“There are no swords here. Only farm tools.”
Facing the ambitious boy,
The shopkeeper kindly explained.

“Even a rake would do.
Let its worth be judged by the verses I compose with it.”

Many days later, the wounded child stood upon the scorched earth,
And silent he buried the ruined tool.

For that was his first “sword.”
And on the day that the black tide came,
He broke the shackles of fate with that weapon true.

“Let go of my beard, you white-haired rascal^[1]!”
“No.”
“Fine… You win, okay?”

That was the first victory claimed by the boy,
A victory often mentioned in later years,
And yet he never treated it with shame —

“I understood something thanks to his beard.”
The others hold their breath, waiting for his thoughts,
But he only gives out one response.

“The victor must stay focused, and success will come
when you work on nothing else.”
Those words became the foundation of his existence.

“Knowledge is also a power used to smite.”^[2]
While studying at the Grove of Epiphany,
He etched this into his heart.

So he devoured thousands of books,
Skimming through to gleam the martial powers of might.

But unenlightened wisdom is merely dust,
And when the next calamity approaches,
All he recalled is flight.

Thus, his books are always worn into shreds.
For each book was read endlessly,
Till he remembered every detail slight.

When first arriving at the holy city,
He was no more skilled than a soldier,
Except his ambition —

“Even the Deliverer from the sky,
Must have their beginning in the soil of the nations.”

The Elders in the holy city scorned,
Casting him into barracks in derision.

But none expected,
This new recruit of unknown history,
Made his name in one mission.

Some asked him:
Which teacher caused such improvement?
He answers with countless names,
Including the inquirer's own.

“Only one who treats the world as their teacher…
Can bear its eventual destiny.”

“Those with golden blood are bound to succeed.”
“The golden heroes are born as gods' beloved.”

Such words echo in the man's mind,
Yet he knows glory is not where the journey begins.

He misses the buried rake,
Worshiped the enemy with the long beard,
Mended his tattered books,
And polished the barrack's dust-covered gear.

“What forges a hero is not destiny from above…
But the long journey that follows.”

Now he stands here and looks back,
And his past twists into a winding path.

The long road to the sky stretches ahead.
And towards the blazing white sun,
He pens down Deliverance's name.