"Oh, I see, you are afraid of change, aren't you? You have been complacent for so long, so long that you don't want to think about what's beyond the mountains anymore... You even hate what's beyond the mountains.

You have sunk into your comfort, and whenever you think of what's beyond the mountains, you try to restrain the agitation in your heart to prevent your familiar life from being disrupted."

The Poet discovered the truth and laughed aloud, twisted and strange maggots crawled in his throat, rubbing against each other with a rustling sound.

"Shut up!"

The Stranger berated, stabbing the Fire Sword deeper until it pierced the ground.

"That's why you are so eager to destroy me. I am like a fire, igniting the desires in your heart, and you must find a way to extinguish it, but all of this... is too late."

The Poet looked like his scheme had succeeded, singing loudly.

"The fire has started!"

The Stranger roared, withdrawing the extinguished Blade, hacking madly at the Poet's corpse until it was chopped into pieces.

When the Stranger regained his senses, he was kneeling before a pool of filthy blood, the Poet's pale face lying to the side, eyes dilated and cloudy, his abdomen mangled, bones shattered into fragments, bloody intestines spilled out, and blood slowly flowed, soaking beneath the Stranger.

There were no words from ghosts, nor any abnormal movements. The Poet was long dead, and everything just now seemed like an illusion.

The Stranger stumbled and climbed up, eyes filled with fear, unable to understand what had happened. The Stranger picked up some fire and threw it onto the corpse.

The fire ignited in an instant, burning the Poet's corpse, the bright light illuminating all the darkness.

The firelight brought warmth and peace, calming the Stranger's restless heart. He sat on a chair, breathing deeply.

The flames would turn everything to ashes, extinguishing that rising desire once again.

The Stranger laughed to himself, but his laughter soon froze. Not far from the burning flames, a book of poems quietly lay on the ground.

The Stranger walked over slowly, breathing uneasily, heart pounding. He hadn't felt this way for many years, emotions of excitement and fear intertwined.

Thinking back carefully, the last time he had such feelings was many years ago.

Ah, the Stranger still remembered that day. It was the day when he picked up the Iron Hammer, ready to inherit the family business, but he didn't show up at the Blacksmith shop. Instead, he prepared his luggage and quietly left home before the dawn.

The Stranger had had enough of his father's control. He didn't want to spend a mediocre life in front of the forge. The Stranger wanted to see what lay beyond the mountains.

That was not a good day for departure. The Stranger encountered a giant bear in the mountains. At that moment, he wasn't overly scared. He thought dying on the path of pursuit wouldn't be so bad, but someone unexpected appeared.

The father knew the Stranger too well. When he left home, the father followed him from afar.

"Why did you come? Are you still trying to stop me?"

During the escape, the Stranger couldn't help but shout at his father. All these years, the mountains weren't the only barrier he wanted to overcome, but also the walls named after his father. He thought he had escaped, yet his father still chased him.

"No... it's not like that."

The father shook his head, always firm, but his attitude unexpectedly softened—perhaps because death was approaching.

"I've always known. I can't change your mind. One day you will leave me, but I just feel you're not ready yet."

The Stranger was stunned.

"Today is a good day. I intended to see you off."

The father said, suddenly stopping. He was old now, and the short run left him panting, with bloodthirsty growls drawing closer behind.

"But..."

The father didn't continue. He just smiled at the Stranger, waved at him, and his dark silhouette swallowed him.

The Stranger couldn't remember how he escaped. He only knew he kept running, even when his legs were exhausted, numb to the extreme, never stopping until he returned to the familiar village.

Since then, the Stranger no longer thought about what's beyond the mountains.

The Stranger looked at the book of poems before him. He intended to burn it along with everything else. Suddenly, a gentle breeze blew, swaying the flames, and opened the pages, revealing all its beauty to the Stranger.

He instinctively picked up the book, gazing at its contents. The Stranger had never read books nor knew words, but he could see the rough drawings—the Poet had sketched one breathtaking picture after another with simple lines.

The book of poems held Magic Power that made it hard for the Stranger to look away, forcing him to stare at its contents, his breath gradually a pant, sweat streaming down his forehead.

The Stranger walked towards the blazing fire; it burned the Poet's corpse and warmed the Stranger's body. The light illuminated the darkness, reflecting the illustrations and text.

The outside world at this moment broke the mountains' barriers, appearing before the Stranger.

"A Poet should not be shackled."

In the glaring firelight, the Poet's voice rang out again, standing amidst the flames.

The Stranger seemed not to hear his words, continuing to flip through the pages until they showed blank sheets. He turned a few more pages, and yet they continued to be empty.

The Stranger seemed to comprehend something, lifted his head, and met the Poet's gaze.

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