He did not question the inferiority of his brother and father, at least relative to himself.  However, their species, the Changelings—including the two departed, the most frail genetic anomaly, and all the rest—tended to quit functioning only after a monumental stalemate in an epic battle demolecularized in favor of their opponent, which happened to be far from the situation that deleted Freiza and Cold—the Saiya-jin vandal had dispatched them with, according to every report he had obtained, the most minute of exertions possible.

    The knowledge infuriated him to the brink of rampaging through the nearest star system and reintroducing the Corpse Nebula to that region of space, but it also sedated him so severely that immobility confined him to his throne.  The two opposing extremes of the spectrum performed their entrancing dance in his mind, bringing about the benefit of temporary continuance of living to most of the universe’s creatures but conversely nourishing the malefit of encasing the genocidal tendencies in a damp paper cage.  He accepted that his contempt for the peon would vanquish his cares, but he demanded it not storm through the known void prior to receiving the arguments against a blind massacre.

    These affairs transpired within the concrete opaqueness of his mind, insuring that any observer would not crumple in a spontaneous crossfire, but the observers were not ignorant of what the Emperor was, at least generally, thinking about; his eyes did not succumb to any hampering of lucidity, so they quickly dispatched the entirety of his court—and through terrified communications, most of his empire—into improvised and designated areas of safety—which would offer minimal protection from an unthinkably enraged Changeling physically but offered a significant amount of mental pacification for the subjects—with the implicit horrors of the rage-fear hybrid gestating in the thunderstorm of his brain waves.

    The tacit monster ripped from Terror-sei by the hulking gravity of intense pondering was poised to pounce from its sedateness and viciously maul, but its father—during one of the most mentally-intense weeks he had experienced in quite a long time—brokered a treaty with it rather than approving its ravaging unconditionally: the monster would make the accursed Saiya-jin vandal’s blood trickle through all the rivers known to Koola, but only with strict adherence to mandated caution, and in exchange the monster would be selectively immune to Koola’s Resolution, which Koola probably wouldn’t have withheld if the monster had refused to cooperate.

    The court and the rest of Koola’s underlings, upon learning of the amicable agreement, compelled themselves with desires of maintaining the delicate balance, and thus not provoking premature Armageddon, to return to their Emperor’s presence and assure him that his decision would supersaturate him with the sweetest pleasures extreme revenge could offer.  Upon learning that Koola’s meditations brought him to the determination, via the brokered treaty via the monster’s imploring, that the whole of his empire would personally savor the carnage, the court reveled and dreamt that night of the magnificent Hell he would subject the imperial criminal and all his world to.  The uncivil brute would dearly pay for the assassination of their Highnesses.  Upon learning shortly thereafter that he meant by that declaration that he would physically be migrating the whole of the empire’s population to the event—for the monster’s personal pleasure—the court proclaimed their infinite love for their leader and the honorable thrill it would be to watch him extract the murderer’s heart bare-handed, avenging the fallen leaders so loved and mourned.

    His adrenal urges to shed the shackles of planning and kill the Saiya-jin with fury alone failed to perturb the titanic mental dam he had erected to contain such impulses and therefore remain focused.  The monster was not protesting his isolation; rather, Koola’s mental council was protesting his refusal to respond with a swift thrashing.  He was the Emperor, though, and the council was thus subordinate, meaning he did not have to yield to its every outcry.

    He was confident of a cautiously savage victory, but not too proud to consider that his victim might mangle him first, or worse.  His underlings subscribed to a different opinion: Koola would prolong the agony he would intimate the Saiya-jin with to such a length that no other violence would ever exceed it, and subsequently, as they all raised their war banners and prepared to board the flagships for Earth, they were giddy with anticipation, any thoughts of failure absolutely alien to them.

    By the millions and with no reluctance, the inhabitants of the seventy-four inhabited planets under Koola’s rule—that at some point or another had forfeited their governmental freedom to him with all the regrets the vanquished express upon defeat—enthusiastically crammed themselves into the galactic transports—vessels that commonly dwarfed the continents on which they perched—eager to be graced with the privilege of bearing witness to the Emperor in battle and, elating the masses much more, the honor of personally watching their beloved leaders’ deaths be righted.

    The fleet advanced towards the target to the beating of a whole people’s war drums—their bloodthirsty hearts.  As they crossed the boundary into the empire that should have been his, which was in the tempest of chaos, he assimilated the rioters into his caravan without the slightest objection to compliance, for they craved revenge, as well as feared refusing him, and his parade doubled in size.

    They arrived shortly thereafter, having, strangely, encountered no obstructions.