Frieza reclined on a sleek lounge chair, legs crossed, tail resting lazily along the stone. The ruins of Planet Cereal stretched endlessly around him—collapsed towers, shattered walkways, the quiet aftermath of extermination baked into the land itself.
He took a slow sip from his glass.
"Cym," Frieza said without turning his head, "wasn't this planet already sold? I was under the impression the Sugarians were eager buyers."
Cym, standing a step behind him, immediately raised his tablet. Data flickered across its surface as his dual minds worked in tandem.
"My lord, reconstruction is scheduled to begin one year from now. Delayed due to logistical shortages and—"
Frieza hummed, cutting him off. The sound carried mild interest at best.
"One year," he repeated softly. "Such inefficient creatures."
He leaned back further, letting the chair adjust to his weight automatically. The wine was exquisite—aged properly, infused with subtle energy enhancers. He exhaled in satisfaction.
"Now this," Frieza said, eyes half-lidded, "is living. An empty world. No interruptions. No idiots begging for mercy."
The universe, as always, took that as a challenge.
Boots crunched against stone.
Frieza didn't open his eyes when the presence approached. He felt it long before he heard it—restrained, furious, old.
"My lord," a soldier said, dropping to one knee. "We've secured the Namekian."
Frieza sighed. Slowly. The kind of sigh reserved for mild disappointment.
He opened his eyes.
Two soldiers stepped forward, dragging a green-skinned figure between them. The Namekian elder was bruised, cloak torn, staff missing—but his eyes were sharp, burning with hatred and worry.
Frieza looked him over, unimpressed.
"…Ah," Frieza said calmly. "So much for being undisturbed."
Frieza looked at the Namekian for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he rose from the lounge chair, slow and deliberate, wine glass vanishing from his hand as if it had never existed.
He floated closer until they were face to face.
"You are old" Frieza said calmly. "Which means you know things. Important things."
The Namekian said nothing.
Frieza's smile thinned. "I'll be very direct. You will tell me where the Dragon Balls are."
The elder let out a low, humorless laugh. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Frieza tilted his head. "How tiresome. You people always pretend ignorance, as if that has ever saved you."
He leaned in slightly, eyes cold. "I am not asking. I am informing you that if you continue this charade, I will kill you. Slowly. And then I will find the answers anyway."
The elder's expression didn't change. "Do it," he said. "My life means nothing if it buys you nothing."
He drew in a breath, cheeks tightening—intent clear.
Cym moved before the spit could leave his mouth.
A sharp kick snapped upward, brutal and precise, slamming into the elder's face. Bone cracked.
The Namekian's head snapped to the side as he hit the ground hard, skidding across the stone.
Silence followed.
Cym lowered his leg and stepped back, kneeling instantly. "Forgive me, my lord. I anticipated the insult."
Frieza stared down at the fallen elder, then chuckled softly.
"Quite all right, Cym," he said. "I didn't want a disgusting old man spit on my face anyway"
He hovered over the Namekian, looking down with detached curiosity.
"You see," Frieza continued, voice smooth and almost gentle, "this is where you've miscalculated. You believe defiance gives your death meaning."
His eyes narrowed.
"It doesn't."
Frieza's expression did not change. If anything, it softened.
"What a pity," he said quietly.
He snapped his fingers.
A soldier stepped forward at once, gripping a struggling child by the shoulder. Green hair. One red eye, wide with fear. Dirt on his face. Blood dried at the edge of his lip.
Granola.
Frieza clicked his tongue, slow and disappointed. "Such a shame. I do wonder what will happen to this poor child once you are dead."
The elder's breath caught.
"Who will take care of him?" Frieza continued, tone almost thoughtful. "Who will feed him? The universe is not kind to orphans—especially the last survivor of a race."
He leaned closer. "So many bad people would want him."
Frieza's smile sharpened. "They might break his fingers.Perhaps suffocate him slowly, just to see how long a Cerelian can last without air."
He reached out and placed his hand around Granola's throat—not squeezing, just resting there. A mockery of affection. His thumb traced the child's pulse, unhurried.
All the while, Frieza looked directly at Monaito.
The elder's eyes went wide, horror flooding in as the truth landed fully and mercilessly.
Granola hadn't escaped.
Frieza's grip tightened just enough for Granola to gasp.
Frieza sighed, long and deliberate, as though burdened by disappointment rather than anger. His fingers remained at Granola's throat—not squeezing, not yet—just enough to remind everyone in the clearing how fragile life truly was.
"Do you know," Frieza began, voice smooth and measured, "how tiring this always is?"
He glanced at Monaito, then back at the child, then at the ruins stretching endlessly behind them.
"This performance. This stubborn insistence on pretending that silence is strength, that defiance is dignity."
His tail flicked lazily.
"I have seen it on a thousand worlds. Elders clutching secrets like they are treasures, convinced that if they die with them, they somehow win."
He chuckled softly. "You don't."
Frieza smiled—slow, deliberate, without warmth.
Cruel amusement flickered in his eyes as his fingers tightened just enough around Granola's throat to make the boy freeze, breath shallow, fear instinctive.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Frieza said softly. "I haven't done anything yet."
He turned his gaze back to Monaito, studying him the way one might study a broken tool.
Frieza leaned closer, voice lowering,
sharpening. "You think your death matters. You think the universe will pause, reflect, mourn your courage."
He laughed—quiet, cruel. "The universe won't even notice."
He shifted Granola slightly, forcing Monaito to see him clearly. "This child, however? He will notice. Every second."
Frieza tilted his head. "Do you know what happens to orphans in space, old one? Not the stories you tell children. The truth."
His thumb brushed Granola's neck, casual, intimate.
"They are sold. Dissected. Broken down piece by piece to see what makes them special. Fingers first—slow, so they scream. Then arms. Then eyes, if they're rare enough. Which in this case...."
Monaito trembled.
Frieza continued calmly, relentlessly. "Some last a long time. Others don't. Depends on how useful they are."
He leaned in until his face was inches from the elder's. "And when he finally dies, alone and forgotten, it won't be because I killed him."
A pause.
"It will be because you chose silence."
Frieza straightened, expression settling into something colder than anger—certainty.
"So let's be clear," he said. "I don't need to threaten you. I don't need to raise my voice. I don't even need to touch you."
He glanced down at Granola once more, then back at Monaito.
"All I have to do… is let you be right."
He then waited already knowing the result of this pathetic farce.
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Next chapter is filled with true colour of Frieza
So l just Wana say if don't like when mc is rather cruel. Don't read the next chapter.
I am rather suprise myself l didn't know l had it in me to write such a chapter but oh well.