Chapter 13
"Epoch."
The word left Dax's lips like a command etched into the bones of reality. Instantly, space warped.
A black hole materialized before them—silent, depthless, the gate out of the Void he called his lab.
Dax gave Micah a simple gesture.
"Follow me."
He stepped forward in slow, deliberate strides, each one swallowing the distance until he crossed the event horizon without hesitation.
Micah followed behind him, the distortion swallowing the two of them whole.
The world outside greeted them with open sky and breathable air.
Dax exhaled softly—a breath he didn't need, yet took anyway. But his focus remained fixed on Micah.
He watched.
He watched as the strings of the world—those unseen filaments of law, mana, and existence—crawled back toward Micah, reattaching themselves to the glowing mana ring on his chest. It was like watching a soul rethread itself into creation.
A new light spread across Micah's form, a glow that belonged not to the lab, not to Dax, but to the world reclaiming him.
And Dax…
Dax felt something twist violently inside his mind.
But his gaze remained cold.
The perfection of his creation.
The response of the world.
The harmony between engineered flesh and natural law.
It bordered on madness—the sweet, intoxicating madness that only discovery could give him.
Silently taking in everything around him, Dax made a mental note of every tiny anomaly. Then, without expression, he spoke:
"Micah. Lead the way. Destination: the House of Fall."
In a swift, quiet motion, Micah appeared beside him, placing a steady hand on Dax's shoulder.
"Yes, Master. It won't take long. A second at most."
Micah stepped forward.Dax followed.
And in a blink—space folded.
They reappeared before an enormous obsidian wall. The structure stretched across acres of land, cold and immovable, like a fortress carved from the night itself.
Before them stood a massive black gate, thick as a mountain slab. Above it, little arrays shimmered faintly, and small cannons—strange, compact devices—were positioned in clean mechanical rows.
Dax's eyes narrowed.
What sort of machines are these?
They were foreign to him, unfamiliar, and that alone made his mind flare with hunger. He wanted to touch them. Every instinct inside him screamed to dissect and study.
But he held himself back.
Like the flawless actor he was, he let all strength and power drain from his posture. His intimidating aura vanished.
His presence shrank into that of an ordinary mortal. His gaze shifted—from bold, confident, and sovereign—to small, afraid, uncertain.
The perfect imitation of the old Dax.
The past self the world expected to see.
He slipped into the role effortlessly. For him, it wasn't even acting; it was simply wearing another version of himself.
Micah, witnessing this sudden transformation, froze.
Master… what are you doing?
His composure cracked for a moment, then he forced it back together. He took a slow breath, speaking only to himself in the silence of his mind.
Master is too devious. But why hide your strength.
In the short time I've been with this man, I've observed enough. I'm old enough to understand the nature of people. But he couldn't understand dax.
Micah's eyes drifted over Dax's now-mortal appearance.
Just like this… he looks no different than the ordinary humans of this world. Yet I know better. This man cannot be judged from a few days of observation. He is… his own class of existence.
All of a sudden, Dax interrupted Micah's spiraling thoughts.
From his storage space, he retrieved a mask—sleek, white, and humming faintly with an ancient resonance. He held it out casually.
"Micah. Put this on," Dax said, with a cold face.
Micah froze for a moment, lost in thought.
What could Master be thinking this time? He keeps surprising me…
Before Micah could piece anything together, Dax continued, voice calm and deliberate:
"You are going to take on the role of my master.
That is the identity you'll assume. I will introduce you to my grandfather, and from there we proceed.
Just make it clear that I am your student." He paused—then added with a lightness that didn't match the seriousness of his words:
"And show a bit of your power. Enough for them to understand you are no joke." His expressionless face remained.
Micah felt his heart stumble—how was this man simultaneously harmless and terrifying?
In an instant, Micah put on the mask.
The moment it touched his face, his breath caught.
His vision shifted warped and he saw them.
Excalibur and his beloved wife. Familiar figures, familiar presences. His chest tightened.
This mask… was no ordinary artifact.
"It was made from your sword, Excalibur," Dax said calmly. "And I know you're wondering how I knew her name. But I suppose she'll tell you herself." Dax continued his act.
The fear in Dax's voice was flawless—organic—too real.
Micah's entire body trembled.
How…?
How is this man doing this? Even if he is acting, for fear to root itself into his voice so naturally… this must take years—decades—of practice.
How diabolical… Micah swallowed hard, forced to confront a chilling truth:
This man was impossible to read.
Impossible to categorize.
Impossible to predict.
And yet, somehow, he was supposed to play the role of Dax's master.
This was not a problem to him. Instead, when Micah thought about it, a surge of exhilaration rushed through him.
This man—the one who allowed him to see his dead wife, his destroyed sword, was definitely no ordinary being.
If Dax could achieve that, then surely… surely he would be able to heal his granddaughter as well.
And that single hope filled Micah's heart with a happiness he had not felt in centuries.