Chapter 8: Micah
"Where are you going?"
Dax's voice cut through the sulfurous wind, calm and unhurried. His gaze never once drifted back to the golden angel hovering behind him. His eyes—cold, predatory, unblinking—remained locked solely on Solos, the blood-soaked aberration fleeing across the sky like a wounded beast desperate for sanctuary.
He vanished.
"You are not leaving."
Reality folded, and Dax reappeared directly behind the fleeing angel, palm stretching outward like a claw of judgment. His fingers closed the distance in an instant, inches from seizing Solos by the throat.
Solos felt it immediately—the monstrous devouring force, that insatiable gravitational maw yawning open behind him, hungry to swallow flesh, blood, and soul alike.
Death.
Vabon's soul shrieked within their shared consciousness, raw terror overriding divine composure.
Solos twisted mid-flight with fluid, impossible grace. One blood-drenched foot planted firmly atop Dax's outstretched palm—and launched himself forward.
The reactive force blasted Dax downward like a meteor hurled by the hand of a god.
Boom!
He struck the volcanic earth with cataclysmic violence. Rock shattered outward in a perfect circle. Dust and molten fragments erupted skyward in a choking plume.
Dax rose from the smoking crater, unbothered, brushing ash from his robe as though it were mere lint. The flesh of his second arm had been reduced entirely to vapor—leaving only gleaming black bone exposed from shoulder to fingertip.
He didn't even blink.
With a surge of will, he shot upward—tearing through the air like a living thunderbolt, trailing black mist in his wake.
Yet no matter how fast he ascended…
The sky only grew further away.
The clouds receded endlessly. The blue deepened into an impossible void. There was no resistance, no barrier—just infinite, mocking distance.
"Ridiculous," Dax muttered, slowing to a hover. For the first time since arriving in this world, genuine surprise flickered across his features—not from an enemy's strength, but from the world itself. "What kind of world… has no ceiling?"
Solos had vanished into that endless expanse.
His jaw tightened, irritation sharpening his gaze. "How?"
He began his descent, the wind screaming past him as he fell.
Ha… ha…
Solos gasped raggedly within the sanctuary of his personal domain—a pocket of crimson void where time and space bent to his will. His form flickered like unstable light, edges blurring as though reality struggled to contain him.
That thing is no human.
He trembled, wings shuddering with aftershocks of fear.
Its strength defied every logic he knew. No mana. No aura. No adherence to the laws of creation or blood.
An anomaly—the kind that did not belong to any known plane, any recorded epoch.
And worse…
Its blood.
The single drop he had tasted still burned in his veins like liquid starfire—promising ascension, threatening madness.
"Vabon," Solos whispered into their shared consciousness. "Give me every fragment of knowledge you possess on that… creature."
Cold silence answered.
Their souls shifted. Control returned to the mortal vessel.
Vabon inhaled sharply, sweat soaking his pristine robes. "Damn… I had no control over my own body."
But slowly, a reverent smile crept across his face—fanatical, devoted, transformed.
"Power…" he breathed, eyes glowing with unholy light. "Pure, absolute power. My god did not lie."
He rose to his feet, elegant and composed once more, every movement infused with newfound grace.
"I will return," he vowed to the void.
And vanished into the horizon.
"Impressive," Dax murmured, flexing the exposed bones of his regenerated arm as fresh flesh wove itself around them like living silk. "He destroyed my second arm."
He bent down, retrieving Cil from the shattered ground with gentle care, then hoisted the unconscious Micah over one shoulder.
But the golden angel—Aron—blocked his path, wings flaring wide, blade of judgment still ignited.
"You provoke the God of Light and the entirety of His Church by saving that man," Aron declared, voice resonant with divine authority.
"You misunderstand," Dax replied quietly, voice devoid of threat yet heavy with certainty. "I want this man. And you cannot stop me."
He turned his back on the angel—casual, dismissive.
Then vanished.
Aron did not pursue. He hovered in silence, etching Dax's image into his immortal memory with solemn, deepening dread.
Deep inside a remote cave, far from the volcanic fury of Mount Gahena, Micah lay motionless upon the cold stone floor—his golden armor cracked and dimmed, his breathing shallow.
Dax sat cross-legged beside him, legs folded in perfect meditation. Before his vision hovered cold, ethereal text—illuminated by the piercing gaze of his Origin Eyes.
Name: Dax Godfall
Race: Human
Bloodline: None
Realm: Trait Emperor
Rank: 0
Titles: The Black Doctor, Father of Origin
Traits: Synthesis, Origin Eater
Skills: Telekinesis
Strength: 5,000,000
Agility: 5,000,000
Physique: 10,666,000
World Ki: 10,000,000
Mana: 0
Aura: 0
Luck: -1
Skills: Origin Eyes, Origin Body, Origin Touch
"Good," Dax murmured, satisfaction softening the edges of his voice. "This is how it should be."
He leaned back against the cave wall, finally allowing his racing mind a moment of rest. "Since arriving here, I've had no room to think. Constant battles. Annoying."
But reflection brought clarity—sharp, surgical, illuminating.
"A world governed by raw strength. Humans cultivate mana and aura. Deeper still… entities unknown, operating beyond visible laws."
He lifted Cil, brushing a thumb along her cold, crimson edge with almost tender reverence.
"This world will suit my laboratory perfectly."
"What troubles you, Master?" Inerous asked gently, her voice a soft presence in his mind.
Dax didn't scold her growing independence. Instead, he continued thinking aloud, voice low and contemplative.
"The sky. I couldn't break past the troposphere. It just… kept rising. Like a deliberate trap." His eyes narrowed, dissecting the memory. "And how did this world endure my battle with Solos? It shouldn't have. The collateral alone should have shattered continents."
"Master truly is the greatest," Inerous said sweetly, pride warm in her tone. "Already dissecting the world itself. But to do that, you must understand its foundational laws."
He smiled faintly—genuine, almost fond.
"Good girl."
He closed his eyes for a long moment.
"I will embrace this new life."
Then his gaze shifted to Micah.
The old man was awake—barely. His eyes, clouded with pain and exhaustion, flickered open. One trembling, gauntleted hand reached out, fingers shaking with desperation.
"Please… sir…" Micah's voice rasped like a soul dragging chains across stone. "Save my grandchild."
"You can't even protect yourself," Dax replied calmly, no cruelty in his tone—only cold observation. "And if I told you I couldn't save her? What then?"
"Then kill me," Micah whispered, tears carving clean trails through the grime on his cheeks. "End me. I cannot watch her suffer any longer. I've lost everyone I've ever loved. Please… kill me."
Dax saw the depth of the man's pain—raw, bottomless, carved into every line of his ancient face.
But curiosity outweighed sympathy.
"I will help," Dax said at last. "But what do I gain from saving her?"
"You may have my life," Micah offered instantly, voice breaking.
"What use is a life already in its last chapter?"
Dax had only intended to save and study him—an interesting specimen, nothing more.
But desperation invited opportunity.
A dying man with nothing left always bargained highest.
"Please," Micah begged, voice cracking further. "My life… my wealth… everything I have."
Dax raised a brow, interest sharpening.
Micah, with trembling fingers, pulled off a simple black ring from his gauntleted hand.
"This is my spatial ring," he rasped. "A thousand-meter vault. It contains the corpses of powerful beasts I've slain across centuries… and all my riches."
Dax plucked the ring from Micah's palm instantly—fingers moving with predatory speed.
Then he coughed delicately into his fist, pretending he hadn't just snatched it like a starving raccoon.
"I will save you both."
He reached into his storage and drew forth a familiar blade—ocean-blue steel radiating ancient, holy glory.
"This was in your clothing," Dax said, placing Excalibur gently into Micah's weakening grasp.
The old man's fingers closed around the hilt instinctively, and for the first time, a flicker of hope lit his dying eyes.