“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.”^[1]

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^[2]!”
“No.”^[3]
“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.”^[4]
Those words became the foundation of his existence.

“Knowledge is also a power used to smite.”^[5]
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.