In the afternoon in West City, the sunlight carried a metallic heat, reflecting off the glass curtain walls that towered into the clouds and down onto the streets below.
Hovercars zipped along aerial tracks, their humming like the steady breathing of this massive mechanical city.
At the mouth of the alley, however, the air seemed to have solidified into gel—heavy, suffocating.
A bouquet of once-vibrant red roses now lay quietly on the dusty concrete ground.
Several petals had scattered from the impact, looking disturbingly like a pool of blood.
Yamcha removed his signature windproof sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes.
His gaze, like a rusty saw, locked firmly onto Bulma's arm wrapped around Krillin's.
Her fair, delicate fingers gripped Krillin's bronze forearm tightly, the tips turning white from the pressure.
It was a subconscious, protective gesture.
Meanwhile, the bulging muscle lines of Krillin's arm gleamed in the sunlight like sculpted stone, radiating heart-pounding strength.
"Brain issues???" Yamcha's voice forced its way out from deep in his throat, trembling with disbelief before twisting into absurd fury.
The cross-shaped scar on his cheek warped as his facial muscles twitched, making him look particularly vicious.
"Where did this stray bald guy come from? You've got quite a big mouth."
Yamcha let out a laugh born of pure anger and stepped forward, his aura sharpening instantly.
"Bulma, is this why you've been missing for several days?"
"Your so-called search for rare ore was actually to find a... fitness coach?"
His gaze brimmed with contempt and jealousy as it scanned Krillin from head to toe like a spotlight.
He had to admit, though, the bald man's physique was as perfect as an ancient Greek sculpture.
But in the eyes of a true martial artist, a body built from lifting weights alone was nothing more than decorative fluff.
Dead muscle and true Qi existed on completely different levels.
"Yamcha! Watch your mouth!" Bulma snapped immediately, her brows arching sharply.
She released Krillin's arm and stepped forward, ready to argue.
"Just because your own mind is filthy doesn't mean everyone else is like you!"
"He's Krillin! We just got back from Master Roshi's place!"
"Krillin?"
Yamcha looked as if he'd just heard the joke of the century.
He froze for a moment before bursting into exaggerated, ear-piercing laughter.
He bent over from laughing so hard, even pretending to wipe nonexistent tears from his eyes.
"Ha! Bulma, if you're going to lie, at least write a believable script! Do you think I'm blind or stupid?"
He jabbed a finger toward the man standing half a head taller than him, nearly poking Krillin's nose.
"That hairless shorty Krillin barely reached my belt! This guy?"
He gestured dramatically to emphasize the height difference, his tone dripping with mockery.
"You expect me to believe that after not seeing him for a few days, that braised egg somehow fermented, expanded, and got full-body plastic surgery?
Aside from both being bald and having no nose, how does this guy look like Krillin?"
Through Yamcha's barrage of insults, Krillin remained silent.
He stood calmly with his hands in the pockets of his orange martial arts uniform, his eyes as still as an ancient well.
This wasn't cowardice.
It was the composure of someone standing far above his opponent.
In the corner of his vision, the pale blue System screen flickered cheerfully.
[Ding! Detected that the Host is facing provocation from an "ex".]
[Emergency Mission Triggered: A Man's Dignity.]
[Mission Description: Yamcha has expressed strong doubts about your identity and spoken rudely to your goddess. This is not merely proof of identity, but a struggle for male territory. Please completely crush Yamcha's self-confidence without killing or maiming him.]
[Mission Restriction: The Host's current strength is too powerful and contains many uncontrollable factors. You must activate "Precision Control" mode. Warning: One punch may turn Yamcha into abstract art on a wall. Please proceed with caution.]
[Mission Reward: All attributes +10. Bulma's favorability greatly increased.]
Krillin sighed inwardly when he saw the "no maiming" restriction.
That was the hard part.
If this were the old Krillin, he might have needed to go all out—or even use strategy—to deal with Yamcha.
But after fusing with the Saitama template, his strength had grown exponentially.
Controlling his power precisely under such overwhelming force was harder than carrying a mountain.
"Yamcha, long time no see," Krillin finally said, his voice low and steady, casual like greeting an old acquaintance, without a trace of anger.
He stepped forward, fully shielding Bulma behind his broad back, blocking out the sunlight and casting her in cool shade.
"Where's Puar? Isn't that little guy always following you like a shadow?"
"Still sick?"
"Or is he busy deleting other girls' numbers from your contacts so you can come here and act like a devoted boyfriend?"
His tone remained calm.
Yamcha's laughter stopped abruptly, as if sliced apart by invisible scissors.
His pupils shrank, and his face drained of color.
That secret—Puar helping him delete contact records—was known only to him and Puar.
Not even their closest friends knew.
"You... how do you know?" Yamcha's voice cracked, panic shattering his aura in an instant.
He quickly realized he couldn't admit it.
"Bastard! What nonsense are you spouting!" he roared in embarrassment.
"No matter who you are, since you know my name and still dare to act arrogant in West City, you're asking for trouble!"
"I am Krillin," Krillin replied, pointing at his gleaming bald head, then to his face, which indeed had no nose.
He smiled helplessly.
"Aside from getting a little taller and a little more handsome, is it really that hard to recognize me?"
The words struck directly at Yamcha's pride.
Yamcha stared at that face.
No nose. Familiar features. That occasional laid-back aura.
It overlapped perfectly with the Krillin in his memory.
But how was that possible?
That timid, unlucky little bald guy who constantly complained about women—how could he now radiate such suffocating pressure?
And more importantly, the way Bulma looked at him...
Yamcha knew that look well.
It was the same expression Bulma wore when she saw rare gems or cutting-edge technology.
Curiosity.
Admiration.
Dependence.
It was a gaze Yamcha, her boyfriend, had never truly received.
Jealousy and crisis drowned his reason instantly.
"I don't believe it!"
Yamcha dropped into his classic stance, hands shaped like claws, body crouched low like a wolf preparing to strike.
White Qi erupted from him, stirring dust into the air.
"That trash Krillin could never have this kind of presence!"
"Since you're looking to die, I'll grant your wish!"
The violent wind whipped Bulma's hair wildly.
She instinctively moved to pull Krillin back.
"Krillin! Be careful!"
Though she voiced concern, she didn't step in to stop him.
Instead, clutching her capsule case, she retreated obediently to the corner.
Her large azure eyes showed no fear.
Only concealed, almost feverish excitement.
It was the instinctive thrill of watching a powerful man fight for her.
"Bulma, step back so your dress doesn't get dirty," Krillin said without turning around, casually waving his hand.
He cracked his wrists, his neck producing a crisp snap.
Then he looked at Yamcha and said, "Don't worry, I'll control my strength."
That nonchalant sentence shattered the last thread of Yamcha's restraint.
"Arrogant!!!"
With a furious roar, the concrete beneath Yamcha's feet exploded.
His body became a gray afterimage, tearing through the air as he lunged straight at Krillin.