Like Swatting a Fly

Yamcha was fast.

As one of the main combatants in Dragon Ball's early stages, the former desert bandit had a unique talent for wildness and agility. Now, striking with fury, he was performing beyond his usual limits.

"Wolf Fang—Fist!!"

With that signature roar, a chilling wolf howl seemed to echo through the air. Countless fist shadows poured down like a torrential storm, each one carrying a white energy aura that sealed off every possible escape route around Krillin—above, below, left, and right.

The essence of this technique lay in speed and ruthlessness. Once caught in its rhythm, an opponent would feel like they were being torn apart by a wolf pack until they collapsed from exhaustion.

Nearby pedestrians screamed in terror and scattered in all directions. A few bold ones hid behind shop windows at a distance, peeking out, and some even pulled out cameras.

Yet, at the center of this storm, Krillin stood as if in another dimension. In his eyes, Yamcha's movements weren't just slow—they were almost comically sluggish. It felt like watching a video tape playing at 0.2x speed. He could clearly see every detail: the ferocious expression on Yamcha's face, the tension in his muscles, even the single bead of sweat slowly flying off his forehead.

"So this... is the gap?"

A flicker of boredom crossed Krillin's mind. He didn't move his feet, nor did he even take his hands out of his pockets.

"Whoosh!"

A straight punch from Yamcha whistled past Krillin's left ear, slicing through the air that wasn't even there.

"Whoosh!"

A tricky sweeping kick followed, grazing the tip of Krillin's nose. The wind pressure from the blow made Krillin's eyelashes tremble slightly.

Every attack missed by a hair's breadth.

It was as if everything had been precisely calculated. With each dodge, Krillin moved only the minimum amount—a slight lean left, a shift right, a duck of the head, a twist of the torso. Like willow catkins in the wind, no matter how fiercely the gale raged, he danced along with it, untouched.

"How is this possible?!"

The more Yamcha fought, the more alarmed he grew. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead. This feeling was too eerie. His fists had already touched Krillin's Martial Arts Uniform—he could even feel the heat radiating from the other's body—but he couldn't land a solid hit! It was like attacking a puff of smoke with all his strength. Every ounce of force hit nothing, leaving him so frustrated he wanted to vomit blood.

"Too slow."

Krillin dodged with the ease of a leisurely stroll, offering a calm critique in a voice only the two of them could hear.

"Your left foot's unstable—center of gravity's too high. Have you been spending these months just playing baseball and chasing girls? Your lower body's so weak it's like stepping on cotton. Is this the result of your training?"

This condescending guidance was more insulting than a direct slap to the face.

"Shut up!! Just shut up!!"

Yamcha's eyes turned bloodshot. Shame flushed his face a piggy red. He couldn't accept it! Absolutely couldn't accept it! This little bald kid, who used to look up to him, was now daring to speak to him like an elder scolding a junior!

"Wolf Fang Fist!!"

He recklessly ignited the ki within his body, forcibly boosting his speed by another thirty percent! The fist shadows grew so dense they formed a solid wall, pressing down on Krillin with a suffocating pressure.

"Now that's a little interesting."

Krillin finally pulled his hands out of his pockets.

The system's warning light flashed frantically: [Detected enemy attack power elevated to dangerous threshold (for ordinary humans). Recommended counterattack force limited to within 0.5%. Warning: exceeding this force may cause irreversible damage.]

0.5%?

Krillin frowned, a headache creeping in.

This kind of Micro-Control was practically a test of his nerves.

He had to take that terrifying force—enough to blow up a mountain with one punch—compress it, fold it, compress it again, until it was reduced to the level of an ordinary person shoving in a scuffle.

Facing a strike coming straight at him, its fist path already nearly impossible to track, Krillin simply extended one finger.

His index finger.

No flashy Kamehameha, no complex martial arts technique.

Just a single finger held out, and then...

"Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!"

A series of crisp, metallic clanging sounds exploded at the mouth of the alley.

Bulma, hiding far away, stared dumbfounded, nearly dropping the capsule case in her hand.

She saw Yamcha swinging his fists like a mad dog, his punches so fast only afterimages remained.

And Krillin just stood there, feet planted like roots.

Using only that right index finger, he traced arcane trajectories through the air.

Each tap struck Yamcha's fist edge, wrist, or elbow joint with pinpoint precision.

That finger was like an insurmountable chasm.

"It hurts!!"

Yamcha felt like his hand was about to break.

Every collision with that finger felt like punching a solid steel pillar.

The recoil force numbed his entire arm, his bones groaning under the strain.

"Is... is this finger made of iron?!"

Terror and shock surged in Yamcha's heart.

The other party showed no fluctuation in ki at all, and wasn't even using any force.