Chapter 16: Little Shadow
"My boy… it was out of my hands."
Grandfather's voice softened, sorrow clouding his features like mist over still water. "You may not understand the affairs of adults, but in time, you will."
His gaze drifted, painful memories resurfacing—eyes distant, as though peering through decades of regret.
"When you reach the pinnacle of Rank Nine, you will understand why my hands were tied."
Dax listened in silence—heartbeat thundering in his ears, each word landing like a hammer on anvil.
"During my isolation… that was when the Blood River Cult struck. The only ones capable of protecting her were your father and his disciple. But they were not strong enough."
The courtyard fell silent—wind dying, leaves stilling, as though the world itself held its breath.
"Your mother possessed a rare constitution—the God Vessel Body. Because of that, the Blood River Cult set their eyes upon her. And… tragedy followed."
Dax's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened—genuine rage boiling within him, hot, violent, consuming.
The greed of the Blood River Cult infuriated him beyond reason.
How dare they?
He himself was greedy—a greedy man through and through—but when that greed turned against him, against his family…
Only carnage awaited.
Something clicked in his mind.
Earlier, his grandfather had casually mentioned Micah being a Rank 9 Mage and a Rank 9 Aura Master.
At the time, the meaning had slipped past him—lost in the storm of reunion.
But now… he understood.
Nine ranks defined the world's power.
Mana users must complete nine cycles—each one a rebirth of the core, a complete reformation of their spiritual foundation.
Aura users must burn their bodies nine times—each reforging flesh and bone through fire and will.
Only at the Ninth Rank did one stand at the true pinnacle—untouchable, sovereign.
So different from my original world, Dax thought, the realization settling like cold steel. And yet… so elegant.
He wondered, fleetingly, what rank Solos truly held—how far the angel stood above even Micah.
Dax forced himself to focus.
This was not the time to lose himself in daydreams about the world's power hierarchy. The fire of wrath burning in his chest anchored him to one undeniable truth:
The Blood River Cult would pay.
A stray thought struck him like cold lightning.
Those angels… they were stronger than Micah.
If Micah stood at Rank 9, yet Grandfather could crush him with a mere flicker of intent… then Grandfather was beyond the known pinnacle.
And the angel who had defeated Micah?
That was something else entirely.
This world never ceases to amaze me, Dax mused, twisted excitement blooming within the rage.
Beneath that thrill simmered his darker side—one born from death and rebirth. He thought of the Backrooms… that infinite prison housing the twisted creatures he once harvested from distorted worlds.
A beautiful idea surfaced.
Let those demons do what they know how to do best… and let the Blood River scream.
The smile that curled Dax's lips had nothing to do with humor.
"Grandfather… if you permit, I will take my leave."
A simple snap echoed through the chamber—space folding like paper.
The two returned to reality in an instant.
Dax stepped forward—each stride pounding with purpose.
The courtyard wind swirled around him as though sensing the storm he carried.
He did not look back.
Dax sat alone in his assigned courtyard chamber, shadows crawling along the walls like restless spirits. Moonlight filtered through the lattice windows, painting silver bars across the floor.
His mind replayed the battle with Solos in relentless detail.
That moment when victory should have been absolute—when he should have crushed the angel beneath his heel—his body had failed to keep up.
That humiliation gnawed at him, sharp and persistent.
My power is there… but this body is too slow to accept it.
Even now, the flesh he wore trembled with untamed potential—his soul far outpacing the vessel that housed it.
"How do I force this adaptation?" he muttered, fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest.
His mind sifted through memories like a catalog of universes—9,000 races he had studied, dissected, conquered, and evolved.
There had to be a solution.
Currently, his physical prowess was limited to that of a Trait Master—yet his true realm stood at Trait Emperor.
Three great steps separated him from full reclamation: Trait Saint, Trait King, and finally, Trait Emperor in the flesh.
In his original world, power rose through nine distinct stages:
1st — Trait Awakened
2nd — Trait Warrior
3rd — Trait Captain
4th — Trait General
5th — Trait Lord
6th — Trait Master
7th — Trait Saint
8th — Trait King
9th — Trait Emperor
Just as he sank deeper into thought, a silent disturbance tugged at his attention.
A tiny face—a child with white hair, no older than four—peeked through a crack in the sliding door.
Wide eyes met his.
The moment she realized she'd been seen, panic flashed across her small features. She bolted down the corridor at full speed—bare feet pattering frantically against polished wood.
Dax's head tilted.
A faint, genuine smile curved his lips—the first real one since arriving.
Curious little thing.
He rose smoothly, robe whispering against the floor.
The child's escape was impressive for her age—darting around corners, ducking beneath hanging lanterns—but she was no match for him.
In three steps, he appeared before her—blocking her path without effort.
She skidded to a halt, eyes enormous, breath hitching.
Dax crouched slowly—bringing himself to her level.
He offered no threat.
Only quiet curiosity.
"Who are you?" he asked softly, voice gentle—almost tender.
The little girl stared at him—fear warring with fascination.
Then, in a small, trembling whisper:
"I'm… your cousin."