The sky of ßêrùøūy had not known silence in centuries.
Its atmosphere was thin, poisonous, hostile to life—yet now it howled as if alive, dragged screaming across the heavens by the collision of two forces that did not belong to mortality anymore.
Broly stood at the center of a vast plain, his green aura roaring like an open furnace. The ground beneath him had been pressed flat into blackened glass, not shattered—compressed, held together by something unseen.
Frieza.
If not for him the planet would have split open like an orange.
He floated opposite Broly, arms relaxed at his sides, tail gently swaying, eyes half-lidded in calm observation. His presence alone bent the battlefield into order. Mountains leaned but did not fall. Storm systems circled endlessly without collapsing. The planet endured because Frieza allowed it to.
Broly charged.
There was no strategy left in it—only instinct, rage, and the overwhelming need to tear something apart before his own body did the same.
He struck.
The impact detonated the air into white shockwaves that raced around the globe. The sky flashed. Gravity stuttered.
Frieza caught the punch with two fingers, like always.
Not braced.
Not straining.
Simply there.
The moment stretched. Broly's arm trembled violently, muscles screaming as he tried to force power through a grip that felt like infinity itself.
Frieza tilted his head, almost curious.
"You're shaking," he observed.
Then he twisted.
Broly was hurled downward like a meteor, driven into the planet with surgical precision. The crust folded inward around him, forming a crater so deep the air screamed as it rushed to fill it.
Frieza descended slowly, landing atop the edge.
"Again," he said.
Broly exploded upward, aura flaring brighter, denser. His transformation surged further—muscle swelling grotesquely, veins burning neon green beneath his skin. This was no elegant evolution. This was force-fed ascension, tearing itself into place.
The Legendary Super Saiyan emerged in full.
The myth the Saiyans whispered about.
The monster even gods watched carefully.
Broly roared and attacked.
The battle became relentless.
Blow after blow after blow.
Broly's strikes grew heavier by the second—each one stronger than the last, power compounding without ceiling or pause. Ki blasts carved glowing scars across the sky. His fists drove Frieza through mountains, across plains, into oceans that boiled instantly on contact.
And every time—
Frieza stood back up.
Unrushed.
Unbroken.
He did not answer Broly's fury with rage.
He answered it with correction.
Each counter was precise. A knee to interrupt momentum. A finger flick to redirect power. A palm strike that collapsed Broly's aura inward, forcing him to feel his own instability.
Hours passed.
Then more.
The planet rotated beneath them, night bleeding into dawn and back again as they clashed endlessly across continents.
Broly grew.
Frieza refined.
At one point, Frieza seized Broly by the face mid-charge and drove him through three mountain ranges, dragging him across stone until the peaks were shaved smooth. He released him only to appear behind him an instant later, smashing an elbow into his spine.
Broly screamed—not in pain, but frustration.
Frieza hovered above him as he struggled to rise.
"You can do it, Broly," Frieza said calmly.
"Just think of a big black man chasing you."
The words meant nothing to Broly.
The tone meant everything.
Mockery.
Belittlement.
The idea that all this effort—this suffering—was being treated as entertainment.
Something inside Broly snapped completely.
His power spiked violently.
The green aura collapsed inward, compressing until it looked almost liquid, then erupted outward again with catastrophic density. His muscles expanded further, far past what his frame should allow. The ground beneath him buckled—not breaking, but sinking, as if reality itself were afraid to move.
This was the true terror of the Legendary Super Saiyan.
Not endless stamina.
But endless escalation.
Broly attacked again—faster, heavier, more desperate. Each strike carried enough force to annihilate civilizations.
Frieza was finally pushed back.
One step.
Only one.
A full day had passed.
Broly hovered in the air now, breathing ragged, aura flickering wildly. His body shook violently, muscles tearing at the seams, power eating him alive from the inside.
Across from him stood Frieza.
Base form.
Chest rising slightly faster than before.
Only slightly.
Broly saw it.
Saw the difference.
All that growth.
All that rage.
All that pain.
And Frieza still stood beyond him.
Something broke.
Broly's aura began to implode, power compressing too tightly, too fast. His body started collapsing under its own output, cells tearing themselves apart under pressure they were never meant to endure.
Frieza watched quietly.
"So," he said softly, "this is the end of your limit."
Broly lunged one final time—a living catastrophe unraveling mid-motion.
Frieza screamed.
Golden light erupted outward, flooding the sky and drowning the planet in brilliance. His Golden Form manifested perfectly—no instability, no excess, every ounce of power contained.
He raised his left hand.
Energy gathered—not ki alone, but life itself. The distant glow of stars dimmed. The flow of living worlds bent toward him. A small orb formed in his palm, quiet, radiant, unbearably heavy with existence.
Then his right hand.
Darkness pooled there—malice, cruelty, conquest, every sin he had ever committed and would commit again. Evil refined into purpose.
Two absolutes.
Life.
Annihilation.
Frieza brought his hands together.
Reality screamed as the energies collided, refusing coexistence, tearing at each other until the space between them ceased to exist at all.
He opened his eyes.
He looked at Broly one last time.
"Hollow Purple," Frieza said quietly.
"Ashes of God."
He released it.
There was no explosion.
Only absence.
The attack passed through Broly, stripping away excess power, rage, instability—peeling the legend down to its core without killing him.
Broly fell from the sky, unconscious, alive, emptied.
Frieza powered down, golden light fading as he returned to base.
He hovered above the scarred but somehow intact planet, looking down at the Saiyan below.
"You survived," Frieza said calmly.
"Good."
He turned away.
"Next time," he added, voice cold and absolute,
"you will ascend properly—or you will not ascend at all."
The planet exhaled.
And Broly, for the first time in his life, slept without pain.
For he had given it his all for once without regret.