The muggy sea breeze poured into the contestants' tunnel, while the roar of the crowd beyond the walls had long since reached a fever pitch.
Deep in the tunnel, Son Goku leaned against the wall in an oversized black robe patterned with red clouds, an orange spiral mask covering one eye.
"Everyone, there's only one rule."
A raspy voice came from beneath the mask, steadily cutting through the wind. "Once you're on the stage, fight however you want and rely on your own abilities. But there's one thing: if anyone hits too hard and injures the spectators below, or blows up the arena beneath their feet, then don't even think about entering the Gravity Chamber for the next year."
Krillin and Yamcha immediately understood. The requirement sounded lenient, but it was actually an extreme test of control over one's own strength. Hitting hard while still holding back was far more difficult than cutting loose and blasting everything indiscriminately.
"Hold back?" A scoff came from the corner.
Vegeta stood with his arms crossed, his eyes full of arrogance. "Only trash like you can't control your strength! Kakarot, today I'll show you the Saiyan royal family's absolute control over its own power."
In the shadows nearby, Piccolo sat cross-legged with his eyes closed, like a stone statue.
He could not be bothered with their squabbling. There was only one thing on his mind: defeating Afei, tearing off that mask with his own hands, and washing away the humiliation he had suffered in the wastelands all those years ago!
With the strike of a gong, the main event of the World Martial Arts Tournament began.
In the opening match of the Round of Sixteen, Krillin faced Yamcha.
Wolf Fang Fist came rushing at him. The little bald man ducked low and slid aside