Yamcha was fast.
As one of the main frontline fighters in Dragon Ball's early era, the former desert bandit possessed a rare blend of feral instinct and explosive agility.
Fueled by rage, he exceeded his usual limits.
"Wolf Fang Fist!"
With that signature roar, the air itself seemed to echo with a shrill wolf's howl.
Countless fist afterimages poured down like a torrential storm.
Each strike carried white ki, sealing off every possible angle of evasion around Krillin.
Speed and brutality were the essence of the technique.
Once caught in its rhythm, an opponent would be torn apart like prey surrounded by wolves, until exhaustion claimed them.
Pedestrians screamed and scattered in panic.
A few braver onlookers hid behind shop windows in the distance, some even pulling out cameras.
Yet at the heart of the storm, Krillin seemed to stand in a different world altogether.
To him, Yamcha's movements were not fast.
They were almost comically slow.
Like watching a recording played back at one-fifth speed.
Yamcha's twisted expression, the tension of each muscle fiber, even a bead of sweat flinging off his forehead were all perfectly clear.
"So this is the gap," Krillin thought, mildly disappointed.
He did not move his feet.
He did not even remove his hands from his pockets.
A straight punch tore past his left ear, the wind pressure slicing through empty air.
A sharp sweeping kick skimmed past his forehead, the gust making his eyelashes tremble.
Every strike missed by a hair.
Each dodge was minimal, precise to an absurd degree.
A slight tilt. A subtle shift. A calm lean aside.
Like a willow in a storm, bending with the wind yet never breaking.
"How is this possible?"
Cold sweat poured down Yamcha's face as his shock grew.
His fists clearly brushed Krillin's gi.
He could feel the heat of Krillin's body.
And yet, nothing landed.
It felt like attacking a cloud of smoke, every ounce of force vanishing into emptiness.
"Too slow," Krillin said calmly, his voice low enough that only Yamcha could hear.
"Your left leg is unstable. Your center of gravity is too high."
"Your foundation is floating. Is this really all you have?"
That detached critique cut deeper than any slap.
"Shut up! Shut up!"
Yamcha's eyes turned bloodshot, humiliation flushing his face dark red.
He could not accept this.
The bald monk he once looked down on was now lecturing him like a senior correcting a junior.
"Wolf Fang Fist, Revised!"
He burned his ki recklessly, forcing his speed up another thirty percent.
The fist shadows thickened into a solid wall, crushing forward with suffocating pressure.
"That's a little better," Krillin said.
For the first time, he removed one hand from his pocket.
A system warning flashed crimson in his vision.
[Enemy attack intensity approaching dangerous threshold for civilians. Recommended counterforce: below 0.5 percent. Warning. Exceeding this may cause irreversible injury.]
Half a percent.
Krillin frowned slightly.
This level of micro-control was brutal.
He had to compress, fold, and compress again power capable of leveling mountains until it was no stronger than a normal shove.
As the incoming attack blurred beyond clear visibility, Krillin raised a single finger.
His index finger.
No ki blast. No elaborate technique.
Just one finger.
Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
A rapid series of crisp, metallic sounds exploded through the alley.
From a distance, Bulma stared in disbelief, nearly dropping her capsule case.
Yamcha attacked like a rabid beast, fists moving too fast to track.
Krillin stood rooted in place.
With only his right index finger, he traced subtle, almost mystical arcs through the air.
Each tap landed with terrifying accuracy on Yamcha's knuckles, wrists, and elbows.
That single finger became an impassable chasm.
"It hurts!"
Yamcha felt like his hands were about to shatter.
Every collision felt like punching a solid steel pillar.
The rebound numbed his entire arm, his bones screaming in protest.
"Is that finger made of metal?"
Terror flooded his heart.
There was no ki surge.
No visible force.
And yet the hardness was inhuman.
"Had enough?"
Krillin's voice cooled, the air around them seeming to drop a few degrees.
He caught the instant when Yamcha's old momentum died and new power had not yet formed.
The defensive finger moved forward.
Lightly.
Straight to the forehead.
Thud.
Krillin used about half a percent of his strength.
For Yamcha, it was like being struck head-on by a sledgehammer.
Time froze.
Yamcha's charging body halted abruptly, eyes bulging as pain twisted his face.
Then the impact exploded outward.
He flew backward like a snapped kite, boots screeching across concrete and carving two deep grooves.
After sliding more than ten meters, he crashed into a massive metal trash bin at the alley entrance.
Rotting scraps and foul-smelling waste spilled over him in a filthy avalanche.
Silence.
Only the rustle of wind through garbage.
"So strong," Bulma whispered, hands covering her mouth.
This was not a fight between equals.
It was punishment.
Divine discipline.
A master correcting a reckless child.
That absolute control, that effortless composure, filled Bulma with an overwhelming sense of safety.
She once found Yamcha's rebellious charm attractive.
Now it seemed shallow and childish beside Krillin's overwhelming presence.
[Ding. Bulma's affection has increased.]
[Current Affection Level: Infatuated, 85 out of 100.]
[Evaluation: Strength attracts. That single finger not only sent away your rival, it opened the goddess's heart. Full marks.]
Krillin ignored the system and walked toward the trash heap.
Yamcha crawled out, drenched in filth.
His prized long hair was matted with grime. His expensive jacket was ruined.
Yet the fire in his eyes burned even brighter from shame.
"I don't believe it. I won't believe it!"
He staggered upright, gathering ki between his palms.
Bulma's face drained of color.
"That's the Kamehameha! Yamcha, are you insane?"
"This is a residential area. You'll destroy the whole street!"
"I don't care!"
"If you dare humiliate me like this, we die together!"
He poured every last drop of ki into the attack.
"Kamehameha!"
A thick blue beam roared forward, wide enough to erase a five-story building.
Krillin stopped walking and sighed softly.
"Still so reckless. Uncontrolled power only hurts the innocent."
He did not dodge.
He raised his right hand, fingers spread, palm forward.
No ki flare. Only pure physical strength.
The beam slammed into his palm with a thunderous explosion.
Krillin's arm did not even tremble.
The energy wave stalled like water against an ancient reef.
"That's all?" Krillin said quietly.
He clenched his fingers.
Pop.
Like crushing a soap bubble.
The beam shattered into sparkling blue fragments that glittered briefly in the sunlight before fading away.
Bare-handed.
Crushing a ki blast.
Yamcha froze, palms still extended.
His pupils shrank to pinpoints.
All rage drained into pure terror.
This was no longer martial arts.
It was something beyond comprehension.
Krillin brushed dust from his hand and stepped into Yamcha's shadow.
He looked down at him, eyes calm.
No mockery.
No anger.
Only quiet finality.
"You've gotten weaker, Yamcha."
The words struck like a hammer to the chest.
Yamcha slid down the cold wall and collapsed, gasping not from exhaustion, but from crushing emptiness.
Krillin was a mountain he could not cross.
"It's not that I'm stronger," Krillin said, crouching to meet his gaze.
"It's that your heart is full of distractions."
"Fame. Sports. Romance. Applause."
"Martial arts is honest."
"You lie to it, and it lies to you."
"When was the last time you lost sleep over a move you couldn't perfect?"
"When was the last time you felt the pain of breaking your limits?"
Each question pierced deep.
Yamcha could not answer.
He remembered the boy who trained Wolf Fang Fist in the wilderness just to survive.
The fighter who entered his first tournament with burning eyes.
Back then, he was weak, but he had light.
Now there was only murky desire.
Krillin picked up the ruined bouquet.
Only bare stems remained.
He placed it gently on Yamcha's knees.
"It's wilted, but you bought it."
"Take it back. Give it to Puar if nothing else."
"But as you are now, you don't deserve Bulma."
"And you don't deserve this flower."
Krillin stood and walked away.
He approached Bulma, sunlight stretching his shadow long and steady.
"Let's go. I'm hungry."
He extended his hand.
Bulma looked at him, seeing the bearing of a true master.
She took his hand without hesitation.
It was large, warm, calloused from relentless training.
Real.
They walked out of the alley together, their silhouettes edged in gold.
Yamcha remained seated, staring after them.
The image of Krillin crushing the Kamehameha replayed endlessly in his mind.
The gap was too vast.
So vast that jealousy itself felt ridiculous.
"Damn it," he growled, slamming his fist into the ground.
Blood ran from his knuckles.
"Martial arts is honest," he muttered, staring at the bare rose stems.
"I lost. Completely."
He rose unsteadily and looked once more toward the direction of Capsule Corporation, Bulma's home.
The restlessness and vanity in his eyes faded, replaced by grim resolve.
"Wait for me, Krillin."
"I'm done with baseball."
"I'm going to the Turtle Hermit's place."
"If I don't train this laziness out of my bones, if I don't repay that single finger, then I really will be nothing but a joke."
The wind carried his words away as he walked in the opposite direction, steps unsteady but growing firmer with each stride.