The faint beeping of primitive monitors hummed through the dimly lit medical bay. Razor's eyes flickered open, greeted by the sterile scent of medicine and metal. His vision was foggy, ceiling blurred, bandages wrapping his body like a cocoon. When he tried to move, pain shot through him — sharp and deep, as if every bone had been reforged and barely held together.
He tried to sense his surroundings — and froze. The ki around him were monstrous. Every faint flicker of life he detected outside this room burned brighter than any warrior he'd met before. Even the weakest signatures pulsed with strength beyond comprehension. Razor's breath hitched. This isn't Earth. This isn't even close.
The door to the room hissed open. Two towering figures stepped inside, both broad-shouldered, clad in battle armor, their auras flaring with raw dominance. Their hair, spiked black; their tails, floating behind them. Saiyans — unmistakable, but different. Their ki felt… wrong. Heavy, thick, and oppressive, soaked in blood.
One of them smirked. "So the half-dead kid finally wakes up."
The other frowned. "Name."
"Razor," he answered warily.
The first one nodded, glancing at a crude datapad. "You were found on the Outer Plains, near the ruins. Barely breathing. How'd you end up there?"
Razor paused, deciding to not reveal anything for now. "I… don't remember. Everything's a blur."
The guards exchanged glances, skeptical but unconcerned. "Great. Another amnesia case. We can't verify your identity but you are clearly too weak to be one of theirs so you might be a stray caught in the midst of the war." One scoffed. "Rest up, kid. You'll need your strength."
They left without another word, the door sliding shut behind them. Razor lay still, mind spinning. War?
Moments later, the door opened again. A small alien — blue-skinned, kind-eyed — entered quietly, carrying a tray. "You're lucky to be alive," the doctor said, adjusting the monitor on Razor's arm. "Whoever found you saved your life."
Razor stayed silent for a moment, then asked, "What's going on here? They said there's a war?"
The doctor looked up from his tools, hesitant, then sighed. "You Saiyans and your endless battles… you really don't remember anything, do you?" He sat beside Razor's bed. "It's a long story, but maybe it'll help you remember something."
He took a breath. "Some years ago, the Saiyan race lived on another world — their true home. That planet was destroyed in a civil war. It started when your people divided themselves between the righteous and the evil. At the center of it all was a Saiyan named Yamoshi."
"Yamoshi and five of his closest allies," the doctor continued, "performed a ritual — a desperate act to purge their race of corruption. For a time, he became unstoppable, his power overwhelming. They fought against the Evil Saiyans — those who thrived on carnage and bloodlust. But even that power faded. When the ritual's blessing ended, the wicked struck back. They wiped Yamoshi who was weakened by the aftereffects of the ritual and his warriors out to the last man."
The doctor's tone turned somber. "The battle destroyed their planet. The survivors — all of them evil saiyans— fled through space until they found this one. They named it Sadala. My race was able to survive because of our brains that they found useful."
Razor's heart sank as he realized what he was hearing. Planet Sadala… the fabled birthplace of the Saiyans.
"For a while, peace existed," the doctor said softly. "They rebuilt, repopulated, even tamed their violent instincts for a few years. But Saiyans can't suppress their nature forever. When resources grew scarce, their old instincts came crawling back. One faction—the more brutal—decided that weak Saiyans should be eliminated to preserve strength and food for the worthy. The other believed even the weak had a place in rebuilding civilization."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "The radicals — the Evil Saiyans reborn — unleashed a power no one had seen since the destruction of previous planet. Evil Ki."
Razor's eyes narrowed.
The doctor continued, voice trembling. "Only the most brutal of Saiyans can wield it. Their ki turns black, thick like smoke, and when it touches you… it invades your mind. If you're not strong enough, it twists your thoughts, turns allies against themselves. The only way to stop it is to knock the victim out cold — let their mind reset."
Razor clenched his bandaged fists. That description — black ki, corrupting energy — reminded him of the crimson-black aura that had engulfed him before he lost consciousness. He shivered slightly.
"The radicals are winning," the doctor said grimly. "They have two warriors who've mastered Evil Ki completely. One is their king, Karot, nearly fifty — dangerous, cunning and experienced. The other…" He swallowed, his hands trembling slightly. "The other is a young Saiyan named Cumber. Barely thirty. They say when he fights, the sky turns black. Even his allies fear him. He killed our side's king himself — with his bare hands."
The name lingered in the room like poison.
The doctor sighed. "You should rest. You'll need your strength soon. War consumes everyone here eventually."
He turned and left, leaving Razor alone with the hum of machines.
For a long moment, Razor said nothing. His reflection glinted in the steel beside him — pale, scarred, exhausted, yet unmistakably Saiyan. He stared at his trembling hands.
So this was the world of the Saiyans. Not the proud warrior race he'd thought — but people drowning in their own darkness. A history written in blood, their only constant the violence that defined them.
He closed his eyes, his mind racing. Somehow, through the chaos of that final battle and the collapse of time itself, he'd been thrown into the distant past — the birth of Sadala and its war.
There was no way home. Not yet. Not until he understood where he truly was.
But amid the confusion, a single image pierced through his thoughts: Eighteen. Her calm face. Her faint smirk when she teased him. The gentle way she'd rest her hand over her stomach after discovering she was pregnant.
His chest tightened painfully. The thought of never seeing them again cut deeper than any blade Duragon had used.
He gritted his teeth, feeling a burning ache rise in his chest — not anger, but determination.
No matter where I am… no matter when I am… I will survive. I will grow stronger. Strong enough to tear through time itself if I have to.
His fists tightened against the sheets, ki flickering faintly beneath his bandages. "Wait for me," he whispered to no one. "I'll find a way back."
The wind outside howled across the rocky horizon of Sadala, carrying the faint echoes of distant battle. Razor lay still, eyes open, fire smoldering behind them.
He wasn't dead. He wasn't broken. He was a Saiyan — and somewhere out there, in another time, his family was waiting.
For now, he would recover. He would learn. He would adapt.
Because no matter what universe, what timeline, or what hell he'd been thrown into — Razor would find his way home.