Dragon Ball Roshi

"Restore all those killed by the demon tribe to their original living state... excluding those who were cruel and heinous," Mu Taro declared, gazing upward as he stated his wish.

He refrained from using the term "revive" outright, uncertain if it was feasible to resurrect individuals whose bodies were missing or damaged. Instead, he opted for phrasing it as a restoration to their "living state."

At that moment, Taro was reminded of his first life, back when he was a child. Every day after school, he would eagerly sit before the television to watch Dragon Ball. He had once naively thought, Why not just wish for a hundred more wishes? Then you could keep wishing forever. Now, standing before the Shenron, such thoughts no longer crossed his mind. The stark contrast between past and present left him feeling as though lifetimes had passed.

Indeed, lifetimes had passed—two of them.

"This wish... is simple," boomed the deep, resonant voice of the emerald Shenron, framed against the pitch-black sky.

The dragon's crimson eyes flared with an intense glow as a vast, invisible power radiated across the Earth. This immense force seemed to rewrite the fabric of causality itself, like an unseen hand rearranging the threads of destiny.

Before Taro, the seven glowing Dragon Balls, now pulsing with radiant golden light, reflected in the awestruck faces of Nanka and Long Bam. They watched the divine Shenron with anticipation, their features illuminated by the flickering brilliance of the mystical orbs.

Nearby, the phoenix let out a soft, melodic hum as it shifted its gaze. Among the ruins of the Wu Xianliu dojo, a hand suddenly emerged from the rubble. Soon, more figures began to appear—men and women in tattered or bloodstained white martial arts uniforms, materializing on the ground as if out of nowhere.

---

In the otherwolrd

"Move along, don't push! Stay in line!" barked the red- and blue-skinned Yama attendants, their polite but firm tones directing a crowd of flame-like souls queuing up.

"It's been a busy day—Earth's been sending over a lot of souls," commented one Yama official stationed by the Pool of Reincarnation. He glanced at the notepad in his hands, sighing in boredom.

The notepad was a special artifact, a projection of the King of Hell's personal ledger. It was distributed to the attendants for easier record-keeping. However, they could only view the entries, with no authority to alter them.

Another red-skinned attendant adjusted his glasses and skimmed through his own ledger. Glancing at the densely packed soul queue, he smacked his lips and muttered, "Who knows? Maybe some big disaster hit. Not our concern anyway. Life and death on Earth—just gossip for us."

But as they mused, a strange phenomenon occurred. A large segment of the queue waiting for reincarnation suddenly vanished without a trace.

Simultaneously, the lines leading to the King of Hell's hall and the flights to Heaven experienced the same abrupt thinning.

The attendants froze in disbelief. One of them, his glasses sliding down his nose, stared at the now-empty stretch of the queue. Then he glanced back at his ledger, watching line after line of text erase itself at lightning speed.

The Yama attendants exchanged bewildered looks, utterly clueless as to what had just transpired.

The underworld was quiet, and the ghosts dared not utter a word. After all, even if something truly went wrong, it was not their place to speculate. If they accidentally caused trouble and took the blame, it could mean their souls being scattered into nothingness. Who could say for sure that this wasn't an act of great mercy from King Yama himself, allowing those people to return to life? They wouldn't dare to question his powers or actions.

Meanwhile, King Yama sat behind his wide desk in the Hall of Judgment, massaging his temples in frustration. He flipped through a thick ledger, rolling his eyes and mumbling under his breath.

\---

King Kai's Planet

The thin antennae atop North Kai's head twitched as he observed King Yama's exasperated expression through the crystal ball. A silent chuckle spread across his face.

"Dragon Balls... such a mysterious phenomenon," he mused. "To think they could disrupt the balance between life and death."

His thoughts wandered to Namekian lore.

"Why do the Namekians possess this miraculous ability to create Dragon Balls? Could it be connected to that great calamity countless millennia ago that Grand Kai once spoke of?"

Adjusting his small round sunglasses, North Kai fell into deep contemplation. Memories surfaced of the Eastern Kai from eons past, rushing to Grand Kai with complaints after the Namekians first created the Dragon Balls and summoned the Eternal Dragon to grant a wish.

---

Muten School Dojo

"Master!" Nanka's voice trembled with emotion as he looked at the crowd of people rising to their feet nearby, their faces filled with confusion.

These were faces he thought he'd never see again.

"They've truly returned to life!" Tears streamed down his face as he ran toward them.

"What is that?" one of the resurrected disciples asked, pointing at the distant figure of the Eternal Dragon.

"Nanka?!" The group of Martial Immortal Sect disciples caught Nanka as he stumbled into their arms. Though puzzled, their own eyes reddened at his overwhelming joy.

"I remember we were killed... but now\... Is this the afterlife?"

Shaking their heads, they looked around. Though much of it was in ruins, the surroundings were unmistakable.

"No, this is our dojo!"

"But... didn't the Demon King…"

"It's the founder! The founder has returned!" Nanka wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing his tears and snot, yet his smile shone brightly. "He drove away all the demons, including Piccolo the Great Demon King! And he found the legendary Dragon Balls sent by the gods to the mortal realm! He summoned the Eternal Dragon and revived everyone who had died!"

He pointed behind him to the massive green dragon floating majestically in the air. Its overwhelming presence bore down on them all, as if it were only an arm's length away.

"The founder? The Eternal Dragon?" The crowd stood dumbfounded. Few among the School disciples had seen their founder in person; most had only ever seen Aragon's painting of Taro.

Nanka led the group closer. Taro turned to face them, his middle-aged visage unmistakably the same as the one in the portraits they had seen.

"It's truly the founder!" The disciples knelt with emotion, bowing deeply in reverence.

Taro sighed. "You have suffered greatly…"

---

"Your wish has been granted... Farewell…" The Eternal Dragon's deep, resonant voice echoed above them.

Behind Taro, a burst of golden light erupted, rising into the sky with a trail of brilliance.

Taro turned slightly. As the seven glowing Dragon Balls ascended to their peak, he vanished from the ground, reappearing instantly alongside them in midair.

The seven Dragon Balls, encased in a radiant orb of light, hovered in a circle, spinning with immense energy.

Taro remained composed, extending his hand. A white Ki blast enveloped the golden glow surrounding the Dragon Balls. The energy surged outward, but to Taro, it was no more than a light breeze.

As the white Ki dispersed, the seven Dragon Balls transformed into seven lifeless white stones.

The sky, once shrouded in darkness, cleared entirely, revealing a tranquil expanse of blue skies and white clouds. Peace had returned.

Taro descended gracefully from the sky, landing before the Muten School disciples. Seven white stones orbited quietly at his side. As he descended, he had already begun chanting an incantation. With a mere thought, the power of his magic activated, causing a pile of rubble on the ground to float upward and reform into a small wooden box. The seven white stones drifted into the box of their own accord.

Seeing the wooden box, one of the disciples gasped as a realization struck him. "Master..." His brow furrowed, and he abruptly turned, sprinting toward a heap of ruins. But before he could reach it, an invisible force pulled him back.

"What you were protecting, I've already seen." Turning back, the disciple found himself facing Taro, who gave him a gentle nod and sighed softly.

He was, of course, referring to the wooden box Taro had discovered beneath the body of the disciple whose back had been pierced. Inside the box were letters left behind by Taro's sole direct disciple, Aragon, and his daughter, Yumeko.

"As long as you've seen it, Master…" The disciple breathed a sigh of relief, his voice heavy with emotion. Those letters were the last things left by his master and mistress to Taro. If they had been lost, he would have been plagued with guilt for the rest of his life.

Patting the two letters safely tucked into his chest, Taro surveyed the ruins of the school dojo. "Let's clean up our home first," he said quietly.

With that, he chanted another incantation. A vast surge of magical energy flowed outward. Before the disciples' astonished eyes, the broken rubble and collapsed walls began to move on their own, reassembling piece by piece. In no time, the dojo was restored to its former state: houses, courtyards, gates, and stone steps reappeared as if untouched by disaster.

Such a display of power defied comprehension, an act of divinity.

---

That night, the world was quiet, the air cool as water.

The pale moonlight veiled the land like a dream, casting a silken glow over everything.

This was the second nightfall of the day. Unlike the panic and uncertainty of the first, this night was filled with gratitude. Families, friends, and lovers who had been reunited with those they thought lost forever either stayed awake in celebration or found peace in one another's arms as they drifted into slumber.

The Muten School disciples had visited the nearby Sayuan City earlier that day, returning with an abundance of wine and meat. The people of Sayuan, who had also been revived, greeted them warmly despite the city's battered state. Shops were closed, but generosity abounded. Those with food and drink shared freely, ensuring no one went without.

In Sayuan, the reverence for the School was palpable. For generations, its people had grown up hearing legends of the sect's founder. To them, it was unquestionable that only a disciple of Mutaito, the Grandmaster of old, could save the world from the demons.

The sect's disciples returned home that evening, their spirits high from the day's festivities. After an evening of revelry and tears, they retired to rest.

---

Under the starlit sky, Taro carried a jug of wine and made his way to the broken cliff behind the School dojo.

"Father, are you doing well…?

Sitting casually on the uneven stone ground, Taro tilted his head back and took a long swig. The fiery liquid burned down his throat but failed to intoxicate him. With his current body, even the strongest wine could only provide the faintest sensation.

He swallowed, pressed his lips together, and opened one of the letters in his hand. Lowering his gaze, he read its contents once more under the silvery glow of the moon.

"…After all these years, Aragon and I, along with the Muten School disciples, have lived well… It's a bit of a regret, though—we never had children."

"…By the way, I can't ride the Flying Nimbus anymore, haha. That fool Aragon never could. You once said that only those with pure hearts could ride it. Father, do you think it's because, as people age, their worries increase?… I haven't called for the Flying Nimbus in a long time. I'm afraid it would remind me of you… How are you, Father? Where are you?"

"…I know, Father, that you wouldn't have wanted things to be this way. Immortality may not be as joyful as it seems… Watching those you love pass on before you—how could that be happiness? Father, we're all leaving now. We'll leave you behind in this world, alone. Won't you feel lonely?"

When Yumeko, already elderly with white hair, wrote these words, what emotions must she have felt as she thought of her father, who was somewhere far away? Her heart must have been overwhelmed with sorrow, her tears flowing uncontrollably.

"…Father, your unfilial daughter cannot stay by your side…"

Under the moonlight on the broken cliff, Taro read every word of this letter as he drank alone.

After a long while, he rose to his feet, loosening his grip. The two letters fluttered in the wind, drifting under the moonlight, before disintegrating into specks of dust. They shimmered softly, like a silken ribbon of the Milky Way.

Draining the last of the wine, Taro casually tossed the jug aside. He moved and struck with measured precision, his body flowing gracefully, as if transported back to the days on Mount Mutaito. Back then, every dawn was greeted with training at the cliff's edge. Often, Yumeko, wild and carefree, would ride the Flying Nimbus to tease him. His wife, Fanfan, would prepare breakfast in the small mountain hut, waiting for them both.

On the cliff, under the pale moonlight, Taro's solitary figure moved continuously, his silhouette flickering across the empty plateau—a picture of loneliness.

Suddenly, the sound of fluttering wings broke the silence. A shadow descended from the sky, obscuring the moonlight, casting a faint silhouette over Taro. He looked up to see a phoenix, descending gently on mist-like moonbeams, folding its wings neatly as it perched on his shoulder.

Taro froze. Memories surfaced—how many years had it been since the first generation of rainbow-feathered birds had come to him, just like this, from an unknown corner of the sky?

It felt like a cycle repeating itself.

Yet, though the scenes were the same, a century had passed in the blink of an eye.

The place remained unchanged, but the people were no longer there. The phoenix was not the rainbow bird of old, nor was Taro the same man he once was.

In the stillness of the night, a cloud drifted down from the depths of the starry sky. Taro slowly floated onto it, lying on his back with his arms behind his head. He gazed at the vast expanse of stars above, then closed his eyes, as if falling asleep.

The bird spread its wings gently, its low calls echoing softly in the emptiness. It circled the cloud a few times before landing on it. Finally, it tucked its wings over the figure lying on the cloud, covering him like a blanket.

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