Banner of the Crimson Faith

Rottich strides through the shattered archway of the Hall of Kings, boots grinding over broken marble and scorched banners. His tail flicks in agitation as rival Saiyan lieutenants glare from the shadows, hands twitching near scouter visors and armor plates. The air tastes of ozone and old blood. Rottich’s voice, deep and unyielding, cuts through the tension.

“Brothers, is this the legacy we would leave?”

He lifts his palm and the silver light of 'Crown of Thorns' flickers to life, illuminating his hard gaze and the defiant faces of the gathered warlords. The hall vibrates with palpable power, a single wrong move could ignite a massacre. Rottich steps forward, his silhouette framed by flame-lit columns, daring any challenger to step forth. Silence stretches, nerves wound tight, as destiny hangs by a thread.

Rottich stands amid the shattered Hall of Kings, his voice ringing against scorched stone. He gestures sharply with his free hand, silver thorns of ki flickering in a steady, pulsing rhythm. His gaze locks onto the lieutenant, waiting for a response. Zarboni shifts his stance, fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade.

The spit lands with a wet hiss against the cold stone, stark against the steady hum of the silver thorns. Zarboni moves with predatory grace, the jagged scar on his brow tightening as his eyes narrow. He stands just feet away, the air between them heavy with the scent of ozone and the promise of his blade’s unsheathing.

A sharp crack echoes as Rottich rolls his neck, his face set with weary resolve. He unleashes a precise, pulsing bolt of energy toward Zarboni. As the projectile streaks forward, Rottich’s voice booms through the hall.

"We bowed to King Vegeta for years, and where did that get us, but to be the attack dogs of a non-Saiyan tyrant? WE as Saiyans should be on top, not Lord Frieza, not King Cold, but Saiyan-kind!"

The air shivers with the weight of his words, and he waits, eyes locked on his rival, gauging his reaction to the strike.

The debris settles, stirring a fine grit that hangs in the flickering light. Rottich stands still, the silver aura around his head dimming into a slow, steady pulse. The Hall of Kings is silent, broken only by the distant, erratic crackle of thunder outside. Zarboni tightens his grip on his blade, chest rising and falling with effort as he fixes his gaze across the divide.

Rottich plants his feet firmly on the cracked floor, the silver glow of his ki crown pulsing in time with his measured, heartbeat-like breaths. He towers over the space, his gaze heavy with the weight of his ultimatum.

"Then let my actions speak louder than my so-called empty words. I'd suggest you stand to the side, unless you'd prefer the rank of prisoner to Lieutenant."

He holds his stance, coiled and ready, as the silence in the Hall of Kings tightens around them like a noose.

Zarboni closes the distance with terrifying velocity, the floor tiles cracking beneath the weight of his charge. His blade hums sharply, slicing a jagged arc through the stagnant air of the Hall. Rottich holds firm, the spectral thorns around his head flaring to a sudden, brilliant intensity as the steel descends.

Rottich pivots with ruthless precision, driving his knee hard into Zarboni’s gut. The lieutenant doubles over, gasping for breath as Rottich towers above him.

"Stand down, Lieutenant. I will have you know, that I too, have an army backing me up. The path to the redemption of our species will begin in my home land. If you want to bring the war, then find me in Snopia."

With a sudden burst of ki, Rottich tears through the shattered ceiling, leaving the Hall of Kings behind. He rises into the storm-churned sky, heading toward the distant, snow-capped stone spires of Snopia.

Rottich lands in Snopia’s biting frost, boots sinking into untouched snow. The gothic spires he forged from Mineralis ore rise sharply against the violet dusk, their dark silhouettes outlined by falling flakes. From the shadows of the central keep, battle-worn warriors appear, eyes flickering with reverence and unease at their leader’s return. Krel, a scarred veteran, steps forward and bows his head.

"Lord Rottich, the scouts report activity in the upper atmosphere. We are prepared to hold the line, but the men are restless. They need to know if the time for war has truly come."