Ummmm hello there.
So...l was gone for a long time without notice for which l apologies for.
My schedule didn't allow for much free time.
I am not fully back as l Have My final Exams for which l am not ready for at all.
And if l want to pass l have to focus on my studies.
I had written around 10 chapter which l would slowly release here and there.
At the end of my day Exams are more important then this fic so l hope you understand.
Regardless please pray for me as l am 99% sure l am going to fail🥀💀
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Frieza vanished in a flicker of red light and reappeared directly in front of Bempa.
The ugly purple cat-god abomination had been floating with arms crossed, sneering,
Bempa looked slow—his usual sluggish arrogance unchanged—until Frieza's presence slammed into his senses like a physical weight. Bempa eyes widened, pupils dilating.
He could see it.
He could see Frieza move.
The motion was imperceptible to mortal eyes, a blur even to most gods—but Bempa saw the shift: the subtle lean of Frieza's shoulder, the fractional bend of his knee, the way space itself seemed to part around him like water around a blade.
And that sight filled Bempa with an unfortunate, dangerous feeling.
Hope.
Because if he could see Frieza move—if he could track him at all—then maybe, just maybe, Bempa still had a chance.
But he also knew Frieza still had his golden form.
And Bempa had an ace up his sleeve.
Frieza stood inches away now, red eyes locked on Bempa, voice low and calm.
"Have you ever seen a someone scream without his lungs?"
Bempa opened his mouth to retort—
Frieza's hand moved.
Fingers plunged into Bempa chest—divine flesh parting like wet cardboard. No resistance. No struggle. Just a clean, effortless violation. Bempa eyes bulged, mouth gaping in a silent scream as Frieza's hand closed around his lungs and pulled.
The lungs came free in a wet, glistening mass—still connected by thin tubes of tissue and blood vessels—dangling in Frieza's grip like obscene trophies.
Bempa floated in the void, chest cavity open, ribs cracked outward, purple blood drifting in slow globules around him. His lips moved—trying to scream, trying to breathe—but no sound came. No air. No lungs.
Vados and Whis quietly looked away.
Not out of fear.
Out of something heavier.
They had spent eons together with their Destroyers—watching them eat, sleep, complain, destroy, nap, repeat.
To say they felt nothing would be a lie. To say they felt grief would be too simple. What they felt was quiet, complicated, and old.
The Grand Priest did not avert his eyes.
He watched—expression calm, calculating—already dissecting every movement, every pulse of Frieza's aura, searching for weakness, for flaw, for anything that could be exploited later.
Bempa lips kept moving—silent, frantic.
Why.
Frieza tilted his head, still holding the lungs in one hand like they were nothing.
"Why not?" he said softly.
Then he pressed his other palm to Bempa open chest.
Golden-green light flared—Accelerated Regeneration in full force.
Flesh knit. Ribs snapped back into place. Blood vessels reconnected. Lungs vanished from Frieza's grip and reappeared inside Bempa body—perfect, whole, as though nothing had happened.
Bempa gasped—air rushing in—voice hoarse.
"You—!"
He didn't waste the opening.
Bempa lunged—full force—fist wrapped in violet destruction energy, aimed straight for Frieza's face.
The punch landed.
Frieza's head snapped back—split lip, golden blood beading on the corner of his mouth.
Bempa froze—eyes wide.
Frieza slowly turned his head back.
He spat the blood—golden droplets floating in the void.
Then smiled—small, appreciative.
"Good," he said quietly.
"Very good."
He staggered back—chest heaving, aura flaring wildly.
Frieza wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
He looked at it—then at Bempa .
"You hit harder than Beerus did the last time."
Bempa snarled—fangs bared.
"Don't mock me!"
Frieza's smile widened—just a fraction.
"I'm not mocking you."
He flexed his fingers—casual, relaxed.
"I'm complimenting you."
Bempa aura exploded—violet destruction energy surging around him, distorting space.
"You think you're untouchable now?!"
Frieza tilted his head.
"I know I am."
Bempa roared—lunging again.
Frieza didn't move.
He didn't need to.
Bempa fist passed through empty air.
Frieza was already behind him—hand resting lightly on Bempa shoulder.
Bempa froze.
Frieza leaned in—voice low, intimate.
"Again."
Bempa spun—elbow aimed at Frieza's throat.
Frieza caught it—casual, effortless—then twisted.
Bempa arm snapped—bone protruding through purple fur.
Bempa screamed.
Frieza released him.
Bempa staggered back—arm hanging limp, aura flickering.
Frieza watched him—calm, patient.
"Again."
Bempa roared—charging with everything he had left.
Frieza met him this time.
One punch.
Clean.
Precise.
Champa's head snapped back—blood spraying in a wide arc.
Frieza lowered his fist.
He looked at the crumpled form of Bempa.
Frieza floated in silence, red eyes half-lidded, unimpressed.
Bempa's aura flickered—then changed.
The violent, unstable violet of destruction energy did not explode outward this time. It compressed. Refined. Sharpened. The wild rage in his expression vanished, replaced by something colder. Emptier.
His breathing slowed.
His posture straightened.
And then—his presence disappeared.
Not literally.
But perceptually.
The crushing weight of a fused Destroyer was still there… yet it no longer felt aggressive. It felt distant. Like a blade resting in its sheath.
Silver light bled into his pupils.
Ultra Instinct.
At the same time, the violet aura of a God of Destruction ignited around his body—dense, controlled, coiled tight instead of flaring wildly.
Instinct without thought.
Destruction without hesitation.
Both—together.
Frieza's smile faltered for the first time.
"Now this," he murmured softly, "is interesting."
Bempa moved.
There was no tell. No shoulder shift. No muscle tension. He simply wasn't there anymore.
Frieza's body reacted on its own—tilting slightly as a claw passed through where his skull had been a millisecond prior. The void behind him split cleanly in half.
Bempa did not roar. Did not taunt.
He flowed.
A silent blur of silver precision wrapped in violet annihilation. Every strike carried Hakai at its edge, yet every movement was effortless, perfectly efficient. No wasted motion. No emotional leakage.
Frieza countered—barely.
Their bodies flickered across the battlefield like broken frames of reality stitched together too quickly. Shockwaves rippled without sound. Stars dimmed.
Frieza blocked a strike—his forearm smoking from concentrated destruction energy that tried to erase him on contact.
"So you finally stopped thinking," Frieza said, teeth flashing. "Good."
Bempa did not answer.
He appeared above Frieza—heel descending. Frieza raised both arms just in time. The impact drove him downward like a meteor, space folding around his body as he crashed through layers of atmosphere on a distant world before rebounding back into the void.
Golden blood drifted from his mouth again.
Frieza wiped it away slowly.
His eyes gleamed—not with mockery this time.
With calculation.
"Ultra Instinct and Destroyer form combined…" he muttered.
"How greedy."
Bempa hovered above, silver eyes calm, violet aura humming like a restrained supernova.
No rage.
No hesitation.
Just inevitability.
For the first time since the battle began—
Frieza's Coat stopped moving.
Aura farming was becoming harder to do.
Bempa moved like silence sharpened into a blade.
Ultra Instinct guided every motion—no wasted breath, no wasted twitch. Destroyer energy wrapped his body in a dense violet mantle, not raging but condensed, refined. Each strike carried Hakai at its edge, each dodge flowed without thought.
Frieza was pushed back.
For the first time since the battle began—he was reacting.
A palm strike grazed his ribs. Flesh smoked where destruction energy kissed it. A knee clipped his jaw, snapping his head sideways. A follow-up elbow drove into his sternum and sent him skidding backward through torn layers of space.
No theatrics.
No laughter.
Just pressure.
Relentless.
Bempa did not taunt. His silver eyes were empty—calm, distant, perfectly focused. His body adjusted automatically to every feint Frieza attempted. A punch redirected before it fully extended. A kick avoided before it was launched. Every angle closed before it opened.
Frieza countered—barely.
A claw strike met only afterimage. A tail sweep cut through vacuum. His base form, once overwhelming, now felt constrained—like a predator forced into a cage too small for its fangs.
Another blow landed.
This one clean.
Bempa's fist drove into Frieza's abdomen, destruction energy surging inward. The void cracked outward in concentric fractures. Frieza's body folded slightly around the impact before he was hurled backward, spinning through debris and dying starlight.
He caught himself mid-flight.
Golden blood drifted from the corner of his mouth again—more this time.
Below him, Bempa hovered in absolute stillness. Silver eyes. Violet aura humming like a restrained supernova. No anger. No arrogance. Only inevitability.
For several seconds, Frieza did not move.
Whis watched carefully.
Vados remained silent.
The Grand Priest's gaze sharpened—calculation deepening.
Bempa stepped forward, slow and deliberate now, instinct and destruction perfectly synchronized.
"Your advantage ends," he said, voice no longer chaotic—now smooth, unified. "You cannot surpass instinct."
Frieza lowered his chin.
A small sound escaped him.
Not laughter.
Not yet. He has to hold it in
A breath in.
A breath out
Then—
He smiled.
"l can't surpass instinct" Frieza said softly. "How nostalgic."
Bempa lunged again—
And the universe ignited.
Blinding gold erupted outward, drowning violet in radiant dominance. The pressure spike was immediate and suffocating. Space bent away from Frieza's body as if refusing proximity.
The golden aura did not flare wildly—it surged upward in a controlled inferno, dense and absolute.
Frieza's silhouette shifted within the light.
Sleek.
Refined.
Terrifying.
The gold receded just enough to reveal him.
Golden form.
Polished armor-like sheen. Crimson eyes burning brighter than before. Power no longer restrained by biological limitation.
The void trembled.
Bempa halted mid-motion—not by choice, but by instinct. Ultra Instinct warned him. Destroyer senses screamed.
Frieza looked at him calmly.
"You were Right," Frieza said, voice now layered with something heavier. "My base was insufficient."
He flexed his fingers.
Golden light rippled outward in silent waves.
"But this…"
His aura expanded again—measured, oppressive, deliberate.
"…is where the game resumes."
Bempa's silver eyes narrowed.
For the first time since activating Ultra Instinct—
His foot shifted back half an inch.
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Golden light swallowed the battlefield whole.
Frieza did not shout. Did not posture. Did not rage.
He advanced.
Bempa met him with perfected instinct and refined destruction—but Golden Frieza had crossed into something colder. Calculation without hesitation. Speed without excess. Violence without emotion.
Their clash tore holes through reality. Silver precision against golden supremacy. Violet annihilation colliding with compressed divinity.
Then Frieza found it.
The gap.
Not in movement. Not in power.
In synchronization.
For a fraction of a fraction of a second, Beerus' instinct and Champa's destruction were not perfectly aligned. A microscopic dissonance.
Frieza stepped into it.
His hand pierced Bempa's chest.
No roar.
No speech.
Just inevitability.
Golden energy surged inward like a collapsing sun. It didn't explode—it imploded. Ultra Instinct fractured. Destroyer aura shattered. The fusion core between them—two divine existences forced into one heartbeat—was crushed between Frieza's fingers.
Bempa's eyes widened.
Silver flickered out.
Violet cracked.
And the fused body disintegrated into drifting shards of fading godhood.
Silence fell.
Frieza withdrew his hand slowly. Golden aura steady. Untouched.
"Even miracles," he said quietly, "have Limit."
He turned his back.
And paused.
The void felt… wrong.
Not empty.
Heavy.
Behind him, the scattered fragments of Bempa's destruction energy did not fade. They darkened. Thickened. Compressed inward.
Reality bent around a forming shape.
Frieza's eyes narrowed slightly.
Too late.
A hand erupted through his chest.
It did not tear violently.
It entered cleanly—like a verdict delivered.
Golden flesh split. Divine armor cracked. Fingers wrapped around his heart and crushed it.
Frieza's eyes widened—not in panic.
In recognition.
Golden blood spilled forward in radiant arcs. His aura spasmed violently, flickering between brilliance and collapse.
Behind him stood Bempa.
Whole.
No instability. No flicker between silver and violet. The two had fused completely. Calm instinct wrapped around perfected destruction.
His presence was heavier now. Denser.
Older.
"You identified the Limit," Bempa said evenly. "So we removed it."
Frieza's golden form tried to stabilize. Light surged, attempting to regenerate the fatal damage. For a moment—just a moment—it almost worked.
His hand moved weakly toward Bempa's arm.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"So this… is adaptation…"
Bempa's grip tightened.
Golden light imploded inward.
Frieza's heart disintegrated completely. His aura collapsed like a dying star folding into itself.
His body went still.
The universe grew quiet.
Bempa withdrew his arm and let Frieza's corpse drift forward into the void.
Vados' composure thinned.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
Whis did not smile.
The Grand Priest observed without blinking.
"Beerus and Champa both possess a hereditary anomaly," he said calmly. "They may defy death nine times."[1]
Vados' fingers tightened around her staff.
"Each resurrection increases their power approximately fivefold beyond the state in which they were slain."
Whis' gaze sharpened.
"I am uncertain how many lives remain between them," the Grand Priest continued.
A measured pause.
"But I am certain it is fewer than Six or Seven."
Bempa hovered in silence.
Stronger than before.
Frieza's golden dead corpse drifted slowly into the dark.
And somewhere in the vastness, the balance of power had shifted.
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Once again my apologies.
[1] Similar to cat