Broly learned differently than anyone Frieza had ever trained.
He did not ask questions.
He did not seek approval.
He did not think in terms of form or structure.
He learned through exposure.
Frieza noticed it within the first week.
Where soldiers refined technique, Broly absorbed circumstance. If something hurt him once, it never worked again. If pressure increased, his body adapted before his mind could register fear. Frieza would raise gravity, adjust opponents, alter conditions mid-conflict—and Broly would stumble once, twice, then suddenly stabilize, like a beast finding its footing on unfamiliar terrain.
Frieza found it… fascinating.
They trained in silence most days. No lectures. No philosophy. Frieza simply existed near Broly while pushing him harder than anyone ever had. Not because Broly needed cruelty—but because his power demanded resistance.
And Paragus watched.
Always from the edges.
Always calculating.
Always afraid.
Frieza never confronted him about it. There was no need. Paragus believed himself necessary. He believed his presence was the last anchor keeping Broly obedient.
Frieza let him believe that.
Because belief made people careless.
Three months passed.
The universe changed.
Frieza's rule—restructured, systematized, and stripped of arbitrary cruelty—worked too well. Trade routes stabilized. Piracy collapsed. Planetary governors were replaced with administrators who answered to metrics instead of ego. Tribute was fixed, predictable, and—most dangerously—fair.
Worlds prospered.
And prosperity breeds ideas.
Ideas like we don't need him.
The ideas of course came from the corrupt government of those planet which needed salvation in the first place.
Ten planets spoke first. Then ten systems. Then fleets. They did not curse Frieza's name. They praised him.
They called him reasonable.
They called him progressive.
They just called his empire unnecessary.
The Empire that saved them. The empire that supplied them with food when they were starving.
Dying from war there Elite's created to get even more Rich.
And this is how they repay their Savior
They stopped paying tribute.
They called themselves the Empire of Tomorrow.
Empire of tomorrow my ass they were a Empire Of Hypocrites
Frieza read the reports from his throne, tail coiled lazily around the base, eyes half-lidded.
"How Fucking tedious," he murmured.
He understood rebellion. He understood hatred. He understood fear.
But this?
They weren't rebelling because he was evil.
They were rebelling because he was GOOD
Because order made them bold. Because safety made them arrogant. Because they mistook mercy for weakness.
So Frieza chose To teach them a lesson.
One planet—heavily fortified, resource-rich, strategically irrelevant but symbolically powerful—became the rally point.
Millions of rebel troops. Thousands of ships. Every leader who believed history was about to pivot in their favor gathered there.
A final stand.
Frieza decided to attend personally.
He brought Broly.
He also brought Paragus.
As this will be his last day.
---
The rebels fired first, of course they did.
They always did.
Orbital cannons lit the atmosphere as Frieza's flagship descended, shields absorbing everything with contemptuous ease.
The sky burned red and gold as ships screamed overhead, alarms blaring, commanders shouting orders that were already obsolete.
Frieza stepped onto the surface without ceremony.
The air trembled.
Broly stood beside him, fists clenched, breathing heavy. His eyes darted across the battlefield—ships, soldiers, weapons, threats. His instincts screamed. This wasn't training. This was war.
Paragus stayed close, shoulders tight, jaw locked.
"Remember," Paragus muttered quietly, "control yourself."
Frieza heard him.
He said nothing.
The first rebel charge surged forward—armored divisions, energy artillery, elite units trained specifically to counter Frieza Force soldiers. They moved with purpose, with belief.
Frieza watched them approach like an emperor watching ants cross marble.
"Observe," he said to Broly.
The slaughter was immediate.
Imperial forces didn't rush. They didn't shout. They advanced like a tide, weapons precise, formations flawless. Rebel lines collapsed in minutes. Air support vanished. Communications died.
The battle was already decided long before the first rebel realized it.
Frieza's forces moved with discipline, not fury. Every advance was measured. Every counter was fatal. The rebels fought hard—harder than most—but desperation could not replace structure. Their ships fell in clean arcs of fire. Their ground units were folded inward, section by section, until retreat became impossible.
Broly stood at the edge of it all, breathing hard.
This was not like training.
This was noise. Screaming. Dying. Too many things moving at once. His ki surged and ebbed without rhythm, reacting to every explosion, every death, every spike of hostility. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms.
Paragus stayed close, shouting orders that barely reached Broly's ears.
"Stay behind the line! Don't engage yet—Broly, listen to me!"
Then it happened.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
A rebel artillery strike—wild, unfocused—punched through an Imperial formation and detonated behind them. Shrapnel screamed through the air like metal rain.
One shard tore straight through Paragus's side.
He staggered.
Broly turned just in time to see his father fall.
"Father?"
Paragus hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and fast. His hands trembled as he tried—and failed—to push himself up.
Broly was beside him instantly, dropping to his knees.
"Father—get up. Get up!" Broly said calmly.
Paragus coughed, blood staining his lips. His eyes were wide—not with fear of death, but with fear for Broly.
"Broly… listen…" he rasped.
Broly grabbed him, lifting him slightly, hands shaking. "Stop talking. You're fine. You're fine!"
Paragus's fingers tightened weakly around Broly's wrist.
"Don't… lose yourself…"
His grip loosened.
Then stopped.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Broly stared at him.
The battlefield noise faded, replaced by a dull ringing in his ears. He shook Paragus once. Harder the second time.
"Father?"
No answer.
Something inside Broly collapsed.
Not exploded.
Collapsed.
The grief came first—sharp, suffocating, unbearable. Then confusion. Then betrayal. And finally, rage so dense it felt like it would crush him from the inside out.
His ki didn't flare wildly.
It rose.
Steady. Heavy. Pressurized.
The ground beneath him cracked as Broly stood.
He didn't look at Frieza.
He didn't look at the sky.
He looked at the rebels.
And then he moved.
Broly launched himself into the enemy ranks like a living cataclysm. There was no technique, but there didn't need to be. His fists erased bodies. His roars shattered morale. Tanks crumpled under his hands. Entire formations vanished under waves of raw force.
The rebels tried to retreat.
They couldn't.
Broly chased them through streets, through bunkers, through burning ruins. Every scream fed the storm inside him. Every death sharpened it.
Frieza watched.
He did not intervene.
He allowed it to run its course.
He understood this was only a matter of time that's why when the sharpnel entered peragus body he gave the signal to his forces to retreat.
Only when the rebels were broken—when their leaders lay dead, when their armies were ash—did Broly slow.
His chest heaved. His eyes burned green. His hands were slick with blood that wasn't his own.
And then he turned.
Frieza stood where he had always been—untouched, unhurried, watching.
Broly's gaze locked onto him.
The rage found a new target.
With a scream that tore the sky, Broly charged Frieza.
This time, it wasn't blind.
It was accusation.
His fist came down with enough force to shatter a continent.
Frieza caught it.
With one finger.
The impact sent a shockwave across the planet, flattening ruins and kicking dust into orbit—but Frieza didn't move an inch.
Broly screamed and struck again.
Blocked.
Again.
Blocked.
Each blow stronger than the last. Each one failing.
Frieza's expression didn't change.
Finally, he struck back.
Not hard.
Just enough to not kill this poor MONKEY.
A single blow to Broly's abdomen folded him in half and sent him crashing into the ground. Frieza followed, planting his foot on Broly's chest, pinning him effortlessly.
Broly thrashed, roaring, power surging violently—but Frieza held him there like a child.
"You're angry," Frieza said calmly.
Broly snarled through tears. "You let this happen!"
Frieza looked down at him.
"No," he said. "I allowed it."
The words hit harder than any strike.
Broly froze.
Frieza leaned closer, voice carrying across the silent battlefield.
"This is reality. Your father tried to shield you from it. Tried to control it. And it killed him."
Broly shook beneath Frieza's foot. "You could've stopped it!"
"Yes," Frieza agreed. "I could have."
He lifted his foot, letting Broly breathe.
"And you could have protected him."
Broly's breath hitched.
"You were strong," Frieza continued. "But strength without control is meaningless. Strength without understanding is just a weapon waiting to be pointed."
He gestured to the dead planet.
"This is what rebellion looks like. This is what hope does when it's allowed to grow unchecked."
Frieza's voice hardened.
"Wake up to reality, Nothing ever goes as planned in this accursed world."
He leaned down, eyes burning.
"There is no kindness without power to enforce it. No peace without fear beneath it. Your father believed in survival."
Frieza straightened.
"I believe in domination."
Silence followed.
Broly lay there, shaking—not with rage now, but with something far worse.
Understanding.
Frieza turned away.
"Come," he said. "If you want your father's death to mean something… then become more than a beast, more then a MONKEY"
Broly stared at Paragus's body in the distance.
Then, slowly—
He rose.
And followed.
Because that is all he has ever known.
---
RIP paragus your death will probably be in vain but oh well.
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Pleaseeeeeeee drop some stones l need this my mama is kinda homeless. She is living with her friends l Wana help her out