Frieza leaned back against the curve of his newly crafted floating throne, one clawed finger lifting in a lazy gesture.
"Cym," he said, voice smooth, unhurried. "Report. What progress have been made on the missions I assigned?"
The soldier he had once shot through the leg stepped forward without hesitation.
Cymbal—Cym, as Frieza now called him—bowed deeply, spine straight, posture proud rather than fearful.
"My lord," Cym said, head lowered but voice steady, "we have found nothing definitive yet. No confirmed matches. The search continues."
Frieza hummed softly and did not look displeased.After all they would belong to him sooner or later.
His fingers tapped against the armrest of the throne, slow and thoughtful, the sound barely audible in the vast chamber.
The throne itself was… exquisite.
So soft it felt as though he were seated on condensed air, the hide beneath him supple and warm despite the chill of space.
It had been fashioned from the skin of a species now extinct—overhunted, overused, forgotten.
A pity, Really. They had been beautiful in their own way, and soft even in death.
Frieza did not dwell on it long.
Sentimentality was a luxury, not a weakness—but it had its limits.
He had not expected miracles.
Searching for a planet based on fragment of information he had given meant combing through hundreds—possibly thousands—of worlds.
Patience was required.
And patience, Frieza had learned, was not the same as inaction.
"Continue the search," he said calmly. "Refine your parameters. Expand the net where necessary."
Then, after a brief pause, "Prepare the training room."
Cym bowed again, deeper this time. "At once, my lord."
There was no hesitation, no fear—only loyalty sharpened by understanding.
Left alone, Frieza allowed himself to sink further into the throne.
For a fleeting moment, he considered staying there, basking in comfort, letting the empire churn and move on its own.
The temptation was real.
He had earned this seat, this silence, this indulgence.
But indulgence did not make him stronger.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as his thoughts turned inward.
The empire—ships, soldiers, planets—was useful, yes. Powerful, even.
But it was not his priority.
It never had been.
Strength was his priority.
Not rule. Not conquest. Not legacy.
Strength.
The moment he had sent Raditz toward Earth, he had understood the truth with perfect clarity.
Time had begun to move against him.
Not fate. Not prophecy.
Competition.
Two years for Raditz to arrive.
For the universe to continue breathing.
For Frieza to decide what kind of monster he would become.
He rose from the throne, the soft surface releasing him reluctantly, as if it wished to keep him there.
Comfort was a chain, even when it felt pleasant.
The empire would give him resources.
Scientists, technology, training chambers, weapons, intelligence.
It was fuel.
Nothing more.
Because what was the point of ruling everything if he stood alone at the summit,
stagnant and unchallenged?
There was no point of being the strongest if he will be alone at the top.
An emperor who stopped climbing was already dead.
Frieza turned toward the corridor leading to the training room, tail swaying with quiet purpose.
This was not about duty. This was not about fear.
This was about becoming something that could not be surpassed.
And until that race was over, there would be no rest.
---
Frieza pushed himself through a set of grueling push-ups under 300g gravity. Every movement was a fight—his muscles screamed, his chest burned, and the floor groaned under the weight of his body amplified by the crushing gravity. At first, the pain threatened to dominate his focus, but he welcomed it. The thought of dying, of failing miserably, sharpened his resolve like a whetstone against steel. Pain was nothing; it was simply another metric to conquer.
This body… it amazed him. Each breath felt like fuel, each heartbeat a pulse of raw potential. He could feel the subtle changes with every motion—strength knitting itself into his bones, energy pulsing more efficiently through every fiber. Forget four months, forget the slow climb he had endured in canon. At this rate, he could achieve golden form by the end of the month. The thought alone made him smirk—a quick, cruel grin, sharp as the edge of a blade. Progress like this was intoxicating.
He had a theory, a quiet observation he mulled over between reps. When his soul merged with Frieza's original essence, it had doubled the power within. Ki was more than just energy—it was a fusion of body, mind, and spirit. The intertwining of his new soul with his physical form forced the body to expand, to grow beyond its previous limits. That initial sting, the strange ache he had felt the first time he tested his third form to its extreme, suddenly made sense. His body had been shocked by the sheer scale of power it now contained, as though it had been slumbering all along, unaware of its own potential.
And then there was Beerus. The thought of the God of Destruction, sitting somewhere in the cosmos, casually erasing him from existence, had ignited a fierce, instantaneous growth. Fear, annoyance, challenge—it didn't matter what he called it. That simple possibility, that mere potential of annihilation, had pushed him beyond limits he hadn't even known existed. There was no other explanation. Every fiber of his being knew it: survival was growth, and growth was absolute power.
He paused for a brief moment, sweat beading along his purple and white form, tail coiled in a lazy spiral behind him. The gravity chamber didn't care, the pain didn't matter, and the universe… the universe would have to adapt to him. Every push-up, every strain of muscle, every thought of domination and vengeance was a reminder of what he was becoming.
Frieza exhaled, the sound low and controlled, almost reverent. Even under 300g, even with his body screaming in protest, he felt a warmth spread through him—not comfort, exactly, but satisfaction, a pure recognition of potential realized. This was the apex of discipline, of perfection in motion. He wasn't just training a body anymore; he was teaching it, guiding it, letting it understand the scope of its own power. And he would never stop until it bent entirely to his will.
---
I will release a chapter every 100 PS