---
The guard forced himself upright, fingers digging into the marble floor before he trusted his legs to hold him.
His armor felt heavier than it had moments ago, as if the palace itself were judging him. His voice trembled despite his discipline.
"Even so," he said, swallowing hard, "isn't he still violating cosmic law?"
For a long moment, the Grand Priest did not respond.
The projection continued to play in silence—Frieza standing amid annihilated stars, Beerus broken, angels unsettled. The palace lights hummed softly, indifferent.
Then the Grand Priest turned.
Not abruptly. Not theatrically. He simply shifted his gaze.
That was enough.
The guard's lungs seized. His thoughts scattered. It felt as though every timeline he existed in had been pinned in place at once. This was not killing intent.
This was judgment—the unbearable pressure of a being who stood so far above gods that comparison itself became meaningless.
"Tell me," the Grand Priest said calmly, "which rule has he broken?"
The guard's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The words he had rehearsed—destruction without authority, assault upon a Destroyer, imbalance of the cosmic order—evaporated under that gaze.
They sounded childish now. Like excuses scribbled by someone who did not understand how reality truly worked.
The Grand Priest turned back to the projection, his hands folded behind his back.
"If you speak of harming a God of Destruction," he continued, voice level and precise, "Beerus consented. A formal contract was made. By divine law, that alone strips us of the right to interfere."
The guard clenched his fists. "But—even then—surely there must be limits."
The Grand Priest's eyes narrowed, just slightly.
"Limits," he repeated, tasting the word. "Yes. There are limits."
He gestured subtly, and space itself seemed to lean closer, as if the multiverse were listening.
"Understand this," he said. "Power at this level is not an accident. Gods of Destruction are not grown on trees."
The words landed like a verdict.
"You do not stumble into this strength," the Grand Priest went on, his calm now edged with something far more dangerous than anger.
"You do not train for a few years, or steal a technique, or burn with ambition and suddenly rival a Destroyer. Each God of Destruction is the result of an unfathomable filtration process—countless candidates, countless failures, entire civilizations erased in the attempt."
The guard's breath hitched.
"They are scarcity incarnate," the Grand Priest said. "A balance point. A necessity. Replaceable only in theory—never in practice."
He paused.
"And yet," he said quietly, "you just witnessed a mortal slap one to the edge of death."
The guard's knees buckled again. He barely caught himself.
"That should be impossible," he whispered.
"Yes," the Grand Priest agreed. "It should be."
He finally turned his head fully toward the guard, eyes reflecting the projection's glow.
"Which is precisely why rules no longer apply in the way you believe they do."
The guard shook his head, panic bleeding through his composure. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
The Grand Priest's answer came without hesitation.
"We adapt."
The word echoed.
"In fact," he continued, almost thoughtfully.
"the optimal course is not punishment. It is alignment. If such a being stands outside the system, the system fractures. If he stands within it, order survives."
The guard stared at the projection again, at Frieza's calm posture amid ruin, at the casual certainty in his movements.
"A mortal doesn't reach this point alone," the Grand Priest said. "Not without rewriting something fundamental."
Silence fell again.
Then Frieza spoke.
Simply… directly.
"Aren't you going to come here, Grand Priest?"
The guard froze.
The sound did not travel through speakers. It did not echo through space. It arrived. As if distance had decided it was irrelevant.
"Did no one ever tell you," Frieza continued smoothly, "that spying is considered poor manners?"
The guard felt his blood turn to ice.
"That's—impossible," he breathed. "He shouldn't even be able to perceive—"
The Grand Priest did not deny it.
For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not fear. Not surprise.
Recognition.
The guard took a step back, then another, staring at the image as though it might look back—and see him.
"…That thing," he whispered, voice cracking, "isn't a mortal."
The Grand Priest remained silent.
Because the truth was already clear.
Gods were not grown on trees.
And yet—something had grown anyway.
---
.
.
.
.
.
.
The Grand Priest exhaled softly, a sound so quiet it barely existed, yet it carried the weight of a decision that could tilt creation.
"Well," he said at last, hands folding into his sleeves, "it appears I am needed elsewhere."
The palace vanished.
One moment he stood beneath the vaulted infinity of Zeno's domain, the next he existed before Frieza, reality rearranging itself around his presence as though the universe were politely making room.
If this had been the Frieza of before—the tyrant who still understood fear, hierarchy, inevitability—he would have dropped to one knee without thinking. Pride would have been strangled by instinct.
But that Frieza no longer existed.
Instead, Frieza placed a hand over his chest and offered a shallow, theatrical bow—perfectly executed, perfectly hollow.
"Ah," he said pleasantly, eyes glinting, "if it isn't His Great Majesty—the Right Hand Angel of the King of Gods himself." His smile widened just enough to sting. "Did you enjoy what you were looking at?"
The Grand Priest returned the smile.
It was flawless.
And strained.
"Of course," he replied evenly.
The air between them vibrated—not with hostility, but with something far worse: mutual awareness. Two beings standing at the edge of definitions, measuring not power, but consequence.
Frieza gestured lightly to the shattered void around them, the distant remains of Beerus barely holding together.
"Then perhaps," he continued calmly, "you could grant this despicable mortal a small favor. Let us move this elsewhere. The Great Void, perhaps. I would hate for anything… excessive… to cause this universe to cease existing."
For the first time, something flickered behind the Grand Priest's eyes.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Before he could respond, a voice tore through the tension like a blunt instrument.
"YOU DAMNED DEMON!" Champa roared, finally shaking free of his paralysis. "DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO YOU'RE SPEAKING TO?! THE GRAND PRIEST COULD KILL YOU WITH HIS PINKY FINGER!"
Silence fell.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Frieza blinked once—then chuckled.
The sound grew into a gentle, almost amused laugh.
"Hahahaha… is that so?" He inclined his head mockingly.
"Then please forgive this ignorant little mortal."
The Grand Priest's smile vanished.
He released his aura.
It wasn't explosive. It didn't roar. It simply was—an absolute pressure that crushed thought, bent causality, and reminded every being present what stood at the top of the cosmic food chain.
His gaze fell on Champa.
"Did I tell you to speak," he asked calmly, "Destroyer?"
Champa's blood turned to ice. His massive frame trembled as he dropped instantly to his knees, forehead slamming against nothingness.
"F-forgive me, my lord," he stammered. "It won't happen again. I swear."
The Grand Priest didn't acknowledge him further.
His eyes returned to Frieza.
And for the first time since arriving, his tone carried something unmistakable.
Respect.
"Very well," he said quietly. "The Great Void it is."
(Author note:- this is the place where Tournament of power was held)
Because whether he liked it or not—
This was no longer a matter of discipline.
It was containment.