Muscles Don't Control the Brain

On the dining table at Kame House.

Krillin was staring blankly at his own arm.

The [Muscle Control (Beginner)] he'd just gained from devouring Master Roshi's technique was far more exquisite than he'd imagined.

It wasn't just the simple muscle display of a bodybuilder—it was a microscopic regulation of body density.

He tried a mental command.

His bicep, which had bulged like a rock, slowly contracted and compacted beneath his skin like flowing water.

Visually, the circumference of his arm shrank by a full size.

It shifted from an exaggerated, muscular build to a sleek, streamlined shape—less intimidating to look at, but the internal hardness had multiplied several times over.

"Compression," Krillin murmured to himself.

Like pressing a spring to its limit.

In this state, both his endurance against blows and his instantaneous explosive speed would skyrocket.

"What are you doing?"

Bulma, her mouth stuffed with tuna, asked in a muffled voice.

"Your arm keeps getting big and small. It's gross to look at."

"Just adjusting my condition."

Krillin replied casually, picking up his chopsticks to grab some meat.

Crack.

A crisp sound.

The specially made hardwood chopsticks, the moment they touched the fish, exploded into wood shavings right in the middle.

The air went suddenly quiet.

Master Roshi's hand, holding his chopsticks, froze mid-reach. His eyes behind his Sunglasses went wide.

"Krillin, you..."

Krillin stared at the two broken stumps in his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Power overflow.

The fusion of the Saitama template was still ongoing, and combined with the newly acquired Muscle Control, his body was like a barrel packed full of gunpowder.

Any tiny movement could trigger an explosion. He thought he'd only gently pinched the chopsticks.

"That's the third pair already."

Bulma rolled her eyes and tossed him her fork.

"Use this iron one. If you can crush this too, I'm slicing you up for research."

Krillin caught the fork.

This time, he held his breath, treating it like fragile porcelain, carefully controlling every muscle fiber in his fingers.

[Muscle Control Proficiency +1]

So that was it.

Not just combat—every single movement in daily life was training for Muscle Control.

To master this unreasonable "bald-headed power," he had to carve this control into his very bones.

After dinner, night fell.

Waves crashed against the beach.

Krillin didn't sleep. He stood on the open ground outside Kame House. The countdown on the System Panel had already started.

[Persist in Saitama Training Method for 7 Days: Day 1]

[Push-ups 100/100 (Completed)]

[Sit-ups 100/100 (Completed)]

[Squats 100/100 (Completed)]

[10km Long-Distance Run (Completed)]

Looks simple?

No. The real torture was just beginning.

The system's voice rang out coldly:

[Detected host completing Day 1 basic training. Saitama template deep fusion initiated. Cell restructuring will proceed during sleep. Pain suppression: None.]

Pain suppression... None?

Krillin was about to ask what that meant when a searing, bone-deep pain erupted without warning from the marrow.

He grunted, his whole body dropping to his knees on the sand, fingers digging deep into it.

This wasn't the pain of injury.

This was the pain of growth.

Countless tiny hammers seemed to be shattering his bones, then reforging them denser.

Every muscle fiber was being torn, stretched, then forcibly healed.

His body burned, temperature spiking instantly to the point it could boil an egg.

The sea breeze hit him, steaming off in thick white mist.

"So this is... the price of breaking the limiter?"

Krillin gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead, sweat evaporating the moment it flowed out.

In the original story, Saitama went through this inhuman torment before going bald.

Now, even though he started out bald, the suffering he had to endure wasn't one bit less.

He curled up on the beach all night.

The next morning.

When the first sunlight hit Kame House's pink walls, Krillin climbed out of the sand pit.

He twisted his neck, and a sharp crack rang out.

There was no expected fatigue—instead, he felt alarmingly energetic.

He glanced down; the skin on his arms was smoother.

But when he pressed a finger to it, the sensation was like pressing high-density specialty rubber—tough beyond belief.

[Strength +0.5]

[Physique +0.5]

Just one night of "growth" was worth three years of hard training for an ordinary person.

Krillin pushed open Kame House's door.

"Morning, everyone."

He reached for the doorknob, not using any force, just a casual twist.

Crack.

That round brass doorknob, like it was made of clay, deformed under his grip, then tore straight out along with the lock cylinder inside.

Krillin stared at the lump of scrap metal in his hand, then at the dark hole in the door, lost in thought.

Inside, Bulma, still in her pajamas and yawning, and Master Roshi, who was sneaking something under the couch, both turned their heads.

"So..."

Krillin held up the doorknob, flashing an awkward but polite smile.

"This lock... seems kind of shoddy?"

For the next three days, Kame House fell into a strange atmosphere.

Master Roshi was convinced his disciple had gone crazy.