Dyspo wasn't particularly powerful—his strength ranked near the bottom among Universe Eleven's remaining fighters. But his speed was exceptional, and he'd used that velocity to keep Frieza on the defensive, landing hit after hit before the tyrant could retaliate.
But the moment Dyspo hesitated—stunned by Jiren's predicament—Frieza seized the opening with predatory precision.
The golden emperor grabbed Dyspo's leg and yanked, pulling the rabbit warrior toward him with brutal force. Before Dyspo could recover, Frieza's fists began falling like hammers, each impact accompanied by sickening crunches. The tyrant's face twisted with savage satisfaction as he unleashed all his accumulated frustration.
Meanwhile, Hit moved with renewed confidence. He'd trapped Jiren in the Time Prison—his ultimate technique, the culmination of a thousand years of assassination mastery. Now came the execution.
Jiren's every movement had become glacially slow, as if someone had reduced reality's playback speed to a crawl. Each motion took an eternity to complete—arm raising, head turning, foot shifting. Hit circled the frozen warrior like a predator around helpless prey, unleashing a storm of attacks from every angle.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Dozens of strikes landed in rapid succession—knees, elbows, fists, kicks. A merciless combination that would have pulverized anyone else.
"Amazing!" Goku watched with wide eyes, genuine awe coloring his voice. "If Hit had used that technique on me... I wouldn't have stood a chance."
The assassin truly deserved his legendary reputation.
"HAHA! HIT'S GOING TO WIN!" Champa leaped to his feet, pumping both fists. "THAT'S MY ACE! THAT'S UNIVERSE SIX'S FINEST!"
Just moments ago, Hit had seemed outmatched, forcing Champa to sweat through every exchange. But now—seeing victory within grasp, watching Jiren trapped and helpless—how could the God of Destruction contain his excitement?
Universe Eleven's deity glanced at Champa with undisguised contempt. A knowing smile played across his features. "You're jumping to conclusions. Jiren would never fall to such a simple trick." His tone carried absolute certainty. "That assassin is strong, I'll grant you. But compared to Jiren? They're not even in the same dimension of power."
He reclined in his seat, crossing one leg over the other—the picture of relaxed confidence.
On the battlefield, the scene appeared one-sided. Hit dominated completely, suppressing Jiren with relentless assault, pouring every ounce of skill and strength into maintaining the offensive. His spirit soared. This was it—one sustained push would send Jiren off the stage, securing Universe Six's survival—
"That's enough."
The indifferent voice cut through Hit's excitement like a knife through silk. Ice water seemed to pour down his spine.
Hit's eyes widened in horror. Jiren's figure before him appeared to grow, expanding beyond the constraints of frozen time. And his arm—his arm was moving, rising toward Hit despite the Time Prison's restrictions.
Impossible. There's no way Jiren can break through frozen time!
Hit believed in his technique—had faith in his abilities honed over a millennium. He was faster than Jiren, more skilled, more experienced. He launched another attack, determined to strike first—
Time-Skip! Time-Skip! Time-Skip!
He activated the technique in rapid succession, pushing his speed to levels that transcended mortal perception. All his strength concentrated into a single point. The ultimate blow—
"AAAHHH!"
BOOOOOM.
The World of Void shook.
A figure flew backward, sailing over the arena's edge and plummeting into the infinite darkness below.
Everyone froze in shock.
It wasn't Jiren.
It was Hit.
The assassin who'd struck first, who possessed Time-Skip acceleration, who'd imprisoned Jiren in frozen time—he'd been a step too slow. Jiren stood with one fist raised high, as if declaring victory to the heavens.
He hadn't used tricks or techniques. Just raw, overwhelming power—brute force that shattered temporal manipulation like glass.
One force breaks ten thousand techniques. Power was everything.
Absolute silence gripped the spectators. Gods and mortals alike stood frozen, unable to process what they'd witnessed.
It took several seconds for Champa to react. When he did, his hands flew to his face, covering his expression of pure horror. A scream tore from his throat—anguished, desperate, broken.
In Universe Six's spectator section, Hit materialized. His head hung low, voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry..."
"YOU—!" Champa whirled on him, finger pointing accusingly. But then the God of Destruction's hand trembled and fell. "Forget it. You did your best."
Anyone facing Jiren would likely fare no better than Hit. The assassin had given everything—more than anyone could reasonably expect.
But that didn't change reality.
Universe Six was finished.
Cabba and Renso still survived on the battlefield, but they cowered behind rock formations, not daring to show themselves. Emerging now would just be presenting themselves for elimination. Every remaining fighter operated at levels far beyond Super Saiyan 2. They were hopelessly outclassed.
With Hit gone, they had nowhere to turn. Nothing to do but hide and pray.
After defeating Hit, Jiren began scanning for his next opponent. His eyes settled on Casserale—the Hell warrior who'd fought Hit earlier. The white-haired fighter's face went pale. He'd witnessed Jiren break through time itself. How could mere hellfire compete against that?
Then Dyspo's voice cut through the tension. "JIREN! HELP!"
The speedster was being brutalized by Frieza, blood streaming from his head, consciousness threatening to flee. Dyspo ranked as Universe Eleven's third-strongest fighter, but that meant nothing against Golden Frieza. The gap was simply too wide.
Jiren's attention shifted from Casserale to the golden tyrant. His body straightened, and he moved—
Frieza was in the middle of pummeling Dyspo, savoring revenge, when massive pressure slammed into his senses. His instincts screamed danger. He leaped backward immediately, golden boots skidding across the arena floor for dozens of meters before he could stop.
When he looked again, the source of pressure had vanished. Dyspo lay alone where he'd been—
"Go down."
The quiet voice spoke from behind him. In less than a heartbeat, Jiren had crossed the distance and repositioned himself. Before Frieza could even process the movement, an elbow drove into his spine.
Frieza's brain rattled inside his skull. His vision went white. For several seconds, he existed in pure sensory overload—no thoughts, no awareness, just pain and the sensation of flying through empty air.
He was falling toward the void—
A hand caught his collar and hauled him back onto solid ground.
"You again. Son Goku."
"Hey, no need to thank me!" Goku flashed his characteristic grin, settling Frieza across his shoulders like a sack of grain.
"Hmph." Frieza winced, his back screaming agony. "I wouldn't dream of thanking you. And it's pointless anyway—saving me won't change anything. We can't defeat that monster."
A single strike. That's all it had taken for Frieza to understand the gap.
When fighting Goku, competitive fire still burned. Even at a disadvantage, some part of Frieza's mind believed he could turn things around through effort or cunning. But facing Jiren? His mind went blank. There was no strategy, no opening, no hope. Just overwhelming, absolute superiority.
"I know how strong he is," Goku acknowledged, setting Frieza down. "But I think I can keep him busy for a while. When you see an opening—attack with everything you've got."
"Keep him busy?" Frieza's eyes widened. "What are you—"
Goku was already moving forward. White steam began rising from his body, ethereal light floating around him like mist or clouds. A ray of silver pierced through his pupils, and his azure hair shifted back to black—but different now, gleaming with an otherworldly sheen, as if coated in liquid starlight.
His entire presence had changed. The aura, the pressure, the fundamental essence of his being had transcended what it was moments before.
Jiren's expression shifted. For the first time since the tournament began, his face showed genuine seriousness.
The divine observers recognized the transformation immediately. Not long ago, Raditz had used this same technique during the Gods' Tournament—a display that had left lasting impressions.
Universe Eleven's deity felt his confident smile freeze. Tension crept into his features. "He... he can use that too?"
"A divine technique?" The god's voice carried notes of worry—the first hint of concern since the tournament began.
"Ultra Instinct?!" Beerus shot to his feet, shock and excitement warring across his features. "But he hasn't mastered it yet!"
"Correct, Lord Beerus." Whis's smile carried approval despite the circumstances. "Goku has only achieved half of the complete state—Ultra Instinct Sign, not the perfected form. He won't be able to maintain it for long."
"Then what's the point?!"
"However..." Whis's tone grew more serious. "If someone can support him, create openings, exploit Jiren's momentary vulnerabilities... there may be a chance."
"Only a chance?"
"Jiren operates at a level beyond typical mortal limits," Whis explained, his usual levity absent. "Even with Ultra Instinct Sign, whether Goku can endure the strain is questionable. This battle has gradually escalated to match the intensity of the Gods' Tournament itself."
Beerus fell silent, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the battlefield. Beside him, Supreme Kai Shin clasped his hands together in silent prayer, palms slick with nervous sweat.
Raditz's expression grew grave. His eyes tracked Goku's movements with laser focus as his hand reached up and removed the Potara earring from his ear.