The air atop the Lookout was so thin it seemed almost frozen.
This was the pinnacle of Earth, a Sanctuary that only a select few ever set foot in.
Yet today, the atmosphere was tinged with the sorrow of parting... and a touch of absurdity.
Mr. Popo's usually expressionless black face was all scrunched up.
He wrung his hands, his round body swaying uneasily like a child about to be sent away to boarding school.
"Lord Kami... do you really have to go?"
Mr. Popo's voice was thick with tears.
"The Lower World is dangerous, and that Piccolo..."
Standing before him was an unremarkable-looking middle-aged man.
He had a receding hairline, graying hair at his temples, and a pair of thick-lensed glasses.
He wore a slightly shabby gray suit and looked like an ordinary office worker who might fall asleep on the train after working overtime, a bag of discounted radishes in hand.
The owner of this body was called "Mr. Shen," an utterly ordinary Earthling.
And now, the god of Earth resided within him.
"I have to go, Mr. Popo."
Kami spoke through Mr. Shen's vocal cords, his voice a little stiff and touched with an unfamiliar accent.
He raised a hand and tried moving the borrowed body.
"Crack."
His lower back gave a sharp pop.
"Ow..."
Kami clutched his back, his face contorted in pain.
"This body... is really in pretty poor shape."
"Just moving a little leaves my back aching, and the eyesight is ridiculously bad. Without these glasses, I'm practically blind."
He pushed his glasses back up his nose and gave a rueful smile.
King Piccolo's clone was about to enter the Tournament.
As a god, he couldn't directly interfere in mortal affairs.
Nor could he kill Piccolo, who was his "other half"; otherwise, he would disappear too.
The only option was to disguise himself, enter the Tournament, and seize an opportunity to seal Piccolo with the Evil Containment Wave.
"But..."
Tears were already welling in Mr. Popo's eyes.
"What if Lord Kami gets hurt? Mr. Popo would be so sad."
Kami stepped forward and awkwardly patted Mr. Popo on the head.
The gesture had come naturally with his old, aged body.
But with the appearance of a middle-aged office worker, it looked rather silly, like a salesman trying to comfort a customer.
"Thank you for taking care of me all these centuries, Mr. Popo."
There was a hint of relief in Kami's voice.
"Staying up here all the time, watching the people below live and die, has worn me out a little."
"Let's think of this trip down as a vacation."
"I'd also like to see for myself how much that boy Goku has grown."
As he spoke, Kami's gaze suddenly turned profound, fixing on some distant point in the Lower World.
"And that little bald fellow named Krillin..."
"Krillin?"
Mr. Popo tilted his head.
"That clever little guy?"
"Mm."
Kami nodded, his brow furrowing slightly.
"There's been a strange disturbance in the Lower World lately."
"It doesn't feel evil, and I can't sense the strength of its ki, but there's a... sense that something is out of place."
"It's coming from the direction of Kame House."
"It feels as if there's a tiny flaw in the world's rules there. I hope it isn't anything bad."
With that, Kami straightened his suit and tie, picked up a briefcase, and walked to the edge of the Lookout.
The wind lifted the hem of his ill-fitting suit, revealing the red underwear beneath.
"I'm off, then."
Kami leaped into the air.
"Ah! Lord Kami! That body can't use Bukujutsu!!"
Mr. Popo cried out in alarm, tears gushing forth.
"Uh-oh—I forgot!!"
Kami's panicked shout came from the air, followed by a frantic splashing sound.
At last, he barely managed to control his faint ki and hurtled crookedly toward the ground, looking as awkward as a kite with its strings cut.
Mr. Popo lay across the edge of the Lookout, watching the black speck grow smaller and smaller, and sniffled.
"Please come back safe and sound... and remember to eat on time..."
Meanwhile, at the other end of the world.
In a dim underground tavern, the stench of cheap tobacco, mildew, and alcohol hung in the air.
"Boss, another vodka! Make it a strong one!"
A burly man with a face full of flesh slammed the table and bellowed.
The other patrons held their tongues, for three unlucky souls already lay sprawled at the man's feet, their condition unknown.
Just then, the tavern's wooden door swung open.
"Jingle."
The bell above the door rang brightly, but in a place like this, its clear chime sounded especially jarring.
The man who walked in wore a pink robe with a large "Kill" emblazoned across the chest.
He wore sunglasses, and a long braid hung down the back of his head.
Most striking of all were his hands and half his face—cold metal.
Tao Pai Pai.
Once the world's greatest assassin, now a half-mechanical cyborg.
The tavern fell silent at once.
The burly man narrowed his eyes. Emboldened by the liquor, he lurched to his feet.
"Hey, you—dressed like a sissy. What are you looking at? I own this place!"
Tao Pai Pai stopped. His mechanical eye glowed faintly red as it scanned the man before him.
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