Chapter 137 : Chapter 137

Translator: AkazaTL

Pr/Ed: Sol IX

***

Chapter 137 – Flight (1)

The son who returned after seven years was only a shell. The pride of the city—my son—had lost everything he once possessed. The handsome face that had once turned heads was gone; his skin flayed, muscle exposed, he no longer looked human but monstrous.

His brilliance and wit were gone too. The eloquence that had once captivated peasants, nobles, and scholars alike would never be heard again. His tongue had been torn out, his jaw shattered—he was doomed to spend the rest of his life drooling, a broken half-wit.

After endless torture, his bones were crushed, his muscles severed—he could no longer move. To crawl, he had to thrust his head forward and drag himself like a worm, scraping his chin along the ground. And the worst part… his mind was intact. Those bright, intelligent eyes remained clear— and from them, transparent tears fell.

My proud son was trapped inside a ruined body. He was stuffed inside it, like something lifeless. I had seen such things before, back when I was a ranger— taxidermy.

My son had been turned into one.

It was too horrific to accept. And when a noble who had returned with him told me the reason for his condition, he said—“Your son committed a sin.”

The noble spoke: Icarus had dreamt of the sky. He had wished to reach the stars—the realm of the gods—and embrace the heavens themselves. To that end, he created something that could fly. His invention, born of a longing to see the world from the heights of the Sky Mountains, was meant to let humankind soar where no one had gone before.

When he unveiled it, Icarus said:

“The heavens have no masters. All can become rulers of the sky. My creation will let anyone embrace the heavens—allow all to dream equally of the stars.” He spoke of freedom and liberation.

“In the kingdom of the sky, that is blasphemy,” the noble said.

The lords of the sky had not tolerated his invention. They took it as a challenge to their dominion. They needed a punishment worse than death— so they took everything from the young genius and put his ruined body on display, as a warning to all. Like mounting a beast on the wall.

My son had been caged inside his withered flesh.

“Think of him as dead,” the noble told me. “Say he died on a battlefield, struck by a blind arrow. It will ease your heart.”

“……”

“Do not feed your anger. Let go of resentment. You’ll burn inside, yes—but what can you do? Swing a sword? You cannot cut the sky. Scream? Your cries will never pierce it.”

My son, who had loved the moths that flew into flame— met the same fate. The one who had yearned to soar to the sun was burned by its heat. And the old father could only hold his hand and weep.

As I held him, my son gurgled softly, pointing toward something. A pen and a piece of paper.

I fetched them, my heart pounding. What if he asked me to end his suffering—to help him die? Could a father do such a thing? No. Never. And yet, looking at his broken body, death seemed the kinder choice. If my son asked for it… what then?

Trembling, I watched him scrawl crooked letters on the page. Unable to read, I brought the paper to a neighbor. They looked at the sheet, then read it aloud.

“‘Upward. Higher.’”

“……”

“‘I want to fly, Father.’”

Ah. Foolish old man. I had never truly known my son. He had not lost everything. Even in that ruined shell, a spark of hope remained. Even without strength to lift a finger, he still yearned for the sky. And I… I could not tell him no.

When I returned home, he had fallen from his chair, twitching on the floor. I lifted him, clutching him tight, swallowing my tears, and whispered—“Then let’s fly. Fly high, my son.”

From that day, my life changed. I became an adventurer. Partly to make a living as a retired ranger— but mostly because it would make it easier to find what my son needed for his invention, and above all, because it was a path to see the wider world— for his dream.

My son had said: “To reach the heavens, we must go where the sky is closest.”

Even I knew where that was— the Sky Mountains. No adventurer or explorer had ever conquered them. No one could guide us there. No Sherpa would risk leading a crippled boy and an old man up that cursed range. To fulfill his dream, I had to become an adventurer— one capable of carrying his son up the Sky Mountains himself.

“A diligent man, you are,” they told me.

At first, I stumbled. As a retired ranger, I tried to rely on old skills, but they were outdated. So I remade my traps, my tools—everything—with my son’s ingenious suggestions.

My sword grew sharper through the many fights we faced to protect him.

“Remarkable skill,” people began to say.

I felt like another man. Lighter, nimbler, stronger than I’d been in youth. Was it because I had something to protect? Because my son’s dream rekindled the fire in my chest? I didn’t know. But the words I once told him—‘Fly high’— had come to apply to me as well. I too was preparing to fly.

“To the great adventurer,” they called me.

Ridiculous, really. A white-haired, bent old man—a great adventurer? But over time, the name stuck. Our discoveries, our records written in code—my son’s code—spread far and wide. He called it Labyrinthos. No one but him could decipher it. Perhaps that mystery, more than our deeds, was what built our legend.

“May I ask your name, sir?” they would say.

“Icarus,” I’d answer.

I carried my son’s name. And when people spoke it, he’d sometimes smile—awkwardly, jaw trembling. Some found it unsettling. To me, it was beautiful— the same smile he’d had as a baby.

As my fame grew, so did my strength. At last, I became the adventurer who could climb the Sky Mountains with his son on his back. I spent years studying those peaks—the strange paths, the hidden routes. My son would occasionally mumble “ah-ah” behind me, and I knew those were sounds of wonder.

Past the monks, past the divine beasts, past the Dwarven Kingdom— we reached a height where the view stole the breath from my lungs.

“Wingless ones… how dare you covet the sky?”

There, we met the ruler of the heavens— a dragon.

And then—

“Your blasphemy cannot be forgiven.”

That was the day I lost my son.

***

“...Haa.”

I absorbed the flood of memory in silence. Within the sword’s memory, I could still feel the overwhelming hatred— the rage toward the dragon. But I didn’t yet know the full reason for it.

The power that was said to sleep within the blade still hadn’t revealed itself.

But not all was fruitless.

The world looks… different now.

The Sky Mountains no longer felt foreign.

They felt as familiar as the hills behind the Karavan estate.

The memories of the old adventurer—his lifetime of effort, his mastery—had settled into my mind.

Not bad at all.

In this moment, I wasn’t some naive swordsman from the Iron Kingdom’s outskirts, lost in a mountain path.

I was a great adventurer who had conquered forbidden lands and marked unknown territories with flags.

A man who had begun as a retired ranger and ended as a legend.

The place I fell—the foot of the Sky Mountains.

According to the memory, the range was divided into three regions: the lower slopes, the midrange, and beyond that—the realm of Azure Heaven.

The lower slopes brimmed with Mana, where the flora and insects grew monstrously large.

The midrange was worse: predatory plants, beasts grown into spiritual monsters, natural disasters born from excessive Mana density. And the Azure Heaven above… the memories hadn’t reached that far yet.

Regardless— the lower slopes were no problem.

Run, you winged lizard.

I closed my eyes briefly.

Do you really think you can escape from me here?

In that instant, I was no longer Arhan of the Iron Kingdom. I was the old adventurer who had spent his life mapping the Sky Mountains— and for a man like that, catching a wingless, panicked young dragon was child’s play.

***

“Ghh… GRAAAHH!”

The young dragon, Aion, abandoned all dignity and fled. For a dragon—the ruler of the heavens—to run on all fours was disgrace itself. Outside its nest, a dragon was meant to move with elegance. To trample muddy ground with its claws like a beast was unthinkable.

But Aion no longer cared.

“My… my scales… the blade touched my skin… my scales—!”

He couldn’t think straight. Never once in his short life had Aion felt fear for his life. The touch of that blade had been unbearable. Unnatural. No creature of the Sky Mountains should have been able to threaten a dragon— and yet, that human…

When boredom had driven Aion to the mountain’s lower reaches, he’d seen pitiful humans trespassing upon the dragons’ passage. He’d planned to toy with them, to display his power. One of them even reeked of that vile smell of steel. It had stirred a strange feeling in him— something he couldn’t name. He only knew it felt wrong. Unpleasant. So he’d tried to destroy it.

But now—

“Uhh… ugh…!”

Now he knew. That feeling had been fear. Fear imprinted deep into the blood of dragons— a terror born of ancient history, of something their kind once faced and could never forget.

“I hate it… hate it…!”

Aion ran upward, panting, desperate to return to his nest. If he could just reach it, he’d never leave again—not until he reached adulthood, maybe not even then. He would never forget that feeling— the cold touch of steel against his flesh.

Yes, he was less than two hundred years old. Far too young to face the world. The ancient elders had been right. The world was dangerous. The young should stay within the nest. Safety existed only among their own kind.

“Ghhh… gahh!”

He ran with all his might, his thunderous steps scattering beasts from the mountainside. And then—

“……!”

The source of that hateful steel stench appeared before him.

Aion’s pupils shrank in shock. How—how could a human move faster than a dragon? Impossible. Even wingless, a dragon’s sprint could outpace any human. And no human could know the Sky Mountains better than a dragon.

How—?

“Out… of my… way!”

Aion lunged forward, desperate to push past. Pride and dignity were long gone. He thought of nothing but escape. But the human pulled something from his coat and threw it. Fruits—round, glistening fruits from the mountain’s lower groves.

Four of them.

Then, grabbing a vine, the human yanked himself upward, leaping into the trees like a monkey.

And then—

“KEHHH!”

The fruits struck Aion’s snout and exploded. Sweet, sour juice burst out—and a vile stench followed. The smell was so intense his nose burned, his senses reeling. He squeezed his eyes shut in reflex— and the ground beneath his claws collapsed.

As he lost balance and fell, the human landed atop him. His form wavered strangely— half-transparent, like a spirit from another realm.

Golden hair. Blue eyes. A noble-looking man— who, for a moment, looked like an aged, seasoned adventurer.

Then the sword in his hand flashed. Aion tried to dodge— but the strike was impossibly precise,

the kind used not against men but monsters. Like the hunting style of an imperial ranger— a blade that traced a flawless line through the air.

And—

“GRAAAHHHH!”

Aion’s left arm was severed cleanly. It fell to the ground with a dull thud.