.いち Vita Opes Potentia.

Life x Wealth^2 = Power

The mist clung to the jagged peaks of the Stawamus Chief, its granite face glistening under the pale light of a moon that had watched over Squamish for millennia. Nestled between the mountains and the sea, Squamish was still, on the surface, the same rugged village it had always been—a place where climbers, hikers, and dreamers gathered to escape the chaos of the world. The coffee shops buzzed with chatter about the latest trail conditions, the craft breweries poured pints of locally brewed ale, and the farmers' markets overflowed with the bounty of the land. But beneath this veneer of normalcy, something extraordinary was stirring. In the heart of this unassuming village lived Baron Yogo Mauwu, a man who looked as ordinary as the town itself. At 87, he was a familiar face in Squamish—a tall, lean figure with silver hair, a weathered face, and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. He wore flannel shirts and worn-out boots, and he could often be found sipping coffee at the local café or chatting with the fishermen by the docks. To the townsfolk, Baron was just another retiree enjoying the quiet life. But Baron was anything but ordinary. His home, a modest cabin on the edge of the forest, was a reflection of his dual nature. On the surface, it was a cozy retreat filled with books, maps, and the scent of pine. Baron had lived long enough to see life itself become the ultimate currency. His wealth was not just in the resources he controlled but in the decades he had gained and the influence he had amassed. He was a living paradox—a man who looked like everyone else but carried the secrets of the future within him.

Baron woke to the sound of rain drumming against the roof of his cabin, a steady rhythm that echoed the restlessness in his own soul. He lay for a moment, the scent of pine and damp earth filling his senses, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Age had stiffened his joints, but his mind, though occasionally prone to wandering, was still sharp as a tack. He shuffled to the kitchen, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight, and set a pot of water to boil. The familiar routine soothed him, the hiss of the stove a comforting counterpoint to the insistent rain. Tea steeping, he moved to his studio, a converted shed bathed in the soft, diffused light of the overcast sky. An easel stood in the center of the room, a half-finished canvas upon it. A riot of colors – swirling blues, fiery oranges, and earthy browns – hinted at the landscape he was attempting to capture. But something was off. The energy, the vibrancy he usually poured into his work, was missing. He picked up a brush, the smooth handle familiar in his hand, and dipped it in a pool of crimson. His hand hovered over the canvas, unsure. Doubt, a rare visitor these days, gnawed at him. Was it age that dulled his inspiration, or something more? His mind, usually a whirlwind of ideas, felt sluggish, mired in a fog he couldn't shake. He tried to focus, to summon the image of the Stawamus Chief, its granite face etched against the sky. But the mountain, usually so clear in his mind's eye, remained elusive, shrouded in the same mist that clung to the peaks outside.

Frustration mounted. He stabbed the brush onto the palette, the sharp clatter breaking the silence of the studio. Perhaps it was the rain, he thought, its relentless beat sapping his creative energy. Or perhaps, he acknowledged with a sigh, it was simply an off day, a reminder that even he, Baron Yogo Mauwu, was not immune to the vagaries of age and inspiration. He decided to step away, to let the painting breathe, to let his mind wander. A walk in the woods, he thought, might clear his head. He pulled on his boots, grabbed his raincoat, and stepped out into the rain-soaked morning, leaving the unfinished canvas behind, a silent testament to his struggle.