"You—you're not here to participate in the World Martial Arts Tournament, are you?"
Seeing that the conflict was over, Master Roshi walked up, cleared his throat, and asked curiously.
With Zhang Qi's strength, there was no need for him to enter the tournament at all—
At those words, Yamcha and Krillin, standing nearby, abruptly turned their heads, nearly wrenching their necks.
They looked as though they had swallowed half a dead fly.
Was this a joke?
The scene of Zhang Qi killing Master Shen with a single glance and forcing back Tien Shinhan was still etched in their minds.
If Zhang Qi registered too, what the hell would everyone else be fighting for?
They might as well wrap up the championship prize, stuff it into his hands, and go home.
"I'm not interested."
Seeing their reactions, Zhang Qi shook his head and explained, "I came here for two reasons. First, to see how Goku's training has been going lately. Second—"
He paused, his gaze passing over the walls of the Martial Arts Temple and lifting toward the sky.
"For Demon King Piccolo."
Piccolo—Demon King?
Krillin scratched his bald head, while Yamcha looked utterly bewildered.
Goku hurried over as well, blinking as he asked, "Teacher Zhang Qi, what is Demon King Piccolo? Is it tasty?"
Master Roshi ignored his disciples' banter.
He stared fixedly at Zhang Qi.
His once-slack shoulders instantly tensed, as though a beast ready to pounce were concealed beneath his withered muscles.
As a survivor of that era, no one understood better than he did what that name represented.
It was the nightmare of every disciple under Mutaito.
"Goku, Krillin, Yamcha."
Master Roshi suddenly spoke, his voice heavy as raw iron. "The three of you, go line up at the registration desk first. If you're late, you won't