Frieza descended alone.
No guards. No scouters. No witnesses.
The lowest depths of King Cold's former stronghold had been sealed long before Frieza's birth, buried beneath layers of adamantine and forgotten commands. Even the palace refused to acknowledge this place. The air itself felt wrong—thick, cold, and crawling, as though it resented being disturbed.
The walls were carved with inscriptions that were not written so much as wound into the stone. The symbols bent inward, bleeding shadows that twitched when he stared too long. Frieza's vision swam. His mind recoiled.
He could not read them.
Worse—They recognised him.
A low pressure wrapped around his skull, not a voice, but a presence—ancient, patient, amused.
Frieza growled, tail lashing.
No matter how relentlessly he trained, no matter how many planets screamed beneath his heel, his power had stagnated. His body had reached a ceiling that refused to break.
His fist tightened until bones creaked.
"Damn those monkeys…" he spat.
With a roar born of humiliation and rage, Frieza drove his fist into the floor.
The impact was catastrophic.
The ground imploded. The walls screamed as they collapsed inward, slabs of ancient stone torn apart like flesh. Dust and darkness billowed outward—then froze.
The chamber revealed itself.
Machines.
Not crude laboratories or cloning vats—altars of steel and flesh, vast containment pods rising in endless rows. Each one pulsed with restrained annihilation. Power readings spiked instantly: twenty-five million… fifty… seventy-five—layered, stacked, engineered.
Frieza's eyes widened.
Then his mouth split into a thin, delighted smile.
"Ohohohoho… so this is what you buried from me, Father."
But the laughter died in his throat.
Far below, the pods began to open.
The sun hung low over the Namekian refuge, painting the sky in bruised purples and reds. The wind rustled through the pale grass, carrying a hint of unease.
Piccolo stood silently, watching Vegeta and Broly square off. Today was their first real test of the new training—their first spar without relying on ki, without transformations, and without letting Final Oath take over.
Broly's fists moved like a storm, wide and unpredictable. Vegeta shifted like water, precise and calculating. Neither held back—but neither unleashed their full strength.
Piccolo projected illusions around them:
Twisted versions of themselves, attacking erratically.
Shifting terrain that forced constant adjustment.
Echoes of the battlefield they had fought against Frieza on Namek replayed in fragments.
At first, they stumbled. Broly swung too hard, throwing off Vegeta's timing. Vegeta reacted too rigidly, leaving himself exposed.
"Stop thinking as individuals!" Piccolo shouted. "You're stronger together than apart. Trust each other instinctively!"
Broly exhaled. His eyes met Vegeta's. Vegeta's jaw clenched, but he didn't look away. They adjusted, moving as one—blocking, dodging, striking—without words.
The illusions mirrored their unity perfectly, testing them relentlessly.
Broly ducked a low strike Vegeta couldn't react to on his own, countering instinctively. Vegeta deflected a spinning attack that hadn't even aimed at him, perfectly timed.
Piccolo allowed a small, approving nod. "Good… this is just the beginning."
After the spar, the three sat under the stone arch. Broly was still breathing heavily, Vegeta's chest rose and fell with measured effort, and Piccolo's eyes were sharp.
"You are learning restraint," Piccolo said. "But your training cannot end here."
A figure approached slowly—one of the Namekian elders, cloaked in white robes that shimmered faintly in the dying light. His eyes glowed a soft, eerie green, and he carried an aura of calm knowledge that seemed to stretch beyond the present.
"Vegeta. Broly," the elder said, voice echoing softly, as if speaking across time itself, "I see what you have accomplished… but it is not enough."
Vegeta frowned. "What do you mean?"
The elder's gaze pierced through both Saiyans. "Frieza is no longer what he was. He trains now in a time chamber—where one day can stretch into decades. By the time he emerges, he will be perfected. Every movement, every calculation, every weakness you exposed—he will have studied it. And he will exploit it."
Broly's fists tightened. "So what do we do?"
"You will follow him," the elder said gravely. "You will enter a time chamber of your own. You will endure, perfect yourselves, and train beyond the limits of flesh, mind, and spirit. Only then can you hope to survive him."
Vegeta's eyes narrowed. "A time chamber? Like… what he's doing?"
"Yes," the elder confirmed. "But remember this: The time chamber will test more than your strength. It will test your resolve, your bond, and the very nature of your control. If either of you falters, even for a moment…"
He let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but deadly.
"…you will die."
Broly's jaw tightened. "Then we don't falter."
Vegeta's green crackling eyes hardened, his fists clenching. "…We won't."
Piccolo exhaled. "Good. Then let's prepare. Time is no longer on your side."
The elder turned, his cloak flickering faintly like a ripple in reality.
"Remember… the Final Oath is still within you. It will tempt you, whispering that the only way to survive is through desperation. But if you succumb… You will destroy yourselves before Frieza ever arrives."
Broly and Vegeta exchanged a brief look.
"I won't let it control me again," Vegeta muttered.
Broly nodded, almost silently. "Neither will I."
The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the Namekian refuge bathed in shadow.