---
Frieza looked at Cym and said quietly, almost fondly,
"Ah… I really missed this, you know."
Cym hesitated, then pushed himself up, still dripping. He gave an awkward bow.
"Well… I'm glad I could make you laugh, my lord."
Frieza nodded once. Then, after a pause,
"Come here. I have a gift for you."
Cym stiffened in surprise but obeyed immediately, stepping forward.
"A gift…? What might that be, my lord?"
"Sit," Frieza said calmly. "On the floor. And lower your defenses. I'm going to give you a very nice upgrade."
There wasn't even a second of doubt.
Cym sat down cross-legged and released every instinct of resistance, every subconscious barrier.
His loyalty was absolute. To him, Frieza wasn't merely an emperor—he was something closer to a God. If this moment demanded his life, he would have offered it without hesitation.
Frieza stepped closer and placed his hand against Cym's chest.
Then it began.
Agony ripped through Cym's body.
Not surface pain—not something that could be screamed away—but a deep, existential tearing. It felt as if he were being pulled apart thread by thread, unmade at the most fundamental level. His organs, his cells, his soul itself screamed as Frieza rewrote him.
This was no healing.
This was reconstruction.
Frieza worked slowly and precisely, reshaping Cym from the inside out—rewriting his potential, reforging his limits, dragging dormant talent into the open and then pushing far beyond it.
Cym bit down hard, refusing to cry out.
When Frieza finally withdrew his hand, the pain vanished as suddenly as it had begun.
Cym collapsed forward, gasping.
Then he stood.
Something was different.
His once fish-like features were softened, subtly altered—more refined, faintly humanoid, as if evolution itself had been accelerated and corrected. But that was mearly cosmetic.
The real change was deeper.
His body was denser. Stronger. Every movement carried weight. Power coursed through him—controlled, immense, alien compared to what he had once been.
A power level of sixty billion.
(Author note l really wanted to let my brain rot out....But l will surpass my brain rot and become a....Normal person).
Cym froze as the realization hit him.
He—someone who had once been insignificant—now stood among the strongest beings this universe had ever produced.
All because of Frieza.
Frieza observed him quietly, satisfied.
"Don't waste my precious gift cym." he said.
Cym dropped to one knee instantly, trembling—not from fear, but awe.
"l don't intend to My Lord." he said without hesitation.
And for the first time, it was clear:
Frieza wasn't just building an empire anymore.
He was creating monsters.
Frieza waved a single finger, slow and deliberate, the gesture alone enough to dismiss empires.
"Prepare my quarters," he said. His voice was calm, but it carried weight—like gravity deciding where things were allowed to stand.
"Low light. Classical piano. Only the piano. And my preferred cuisine. Corpses of my enemiesWarm."
Frieza truly was a fan of Hannibal.
Cym bowed deeply. "Immediately, my lord."
He turned to leave.
Then stopped.
"…My lord."
Frieza's tapping on the throne armrest stilled. That alone was dangerous.
"Yes?" Frieza replied, eyes still fixed on the stars beyond the viewport.Sun shinning just right on his face.
If piccolo was he definitely would have recognized such a high level technique.
The sun kissed technique.
^_^
"There is… a complication," Cym said. "During our visit to the feline world, an illegal passenger managed to board the ship. She was discovered after departure."
Frieza finally turned his head.
The air shifted.
"An intruder," he said softly. Not angry. Interested. "And you let her live."
"Yes, my lord. She offered no resistance."
Frieza rose from his throne, slow, unhurried, each step precise. "Tell me," he said, circling once, "what species was she?"
Cym hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"…A bunny girl, my lord."
Silence stretched. Not empty—tight.
Frieza stopped walking.
His lips curved, just slightly. Not a smile. Something sharper. Older.
"A prey race," he murmured. "Bold enough to sneak aboard my ship. Foolish enough to think she'd go unnoticed."
He turned back toward Cym, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement—and something else beneath it, restrained, coiled.
"Bring her to my room."
Cym stiffened, surprised despite himself. "Alive, my lord?"
Frieza's gaze flicked to him—cool, knowing.
"Obviously, What am l gonna do with her corpse l am not a Necrophile."
Cym bowed immediately. "As you command."
As Cym hurried away, Frieza returned to the viewport, one hand resting lightly against the glass.
His reflection stared back—dark, composed, untouchable.
An illegal passenger.
A fragile thing, drifting too close to a singularity.
After 10 years of isolation, of gods and black holes and endless control—
A disturbance like this wasn't an inconvenience.
It was… a temptation.
One Frieza fully wanted to indulge in.
---
We skip forward.
Frieza sat at the table, posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other.
The room was quiet in the comfortable way only power could afford. Before him lay a generous spread: a perfectly cooked steak, fragrant biryani, pasta, chicken Alfredo, and several other dishes arranged with care.
At the side rested a glass of aged wine, dark and expensive.
He cut into the steak.
The knife did not resist. Nothing ever did anymore.
But that might change today.
As he chewed, faint distortions rippled through the air around him—so subtle they would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. Space itself remembering what it was like to be bent. To be folded. To be crushed.
Training in the Time Chamber had changed him—there was no denying that—but Frieza wore those changes lightly.
The strain of pushing his body beyond reason, of flirting with forces that should have torn him apart, had left marks not on his form, but on his mind.
A faint edge to his thoughts. A tendency to linger on silence.Subtle Madness result of extreme isolation.
He lifted the glass and took a sip of wine.
The moment the liquid touched his tongue, the pressure inside him eased—just a fraction. Enough to remind him that sensation still existed. That he still felt. That he was not yet a singularity wearing skin.
Just then, a knock echoed at the door.
Timid. Hesitant.
Frieza set the glass down and glanced toward the entrance.
His expression softened into something almost pleasant, though there was a flicker beneath it—an offbeat glint in his eyes that suggested his calm was carefully maintained rather than natural.
"Come in," he said.
His voice was gentle, smooth, and perfectly controlled.
Only those who knew him well would notice the subtle wrongness in it—the quiet reminder that isolation and excess power always leave their fingerprints, even on someone like Frieza.
The doors slid open.
Frieza leaned back slightly in his chair, watching with mild curiosity, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to suggest interest… and the promise of something more, should he find it entertaining.
///
POLLLLLLLL
Do we want sex.
Yes, l desperately need to stroke my dick.
Nah, l'd win– l-l mean no l have a Damn Life