Sadala woke up that day as someone who still can't accept his own ruin: the sky was heavy, sparks of ash in the wind, billows of smoke on the horizon.
The armies converged on an open valley, a wide terrain where the legions could break out in waves and where the leadership of both sides knew that a well-won battle could turn the fate of many tribes.
There was a tense silence before the storm: in the air, the smell of metal and flesh; on the ground, footprints of recent battles; in hearts, the promise that nothing would be the same after that battle.
On one side, the Alliance of Pure Saiyans brought together men and women whose desire was not for conquest but for protection, warrior farmers, veterans of small skirmishes, leaders who had seen the world succumb to pride.
Leading them was Yamoshi: a golden figure who, since the episode of loss and redemption in his backyard, had risen not only in power, but in moral.
On the other side, black flags fluttered in the wind. Tarvok, cold and calculating, had gathered commanders who were clouds of terror. Among them, Cumber, now an even more sinister presence, was the sharp blade of chaos.
The generals lined up their contingents. Harsh trumpets sounded; war cries, sobs of prayer, the clash of metal and leather.
Yamoshi surveyed the ranks: men and women with eyes shining with confidence, but also with fear. He knew that victory would require more than brute force: it would require leadership, sacrifice, and, above all, the maintenance of spirit.
Tarvok advanced into the center of the valley, rising like a fist of shadow over the plain. His generals were arrayed like ravenous chess pieces; their intent was clear: to crush, not to negotiate.
As Tarvok stood before Yamoshi, the atmosphere changed. The air seemed thicker; the world held its breath.
Tarvok laughed, a low, mocking sound meant to erode hope. His voice echoed across the fields.
"Look at the great savior. He rose golden, not to save, but to sell himself to the tales of the weak. You believe in myths while your women and children bleed, including yours, Yamoshi. You did well to transform yourself out of... pain. You serve as a distraction for when the blade slits your people's throats."
The mockery hurled at the dead woman struck a foul blow; surrounding soldiers clenched their fists, and anger coursed through the allied ranks.
Yamoshi raised his head. He didn't respond with insults. His voice was calm, firm, and charged with an authority that came from what had been lost and what needed to be protected. He spoke to the living, to those ready to listen:
"You came because you believe in something greater than ourselves. We fight not for glory, but for the chance for our children to laugh without looking back. Tarvok may shout, may ignite hatred, but we are the resistance of what remains of honor on this planet. It will not be cruelty that defines Sadala; it will be the courage of those who accept to fight for justice. Today, we fight so that mothers can breastfeed in peace, so that there will be no more twilights filled with grief. Move forward with me, and don't just seek revenge, seek a future."
The words reverberated. There was silence, then a flurry of responses: a clash of shields, a chorus that grew like a wave.
Generals close to Yamoshi raised their voices, inspired to react with greater ferocity.
Tarvok, however, cracked a smile; his expression made true victory on his part a matter of time. The provocation had worked: while inflaming Yamoshi's allies, it incited a fury that could be exploited.
With a swift, ceremonial gesture, Tarvok gave a signal, a simple, silent order.
Cumber, watching with hungry eyes, smiled with the savagery of an animal smelling blood. He planned his flight as if planning a predestined attack: a straight dive, a thrust that tore through the air and left a trail of turbulence behind.
Yamoshi reacted in the same split second: his aura flared, liquid gold that shimmered and transformed him again. Generals on both sides had already launched themselves into confrontation, unleashing shockwaves that swept across the terrain as if flags had become human hurricanes.
The first clash between Yamoshi and Cumber was a nearly symmetrical collision. Cumber used not only brute strength but also a malevolence that imbued his strikes, a heavy, corrupted ki that left burns wherever it touched.
Yamoshi took a deep breath and positioned himself with the technique of a leader: balanced stance, feet planted, and eyes fixed on the center of danger. The duel began with an exchange of kicks and punches: each contact was a clash of worlds, golden light against black stains and soot.
Cumber attacked voraciously, launching direct attacks and strikes aimed at breaking the opponent's guard. Yamoshi, in turn, was a master at controlling the field: he dodged, absorbed the impact with his hips, and responded with short, surgical strikes.
Yamoshi's first tactical thought was to avoid prolonging the confrontation; he knew Cumber's corrupted ki could be a draining factor. Still, his resilience, fueled by the oath he made to his son and his own discipline, kept him steadfast.
The battle dragged on for a considerable amount of time. Cumber used attacks that shook the environment: a blade of wicked energy sliced through the sky and shattered stakes from the ground; a charge with speed that turned dust into blades was met by a counterattack that sent Cumber flying back meters; hands touched with the dry sound of breaking wood.
The surrounding generals moved like swarms: some came to support Yamoshi, others tried to prevent reinforcements.
Here a crucial dynamic opened up: although Yamoshi's power was titanic, there was a factor that diminished it in prolonged combat: Cumber's cursed Ki was trying to corrupt the field.
Every time Cumber struck or released an explosion, the air around him filled with a dense mist that tried to invade the warriors' bodies, diminish their conviction, sow fatigue.
For Yamoshi, the solution lay in maintaining a barrier, an energy field surrounding his body that would repel contamination. But this consecration of power required constant effort: every second of protection drained his energy, as if he were holding a storm in his fists.
Generals loyal to Yamoshi sensed the opening and rushed to intervene. They were trusted warriors, men who had fought side by side with him on raids, battle brothers who knew when to sacrifice their strength.
They engaged the enemy commanders directly, providing a distraction that eased the pressure on Yamoshi. Blows and explosions ensued; some enemy generals fell, others retreated. This restored balance gave Yamoshi a window to refocus on Cumber.
Even so, the fight was evenly matched: blows and counterblows, strategies and improvisations. At one point, Yamoshi unleashed an aerial sequence, catching Cumber off guard and pinning him against a rocky cliff.
The explosion of energy created by the impacts was so great that the ground cracked in radial lines. Gasps of hope echoed among Yamoshi's allies. It was at that moment that the fatal blow began to threaten.
Cumber, with a deep laugh, shook his head. The smile was one of disdain, but also of the pleasure of someone who has solved a riddle.
"Interesting."
He muttered, a sound barely audible above the fury of the battle.
"This glow you call power... this golden shift... I've noticed something. It's not just an explosion, it's a pattern, a set of steps that can be observed."
His speech was like a thread that ran through the arena: beneath the noise, there was a cool analysis. Yamoshi's generals frowned; there was something uncomfortable in that analytical tone.
And then Cumber smiled, the kind of smile that foretells doom, and began to bellow. His cry wasn't just a war cry: it was a release that shook the very core of the planet.
The ground shook violently; nearby camps swayed, and flags tore from their poles.
The Ki around Cumber was rising exponentially. Yamoshi and his generals felt a different chill: pure terror. Tarvok, in the distance, laughed loudly, a sound that sounded more like confirmation of a successful plan than joy.
In a flash that seemed to defy the laws of the age, Cumber's energy changed quality: the dark glow became purer, his pupils reddened, and the physical change accelerated.
Stiff hairs formed along his body for a moment, and then the classic transformations that legend foretells began: the hair grew longer and thicker, the eyebrows disappeared, the forehead widened as if a new cranial geography were being born.
The warrior's very movement became more agile, fluid, terrifyingly superior. Cumber had achieved something that should have been impossible at the time: a form that future centuries would call Super Saiyan 3.
The sight was terrifying. As Cumber's hair grew, the aura surrounding him exploded with lightning; his voice became a continuous thunder. Energy surged in currents that tore through the local atmosphere; circular winds lifted dust and debris into the high heavens; the physical impact felt as if the very axis of the planet had been shaken.
Yamoshi and the allied forces felt Cumber's power rise to levels that consumed resistance like wildfire.
The battle, which had previously been evenly matched, became completely unbalanced. Cumber now had the mobility and power to tear apart entire formations with a single blow; his ability to strike unstoppably increased exponentially.
Yamoshi tried to counter: he rose and unleashed all his reserves, transforming his body into a pure blade of light. He became a brush of energy, a storm of blows that, in another moment, would have pulverized mountains.
But even so, each attack seemed to only scratch the surface of the new colossus. The difference in power was visible not only in the fire that erupted from the hands, but in the way the surrounding area reacted; rocks that had once withstood showers of energy now smoked and shattered into crumbling dust.
Tension exploded into panic. Allied generals tried to surround Cumber, devising combined strategies, but everything they did was wasted against that gigantic presence.
Some orders to retreat were given, and in the midst of this, severe injuries were sustained: men who were pillars fell, flags were torn down. Yamoshi, despite his heavy heart, did not retreat. He understood what it meant to face an anomaly; he knew that retreat meant opening the way for indiscriminate massacres. So he did what a true leader would do: he organized a strategic defense.
He ordered the youngest and least wounded to form continuous lines, holding defensive positions around nearby villages, while the most capable created containment corridors to protect civilians.
Tactically, Yamoshi directed concentrated attacks on blind spots, flanks where Cumber's corruption seemed least effective.
It was a choreographed mess: men died every minute, but each sacrifice was made in the bitter hope of allowing others to live.
Cumber, however, advanced with an arrogance that was almost ritualistic. He didn't just fight; he imposed; and his voice, raised in triumphant clamor, carried across the battlefield.
Tarvok smiled the grotesque smile of someone who gets more than he bargained for: the most terrifying piece on the board had been activated. The planet around him was beginning to show irreparable scars: energy craters, warped roads, and a lingering smell of ozone.
By the end of the day, the battle had left a trail of destruction that not only ruined camps, but had also rewritten the geography of the valley.
Yamoshi, exhausted, still stood firm in the center of the ruins, his aura trembling but unabated. He knew that night would not mark the end of the war, only mark a new phase in which unimaginable forces were at play.
He looked at the horizon, at the stars that were beginning to burn, and felt that Sadala's story was about to enter a chapter that surpassed the understanding of the ancient warriors.
Cumber had risen to a height only the future would dare name, and the echoes of that ascension would resound for ages.
But Yamoshi had also changed, more than physically, but internally. He understood that saving future generations would require something beyond strength: deeper alliances, strategies beyond those known, and perhaps a sacrifice that could not yet be calculated.
In the silence that followed the crash, with bodies scattered and the dust settling like veils, the valley knew only one thing: the scales had been broken, and the price to restore them would be high.
The narratives of fear and hope began to blend, and both grew, ready to explode at the next dawn.