The fledgling died with its eyes open.

There was no other food under the tree, so it and the other chicks shared the carcass.

It thought: It wants to be a more powerful animal.

So it climbed the tree, jumped down, and tried its best to flap its wings. It fell down again and again at the foot of the tree, but it still tried its best to climb up. It was a tree after all, and it knew every crevice in the tree that it could hook with its claws.

Throw it, throw it!

Climb, climb.

Fly, fly.

It lay close to the ground, flapping its wings with all its might.

It could feel the wind lifting its wings, making it fly higher and higher, farther and farther.

It is higher than the clouds.

It could barely see the ground. Now, it was just a bird, excitedly and joyfully chirping in the sky.

It flew lightly and quickly. But it couldn't break free from itself in the end, and tiredly came to rest on a tree.

It saw a tiger cub clinging tightly to its mother.

The little tiger opened its wide black eyes and stared at it without blinking.

The tiger cub called to its mother to look at the bird, but the mother tiger had no interest in catching the bird she couldn't catch. So the tiger cub stood under the tree, enthusiastically sharpening its claws on the trunk.

It wants to catch [it].

So it folded its wings and, following its own will, plummeted downwards.

It fell into its claws.

The little tiger—a spirit that will likely remain unnamed for a long time—ate [it] on this day.

Artemisia watched as her past self ate "it." She had been watching for a long time, but remained a passerby, unable to influence the scene.

But at that moment, the scene froze.

The voice hovering in the sky asked, "Who are you?"

The mugwort said, "I am mugwort."

A soft laugh escaped her lips.

The scene continues.