Give me stones because l cooked this chapter.
Beside your mother really like what l did to her last night.
///
Frieza sat alone at the long obsidian table in his private dining chamber aboard Bucephalus.
The lights were low—candle flames only, no artificial glow—casting long, shifting shadows across the polished black surface.
A single place setting waited before him: heavy silver cutlery, a crystal wine glass already half-filled with something deep and crimson, and a thick porcelain plate.
On the plate rested a perfectly seared steak.
The meat was dark, marbled with thin veins of fat that had rendered down into a glossy sheen during the cooking. A small pool of jus had gathered beneath it, rich and almost black in the candlelight. A sprig of something green—parsley, perhaps—sat as garnish, the only spot of color on the otherwise monochrome dish.
He lifted the knife and fork with deliberate grace.
The blade slid through the meat without resistance—clean, surgical. He cut a small, precise cube, speared it, and brought it to his lips.
The first bite was slow.
He chewed thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded, savoring.
The texture was exquisite: tender, almost buttery, with just enough chew to remind the tongue it was flesh, not fat. The flavor bloomed across his palate—deep, iron-rich, with a subtle smokiness from the sear and a faint sweetness that lingered at the finish.
He swallowed.
Then took another bite.
The bounty hunter had come three days earlier.
A turkey-like humanoid female—gaudy feathers in clashing reds and browns, beak-like mouth curved in permanent smugness, eyes small and greedy.
She had stormed the bridge with a posse of mercenaries, declaring she would claim Frieza's head for the bounty. Her voice had been loud, grating, full of bravado. She had called him "lizard boy" at one point.
[Frieza for the life of him couldn't figure out why when he literally looked like a human]
Frieza had let her speak for almost thirty seconds.
Then he had raised one finger.
A thin beam of violet light had punched through her sternum—clean, cauterized—before she could even blink. The mercenaries had died faster. None of them had time to scream.
Later, in the galley, the chefs had asked—nervously—what to do with the bodies.
Frieza had glanced at the turkey-woman's corpse.
"Breast," he had said simply. "And the rest… dispose of it. I don't eat garbage."
Now, as he cut another piece, he remembered her smug expression right before the beam hit.
He chewed.
Swallowed.
Sipped the wine.
The meat really was exceptional.
Juicy.
Tender.
The same couldn't be said about her personality.
But then again same couldn't be said about her breast as they were very juicy and delicious.
He smiled faintly at the memory of the chefs' horrified faces when he'd given the order. They had obeyed, of course. They always obeyed.
The steak was cooked rare—just enough char on the outside to lock in the juices. He preferred it that way. Overdone meat tasted like regret.
He speared another piece, lifted it, examined it in the candlelight.
Somewhere in the multiverse, Beerus was probably eating pudding or napping.
Frieza had foreseen it.
Today would be the fated day.
The cat-god would come today.
The thought didn't disturb him.
It excited him.
He had spent ten years inside the chamber—objective time, four days outside—forging himself into something new. Something final.
Black Frieza.
The name still amused him. It was just simply ironic.
He had emerged from that void carrying the weight of a black hole in his palm and the silence of a god in his chest.
And now Beerus was coming.
Frieza cut another piece of breast meat.
Chewed.
Savored.
He had no illusions about morality anymore. He had never really had any to begin with, but the chamber had stripped away the last pretense. Power wasn't good or evil. It simply was.
And he had it.
All of it.
The turkey-woman's smug face flashed in his mind again—right before the beam took her.
He smiled.
She had died thinking she was the predator.
She had died wrong.
He finished the steak.
Wiped his mouth with the black linen napkin.
Then stood.
The plate was clean. Not a scrap left.
He turned toward the viewport.
The stars were still.
But he felt it.
A familiar pressure.
A familiar presence.
Beerus.
Frieza adjusted his cuffs—slow, precise.
Then smiled—small, cold, certain.
"Let him come."
He had waited long enough.
And he was hungry for something more than steak.
The void outside Bucephalus rippled once—subtle at first, then violent, as though space itself had been punched.
Beerus appeared.
Not in a flash of light or a dramatic entrance.
Just… there.
Floating in the black, purple aura flickering like a dying star, tail lashing slowly behind him. His eyes were half-lidded, expression bored as always—until they landed on Frieza.
The lizard stood on the observation deck, arms folded behind his back, wine-red suit pristine, white hair stark against the dark backdrop. Both arms whole. Both eyes restored—red irises burning in black sclera, unmarred, unscarred. And the aura…
Beerus felt it before he saw it.
A pressure so dense it made the vacuum around the ship groan. Black and violet energy coiled lazily around Frieza like smoke from a dying sun—calm, controlled, and wrong. Deeply, cosmically wrong.
Destruction energy.
Not borrowed. Not mimicked.
Real.
Beerus's mouth fell open.
Fully.
No smirk. No lazy drawl. Just slack-jawed shock.
This is a fucking joke, his mind supplied helpfully.
Ten days.
Ten.
Fucking.
Days.
And the one-armed, one-eyed cripple who had barely survived their last encounter now stood before him radiating power that made Beerus's own aura feel… quaint.
The lizard's regeneration was complete—impossibly so. The missing arm, the ruined eye—gone, as though they had never been taken. But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the destruction energy woven into Frieza's aura—subtle, restrained, but unmistakable. It wasn't a trick. It wasn't imitation. It was genuine hakai essence, refined and owned, sitting inside a mortal's body like it had always belonged there.
Beerus's brain short-circuited.
No being is capable of achieving so much in some damn ten days.
Not even gods.
Not even angels.
Not even—
A fly.
A single, stupid, ordinary housefly—somehow surviving the vacuum, somehow crossing the distance between universes—chose that exact moment to buzz straight into Beerus's wide-open mouth.
The God of Destruction choked.
Immediately.
Violently.
His eyes bulged. His cheeks puffed. A strangled *"Ghk—!"* escaped him as he flailed, hands clawing at his throat, tail thrashing like a whip.
Whis, floating serenely beside him, pressed a hand to his lips.
A tiny, perfectly restrained sound escaped.
"Fufufu…"
Then another.
"Fufufu…"
Beerus spun on him—face purple, eyes watering, still coughing and gagging.
"SHUT UP WHIS!"
The fly finally dislodged—shot out of Beerus's mouth like a bullet—and buzzed away into the void, probably traumatized for life.
Whis cleared his throat, composure restored, though the corners of his mouth still twitched.
"My lord," he said mildly, "don't you know you should close your mouth? Or a fly may fly into it."
Beerus wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I will end you."
Frieza watched the entire display from the viewport.
His expression never changed.
Not a flicker of surprise. Not a hint of mockery.
Just quiet, patient amusement.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Welcome, Beerus."
His voice carried through the vacuum—calm, clear, intimate—like he was speaking directly into the cat-god's ear.
"You're late."
Beerus finally stopped coughing.
He floated forward—slowly—eyes locked on Frieza, aura flaring purple and violent.
"What the hell did you do?"
Frieza spread his arms slightly—casual, open.
"I trained."
Beerus snarled.
"Ten days. Ten FUCKING days. And you come out looking like… like that?"
He gestured wildly at Frieza's restored limbs, his calm demeanor, the black-violet destruction energy that now lived in his aura like it had always belonged there.
"You're not supposed to have that."
Frieza's smile was small. Cold. Certain.
"And yet."
Beerus's tail lashed.
"You're not supposed to be able to touch hakai. Not like that. Not ever."
Frieza shrugged—one shoulder, elegant.
"Well, I did."
A pause.
Then, softly:
"I mastered it."
Beerus stared.
Long.
Hard.
Then he laughed—short, bitter, disbelieving.
"You're full FUCKING of shit."
Frieza didn't respond.
He simply raised one hand.
A small orb of purple-black energy formed in his palm—identical to hakai, yet sharper, purer, owned.
Beerus's laughter died.
Frieza crushed the orb.
It vanished without sound.
No explosion.
No backlash.
Just… gone.
Beerus's eyes widened.
Frieza lowered his hand.
"Still think I'm full of shit?"
Beerus floated there—silent—for a long moment.
Then his aura flared—violent, purple, destructive.
"Fine," he growled.
"Let's see how much you really learned."
Frieza's smile widened—just a fraction.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
The void between them crackled.
Two apex predators.
One who had once been a god.
One who had become something far worse.
And the universe held its breath.
///
Get blue ball bozos.