Chapter 19: Reunion
"My lord…"
Micah wiped the sweat from his brow, hands still trembling—completely shaken.
It wasn't the destruction of half the manor that had unnerved him, though the sight of the cleanly severed structure still smoking in the moonlight was impressive enough.
No.
It was the fact that killing intent had been wielded like an element—pure, refined, controlled.
A force most cultivators spent lifetimes mastering, reduced to a tool in the hands of someone who claimed to have no mana at all.
My master is a genius.
From everything Micah knew—centuries of observation, battles against gods and monsters—no one his age should be capable of such mastery.
A soft glow gathered behind him—gentle, warm, familiar.
Helga manifested—beautiful as ever, her form translucent yet radiant, silver hair flowing like moonlight on water.
"Helga…"
Micah's eyes softened instantly. Each time he saw her, it felt like a dream he was afraid to wake from. Gratitude swelled in his chest—gratitude toward Dax, the impossible being who had given him this second chance.
He tried to reach for her—then hesitated, fingers curling back as though afraid she might vanish at his touch.
But in that moment, she moved forward.
She embraced him.
He felt it.
Her warmth—real, tangible, wrapping around him like the memory of sunlight after endless winter.
Her lips parted softly.
"I never left you."
Hearing those words, Micah froze.
His head lowered.
His chest tightened painfully—grief and joy colliding in a storm he could no longer contain.
"I'm sorry… Helga."
The apology slipped out—raw, broken, carrying centuries of guilt.
She frowned—then smacked him lightly on the chest, the gesture playful yet firm.
"Can you stop blaming yourself? You're ruining our reunion."
She pulled him into a tighter embrace—wings of golden light unfolding around them, forming a cocoon of radiance that shielded them from the world.
"Do you remember the day I died?"
Micah closed his eyes.
The memories crushed him like a mountain.
The Demon King.
The way she had been torn apart—limbs scattering, blood painting the sky.
The god that had forcefully teleported him away as he screamed her name—desperate to reach her, helpless to save her.
He remembered his screams.
His despair.
The words I'm sorry rose again—but she stopped him with a finger pressed gently to his lips.
"I don't blame you, my love."
He broke.
Tears came—silent at first, then shuddering sobs that shook his entire frame.
Wings wrapped tighter around his body—forming a trembling cocoon around his sobbing form, shielding him from the night.
Dax walked through the ruined courtyard beside his grandfather, laughing softly—genuine amusement warming the sound.
"What's wrong with him?" his grandfather asked, nodding toward Micah's cocoon of light.
Dax turned his gaze.
He saw everything.
After all… he was the one who had created the mask.
The mask that allowed Micah to touch the dead.
To hold what was lost.
He gave no answer.
Instead, he continued their conversation—voice light, almost playful.
"You asked about my technique…"
Dax smiled—slow, knowing.
"Don't tell me it was that man who taught you. I saw the shock in his face—it was the same as mine. He is clearly unaware of your true prowess."
Dax's grandfather narrowed his eyes—sharp, calculating.
"Old fox," Dax whispered.
A faint chuckle left the old man—warm, rich, approving.
"No… youthful fox," his grandfather corrected, the smile deepening. "You're learning quickly."
The two stood in companionable silence for a moment—grandfather and grandson, fox and fox—watching the night settle over the broken manor.
Behind them, Micah's cocoon glowed brighter enfolding himself completely.
And in that quiet moment, something unspoken passed between the two men.
A promise.
A recognition.
A shared understanding of what it meant to carry power—and the price it demanded.