Frieza reined in his golden glow and descended from midair onto the ice, his feet cracking a ring of fine fissures across its surface. He straightened up, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and looked Goku over from head to toe before returning his gaze to his face. Goku stood dozens of meters away with his hands at his sides, looking perfectly at ease.
Since the fight began, Frieza had attacked over thirty times. Of those strikes, only two or three had even touched the edge of his opponent's clothes; the rest had hit nothing but air. He had trained in secret for over a year to attain this Golden form, his ultimate trump card, and had brought out everything he had today—yet Son Goku looked as though nothing had happened. He had never conceded defeat to anyone in his life. He had fought his way to the position of Emperor of the Universe himself, crushing one self-important powerhouse after another beneath his feet across the galaxy. But in this battle, he had never once found the limits of Son Goku's red-haired form.
He opened his mouth, his throat bobbing twice, yet not a sound could be heard across the ice. The wind swept in, carrying the fishy scent of seawater. Not a single soldier in the distance dared move. The faint curve at Frieza's lips remained, but it gradually sagged until nothing was left. His eyelids lowered with it. He clenched his fists tight, then slowly loosened them finger by finger. The tip of his tail swept back and forth across the ice, leaving a shallow mark.
Should he admit defeat? If word got out, it would mean admitting before all these subordinates and enemies that he was inferior. The Emperor of the Universe's pride and