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?