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.