He commits to the moon with the same solemnity he once reserved for dragons, stepping past the door and into the impossible brightness of noon. The street rises around him as if it were a ramp to heaven, buses and crossing signals rearranging themselves into a silver chariot road. He points his sword at the sky and declares the ascent begun, though his boots still touch cracked sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails like a castle horn, and he takes it as encouragement.

His resolve swells as he climbs the apartment stairs two at a time, mistaking each landing for a lunar ridge. On the roof, wind lashes his coat and the city opens beneath him in grids of glass and smoke, a vast map that he cannot read because he refuses to call it home. For one trembling instant, the world slips: no moon gate appears, no starship answers, only the absurd miracle of height, breath, and gravity. Yet he laughs anyway, choosing wonder over correction, and the real world tightens its grip until it feels like destiny.