Chapter 71: Campfire and Picture Books
The sun began its slow, thirty-two-hour descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. We made camp in a small clearing just off the main road, a spot with a clear view of our surroundings and a small stream for fresh water. As the two servants Laron had brought began unpacking bedrolls and preparing a simple stew, the day's tension began to ease, replaced by the mundane rituals of travel.
I kept my perimeter check brief but thorough, my senses still tuned to the forest's whispers. Satisfied for the moment, I returned to the fire's circle. Laron was seated on a fallen log, not looking at his ledger, but completely engrossed in a small, brightly colored booklet. The art style was unlike anything I'd seen in this world, dynamic, with exaggerated expressions and action lines bursting from the panels.
My steps slowed. "No way," I breathed, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
Laron looked up, his long ears twitching in surprise. He saw where my gaze was locked and a shy, almost embarrassed smile touched his lips. "You... know this form?"
"Is that a comic? A manga?" I asked, moving closer and sitting on the ground near the fire, my professional aloofness momentarily forgotten.
His eyes widened. "You mean the picture book? Yes! It is a sequential art story. This one is called 'The Star-Forged Samurai.' It is a tale of a warrior from a distant land who fights mechanized beasts with a glowing blade." He held it out for me to see the cover, which featured a hero in sleek, futuristic-looking armor locked in combat with a monstrous creature of somekind.
A genuine laugh, the first in what felt like ages, escaped me. "Gods, I love those. Back home, I mean, where I'm from, I always wanted to make one. My drawing skills were crap, though. All stick figures and lopsided heads." I looked at the detailed, energetic art with a pang of real nostalgia and admiration. "Where in the world did you find something like this?"
Briza, who was sharpening her sword a few feet away, snorted softly but didn't look up. Laron, however, beamed, his earlier nervousness vanishing.
"I acquired it from a traveler! A most unusual man. He claimed to be from Tartaros."
The name hit me like a physical blow. "Tartaros? You're serious?"
Now, I know I've mentioned this before, but for those of you in the audience with the memory of a goldfish, let's recap. The planet is Ros. It's a big boy, with three super-continents, each roughly the size of Eurasia back on Earth. I'm stuck on Artaros. To the east, across a truly psychotic ocean, is Cartaros. And to the far south, shrouded in myth and insane maritime hazards, is Tartaros. We're talking oceans with mountain-sized leviathans and waves that can swallow islands. Travel between them isn't just rare; it's the stuff of legends and sunken ships.
So hearing that this rabbit-eared merchant not only had a manga but had gotten it from an actual person from that mythical place was… staggering.
Laron nodded, his expression turning earnest. "Quite serious. He was part of a shipwrecked crew, the only survivor. He washed up on the south-eastern shores of Artaros years ago and had been traveling ever since, trying to find a way back. He had a whole satchel of these. Said they were common entertainment in his homeland."
My mind reeled. A culture in Tartaros that had developed comics. It was a tiny, mind-boggling detail that shattered my assumptions about this world's technological and cultural spread. "What was he like?"
"Quiet. Sad, I think. But he loved to talk about stories. He said the tales in these," Laron tapped the comic, "are considered classics there. Epics of heroes and empires that span generations."
Briza finally broke her silence, her voice dripping with scorn. "Fanciful stories for children. And you paid good coin for that scribbled nonsense, Laron."
Laron's ears drooped, but he held the comic a little tighter. "It is art, Briza. It is a window to another world, more real than any tapestry or singing stone. It proves we are not alone in the universe of ideas."
I looked from Briza's dismissive scowl to Laron's defiant, hopeful face, and then back to the vibrant pages of 'The Star-Forged Samurai.' In that moment, the forest, the missions, the 11.7%, it all faded into the background. I was no longer just a bodyguard on a dirt road. I was on a planet with hidden depths and connections I couldn't have imagined, holding a piece of a puzzle from a continent that might as well have been another planet.
"Can I… take a look at it later?" I asked Laron, my voice quieter than I intended.
His smile returned, wide and genuine. "Of course! I would be delighted to share it."
Briza just shook her head and went back to sharpening her sword, the screech of steel on stone the only sound she deemed worthy of the evening. But for the first time that day, the tension around the campfire felt less like hostility and more like… a simple difference of opinion. And I had just found a very unexpected ally.
The shared moment over the comic had forged a fragile bridge between us. Briza remained a statue of silent disapproval by the fire, but Laron's earlier anxiety had melted away, replaced by the excitement of a collector sharing his prized possessions.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "That was not the only remarkable thing I acquired from the traveler. Would you like to see something else? Something truly… ingenious?"
My curiosity, already piqued by the manga, was fully ignited. "What is it?"
He rummaged carefully in a small, velvet-lined case he kept beside him. From it, he produced what looked like a perfectly ordinary white quill, its tip neatly trimmed. He laid it gently on a fresh sheet of parchment he'd placed on his ledger.
"This," he said, with the reverence of a priest presenting a holy relic, "is another tool from that gentleman. A magical scribe. They are used by master cartographers and royal scribes in the capital, and I've heard, extensively within the Vermillion Empire. It is… unparalleled."
I leaned forward, my mind racing with the implications. A magical pen? "How does it…"
"Shhh," Laron interrupted, holding up a finger, his expression turning intensely focused. "You must be quiet. It listens."
He cleared his throat softly, and then, speaking in a clear, measured tone, he began to describe the scene before us.
"The scene is a campsite at night," he narrated, his eyes fixed on the quill. "A warm fire crackles at its heart, flames dancing and casting long, shifting shadows. Around it, three figures. A young man with a serious expression, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. A young woman with blonde hair, her face turned away, sharpening a blade with deliberate, angry strokes. And a rabbit demihuman, leaning forward with an eager look, his long ears silhouetted against the firelight."
As he spoke, the quill began to glow with a soft, pearlescent light. It shuddered for a second, then shot upright, hovering a hair's breadth above the parchment as if held by an invisible hand.
Then it moved.
It was breathtaking. The quill darted across the page with impossible speed and precision, its movements a fluid blur. Lines flowed into shapes, shadows were hatched with exquisite detail, and expressions were captured with an artist's soul. In a matter of seconds, the scene Laron had described was rendered in perfect, monochrome ink. There I was, my guarded posture captured perfectly. There was Briza, the tension in her shoulders and the dismissive angle of her head unmistakable. And there was Laron, his earnest face and twitching ears rendered with lifelike accuracy. The fire was a masterpiece of swirling, chaotic lines that somehow perfectly conveyed the essence of flickering flame.
The moment Laron fell silent, the quill's glow vanished. It dropped onto the parchment with a soft click, once again an inert, ordinary feather.
I stared, utterly speechless. It was one thing to see elemental magic or Ki-enhanced strength. But this… this was art. This was technology, or magic, of a finesse I hadn't imagined possible here. The Vermillion Empire, which I'd only heard of as a distant, threatening power, suddenly felt far more advanced, and far more real.
"Incredible," I finally breathed, the word feeling utterly inadequate.
Laron beamed, carefully lifting the parchment. "Is it not? It captures the truth of a moment, not just its appearance. See the weariness around your eyes? The determination in your grip? It sees it all."
From her log, Briza let out a derisive sniff. "A parlor trick. A true artist needs only their own hand and heart."
But her words couldn't break the spell. I was looking at a magical artifact from a shipwrecked sailor from a mythical continent, now in the hands of a rabbit merchant in the middle of nowhere. This world was vast, strange, and filled with wonders I had only begun to scratch. And for the first time since the System's grim assessment, I felt a flicker of something other than grim determination.
I felt wonder.
"It is not merely a recorder of words," Laron explained, his voice still hushed with reverence as he picked up the now-dormant quill. "It connects to the user's mind through their mana. It reads the intent, the feeling, the vivid picture you hold in your thoughts, and translates it onto the page. The more clearly you can visualize it, the more detailed and lifelike the rendering." He gestured to the intricate drawing of our campsite. "It is an enhancer of imagination, a bridge between thought and form."
He then sighed, a note of practicality entering his tone. "Though, such marvels do not come without cost. It can function for a few hours, but then it requires this to recharge." From the same velvet case, he produced a stone, about the size of a hockey puck, smooth and cool to the touch. It was a mesmerizing swirl of deep blue and vibrant red, the colors shifting slowly within the crystal as if alive. "A dual-affinity mana stone. Exceedingly rare. The traveler had only two. This is the last one."
He looked at me, his head tilted. "Would you… would you like to try?"
The offer was irresistible. I nodded, a strange excitement bubbling up. Laron carefully handed me the quill. It was lighter than it looked. He placed a fresh sheet of parchment on the ledger in front of me.
"Simply hold the image firmly in your mind," he instructed. "As clearly as you can. Then speak."
I closed my eyes, shutting out the crackle of the fire and Briza's silent judgment. I didn't need to invent a scene. I reached for one etched into my memory from a lifetime ago. I focused, pouring every detail I could recall into the forefront of my mind, building the image with the clarity of a waking dream.
Then, I began to speak, my voice low and steady.
"The scene is a desolate, alien shore. The water is a strange, greenish hue. From the depths, a figure emerges, horrifying and powerful. His body is pale lavender and white, armored in sections of bone-like material. He is drenched, water streaming from his form. He is covered in wounds, gashes and bruises that weep dark blood, one of his horns is broken. His face is a mask of pure, unadulterated malice, a vicious scowl that promises annihilation. Behind him, the water churns from his emergence."
As I spoke, the quill in my hand came to life. That same pearlescent glow enveloped it, and it leaped from my fingers to hover above the parchment. But this time, its movements were different, more aggressive, more dynamic. It slashed across the page with a furious energy, capturing not just an image, but a moment of supreme villainy.
Ink swirled to form the choppy, green waters of Namek. It etched the terrifying, muscular form of Frieza, every segment of his alien armor rendered in stark, menacing detail. The blood looked wet and fresh on the page, the wounds a testament to the violence he had endured. And the face… the quill had perfectly captured the cruel, reptilian eyes, the snarling mouth, the expression of a cosmic tyrant rising from what should have been his grave. It was a snapshot of iconic evil, pulled directly from my mind.
The quill dropped. The glow died.
I stared, my own breath caught in my throat. It was perfect. It was him.
Laron was practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes wide as saucers. "By the spirits… that was… that was astonishing! The detail! The raw emotion! What… what is this? Who is this being? A demon from a forgotten legend?"
Briza had even stopped her sharpening, her eyes flicking between my face and the terrifying image on the parchment, her disdain momentarily replaced by a grudging, unsettled curiosity.
I let out a slow breath, the adrenaline of the moment fading. "He is a… character. From a story I once made up. A story I always wanted to draw but never could." I looked at Laron. "This is the scene I saw in my head. Exactly."
Laron looked from the drawing of the campsite to the drawing of Frieza, his expression one of profound amazement. "But… this is incredible. It took me weeks to learn how to hold an image clearly enough for the quill to render it properly. You… you did it on your first try. And it wasn't even a memory of a real place, but a scene from a story in your mind! The quill responded to your clarity as if you were a master scribe."
He looked at me with a new, deep respect, the kind that had nothing to do with my skill with a sword. "Your mind, Kaizen… it is a canvas of wonders."
I looked down at the terrifying, perfect image of Frieza, a piece of my past now made real in this strange world. The quill wasn't just a tool; it was a key. And for a moment, I'd just shown them a glimpse of the strange, violent, and wondrous universe I carried locked inside my head.
[A/N: Can't wait to see what happens next? Get exclusive early access on patreon.com/saiyanprincenovels. If you enjoyed this chapter and want to see more, don't forget to drop a power stone! Your support helps this story reach more readers!]