The Frieza Force ships hovered low above the ruined plains, their engines snarling against the wounded sky. Soldiers poured out—careless, loud, confident in a world they believed already dead.
Vegeta watched from the edge of a broken cliff, his presence erased.
Broly stood beside him, massive frame crouched impossibly still. His heart thundered—but his ki did not.
"Remember," Vegeta whispered. "No flaring. No pride. We end this before they know they're dying."
Broly nodded once.
They vanished.
A Frieza soldier laughed as he kicked through rubble, scouter beeping erratically.
"Stupid thing's probably broken—"
He never finished the sentence.
A precise chop to the neck—Vegeta—no excess force, no wasted movement. The body fell without a sound.
Elsewhere, Broly moved.
Not like a beast.
Like a shadow.
A soldier turned just in time to see a massive hand gently close around his mouth. There was no struggle—just pressure, exact and controlled. The soldier went limp.
Broly released him slowly, breathing steadily.
He felt it then.
Control.
As the last soldier fell, Vegeta froze.
He felt it.
A ki signature—sharp, disciplined, deeply familiar—watching from the ruins.
"So," a voice called out calmly, "you're really here."
Vegeta turned.
From the smoke stepped Piccolo.
Cloak torn. Armor cracked. Eyes sharp and unafraid.
"Namek's not exactly welcoming these days," Piccolo said, glancing at the fallen soldiers. "But I see you've been busy."
Vegeta scoffed. "Took you long enough to show yourself."
Piccolo's gaze shifted to Broly, studying him carefully. "…That power. You're holding it back."
Broly nodded slightly. "I'm trying."
Piccolo smirked. "Good. You'll need that."
Suddenly—
A scouter beeped.
High-pitched. Panicked.
Vegeta's eyes snapped wide. "Damn it."
One soldier—buried under debris—scrambled free, activating his comm.
"This is Unit Seven! Survivors confirmed! Two Saiyans—one of them—!"
The transmission cut off as Vegeta crushed the device mid-sentence.
Too late.
Piccolo's expression darkened. "That signal went out."
Vegeta growled quietly. "Then Frieza will come. Or worse—send someone who thinks."
The engines returned.
Louder. More numerous.
The elders' sanctuary lay directly in their path.
Broly felt it.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For the Namekians.
"They'll find them," Broly said, voice shaking. "I won't let them—"
A blast struck nearby. Screams echoed from the distance.
Broly's aura flared—green lightning crackling for the briefest moment.
Vegeta spun on him. "Broly!"
Broly's fists trembled. "They're hurting them!"
Piccolo stepped forward. "This is the moment," he said quietly. "If you lose control now, you'll save no one."
Broly closed his eyes.
He remembered the elders' words.
Stillness.
Breath.
Choice.
The aura faded.
"I… won't break," Broly said. "Not like before."
Vegeta placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, grounding. "Good. Then we fight our way."
Ships descended in the distance. Stronger ki signatures followed—disciplined, dangerous.
Piccolo tightened his grip on his cloak. "Looks like Namek's about to become a battlefield again."
Vegeta smirked, suppressed power humming perfectly under his control.
"Then let it," he said.
Broly stood tall, calm and focused, his power no longer a curse—but a choice.
And far away, unseen eyes watched Namek once more.
The wind over Namek carried ash.
Not the violent kind—just the quiet remnants of destruction drifting across a world that refused to die.
Piccolo stood before Vegeta and Broly at the edge of the hidden sanctuary, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"I'm not here to make you stronger," he said. "I'm here to make you precise."
"Your problem isn't power. Its intention. Every move you make leaks who you are."
He turned to Broly. "Especially you."
Broly nodded without offense. "I feel everything at once," he admitted. "It's… loud."
Piccolo stepped closer. "Then we quiet it."
They didn't spar.
Instead, Piccolo attacked without warning—sudden strikes, feints, pressure applied not to bodies, but to focus.
A palm strike stopped a centimeter from Vegeta's face.
"You reacted too late," Piccolo said.
Vegeta frowned. "I suppressed my ki."
"You suppressed your fear, too," Piccolo replied. "That's a mistake."
Broly fared worse at first—flinching, overcorrecting, restraining too hard or too loosely. But slowly, painfully, his movements smoothed.
Not weaker.
"You're learning," Piccolo said. "You don't need to dominate space. You need to occupy it."
Far above them, Frieza Force ships moved with purpose now—tight formations, disciplined movement.
"These aren't scavengers," Piccolo said quietly. "They're hunting."
Vegeta felt it too. Their suppression was good—but not perfect.
"They'll find us," Vegeta said. "Soon."
The air split.
A single figure descended—tall, composed, wrapped in dark armor with silver markings. His ki was controlled, cold, and deliberate.
Piccolo's eyes narrowed. "That one's different."
The figure landed lightly, hands behind his back.
"Prince Vegeta," he said smoothly. "And the Legendary Saiyan. How… nostalgic."
Vegeta's eyes burned.
The soldier smiled thinly. "Commander Vaelor. Acting envoy of Lord Frieza."
Broly growled, but did not move.
Vaelor continued, unbothered. "Lord Frieza is… pleased you survived. He asks that you remain where you are."
Vegeta laughed once. Sharp. Dangerous. "And if we refuse?"
Vaelor's smile vanished. "Then Namek will be erased. Every remaining life. Slowly."
He turned and left.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Crushing.
The eldest Namekian emerged, leaning on his staff.
"This moment," he said softly, "is what we feared."
Vegeta crossed his arms.
The elder nodded. "There is a state. Older than transformations. Older than rage."
Broly felt something shift in the air.
"We call it Flow," the elder said.
Piccolo's eyes widened slightly. "I've… felt something like that. Once."
The elder continued:
"Flow erases all raw, untapped strength. No excess. No overflow. Only what you need—when you need it."
Vegeta's eyes narrowed. "A controlled limit-break."
"No," the elder corrected. "The absence of limits."
Broly whispered, "What's the cost?"
The elder's voice softened.
"To enter Flow, one must stand in pure desperation.
The certainty that if you fail, everything ends."
Lightning flickered faintly in the elder's eyes.
"When Flow awakens," he said, "your power no longer roars."
The elders formed a wide circle.
Stone hummed softly beneath Vegeta and Broly's feet as ancient Namekian energy rose—not forceful, not violent, but demanding honesty.
"Do not reach," the elder said. "Do not resist. Let desperation come to you."
Vegeta closed his eyes.
Broly followed.
At first—nothing.
Vegeta's ki was perfect. Too perfect.
Balanced. Disciplined. Controlled down to the finest thread.
But the lightning the elders spoke of never came.
Vegeta opened his eyes in frustration. "This is pointless. I feel nothing."
The elder's gaze was gentle—but firm. "Because you are not desperate, Prince of Saiyans. You still believe you can win."
Broly's breathing grew uneven. His power stirred—but again, it stopped short. Not rage. Not fear. Just restrain.
"I don't want to lose control," Broly said quietly.
"And so you hold back," the elder replied. "Flow cannot be forced. It comes when there is no choice left."
The circle dimmed.
The ritual failed.
The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.
Piccolo exhaled slowly. "They're close."
Vegeta felt it then—multiple ki signatures surging without restraint.
Not scouting.
Not observing.
ATTACKING!
The first blast struck the mountain above them.
Stone collapsed. Light flooded the cavern as Frieza Force ships descended in force—dozens now, firing indiscriminately.
Namekians screamed.
Broly's heart slammed in his chest.
Vegeta shouted, "DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!"
Piccolo moved instantly, barriers snapping into place—but they were being pounded.
A blast slipped through.
A child cried out.
Something inside Broly cracked.
Not rage.
Not hatred.
Fear.
Real, honest fear.
If I fail, everyone dies.
Broly stepped forward.
"I can't—" His voice broke. "I can't let this happen again."
His suppressed ki didn't explode.
It collapsed inward.
The world went quiet.
Broly's aura vanished.
Completely.
For a heartbeat, Vegeta thought he'd lost him.
Then—
Lightning traced silently across Broly's eyes.
Not green.
White.
Controlled. Sharp. A living current.
His power wasn't roaring anymore.
The elder whispered, awestruck, "Flow…"
Broly moved.
Blasts froze midair—redirected, not destroyed. Soldiers fell without knowing how they were hit. No wasted movement. No excess force.
Vegeta stared.
"He erased his overflow," Piccolo said quietly. "Every action… exact."
Broly turned back once.
"Vegeta," he said calmly. "I see everything."
The sky darkened.
Two massive ships descended—larger, darker.
A familiar voice echoed across the battlefield, amplified and mocking:
"Well, well… look at them dance."
On the main ship's viewport sat Frieza, relaxed, laughing softly.
"Monkeys fighting over scraps," he purred.
Beside him stood another commander—taller than Vaelor, armored in black and gold.
"Commander Valerios," Frieza said lazily, "relay the message."
Valerios activated a projection.
A battered figure appeared—bruised, restrained—
Kakarot.
Vegeta's blood ran cold.
Frieza smiled wider.
"Fight well," Frieza said, laughing. "Amuse me."
The transmission cut.