Yamcha was fast.
He was one of the major fighters in the early days of Dragon Ball.
A former bandit of the wilderness, he had a unique gift for instinct and agility.
Now, attacking in a fit of rage, he was performing even beyond his usual level.
"Wolf Fang—Fist!!"
As his trademark roar rang out, it was as if a shrill wolf's howl truly echoed through the air.
Countless fists rained down like a torrential downpour.
Each fist carried a white surge of energy, sealing off every avenue of escape above, below, and to either side of Krillin.
The essence of this move lay in its speed and ferocity.
Once caught in its rhythm, an opponent would be torn at by the pack like prey, until they ran out of strength.
The bystanders screamed in terror and scattered in every direction.
A few bolder ones hid behind the windows of shops in the distance to watch, and some even pulled out cameras.
Yet at the heart of this storm, Krillin seemed to be standing in another world.
In his eyes, Yamcha's movements weren't just slow—they were almost comical.
It was like watching a video playing at 0.2 speed.
Krillin could see every detail: the savage expression on Yamcha's face, the way his muscles tensed, even a bead of sweat slowly flying off his forehead.
So this is... the difference?
A flicker of boredom crossed Krillin's mind.
He didn't move his feet. He didn't even take his hands out of his pockets.
"Whoosh!"
Yamcha's straight punch swept past Krillin's left ear with a gust of wind, even cutting through the air beside it.
"Whoosh!"
A tricky sweeping kick followed, passing just in front of Krillin's nose. The gust it raised made Krillin's eyelashes tremble slightly.
Every attack missed by a hair's breadth.
It was as if Krillin had calculated each movement precisely, dodging each time by the smallest possible margin.
A slight lean to the left, a sway to the right, a duck, a sidestep.
Like willow fluff in the wind, he danced along with every gale, not a leaf touching him.
"How is this possible?!"
Yamcha grew more alarmed with every strike, cold sweat pouring down his forehead.
The feeling was too bizarre.
His fists had clearly brushed Krillin's Martial Arts Uniform. He could even feel the warmth radiating from Krillin's body, yet his blows just wouldn't land!
It was like attacking a wisp of smoke with all his strength.
Every strike hit empty air, making him feel as if he could spit blood from frustration.
"Too slow."
Krillin strolled aside from the attacks and offered his calm assessment in a voice only the two of them could hear.
"Your left foot's unstable when you push off, and your center of gravity is too high."
"Have you spent the last few months playing baseball and chasing girls?"
"Your stance is as flimsy as if you were standing on cotton. Is this what you got out of your special training?"
Being lectured so condescendingly was even more humiliating than being slapped in the face.
"Shut up!! Shut up!!"
Yamcha's eyes were bloodshot, and shame flushed his face a deep red.
He couldn't accept it!
He absolutely couldn't accept it!
This little bald guy, who used to be able only to look up to him, now dared to speak to him like an elder scolding a child!
"Wolf Fang Fist: Modified!!"
He recklessly burned through his inner ki, forcibly boosting his speed by another thirty percent!
His fists came so thick and fast they formed a solid wall, pressing toward Krillin with suffocating force.
"Now you're getting somewhere."
Krillin finally took his hands out of his pockets.
The system's warning light flashed wildly: [Enemy attack strength has reached a dangerous threshold (for ordinary people). Counterattack strength should be kept below 0.5%. Warning: exceeding this level may cause irreversible injury.]
0.5%?
Krillin frowned, troubled.
This kind of Micro-Control was practically a test of his nerves.
He had to compress and fold the terrifying power within him—enough to shatter a mountain with one punch—then compress it again until it was no stronger than an ordinary person shoving someone in a fight.
Facing a strike coming straight at him, its path almost impossible to see, Krillin merely raised one finger.
His index finger.
No flashy Kamehameha, no complicated fighting technique.
He simply held up one finger, and then...
"Clink! Clink! Clink! Clink!"
A rapid string of crisp, metallic clinks burst out at the mouth of the alley.
Watching from a distance, Bulma gaped in astonishment, nearly dropping the Capsule Case in her hands.
She saw Yamcha punch like a mad dog, his fists moving so fast they were only blurs.
Krillin simply stood where he was, feet planted firmly.
With only the index finger of his right hand, he traced one mysterious arc after another through the air.
Every tap landed with pinpoint accuracy on Yamcha's fist, wrist, or elbow.
That finger was an impassable barrier.
"Ow!!"
Yamcha felt as though his hands were about to break.
Every time he collided with that finger, it felt like punching a solid steel pillar.
The force rebounding through his arm left it numb, and his bones groaned under the strain.
"Is... is that finger made of iron?!"
Yamcha was horrified.
His opponent clearly wasn't giving off any ki, and he wasn't even using any force.
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