In this chapter his wish is fully explained so of you miss it don't blame me.
And whatever coming next is your fault.
Remember that....
---
Macki woke slowly, her body aching in places she didn't want to name.
The sheets were warm, tangled around her legs. Frieza's arm lay heavy across her waist, holding her close even in sleep.
His face was inches from hers — relaxed, almost peaceful. White hair fell across his forehead, red eyes closed, lips slightly parted. He looked…almost gentle.
For a moment, she forgot.
Then memory slammed back — Elec's head rolling, Gas exploding, Oil's blood spraying across her face.
That's him, she thought, heart pounding. The monster who took everything.
Her hand moved slowly, carefully, sliding under the bed where the pieces of her clothes lay broken apart from the intensity of last night, She reached her hand into the secret compartment of the clothes and pulled out.....
The knife.
Forged from one of the strongest alloys in the universe — made from shard of katchin, she'd stolen years ago on a secret operation.
Cold metal warmed in her palm.
She stared at his throat.
One cut. Quick. Deep.
His face was still soft in sleep.
He won't even wake up.
She raised the knife.
And... plunged it down.
The blade hit his throat — and snapped in half with a sharp crack.
Frieza's eyes opened slowly, red irises gleaming in the dim light as the knife's broken tip clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Macki froze above him, the stub of the blade still clutched in her white-knuckled fist, her face drained of color, eyes wide with the realization that she'd failed.
Frieza had been awake the entire time — half his mind always vigilant, like a predator feigning sleep.
He reached up with deliberate slowness, fingers cupping her cheek in a mockery of tenderness, thumb smearing a stray tear across her skin.
"I really wish you hadn't done that," he murmured, voice soft and almost regretful.
"I quite liked you."
Macki shattered.
Tears flooded her eyes, spilling hot down her cheeks as sobs tore from her throat. "Please," she choked, voice raw and broken, "make it quick... please..."
Frieza sighed — a quiet, theatrical exhale of disappointment.
"What a pity."
His hand tightened.
Fingers dug into her skull like steel clamps.
A wet, sickening crunch echoed through the room — bone caving inward, brain matter bursting under the pressure in a sudden, explosive spray of pink-gray pulp and crimson gore.
Her eyes bulged for a fraction of a second, blood vessels popping in whites turned red.
Then her head imploded completely — skull fragments cracking like eggshell, brains squirting between his fingers in thick, steaming chunks, blood gushing in arterial arcs that painted the sheets, the headboard, his chest in hot, sticky sheets.
Her body convulsed once — limbs jerking spasmodically — before going limp, collapsing backward in a boneless heap.
Blood pooled rapidly beneath her, soaking the velvet, dripping off the bed in thick rivulets.
Frieza sat up, shaking chunks of skull and brain from his hand with mild annoyance.
He looked at the ruined sheets, the splattered walls, the headless corpse twitching its last.
"Great," he muttered, wiping a smear of gore from his cheek. "Now I have to clean this up too."
He stood, stretched, and called for Cym.
The morning routine would be delayed.
But only slightly.
---
Cym pushed open the door, cleaning supplies already in hand — he'd heard the crunch of a skull from down the hall.
He stopped dead.(Pun intended)
The bed was a slaughterhouse: velvet sheets soaked crimson, arterial spray painted across the headboard in abstract arcs, chunks of skull and brain matter clinging to the pillows like wet confetti.
Macki's headless body lay twisted in the center, limbs splayed, blood still pooling thick and dark beneath her.
Cym's gaze flicked to Frieza — standing naked beside the bed, pale skin splattered with red, looking mildly annoyed.
Cym raised an eyebrow.
"My lord… really? On the bed?"
Frieza turned, red eyes narrowing.
"You're talking quite freely these days."
Cym immediately dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"My deepest apologies, my lord. But… perhaps consider standby cleaners? For next time."
Frieza stared at him for a beat.
Then he laughed — short, genuine, amused.
He walked over and lightly slapped Cym on the back — hard enough to stagger a normal man, but Cym took it without flinching.
"Are my suits ready?"
Cym straightened, nodding.
"Your custom red and purple three-piece is prepared, my lord. Tailored precisely to your new measurements."
Frieza's smile returned — sharp, satisfied.
"Perfect."
He'd given Cym the specs weeks ago, the moment he started planning the wish.
No more armor plating.
Now he needed clothes.
Real clothes.
Sharp. Elegant. Dripping with presence.
Because how the hell was he supposed to aura farm properly without some good-ass drip?
He glanced once more at the ruined bed.
"Burn the sheets," he said casually. "And the mattress."
Cym bowed.
"At once, my lord."
Frieza walked toward the wardrobe, already picturing how the suit would hang on his new frame.
The galaxy wasn't ready.
Not even close.
Frieza's custom three-piece suit was a masterpiece of tailored menace — sharp, elegant, and dripping with imperial arrogance.
The jacket was a deep, blood-red wool-silk blend, cut slim to accentuate his new 6'7" frame: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, with subtle padding that emphasized his powerful build without bulk.
The lapels were peaked and wide, faced in glossy black satin that caught the light like obsidian. Double-breasted, with six polished onyx buttons arranged in perfect symmetry, the jacket fell to mid-thigh, flaring slightly for dramatic movement.
Underneath, the vest was midnight purple — almost black in low light — with a low V-cut that revealed a crisp white dress shirt. The vest hugged his torso like a second skin, fastened with smaller onyx buttons and finished with pointed hems that sharpened his silhouette.
The trousers were high-waisted, tailored straight but tapered at the ankle, in the same rich red as the jacket. They broke perfectly over polished black leather oxfords with subtle silver buckles.
A slim black tie — silk, knotted in a precise Windsor — completed the look, tucked neatly into the vest.
No pockets squares or jewelry; the suit itself was the statement.
Img.
It screamed power, refinement, and danger — the kind of outfit that made boardrooms kneel and battlefields hesitate.
Frieza didn't just wear it.
He owned it.
And in it, he looked every inch the god he now was.....Okay that might be a lil to much but you get the point.
---
Frieza ascended the steps to his throne, the polished obsidian seat conforming to his new form like a loyal servant. He settled in, legs crossed.
The chamber was silent, save for the faint hum of the ship, a backdrop to his thoughts. Last time, haste had robbed him of this moment; the rush to claim Macki had been satisfying, but incomplete.
Now, alone, he dissected the dragon's gift with the precision of a scalpel.
First, the biological ki generator— a furnace within his core, churning endless energy from nothing. No more finite reserves; his power swelled like a star feeding on itself, infinite, growing with every breath he didn't need. He felt it now, a constant thrum, ready to flood his veins at will.
Second, ki-based ultra regeneration. He tested it idly—slicing his whole hand with a Sharpen finger nail. (Will be explained later).
Blood welled for a heartbeat, then golden energy surged, cells exploding into frenzy: flesh knitting in violent bursts, bone reforming with audible snaps, skin sealing seamless and stronger.
Gruesome? No—glorious. Even decapitation would mean nothing; his ki would drag him back from oblivion in a blaze of light and agony, a supernova of rebirth.
Third, untraceable DNA. He smirked at the thought of fools like Gero trying to clone him—his genetic code now a shifting labyrinth, defying analysis, impossible to replicate. No Cell. No abominations. Only the original.
Fourth, immense magic reserves. A deep well stirred within him, arcane energy coiling like smoke in his blood—raw, potent, waiting to be shaped. Spells, curses, realities bent at his whim.
Sixth, immunity to most magic. He imagined sorcerers hurling their best—illusions shattering against him like glass, curses sliding off like water on oil. Majjin Buu trying to turn him into candy only to fail miserably, Only the gods' arts of Destruction might pierce it; the rest? Laughable.
Seventh, immunity to aging—semi-immortality. Time's decay meant nothing now; his cells renewed eternally, youth locked in place. He could rule for eons, watching empires rise and fall while he remained unchanged.
Eighth, ungodly stamina. No exhaustion, no limits—battles could rage for days, weeks, his body unflagging, ki endless. Fatigue was for mortals. Not to mention he was unbeatable in bed.
Ninth, immense durability. His skin, pale and human-soft to the eye, was tougher than divine armor—blades shattered, blasts dispersed, planets could crack against him before he yielded.
Tenth, immunity to most atmospheres. Poisoned air, vacuum voids, searing heat, crushing pressure—all irrelevant. He could stroll through hells undeterred.
Eleventh, unparalleled instinct for Ultra Instinct. Autonomy in battle, body moving before thought—dodging fates, striking voids. The gods' domain, now his playground.
Twelfth, enhanced six senses. Sight pierced shadows, hearing caught whispers across voids, smell tracked blood trails through stars, taste discerned poisons in a drop, touch felt ki flows like silk, and the sixth—intuition—whispered futures before they unfolded.
Thirteenth, parallel thought. His mind split like a hydra—processing battles, schemes, universes simultaneously. Ultra Instinct thrived here, body and strategy in perfect, layered harmony.
Fourteenth, weak biology manipulation. A subtle gift—reshaping flesh on command: wounds closed faster, forms altered slightly, on the horizon perhaps more. A seed for godhood's garden.
Frieza exhaled slowly, satisfaction blooming like a dark flower.
He was stronger.He was better. HE WAS BETTER.
Okay maybe his arrogance wasn't misplaced.
If this didn't classified him as a God then didn't know what will.
---
FRIEZA:-
Drop the stones or l will fuck you...
CYM:-
I think it was fuck you up My Lord....
FRIEZA:-
Ohh...