to break them.

But without diving too deep—let’s continue with what happens next, shall we?

CHAPTER 24: FORGOTTEN HISTORY

The twin moons of Planet Idun cast their silvery light over the Saiyan kingdom, bathing it in an ethereal glow. The scene was a stark contrast to the humble, rustic village the group had passed through in the forest. Here, the kingdom was alive with purpose and power, a testament to Saiyan resilience and Turles’s reign.

Turles’s palace dominated the skyline, a looming fortress of blackened stone and jagged architecture that seemed to claw at the heavens. The design bore hints of ancient Saiyan influences, with towering spires etched with angular carvings, yet it exuded a darker, almost alien presence. Behind the palace, the Eternal Tree stretched toward the sky like a god’s hand, its twisted branches glowing faintly with an unnatural energy that seemed to hum through the air. Each pulse of light from the Tree carried a weight, a reminder of its ominous, divine power.

The streets leading to the palace were lined with banners emblazoned with Turles’s crest, fluttering in the cool night breeze. Crusher Corps soldiers patrolled in pairs, their sharp eyes scanning the bustling city below. Merchants called out from market stalls brimming with exotic wares—fruits in hues that defied nature, shining trinkets, and tools of war. The air was thick with the mingling scents of grilled meat, spices, and the faint metallic tang of machinery.

Everywhere, there was a sense of order and tradition. Saiyan children sparred in courtyards under the watchful eyes of their elders, their laughter and shouts blending with the occasional clash of wooden staves. Lanterns hung from wrought iron posts, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows over the cobblestone streets.

For Vegeta, the sight stirred something deep within him. This kingdom wasn’t just a settlement—it was a reclamation. It was as if Turles had tried to rebuild what had been lost when Planet Vegeta fell, but with his own vision of Saiyan glory. It was a world apart from the quiet desperation of the forest village, where survival was the focus. 

“This place,” Vegeta muttered, his arms crossed as he surveyed the bustling streets. His tone was distant, almost nostalgic, though his sharp eyes betrayed a readiness to act.

Gohan turned to him. “Does it remind you of Planet Vegeta?”

“It does,” Vegeta admitted. “But this...they’ve rebuilt something of their own here.”

Truffle adjusted her cloak, her features hidden beneath its shadow. “The palace is heavily guarded. We can’t just walk in there unnoticed.”

A low, rumbling growl broke the tense silence, drawing everyone’s attention. Truffle glanced toward Broly, whose hand instinctively moved to his stomach, his expression sheepish. She smirked faintly. “I guess everyone’s hungry too,” she said, her tone lightening the mood for a moment.

With a sigh, the group made their way to a bustling food tavern nestled within the heart of the kingdom. The scent of grilled meats, exotic spices, and roasted fruits filled the air, a tempting contrast to the tension that weighed on their shoulders. They settled at a shaded table near the edge of the open courtyard, doing their best to blend in among the locals. Saiyans of various ages crowded the space, laughing, eating, and exchanging stories, their energy a stark reminder of the thriving community Turles had built.

As they ate, Truffle discreetly activated her communicator, murmuring updates to Meelo while keeping her eyes on the crowd. Broly, seated beside her, consumed his meal with an appetite that drew a few curious glances from nearby tables. His enormous frame made it nearly impossible for him to go unnoticed, but his demeanor was calm, almost childlike, as he focused on the food.

It wasn’t long before a young Saiyan boy wandered over to their table, his wide eyes fixed on Gohan’s gi. “Hey!” the boy called out, his voice bright with curiosity. “Oh, sorry! I thought you were someone else.”

Gohan paused mid-bite, lowering his bowl and offering the boy a kind smile. “Someone else?”

The boy scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “It’s just... your outfit. It looks like his—like the guy who came through here not too long ago. I thought maybe you were him.”

Gohan leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice gentle but eager. “The guy? Did he have spiky hair, kind of like mine?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! But I haven’t seen him since he went back to the King’s palace.”

The words sent a ripple of unease through the group. Gohan’s hand rested on the boy’s shoulder, his tone reassuring. “We’re looking for him too. Do you remember anything else about him?”

The boy shook his head. “Sorry, that’s all I know.” Before Gohan could press further, the boy spotted a group of friends calling to him from across the courtyard. He waved quickly and ran off, leaving the table in silence.

Vegeta leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “That confirms it. Kakarot is alive, and he’s in the palace.”

Gohan set his bowl down, his expression resolute. “I’ll walk around and see if I can find out anything about how we can get inside.”

Broly immediately pushed his plate aside, his deep voice steady. “I’ll go with you.”

Vegeta’s brow furrowed, and he straightened in his seat. “No. I should—”

Tarble interrupted, placing a hand on his brother’s arm. “Vegeta, it may not be wise. You look too much like our father—and presumably even like our grandfather. It’s a miracle we haven’t been noticed yet, but walking around the kingdom could draw too much attention to us.”

Vegeta clenched his fists, his pride wrestling with the logic in Tarble’s words. After a tense pause, he exhaled sharply and nodded. “Fine. You two go. But be careful. If anything feels off, report back immediately.”

Gohan nodded. “Got it. We’ll check in as soon as we find something.”

With that, Gohan and Broly stood, disappearing into the bustling kingdom while Vegeta, Tarble, and Truffle remained behind, their thoughts already working on how to infiltrate the palace.

The streets bustled with life as they walked. Broly’s sheer size made him a spectacle, but his calm demeanor seemed to put most at ease. The faint sound of a commanding voice caught their attention, drawing them toward a shaded pavilion lit by soft lantern light. An elder sat cross-legged at its center, his face lined with age but animated as he wove tales of the Saiyan past to a group of attentive children.

“…and in the great saiyan war, Turles brought us salvation,” the elder declared, his voice carrying through the night. “But before Turles, there were others. The greatest of them all—the first Super Saiyan God.”

Broly slowed his steps, his curiosity piqued by the mention of the story. Without hesitation, he approached the group, his large shadow enveloping the children. Their wide-eyed gazes shifted to him, a mix of awe and excitement lighting up their young faces.

One child pointed at Broly’s green fur pelt around his waist, his tail flicking with curiosity. “Is it real?”

Broly’s lips quirked into a rare, small smile. “It is. It belonged to a friend I had when I was a child.”

The children gasped in wonder, tugging gently at the soft fur. “Was it a monster?” one of them asked excitedly.

“No,” Broly replied, his voice deep but kind. “He was a good friend.”

The elder chuckled, his gaze shifting to Broly. “You’re a big one, aren’t you? You could’ve been a legend yourself in the old tales.”

Broly rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as the children climbed onto his shoulders, marveling at his size. One even clung to his arm like a branch, giggling uncontrollably. Broly’s soft laugh rumbled in his chest as he let them play.

Gohan stood nearby, arms crossed, a small smile on his face as he watched Broly interact with the children. His attention shifted back to the elder as the man continued his tale.

“The first Super Saiyan God…” the elder began, his voice taking on a reverent tone. “He was a warrior of light and fury, born of the desperation and unity of our people. It is said he rose not for himself, but to challenge the gods and defy their will. His power changed the destiny of our kind forever.”

As the elder spoke, Gohan felt something stir deep within him. A strange, familiar sensation tugged at his senses, growing stronger with each passing moment. His brow furrowed as he struggled to place it.

The mention of the first Super Saiyan God seemed to amplify the feeling, almost as if it were calling directly to him. He shifted uneasily, glancing at Broly, who was too preoccupied with the children to notice.

“I’ll be back,” Gohan said softly.

Broly gave a slight nod, still distracted by the group of children swarming him. One child hung from his pelt, grinning wildly, while another perched on his shoulder like a tiny warrior preparing for battle.

Following the pull of the sensation, Gohan slipped away from the pavilion and into the quieter streets of the kingdom. The faint hum of conversation faded as he moved deeper into the outskirts, the lively energy of the settlement giving way to an eerie stillness.

The twin moons cast an otherworldly glow over the desolate area he now found himself in. The sensation grew stronger, guiding him toward a lone grave nestled at the edge of the kingdom. Its marker was weathered and nameless, illuminated faintly by the moonlight. Resting atop it was a single, worn wooden staff, its purpose unclear but its presence commanding.

Gohan’s breath hitched as the presence surged within him, more powerful and insistent than ever. The air seemed heavier here, laden with an energy that sent chills down his spine.

“I felt your presence back on Vornis,” Gohan whispered, stepping closer to the grave. “Who are you?”

The night seemed to grow darker around him, the stars above dimming as the energy thickened. His fingers trembled as he reached out to touch the marker.

The moment his hand brushed the surface, a flood of emotions and faint whispers overwhelmed him. Images flickered in his mind—fleeting glimpses of battles, of despair, of hope.

“What… is this?” he murmured, his voice shaky.

Then it hit him. A wave of power unlike anything he had ever felt crashed over him, connecting with him on a level that went beyond words. His vision blurred, and he staggered backward, struggling to stay on his feet.

Through the haze, he saw it—a faint figure in the distance, standing motionless beneath the moons’ glow. It didn’t move or speak, but its presence was undeniable, and it watched him intently.

“Who are you?!” Gohan called out, his voice breaking.

Before he could hear a response, the power surged again, and the world went dark. The last thing he saw before collapsing was the faint silhouette of the figure, still watching him as everything faded into unconsciousness.

___________

Writer’s Note:

This chapter was all about characters connecting—or reconnecting—to their roots. I wanted to highlight the contrast between the Saiyans living in the kingdom versus those in the forest village, showing how their environment has shaped them, much like how humanity adapts to urban and rural life.

For Broly, my goal was to give him a chance to rekindle his connection to the Saiyan race in a way that feels friendly and almost childlike. Having been exiled to Vampa, he never had the opportunity to truly understand his heritage beyond what Paragus told him. Now, he's experiencing it firsthand.

Meanwhile, Gohan's lingering sense of a presence—first hinted at in the chapters on Vornis—will finally be revealed. This was one of my favorite elements to weave into the narrative, and I had a lot of fun fleshing it out. Stay tuned for the next chapter!