Leave more comments so l know you are alive.
Attendence please.
---
Most people think Time is linear—
a river flowing in one direction, indifferent and unbroken.
That was never true.
A lie told by minds too small to survive the truth.
Time is relative.
Time is not a river.
It is a pressure.
Light takes eight minutes to reach Earth from the Sun—at least, that is what observers say.
But the light itself experiences nothing.
No distance. No waiting. From the instant it is born to the instant it collides with the planet, existence collapses into a single point.
Creation and arrival are the same moment.
Frieza understood this now.
Not as philosophy.
Not as theory.
As fact.
His clone that he previously talked about had started cautiously, touching time through magic—testing it, stretching it, learning where it resisted and where it broke.
When subtlety reached its limit, ki took over. Time screamed. Space followed. The universe yielded not because it agreed, but because it could not stop him.
Time was not sacred.
It was negotiable.
And space—space was merely time's shadow.
Four years ago, when Black Frieza was born, he proved it.
He did not simulate a black hole.
He did not replicate one.
He created it.
Gravity obeyed. Space folded. Reality collapsed inward because Frieza demanded it. Not a god's blessing. Not divine authority. Will alone.
So why speak of time now?
Because what Frieza was about to do would break even his own sense of scale.
Understanding precedes annihilation.
He stood perfectly still, alone in the void, and for the first time in years, he chose to speak aloud.
The chant was unnecessary—his power no longer required words—but intention sharpened when framed by ritual.
"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness, Purify that which is impure." He said calmly.
The universe answered immediately.
A curtain of absolute black erupted outward, devouring light, sound, and distance. Reality peeled away as if embarrassed to exist in his presence. Frieza vanished behind it—not hidden, but removed.
Inside the veil, time slowed.
Not frozen.
Not shattered.
Slowed.
Three more years would not be enough for what he intended. This was no Hyperbolic Time Chamber—but it did not need to be. It only needed to delay the universe while he moved forward.
Frieza was no longer training his body.
That era had ended for now.
His flesh had been forged under forces that would erase planets.
Multiple black holes pressed against him constantly, refining him beyond improvement. Further physical growth was meaningless.
He had reached the point where effort no longer translated cleanly into gain.
But that did not mean he was finished.
It meant the training had changed.
From this point on, power would come from understanding, not exertion.
From control, not struggle.
Within the dark curtain—where time crawled, space bent, and reality held its breath—Frieza prepared for something beyond Black.
Not growth.
Not evolution.
Something far worse.
Something inevitable.
---
Frieza stepped out of the Time Chamber.
The door sealed behind him with a dull, final weight, as if the universe itself exhaled in relief. He had accomplished what he came for—though not perfectly. Not completely. There were still things beyond his reach.
But he had entered that realm.
And that was enough.
For now.
He glanced down at himself.
Nothing, Absolutely Fucking nothing his dick was swaying in wind.
His armor, his robes—every trace of what he had worn was gone. Reduced to less than ash. Not torn. Not burned.
Erased.
They had been forged from materials meant to endure gods, pressure, war.
But endurance meant nothing inside singularity.
Nothing in the world could remain before a Black hole.
With the sole exception of Frieza of course.
(Ifykyk)
He flexed his fingers once.
Then, without effort—without ki, magic, or gesture—he imagined.
Reality complied.
Fabric manifested around him, forming seamlessly, as if the idea of the garment had always existed and merely waited for permission. The suit settled against his body with perfect precision.
Jet-black layers overlapped like tailored shadow, sharp and regal. A deep crimson sash cut diagonally across his torso, vivid as spilled blood against void. Fine silver filaments traced the seams—not decoration, but structure, holding space itself in obedience.
A long cape flowed from his shoulder, black on the outside, rich red within, hanging heavy with authority rather than weight. High boots locked into place, polished and unyielding, anchoring him to the floor as if gravity itself had chosen him as its center.
Not armor.
Not clothing.
A statement.
Image:-
Frieza straightened slowly.
This was not the attire of a conqueror.
This was the attire of something that had survived annihilation and stepped back into existence by choice.
Or an attire of An Aura farmer.
Whichever side your want.
He lifted his gaze toward the world beyond the lookout.
10 years inside.
About 4 days outside.
And Frieza—no longer merely Black—smiled faintly.
The universe had continued without him.
That was about to become a problem.
---
He teleported instantly—space folding without sound—and reappeared seated upon his throne aboard the flagship.
Cym had been behind it, polishing the his throne backrest in quiet focus.
The sudden distortion of reality made him yelp. He stumbled backward, heels catching on nothing, arms flailing as the bucket slipped from his grasp. Water arced through the air in a perfect, humiliating curve and came crashing down over his face.
Silence followed.
Then dripping.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Cym lay flat on his back, stunned, soaked, staring up at the ceiling as water pooled around his ears.
Frieza stared.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then his lips twitched.
He straightened slightly, as if offended by his own reaction. His shoulders tightened. He inhaled—slow, controlled—trying to reclaim the cold composure he had worn for Years.
It failed.
A sharp sound escaped his throat.
"Hah—"
Then another.
"Hahahaha…"
The laughter spilled out of him, raw and unguarded, growing louder with every breath.
"Hahahahahaha!"
It echoed through the throne room, filling the vast space with something shockingly human..
...
Not cruel laughter. Not mocking. Just… real. The kind that sneaks up on you when you've held yourself together for far too long.
Cym groaned, wiping water from his eyes.
Mortified.
This was without a doubt the most humiliated thing that has ever happen to him in his life.
And he had a feeling he won't live it down.
Frieza leaned back on his throne, one hand covering his face as his shoulders shook.
"Hahahahaha… hah… ah…"
10 years trapped in distorted time.
10 years of pressure, silence, gods, and annihilation.
And this—this ridiculous, clumsy moment—was what greeted him back.
For the first time since entering the chamber, Frieza wasn't a conqueror.
He was simply there.
Laughing.
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I don't really say it much but l am a lil sad as this book has declined to high hells.
I don't think it's worth the effort to keep writing this.