"Jiang Hai, want some cookies? I just made them."
Qi Ya called out with a smile. Jiang Hai, sitting by the window on the first floor and gazing at the heavy snow outside, replied with a simple, "Okay!" He jumped down from the windowsill and headed quickly toward the dining room. At the same time, the others, hearing the news, ran over as well.
For most people, monotony is exhausting.
Especially for those who once dreamed of traveling the world with a sword in hand, witnessing its wonders, only to end up in a nine-to-five grind, juggling wives, children, and aging parents. For most city dwellers, life is repetitive: wake up, have breakfast, go to work, work through the day, take a lunch break, return to work, then go home—or perhaps play, or work overtime—before repeating the cycle.
People Jiang Hai's age were mostly married, settled, with careers firmly established. Go home, sleep, repeat. Monday to Friday, the pattern repeats; Saturdays and Sundays are just slightly different, maybe visiting parents or sleeping in a little, then it's over. And the cycle begins again.
For many, this kind of life numbs the senses. A small minority, free from obligations to parents, children, or partners, feel suffocated. They long to escape, to see the world, to chase the tales of internet sensations who quit their jobs to travel. Yet, after a while, most realize they've wasted time and must start over.
Ordinariness, in truth, is the essence of life. Life is about being born and living on—not some motivational platitude, but a reality. A magic touch isn't something everyone can have. Some must accept fate.
Take Jiang Hai, for example. If he had discovered the Dragon Ball ten years ago, he mused, he might never have been who he is now. The timeline would have been straightforward: acquire land, use spiritual energy to build wealth, encounter powerful forces, possibly battle them. The state would intervene, annex the land, but he would gain status—perhaps elevating the nation, or perhaps being dissected and studied for human evolution.
Whatever the case, it would not have been this comfortable. Some people criticized Jiang Hai for going abroad after acquiring wealth, calling it unpatriotic and lacking positive energy. Jiang Hai could only chuckle.
Everyone pursues different things, and their paths differ. Jiang Hai had given up on grand ambitions long ago—perhaps when his mother passed. He sought no glory, no conquest, no unification of the world. His only goal was to live well.
He lived not to impress others, but to enjoy life.
Society, it's said, shapes a person. Some grow wiser, others struggle, learning through trial and error. Jiang Hai, however, adopted a retirement mindset early. Even the most beautiful scenery could grow tiresome, but not to him. His life was comfortable: daily routines, no financial worries, delicious food, and surrounded by countless beautiful women—who, for now, seemed free of ulterior motives.
Isn't that enough? He thought it was. Ambitious people might call him hopeless, claiming he should seek higher goals with his abilities. But Jiang Hai lacked such desires. He now understood Liu Shan's mindset: no fear, pleasure in life, freedom to act, enjoying companionship—why chase kingdoms when he already had this?
"Have you finished your homework?"
Jiang Hai asked, picking up a cookie Qi Ya had just baked. Tarak, holding a cookie, proudly lifted her head.
"Of course!"
Tarak was undoubtedly a prodigy. Despite only four months of formal schooling—two months of preschool, two months of school—she had already covered nearly the entire high school curriculum. The American intensive system didn't heavily test rote knowledge, allowing her rapid progress.
Jiang Hai, a poor student himself, still remembered the material. In his first year of high school at Tallach, he covered content equivalent to the second year of junior high in China. The U.S. system differed greatly: 6-3-3, 8-4, 6-6, 4-4-4, 5-3-4—different systems, but elementary, middle, and high school were generally compulsory, assigned by location. Private elite schools were exceptions.
In Winthrop, Jiang Hai followed the common 6-3-3 pattern: sixth grade in elementary school, third grade in middle school, third grade in high school. Reintegration into a new school system wasn't easy, yet here, education required little rote memorization. Instead, it emphasized independent thought, open-ended answers, and critical thinking.
Fifth graders, for instance, wrote essays debating whether the U.S. should have entered World War II or certain battles. Jiang Hai's perspective: participation was "great, glorious, and righteous" to fight evil fascists and save the world. Most Americans, he suspected, would frame it as boosting national pride or strategic interests. He could only chuckle at the contrast—Chinese third graders could easily outshine sixth graders here.
"Tarak's homework is being watched by her sister; aren't you worried? Qi Jie is a real academic star," Qi Ya teased, bringing out another plate of cookies.
Jiang Hai loved cookies—probably his favorite treat. His first taste had been in third grade, at a cake shop near his family's old single-story home. Cookies amazed him with their rich, milky flavor, far beyond anything he'd tasted before. Back then, he imagined a whole bag of milk went into each cookie.
Seeing the others eat, he'd been tempted, but now he could indulge freely—he had the means.
"I know, I was just asking!" Jiang Hai laughed, grabbing a few more cookies and tossing them into his mouth, crumbs scattering unnoticed.
Just as the villa buzzed with a harmonious atmosphere, the door opened. Galina entered, dressed in a mink coat—farm-raised, purchased by Jiang Hai himself. He supported environmental protection but didn't profit off animals.
If he stopped buying mink, farmers would suffer. Animal protection groups might complain, but Jiang Hai paid them no mind. He bought what he wanted.
"Boss, news from California!" Galina announced, shaking off the snow as she approached with a document in hand.