Maintaining the balance of the universe, safeguarding peace, punishing atrocities, and helping the weak—when all was said and done, wasn't that what every life form with power ought to do?
He raised his eyes slightly, and there was unexpectedly a glimmer of idealism in those scarlet eyes.
"I've always believed that strength is meant to protect others, not bully them. Those weak people who can't protect themselves need someone to lend them a hand even more. That is my creed."
Piccolo's brow furrowed tightly, the wrinkles on his forehead deep enough to crush a mosquito.
As he listened to these words that could practically be called a "declaration of justice," looked at the impeccably elegant figure before him, then recalled the crazed, cruel grin of Frieza in his memories—the way he treated lives like weeds—the intense contrast gripped his heart like an icy hand. It made him so uncomfortable that he almost felt nauseated.
Too perfect. Perfect enough to seem fake.
What exactly was hidden beneath that polished exterior?
The arena was bleak and desolate. The wind swept fine sand through the air, letting out a low, mournful howl.
Piccolo's green skin looked even darker beneath the dim light. With his arms folded, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing at his sleeve cuff, he stared at Frost with the unwavering gaze of a hawk.
Only after a long while did he finally speak in a low voice, each word weighted as though he had considered it for a long time. "You... really are different from Frieza."
There was a faint trace of hesitation at the end of his words, nearly inaudible in the dry air.
Frost did not rush to respond.
Elegantly, he raised a hand and brushed away dust from his chest that was not there, the corners of his mouth