What are you Saiyan?

The dawn broke over the Mistveil wilds, a pale light filtering through the tangled canopy as the Wild Cats stirred from their camp. Brad, ever the leader, checked his gear with methodical precision—tightening his dented plate armor, testing the weight of his mace and shield. He eyed Crissy’s staff, Rick’s sparking fingers, Alfred’s taut bowstring, then finally turned to Steven. “You good?” he rumbled, voice steady as stone. Steven flexed his gloved fists, the Rabbit Fury Fur snug and eager. “Yup, all set.” With a curt nod, Brad led them out, the party moving as one toward the goblin-infested clearing.

They reached a grassy expanse ringed by dense forest, the Cave of Sorrow’s jagged maw looming in the distance. Goblins swarmed the field—short, wiry creatures with jagged teeth and crude spears, at least two dozen, chattering in their guttural tongue. The Wild Cats crouched in tall brush, eyes sharp. Brad whispered, his tone low and commanding. “Here’s the plan: I tank—use Taunt to draw ‘em all to me. Rick, Alfred, hit ‘em from the back with spells and arrows. Crissy, keep us patched. Steve, guard my flank—any bastard sneaks past my front, take it out.” Steven nodded, adrenaline simmering. “Okay, BREAK,” Brad barked, like a quarterback in a huddle, and Steven stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it in this isekai world.

Brad exploded from the brush, a roar tearing from his throat—“GRRRRRRRRUAHHHHHHHHHH!”—shaking the earth. The goblins spun, beady eyes locking on him. He slammed his mace against his shield, a crimson shockwave erupting in a 360-degree pulse, rippling outward 100 feet before fading. Every goblin snarled and charged, a tide of green fury. Rick thrust a hand forward, shouting “Fireball!”—a classic, meme-worthy blast of flame that engulfed three goblins on Brad’s left, their shrieks swallowed by the explosion. Alfred’s bow twanged in rapid succession, arrows slicing air—four goblins dropped, three with heads pierced clean through, the fourth gurgling from twin body shots.

A lone goblin broke from the pack, darting toward Brad’s flank, spear raised. Steven sprang forward, Radiant Armament igniting his fists and feet in golden flames. He sprinted, timing his move—a swift, brutal kick slammed into the goblin’s skull with a wet squish, its head bursting like an overripe melon, gray matter splattering the grass. Brad grunted approval, holding the front as Steven pivoted to his rear, a sentinel of holy fire. The horde pressed, but Steven’s blood sang—he was in his element, a grin splitting his face.

Then he got cocky. After clearing Brad’s flank—punching one goblin’s teeth down its throat, kicking another’s spine inward—he surged past Brad, diving into the frontal horde. Laughter—wild, manic—spilled from him, a sound alien to his old life. This was isekai, raw and absurd, and he reveled in it. Fifteen goblins swarmed him, spears jabbing, claws slashing. His gloves thrummed with power, and something snapped loose—Radiant Armament flared beyond his hands and feet, engulfing his entire body in golden flames. A Super Saiyan glow, holy and fierce, coursed through him—speed sharpened, strength surged, every move a blur of divine wrath.

The fight became a brutal ballet, replayed in vivid detail: Steven darted left, a glowing fist caving in a goblin’s chest, ribs cracking like dry twigs. He spun, a flaming kick sweeping two more off their feet, their skulls smashing together mid-air with a dull crunch. A spear thrust—he dodged, grabbing the shaft, yanking the goblin forward into a radiant uppercut that sent its jaw skyward in a spray of blood. Another leapt, claws outstretched—Steven ducked, slamming both fists upward, the impact hurling it back into three others, a tangle of broken limbs igniting in golden embers. He wove through them, relentless—punch, kick, elbow—each strike precise yet feral, his gloves amplifying the carnage. A goblin lunged from behind; he twisted, planting a heel in its gut, the holy fire searing its flesh as it crumpled. The horde thinned, and Steven’s laughter grew, fueling the blaze. The last goblin raised a rusty blade—he charged, ducking the swing, driving a fist into its throat. It gurgled, collapsing, and silence fell.

He turned, chest heaving, flames fading to a faint shimmer. The Wild Cats stared—Brad’s mace limp at his side, Rick’s hands stalled mid-spell, Alfred’s bow slack, Crissy’s staff trembling. Jaws dropped, eyes wide, they gaped at the carnage—fifteen goblin corpses strewn around Steven, the rest felled by the initial volley. Brad hadn’t swung again after his taunt; the backline hadn’t needed to. It was all Steven, a one-man storm of fists and fire.

Brad blinked, shaking off the shock. “Well… damn, Steve,” he muttered, voice hoarse. The others nodded mutely, still processing the golden whirlwind that had stolen their fight—and won it.