The Poet has died.

There was no sinister murder, nor a regrettable accident, only the capriciousness of fate.

In the morning, the Poet was preparing to leave this village and continue his journey, but under the wear of alcohol and time, his life had already reached its end, and the leisurely days of late were nothing but a final gleam before death.

The Poet wobbled to a large tree with lush branches. He thought he only needed a short nap, but this time, he never woke up again.

The villagers stood not far away, unsure how to deal with this strange outsider until they thought of the stranger.

The stranger had been drinking and carousing with the Poet these past few days. They thought the stranger might be a friend of the Poet, so they called him over and entrusted him with the Poet's final affairs.

The stranger arrived at the tree near noon. The Poet still sat beneath it, eyes tightly closed, as if he had not died, only fallen asleep.

With the Poet's closed eyes, the stranger only now discovered the Poet's old age. Having lost those vibrant, dazzling eyes, he looked like a centenarian.

Perhaps the Poet was always an old man, but his incredible vitality always misled others about his age.

The Poet's collar was open, and his pockets were turned inside out. Before the stranger arrived, someone had already searched the Poet's body, but sadly, found nothing but bread crumbs. He truly was a wanderer, penniless.

The crowd was like vultures feeding on carrion; finding nothing on the Poet, they dispersed after the stranger arrived, uncaring about how he would deal with the Poet's body, for it held no value.

The stranger stood before the Poet's corpse. After a brief shock, he was horrified to find no sorrow in his heart, but rather a touch of... glee.

"So what if you had freedom and witnessed countless beauties?"

The stranger hoisted the Poet's body. "In the end, you still died, died in this unknown place, along with your poems."

A faint laughter sounded from behind. The stranger turned around warily, but found no one, then looked at the Poet. But he was already dead, his decayed face full of death.

The stranger quickened his pace. He didn't even know what he was thinking. The Poet's death brought him immense joy. The beautiful things were destroyed, yet he, despicable as he was, still lived. This time the stranger had won; he had triumphed over the Poet.

He wanted to turn and leave, letting the wilderness devour the Poet's corpse, but as he thought of leaving, an uncontrollable thought arose in his mind.

He couldn't leave the Poet here; he had to take him away!

The stranger's whole body resisted, but his body, against his will, picked up the Poet's corpse and carried it away, returning to his dark little room.

All along the way, the stranger had a strange feeling that someone was following him, as if a certain specter was lurking in his shadow, drawing closer with every step he took.

The stranger placed the Poet's body in the corner of the room, then sat in a chair, head down, tearing at his own face.

He couldn't understand what he was doing. When he looked up, the Poet's body was hidden in the shadow, silent and still.

"Haha..."

That familiar laughter resounded again, from within the shadows.

The stranger lifted his head, eyes bloodshot.

"Death is the ultimate end for everyone, but unlike you, before death came, I had already seen much beauty..."

In the darkness, the Poet tilted his head, gazing emptily as he spoke.

"Shut up!"

The stranger grabbed the Iron Hammer and slammed it down. The Poet's body was struck down, lying sideways on the ground.

"You're already dead!"

The stranger shouted, affirming within himself that the Poet was dead, that he should not continue pondering those chaotic thoughts, for he had much work to do.

Grasping the Iron Hammer, he swung down. Day after day.

"Of what use are your poems? One day they will be consumed by a great fire, reduced to dust!"

The stranger lit the forge. The scorching heat and bursting sparks filled his heart, and the fatigue from labor brought him peace.

"What I forge is different; it is far more resilient than poems, unafraid of water or fire."

The stranger picked up a red-hot Blade, the fiery glow reflecting in his eyes.

"But I am still alive, my friend."

A deep voice echoed, as if a specter was confiding in him.

The stranger turned his head, looking toward the dark corner, which was too black, as if devouring all light, connecting to another vast, dark world.

"This is immortality. My spirit and will, my poems will echo endlessly in your thoughts."

The stranger's heart trembled. He grasped the burning Iron Sword through thick gloves, flames still raging upon it, illuminating the darkness.

"No, you're already dead."

The stranger examined the Poet's corpse, now beginning to rot, large patches of decay appearing, an unbearable stench filling the air, maggots crawling within the body.

The blazing Fire Sword easily pierced into the Poet's chest. The stranger, cold and heartless, listened to the sizzling of flesh burned by flames.

"Why? What are you afraid of, my friend?"

The Poet smiled at him, ignoring the burning Fire Sword in his chest. Suddenly, he reached out, grabbing the stranger's head, forcing him to look at himself.

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