The events encountered during this promotion ceremony have already exceeded Bologue's control, yet Bologue still maintained his composure. He knew very well that panic would only hasten his defeat.

Bologue tried hard to control his emotions, observing everything with an absolutely rational perspective. He didn't understand the situation he was experiencing at that moment and could only analyze it with his limited knowledge.

At this moment, Bologue's soul was frozen into an ice sculpture, standing on the earth, while his mind was soaring. Caught in the scorching white storm, he was swept into the howling wind almost in the blink of an eye, like a fallen leaf.

As he approached, Bologue forced his eyes open to observe the core of the storm. It was an absolutely scorching white light. After a brief glance, Bologue felt a burning pain in his pupils. Helplessly shifting his gaze away, he saw the figures swirling around with it.

They were thousands of souls, souls similar to Bologue. Countless souls surrounded the edge of the storm, forming a part of this vast destruction.

Bologue found it hard to comprehend the scene before him; it was entirely beyond his imagination. Bologue couldn't even discern if this was a real occurrence or a symbol of some power, much like his body, mind, and spirit.

He became part of the storm, pulled into a vortex, while the scorching white storm continued to advance on the icefield, devouring the towering ice sculptures. Most of the ice sculptures disintegrated into dust the moment they touched the storm, merging into it.

With its slow progression, Bologue's ice sculpture, the manifestation of his soul, would also be consumed by the storm. Bologue grew nervous, uncertain of what would happen if the storm swallowed him... but to Bologue, it was definitely not a good thing. His soul was already incomplete and couldn't afford any more mistakes.

Like a drowning man, Bologue flailed his hands, trying to grasp something tangible, but only caught the swirling snowdust. Then, several spirits brushed past him, echoing with cheers. Soon after, Bologue collided head-on with another spirit.

Bologue didn't crash with this spirit; instead, they intertwined and overlapped. In that instant, Bologue saw thousands of shattered images pouring onto his memory like a storm.

The continuous cries of a newborn baby learning to speak and take clumsy first steps, until like a fawn, following behind the adults...

Bologue was experiencing another's life in a miraculous way, observing the stranger gradually growing up.

The stranger lived in a time long before Bologue's era, when Kings and Lords still ruled this land. There were no railways, no newspapers, transportation was blocked, and people were ignorant.

Different from those numb adults, the stranger longed for the outside world since he was young. He often sat on the grass, gazing at the distant mountains, curious about what lay beyond them.

Whenever he mentioned these to his father, his father would only vaguely reply, "Beyond the mountains are still mountains."

"Then what beyond that? There must be something beyond all those mountains, right?"

The child looked at his father with anticipation. His father remained silent; this weary man had never been that far, those towering mountains were insurmountable walls to the villagers.

The father ruffled the child's hair, "Don't think about those things; what's beyond the mountains is meaningless. You should learn my craft."

The father was a Blacksmith, and as his son, he was expected to be a Blacksmith too.

The young child didn't understand what that meant; he only smiled, unaware that as he grew, his curiosity beyond the mountains grew day by day, as the constraints from his father grew increasingly suffocating.

"You should forget about what's beyond the mountains and honestly learn the craft from me, become a Blacksmith, only then can you sustain yourself!"

The father looked at him, covered in mud and weeds, instantly knowing what he had been up to.

Climbing over the mountains.

He had always been trying to climb over the mountains, but every attempt ended in failure.

In the face of his father's reprimands, he initially retorted a few times, but gradually he fell silent.

He realized the mountains were too vast, so grand that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see the end. Maybe he should heed his father's words, become a Blacksmith, and spend a quiet life in this remote village.

The stranger compromised, and the ordinary days continued, unremarkable. He grew from a child into a young man, taking over his father's Iron Hammer, becoming the most outstanding Blacksmith in the village.

He thought that this would be his life, continuously hammering steel in the scorching forge, until his own child replaced him, but one day, the arrival of a traveler broke all of this.

This remote village rarely had outsiders; only during a fixed time every year would caravans pass by, or tax collectors from the Lord.

That day, the villagers all gathered in the tavern, observing the strangely dressed fellow. The traveler, with an unruly look, drank heavily, speaking of strange and new stories.

Minstrel.

The villagers called the traveler this. The moment he saw the Poet, he was deeply captivated, unclear of what the emotion was, but within this decaying and ancient village, the Poet's vibrancy was so alive.

The Poet wasn't a young man; his face was weathered, hair streaked with gray, but when he smiled and recounted stories of far-off lands, he was so youthful, far beyond anyone else.

The stranger chatted with the Poet in the tavern, lingering until late into the night. It was the first time he talked to someone for so long. He spent his savings to buy the Poet one drink after another. The Poet said he wouldn't stay long here, leaving in a few days.

So, for the past few days, the stranger hadn't been working. Instead, he closed the blacksmith's shop and indulged in drunken revelry with the Poet. They talked a lot, extending their conversations beyond the mountains.

The stranger asked, "Do you know what's beyond the mountains?"

The Poet, drunk, replied, "Beyond the mountains? More mountains."

The stranger felt a bit disappointed. This was the same answer his father had given, but he persistently asked, "And beyond the layers of mountains?"

This time, the Poet fell silent. He put down his wine glass and answered earnestly, "It's an endlessly vast world."

"There are boundless plains, mighty rivers flowing through various lands, mountain peaks that stretch like high walls, and highlands where the fierce winds rage ceaselessly."

The Poet's voice suddenly softened, and with a mischievous smile, he painted a picture of such a world for the stranger.

"It is a colorful world, far more interesting than this village. There are many things you've never experienced, never known, never possessed..."

The Poet grabbed the stranger with a boisterous and drunken breath.

"That is life, that is truly living, my friend!"

"But all this comes at a price, doesn't it?" The stranger was no longer a child, "You wander aimlessly, your journey no different from vagrancy save for poetry. You possess nothing; even the drink money is on me."

The Poet shook his head, "No, I have everything. When I set foot in that vast beauty, the vast beauty is mine. When I slumber in the wilds, this boundless earth is my bed... I can see it, friend, there's longing hidden in your eyes. You yearn for such a world too, don't you?"

The stranger said nothing.

"Why not listen to your heart voice? Is it that you can't let go of this comfort?"

"I'm bound here, no! I willingly stay here."

The stranger's father died shortly after he took over the Iron Hammer, and his mother had left early in his childhood. In this remote village, there was nothing worth loving, no one he cared about, yet it seemed as if there was a force anchoring him here, unable to leave.

The Poet smiled faintly, saying no more. The stranger looked at him, and despite the heavy drinking, the Poet's eyes held no haze, only wisdom and clarity, as if only his body was intoxicated, not his soul.

He picked up the book tucked at his waist, its cover was of cracked leather, and the thick pages were interspersed with slips of paper, filled with scribbled writing.

The stranger asked, "What's this?"

"I am a Poet," the Poet said, "This is my poetry."

Opening the pages, the Poet started to write, occasionally glancing at the stranger as he wrote.

"What are you writing?"

"The stories I have lived through... In the ancient, decayed land, I encountered a heart of freedom obscured by dust. Unfortunately, I came too late; he had already integrated with all that decay."

"What good does it do to write all this?" The stranger knew the Poet was alluding to him, "You will eventually die, and so will your poems, returning to the dust of old, with no one left to remember."

"No, they won't," The Poet's eyes shone as he refuted the stranger's words, "This won't end."

"Poetry is endless... The poem has no end!"

"Just the ravings of a madman!"

The stranger was provoked. He didn't even know why he was angry. Was the Poet too perfect?

Yes, the Poet was living the life he longed for, he had extended an invitation, but he lacked the courage to embrace change, safeguarding his pitiful dignity by denying all of the Poet's existence.

He thought how clever the Poet was; surely, he had seen through him long ago. So, how ridiculous must he appear in the Poet's eyes?

The stranger locked himself in his room for several days, trying hard not to think about the Poet, or what's beyond the mountains. He only hoped the Poet would leave quickly and return his peaceful life.

And then...the peaceful life returned.

The Poet was dead.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.