As Vegeta's and Yajirobe's ships continued to travel through the vast, star-speckled expanse of space, the gentle hum of their engines was the only sound in the otherwise silent void. Vegeta, seated in his compact pod, glanced at a small remote in his hand and pressed a button decisively. Immediately, a hissing sound filled both pods as a sedative gas was released, spreading quickly.
Yajirobe, eyes wide with alarm, struggled to stay awake. "What is this?!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with panic. But his resistance was futile; within moments, his eyelids grew heavy, and he succumbed to the powerful sedative, drifting into unconsciousness.
Meanwhile, Vegeta's body relaxed as the gas took effect. His sharp gaze softened, and he too was overtaken by the sedative, his mind slipping into the depths of sleep. As his pod continued its journey through the endless night of space, Vegeta's consciousness faded, and he found himself drifting away to a land of the past in his dreams...
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150 years ago...
The Saiyan king, Sabzar, stood amidst his troops on the frontlines of a vast battlefield. The ground around him was a chaotic mosaic of craters and smoking wreckage, remnants of earlier skirmishes. The sky above was painted with hues of crimson and orange, the setting sun casting long shadows over the desolate landscape.
King Sabzar's golden aura illuminated the dusk, casting a brilliant glow that contrasted sharply with the darkening horizon. His hair, spiky and golden, shimmered like flames in the fading light, and his piercing blue eyes reflected the determination and ferocity of a true warrior.
"Come on, men! Attack!" Sabzar's voice echoed across the battlefield, commanding and resolute.
The Saiyan army, a formidable force of muscular warriors clad in battle-worn armor, roared in unison. Their cries reverberated through the valley as they surged forward, a tidal wave of raw power and aggression. They moved with swift, coordinated precision, their ki blasts lighting up the dusk like a storm of shooting stars.
On the opposite side, the Arcosian army, led by the imposing figure of King Cold, struggled to hold their ground. The Arcosians, with their sleek, icy blue bodies and reptilian features, were formidable but clearly outmatched. Cold, his usually composed demeanor cracking under the pressure, shouted desperately, "Don't run away, men!"
But the terror-stricken Arcosians ignored their ruler, their will to fight shattered. They scattered in all directions, their retreat a frantic scramble for survival.
King Cold's face twisted in fury. His eyes narrowed, and his clenched fists trembled with barely contained rage. "I will be back, Sabzar!" he bellowed, his voice thick with venom, before blasting off into the sky, leaving a trail of blue energy in his wake.
As the Arcosian spaceships began to lift off, the sky was soon filled with their shimmering, metallic forms. The Saiyans, relentless and unyielding, fired a barrage of ki blasts at the retreating vessels. Explosions lit up the twilight as several ships were hit, their occupants plummeting back to the ground where they were mercilessly torn apart by the waiting Saiyans.
King Sabzar stood among his warriors, watching the retreat with a satisfied grin. His golden aura gradually dimmed, his hair and eyes reverting to their natural black as he allowed his power to recede. His hair now fell in less spiky strands around his stern face.
The war had been inevitable.
For years, it lingered in the shadows—an uneasy silence between two titans of cruelty. Skirmishes had flared and faded, each one a spark threatening to ignite the powder keg. But this time... the fire had caught.
On a forgotten planet at the edge of King Sabzar's domain, the Planet Trade Organization made its move. They descended not as conquerors, but as executioners. The population was erased. The few Saiyans stationed there were butchered—bodies left to rot beneath foreign skies.
The message reached Sabzar soaked in dread.
He did not hesitate. He did not mourn.
He roared.
Within hours, the Saiyan war engines stirred, ancient machines of vengeance grinding to life. War was not a new rhythm for the Saiyans—it was the only one they knew. They did not march; they stormed. Not to rescue, but to avenge.
The Saiyans were a race forged in carnage. Raised from birth to fight, conquer, and dominate, they carved empires from the bones of fallen civilizations. Mercy was not in their vocabulary. To be born Saiyan was to be born into war. After each conquest, a detachment remained behind—not to rule, but to subjugate. Revenue was demanded, loyalty enforced. Disobedience was drowned in blood.
And yet, within that brutal shell, there was a spine of principle. A code.
Justice—swift, cruel, and final.
Treachery—unforgivable, no matter who committed it.
Honor—etched into their bones.
They valued truth, even if it came with a sword's edge. They honored bravery, even in their enemies. And when kindness did appear, it was remembered for generations.
Even on the worlds they conquered, this harsh sense of order brought a grim stability. Life for the locals was tolerable—sometimes even peaceful—so long as obedience was absolute.
Their enemies, the Arcosians, were no less ruthless—but infinitely colder.
The Planet Trade Organization, a name dressed in civility, was a machine of planetary genocide. Behind smiling diplomats and gleaming armor, they auctioned entire worlds, erasing populations to make way for luxury estates and amusement colonies. Their cruelty was meticulous, their greed bottomless. Where the Saiyans burned, the Arcosians calculated. Where the Saiyans fought in the open, the Arcosians struck from shadows.
The two factions had clashed for decades, each encounter more vicious than the last. But this... this slaughter was a spark in dry grass.
And the blaze had begun.
The Arcosians underestimated their enemy. In power, they were formidable. In treachery, unmatched. But they lacked one thing the Saiyans possessed—a legend.
The Super Saiyan.
Golden, wrathful, and nearly unstoppable. When a Saiyan reached that state, they became something else. Something terrible. Something frightening. They were not just warriors—they were reckoning.
Now, six of them stood beneath King Sabzar's banner.
Each one a storm.
Each one a sentence of death.
And each one a thorn in the eyes of King Cold.
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King Cold sat on his throne, his fury almost tangible, thick and suffocating in the air. The silence in the room felt like a ticking bomb. In his grip, the glass of wine shattered violently, scattering jagged shards across the floor like the broken fragments of his patience. He rose, his towering form casting a long, twisted shadow over the cowering courtiers.
Without warning, he reached out, his hand locking around the throat of a nearby courtier. The man's feet left the ground with brutal ease, his legs flailing in the air like a helpless insect caught in a predator's grip.
The courtier's eyes bulged, his voice barely a whisper of terror. "L-Lon...g live... King Cold..."
Cold's face remained impassive as he squeezed, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the chamber. The man's body went limp, lifeless, and fell with a wet thud. The room froze, the stench of fear creeping up like a living thing, seeping into the very walls.
"DHISHOO!"
Before anyone could breathe, another courtier was obliterated by a searing ki blast. His screams were swallowed by the explosion of energy, and his body was reduced to nothing but ash.
An oppressive, suffocating silence followed, thick with dread.
Then, the sound of dry, unnerving laughter cut through the tension. An ancient, rasping chuckle that filled the room like a dark omen. Glacier, the old Arcosian, strolled into the chamber, his presence almost ghostly in its calm. His chuckles echoed off the cold stone walls, the laughter of a man who had seen empires fall and rise in his long lifetime.
"What's the matter, Cold? Another defeat at the hands of the Saiyans?" Glacier's voice was sharp, like a blade cutting through the tension.
King Cold's lips curled into a sneer, his face hardening as he turned his gaze to the intruder. "What is it, Glacier?"
Glacier had served as Prime Minister since Cold's grandfather's reign, his tenure spanning generations. Even Cold, with all his power and rage, knew better than to challenge the old man outright. Glacier, unaffected by the violence around him, approached with the kind of cold detachment only time and experience could breed.
"If only you'd listen to me, Cold..." Glacier's voice was steady, almost predatory in its calm.
Cold's usual dismissal of Glacier's advice was buried beneath his exhaustion and desperation. The Saiyans were growing stronger by the day, and his strategies—every one of them—had crumbled to dust. He no longer had the luxury of ignoring the old man's counsel.
Glacier's eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence as he stepped closer. "I've told you this before, but you never listen. Your real target... is their honor."
Cold's nostrils flared in irritation. "Don't bother me with that nonsense again."
Glacier's face hardened. "You fool. Their strength is their honor. Their honor feeds their strength. You destroy their honor, and their power crumbles like ash in the wind."
Cold froze, his brows furrowing in brief consideration. For the first time in years, doubt crept into his mind.
Glacier's lip curled into a grim smile. "Your father was too stubborn to understand. He wouldn't listen, and look where that got him—his blood spilling out on the floor of his own palace, taken by the same worthless monkeys he loathed."
Cold's jaw clenched at the mention of his father, his fists tightening at his sides as the memory of his father's death burned fresh in his mind. But the old man's words had weight. His father had fallen because he couldn't accept the truth of the Saiyans.
"What should I do, Glacier?" Cold's voice was low, strained, as if he were wrestling with a demon inside himself.
Glacier's smile widened, a predator's grin. "You want to break them? Break their youth. Corrupt their bloodline. Poison their future. Introduce them to debauchery—sex, drugs, alcohol, music... all the distractions that'll tear them apart from the inside. Feed them their desires until they're nothing but hollow shells. If it fails, you can have my head."
Cold stared at him, his expression unreadable, skepticism warring with desperation. The simplicity of the plan gnawed at him, but the idea of it... it had a kind of terrible logic. He was ready to gamble everything.
After an hour of cold deliberation, they had their plan.
King Cold summoned a pair of men from the press department, the stench of submission hanging over them like a fog. They arrived quickly, nodding obediently as Cold gave his orders.
"It will be done, sir!"
Cold turned to Glacier with a sneer, his smirk cold and calculating. "We'll see how your little scheme plays out."
His words hung in the air like a death sentence. The gears of his empire were turning, and this time, failure was not an option.
To be continued...