The battlefield was silent.
Not the peaceful kind—there was no peace here—but the kind of silence that follows extinction. Fires burned unattended. Wreckage smoldered. The wind carried ash instead of sound.
Broly stood where Frieza had left him.
He did not move.
Paragus's body lay several meters away, already cooling. Broly could feel it—not with ki, but with something deeper. A finality that did not hurt the way he expected. The pain had burned itself out during the slaughter. What remained was hollow weight.
Frieza watched from a distance.
He did not rush Broly.
He did not console him.
He did not speak.
He understood something fundamental: grief, if interrupted, resists.
Left alone, it reshapes.
Broly finally walked to his father's body. He knelt. He did not cry. He simply stared, as if waiting for instructions that would never come.
Paragus had always told him what to do. When to fight. When to stop. When to hold back. When to hurt.
Now there was nothing.
Frieza approached then—slowly, deliberately—boots crunching against ruined stone.
"You feel lost," Frieza said, not unkindly.
Broly did not look up. "He's gone."
"Yes," Frieza replied. "And the universe didn't pause for it."
That landed harder than cruelty ever could.
Frieza stood beside him, not above him. Not looming. Just present.
"You were taught obedience," Frieza continued. "Pain. Control through fear." He Remembered the shattered remains of the choker still lying in the dust. "That wasn't strength. That was containment."
Broly clenched his fists. "He said it was to protect me."
Frieza nodded once. "I believe he meant it."
That acknowledgment cracked something open.
"But intent," Frieza said calmly, "does not change results."
Broly's shoulders shook once. Then stilled.
"What do I do now?" Broly asked.
The question was quiet.
Not desperate.
Not pleading.
Just empty.
Frieza smiled—not wide, not cruel.
Satisfied.
"You learn," Frieza said. "You grow. And you never let yourself be powerless again."
Broly looked up.
"And you?" he asked. "What do you want?"
Frieza met his gaze fully.
"I want results."
There it was.
No lies. No promises of family. No affection.
Just clarity.
Broly nodded slowly.
That night, as Paragus was burned and the rebels' world was erased from orbit, Broly stood beside Frieza on the command deck.
He did not ask questions.
He did not object.
When Frieza gave orders, Broly listened.
When Frieza moved, Broly followed.
Not because he loved him.
Not because he trusted him.
But because Frieza was the only thing in the universe that made sense anymore.
And that was enough.
---
Training Begins
Frieza did not begin with techniques.
He began with silence.
The training chamber was vast, reinforced far beyond standard Imperial design. Gravity fluctuated. The air pressure shifted without warning. There were no markings on the floor. No equipment. No instructions.
Just Frieza.
And Broly.
"Attack me," Frieza said.
Broly hesitated.
"Now," Frieza added.
Broly charged.
He was faster than before. Stronger. More focused. His strike would have killed any elite soldier instantly.
Frieza sidestepped and struck Broly's ribs with two fingers.
Broly slammed into the far wall, coughing, bones screaming.
"Again," Frieza said.
Broly rose and attacked again.
This time Frieza let the blow land—just barely—letting Broly feel the illusion of success before dismantling it. A sweep. A strike to the spine. A knee to the jaw.
Broly hit the ground hard.
No praise.
No correction.
Just: "Again."
Hours passed.
Then days.
Frieza never raised his voice. Never lost patience. Never explained unless Broly asked—and even then, only partially.
"You rely on rage," Frieza said after one session, standing over Broly's trembling form. "Rage is loud. Predictable. Easy to bait."
Broly spat blood. "It makes me stronger."
Frieza nodded. "Temporarily."
He lifted Broly by the throat and slammed him into the ground.
"Control makes you permanent."
Another day, Frieza attacked first.
Without warning. Without signal.
Broly barely survived.
"Your enemy will not wait for your grief," Frieza said calmly. "Or your anger. Or your growth."
Training intensified.
Frieza increased gravity mid-combat. Shut off Broly's senses with pressure alone. Forced him to fight blind, exhausted, and confused.
Every time Broly lost control, Frieza punished him—not with overwhelming force, but with precision. Enough to hurt. Enough to teach.
Slowly, Broly changed.
The wild swings shortened.
The roars quieted.
The power stopped leaking.
One day, Broly blocked an attack he shouldn't have been able to see.
Frieza paused.
Interesting.
Another day, Broly countered instead of charging.
Frieza smiled.
Good.
Weeks later, Broly stood bruised and shaking—but standing—after enduring a full assault meant to overwhelm him.
Frieza circled him once.
"You're learning," Frieza said. "Not loyalty. Not obedience."
He stopped in front of Broly.
"Discipline."
Broly breathed hard. "What happens if I fail?"
Frieza tilted his head.
"Then you die," he said simply. "Or worse—you become useless."
Broly nodded.
Not afraid.
Resolved.
That night, Broly sat alone in the chamber long after Frieza left. He replayed every strike. Every failure. Every correction that had never been spoken aloud.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't surviving.
He was becoming.
And somewhere deep inside—where the rage used to live—something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous was taking shape.
Not rebellion.
Not hatred.
But Purpose.
---
A year passed.
Not marked by celebrations or announcements, but by fractures in training floors that never fully settled, by gravity chambers pushed to limits no engineer dared name, by a rhythm of combat so constant it became routine. Frieza and Broly fought thousands of times in that year. Thousands.
And not once—not a single time—did Frieza need more than two fingers to put Broly down.
That fact alone reshaped Broly's understanding of power.
Because Broly was improving. Rapidly. His strikes grew cleaner, his movements tighter, his control frightening. The wild excess that once defined him was gone, burned away under relentless pressure. He learned to pace his strength, to read opponents instead of simply crushing them. His growth was undeniable.
But Frieza was not static.
For every step Broly climbed. Frieza was always two steps ahead.
Sometimes Broly would think he'd finally closed the gap—his timing perfect, his ki steady, his instincts sharp—only for Frieza to dismantle him with an almost lazy motion. A redirected punch. A twist of the wrist. Two fingers against the throat, the chest, the spine.
Defeat never came with mockery.
It came with precision.
Frieza never shouted. Never raged. Never lost composure. Even when Broly erupted into controlled fury, Frieza remained serene, almost bored, as if managing a natural phenomenon rather than fighting it.
That calm did something to Broly.
At first, it angered him.
Later, it unsettled him.
Eventually, without him noticing when it began, he started to admire it.
Frieza was always… present. Always watching. Always aware. Even when Broly failed, even when he collapsed from exhaustion, Frieza never looked disappointed. Only thoughtful. As if cataloging data, adjusting expectations, refining the process.
In his own strange way, Frieza cared.
Not softly. Not kindly.
But thoroughly.
Training was not limited to combat.
Frieza forced Broly to learn to read—first numbers, then words, then strategy. Star maps. Supply chains. Military formations. The reasons rebellions formed and why they failed. Broly learned why fear worked, why it didn't last, and why order was more effective than cruelty.
"You are strong," Frieza told him once, watching Broly struggle through a tactical simulation. "That makes you useful. Intelligence makes you irreplaceable."
Broly absorbed everything.
He asked questions. Not many, but the right ones. Why some enemies resisted longer. Why others broke instantly. Why Frieza ruled without constant slaughter. Why the empire had grown faster under restraint than terror.
Frieza answered selectively.
Enough to teach. Never enough to empower rebellion.
Over time, Broly changed in ways no one would have expected.
He spoke more. Thought longer. Acted with intention instead of impulse. His rage did not vanish—but it became something he used, not something that used him.
He was still Frieza's strongest subordinate.
But he was no longer a blunt instrument.
He was sharper than his canon self. Smarter. More dangerous.
And still—despite all that—he never beat Frieza.
Not Once.
The gap remained absolute.
One day, after another decisive loss, Broly sat on the floor of the chamber, breathing evenly, not defeated—just thoughtful.
"Why do you keep holding back?" he asked.
Frieza turned slightly, two fingers still faintly glowing from the last strike. "Because if I don't," he said calmly, "you stop learning."
Broly looked up at him then.
Not with fear.
Not with resentment.
With something closer to respect.
He didn't realize it in that moment, but the truth had already settled deep inside him:
Frieza was not just stronger.
Frieza was inevitable.
And somewhere along the way, Broly had stopped measuring himself against victory—and started measuring himself against Frieza's approval.
That realization scared him.
It also grounded him.
Because if Frieza kept moving forward—
Then Broly would follow.
Not as a beast.
Not as a slave.
But as something forged deliberately, patiently, and without mercy.
---
Pleaseeeeee drop STONES as l need this. My mama is kinda homeless. She is living with her friend l Wana help her out.