The sound of war was a constant background, a dull thud that penetrated Sadala's bones. A year had passed since the blue capsule had cut through the forest air, sowing futures; a year of clashes that left scars on bodies and memories.
Amidst this chaos, Yamoshi, a pillar of resistance, a symbol whose presence inspired the pure of heart, returned from a mission of the Alliance of Pure Saiyans.
His boots kicked up dust as he walked the path back home, and along the path were small signs that, to him, spoke louder than any flag: broken toys beside the road, scarves tied to posts in memorial to the dead, traces of combat in the stones.
Yamoshi thought of the simplicity he still tried to protect: his wife's laughter as the sun hit the yard, his son's curious eyes running in the fields, the modest kitchen where, on happier days, the aroma of roasting roots filled the air.
He bore the grime of missions, a few minor wounds, and an eternal hunger for justice. Despite being a powerful warrior, there was an essential calm about him, the calm that only those with a low voice and firm actions possess, because they know that uncontrolled anger can kill innocents around them.
When he spotted the entrance to his property, however, the air seemed to crack. A scream pierced the fields like a knife: intense, desperate, broken. The sound made Yamoshi's stomach tighten.
He accelerated, his boots slicing through the dirt road, pushing aside any worries about getting to the sound.
Those vocal notes were those of his son.
As they rounded the last rise, the scene that unfolded was one of such raw violence that for a moment everything around them silently retreated, the birds stopped singing, even the wind seemed afraid.
In the center of the yard, the boy's small body trembled convulsively, sobbing, his arms clutching the void where the maternal figure had once stood.
At the boy's feet lay the woman Yamoshi loved: her body stretched out, lifeless, marked by wounds that reflected in red the brutality of the attack.
The face, which had seemed smooth in recent memories, was now pale; some features of the face remained recognizable, but there were mutilations that Yamoshi's memory refused to accept.
Nearby, a man rested his foot on his wife's inert neck, a posture of mockery, of absolute disdain: Arvek.
The gaze fixed on Yamoshi like a red-hot iron. Every fiber of the warrior's body tensed; a low murmur ran through his hands, barely audible, as his fists clenched.
The confusion and disbelief passed in a flash, and soon the emotional pain opened a fiery window within him. Arvek laughed, a laugh seething with cruelty. The general's voice was like acid, corroding memories.
"Look, the great Yamoshi came back to check the bed and found a surprise. It must be hard to be so weak that your own home can't be protected, right?"
The words cut through the stillness, intent on hurting more than steel.
The son stared at his father, transfixed; tears streaked his childish face, and the silent question any child would ask hung in the air:
"What happened?".
Yamoshi felt the weight of the world settle on his chest. He had always been a serene, honorable man, someone who taught through action, not fury. But seeing the body of his wife, the one who shared laughter and sleepless nights, who sewed the fabric of their home with calloused hands, something inside him stirred to an ancient, almost primal rage.
It was as if the Saiyans' ancestors had whispered to their blood, "Now is the time."
Arvek continued to mock, reveling in the public humiliation. He needed to instill fear and doubt, needed to break the spirit of the pure.
But in that very emotional realm of the warrior, Yamoshi's pupils trembled and, for an instant, disappeared. It felt as if the world around them had ceased to exist; only the distant sound of his son's breathing and the weight of Arvek's presence were real. There was a stillness before the storm, an anxious containment that made the air rustle.
When Arvek finally realized the change, it was too late. Yamoshi let out a roar that seemed to come from the very roots of the planet: a cry so ancient that the tree branches rose and an electric heat surged around them.
The aura that followed was yellow like the sun at its zenith; it wasn't just light: it was destiny. Yamoshi's hair changed, in phases, as if invisible sculptors were pulling golden threads from his scalp.
The blush in his locks deepened, and even the tail, coiled around his waist, turned gold. For a few brief moments, the warrior's pupils disappeared, a pause that shattered time, and when they reappeared, they were green, a green reminiscent of new buds in spring, but pierced by a burning intensity.
Without knowing what was happening, without understanding how, because not even the oldest ones could explain it, Yamoshi had achieved something that until then was unknown: he had become the first Super Saiyan in history.
Arvek suddenly realized that the recordings of the entire universe had changed. Confusion spread across the general's face; irony turned to fear.
"W-what the hell is t-this?"
He stammered, as if trying to fit a logic he didn't possess into that vision.
Yamoshi didn't respond with words. He responded with all the strength he'd accumulated in a lifetime: with action. His steps were almost a storm: firm footsteps that quickened until they became leaps, and in a few moments he crossed the space between them.
The fight began with concentrated violence.
Arvek, still in shock, tried to respond with blows that would have been deadly before; now they were just discordant notes in the chorus of Yamoshi's power.
The first contact was a punch that went through Arvek's stomach and seemed to rip a blade of silence from the air, the general was thrown backward, throwing dirt as he rose.
Arvek switched to a side slash, but Yamoshi moved so fast that the blade didn't reach him: there was a freedom of movement in the transformation, a new speed that made reactions seem slow as mud.
Yamoshi didn't fight like a man possessed; his fury was deep, but his technique was restrained and calculated. Each blow carried a story, protection, promise, sacrifice.
He unleashed rapid combos, punches that came like hammers, elbows that slammed Arvek into an old wooden carcass, and kicks that sent dust dancing in the air.
Arvek tried to counterattack with a ki blast to push him away, launching a fist of dark energy that opened a crater in the ground, but Yamoshi dodged it: his body described invisible arcs of precision, and then counterattacked with a sequence of thrusts that not only wounded, but humiliated the general.
Arvek, who had once led acts of aggression, saw his arrogance crumble. He tried dirty strategies: pointing the gun at his son, using his own psychological shock to break Yamoshi's concentration.
But the glow of that new power blocked any trickery. The energy surrounding Yamoshi sent blades of wind slicing through the hands that dared to grasp him; it made trees bend and rocks float instinctively. The general's every thrust seemed smaller, as if testing the structure of something he didn't understand.
The battle escalated in intensity with meteor-like speed. Yamoshi used moves that blended grace and brutality: a spin, an aerial lunge, a gravity-defying kick that sent Arvek flying to the top of a wall; on the other side, a flurry of airborne punches that turned into a storm of small impacts, like tin raining on steel.
In one such move, Yamoshi threw Arvek through the barn walls, sending rocks cascading down, and when the general's body emerged, already distorted by the energy, Yamoshi struck him with a single fist that sounded as if an old bell had rung inside the enemy's chest.
Arvek, between desperate attacks and blasphemies, tried to release a final technique: an energy artifact that resembled the old spells of brutality, a sphere that ignited like compact embers.
He gathered what remained of his pride and launched it at Yamoshi, clearly intending to shatter the newcomer's bones. But Yamoshi didn't just deflect it; he converted. Using the principle of absorption and reflection, with a swift movement of his hand, he fed the sphere his own aura, saturating it with a light that made the black coloration wither. The sphere exploded in a flash that didn't burn Yamoshi; it burned Arvek.
In the final moment, when Arvek tried to give his last scream and could still see his opponent's face with a mixture of surprise and hatred, Yamoshi channeled all the weight of that transformation: memories, promises, and the righteous fury that fate allowed to be born.
A concentration of ki gathered between his palms; it was a yellow light that pulsed like a heart. He raised his arms, and with a calm command, a pure blast of energy shot out, intent on erasing the threat once and for all. The energy wasn't just aggression: it was judgment. It pierced Arvek with the precision of a sentence.
When the wave hit the general, he didn't fall. He ceased to exist as a recognizable form, an effect the survivors would never forget: his body was disintegrated, a dissolution that didn't remain as dust, but vanished like smoke dispersed in the wind. Nothing remained but an echoing sound and a sudden heat in the air.
To those who saw it, it was as if the universe had applied a correction; to Yamoshi, it was the fulfillment of a promise: no one who hurt his loved ones would live to scare others.
The silence after the explosion was profound. The enemy soldiers present, awaiting the planned humiliation, froze, their eyes wide with fear. Some fled, others fell to their knees in disbelief.
Amidst the dust and stench of the fight, Yamoshi took a deep breath. The transformation that had overcome him was beginning to fade, not because the light had failed, but because the raw machine's need for power had been satisfied: the goal, protecting his family, had been accomplished, albeit at a soul-crushing price.
Yamoshi knelt beside his son with a movement that was both protective and relinquished. The hands that had previously sealed a man's surrender to violence now sought the child's small face and pulled him into a hug so firm it seemed to be trying to hold together the pieces of the world.
The boy sobbed, burying his face in his father's chest, and Yamoshi felt every ounce of that suffering as if it were his own. He whispered promises that came out like molten iron:
"I swear… none of this will happen to you. I won't allow it. I will protect you until the end."
The warrior's voice, when it finally returned to calm in the most intimate moments, trembled, but it contained something that made each word weigh more than steel: an ancestral vow.
Father and son cried together, not just tears of loss, but tears that held the story: the sacrifice of what was loved, the certainty that it was necessary to keep fighting so that other mothers could smile.
All around, the village was slowly beginning to react, neighbors came out of their doors, their faces marked by a mixture of fear and reverence.
Some helped Yamoshi collect the remains, others knelt and murmured ancient prayers.
News of this would spread like wildfire: the man many revered had just ascended to something that shook the hierarchy of power, something that could turn the tide of the war.
But in that moment, while the flames of confiscation still licked the earth, what mattered was simple and human: a father and son, embraced, mourning a woman whose laughter, though faded, had left memories that war could not destroy.
Yamoshi looked up at the sky. His aura still trembled, but there was a new serenity. He knew the transformation would change his life. He also knew that, with this awakened power, gazes and greed would come; Tarvok and his generals would possibly mark him as a major target.
But there, on the stained ground, he rose with the promise that his anger would not be without purpose. He must now build protection, teach his son to be more than a weapon, and, above all, preserve the flame of honor that still burned among the pure of Sadala.
As the sun set and night approached, carrying the silence of the battles to come, Yamoshi's golden figure marked a new chapter in the Saiyans' destiny.
The first Super Saiyan had been born not out of vanity or glory, but out of an oath broken in blood, and the world, indifferent and cruel, would begin to realize that forces capable of changing eras were awakening beneath the veil of war.