The valley seemed like a dead end for the entire world. There was a feeling that each pulse of energy, each gust of wind, and each scream left a deeper scar on the planet's skin. The battle tearing through Sadala insisted on being a matter of stone, blood, and fury, but also of choices. At the cost of many, a select few decided the future.
Cumber had become a hurricane incarnate. The transformation that had elevated him to heights that defied eras reverberated like distant thunder; his long, golden hair, absent eyebrows, and unbridled power were a sign that the victory of evil had, at that moment, a plausible horizon.
Tarvok's forces advanced with calculated ferocity, crushing formations, breaking traps, and obliterating any attempts at containment. The alliance of pure Saiyans fought with the desperate dignity of those trying to save what remained, and it was precisely this dignity that fueled the decision that would change history by, at least, a pulse.
Yamoshi lay on the ground, his body cut and exhausted, his breathing ragged as if the valley air had decided to tighten around his chest. His clothes were torn, golden traces still glistening on his skin; but victory, if it was even possible to speak of victory there, still seemed distant.
His generals, five men who had been friends for decades of campaigning, supported him with trembling arms. Their faces were scarred, their gazes no longer toying with hope, their calloused hands familiar with sacrifice. The surrounding ranks crumbled under Cumber's fury; nostrils burned with the smell of ozone and battle grime.
Deep down, Yamoshi felt the humiliation as raw as a wound. The pride of the pure, that conviction that had transformed him out of love and protection, seemed to have been tested to the point of exhaustion.
He thought, with painful clarity, that he had failed his people. This thought consumed him for seconds; it was like seeing a broken lamp at the back of a temple: something that doesn't easily go out.
His generals could not allow that. Among them were those who knew him so well that they knew exactly which words would be useless and which action would be necessary. They had seen Yamoshi fight, they had seen him stop curses and inspire hundreds.
And at that moment they knew that the last card had to be played, even if the price was final. The decision came with the naturalness of those who know their limits and accept breaking them: they would give the rest of their Ki, the final spark within themselves, to Yamoshi.
Yamoshi's first reaction was to refuse. There was something in his blood that wouldn't accept being a receptacle for waste; he didn't want his friends to put themselves at risk for vanity. But his refusal was silenced by the force of conviction of those around him. They weren't there to give up lives on a whim. They were there because, in that ether of shock, survival demanded mutual sacrifice.
Two of the generals, those closest to Yamoshi, knelt in reverence and held his shoulders with trembling but unwavering hands. Three others formed a circle and intertwined their fingers, forming a human link, their palms raised to the sky as if asking permission from the heavens to give what they had. There were no long words; there was a silent commitment.
When their hands touched, a current of energy began to seep into the air, an almost religious phenomenon. The auras of those five rose like white flames that, due to an optical illusion, appeared blue under the furrowed light of the clouds.
Their Ki wasn't just energy; it was memory, it was every battalion protected, every shared hunger, every smile exchanged in the camps. It was a portion of the soul of those who fought for something greater. The transfer began with a low noise, something that wasn't sound, but that pierced bones and memories.
Yamoshi felt something like a rain of cold flames run down his spine. The pain of battle was gradually replaced by a feeling of fulfillment. It was as if entire lives, or parts of them, were organizing themselves within him, composing a mosaic of hope and duty. His eyes, previously heavy with fatigue, gained focus. He perceived the sacrifice of others with a clarity that tightened his chest and yet swelled his determination.
The phenomenon, however, was not merely personal; it affected the very climate of the valley. The dark clouds that covered the horizon began to dissolve into swirling eddies, and the sky, which had previously seemed poised to crack, began to curve like a page being turned.
The air grew heavier, and a different light began to envelop Yamoshi. The Ki of the five generals, merging with his, created a dance of colors: deep blue, almost like a fire burning in the depths of the sea, glucose swirling in layers. The ground trembled beneath it; even Cumber noticed, amidst the frenzy, that something was being woven.
Tarvok, from his elevated position, frowned. An arcane pulse swept through his soldiers, and the expression on the evil leader's face was one of somewhere between curiosity and disdain.
Cumber, for his part, widened his eyes for a moment, as if assessing the possibility of a trap; but he quickly composed himself into a smile, believing that no surprise, however great, would be able to threaten him with real danger. He was wrong about that; the eyes of someone who gives everything are not easy to predict.
As the transfer was completed, a second phase of the phenomenon occurred: the energy that had previously appeared blue began to transform into an incandescent red.
The valley seemed to react like an organism: winds held the dust in the air, temperature drops happened in a breath, and then an almost sacred heat rose as if from the ground. The aura that formed around Yamoshi was a vision that confused the senses: red, dense, boiling, a glow reminiscent of ancient bonfires and virgin blood.
The five generals looked on, astonished and perhaps a little regretful of what they had done, because now they were not only giving, they were losing forever something that made them human. Each one's expression was one of serenity, as if they knew that there, in the sacrifice, lay a real possibility of salvation.
Meanwhile, Yamoshi, feeling the full weight and the present moment, slowly rose. His body, once more robust, seemed to have changed in construction: more slender, it maintained firm musculature, but there was a liturgy of movement in this new body, as if it were the difference between a crude sledgehammer and a long, precise sword. There was a slender refinement that made each gesture an omen.
When Yamoshi looked at his own hands, the sight was a shock. His fingers, slender but full of potential, vibrated in a tone that reflected the fire that surrounded him. His hair was now a deep scarlet red, not just dyed red, but as if the very flaming essence of the sun had decided to dwell there.
The eyes, equally red, captured and reflected the world in its cruellest and truest shades. The value of power seemed to have taken a form that, though beautiful, carried a price: a feeling of distance, as if something in the soul had been displaced.
Yamoshi had, in a flash, a conversation in his mind, a presence, a whisper that wasn't external, but came from a miracle of the planet itself. It was a mystical event that changed his perspective, a clarity that erased doubts and renewed commitments, and that imprinted on him a new understanding: power was not just strength, but responsibility, a chain of decisions and resonance among those who believed.
In the midst of the turmoil, he discovered that his mindset had been reorganized: no longer just a warrior seeking to defend, but a guardian who accepted the burden of sacrifice.
Before he could explain or even perceive all the nuances of this inner encounter, the earth vibrated again. Cumber had returned in a flight that seemed to carry the very echo of a storm clinging to him. His footsteps were thunder; the arrogance on his face a sharp blade. Upon arriving, Yamoshi's generals stepped aside, their silent actions saying that now was the leader's time. They had given what they could; the rest was his.
Yamoshi walked to the center of the field with a cutting calmness. His movements were deliberate, each step measured, as if it were an ancient choreography that had finally found its beginning. A distinct confidence possessed him, not the confidence of someone who underestimates, but that of someone who recognizes limits and faces them nonetheless.
Cumber looked him up and down, mocking him with that smile that knew the beasts and knew how to provoke them.
"Just look at yourself."
Cumber said with a smile, his voice echoing off the stones:
"A pretty, elegant red shape. Do you think you can take me on with that? I am the pinnacle of power. You are nothing but a fiery charade."
Cumber's sarcasm struck the crowd like a poisonous stimulus; some soldiers laughed nervously. But Yamoshi merely observed him, his eyes blazing. The calmness he lent to his voice was strange, almost supernatural.
He tilted his chin, as if observing not an adversary, but a question that needed to be answered. And then, in a low, firm voice, he said:
"This isn't just a 'red' form, this is Super Saiyan God... And the time has come to neutralize you, Cumber."
The words spread like wildfire: in the surrounding area, even Tarvok seemed to swallow a thread of surprise. Yamoshi's generals, the five who had given everything, breathed deeply, smiling through the pain and loss, glad they had allowed it.
Among the soldiers, murmurs turned into a reverent silence. No one fully understood what "Super Saiyan God" meant; the word, however, sounded like the promise of something greater, and it took root in already wounded hearts.
The confrontation would begin there, with Yamoshi's silent fire and Cumber's cruel smile facing each other, while the battlefield, littered with bodies, hope, and dust, awaited the next move.
Night was falling, but at that instant, the planet's history sensed that something had definitively changed: the master of the future walked in the body of a man who carried the flame of many. The secret of that mental encounter that transformed Yamoshi has not yet been revealed, resting like a flame waiting to illuminate what was to come.
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