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.