I am not happy with how low the power stones are. I feel like we can do better. I really don't wanna drop this fic.
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Frieza thought to himself — cold, analytical — Roshi would know who I am.
Raditz was vocal about his employer. He basically threaten everyone that his boss is the strongest tyrant in the universe and killing him would attract his wrath.....Exactly what you can expect from a PATHETIC DICK SUCKING MONKEY.
AhM AhmRegardless this old pervert had some something Frieza was looking for.
Frieza's lip curled in faint disgust, a slow, venomous twist that bared just enough fang to hint at the storm beneath the calm.
"At first," he said, voice smooth as silk and deadly as a drawn blade, "I wanted to do this peacefully."
He stepped forward — each deliberate footfall a promise of violence, the soft click of Italian leather echoing like a countdown in the stifling room.
"But… oh well."
Frieza's hand shot out — faster than thought, fingers clamping around Roshi's face in an iron vise.
Palm sealed over the old man's mouth and nose, thumb digging cruelly into one wrinkled cheek, fingers gouging into the other like steel talons.
Roshi's muffled scream vibrated against Frieza's skin, hot and desperate, body jerking in wild panic as legs kicked uselessly against the sofa cushions.
Roshi's eyes bulged — wide, bloodshot, terror flooding every vein.
A single, precise surge of ki.
Frieza poured it in — sharp, surgical, overwhelming.
Roshi's body convulsed once — a violent, full-body spasm — then went limp.
His head lolled back, mouth slack, sunglasses clattering to the floor, magazine tumbling open to the carpet in a pathetic flutter.
Frieza released the grip — Roshi's unconscious form slumping sideways onto the sofa like a discarded puppet, snoring softly in the sudden silence.
Frieza stepped closer.
He placed both hands on either side of Roshi's head — fingers splaying wide across the skull, palms pressing firmly against the temples with deliberate, crushing pressure.
He closed his eyes.
Memory Absorber.
The floodgates opened.
Memories crashed into him — decades of chaos, a relentless torrent of perverted fantasies, drunken daydreams, and endless lechery.
Frieza sifted through them with ruthless efficiency.
The filth — the endless parade of lustful delusions — he discarded instantly, burning them away like garbage in a furnace, the mental refuse vanishing into nothingness.
Useless daydreams — deleted without mercy.
He carved deeper — slicing through the noise until only the core remained.
Roshi's true experience as a martial artist.
Every technique.
Every spar.
Every brutal lesson taught to Goku, Krillin, Yamcha, Tien — the sweat, the blood, the broken bones, the breakthroughs.
The Turtle School basics — stance, breath, focus.
The Kamehameha's origin — the wave of raw, unfiltered power born from discipline and desperation.
Advanced ki control — sensing, manipulating, weaponizing the life force itself.
The spirit of the fighter — the unyielding will that refused to break, the heart that kept rising no matter how many times it fell.
The raw, unpolished essence of combat — instinctive, primal, foundational — the kind even gods sometimes forgot in their arrogance and reliance on raw power.
Frieza absorbed it all — every detail memorized, every lesson dissected, every insight internalized.
He had come here for one reason: to learn everything there was to know about fighting.
And no one alive was better than Roshi at the fundamentals — the pure, unfiltered heart of martial arts that formed the bedrock beneath every style, every legend, every god.
Frieza placed a single finger on Roshi's forehead — the touch light, almost gentle.
A soft pulse of ki — cold, precise.
The memories of Frieza's arrival — erased.
Roshi would wake thinking he'd simply dozed off mid-session.
No recollection of the pale tyrant.
No memory of the near-defilement.
No trace of the horror that had almost stained him.
Frieza stepped back.
He looked down at the unconscious old man — snoring softly now, magazine still open on his lap, sunglasses crooked on the floor.
Frieza's lip curled in faint disgust — a final, silent judgment.
Then he raised two fingers to his forehead.
Space folded.
Instant Transmission.
He disappeared.
Kame House fell silent once more.
Only the ocean waves outside — indifferent, endless — continued their rhythm.
Frieza had what he came for.
And Roshi… would never know how close he came to oblivion.
---
69 seconds later.
Frieza materialized on the bustling street of the city, Instant Transmission depositing him silently in front of a modest, old-fashioned dealership tucked between towering hover-car showrooms and neon-lit flying vehicle emporiums.
The sign above the door was faded, peeling: "Vintage Wheels – Real Machines for Real Riders." In a world where everyone glided above the ground in sleek, silent hover-cars, this place was a relic — a stubborn holdout against progress.
He stepped inside.
The bell above the door gave a soft, nostalgic jingle.
The air smelled of oil, leather, and metal polish — scents almost forgotten in an age of anti-grav and fusion cells.
At the far end of the showroom, under a single spotlight, it stood.
The Ducati Panigale V4 2026 model.
Matte black with blood-red accents, exhausts like chrome fangs, the bodywork sharp and predatory, every line screaming speed and danger. A machine built for the road — not the sky.
Frieza's remaining eye locked onto it instantly.
In a galaxy of flying cars, finding this antique had been a deliberate challenge — one he had solved with ruthless efficiency.
He had swept the entire planet with his enhanced senses, searching for the unmistakable heartbeat of a combustion engine, the pulse of raw mechanical power.
This was the only one left... That was drivable and some what new.
The salesman — an old man with grease-stained hands, a faded leather jacket, and a gray beard — looked up from behind the counter. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the tall, pale stranger in the wine-red suit.
"How can I help a young man such as yourself?" the old man asked, voice gravelly but warm.
Frieza smiled — small, polite, dangerous.
"I was looking for a bike like that."
He pointed.
The old man followed the gesture — then froze.
His jaw slackened.
"You… you're serious?"
Frieza's smile didn't waver.
"Very."
The salesman rubbed the back of his neck, glancing between Frieza and the Ducati.
"Look, kid… I don't get many young folks in here anymore. Hell, I don't get anyone most days. Everyone wants to float around like damn astronauts. But this?"
He gestured at the Panigale.
"This is the real thing. Pure analog fury. 2026 — last year they made 'em before the hover laws killed the market. 214 horsepower, 1,103cc V4, top speed north of 300 kph on the ground. A beast."
He paused, studying Frieza.
"You sure you want this? It's not just a ride. It's a commitment."
Frieza's eye gleamed.
"I've always wanted it."
The old man chuckled — dry, nostalgic.
"Never thought I'd see the day someone walked in here for her. Thought she'd just sit here till I kicked the bucket."
Frieza stepped closer — boots clicking on the concrete floor.
"How much?"
The salesman named a figure — high, but not unreasonable for a near-mythical antique.
Frieza reached into his pocket.
A stack of crisp, freshly printed bills materialized — serial numbers perfectly duplicated from the planet's current currency batch, courtesy of a simple duplication spell he'd learned from Porunga's knowledge.
He didn't need to worry about being caught.
Not that it mattered.
He would blow up the whole city if it escalated that much.
9/11 style.
He placed the stack on the counter — thick, exact.
The old man stared.
Then laughed — a rough, genuine sound.
"You're serious."
Frieza didn't answer.
He simply waited.
The salesman counted quickly, eyes widening at the exact amount.
"Deal."
He handed over the keys — old-school, metal, heavy.
Frieza took them.
The weight felt right.
He walked to the bike.
Ran a gloved hand along the tank — cool metal, smooth curves.
Memories flickered — Ezekiel, a boy who once dreamed of riding something like this, something real, something that roared.
Now he had it.
Frieza swung a leg over.
The seat fit him perfectly.
He turned the key.
The V4 engine snarled awake — deep, guttural, alive.
The sound vibrated through his bones.
Frieza's smile was small, private, satisfied.
He looked back at the salesman.
"Thank you."
The old man nodded — respect in his eyes.
"Ride safe, kid."
Frieza revved the throttle once — the roar shaking the showroom windows.
Then he rolled the bike out.
The doors opened.
He hit the street.
No hover.
No anti-grav.
Just tires on pavement.
Engine screaming.
Wind in his hair.
And for the first time in years…
Frieza felt something close to joy.
Frieza rolled the Ducati Panigale V4 out of the dealership, the engine's deep, guttural growl echoing off the city buildings like a predator announcing its presence.
In a world of silent hover-cars gliding above the streets, the Panigale's raw mechanical roar was anachronistic, almost obscene — a defiant middle finger to progress.
Tires kissed the pavement with a soft hiss, rubber gripping concrete as Frieza twisted the throttle.
The bike lunged.
Acceleration slammed him back — 214 horsepower unleashed in a violent surge, the V4 screaming as it climbed through the gears.
The wind hit like a wall, tearing at his wine-red suit, whipping his white hair into a wild halo around his face.
For the first time since his rebirth, Frieza felt something primal — something human.
He opened the throttle fully.
The speedometer needle swung past 200 kph in seconds.
The city blurred — neon signs, flying cars, towering skyscrapers — all reduced to streaks of light.
Hover-vehicles scattered like startled birds as the black-and-red missile tore down the center lane, engine howling in fury.
Drivers gawked from above, mouths open, unable to comprehend why some lunatic was tearing up the road below.
Frieza didn't care.
He leaned into the first corner — knee almost scraping asphalt, the bike tipping at an impossible angle, tires howling in protest but holding.
The centrifugal force pulled at his body, the G-forces pressing his chest, the wind roaring in his ears like a living thing.
He felt every vibration through the handlebars — the pulse of the engine, the heartbeat of the machine.
He laughed — low, wild, the sound lost in the wind.
This… this is what I missed.
The boy who once dreamed of roaring engines, of freedom on two wheels, now lived that dream in a body that could shatter planets.
He pushed harder.
The highway opened up — long, straight, empty under the night sky.
Frieza twisted the throttle to the stop.
370 kph.
The world became a tunnel — lights stretching into lines, the engine screaming in ecstasy, the tires gripping with desperate ferocity.
He felt alive.
Not as a tyrant.
Not as a god.
As something simpler.
A rider.
He downshifted for a sweeping curve — rev-matching perfectly, the exhaust popping and crackling on deceleration, flames spitting from the pipes.
He leaned low, knee brushing the asphalt in a perfect racing line, the bike dancing on the edge of adhesion.
He straightened.
Accelerated again.
The road became endless.
He rode for hours — city lights fading, suburbs giving way to open plains, mountains rising in the distance under a moonlit sky.
The Panigale never faltered — engine singing, tires biting, frame rigid yet alive beneath him.
At one point, he pulled over on a high overlook.
The bike idled beneath him — low, menacing purr.
Frieza looked out over the landscape — cities glowing far below, hover-cars drifting like fireflies.
It was beautiful.
Image...
He killed the engine.
Silence rushed in — broken only by the cooling ticks of metal and the distant wind.
He sat there — legs straddling the machine, hands resting on the grips.
For the first time in years — perhaps ever — he felt peace.
Not the peace of domination.
The peace of motion.
Of control.
Of something real.
He looked at the watch on his wrist — the skeleton face showing the time.
Still hours before dawn.
He smiled — small, private.
Then he kicked the starter.
The V4 roared back to life.
Frieza twisted the throttle.
The bike lunged forward again — a black-and-red streak tearing through the night.
tonight…
Tonight belonged to the road.
To the engine.
To the man who once dreamed of riding free.
And now — finally — did.
Frieza rode on.
The Ducati sang beneath him.
And the stars watched as their Emperor enjoyed what he wanted to try since the beginning.
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This isn't the chapter most expected but l am really happy with this chapter.
This chapter represent the truly chaotic and child like wonder of Frieza.
Finally trying what he wanted to.
Something he could never have.
But do now.
this is what freedom looks like.