The frontlines had fallen silent.
For the first time in years, no explosions echoed across the wastelands. The skies—usually torn apart by energy waves and smoke—hung eerily still. The battlefield was nothing but a graveyard of broken weapons and nameless corpses, the air heavy with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. The quiet was unnatural, almost menacing, as if the planet itself was holding its breath.
Inside the main war camp, Razor stood at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the charred remains of what used to be a fortress. His tail fluttered softly in the dry wind. His body had finally healed—every scar, every fracture, every bruise—but his mind still carried the weight of the war.
The reports had come in just a few hours ago: the radicals were retreating—not in panic, but in preparation. Scouts reported of something far worse than any ordinary counterattack. Reports said Cumber himself was planning to move.
The moment that name spread through the camps, fear swept across the ranks like wildfire.
Veteran warriors, who had survived years of brutal combat, grew pale. Commanders barked orders louder than usual, trying to hide the tremor in their voices. Soldiers reinforced the barricades and polished their armors, as if steel could save them from what was coming.
But Razor… Razor stayed silent.
He had heard the stories too. Stories of a monster who tore through armies alone. Of a Saiyan so powerful that even strongest of Saiyans were crushed like insects before him. Cumber—once a radical underling—had risen from the blood of his own leader. Now, he commanded the radicals with an iron fist. And with his endless thirst for battles he was going to launch a full scale attack, the one which will determine the fate of Saiyans and this planet.
And Razor knew… this time, the war would not end with strategy or numbers. It would end with raw power.
That night, the campfire flickered weakly as Razor sat alone, beside him others polished their armor.
He thought back to the years that had passed since he landed on Sadala. Once, he was a warrior with purpose—a fighter who wanted to survive, to grow stronger. But war had changed him. It had burned away his sense of self, leaving only survival and strength behind.
Now, he fought not for pride. Not for recognition. After all he didn't belong here. He fought to return home
He closed his eyes, his thoughts drifted to the unborn child Eighteen carried. A child who might never know his father if he failed here.
That thought ignited a quiet fury inside him. "I can't die here," he muttered under his breath. "Not now… not before I see them again."
His aura flickered briefly, red and gold sparks dancing around his form before fading. Even exhausted, his spirit refused to rest. He stood up, his gaze steeled with determination.
Days turned to weeks, and the strange calm continued.
No radical attacks. No skirmishes. Nothing. It was as if the enemy was deliberately waiting for something—something massive.
The generals gathered in the war tent daily, discussing possibilities. "They're regrouping for an all-out assault," one said. "They're luring us into complacency," said another. But everyone knew the truth. They were waiting for the full moon.
The same night that once turned Saiyans into beasts would now unleash a nightmare that none could stop. The radicals were planning to harness that power—to let their primal instincts consume them under the command of Cumber himself.
And when that night came… the war would end.
Meanwhile, Razor had resumed his training in the barren valleys beyond the camp. His body healed, but he pushed it further—beyond exhaustion, beyond pain. Every punch shattered boulders. Every blast carved deep trenches into the ground.
He could feel his ki surging more violently than before. Yet, he also knew that if rumors were true, Cumber was beyond anything he had ever faced.
As the sun set one evening, Korin—one of his fellow commanders—approached him. "You should rest, Razor," Korin said softly. "Even you can't fight forever." Razor didn't stop. His fists kept slamming into the rock face, each strike sending shockwaves through the ground.
Finally, he spoke, his tone low but sharp. "If I stop now… I'll die."
Korin sighed. "You've already done enough for Sadala. You've won battles that should've been impossible. Don't you think—"
Razor turned, his eyes burning with quiet intensity. "You don't understand If I die here… everything I fought for dies with me."
Korin froze. There was something in Razor's voice—a mix of sorrow and rage—that silenced him completely. After a long pause, he simply nodded and left him alone.
The final week arrived.
Everywhere Razor looked, warriors were preparing themselves. Armor being fitted, battle strategies whispered in tense circles. But there was something different in the air this time—acceptance. The soldiers didn't talk about winning anymore. They talked about making it count.
Razor noticed it in their eyes—the fear, the resignation. Yet also… hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, their sacrifice would mean something.
As he walked through the camp, several younger fighters looked at him with awe. He had become a symbol—the Saiyan who refused to die, the warrior who stood against entire platoons of elites and came back alive.
And Razor knew… that meant he couldn't falter now. Even if it killed him.
That night, as the army assembled for departure, the crimson sky glowed over the horizon. Commanders barked final orders. Soldiers lined up, and at the center of it all—Razor stood silently, his eyes fixed on the direction of the battlefield.
"Cumber…" he whispered to himself, clenching his fist. "I'll end this. No matter what it takes."
As the army marched, the ground trembled beneath their boots. The silence was gone now—replaced by the steady rhythm of thousands of hearts beating as one.
But in Razor's chest, another heartbeat thundered louder—the memory of a woman waiting across time, and a child not yet born. That was his reason. His anchor.
The wind howled across the barren plains, carrying the faint smell of war once more.
And in that moment, a chill ran down his spine. He could feel it. The air was changing. Ki signatures—massive, terrifying—were gathering in one direction.
Cumber was coming.