Dear friends and community,
I want to offer my deepest, most heartfelt apology for what happened to Macki.
When I put up the poll asking whether she should live or not, I truly believe that the result would be No.
The overwhelming majority of you voted that she should live. You spoke clearly, compassionately, and with care.
I heard you. I saw the numbers. And yet, in a moment of weakness, anger, or whatever darkness took hold of me, I ignored that collective voice and went ahead anyway.
I was so sure about the result of the poll l already had written the chapter.
BUT that is no excuse. A poll isn't a game; a life isn't something to gamble on social media.
By treating it that way, I turned something sacred into something trivial, and I betrayed every single one of you who voted in good faith hoping to save her.
I am sick with regret. I cannot undo what I did, and I will carry the weight of it for the rest of my life.
I'm sorry doesn't feel like nearly enough, but it's all I have to offer right now and to every one of you who trusted me to honor your vote and instead watched me fail so completely.
I don't expect forgiveness. I only want you to know that I see the gravity of what I've done, and I will never treat a life so carelessly again.
And there won't be any poll that is not serious.
Please be rest assured.
With sincere remorse,
Mr:Burhan Malik
--
Frieza turned from the viewport, the stars streaking past like indifferent fireflies. Cym approached with his usual precision, dropping to one knee before rising at Frieza's nod.
"My lord," Cym said, "where should we set our next course?"
Frieza's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "Set it for our flagship. Where else?"
Cym bowed. "As you command."
Frieza paused, his gaze sharpening. "Is Bucephalus ready?"
Cym straightened. "Fully operational, my lord. Awaiting your arrival."
Frieza nodded.
Satisfaction blooming like a dark flower in his chest.
Bucephalus .
The name alone carried weight, a relic from a distant lore he'd Remembered It had been the Emperor of Mankind's flagship in that grim, war-torn Warhammer universe: a colossal vessel forged for conquest, a symbol of unyielding dominion.
How fitting that he, Frieza, had claimed it — or rather, replicated it Somewhat perfectly with his empire's vast resources, enhanced to suit his vision.
The Bucephalus was a behemoth, a golden colossus among starships, stretching over 20 kilometers from prow to stern — a gargantuan work of martial art, its hull plated in gleaming auramite alloy that shimmered like molten sunlight, impervious to all but the most catastrophic assaults.
Its prow was a snarling aquila eagle, wings flared wide, beak parted in a silent roar, with macro-cannons nestled in the eye sockets capable of vaporizing fleets in a single volley.
The superstructure rose in tiered spires and battlements, gothic arches framing void shields that could withstand supernova blasts, while lance batteries lined the flanks like rows of predatory teeth, each turret a fortress unto itself.
Inside, the ship was a labyrinth of opulence and terror: grand halls with vaulted ceilings etched in bas-reliefs of ancient triumphs, floors of polished marble veined with gold, and command decks where holographic displays projected the galaxy like a conquered map.
Its engines were warp-drive monstrosities, fueled by plasma reactors that howled with contained fury, propelling the vessel through realspace and the Immaterium at speeds that bent physics. Armories brimmed with weapons from across universes — bolters, lascannons, void grenades.
But the heart of Bucephalus was the throne room: a cavernous sanctum with a dais of black obsidian, where Frieza's new seat awaited — a golden throne etched with imperial motifs, sized perfectly for his 6'7" frame. It wasn't just a ship. It was a statement. A weapon. A palace among the stars.
(Author note:- l just used Google to write the description so l apologize if it isn't the best.
It is basically the ship but instead of using wrap energy it use ki)
Frieza's smile deepened.
*Yes,* he thought. *Only fitting that I command it.
The Emperor's of Mankind legacy... now mine.*
The ship would be their next stop.
Frieza settled into his throne, the red-and-purple suit fitting like a second skin, sharp and commanding. The chamber's lights cast a regal glow across his pale features.
Cym stood before him, ever efficient.
"How long until we reach Bucephalus?" Frieza asked, voice smooth.
Cym's dual brains whirred for a moment. "If we push our current vessel to maximum FTL and Bucephalus moves to intercept at full speed, my lord—two days."
Frieza nodded, unconcerned.
The ship lacked warp drives or auramite plating, but its FTL engines were the pinnacle of Empires engineering—faster than anything short of divine intervention. Ki-shields enveloped the hull, dense enough to punch through meteor storms, asteroid fields, or debris clouds without a scratch. Nothing short of a planet-busting blast would slow it.
He leaned forward slightly.
"Call Broly to the flagship. And the Ginyu Force. They should have finished conquering most of the targeted sectors by now, no?"
Cym's expression tightened — just a fraction.
"I am sorry, my lord. They have secured 670 planets with intelligent life… and thousands more uninhabited or resource-rich worlds."
Frieza clicked his tongue, sharp and disappointed.
"Oh well."
He waved a hand. "Recall them. It's time they started training seriously."
Cym bowed.
Frieza hadn't forgotten the Ginyu Force. Far from it.
He'd sent them out with explicit orders: conquer through peace. No bloodshed. Not a single hair harmed.
Intimidation, diplomacy, surrender — those were the tools.
The Ginyus, being the Ginyus, hadn't taken it seriously at first.
A few "accidents." A few corpses.
Frieza had summoned them back, lined them up, and — with calm precision — severed one finger from each.
"Each life taken without valid reason," he'd said, voice soft as silk, "costs you a finger."
After that, planets fell bloodlessly.
The Ginyu Force learned fast.
Frieza smiled faintly at the memory.
Discipline.
It worked wonders.
Now they'd return.
And the real training would begin.
Broly needed sharpening.
After all the time he has spent with Celine he would need resharpening
Two days.
Then Bucephalus would carry them forward.
Toward the conquest of all the universe.
---
Two days later.
Frieza lounged in the opulent seclusion of his private lounge aboard the ship, the velvet cushions cradling his tall frame like a throne in miniature.
The air was filled with the frenzied, buzzing whirlwind of *Flight of the Bumblebee* — Rimsky-Korsakov's masterpiece at breakneck tempo, strings darting like enraged hornets, building toward its chaotic, exhilarating climax.
In his hand, a crystal goblet cradled wine older than most civilizations — deep, velvety crimson, poured from a bottle sealed centuries ago.
Ordinary vintages would have turned to bitter vinegar long before, but this elixir came from the immortal nectar-fruits of a now-extinct paradise world, their essence preserved through alchemical mastery and absolute vacuum.
It tasted of forbidden gardens: rich, explosive on the tongue, with a lingering fire that warmed without burning.
Frieza closed his eyes, letting the music's frenzy mirror the storm of power humming beneath his skin.
The piece surged toward its peak — notes blurring into a triumphant, impossible blur —
A knock echoed through the chamber.
Sharp.
Frieza's lips curved in mild irritation. He had anticipated this interruption. Cym never failed to appear at the most dramatic moment.
He silenced the music with a lazy flick of his finger, the sudden quiet almost deafening.
"Enter," he called, voice smooth as polished obsidian.
The door parted.
Cym stepped in with measured grace, dropping to one knee before rising.
"My lord," he said, head bowed in perfect deference. "We have reached Bucephalus."
Frieza rose in one fluid motion, the goblet set aside with care. He crossed to the viewport and drew back the heavy shade with a single, commanding gesture.
There it hung in the void — a vision of golden dominion that stole even the stars' light.
Bucephalus.
A colossal leviathan of war and splendor, its hull gleaming like molten auramite under the distant suns, stretching across the blackness like a blade forged by gods.
The prow snarled with that hybrid emblem — eagle fused with Frieza's own likeness — wings spread wide, eyes burning with macro-laser fury. Void shields shimmered faintly, an iridescent veil around the beast. Lance batteries lined the flanks in endless rows, gothic spires rising like cathedrals of conquest, every inch screaming unyielding empire.
It was not just a ship.
It was a statement.
A throne among the stars.
Frieza's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction, a slow breath escaping him — not needed, but savored.
He turned to Cym.
"Lead the way," he said, voice low and resonant. "I have no time for further delays."
Cym bowed deeply and turned, guiding him through the corridors with silent efficiency.
At the airlock, Cym reached instinctively for an oxygen mask — protocol drilled into every crewman for void transfers.
Frieza glanced at him, one brow arched in mild amusement.
"I never needed that, Cym."
Cym froze, then bowed even lower, mask withdrawn. "My deepest apologies, my lord. It will not happen again."
Frieza waved it off with casual grace. "Is Broly aboard?"
"Yes, my lord. He was in proximity — Bucephalus retrieved him en route."
"And the Ginyu Force?"
"En route as well, my lord. Another week at their current pace."
Frieza nodded, stepping into the open void without hesitation.
The vacuum embraced him — cold, silent, absolute.
No burn. No suffocation. No discomfort.
Just the serene drift toward his golden colossus.
He smiled, red eyes reflecting the flagship's radiance.
Two days had been nothing.
Now, aboard Bucephalus…
The true era would begin.
Frieza accelerated forward, a pale streak against the black.
The flagship's docking bay yawned open like a maw ready to swallow stars.
He entered without ceremony.