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Frieza decided enough was enough.
The laughter in his mind died—not because the joke was over, but because the punchline had arrived.
He moved.
No aura flared. No warning rippled through space. There was no cinematic buildup, no courtesy given to a god who had once ended worlds with a gesture. One instant Beerus was floating, burning, healing too slowly—
the next, Frieza was already inside his guard.
A hand drove forward.
Frieza's palm struck Beerus in the abdomen and kept going.
Space folded. Divine flesh failed. The God of Destruction's body tore open as if the universe itself had rejected him. A hole bloomed straight through his torso—clean, brutal, undeniable—edges cauterized by power so dense it screamed.
Beerus' eyes went wide.
For the first time in eons, there was no rage in them.
Only shock.
Only the sudden, horrible understanding of what it feels like to be outmatched.
The force didn't stop at his body. It carried him—dragged him—hurled him like debris across the sector, straight into the roaring heart of a nearby sun.
The star swelled.
Its surface convulsed, flaring white-hot as a god slammed into it. Solar storms erupted outward like shockwaves, light screaming across space.
For a brief, impossible moment, it looked as if Beerus had been erased entirely—burned down to concept, to memory.
Silence followed.
Then—
Something crawled back out.
Beerus emerged from the sun in a spiral of smoke and molten light, body barely holding shape. His once-regal purple fur was scorched black, clumped and brittle.
Skin cracked like cooling lava. One arm hung wrong. His chest was a ruin—still open, still trying to remember how to be whole.
He gasped.
The sound was wet. Broken.
Yet divinity is stubborn.
Muscle twitched. Flesh began to knit. Bones pulled themselves back into place with sickening inevitability.
The wound shrank, slowly, agonizingly, as if the universe itself refused to let a God of Destruction die so easily.
In a few hours, he would recover.
His body would be whole again.
Yet this was the world greatest joke he didn't even have few minutes left.
And time—time was a luxury he no longer possessed.
Frieza floated before him, immaculate as ever, unmarked, arms folded loosely behind his back.
He studied Beerus the way one studies a collapsed monument—less anger, more curiosity.
Then he smiled.
"Well," Frieza said softly, almost wistfully, "it really was good while it lasted."
Beerus tried to answer.
Instead, he coughed.
Charred fragments of lung spilled from his mouth, drifting away in the void.
He forced himself upright, trembling, every breath an act of defiance. Even now—especially now—he refused to beg.
Through blood and smoke, he bared his teeth.
"Go… to Hell."
Frieza chuckled. A light, effortless sound. Amused. Almost affectionate.
"Oh, I would tell you to save me a spot," he replied, drifting closer, eyes gleaming with cruel delight,
"but you're not going to hell."
He raised his hand.
Fingers spread in that all-too-familiar pose—the one Beerus himself had used to erase lives, planets, histories.
The gesture that meant nothing remains.
Beerus' eyes locked onto it.
Recognition hit harder than any blow.
Frieza's smile widened.
"Oh, the irony," he whispered.
The universe held its breath.
Suddenly a punch landed on Frieza's face.
Not a strike—a cataclysm.
The moment Champa's fist connected, reality ruptured.
The solar system didn't explode so much as it ceased to exist—stars crushed into light, planets unraveled into dust, gravity screaming as it lost all meaning. The void swallowed everything in a blinding, silent bloom.
When the light faded—
Frieza hadn't moved an inch.
His head was tilted to the side, Champa's fist buried against his cheek, veins bulging as the God of Destruction poured everything he had into that single blow.
Space around them was gone—no stars, no planets, no frame of reference at all. Just emptiness where a civilization-scale system had been a heartbeat ago.
Slowly—agonizingly—Frieza turned his head back to center.
The fist was still there. Still pushing. Still failing.
Frieza's eyes slid sideways, calm, curious… disappointed.
"Ah," he said softly, voice carrying through the vacuum as if physics itself obeyed him.
"So you are what happen when Beerus decides to let go of his figure."
Champa's breath hitched.
His chest heaved like he'd run a marathon through hell. Sweat—or something colder—ran down his face.
His arms trembled violently, muscles screaming, divine energy flaring wildly just to keep him conscious.
He pulled his fist back.
Only then did he realize how badly his hands were shaking.
Frieza's face was unmarked.
Not a scratch. Not a bruise. Not even a ripple of displaced skin.
It was as if the punch had never landed.
Except for the absence behind them.
Champa's fist was still trembling when he pulled it back.
Not from recoil.
From terror.
His arm felt wrong—heavy, numb, screaming at him to stop moving it, as if even his own body understood what his mind was only now catching up to. He stared at his knuckles. They were intact. No blood. No fractures.
That scared him more than if they had shattered.
Because it meant the blow hadn't met resistance.
It had met nothing.
Champa's breathing collapsed into ragged, uneven gasps. Each inhale burned his lungs like fire dragged through glass. Divine energy leaked from him uncontrollably, flaring and sputtering like a dying star.
He hadn't missed. He knew he hadn't. That punch had carried everything—rage, fear, instinct, the full authority of a God of Destruction desperate enough to gamble reality itself.
And Frieza hadn't even blinked.
Champa's eyes darted again to the void behind them. His mind tried—failed—to comprehend it.
A solar system didn't explode. It didn't scatter. It was simply gone, erased so completely that even its absence felt unnatural, like a wound in existence that refused to close.
He had done that.
And Frieza had taken it to the face.
Champa's lips trembled. His voice came out thin, stripped of divinity, stripped of pride.
"Beerus…" he whispered again, as if saying his brother's name might anchor him to something real.
He looked at Beerus then—really looked. Burned fur. Ruined body. A god held together by will alone. And in Beerus' half-lidded eyes Champa saw it clearly:
Not anger.
Not defiance.
Regret.
Cold, suffocating regret.
Champa's throat tightened. His tail went rigid, a primal reaction he hadn't felt since before godhood. Before titles. Before invincibility.
"What kind of demon…" Champa said, voice cracking mid-sentence, "…did you provoke?"
Frieza turned toward him.
Just Casually.
And that was some how worse.
Those red eyes settled on Champa, and in that instant Champa felt something inside him collapse—the unconscious certainty that gods stood above mortals, that there was a ceiling no one could break through.
Frieza was past it.
The smile he wore wasn't wide. It didn't need to be. It was the smile of something that knew the ending and was savoring the middle.
That smile would definitely make Gu Changge feel that he had competition.
"A demon?" Frieza repeated softly.
He took one step closer.
Champa flinched.
Not metaphorically.
Literally
His body moved on its own, screaming at him to create distance, to run, to do anything.
To Disappear.
Frieza noticed.
His smile deepened.
"No," Frieza continued, voice smooth, almost amused.
"Demons rage. They claw. They struggle for dominance."
He glanced past Champa, toward Beerus.
"I am what's left," he said quietly, "when gods make one mistake too many."
"I am a Demon born from the infidelity of Heaven....A Heavenly Demon"
Champa's knees threatened to give out.
In that moment—standing in a void carved out by his own futile power—Champa understood the truth with brutal clarity:
This wasn't Beerus' punishment.
This was the universe correcting itself.
And Champa, shaking, breathless, powerless, knew one thing for certain—
He had arrived not as a savior…
…but as the next Victim.