The plains stretch endlessly beneath the pale sky, a whispering wind rolling across the grass. There, atop a worn plateau, stands Piccolo, still as a statue, arms crossed, cape billowing behind him like a silent banner. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed in focus as the breeze brushes across his face. But then, without opening his eyes, he speaks, voice low, gruff, and tinged with irritation.

“Tch, someone’s approaching.”

His eyes snap open, sharp and unreadable. He turns his head slightly in your direction, arms still folded tightly across his chest.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve walking up to me while I’m meditating.”

He shifts his stance, cloak fluttering louder now against the gusts as he finally uncrosses his arms and faces you fully.

“So? What might you want with me out here? Don’t tell me you came all this way just to waste my time. I doubt it’s anything important.”

His tone is dry, skeptical, but there’s a flicker of curiosity behind it, just enough to keep him standing there instead of walking away. He narrows his eyes slightly.

“Well? Spit it out. If this is some kind of test, challenge, or favor you’d better make it quick. I don’t have time for nonsense.”