Green Hat Tea

The midday sun scorched the sand with brutal heat, the air warped by high temperatures, distant objects seeming to tremble faintly.

Yamcha stood bare-chested, his bronze skin slick and glistening with oil.

Sweat traced rivulets along his muscle fibers, dripping onto the scorching sand and instantly evaporating into wisps of white steam.

"Wolf Fang... Fist Fist!!!"

With a wild, beastly roar, Yamcha's form blurred into a fleeting afterimage.

His hands curled into claws, fingertips tearing the air with sharp whistles, as he unleashed a storm of blows on the two-meter-tall granite boulder before him.

Thump thump thump thump!

The dull impacts drummed like a rapid beat.

Stone chips flew from the hard granite surface, gouging countless inch-deep furrows in mere seconds.

"Hah!"

With a final twist of his waist, Yamcha delivered a powerful spinning kick that slammed into the rock's midsection.

"Crack—boom!"

The boulder let out a mournful groan, splitting apart from the center into a pile of rubble of varying sizes.

"Huff... huff..."

Yamcha landed and steadied himself, his chest heaving violently like a worn-out bellows.

He wiped the sweat and limestone dust from his face, glancing at the broken stones with a flicker of barely concealed pride.

This kind of destructive power—a week ago, he wouldn't have dared to imagine it.

Was this the fruit of Turtle School training?

"Clap, clap, clap."

A sparse, utterly perfunctory round of applause came from the coconut tree nearby.

Yamcha whipped his head around, his eyes sharpening instantly.

Krillin was leaning against the trunk, holding a freshly picked coconut with a straw stuck in it, watching him with a leisurely expression.

He looked like a tourist watching a monkey jump through a flaming hoop at a circus.

"Not bad." Krillin took a sip of coconut milk, his tone airy.

"That rock's Mohs hardness is around 6. Smashing it means your instantaneous explosive force is at least 300 kilograms."

"As a warm-up, it's passable."

"Krillin!"

Yamcha gritted his teeth, his fists clenching unconsciously.

That infuriating sense of superiority—still so familiar.

"When did you get back?"

Yamcha asked coldly.

"I thought you'd either die in some pleasure den or not show your face until the Tournament."

"Just now."

Krillin straightened up, brushing the sand off his pants.

"You were so into your training, I didn't want to interrupt."

"After all, watching a 'lone wolf' take out his frustration on a rock is pretty amusing."

A vein pulsed on Yamcha's forehead.

He looked Krillin up and down.

The guy had spent a week in West City, yet there was no sign of him getting stronger.

No oppressive aura of a powerhouse—instead, he seemed more like an ordinary person.

Even the sharp energy of a Martial Artist had been completely subdued.

Except that bald head was even shinier...

Yamcha snorted, picking up his weighted vest and putting it on.

"The Tournament's about to start. You'd better pray you don't run into me in the match, or even Master Roshi won't be able to save you!"

"Relax."

Krillin tossed the empty coconut aside. The shell arced through the air and landed perfectly in a Trash Can dozens of meters away.

"You can't beat me!"

"Besides, this trip to West City—I went through some hellish training."

"Training?"

Yamcha eyed him suspiciously.

"What kind of high-tech training equipment did Bulma build for you?"

At the mention of Bulma, the corner of Krillin's mouth curled up into a knowing smile.

"That was just an appetizer."

Krillin walked slowly up to Yamcha and activated [Genius Intellect].

In his eyes, Yamcha's emotional fluctuations now looked like a violently undulating stock K-line chart, each peak representing jealousy and unease.

This was the perfect moment for a psychological blow.

"The real training was in the workshop."

Krillin deliberately lowered his voice, using a tone that only a man would understand.

"You know, Yamcha, making a battle suit is a very precise scientific job."

"To ensure the nanofibers fit perfectly, Bulma had to take exact measurements of every part of my body."

Yamcha's pupils suddenly contracted.

"Every part?" His voice came out dry.

"Yeah."

Krillin nodded, raising a finger to gesture at his own chest, waist, and inner thigh.

"Chest, waist, hips... even the expansion coefficient of my muscles when engorged with blood."

"She used that cool, soft measuring tape, pressing it bit by bit against my skin."

"Her workshop's AC was broken, it was hot—both of us were drenched in sweat..."

Krillin paused, as if savoring the memory, then added, "Oh, right. That citrus perfume she wears, mixed with just a hint of sweat... it was really... special."

Boom!

Yamcha felt like a volcano had erupted in his head.

As Bulma's ex-boyfriend, he knew that scene all too well.

A man and a woman alone, shut in a room, taking body measurements...

Reason?

What the hell was that?!

"You... you bastard!!"

Yamcha's eyes instantly flooded with blood. His once-handsome face twisted into something like a demon's.