Dragon Ball Roshi

Two years later, Year 569.

About 90 kilometers south of the Southern Capital lay a remote rural town. It was sparsely populated, home mostly to the elderly, disabled, and children left behind. Most able-bodied men and women had migrated to the big cities hundreds of kilometers away in search of a better life. Few could endure the poverty, backwardness, and dullness of life in such a secluded place.

Outside the town, near an abandoned, overgrown path, stood a dilapidated thatched hut.

It was dusk, and a light drizzle began to fall.

Rainwater dripped from the edges of the thatched roof, forming streams that cascaded down. The ground outside the hut was a muddy mess, riddled with puddles. The hut's walls were cobbled together from rotting planks that let in streaks of dim light. Thankfully, the rain came without wind; otherwise, even inside the hut, one wouldn't escape the wet.

The overcast sky darkened the interior, making it hard to see.

"Whoosh."

A flame suddenly ignited inside the hut, its flickering light illuminating the gloom. The fire leapt to the ground, landing on a pile of dry firewood that had mysteriously appeared. Normally, a flame would dim briefly before catching on wood, slowly building into a stronger blaze. But this fire behaved differently. The moment it touched the wood, it burst forth vigorously, consuming the pile in seconds.

Beside the fire, the phoenix lay comfortably on a bed of dry straw, striking a pose that left Taro speechless.

His sketchpad rested nearby. He gazed at the steady drizzle outside, his mind serene.

Over the past two years, Taro had carried that sketchpad through many places. Whenever inspiration struck, he would pick up his pen and transfer it to paper. With his immense mental power and his focused dedication, his paintings had a hypnotic quality that made viewers feel as though they were stepping into the scenes themselves.

His journey earned him the nickname "Soul Painter" among the curious and the admirers who encountered his work.

He had gifted several paintings to people he met along the way, and tales of his artistry, skill, and even magic began to spread wildly, becoming increasingly exaggerated. As his reputation grew, so did the value of his work. Some of the paintings he had casually gifted ended up in the hands of wealthy collectors, acquired through various means.

Whether the recipients sold them for profit or had no choice but to part with them, Taro didn't particularly care.

After all, the reason he had chosen to carry a sketchpad and roam the world was deeply personal. It stemmed from memories of his first life—a simple young man named Wu Taro, whose dreams and ambitions had long been forgotten in the passage of two lifetimes.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Taro's lips. He glanced at the stack of sketch paper resting on the ground beside him. The sheets were filled with detailed drawings created with a special carbon pencil: travelers, landscapes, nature, cities…

Whether abstract or realistic, Taro had no distinct artistic style. If he did have a defining characteristic, it was likely what people called his "Soulful Artistry"—a technique born from his mastery of mental magic. But to him, it was nothing more than a trivial byproduct of his spiritual cultivation, something he didn't particularly value.

"Becoming an artist with unmatched prestige…"

That ambition, which seemed laughable to him now, was once his most cherished dream.

As for why it was only his "earliest" dream—well, after all, how many youthful aspirations are truly unwavering? This wasn't the story of a shounen manga protagonist. A few years later, after repeatedly recognizing the limits of his talent and being influenced by the flood of online novels at the time, the boy named Wu Taro quickly replaced his goal with a new one: "To become an unconventional, best-selling yet refined author."

Taro closed his eyes, a faint, self-mocking smile playing on his lips as fragmented memories of his first life drifted through his mind. This journey over the past two and a half years was not just about fulfilling his first life's unfinished aspirations but also about severing those lingering attachments.

Now, as he reflected on it, the traces of the boy named Wu Taro within him were faint—so faint that they were like footprints in the snow, soon to be erased by the wind and snowfall, leaving no sign of their existence.

Opening his eyes, Taro reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a black ink pen, the kind he had often used as a student. He flipped the notebook to where he had last left off, thought for a moment, and continued writing:

"…Uchiha Sasuke, after school, didn't see his older brother, Uchiha Itachi, waiting to take him home. Alone, he walked toward the Uchiha clan's settlement. The sky was just turning dark, and the alleyways were already deserted. A sense of unease welled up in Sasuke's heart…"

At that moment, a series of hurried footsteps echoed from the doorway.

"Ha!" Three people, two tall and one short, burst into the hut, seeking shelter from the rain. The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour outside.

One of the taller figures brushed water off themselves, complaining, "What a mess! Coming to such a godforsaken place—muddy roads everywhere. It's impossible to walk!" The speaker was a tall, well-dressed woman, her stylish outfit and striking features clearly marking her as someone from the city.

"Enough already. You've been complaining the whole way!" said the shorter man beside her, exasperated. "Didn't I tell you? I heard that the 'Soul Painter' is in this area. Since we weren't far, I thought we might as well try our luck!"

"He's just some painter. What's so special about that?" The woman still seemed dissatisfied. Her gaze swept over to the middle-aged man sitting by the fire, head bowed, engrossed in his writing. Noticing his simple attire and ordinary demeanor, she sneered inwardly.

The third person, a bodyguard accompanying the couple, entered silently. His eyes scanned the hut's interior and its sole occupant with caution. Yet he quickly noticed something odd:

The hut, though dilapidated and aged, didn't carry the musty smell one would expect. Despite the rotting planks that let in light from all sides, there was no trace of a cold draft, let alone any rain seeping through. Even the ground, though bare earth, remained dry and firm despite the damp weather outside.

Exchanging a glance with the short man, the bodyguard subtly shook his head, signaling there was no danger. Relaxing slightly, the man led the woman closer to the fire. Only then did they notice that the middle-aged man was writing something in a notebook.

When the shorter man tried to catch a glimpse of the notebook, he found, no matter how hard he focused, he couldn't make out the writing. All he could see were blurry shadows of letters flowing swiftly under the pen, shrouded in an enigmatic haze.

A chill ran through him. He had initially intended to strike up a conversation with the middle-aged man but was suddenly overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling, a sense that he shouldn't disturb him. He decided to stay silent, joining his two companions in quiet observation.

"When do you think this rain will stop?" the woman muttered, crossing her arms.

"I was fine staying in the car to wait it out. You're the one who wanted to stretch your legs!" the short man retorted irritably.

As they waited, the woman's wandering gaze fell on something lying on the dry grass near the fire—a crimson pigeon, peacefully asleep. The bird was stunningly beautiful, its vivid red feathers glistening even in the dim firelight. Her eyes lit up as she turned to speak, only to hear the short man gasp softly, "Oh my God…"

She nodded in agreement. "I know, right? What a gorgeous pigeon!"

But the man didn't respond. She glanced over, puzzled, only to find him crouched down, examining something on the ground with intense focus. Curious, she leaned over and saw what had caught his attention—a drawing board with a thick stack of papers. On the top sheet was a breathtaking depiction of a small village under a gentle rain.

For a moment, the short man thought they had already reached their destination. Shaking himself from the illusion, he realized he had merely been staring at a painting. And then, with a jolt, he recognized the extraordinary craftsmanship before him. Such a masterpiece could only have been created by the fabled "Soul Painter."

Rubbing his hands together with excitement, the man's overwhelming desire to engage with the artist overcame even the subtle magical suggestion Taro had unconsciously cast to deter interruptions. Driven by curiosity and admiration, the man approached the fire and addressed the quietly writing Taro.

---

Taro had long developed the habit of surrounding himself with passive mental magic, such as a suggestion spell, to avoid unnecessary disturbances. But since the man had already spoken, Taro didn't see a reason to completely shut him out.

Through their conversation, Taro learned that the short man was a prominent tycoon from the southern city, whose greatest passion was collecting fine art. The man revealed that, as a child, he had dreamed of becoming a renowned artist himself, but his lack of talent had made that dream impossible. Instead, he found success as a writer and later transitioned into business, amassing a fortune. Despite his achievements, he never forgot his childhood aspirations. Unable to create art, he took pleasure in collecting and admiring the masterpieces of others.

Over the past year, rumors of a wandering painter, praised by many, had reached his ears. At first, he dismissed them as mere exaggeration, but after seeing an actual painting by the "Soul Painter" at a friend's house, he became utterly captivated. Since then, he had been relentlessly tracking the artist's whereabouts through various channels.

Taro couldn't help but smile as he listened.

Seeing Taro's faint smile, the man grew visibly nervous, his eyes darting toward the drawing board on the ground. Tentatively, he asked, "Master… would it be possible… uh… to… perhaps… take a look?"

"Feel free." Taro's tone was calm as he turned back to his notebook and resumed writing. The firelight flickered across his serene face, casting fleeting shadows over his tranquil expression.

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