I genuinely cooked in this chapter. It might be a lil short but it is perfect.
And here some gay photos of Beerus and Goku, nappa and vegeta....
Img.
If your not give me the stones....
Fine suffer then.
---
It had been three years, and Frieza could feel it.
The call of the Deep Black.
It no longer whispered. It pressed in on him, constant and suffocating, like a gravity well forming just beyond perception.
Every instinct he possessed told him the same thing: he was close. Painfully close.
For three uninterrupted years, he had fought.
No rest. No indulgence. No pause to savor victories or mourn failures. Every second fed into the next, battle stacked upon battle until time itself blurred into a single, endless crucible.
Fatigue was irrelevant. Pain was irrelevant. Only progression mattered.
And it had never been just Beerus.
Beerus was merely the gate.
Beyond him waited something far worse—an adversary that refused to stay surpassed. Every time Frieza clawed closer to its level, every time he thought he could finally grasp it, that presence erupted with greater force, as if power itself bent to its will. Growth answered growth. Ascension answered ascension. And above all of it loomed the angels, distant and untouchable, their silence heavier than any taunt.
Frieza understood what this meant.
His existence had already broken the original timeline. Not metaphorically. Literally. Causality strained around him, warped by his continued defiance of limits that were never meant to be crossed.
The Time Patrol was watching. There was no doubt about that.
What unsettled him was their inaction.
They should have intervened by now.
Frieza had a hypothesis for their restraint—but it was dangerous, and he wasn't ready to acknowledge it yet. Some truths were better left unspoken until they could no longer be ignored.
He dispelled the illusion of Beerus with a thought and turned inward.
The clone he had created—tasked solely with refining ki and magic—had finally delivered its answer after a full month of relentless experimentation.
This was the result.
Frieza raised his hand.
Ki gathered in his palm, slow and controlled. He compressed it deliberately, forcing it inward beyond natural limits. The air screamed as it folded. Light bent, stretched, distorted. Space itself began to buckle, dragged toward a single, merciless point.
A black orb formed.
Small. Silent. Terrifying.
Time curved around it. Gravity collapsed inward, howling without sound.
Frieza stared at the void in his hand, lips curling faintly.
He wasn't imitating destruction.
He was redefining it.
He was creating a black hole.
He stared at the black hole in his palm and forced more energy into it.
Not recklessly. Deliberately.
The orb swelled, space screaming as it was dragged inward, gravity collapsing on itself until the void grew to the size of a mountain suspended in nothingness. Light bent around it, time stretched thin, reality protesting every second it continued to exist.
Then Frieza stepped forward.
And entered it.
This was the only way.
There would be no retreat, no second attempt, no careful recalibration. Either his existence would evolve to withstand the Deep Black… or it would be erased entirely.
Frieza's body began to spaghettify.
Flesh stretched impossibly, bones screaming as they elongated and warped, his form pulled apart by forces that crushed stars into nothing. Space tore at him from every direction at once, attempting to unravel him into raw information and scatter it across eternity.
In that instant, clarity struck.
This was the threshold.
Either he would reach Black Frieza—
—or the black hole would end him.
The weight of three relentless years crashed down on him all at once. Endless combat. Endless defeat against the Beerus replica. Every step forward answered by something stronger. Every victory poisoned by the next wall he couldn't yet break.
Frustration, fury, obsession—everything he had suppressed detonated.
He screamed.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—
The scream was horrific not because it echoed—
—but because it didn't.
No sound escaped the black hole. No vibration. No release.
It was a silent scream, crushed flat by gravity, existing only as intent and defiance.
And then—
Something answered.
Black energy bled from his body, not exploding outward, but seeping through him like ink through water. His white hair darkened strand by strand, turning abyssal black, while faint white specks appeared within it—pinpricks of light like distant stars trapped in a void.
His red eyes dulled, then deepened, turning pitch-black, reflecting nothing.
The black hole trembled.
For the first time, it wasn't Frieza being torn apart.
It was the void yielding.
His body stabilized. Space bent around him instead of through him. Gravity no longer crushed—it obeyed.
He had done it.
What should have taken ten years—
He had forced into three.
With a simple twist of his wrist, the black hole collapsed in on itself and vanished, erased as if it had never existed.
No explosion.
No aftermath.
Frieza descended slowly, boots touching solid ground.
And for the first time in a very long while, he felt it.
Not confidence.
Not arrogance.
But something colder.
Something absolute.
He felt..... [Insert Title Card].
---
He had done it.
Black Frieza stood as the absolute peak of what Frieza had once been — his potential fully realized, refined, and forced into existence through sheer will.
This was the ceiling of mortality itself: the point where a mortal could stand before gods and not bow, where divine beings could be fought toe to toe without illusion or luck.
For others, this would have been the End.
For Frieza, it was only the Beginning.
What once would have marked his final form, his ultimate limit, now served as nothing more than a foundation.
The summit his former self could never surpass had become his starting line.
That truth settled into him with chilling clarity.
He was no longer chasing godhood.
He was hunting something beyond it.
Seven years still remained inside the chamber.
(Author note l wanted to say 6 7 years but l am stoping 67 jokes from now on.)
Seven years to master Divine Destruction — true Hakai, not imitation, not borrowed authority, but annihilation shaped by his own will. Seven years to grasp Ultra Instinct, to move without thought, to let body and intent become indistinguishable.
Seven years to carve divine techniques into something sharper, crueler, and uniquely his.
And even that would not be enough.
Because Black Frieza — this power, this form — felt insufficient already.
A drop.
A single drop in an ocean he had yet to reach.
If his hypothesis was correct, the enemy waiting beyond this path would not be a god, nor an angel, nor even a force bound by a single universe. It would be something capable of unmaking the Multiverse itself — erasing realities not through destruction, but through negation.
Against that, raw power alone meant nothing.
Frieza closed his fist slowly, black energy folding inward instead of flaring out.
This was not victory.
This was preparation.
And when the time came, when even gods learned fear anew, they would understand the truth far too late:
Black Frieza was never meant to be the end.
It was only the Beginning.