Hanasia, Queen of the Saiyans
Written by Salagir
Adapted by Caihlem, TheOverlyMadHatter, hiace50 and Adamantine
This story takes place on the Saiyans planet, 1000 years ago, way before they are the population killer who put fear in the whole galaxy, in the era of King Vegeta...
If you ever wondered how these so powerful people lived as a community, if you want to know what was the fate of Millennium Warriors before Broly, if the adventures of a frantic and emotional fighter in a world of bullies tempt you, enter the world of Hanasia's saga.
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The Rebels’ Attack
En route to the capital, the rebel stealth ship crossed several merchant ships, and, under the guise of urgent space shopping, the crew had combattants mount aboard each time the opportunity presented itself. For them, entering without being spotted was either surprisingly easy given their speed, or impossible because of their size. It was true that Krämm, of a volume of several cubic metres, couldn’t discretely pass someone in a ship’s corridor, or hide in a hull in which every cubic centimetre was occupied.
Him and a few others therefore landed hundreds of kilometres away from the capital, where customs officers were more lax, and where tourism wasn’t unheard of.
Many combattants set forth like shadows in between crates of victuals or rare metals, hiding like bats in the darkest corners of the hangars. Krämm and his troops were moving at a fast pace, but keeping close to the ground, heading towards the Emperor's palace...
In a few hours only, the palace would be the site of a terrible battle!
Dijicharate was scratching her chin while looking at the bloody body of the intruder she had just killed.
This guy was much too strong to be a simple spy… Too discrete - or so he had thought! - to be a warrior of the court whom she’d have forgotten the existence of.
The question now was… was he alone or not?
What did a warrior of that force intend to do… alone in the palace?
Before warning everyone else, she started hunting for more undesirable people… She abandoned the corpse whose blood was tainting the corridor. The next guards would recognize her signature, and would know Dijicharate had eliminated an intruder. They’d sound the alarm, accustomed to the fact that she never did.
Yshar had found an interesting vantage point. Surfacing from his hangar, having flown out a window, he had landed on a roof of the same colour as his skin and clothes. He knew this camouflage would also help a little once inside the palace. But he wouldn’t enter alone.
With his keen eyes, he could see one of his colleagues enter from a high opening, from which he had bent the bars and straightened again afterwards.
He had been quick and silent, but if Yshar had noticed him, then the frightful Dijicharate would surely too, no?
Though feeling a little cowardly, he decided to keep his position and let him fend for himself, which for the record saved his life.
They’d launch the attack at the signal of the others to announce their arrival. What was the signal going to be? The destruction of half the palace of course.
There was nothing to gain in being discrete. The enemy’s forces were outside the palace, no dangerous army would come as reinforcement, if not two warriors of the court having lunch further away.
Krämm assured that his sword was well attached and unfolded the immense opaque sheet that was supposed to cover him. Just another dozen kilometres and the palace would be in sight. As planned, he continued to fly blinded. If warriors of the era didn’t know how to detect auras, they were still aware of the slightest movements in the air, of sounds, and were always conscious of their environment even with their eyes closed.
The little bombardier who flew next to him also placed himself in the sheet, which he almost closed, attached his legs around the huge thorax of Krämm, and they flew in tandem. The bombardier was upside down and had his two hands in front of the opening formed in the sheet. His eyes were still primordial, and could see through the hole. The barbarian navigated, he fired. The little man noticed they were distancing themselves from the ground, then recognized the base of the immense palace of the Emperor.
Thousands of tons of stone and reinforced metal, as large as a small mountain. The capital extended respectfully around the palace that was the true jewel of the area. One could have lodged thousands of souls, if the palace hadn’t been reserved for the elite of the elite of the elite (don’t ask, you’re not part of them). Immense rooms completely closed to the public that you’d only see on the 3D television, with extraordinary works of art, unique and ancient constructions, jewelry worth two or three habitable planets, masses of pure gold (one didn’t really know what use it could be of, but you always felt safer in a room filled with gold), and a multitude of beautiful clothing of all shapes and sizes, so sumptuous the wearer would instantly be the most noble being of the planet, but that none wore here, because they were real warriors and not fags.
By amassing taxes over hundreds of years and from all the known universe, and pillaging the prettiest richest from conquests, the cold empire has assembled a pretty booty, of which only the prettiest part was present in the gigantic palace. The Emperor Blizzard at least had taste. More so than his sons. The historical value of the area defied reasoning. Only the most pitiful of ignorant insects (meaning at least half the people working at the court) could touch the ground of this place and not feel insignificant among so many years of beauty and art.
Time to explode all this.
The bombardier sent a small initial ball of energy, not very powerful for him, that could reduce to cinders this fake mountain and the city surrounding it. It impacted against the magnetic shield and shook its bases really hard, but the shield held. Finding the bases thanks to the vibrations caused, the bombardier attacked the latter and, at the same time, the city found itself suddenly naked, in all its simplicity. Krämm had nothing to add to this work well executed.
As of the first vibration, some warriors of the court had already raised their heads to the sky. In less than a second, as the second wave was incoming, they were launching themselves on the spotted enemy. Two were shot from the ground by other enemies of the empire. The others were fought against and some directly executed, by Krämm’s friends that joined him.
Then the palace was assaulted from all sides. By the bombardier, of course, as his navigator descended, but also by ambushing rebels. Explosions detonated all over the place, to show that the battle had commenced, and that it was total. The walls were of a truly astounding resistance, but quickly, numerous fell to ruin. In every direction, people flew into the corridors, and everyone hit everyone else.
The immense throne room didn’t even sport a fissure. It was hidden deeply beneath the other stages, and to enter, you’d have to take the corridor like a civilized person. Corridors where guards were abound, but also Dijicharate, of course… The warriors present wouldn’t have to exit to fight the enemies. They knew the final battle would take place inside, between these closed walls where no rebel would exit alive. They knew Dijicharate would let troops pass and only kill the last ones, then those trying to flee. They knew that’d have to honour their Emperor, who risked absolutely nothing amidst their fight, because simply put, he was Blizzard. And since they had seen him get up, it was known that not only could he withstand the enemy attacks without second thought, he could also attack them, meaning he could crush the rebellion himself on his own. But they couldn’t allow that to happen, it would only serve to prove their incompetence.
Thus Blizzard was seated in his throne, without any intention of moving from it. He looked at the screens of the walls showing the enemy arrival. From time to time, one of them was cut in half by an invisible force. That meant Dijicharate was sharpening her blades.
Yshar the right-handed didn’t fly, because he was used to ground combat. He ran at great speed in the corridor, accompanied by other rebels. He knew from their absence that some were already dead and was saddened by that. He hadn’t run into opponents since a while, which proved they were approaching the room where everyone was waiting for them.
— Stop! said the one in the lead, whose name Yshar couldn’t remember, but who was known for his supernatural scouting capacities. They all stopped, just as in front of them two katchin tips crossed the corridor in every direction. A trap that dated from simpler civilizations to protect their tombs… but efficient enough to work. Fast and resistant enough to sunder many a warrior.
They darted off again, and along another corridor, Yshar felt an enormous excitement. Gigantic. A fear. A tremor. Something undefinable. They had just felt the power of Blizzard. But, not knowing how to sense power levels, he only knew he approached a great danger, instinctively like an animal.
— Stop! said once more the leader. They halted, but no trap triggered, and no enemy revealed himself.
They looked at each other without understanding.
— The throne room is 50 metres away, said the leader. Sudden stupefaction within the group. So they were this close. But why wait?
A few empty seconds.
— Now! he screamed as he flew around the corner. And everyone followed, especially those who were more impatient and were almost ready to go without him. They entered the throne room, exactly when, from another entrance on the opposite side, more rebels came, including an huge white sheet blasting fireballs.
Yshar found the one who would be his first opponent. A warrior from the court, who put himself in attack position, also thinking that he’d found his first opponent. However, for one of the two, there wouldn’t be a second. They threw themselves at each other, without noticing that the last two members of Yshar’s group never entered the throne room. The last one was cut in half before he even realized he was under attack, and the before-last, named Kutsaru, took a blow from an invisible assailant that sent him flying across the corridor, far from the throne room.
Kutsaru smashed against the wall at the back but regained control of his movements before landing on the ground. Both feet anchored to the ground, he scanned the area in front of him and kept attention of the slightest movement of air and resonance. He was at the end of the corridor. His enemy was in front of him. Impossible to miss him, right? But he couldn’t see or sense anything. He knew Dijicharate was there in front of him. He couldn’t let himself fall into her trap and look elsewhere, no, he had to stay concentrated on what was in front of him.
Nothing was moving, other than combats of the dozen exceptional fighters further away. But here, it was between them two. And although all his senses told him he was alone, that his first opponent had left, he knew that he couldn’t trust them. Time passed. It seemed to last years, whereas it was just very long seconds that were accumulating. An eternity for the two boosted brains of the opponents. Dijicharate still wasn’t attacking. It was the sign that she knew he wasn’t that vulnerable. He’d have preferred she underestimate him.
Who would be better at the game of patience? Her, of course. He was confident in his skills, but he had to consider the strength of his adversary. It was evident that she would be better in the waiting game. But if he’d try to move, he would have lost, and he knew this. He’d be dead. No, don’t think, wait. She’d attack, he’d evade, then he’d strike back.
Another eternity later… and suddenly, the awaited moment. From a decidedly not obscure corner, she escaped. He didn’t see her, but the blur of the displacement told him her initial position, of which he didn’t care. She was going to run at him and strike a side, any of them. He was in a position of perfect defense. He’d see her, he’d feel her. The blur approached at an unimaginable speed, but his reflexes were too. The blur wasn’t straight. It advanced in a whirlwind, and thus all angles of attack could be considered. Thankfully he had his back to a wall! That limited the risks!
He couldn’t allow himself to evade.
Of course, he understood that now.
He had no chance against Dijcharate. He’d be skewered, if not then by the second hit, or the third. If he had the capacity to face off against this elite, he wouldn’t have been part of the rebellion. he’d have been noticed at ten in his martial arts school, taken into a school of the Empire, and would be in the room amongst the elite warriors, defending his Emperor.
Kutsaru charged his power and the opposing strike came. He didn’t evade it. Indeed, he would have failed his attempt to block it. Too fast. Dijicharate had taken the time to evaluate her opponent and had concluded that he was very strong and had a good defense position. So she had attacked her all her speed and all her precision. Because Dijicharate killed in one strike, or wasn’t Dijicharate. Kutsaru felt a blade, or an arm, or something sharp, enter his guts, and pass with minute precision between two vertebrae. His whole nervous system destroyed in one shot. Extraordinary.
But the nerve signal to counter, he had already sent. As Dijicharate’s weapon continued its route through his body, between the front of his stomach and the spinal cord, his fist was heading straight to his enemy, now closer and more vulnerable than she had ever been. The punch landed on her body. He couldn’t have aimed of course. It wasn’t on her face, one wasn’t always so lucky. It was towards her shoulder, rather close to the torso, which wasn’t too bad.
And the rebel didn’t hit like a weakling.
Dijicharate was hurt. Very, very hurt. The impact displaced itself in the rest of her body while she flew in reverse. Her blade exited and she receded in slow motion from her adversary. He was living his final microseconds, and was intending to savour each detail.
Sound wise, he didn’t hear any wail of pain. Just the noise from the blow, deep, violent. Some movements in the air, nothing more than could be expected, the displacement of bodies, the wind created by the speed of the attack… Smell… nothing. Smell moved far too slowly. And finally the fastest of informations, images.
Apart from, of course, the Frost Demons, none knew the face of Dijicharate. Those that had seen it, were like our warrior: it was the last thing they saw. Small eyes full of hatred. A smooth head that was hairless, but that sported a sort of marine mane, aerodynamic. Dark colours, a humanoid body, with long and sharp blades stuck to her arms, finishing in two long clawed fingers. He had seen her. What an impressive warrior!
She’d fall into the throne room. Had he been a telepath, he’d have screamed to his friends “Dijicharate! Attack her!”, they had to profit from this rare moment where she was going to be defenseless… but he wasn’t telepathic. Kutsaru died with the image of her body moving away, hoping his last hit would have been of use.
While these lamentable insects flew around him, Blizzard was thinking.
His two last sons were far away, the strongest rebels, a long time ready, were pressing their advantage and attacking. To be expected… except that…
His secret services should have warned him of this attack. And these rebels shouldn’t have been so quickly aware of Frosty’s speedy exit. They were too well informed and him not enough. Clearly something was wrong in his empire… a mistake on his part perhaps? Or his sons weren’t running the intelligence and information systems are they should…
In any case, the best enemy elements were here. Given their level, it was certain. His palace was taking a heavy toll, but at least, this strike force would be definitely eliminated. It wasn’t going to be these pathetic elite warriors who would take care of it either, by the way… Since the disappearance of Chatterton and of the Hot Squad, the strength of the army in the palace was ridiculous. His first son had up and left with his two final best elements… It sucked.
He’d have to fight himself… unless Dijicharate entered the room and seriously started working.
And there she was falling lamentably on the floor, arriving from the corridor.
Blizzard gave a weary sigh.
A circular gaze from Yshar allowed him to see they had the advantage. Luck was on their side seen as Krämm, the strongest of the group, still hadn’t landed a single blow.
He saw someone fall into the throne room, thrown. But just as she touched the ground, she disappeared in a strange blur.
Yshar the right-handed didn’t try to understand. He evaded a lost energy ball, and, leaving the corpse of his last opponent, threw himself into the melee with only one goal in mind: allow the bombardier and Krämm get closer to the Emperor Blizzard, the strongest being in the universe.
Yshar was tall for those of his race. Which meant he was smaller than the average. Despite traits that made him appear like a tough guy at home, the people from the empire were always refraining from patting his head in a friendly manner. In the bars, before he’d order, the barman would open the fridge to the milk and juice bottles. Yshar had learned about relativity in a peculiar and strange way. In a group fight, it was a monumental edge.
No one attacked him when he displaced himself between duels. With his destruction hand, he hit the back of a guard on his passage. And another. And another, who skillfully evaded the blow and hit back. It was difficult to pay attention to everything around him. Between the numerous energy balls of the bombardier and his designated opponent - the combatants who were used to one-on-one fights - one easily forgot the little Yshar who flew between fighters. His first blow was very efficient. The rebel who had the touched warrior as opponent used the other’s pain as an advantage to send a keen fist straight to the carotid. The second had also gained an advantage, maybe even his life. The third rebel that Yshar had thought to help, simply finished falling, lifeless. The elite warrior that had sundered his opponent hit Yshar again, but the latter, through pain, managed to evade the blow with his forgiving hand.
Instead of falling to the ground, Yshar preferred flying backwards, using the speed from the blow to flee this opponent and giving himself a moment’s repose.
He regained his breath as the emperor’s guard threw himself at him. Too fast! Yshar was living his last instant.
— To the left! ordered a telepath in his head. Yshar recognized the voice of a friend. He obeyed. He stepped aside to the left, which only put him more in the trajectory of the fist that was destined for him. And behind him, scalding his hand for being too slow, a red and burning energy ball passed where he used to be, to charge into his opponent.
Without being able to avoid it, the big man exploded mid-flight. Yshar knew it wasn’t enough, and he charged his own energy ball in his fist. He couldn’t count on help from the other rebel. He flew at full speed towards the burning smoke cloud that was escaping from the guard’s face. First, a kick. A hand caught him. It really wasn’t an easy opponent. But Yshar had planned it, and he had launched his foot forward. And kick, another hand. Drats. The small arms of Yshar couldn’t reach him, could they?
He launched his energy ball within close range, in the face of the wounded elite guard.
Hanasia was sleeping difficulty because of the permanent pain in her body. It wasn’t the normal sometimes enjoyable pain of a good open wound. She woke up all the time, and fell back into an unrelaxing sleep, with dreams populated by strange visions.
Beings with animalistic heads were fighting in a large room, with a gigantic monster in the centre on a throne. Tsufuls on a meat spike arguing vehemently around a table. Powerful beings were approaching her planet…
Fortunately, there was also the dream of several young men around her, who did interesting things with their hands and tongues.