Terrifying Piccolo

The sky, once clear and bright, had somehow drifted in a few dark clouds.

They blotted out the radiant sunlight, casting a shadow over the tropical island.

The sea breeze turned biting, snapping the colorful banners at the Martial Arts Tournament venue with sharp thwacks, like a warning before a storm.

The spectators felt a chill and pulled their clothes tighter; the once-lively atmosphere grew oppressive.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Next up is the final match of the quarterfinals—and the one everyone's been waiting for!"

The announcer's voice boomed through the loudspeakers, trying to lift the somber mood.

But a faint tremor lurked in his tone.

As a veteran host of the tournament, he could instinctively sense danger.

"Let's welcome our fighters!"

"On one side, the mysterious bald powerhouse who just defeated Yamcha with a single finger—Krillin!"

"And on the other, the oddly named—Demon Jr.!"

Krillin strolled onto the Arena with his hands in his pockets.

He wore an orange Turtle School Gi, his bald head still faintly gleaming under the overcast sky.

His face bore that careless expression, as if he were just out for a walk.

Across from him, the tall figure wrapped in a white turban and heavy cloak slowly approached.

With each step, the temperature seemed to drop, and a suffocating pressure spread in his wake.

It felt like being locked in the gaze of an ancient Fierce Beast.

[Ding! System quest issued.]

[Quest objective: Defeat Demon Jr., Piccolo.]

[Special restriction: Absolutely cannot kill him. If Piccolo dies, Kami will also die, the Dragon Balls will be permanently lost, and the subsequent storyline will suffer irreversible collapse.]

[Quest reward: Namekian regeneration physique (basic), massive reputation points.]

Krillin curled his lip and cursed inwardly.

"Can't kill him, still have to win, and even make him accept defeat willingly..."

"This system really loves making things hard for me. That's tougher than just killing him."

The tall figure stopped five meters from Krillin.

Sharp eyes glared through the gap in the turban, fixed on Krillin.

They held not pure killing intent, but a lofty mockery, like watching a bug squirm in one's palm.

"Heh heh heh..."

Piccolo let out a low, raspy laugh, his voice grating like rusty iron scraping together.

"Krillin?"

"I know that name. A few years ago, you were just a brat hiding behind Goku."

"Remember when Tambourine crushed you like an ant? The sound of those bones snapping—must've been music, huh?"

At those words, Goku's fists clenched beneath the stage, his knuckles white, teeth grinding audibly.

That was his eternal pain, a nightmare he refused to revisit.

"Krillin..." he murmured, a flicker of worry in his eyes.

Krillin just picked his ear, flicked his nail dismissively.

"Yeah, that happened."

"But thanks to you, I took a trip to the afterlife. Nice scenery, and King Yemma even treated me to tea."

"As for you, the Demon King's reincarnation—why so chatty? Been lonely with no one to talk to?"

Piccolo's gaze turned icy. Pebbles around him began to tremble.

"Sharp-tongued brat. Hope your bones are as tough as your mouth."

With that, he ripped off his cloak and turban.

"Whoosh... Boom!"

The heavy weighted gear slammed into the ground, punching straight through the concrete floor, leaving two deep craters and kicking up dust.

But that wasn't the point.

As the disguise fell away, his signature green skin, pink muscle fibers on his arms, pointed ears, and the two antennae on his forehead were fully exposed to everyone.

The venue fell into a brief silence.

Time seemed to freeze.

Every spectator, the Referee, even the other fighters backstage, stared wide-eyed, pupils contracting sharply.

They couldn't believe their eyes.

Then, panic erupted like a plague.

"G-green skin... that's..."

"That look! That face! That's King Piccolo!!"

"Oh my god! Wasn't he dead? Why is he here?!"

"Run! The Great Demon King has revived! We're all gonna be killed!!"

"Mommy! I want to go home!!"

The audience exploded into chaos, screams and cries rising and falling in waves.

People shoved and pushed to escape the terrifying place, chairs knocked over, popcorn scattered everywhere.

Some were so scared they wet themselves on the spot.

Even the seasoned host dove under the table in terror.

The microphone in his trembling hand clattered against the floor, screeching with noise.

Fear was deeply rooted in every Earthling's heart.

The shadow of that worldwide reign of terror from a few years ago still haunted them, impossible to shake off.