The Sky Mountain Range, a forbidden zone and a mystery of the continent, was no mere landmark. It was the first mountain ever created, a land that had breathed the essence of the heavens for eons. A will dwelt within this extraordinary peak—a majestic, solemn will that bordered on the divine.
「…….」
The will residing in the great mountain existed to fulfill a single duty, dictated by the oldest laws established by the gods. That duty was simple and clear.
Do not allow the unworthy to approach the heavens.
In the present age, the seven races defined this “qualification” in various ways: the “Great Warriors of the Nine Goddesses and Seven Chief Gods,” “pure royalty inheriting the bloodline of a Monarch,” or “Dragons, the masters of the sky.” However, true qualification was something only the will of the Sky Mountain Range could determine.
Since the moment it was born from the earth, the mountain’s will had never changed its criteria. While the various races of the continent believed that only Dragons met the requirement, that was not the truth. It was simply that Dragons happened to be a race that fit the criteria.
The qualification was not complicated.
An unyielding being.
Since the dawn of the continent, most had failed to meet this standard. Not the renowned adventurers, nor the monarchs who brought legions to conquer the peak, nor the great wizards who claimed to have mastered the truth. None of them possessed the qualification.
Only the Dragons.
And a few human Swordmasters.
Beings firmly convinced that their own standards were not wrong. Beings so exceptional that even if the rest of the world claimed they were mistaken, they could insist their own world was right.
「An unusual… human.」
Thus, the mountain’s will took notice of that man. Despite being a lowly creature, he possessed a hardness comparable to those who stood at the center of the world. The mountain’s will pondered: Was a Caravan of the Steel bloodline truly different? Was he indeed the descendant of the man who had pacified the distant past?
But…
Even compared to that man, this human was different. That man also possessed Sword Souls, as all Caravans did. But that man had crushed those souls, using them as mere nutrients like a plant. He was so great that he could harmonize with nothing.
But what about this human?
“That was a close one this time.”
“Indeed it was.”
A lowly human.
While his inner hardness was on par with transcendent beings, everything else was pathetically lacking. Had he faced the Trial of Spirits, the Trial of Elements, or the Trial of the Heavens head-on, he would have crumbled instantly—unlike that man, who had qualified alone through the strength of his own sword. Yet, this human had reached the azure sky through a different path.
“I almost died on this mountain before I even got to use this face. Why does he live such a rough life with such a precious face? He only acts like this because he doesn’t know how rare a handsome face is.”
“Well, I suppose anyone would realize its value if their face ended up charred like yours, mercenary woman.”
“Why, you little…”
“The Sky Mountain Range. This is a view Dorothy would have truly loved. She was always talking about beautiful scenery back in Labyrinth City.”
“Humans! Stop wallowing in nostalgia! The Great Plains of my tribe are far more beautiful than a mountain like this! I look forward to it! Since you have my memories, you’ll surely visit the Great Plains one day!”
“Shut up, you Orc bastard.”
The swords that slept within that human.
They were the ones protecting him.
“I wish we could protect him like this every time.”
“The stars are truly beautiful. More so than those I saw during the Age of Stars.”
“That was dangerous. I thought we were going to break.”
As if they truly cherished him.
The swords were looking after the human.
“……He will not break.”
And then.
Among the Sword Souls, a man with a loyal expression smiled faintly.
“Because Young Master Arhan will one day leave his name in the history of this continent.”
Watching the man, the mountain’s will felt it had witnessed a rare spectacle for the first time in a long while. From high above the heavens, above the clouds, the voices of great beings could be heard shouting in anger, but the mountain was under no obligation to heed their demands. The mountain was open to all who possessed the qualification.
However.
Among the souls guarding the human, there was one that was quite different. It was not a Sword Soul devoured by the Last Caravan, yet it stayed the closest. A faint, blurry soul harboring an affection that shone brighter than any other. The mountain’s will saw the light of that soul flickering like a firefly. The tiny soul could not produce a voice. It simply held a certain book within its hazy form. A worn, tattered paper book. On its cover, these words were written:
The Knight of La Mancha.
* * *
There were no miracles in this world.
“Sprout, my wings.”
My senile attempt to climb the cliff again after losing my son ended in failure. My body was already as old as could be. I had spent the twilight of my life—a time that should have been spent resting before a warm hearth—as an adventurer. I had gained quite a bit of fame alongside my son, but in exchange, my aged body was broken beyond repair. The fall was the final blow.
“Please.”
I had survived, but I wasn’t truly alive. It was impossible to climb the cliff by clutching at rocks. My trembling hands couldn’t even grasp the dirt. My creaking, ancient body seemed to be telling me: your time is over. A pathetic old man, a father born insignificant, could never inherit the dream of a genius son.
“Please, sprout again…….”
It was as if the heavens were speaking.
As if the world were speaking.
Your time is over. No era wants an old man to be the protagonist. The brief, sparkling event is finished; now, old man, your role is done. Exit the stage.
There is no country for old men.
Under the still-beautiful sky, I lost consciousness. Like an old bird that had lost the strength to fly, falling straight down without even a flap of its wings. And for the old man who had miraculously survived once, there was no second miracle. With the fall, my aged body finally broke completely. Like cracked glass shattering into pieces.
“Is it that old man?”
But even then, I could not die.
“The old fool who dared to challenge the heavens in his senility.”
“They say the son died and the father became a cripple. I heard the son was in a similar state back in the day. A half-wit who couldn’t even speak properly, a lump of flesh who could never function as a human!”
The ancients said that a son follows the life of his father.
My twilight was the reverse of those words. A withered, miserable father was walking the past life of his son in reverse. An old man who had found a shining ambition in the winter of his life dreamed of the sky just as his son had, only to be entombed within his own worn-out flesh. I became a stuffed specimen, unable to move a finger or even end my own life. Just like the broken son who had returned to my arms long ago.
“So why did he dare to look toward the sky?”
Soaring. The boy and young man who craved the sky and dreamed of flying was dead. The father of that young man, once middle-aged and now old, was reduced to a wretched state beneath that very sky. Like a sinner receiving punishment for defying the will of the heavens.
“Tsk, disgusting.”
“This is why humans must know their place.”
The hateful sky.
Yet, the Dragons—who had held that beautiful sky, the sky my son dreamed of, in their hands since the moment of their birth—still soared brilliantly. Paradoxically, my mind, trapped in its decaying body, was incredibly clear. With blurred eyes, I stared up at the sky without sleeping. Because when I looked at the sky, I felt like I could hear my son’s voice. The voice of my son from long ago, when I was younger and stronger, whispering dreams and hopes in my arms, laughing as he promised to fly.
A long time passed like that.
Hatred, longing, and resentment are all washed away by time. Even the people walking the streets no longer mocked me. An old man is forgotten by time. The old man became an even older man, the worn body began to crumble further, and the mind continued to grow clearer. Like the azure sky, the Azure Sky without a single cloud.
“…….”
My senses had long since faded. How did my son endure such a long time in this state? How could he keep his dreams shining and never lose hope in such a terrible time? As time passed, I respected my son more and more. It became difficult to even perceive my own existence. Sometimes, I even wondered if my breath had already stopped and I was merely suffering in hell.
I could do nothing, say nothing. The thread of life is stubborn. I hoped the gods would take my soul soon. Even in my agony, I couldn’t take my eyes off the sky. The brilliant sky my son wanted so badly. What meaning was in that sky that you gave your everything for it?
This father is lacking and uneducated; I am lowly and foolish, so I cannot follow your genius will. I cannot understand the deep intent you held when you wished to fly high. So please, tell me just one more time. Why did you want to fly? Why did you want to soar, my Icarus?
“Please, stay still.”
Through the help of the holy priestesses who served the Goddess of Light—those who do not turn away from the suffering—I continued to linger. I became a lump of meat that leaked waste and occasionally let out a groan of stench, held captive by the world, unable to leave. Wishing for this life to end, wishing for it to end as soon as possible.
And then.
“Father.”
One day, during my desolate life, a middle-aged woman came to visit. She had disheveled blue hair, and two sons were by her side. The two sons, with their innocent faces, were strangely familiar. They looked like my son.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
The woman was my son’s wife. A woman he had met during his days shining as an inventor; they had spent only a short time together, but during that time, she had conceived my son’s children. The woman had come to me, who was spending my most miserable days, bringing two grandsons who looked just like my son.
“I really wanted to see your face. He always talked about you before he passed. He said the reason he could look at the sky like this, the reason he could dream of flying, was all thanks to you.”
“…….”
“He said you told him the heavens would bless his dream when everyone else mocked it. He said you never dismissed the words he spoke aimlessly in his reckless childhood. You were the sturdy wings that allowed him to laugh without fear and achieve anything.”
I couldn’t agree with the woman’s words. I was a pathetic father. An unqualified father who couldn’t even teach him what he wanted to learn, who couldn’t even teach him his letters. My son shone simply because he was extraordinary. The woman’s words were merely a final consolation offered to a miserable old man. I tried not to listen. But when I came to my senses, tears were streaming down my cheeks. Tears as hot as fire. Tears so hot I worried they might scald my face or set the blankets and pillows ablaze.
“Grandpa.”
Through blurred eyes, I looked at my two grandsons. They were so alike, perhaps twins. The giggling grandsons spoke.
“We want to fly like our father did.”
“Up, we want to fly way up high. Like birds.”
I had seen those innocent faces before. While the grandsons prattled on naively, moths were rushing toward the lantern beside my bed. With a crackling sound, small embers transferred to the bodies of the moths as they burned to death. Those insignificant insects, whom no one watched, shone the brightest at their final moment. They became the light they had craved.
“I heard Grandpa is very sick and can’t talk.”
“But you can still hear us, right?”
“Then you have to remember our names. When we meet in heaven later, you mustn’t forget to call our names. If you call us, we’ll fly to you. We’ll fly and give you a big hug.”
“I’m Wilbur Wright.”
“I’m Orville Wright.”
The grandsons’ eyes were overflowing with dreams.
“Everyone just calls us the Wright Brothers for short.”
“One day, my brother and I are going to fly in the sky. Higher than anyone.”
Ah.
The dream was being passed on.
As if connected by an invisible thread, my son’s dream was being passed to his sons. As if this were the will of the heavens.
But as always, the heavens are harsh.
The cruel world did not want the brilliant invention my son had once achieved to be recreated. The Great Heavens came to find my lovely grandsons once again. A Dragon. The Dragon that had frustrated my son, taken his life after humiliating him, and ruined my body. The noble master of the sky had descended to sever the third generation.
Wings spread wide, people bowing their heads in fear, a daughter-in-law begging for their lives while clutching her two sons, my grandsons held in their mother’s arms. While the greatest master of the sky appeared, I was still floundering, trapped in my worn-out body. Even in the crisis where my bloodline—my son’s dream that was still continuing—might vanish from this world, the old man could not step onto the stage.
It was as if the heavens were speaking.
This is the fate your bloodline was born with. Your destiny is to serve as an example to all of the end of a human who harbors an undeserved dream. You must be taxidermied and mocked by everyone. So that no one dares to dream of the sky. You, and your son, and even your grandsons must be so. It was as if the heavens were saying that.
“Ah.”
At that moment, my cleared mind led my body. I couldn’t tell if it was a dream, a hallucination, a delusion, or reality. The gazes of those who had been bowing their heads focused on me. Even the eyes of the noble Dragon widened until they nearly popped out. The entombed old man was walking. Driven by the final ember ignited from his soul.
“Aah.”
What is Soaring ? What is the meaning behind the act of flying? All things living on the continent live pressed down by gravity. They live bound to the earth, oppressed. Therefore, for those born of the earth to fly signifies resistance. It is to defy one’s born fate, the will of the heavens, and the order of the world. And thus, to make a dream that no one else could achieve shine.
“Sprout.”
Only then did I begin to understand, even if just a little, what the Soaring my son had craved his whole life truly was. Only upon reaching the complete twilight of my life did this lacking and unsightly father catch a glimpse of the fragment of truth my proud son had realized in his youth.
To fly is to resist. It is the resistance of us, a father and son born in the lowest of places. For the poor and lowly to live diligently, for the old and sick to dream like boys, for a young man entombed in a worn body to crave the sky without despairing. All those acts are Soaring . It is the flight one can take in an unreasonable and harsh world.
“Wings, sprout once more.”
A low and dark place. The wandering gypsies, my brothers and mother and father, my friends, those who lived begging while buried in filth—they always said:
Is this the life we wanted?
Why must we live in such a hell?
Where are the dreams and the shining future we held as children? Is this the life I dreamed of, the form of the adult I wanted to become?
Those who lost what they craved lived in resignation, defeated. Those who resigned disappeared one by one. Those who do not disappear are those who resist. I have seen such people throughout my long life. My son saw what I saw. Yes, my son did not want to disappear. From the lowest place to the highest, he wanted to resist forever. Forever.
“Fly. Fly. Fly.”
The Dragon is still snarling. It seems to be muttering something. But I couldn’t hear it. Suddenly, my armpits itch. It feels as if wings are sprouting along with the itch. Artificial wings that shake precariously, yet can fly powerfully.
I looked at my grandsons held in their mother’s arms. Their eyes were full of fear, but they didn’t take their eyes off me. Yes, there is no country for old men. No stage features an old man as the protagonist. The world is made of young people, their desires, and their dreams. There is only one thing I—broken, worn, and now ready to disappear—can and must do. To show you that your dreams were not wrong. To show you that there is a path you can take.
“Let us fly just one more time.”
I gripped a short sword, the blade I had always held during my days adventuring with my son. Then, I soared toward the Dragon that was babbling something. It wasn’t a metaphorical expression. My body floated up and reached the Dragon in an instant. So fast that no one could see. At that moment, my world was dyed blue. From the sky to the earth, everywhere my vision reached became a blue world. Like the Azure Sky my son had dreamed of.
“Let us fly… just one more time…….”
With a thud, the Dragon’s head fell to the ground. With a pattering sound, the Dragon’s parts scattered here and there as if it were being butchered. When I lifted my head, covered in blood, the sky above me was wide open and clear. The cloudless blue sky was like the Azure Sky. The sky reflected in my eyes at this moment was more beautiful than any sky I had seen in my life. As I glimpsed the sky like that, I saw faint forms beyond it. Countless gazes. The gazes of some great beings living above the heavens. Meeting those gazes, I pulled up the corners of my wrinkled mouth and smiled.
“You noble ones.”
My body is breaking. The end of the old man is approaching. I had to choose my final words. With everyone watching, the words I had to say were already decided.
“…Do you know of a genius who has become a stuffed specimen?”
That was.
The end of a certain adventurer.
.
.
.
I opened my eyes.
『O boy who lives a noble life. O boy who defies the heavens and leaves a great footprint.』
When I opened my eyes, the Old Adventurer was there.
『Unlike what you think, I never saw the Azure Sky, let alone the mist you have reached. What my son and I saw was merely a clear sky we mistook for the Azure Sky. We were ecstatic just from the sky we saw in our delusion. We were a foolish father and son.』
The soul of the Old Adventurer was slowly disappearing.
The soul, scattering into a cluster of light, was permeating into me.
『The end of an old man is insignificant compared to your world. This old man simply wished to soar until the very end. I do not know if even that was a meaningful flight or merely a worn-out struggle. I only hope my old blade will be of help to the boy.』
“…….”
『Ah, that blue sky without a single cloud is truly beautiful.』
The Old Adventurer smiled.
Along with him, blurry souls wavered beside the adventurer. The adventurer’s son, grandsons, and the countless connections the Old Adventurer had passed by. Those who had crumbled and disappeared without being able to soar wavered. The souls that appeared while wavering soon merged into one. The merged soul soon became a sword.
『I hope our small legend will be of help.』
Beneath the Azure Sky.
Within a single beam of light, 「Soaring」 was completely digested by me. Amidst a strange sense of fulfillment, a final voice echoed in my head.
『Now, nothing will be able to bind the boy. Nothing at all.』
.
.
.
『For that is our legend.』
As the voice faded, the energy of 「Soaring」 completely permeated into me. The moment I closed and opened my eyes, Master spoke.
「There is not much time left now.」
In a very satisfied voice.
「For the day the world pays the price for forgetting the Caravan.」
* * *
The mountain peak trembled.
With a thud, the ground I was standing on began to shake madly. A precursor to an avalanche. While the peaceful land was being upended, I did not panic and slowly raised my sword. The wave of nature pouring down from atop the Azure Sky was terrifying.
The heavens.
It felt as if the world were collapsing.
Yet, I was not afraid.
With the power of the sword I had newly digested, there was no reason to fear.
“Whew.”
I closed and opened my eyes.
And then.
『Wings, sprout once more.』
The world I looked upon was dyed blue.
