The afternoon sun over West City burned with a metallic glare, refracting off towering glass skyscrapers and spilling onto the streets below.
Hovercars streamed along aerial lanes, their low hums blending together like the steady breathing of a vast mechanical organism.
But at the mouth of a narrow alley, the air felt different.
Heavy. Thick. Almost solid.
A bouquet of red roses, once vivid and full of life, now lay abandoned on a dusty concrete floor.
Several petals had scattered on impact, crimson against gray, like a shockingly vivid bloodstain.
Yamcha slowly removed his signature windproof sunglasses.
His eyes were bloodshot.
His gaze, like a rusted saw, locked onto Bulma's hand wrapped tightly around Krillin's arm.
Her pale fingers clutched his tanned forearm, knuckles faintly white from tension.
It was an instinctive gesture.
A subconscious search for protection.
And the arm she held onto was solid, powerful. Muscle lines rose and fell beneath the skin, catching the sunlight with a stone-like sheen that radiated oppressive strength.
"Are you out of your mind?"
Yamcha's voice clawed its way out of his throat, trembling with disbelief before curdling into fury.
The cross-shaped scar on his cheek twisted as his face contorted.
"Where did this shaved-headed nobody come from, acting so damn arrogant?"
He stepped forward, his presence sharpening instantly.
"Bulma, is this why you disappeared for days?"
"Looking for rare minerals, my ass. You were out finding a personal trainer?"
His eyes swept over Krillin with open disdain and jealousy.
He had to admit it.
The bald man's physique was absurdly perfect, like a sculpture carved straight out of ancient marble.
But to a real martial artist, muscles like that were just decoration.
Dead muscle and true ki existed on completely different levels.
"Yamcha! Watch your mouth!"
Bulma exploded.
Her brows snapped upward as she released Krillin's arm and took a step forward.
"Just because your thoughts are filthy doesn't mean everyone else is like you!"
"This is Krillin. We just got back from training with Master Roshi!"
"Krillin?"
Yamcha froze for a split second.
Then he burst out laughing.
Loud. Harsh. Overdone.
He bent at the waist, even wiping at the corner of his eye as if tears were forming.
"Bulma, if you're going to lie, at least make it believable. Do you think I'm blind or stupid?"
He jabbed a finger toward the man who stood half a head taller than him, nearly poking Krillin in the face.
"That noseless little runt barely reached my belt. This guy?"
He exaggerated the height difference with a mocking gesture.
"You're telling me that shiny egg fermented for a few days and came back taller, wider, and fully remodeled?"
"Other than being bald and noseless, what part of him looks like Krillin?"
Krillin did not respond.
He stood there calmly, hands tucked into the pockets of his orange gi, eyes as still and deep as an ancient well.
This calm was not weakness.
It was absolute superiority.
At the edge of his vision, a pale blue system interface flickered to life.
[Ding. Host has encountered provocation from a former romantic rival.]
[Emergency Mission Triggered: A Man's Dignity.]
[Mission Objective: Yamcha is openly questioning your identity and insulting your chosen partner. This is not merely about proof, but about territorial dominance. Defeat Yamcha psychologically and physically without killing or permanently injuring him.]
[Restriction: Host's current power output is excessively high. Precision Control Mode is mandatory. Warning: a single misjudged strike may result in Yamcha becoming abstract wall art. Proceed carefully.]
[Reward: All Attributes +100. Significant increase in Bulma's affection.]
Krillin sighed inwardly.
The restriction was the hardest part.
The old him would have needed effort, tactics, maybe even luck.
But now, after integrating Saitama's growth template, his power expanded exponentially.
Controlling it with needle-level precision felt harder than lifting a mountain.
"Long time no see, Yamcha."
Krillin finally spoke.
His voice was low, steady, casual. The tone of an old acquaintance, not an enemy.
He stepped forward, placing himself fully between Yamcha and Bulma.
His broad back blocked the sunlight completely, casting Bulma into a cool, protective shadow.
"Where's Puar?"
"That cat's usually glued to your side."
"Still sick?"
"Or helping you delete other girls' numbers from your contact list so you can come here and play the loyal boyfriend?"
Krillin's words were mild.
The effect was not.
Yamcha's laughter died instantly.
His pupils shrank.
His face drained of color.
That secret.
Puar deleting records.
Only the two of them knew.
Not even their closest teammates had ever found out.
"How… how do you know that?"
His voice cracked.
Panic shattered his momentum.
But pride kicked in immediately.
"You bastard! What nonsense are you spewing!"
"I don't care who you are. Knowing my name and acting this cocky in West City means you're done!"
"I am Krillin."
Krillin pointed at his gleaming bald head, then at his very obvious lack of a nose.
He smiled helplessly.
"I just grew a bit taller. Got a little better looking. That hard to recognize?"
The words landed precisely where they hurt most.
Yamcha stared.
No nose.
The facial structure.
That faint, familiar lazy undertone in his expression.
It overlapped perfectly with memory.
But it made no sense.
That cowardly, insecure, woman-complaining little bald monk could not possibly possess this kind of pressure.
And worse than that…
The way Bulma was looking at him.
Yamcha knew that look.
She wore it when she saw rare gems.
When she discovered groundbreaking technology.
Curiosity. Admiration. Trust.
Things he had never truly earned.
Jealousy and panic flooded his reason.
"I don't believe it!"
Yamcha dropped into his classic stance.
Hands clawed, knees bent, like a wolf ready to pounce.
White ki exploded outward, blasting dust from the ground.
"Krillin could never have this presence!"
"If you want to die, I'll grant your wish!"
The shockwave sent Bulma's hair fluttering.
She instinctively called out, "Krillin! Be careful!"
But she didn't step forward.
Instead, she hugged her capsule case and retreated obediently to the wall.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Only a suppressed, almost feverish excitement.
The instinctive thrill of watching a powerful man fight for her.
"Bulma, step back a little," Krillin said without turning his head.
"Wouldn't want your dress getting dirty."
He rolled his wrist.
His neck cracked once.
Then he looked at Yamcha.
"Relax. I'll control the force."
That calm sentence snapped Yamcha's sanity in half.
"Arrogant!"
With a roar, Yamcha kicked off the ground.
Concrete exploded beneath his feet.
His body blurred into a gray afterimage, tearing through the air straight toward Krillin.