The tremors finally eased.
The last ripples of power sank back into the metal walls like cooling magma, and silence settled around him—heavy, breathless, anticipatory. Frieza flexed his fingers once, feeling the lingering tingle crackle beneath the skin. The body was awake now, truly awake, and the difference was night and day.
He rolled his shoulders, listening to the faint creak of bones adjusting to the newly-stabilized reservoir of ki. It was almost disappointing how easily everything clicked into place. Six days of grueling refinement, and now his strength obeyed him with the docility of a trained hound.
The doors hissed open. Not enough to bother him—just enough to announce company.
A trooper stood at the threshold, trembling not from fear, but from the aftershocks vibrating through the deck.
"M-My lord… we detected a spike—"
He didn't bother turning.
"If this is not about King Cold's arrival," he said, voice even, "then it is irrelevant."
The trooper froze. "A-apologies, my lord. I only came to inform you: King Cold's flagship has entered short-range. Estimated arrival… one hour."
One hour.
He let the number settle.
Not much time. Just enough.
"Good. Leave."
The trooper vanished so quickly it was almost pitiful.
Frieza returned to stillness, listening to the ship's heartbeat through the floor. The vibrations, the faint hum, the shifting metal—he could feel it all now with startling clarity. Ki sensing had tuned every perception, sharpening everything until the world seemed painfully crisp. Even the cold air felt different against his skin.
He transitioned out of the third form—not all the way down, just enough to taste the difference.
The shift was smooth. Too smooth.
His earlier frustrations looked childish now.
In his suppressed form, the room felt enormous again, like he had been shrunk inside his own domain. The power was still there, coiled and ready, but silent.
Invisible.
The perfect mask.
He inhaled once, drawing the ki tighter, tighter, until the world around him dimmed. His presence vanished entirely—no pulse, no radiation, no signature.
Nothing.
The sensation was almost elegant.
He walked across the chamber and watched the reflection in the polished plating. A creature of minimal stature, reduced horns, harmless façade. But beneath the surface…
A monster wearing silk.
A weapon wrapped in velvet.
He tilted his head. Not quite perfect yet. Suppression was a tool but not enough to fool someone like King Cold. His father wouldn't rely on scouters. He'd read posture, spirit, killing intent.
Frieza pressed his palm to the wall.
Intent… that was trickier. Power could be hidden. Aura could be crushed. But intent leaked from the bones unless disciplined.
So he focused on that next.
He stilled his heartbeat.
Blurred his thoughts.
Softened the instinctive violence that clung to him like a scent after battle.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
When he finally looked at his reflection again, the difference was stark.
He didn't look diminished.
He looked dormant.
A star pretending to be a pebble.
The intercom cracked to life.
"Lord Frieza… King Cold is requesting permission to dock."
There it was.
The old era knocking on his door.
He walked toward the exit, tail swaying in slow, deliberate arcs. Not heavy. Not threatening. Controlled. Precise. Every motion calculated to look natural—unassuming, even.
The doors slid open, and the corridor outside was lined with soldiers who tried very hard not to stare directly at him.
They could sense nothing from him now.
Good.
Let them doubt. Let them question. Let them wonder where the monster had gone.
He passed through them like a ghost, silent feet echoing faintly across the steel. The docking bay lay ahead, enormous doors waiting to welcome the one being in the universe Frieza had never needed to hide from—
Until today.
The bay lights brightened as the flagship approached, engines roaring like a beast descending from the clouds.
Frieza stopped at the central platform and folded his hands behind his back.
The ship shuddered as King Cold's cruiser connected.
Steam hissed.
Lock bolts engaged.
A ramp descended.
And from the mouth of the flagship emerged a titan draped in royal armor.
King Cold stepped into view, towering, composed, radiating authority with every stride.
Frieza did not move.
Not a twitch.
Not a flare of power.
Not even an emotional ripple.
He simply stood in silence and waited.
Cold's eyes narrowed just slightly—barely a fraction—but enough to show he sensed something different.
Something changed.
Something he couldn't yet place.
Frieza offered a polite, shallow bow.
"Welcome aboard, Father."
And for the first time in his life, he hid a smile behind perfect calm.
Because now the game finally began.
King Cold stared at his son for a solid ten seconds, reading him the way only a father forged in conquest could. Frieza did not flinch, did not blink, did not lower his gaze. He stood firm, shoulders squared, body wrapped in the harsh glow of his final form—an image so jarring that even Cold's ancient instincts churned. Frieza never used this shape casually. He certainly never opened a meeting with it.
Cold had assumed Frieza's call meant a sector revolt, a political annoyance, or perhaps some pirate syndicate overestimating itself. But this? Seeing his son standing in full power, not in his throne, not playing emperor but standing like a warrior—this was something else entirely.
King Cold finally stepped forward, voice smooth but cautious. "Frieza, my boy, how are you doing? I trust this is not some catastrophic emergency?"
Frieza turned, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm doing fantastic, Father. And no—nothing is burning. I called you because I need your help."
He didn't wait for permission or questions; he simply walked deeper into the hallway toward the reinforced training chamber. The metallic floor trembled with each step he took. This room was designed to contain his full power—a theoretical claim at best. Even now, Cold wasn't convinced the blast doors would hold if Frieza exerted himself. Still, curiosity outweighed caution, and he followed.
Cold raised a nonexistent brow. "Oh? And what sort of help might that be?"
The scanner flashed across Frieza's palm. The massive door slid open with a deep metallic groan, exposing the chamber's dark interior—walls plated, floor shock-anchored, gravity modulators humming low. Frieza stepped inside without hesitation and answered, "I have a few questions. And I want to spar with you."
Cold froze mid-step like someone had poured ice down his spine. "Spar? Train? You? Why in the void would you need training?"
Frieza didn't speak immediately. He stood still, letting the heavy silence settle, letting his father feel the weight of his intent. Then he said, voice low but sharp, "Because I am still weak. And I refuse to remain that way."
King Cold let out a genuine laugh—loud, booming, the kind he hadn't produced in decades. "Weak? Frieza, if you are weak, then the rest of the universe should simply roll over and die."
Frieza closed his eyes. Then he spoke a single word that cracked the laughter in half.
"Beerus."
King Cold's smile vanished as if cut clean off his face. He went still—utterly still. Memories flooded him: the destruction of his era's warlords, the way even the old generation whispered the God of Destruction's name like a curse, how the universe bent itself to avoid Beerus' boredom. To hear Frieza mention that name meant only one thing—his son had finally understood the gap that separated tyrants from gods.
The silence in the chamber stretched, crushing, until Cold finally exhaled. "So that is why you called me." He shook his head once, slowly. "No wonder you stand in your final form. No wonder you've been pushing yourself beyond reason."
Frieza said nothing. He didn't have to.
Cold took another step inside, cape dragging across the metallic floor. His voice lost its arrogance and took on something rarer for him—respect. "Very well. If you want to spar… then let us spar. I want to see the form you claim to have mastered."
Frieza smirked and took his stance. "You'll see it, Father. You'll feel it."
Cold cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like cannon fire across the chamber. "Let us hope your room can survive what comes next."
The gravity intensified. The lights dimmed. Power began to leak from Frieza in slow, steady waves that made the walls tremble. Cold felt it wash over him, heavier than he expected—denser, sharper, refined through obsession.
For the first time in a long while, the king realized something unsettling.
His son wasn't just stronger.
He was becoming something truly dangerous.