The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the beach, warping the air with heat so that distant objects seemed to shimmer.
Yamcha stood shirtless, his bronze skin glistening with oil and sweat.
Rivulets of sweat traced the contours of his muscles, dripping onto the scorching sand and instantly turning into thin wisps of steam.
"Wolf Fang… Fist of the Whirlwind!"
With a wild, feral roar, Yamcha blurred into a series of afterimages.
His hands formed claws, fingertips slicing through the air with sharp whistles, hammering the two-meter-high granite slab in front of him with a storm of force.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The dull impacts came in rapid succession like the beat of a drum.
Granite shards flew in all directions, and within seconds, countless deep grooves scored the rock.
"Haaa!"
Finally, Yamcha twisted his hips, delivering a heavy spinning kick to the center of the stone.
Crack… BOOM!
The boulder groaned, splitting in two, shattering into a pile of irregular fragments.
Huff… huff…
Yamcha landed, chest heaving like a worn bellows.
Wiping sweat and chalk dust from his face, he glanced at the broken stones on the sand, a trace of pride flickering in his eyes.
A week ago, he would never have imagined this kind of destructive power.
Was this the result of training in the Kame style?
Clap… clap… clap…
Sparse, half-hearted applause came from beneath a nearby coconut tree.
Yamcha whipped his head around, eyes sharpening immediately.
Krillin leaned against the trunk, sipping a freshly cut coconut with a straw, watching him with the calm curiosity of a spectator at a circus watching monkeys jump through rings of fire.
"Not bad."
Krillin took a leisurely sip of coconut water, his tone light.
"For a warm-up, it's… passable."
"Krillin!"
Yamcha ground his teeth, fists clenching.
That infuriating air of superiority so familiar was still there.
"When did you get back?" he demanded coldly.
"I thought even if you didn't get lost in pleasure, you'd wait until the tournament to show up."
"Just now," Krillin said, straightening, brushing sand off his pants.
"You were so focused, I didn't want to disturb you. Watching a lone wolf venting on a rock is… entertaining enough."
A vein twitched at Yamcha's temple.
He appraised Krillin carefully.
This guy had spent a week in West City, yet there was no trace of increased strength in his aura.
No oppressive energy of a true martial artist he felt more like an ordinary man.
Even that unique martial artist's presence, that refined energy, was subdued.
Except that bald head looked even shinier…
Hmph, Yamcha snorted, picking up his weighted vest and strapping it on.
"The tournament is about to start. Pray you don't run into me, or even Master Roshi won't save you!"
"Relax."
Krillin tossed the empty coconut aside. It arced perfectly through the air, landing in a trash bin dozens of meters away.
"You won't beat me!"
"And this trip to West City? I endured hellish training."
"Hellish training?"
Yamcha narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
"Did Bulma make some high-tech training equipment for you?"
At the mention of Bulma, Krillin's lips curved into a suggestive smile.
"That was just the appetizer."
He stepped closer to Yamcha, activating Genius Intellect.
In his eyes, Yamcha's emotional fluctuations mapped like a volatile stock chart, each peak representing jealousy and unease.
This was the perfect moment to psychologically strike.
"The real training was in the lab," Krillin said, lowering his voice to a tone only men would understand.
"Making a battle suit is very precise scientific work."
"To ensure the nanofiber fit perfectly, Bulma had to measure every single part of my body with exacting precision."
Yamcha's pupils constricted sharply.
"Every… part?" His voice was hoarse.
"Yes," Krillin nodded, tracing his chest, waist, and inner thighs with his fingers.
"Chest, waist, hips… even the expansion coefficient of muscles at full contraction."
"She used that cold soft tape, pressing it carefully against my skin."
"Her lab's air conditioning was broken it was hot. We both worked up a sweat…"
Krillin paused, savoring the memory, then added:
"Oh, and her citrus perfume, mixed with a little sweat… it was really… special."
Boom!
Yamcha felt as if a volcano had erupted in his brain.
Special…?
Had they really…?
He had been Bulma's ex-boyfriend, but she had never given him a chance to take that step.
Now this bald guy…
Alone together, intimate measurements…
Reason?
What was that?
"You… you bastard!"
Yamcha's eyes reddened instantly, his once-handsome face contorted like a demon's.
The fire of jealousy consumed all rational thought.
"I'll kill you!"
Without warning, Yamcha struck, hatred fueling his attack.
"New Wolf Fang Whirlwind Fist!"
This time, it was no training punch.
His speed hit the limit, air tearing with sharp, explosive sounds.
This punch, carrying his rage at a rival, surged straight toward Krillin's infuriatingly smug face.
Fast! Accurate! Relentless!
Half a year ago, Krillin would have rolled and dodged frantically.
But now…
Time seemed to slow.
[Alert: Hostile attack.]
[Analysis: Right fist aimed at face, 42 m/s. Left leg poised for sweep, center of gravity shifting.]
[Weakness: Armpit exposed, unstable stance, rigid movements due to emotional loss of control, dispersed power.]
[Solution: Step left 15 degrees, no counter needed, let attacker lose balance.]
Krillin didn't even raise a hand.
As Yamcha's fist came within a centimeter of his nose, his wind ruffling Krillin's eyelashes…
Krillin simply took a tiny step to the left, like stretching.
Just a tiny step.
Huff…
Yamcha's deadly punch struck nothing.
Momentum carried his body forward uncontrollably.
"What?!"
Yamcha panicked, trying to regain control.
But Krillin seemed to anticipate it, casually hooking his toe around Yamcha's ankle.
The hook landed at the exact moment when Yamcha's old force had run out and new power had yet to form.
Plop!
Yamcha tumbled face-first into the sand like a drunken fool, sliding two meters and swallowing a mouthful of grit.
Silence.
Deathly silence.
Yamcha lay there, mind blank.
What just happened?
He didn't even see Krillin move everything blurred, and then he hit the sand.
"So that's your training result?"
Krillin crouched, looking at Yamcha's sand-covered face. His tone was calm, devoid of mockery, almost despairing in its serenity.
"Yamcha, your mind is scattered."
"Going into battle with jealousy and rage… don't think you'd win against me, even against someone like Puar."
Yamcha lifted his head, looking at Krillin against the sun.
The bald head gleamed almost painfully in the light.
He realized the boy who once matched him blow for blow, and sometimes only won through tricks, now stood at a level he could not comprehend.
This gap wasn't in strength it was in mastery.
"Enough."
An old voice interrupted.
Master Roshi had quietly positioned himself between them, pipe in hand, thumping both their bald heads.
"Ouch!"
Yamcha yelped, clutching his head, tears forming.
"Losing isn't the shame, failing to accept loss is."
Roshi's gaze was stern.
"Losing your mind during a fight is the greatest mistake. If that were a life-or-death duel, you would have died ten times already."
He turned to glare at Krillin.
"And you! Stop spreading nonsense!"
"If you put that cleverness to good use, you'd already be on another level!"
Krillin feigned innocence.
"I didn't lie. Measurements were taken. It was hot. True facts."
Yamcha rose, spitting sand from his mouth.
Looking at Krillin, the anger faded, replaced by a complex mix of frustration and resignation.
"Hmph. This score will be settled at the tournament."
"I'm hungry. Let's eat."
Yamcha brushed the dust off and walked inside, shoulders slightly slumped.
Krillin watched his back and sighed softly.
"Forget it. You'll lose even harder then."