The heavy silence inside the radical headquarters felt like the calm before a storm — thick, oppressive, and waiting to explode. The long war room stretched wide, lit dimly by flickering crimson lights that reflected off the polished obsidian walls. Every soldier and elite present stood straight, their expressions tight with both fear and reverence.
At the far end of the room, seated on a dark metal throne surrounded by shattered fragments of old armor, sat Cumber.
His eyes — feral, crimson, and gleaming — were fixed on the holographic projection of the war map. The veins on his muscular arms pulsed as if barely restraining the beast within. His long, untamed black hair spilled like ink across his shoulders, and every breath he took seemed to shake the air.
Cumber hated these reportings.
He hated sitting still, listening to reports and numbers. None of it mattered to him. There was only one thing that mattered — battle. The thrill of blood, the sound of bone breaking, the ecstasy of domination.
But now he was the king, the ruler of radicals — after killing Karot with his hands, tearing through the last wielder of evil ki like a rabid animal. Leadership was a nuisance forced upon him, but for now, he tolerated it. Until someone strong enough appeared to make him feel alive again.
And as fate would have it — someone had.
"Lord Cumber," said one of the armored elites kneeling at the center of the room, his voice trembling slightly despite his effort to stay calm. "We have received reports from the southern front. The name of a new warrior… keeps resurfacing."
Cumber's eyes shifted lazily toward the speaker, his tone low and almost bored. "A name?"
"Yes, my lord. A saiyan named Razor."
The murmurs in the room stilled. The other generals, who had spent years in the war, exchanged glances — a mix of respect and irritation. Razor's name had indeed spread like wildfire through both armies.
The soldier continued quickly, as if afraid to waste a second of Cumber's patience. "In the past few years, this warrior has become a major obstacle. He has led countless charges and counter operations. Our high-class units sent to eliminate him failed — all of them. Even the ones who achieved Limit Breaker…"
The sound of grinding teeth echoed in the chamber. Cumber leaned forward slightly, and the very temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Failed?" His voice was soft — dangerously soft.
The soldier swallowed hard. "Yes, my lord. Razor's strength continues to increase. Reports suggest he killed several high-class warriors last month alone. He—he fights like a demon."
For a long moment, Cumber said nothing. The air hung still, suffocating. Then a low, rumbling chuckle broke the silence — deep, guttural, animalistic.
"A demon, huh?" he muttered, leaning back in his throne. "Interesting."
That single word — interesting — made everyone's blood run cold.
Because when something interested Cumber… it meant death was coming.
He turned his head toward the map projection again. "You said he's healing?"
"Yes, my lord. Our scouts confirmed Razor is currently recovering at their healing center. His injuries are severe, but he's expected to recover completely within a few weeks."
A dangerous smile crept across Cumber's face — slow, deliberate, cruel.
"Good," he growled. "Let him heal."
The generals looked up, puzzled. One of them, bold or foolish enough to speak, asked, "My lord… should we not strike while he's weak? If we eliminate him now, the opposition will collapse faster—"
The table split in half before he could finish.
No one saw Cumber move. One moment he was seated; the next, his hand had slammed into the table, shattering it with such force that the shockwave threw the nearby guards to the ground. His eyes burned like blood as he glared at the speaker, voice dripping with menace.
"I don't hunt the weak," he said coldly. "If I fight him, it'll be when he's at his strongest — when killing him means something."
The room went dead silent. Even the sound of breathing seemed too loud.
Cumber stood, towering above everyone, his aura faintly flickering — a dark, chaotic flame that twisted the air itself. The black tendrils of his evil ki leaked out, coating the room in suffocating pressure. Every saiyan inside dropped to one knee, gasping for air.
He didn't care. To him, their fear was meaningless — just another reminder of how small they were.
"The night of the full moon," he said at last, his voice booming like thunder. "That's when the war ends. I'll lead the charge myself. Their side will crumble when they see me — and if they don't, I'll make sure they never see again."
A twisted grin carved its way across his face, his teeth glinting under the red light.
"Prepare every unit. A month from now, when the moon rises, we'll paint the planet in their blood."
The soldiers roared in response, the sound shaking the hall. Excitement, madness, and bloodlust filled the air — they were Saiyans, after all. War was their nature. But none could deny the chill that followed his words.
They had seen what Cumber was capable of. When he fought, the world itself seemed to tremble. Mountains shattered under his blows, oceans boiled from the heat of his aura, and entire cities vanished as collateral damage.
To follow Cumber into battle was to walk into hell — but to refuse was death all the same.
As the crowd dispersed, the generals began preparing the armies, eager and terrified in equal measure.
But Cumber didn't move. He remained there, standing silently in the empty hall.
His eyes were fixed on the burning hologram of the southern front — where Razor had fought.
"…Razor," he murmured under his breath. The word came out almost like a growl. "You've survived this long, even against elites. You've killed, bled, and clawed your way up this far."
His aura flickered, darker now — black energy swirling around him like smoke.
"I'll crush you," he said softly, almost reverently. "And when I do, the war will finally end."
He turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing like drumbeats of doom. Every soldier who crossed his path bowed instantly, their heads lowered, not daring to meet his eyes.
In the medical wing nearby, the massive scars on his torso were still healing from his fight with Karot — the old king whose evil ki once rivaled his own. Even now, faint traces of that battle still pulsed through his veins, feeding his fury, feeding his strength.
He looked down at his hand — the same hand that had ripped through Karot's chest. His fingers flexed slowly. "A king who couldn't fight deserved to die," he muttered.
Then his gaze hardened again, eyes burning with anticipation. "But maybe this Razor… maybe he'll be different."
Outside, the wind howled through the massive steel corridors, carrying whispers of fear and excitement across the fortress. The moonlight spilling through the high windows glowed faintly red, as if it too sensed what was coming.
The Night of the Blood Moon was approaching.
And somewhere far across the battlefield, unaware of the storm gathering, Razor lay within a room, healing — his body broken, but his will unbroken.
The war had scarred him, hardened him.
Cumber's wrath would come. The blood moon would rise. And when the two warriors finally meet, the very sky would burn.