They were safe. Frieza stared at the empty space where the Earthlings had been. His jaw went slack. “Impossible… without the dragon… without a ship…”
The Namekian sky, usually a serene green under twin suns, was now a bruised, apocalyptic violet. The planet groaned, its core mortally wounded by Frieza’s spiteful energy blast. In five minutes, Namek would be stardust.
Goku stood amid the rubble, his Super Saiyan hair a stark gold against the dying light. Across from him, Frieza—or what remained of him—trembled. Half his skull was missing, his tail severed, his body a patchwork of cuts and fury. But his eyes still burned with the arrogance of a tyrant who refused to understand defeat.
Goku had never met that elder. But he had saved Dende. He had protected the village. He had fought not for glory, but for his friends.
“What are you doing?” Frieza screamed, sensing the sudden drop in Goku’s energy. “You’re wasting your power!”
When the light faded, Namek was gone. And so were they. On the distant planet, Krillin wept. Gohan screamed for his father. Piccolo stood still, his gaze fixed on the empty sky.