People always forget that when the first bird took to the sky, it carried the expectations of the entire world.
But if there are fledglings in this world destined never to fly, how can we so arrogantly claim the sky is their only true home?
People believe flying is the innate nature of birds simply because they never look down to see the ones that plummeted to the earth.
In this world, failure and disappointment are the overwhelming majority. Geniuses and prodigies are the shining stars in the night, but the pitch-black canvas behind them is painted with the countless birds that were born flightless.
Humanity always looks up at the stars. Gazing at the heavens is our greatest posture; the yearning for the sky is the most vast and enduring dream in human history.
But what about those who spend their entire lives yet never brush against the clouds? How are they supposed to find their place? How are they supposed to peacefully accept their end?
Let us start with that forgotten truth.
When the first bird soared into the heavens, we named the act "flight."
We measured its trajectory, calculated its lift, and immortalized it in textbooks, telling every generation that followed: "Look, this is the very nature of a bird."
But we never asked about the ones that fell.
Before "flight" was conceptualized, before the "sky" was firmly established as a destination, how many fledglings plummeted from high places? They crashed against rocks, sank into the mud, and vanished into unseen corners.
Their broken bodies were never measured. They were never named. They were never written into any textbook.
They do not exist in the history of "flight," because history is exclusively authored by the birds that manage to stay aloft.
This is a matter of narrative power.
The flyers defined the sky, and then defined the sky as the ultimate destination for all birds.
It is a complete reversal of cause and effect. The sky became the promised land not because every bird could reach it, but because the ones who did reach it monopolized the right to define what a "promised land" was.
The fallen fledglings cannot speak up to object.
They cannot say: "I have never once felt the lift of the wind beneath my wings. My home is the earth, the rocks, the mud."
Their destination is never acknowledged as a valid destination; it is only branded as a failure.
Thus, we arrive at the first layer of violence:
Generalizing a highly specific path to success as an inherent "nature" and ultimate "destination," thereby actively labeling any entity incapable of walking that path as an "anomaly" or a "failure."
But the problem runs even deeper.
The phrase "flying is a bird's nature" doesn't just erase the fallen; it erases the very history of "flight" itself.
Flight was not a one-time invention. It was not a miraculous ability suddenly bestowed upon a species.
Flight was painstakingly figured out, inch by inch, over the corpses of countless generations of falling fledglings.
Those dead fledglings were not the "failures" of flight; they were the necessary "cost." They were simply the data points falling on the left side of the bell curve in evolutionary statistics.
Without the left side of the curve, there is no right side.
Without the fall, there is no statistical foundation for the flight.
In that sense, every single fledgling that plummeted to its death actively participated in the invention of flight.
This is the second layer of violence:
We not only erase the existence of the losers, but we also deliberately obscure the fact that failure itself is fundamentally necessary for success to exist.
We narrate success as some sort of core essence, an innate "nature," while painting failure as a deviation from that nature.
But the truth is: "nature" is forged in the fires of failure.
Without deviation, there is no "correct path"—and the correct path is nothing but a retroactive construct written by the victors.
So, how do those who spend their entire lives yet never touch the sky find their place?
The question itself implies a trap: it presupposes that one's "place" must be defined within a pre-existing frame of reference.
Society has quietly built a vertical hierarchy in the corners of your mind before you even realized it.
At the top sit the stars. At the bottom lies the mud.
Only when people begin to question this very frame of reference does true thought take its first real step.
Why must our "place" be defined vertically?
Why must our spatial metaphors always prioritize height over breadth?
The sky is a direction, yes—but is the earth not a direction as well?
The stars are light, but can the soil not hold its own brilliance?
The vertical hierarchy is merely a specific narrative. It is a tool serving the worldview of those who have already managed to fly.
But it is absolutely not the only narrative.
Just as death is absolutely not the only ending.
The flyers have their own shortcomings. They are unfamiliar with sturdy branches, they are inept at pecking for insects in the dirt, and they cannot easily read the shifting shadows on the ground.
But they never label these shortcomings as "failures," because they have exclusively defined the sky as the only metric for success.
This is the third layer of violence: we don't just dictate what success is; we dictate what constitutes a "lack."
We elevate one highly specific form of capability to the absolute definition of "Ability," while degrading all other forms of capability as mere "compensations" or "substandard alternatives."
When someone who cannot fly carves out a path by walking on the ground, society calls it "settling for second best."
But why is walking considered secondary? Why can't walking be the primary mode of existence? Why must we first bow our heads and acknowledge the inherent supremacy of flight before we are allowed to justify our right to walk?
The prejudice in the human heart is an immovable mountain, crushing the breath out of far too many.
The masses march forward, each clutching a torch. If anyone refuses to fall in line, they will burn the heretic at the stake.
Apostate. Degenerate. Sociopath...
"Alien."
They have stockpiled an arsenal of labels for anyone who deviates. They act as the veteran inquisitors of the Divine Court, their spears stained with the blood of countless dissenters.
And tragically, those who once bled upon those spears have now picked up the exact same weapons, aiming the tips at the newcomers behind them.
And you? You are just an ordinary person, entirely lacking the power to pierce their armor. It's your first time stepping onto this battlefield, and you don't even have the power to carve your own path.
You only have the illusion of choice.
A choice strictly curated and granted to you by them.
So—if human beings are born weak and fragile, to which god are they supposed to pray for a sliver of peace?
The comforting lie that "when a door closes, a window opens" does not exist in this world. The powerless remain powerless. A fool does not magically transform into a genius just by stumbling into good luck.
To put it in the terms of the old legends—
Without a Spirit Root, it is absolutely impossible to tread the path of immortality.
Yet, people will spend their entire lives desperately trying to prove that they are the hidden genius with the fabled Spirit Root. After all, talent requires sweat and effort to prove its own existence.
In their twilight years, the geniuses will sit back and reap the bountiful harvest brought about by their sweat and innate gifts.
But what about the Fools?
How are they supposed to face the devastating reality that they expended the exact same lifetime of grueling effort, only to end up with nothing?
Resentment, hatred, bitter unwillingness, burning jealousy... When life reaches its final moments, is sheer malice truly the only thing left behind?
No...
The world shouldn't be like this...
And that is the answer Shu was determined to find.
"If we spend our entire lives, yet never manage to see the world we yearned for, then why do we exist at all?"
The failures of the world desperately needed the meaning behind that question.