In the stands, Bulma held Gohan in her arms as he sucked on a pacifier. Wearing a tiger-head hat, the little boy looked around curiously.
Beside her, Master Roshi adjusted his black-framed sunglasses. His usual childish demeanor was gone, and his gaze was nailed firmly to the arena. Oolong nervously stuffed popcorn into his mouth, while Puar lay atop Yamcha's head, scarcely daring to breathe.
Completely unlike the tense group around her, Bulma looked utterly relaxed. She even let out a snort of laughter.
She knew perfectly well what had happened between those two on the stage. Her husband was not fighting a life-or-death battle at all—he was personally picking out a gold-medal babysitter for their son.
"Gohan, watch carefully. You'll have to get along well with that green-skinned uncle from now on." She lowered her head and rubbed her cheek against her son's.
On the arena, the sea breeze whipped up the black robe.
Facing Piccolo's nearly boiling, tangible killing intent, the masked man did not even assume a fighting stance. He lowered his head and stomped on the brand-new custom alloy floor beneath his feet, producing a crisp clang.
"This flooring cost a fortune. It'd be a shame to wreck it." Afei raised a hand and pointed toward the sky, his hoarse voice carrying an unyielding decisiveness. "If you want to prove yourself, follow me up. Let's find somewhere roomier to spar."
The moment he finished speaking, the black robe patterned with red clouds shot into the air, becoming a black blur that streaked toward the heavens.
"Don't think you can run!"
Piccolo roared, and the alloy floor beneath his feet caved in with a boom. He shot after him like a missile leaving its launcher.
The two pierced through the clouds one after another, leaving the hundred