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Behind bricks shaped into a door, surrounded by clouds and fierce winds, a man sat upon the rug of his flying home.
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A sky-bound adventurer, a contemplator, and an organizer of his countless thoughts—yet one trapped in hesitation. He was both ambition and loss embodied, a harvest of the many theories of humanity that had longed to embrace the breeze, whether it was mere air or a spark of emotion. But he refused to become mere fodder for the invading hordes of predatory creatures that sought to bring him to submission.
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He was on a journey—not just one through the skies but through himself. He was committed to fulfilling his duty as a creation of the divine, his duty as a university professor, and above all, the duty of embodying the virtues of goodness.
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He fluttered toward a grand ambition: unearthing knowledge, defending the oppressed, and becoming the hero of a battle where he would both attack and defend.
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Sadness was never his companion, yet the fickleness of fate could turn a smile into despair.
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His sorrow did not stem from losing a position or losing himself, but from the invasion of a ruthless force that spurred his cowardice into building a flying home—a refuge, a means of escape.
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Had his current self ruled his fate, he would have transformed his jets into cannons, bombarding his enemies and draping them in their own blood.
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For courage was a newly acquired element, one he had gained through adventures on land and sea.
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While "Spacefarer"—the title he had given himself—restlessly turned from side to side, struggling against exhaustion and yearning for peace, sleep finally draped its curtain over his mind.
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Yet, before slumber could fully claim him, a raging storm approached, closing in until it reached his home, hunting him as if it were a lion pouncing on its prey.
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Before he could even register the ferocity of the storm, he drew a massive bullet and fired it straight into its heart, watching as the tempest gradually dissolved into nothingness.
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Like a warrior victorious in battle, he reveled in his triumph, whispering to himself:
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"As if the two-fanged shark and the mountain that trembles every time I scale it weren't enough for a single day of exploration! And now, here I am, attacking a hurricane that dares attack me!"
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Then, the lone wanderer fell into sleep.
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Yet dangers invaded his dreams, leaving no room for peace, even in slumber.
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His dreams were not of ordinary pursuit. His was a chase—one that had repeated itself. This time, the pursuer was no mere invader, but a storm, fiercer than the one he had defeated—moving with eerie intelligence, as if it were a sentient being intent on the hunt.
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The cycle continued: the pursuit of freedom, the pursuit of destruction. But as dawn's light broke through the horizon, the chase reached its conclusion.
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With a vigorous leap, Spacefarer awoke, rushed toward his table, and struck it with force as if attempting to shatter it—and shatter it he did.
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There was no difficulty in understanding the symbolism: shattered steel, bloodied hands, an enemy with an equal adversary—or so his imagination led him to believe.
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He withdrew to a corner, a sanctuary for thought, and as he pondered and searched for the secrets of confrontation, his gaze was drawn to the right window, where a tree was flung high into the heavens.
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He noticed it, yet gave it no thought. After all, how could something so peculiar be of concern to an adventurer?
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"Yes… this is nothing out of the ordinary," he reassured himself.
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But he wouldn’t have considered the same matter regarding a child hurled through the air, visible from the left window. He rushed to open it, ultimately catching the child. And the difference between the beginning and the end was just a mere moment.
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The alien settled between the edges of the house, and the child rested in his arms, eyes closed. Meanwhile, thoughts of compassion surfaced in the homeowner’s mind.
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Thoughts that transcended the present tense… It is childhood and the fragility of its members… Yet, it is also strength—the greatest strength lies in protecting the weak.
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The heart’s journal recorded an entry: Care is a duty, as necessary as necessity itself.
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The ship swayed through the unknown, but its staggering was not due to loss of control—it was a deliberate recklessness.
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He descended as a meteor crashes onto a planet, certain that the place from which the child had been thrown was not far from him.
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Upon arrival, he lifted the child and cried out at the top of his voice:
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“A child, people! A lost child! Has anyone lost a child?”
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No one answered. But a final spark of life ignited in the elements of crime—a police force that rebelled against callers and professional wrongdoers. They rushed toward the one calling out, demanding the return of their victim. They didn’t even bother to conceal the word victim in their request, believing they could intimidate the makers of justice.
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Two choices stood before him—no third option existed: Escape—repetition and regret. Or battle—its outcome unknown.
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Between the two bitter fates, the sweeter—or rather, the safer—was to flee home and return to the starting point.
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Within moments, he had slipped back. And from the threshold of that hovering fortress, he rebuked his enemies:
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“You will not succeed, oppressors of children and trees!”
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And so, the journey continued—this time, in new lands. Lands that, inevitably, led him back to the same soil where he had faced fresh enemies.
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With renewed resolve—and a child of four springs.
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The alien, unsurprised, discovered that his foes, the corrupt, were not new at all. They were the very same from the occupying state that had unjustly exhumed the graves of the innocent.
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He would not have realized this had it not been for the fleeing women, crying out for help—for the honor of Lemdran’s land.
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“Rami, gather the citizens in the square and lead them away. I will unleash the beam.”
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The child carried out the order. And when the signal was given, Rami raised it toward the sky.
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The alien, in response, went further—releasing a chemical beam that eradicated the occupation entirely.
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Joy spread, and the victory was celebrated. The survivors gathered around the hero, questioning his name.
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He wanted to tell them his name was The Alien, but he realized it was a selfish name—one that spoke only of a profession and a personal passion.
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He saw, instead, that before him lay a new profession—and a nobler passion.
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“My name… is Seeker of Knowledge.”
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