Chapter 7 - Chapter:7

Give me stone.....or else.

I meant to release this chapter tomorrow. I thought l uploaded it but no l didn't 😭 😔

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Frieza was a genius—an inconvenient, uncomfortable kind of genius that forced the universe to adjust around him.

Even in canon he achieved Golden Form in four months, going from soft and rusty to standing toe-to-toe with gods' chosen warriors.

That wasn't training; that was evolution wearing arrogance like a crown. And now, with discipline added to that body? He was becoming something the universe had no language for.

The first day against King Cold was pure humiliation. Frieza had always believed himself the pinnacle of his race—so being knocked across a chamber like an amateur tasted bitter.

Cold fought with the weight of centuries, every strike a reminder that Frieza had never earned anything he had.

But genius adapts faster than pride can heal, and by the end of that same day, Frieza could already read Cold's rhythm, map his patterns, anticipate his angles like he'd been studying him for decades.

When the second day arrived, Frieza could have ended the old man. Not with effort. With efficiency. And Raw power if he wished

A flick of ki here, a pressured strike there. But he held back deliberately, letting Cold believe the match was balanced.

The illusion of parity to loosened Cold's tongue. In between the roaring clashes, Cold spilled secrets he'd held for centuries—fleet routes, buried arsenals, sleeper garrisons, hidden laboratories, dead planets that were not as dead as the galaxy believed.

Frieza absorbed it all like a starving man tasting meaning for the first time. He valued information more than he valued bruises.

Between rounds, he did something unexpected—he asked about reproduction. Not out of curiosity, but because he hated not knowing his own biology.

Since the day if his transmigration he did everything to find even a trace of a dick or a Vagina but..... Nothing.

He hated the blank space where instinct should be. Where his dick should be.

He hated that this body lacked what most species took for granted: a simple, physical means of release, creation, intimacy—call it what you will.

He hated the absence of a part he had never possessed but suddenly felt robbed of.

King Cold answered too casually, still drunk on the thrill of battle. Their kind reproduced alone. Asexual.

Pure self-propagation. Flesh forged from will. Offspring born from nothing but internal command. No partner needed. No anatomy required. Cold said it proudly, as if it were a gift.

To Frieza, it felt like a curse. The idea of spawning a child without a body designed for the act felt hollow, mechanical, stripped of agency. He didn't want to "produce" something like a factory.

He wanted the choice, the method, the power over the process. And not having it gnawed at him in a strange, ugly way he couldn't articulate. It made him feel incomplete.

After all which man didn't want to fuck beautiful Women's.

He buried the feeling as fast as it came. He would find an answer later. He always did.

By the dawn of the third day, the tables had flipped so thoroughly that even Cold felt it in his bones. Frieza no longer fought like someone learning.

Every exchange left Cold more winded, more rattled, more aware that his role had inverted. He wasn't teaching anymore. He was stalling.

Frieza refined himself with each clash. His ki no longer leaked; it sliced.

His movements no longer stumbled; they carved.

Cold was a monument to the old era, but Frieza was carving a new one with every breath.

When the third day reached its midpoint, Frieza did something subtle—he suppressed himself further. He pretended to struggle.

Pretended to pant. Pretended to falter. Cold, blinded by pride and desperation, mistook it for fatigue. And in that fog, he revealed the last of his hidden knowledge—the anchor points of the empire, the systems that mattered, the families that needed watching, the military hearts that must never be threatened.

Frieza listened softly, politely, as if he were still the child learning from the father.

But inwardly, he was cataloging the empire's veins, mapping how to cut them or strengthen them depending on whether they served him.

When the final bout of the day ended, Cold stood trembling, shoulders heaving. He had nothing left. "I'm leaving," he said, voice cracked from exhaustion. "You've learned everything I can teach you. You're not training—you're using me as your punching bag."

Frieza laughed—not cruelly, but with the lightness of someone amused by how slow others were. "Oh? Are you certain of that?"

Cold waved him off, too drained to argue, too frustrated to look his son in the eyes. "I'm sure." He turned toward the exit, posture sagging with fatigue and wounded pride.

Frieza's voice softened into something that carried more threat than a shout ever could.

"Father."

Cold turned.

The wall behind him erupted.

A shockwave hit before the sound caught up, blasting steel outward like shrapnel. The impact was precise—a needle of ki driven through Cold's guard before he could even register danger.

He looked down at his hand, watching the blood pool in his palm, deep red and disturbingly warm. His breath hitched, not from pain, but from realization.

He had fought three days against his son.

And Frieza hadn't needed ten percent of his strength.

He hadn't even needed one.

Cold staggered, vision blurring around the edges, disbelief carved across his face. Frieza stood there calmly, tail swaying like a metronome marking an execution's tempo. And in that stillness, Cold finally understood the truth:

He had not created an heir.

He had raised his replacement.

"Why…?" King Cold managed to choke out, collapsing onto his knees. Blood dripped steadily from his chin, trailing down in slow, heavy ribbons. He looked like a ruined monument trying to stay upright, a Donut with a hole burned clean through his torso.

Frieza had given him the same treatment Once gave Ace, the same kind of merciless strike that turned Rengoku into a memory. One clean blow. One perfect circle. One end.

Cold's breath rattled as he stared at his son. "Why… Frieza…?"

"Why?" Frieza repeated, almost gently. "Because you were weak."

His voice held no malice—only fact. "You lacked the conviction of a king, let alone an emperor you bowed your head before a God.

And wasn't it you who told me that only strength matters? That the weak should be exterminated?"

He tilted his head, tail swaying lazily. "I am merely following the doctrine you carved into my soul, dear Father."

The words hit harder than the ki blast. Cold's shoulders slumped. He felt his life leaking away, warmth pouring out through the perfect ring Frieza had punched through him.

Yet, in his final seconds, King Cold managed a faint smile. A small, broken thing—but proud. He had taught his son too well. Far too well for his own good.

Frieza watched the light die in his father's eyes. He felt nothing. No grief. No triumph. Just the cold understanding that a piece of the past had finally stopped breathing.

He walked to the fallen body and closed Cold's eyes with two fingers, his expression unreadable. "Rest, Father," he murmured. "And watch from Hell as your son conquers the universe… and everything beyond it."

He tapped a button embedded in his scouter. "Summon the Ginyu Force to the training room," he commanded, voice steady and calm.

Minutes later, the Ginyu Force arrived, sliding to a stop the moment they saw the corpse. King Cold lay broken on the floor, the gaping ring of destruction still faintly smoking. None of them dared to gasp. None dared to speak. Their knees hit the ground instantly, heads bowed so low they nearly touched the floor.

"We await your command," they said in unison.

Frieza didn't bother to look at them. His eyes were on something far beyond the room, far beyond the ship. A vision of an empire reformed through force and precision. "Send every soldier, every fleet, every hound of war to the Cold Empire's territories," he ordered. "I want the entire kingdom under my heel within one month. No delays. No excuses."

"Yes, your Majesty!" the Ginyu Force shouted, voices cracking with fear and devotion.

Frieza stood alone in the silence that followed.

And for the first time in his life, he felt the galaxy shrinking…

becoming something small enough for him to hold.