What motivates a character to keep going.
Power.
Money.
Women .
Find out today on Dragon ball:- Emperor of the Multiverse
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Frieza's Golden aura blazed like a captive star in the void, god-ki compressing the surrounding space into a suffocating veil. Beerus hovered opposite, purple aura crackling with restrained fury, hakai energy still swirling in his palms like hungry voids.
They collided again — Frieza's fist slamming into Beerus's guard, the impact birthing a shockwave that scattered asteroid fragments like dust.
Beerus blocked effortlessly, countering with a backhand that clipped Frieza's jaw, sending him spinning through the black.
Frieza stabilized, blood trailing from his lip — the taste metallic, but regeneration already knitting flesh.
He charged — a barrage of punches, each one laced with god-ki precision, aiming for Beerus's vital points.
Beerus weaved through them — lazy, almost playful — blocking one, parrying another, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder that drew a thin line of blood.
Frieza pressed — knee to the gut, elbow to the ribs — landing a solid hit that made Beerus grunt.
The God of Destruction staggered back a step — the void rippling.
Frieza's smile widened — triumphant.
But Beerus's eyes narrowed.
The playfulness vanished.
"Enough games," Beerus growled, voice low and lethal.
His aura exploded — purple hakai storm surging, the vacuum itself unraveling at the edges.
He blurred forward — faster than before.
Frieza blocked — but too slow.
Beerus's palm slammed into Frieza's left arm — hakai energy igniting like black fire.
The arm dissolved — erased from existence in an instant, flesh, bone, muscle unraveling into nothingness from shoulder down.
Frieza staggered back, golden aura flickering, shock rippling through him.
Pain — real, searing pain — as regeneration surged, but the hakai scar resisted, leaving only a jagged stump that refused to heal.
Beerus didn't stop.
He punched forward — fist driving straight through Frieza's skull with bone-crunching force.
Frieza's head snapped back, brains and blood spraying into the void.
The punch exited the back of his skull — removing his left eye in a gory tear, the optic nerve snapping like wet string, golden ki fizzling around the wound.
Frieza reeled — vision halved, brains exposed, regeneration surging but struggling against the divine destruction.
The empty socket smoked, the stump of his arm refusing to regrow — hakai's mark lingering, permanent for now.
He clutched his ruined face, golden blood dripping from the socket and shoulder.
Beerus hovered back, aura calming slightly — but eyes cold.
"That initial hakai you tanked?" Beerus said, voice dripping with disdain. "That was nothing. A test. To see if you were worth my time."
Frieza's remaining eye widened — shock turning to rage.
Beerus's grin was savage.
"And this? I'm barely at 50%."
The void grew heavier.
Frieza's aura flared — desperate, flickering.
Regeneration knit the skull slowly, brains reforming, but the eye and arm... the left behind energy of Destruction resisted, leaving him maimed — for now.
He charged — Golden power exploding, fist aimed for Beerus's heart with one arm.
Beerus blocked — casual — and countered with a knee to the gut that folded Frieza in half.
The fight turned.
Beerus pressed — hakai-laced punches raining down, each one eroding Frieza's form.
Frieza blocked, dodged, countered — but slower now, the missing eye throwing off his depth, the absent arm unbalancing him.
A hakai graze burned his shoulder.
A punch cracked ribs.
Frieza's aura sputtered.
He was losing.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
And Beerus's eyes gleamed with the thrill of it.
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3rd pov
Frieza's Golden aura flared desperately — flickering, unstable — as he floated in the void, blood trailing from his ruined left eye socket and the jagged stump where his arm had been. Regeneration surged, but the hakai scars held — the eye a smoking crater, the shoulder a cauterized ruin that refused to knit.
if you still couldn't figure it out hewas losing.
Badly.
Beerus floated opposite — purple aura steady, barely ruffled, eyes gleaming with cold amusement.
He laughed — low, mocking.
"You're the sun?" Beerus sneered. "You're evil incarnate? Really? Are you even sure?"
Frieza's remaining eye narrowed.
Beerus's voice dropped, sharp and cutting.
"Are you even capable of deciding anything?"
He laughed again — louder, crueler.
The sound echoed through the void.
Frieza's aura sputtered.
For the first time, something cracked inside him.
Not his body.
His mind.
The sound echoed through the void.
The wish. The empire. The infinite power.
All of it.
And still — here he was.
Under someone's heel.
Again.
The thought hit like a death beam to the soul.
Why did I train? Why did I destroy everything in my path?
To stand above all.
To never bow again.
And yet…
He saw it clearly now — the old human memory bleeding through, raw and unfiltered.
Ezekiel.
Ezekiel was just an ordinary kid, nine years old and obsessed with Pokémon.
It was a sunny afternoon in a small suburban park in California — the kind of day where the world felt safe, full of swing sets and ice cream trucks.
He was trading cards with some friends when a stranger approached: a middle-aged man in a faded baseball cap, smiling too wide, holding a plastic sleeve with what looked like a pristine, first-edition holographic Charizard.
"Kid," the man said, leaning down, "you wanna see something rare? I got the limited edition in my van — straight from Japan. But you gotta keep it secret."
Ezekiel eyes lit up. Charizard was his favorite — the fire-breathing dragon that could take on anything.
How could he say no? He followed the man to the parking lot, heart racing with excitement.
The van door slid open.
"Climb in, quick," the man said.
Ezekiel did.
A cloth pressed over his mouth — sweet, chemical smell.
Blackness.
He woke in a cargo hold — chains on his wrists, the hum of an airplane engine roaring around him. Panic hit like a wave.
He screamed for his parents, banged on the metal until his hands bled.
Yet no one came.
The traffickers sold him in a dusty market somewhere in West Africa — to a syndicate running illegal diamond mines.
Ezekiel, small and scrawny, was thrown into the depths: dark tunnels lit by flickering lanterns, air thick with dust that choked his lungs.
He hauled carts of ore, picked at veins with blunted tools, slept on dirt floors with dozens of other kids from who-knows-where.
The overseers were brutal — whips for slow work, starvation for talking back. Ezekiel learned fast: obey or die.
He ate the slop they shoved at him — rotten grains, mystery meat that twisted his gut. He sat where they pointed — in the corner, silent.
He worked until his hands blistered and bled, then worked more. Rebellion meant death; he'd seen it — kids beaten until they stopped moving, bodies hauled out like trash.
Survival became his only card.
He did what they said.
Every time.
Months blurred into years. Ezekiel grew taller, stronger from the labor, but inside he was hollow — a machine of compliance. Dreams of Pokémon faded; the real world was the mine, the whip, the endless dark.
Then, one scorching day, a safari tour group — rich tourists from Europe — got lost near the mine's perimeter.
The guards tried to shoo them away, but one woman spotted Sam: pale skin, American features, eyes hollow but still childlike.
"That's a kid," she whispered. "An American kid."
They refused to leave. Took photos. Called authorities. The syndicate scattered, but it was too late.
Rescue came — armed forces raiding the mine, freeing the workers.
Ezekiel was flown back to the States — malnourished, scarred, but alive.
Home wasn't home anymore.
His parents — gone. COVID had claimed them while he was missing. No relatives. No nothing.
Foster care bounced him around, but Ezekiel was changed.
Obedience had saved him.
But it had also broken him.
He vowed: never again.
No more heels to bow under.
No more chains.
He'd build power. He be the one holding other people chain not the other way around. He learned from the start there isn't any kindness in the world to get what he wants he had to....
Destroy anything in his path.
And become the one who decided.
And then — death.
As if the universe couldn't handle his ambition.
But universe was anything but unfair. Where other would perish in the darkness.
He Rebirthed.
As Frieza.
Ezekiel was gone.
All that remained was Frieza.
All that suffering… all that obedience…
And now?
Still under a heel.
Frieza's laugh faded.
His remaining eye narrowed — rage turning inward, cold and absolute.
Beerus watched, curious.
Frieza's aura steadied — flickering less.
He straightened.
Blood dripped from his wounds.
But something shifted.
Not defeat.
Not yet.
Understanding.
No more heels.
No more masters.
He cracked his neck.
The fight wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Frieza, one-armed, half-blind, but burning brighter than before.
The void ignited again.
And this time…
It was personal.
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Oh and give me power stones so that this book can rank high.