The frontline was chaos made flesh.
Explosions tore through the crimson sky, raining dust and flame over the cracked earth. Every breath Razor took tasted like smoke and blood. The ground itself trembled beneath the weight of battle.
This is it. The heart of the Saiyan war. No rules, no mercy.
He stood among dozens of soldiers—Saiyans clad in scorched armor, eyes glowing with battle lust. Commanders barked orders over the thunder of ki blasts. The scent of burning flesh mixed with the metallic tang of ozone.
One soldier spat beside him. "First time, huh?"
Razor glanced at him, expression blank. "Does it show?"
The man laughed bitterly. "You'll get used to it. Or die trying."
Comforting, Razor thought grimly.
Moments later, a red flare cut across the sky—the signal to advance.
And the world exploded into motion.
The battlefield was a storm of violence. Ki blasts streaked in every direction. Screams echoed, blending with the hum of energy.
Razor moved like a ghost through the chaos—dodging, countering, firing back with precise bursts of golden light. Each motion was instinct. Each second, a gamble with death.
A blast hit nearby, throwing him off his feet. Dirt filled his mouth as he rolled and sprang up, deflecting an incoming attack.
Too slow. Focus.
A Saiyan with a savage grin charged him, energy blade in hand. Razor caught the strike with his forearm, grimacing as blood ran down his skin. He retaliated instantly—slamming his elbow into the attacker's jaw and sending him crashing into the dirt.
The warrior didn't get back up.
Razor stood still for half a heartbeat, panting. "One down."
Then another blast grazed past his shoulder, snapping him back to reality.
No time to count kills. Keep moving.
The war here wasn't like the rescue missions. Those were contained chaos—controlled, predictable.
This was a maelstrom.
Every fighter was a monster. Every second, someone died. There was no pattern, no strategy—just survival.
He dove into a group of enemy Saiyans, aura flaring gold. Three rushed him. Razor ducked beneath a punch, drove his knee into one man's gut, then spun, firing a ki bolt that split another's chest open.
The third slammed into him from behind, sending him sprawling. Razor rolled to his feet, coughing blood.
They don't stop. They never stop.
He powered up, his golden aura stretching outward like wildfire. With a snarl, he charged back in—his blows sharper, his mind cold.
A fist connected with his face, but Razor didn't even feel it. He twisted, grabbed his attacker by the throat, and blasted him point-blank.
When the smoke cleared, nothing was left but ash.
Days bled into weeks.
Each mission was another wound, another scar. The healers patched him up when they could—but sometimes he didn't even bother visiting them.
He'd wake up on a cot, drenched in sweat, with the sounds of war still echoing outside the tent. Sometimes, a voice whispered from his dreams—soft, familiar.
18.
But every time he opened his eyes, there was only smoke, blood, and the faint hum of distant explosions.
He'd sit up, muttering, "Not now. Can't think about that now."
Then he'd grab his armor, step outside, and dive back into hell.
"Razor!" a soldier shouted once, ducking behind a crumbling wall beside him. "You're supposed to wait for backup!"
Razor fired a destructo beam after dodging an attack that vaporized an oncoming enemy before replying, "Backup's dead. Another will take some time."
The soldier gave him a wild look. "Are you SERIOUS!"
"Yeah," Razor muttered. Then he charged again.
He began to notice the shift. His attacks grew cleaner. His senses sharper. Enemies that once scared him now fell before he even powered up fully.
He had stopped fighting to survive.
He was fighting to dominate.
If strength is all that matters here… then I'll be the strongest thing on this cursed planet.
Rumors began to spread through the camps.
"They say he doesn't miss."
"He doesn't stop."
"He doesn't even blink when his own ally dies beside him."
Razor ignored them all.
He didn't sleep much anymore. He spent the nights training under the red sky, his golden aura illuminating the ash-filled air.
One night, a young Saiyan walked up to him, nervous. "Hey, Razor… you really killed a dozen by yourself today?"
Razor didn't answer. He kept punching the air, each strike cracking like thunder.
The boy hesitated. "Why do you keep fighting like that?"
Razor stopped mid-strike. His voice was low. "Because weakness gets you killed."
The boy frowned. "That's not how Saiyans—"
"Then you'll die young," Razor interrupted, turning away.
The next day, boy's body was found in the trenches.
Razor didn't even blink when they told him. He just said, "Send me back to the field."
He noticed another truth: many warriors had mastered a transformation beyond Super Saiyan 3 that he called Super Saiyan 4. They harnessed the primal power of their Golden Great Ape forms, great ape with the power of Super Saiyan, while maintaining control. Razor learned this from his allies.
"Control the rage," one warrior told him, "and the power will obey you."
Razor smirked. "I've seen that rage. It doesn't obey."
He remembered the time the beast almost consumed him — the unthinking, bloodthirsty roar that tore through his body and mind.
That power… it isn't meant to be controlled. Not by me.
So he abandoned the idea, doubling down on what he already had — his Super Saiyan 3. The form suited him: wild, relentless, unmerciful.
The beast didn't need taming. It needed direction to release its fury.
Time on the frontlines was meaningless. The war stretched endlessly.
But Razor had changed.
He could now overpower enemies with ease, even push back Super Saiyan 4s while staying one form below. His body had become a weapon. His mind, an engine of survival.
He was transferred between sectors — always where the fighting was thickest. And every time he arrived, the tide turned.
Commanders started to trust his presence more than reinforcements.
"Send Razor to the west flank."
"Razor will handle it."
"Just drop him there — he'll clean up."
During rare quiet nights, he would stare at the horizon. The smoke, the stars — they reminded him of Earth. Of her.
18… are you still waiting? Or did I already die to you?
He clenched his fist, feeling the faint tremor in his fingers.
Survive this war. Grow stronger. Find your way back. That's all that matters.
By now, even the enemy spoke his name with wariness.
The Saiyan who never stopped.
The opposition's elite.
He didn't seek glory. He didn't seek revenge.
He fought because it was all he knew now. Because fighting was the only thing that kept the memories from breaking him.
And as his aura burned under the blood-red sky, every soldier near him felt it — a power not born from pride, but from pure, unrelenting will.
Razor had become something else entirely.
Not just a warrior. Not even a Saiyan.
He was the embodiment of survival itself.
A blade forged in blood and fire.