Chapter 20: I am death.
Grandfather, this is an alien art. Its value is immeasurable.
Dax's tone was calm… calculated—each word measured, deliberate, like a jeweler appraising a flawless gem.
In a blink, a book appeared in his hand—ancient, bound in black leather that seemed to drink the surrounding light. Faint crimson veins pulsed along its spine like living arteries. An art derived from the Killer Series.
"Grandfather, this technique is called I Am Death," Dax said.
"This art allows its user to relive the deaths of those they have killed. If they endure it, they gain the opportunity to forge something known as a Killer Seed."
"To experience death by your own hands can shatter the mind. But if trained properly… one may attain numbness."
He spoke like a teacher—measured, authoritative—yet his eyes never left the old man, observing every flicker of emotion, every subtle shift in breathing.
Hearing this, Grandfather's eyes widened—shock rippling across features usually carved from granite.
"This is dangerous," he said quietly, voice low with warning. "It resembles the demonic technique that turns men into killing machines—mindless, relentless, hollow."
"No," Dax replied calmly, voice steady as still water.
"This is not demonic. This is clarity."
"Imagine a mind that achieves stillness where judgment fades—where every path is laid bare before the soul."
He closed the book with a soft snap.
"This art only becomes dangerous in the wrong hands."
Realization struck the old man like a thunderclap. His face hardened—concern etching deeper lines into his ancient features.
"My boy… I hope no one else knows of this technique?"
Concern filled his voice—raw, paternal, edged with fear for the child standing before him.
"Dax, you cannot reveal such an art casually. Humanity is greedy. Everything with value attracts desire."
Dax understood.
In that moment, he decided to temper his carelessness—to guard this knowledge more fiercely than any relic.
"Tell me," Grandfather asked quietly, voice dropping to a near-whisper,
"How did you overcome the nature of this technique?"
Dax answered without hesitation—eyes distant, voice carrying the weight of centuries he should not possess.
"Grandfather… all my life, I understood one truth—I could die at any moment."
His gaze turned inward—memories of blood, betrayal, and endless rebirth flickering behind his eyes.
"So I learned how to die."
"It became my way… long before anyone taught me."
The old man felt his heart tighten—pain blooming like a bruise beneath his ribs.
His son had left long ago in pursuit of the Blood River—his location unknown, perhaps lost forever.
The mother had been kidnapped by the same cult—taken in the night, never seen again.
And this child… had been left alone.
Grandfather turned away in silence—shoulders stiff, breath uneven.
"I never knew you suffered like this…"
Dax smiled faintly—small, almost sad.
He had reached him.
"My child… I will compensate your suffering."
The old man's voice steadied—resolve hardening like tempered steel.
"I am placing you in charge of the Wyvern Squad."
"The Wyvern Squad—the elite force that guards the Fall Family."
"I have no interest in such things," Dax replied lightly, almost amused. "I may look young… but my bones are not what they used to be."
"Keep the art. Build your own force. Make your name known."
The old man chuckled—warm, rich, approving.
"Be ready this evening. We will have a banquet. And please—don't arrive wearing only a robe around your waist."
"Grandfather… I cannot accept this," Dax said. "I am not strong enough."
Inside, he laughed.
Grandfather stepped closer—eyes sharp, knowing.
"You hide your strength well. But there is one thing you cannot hide."
"The unease that surrounds the strong."
"Your scent betrays you. Though you act weak… that never changed."
"Your gaze is one of control, not fear."
Dax froze.
This man…
He had seen through me from the beginning.
Dax scratched his head lightly with Cil's hilt—stunned, yet oddly pleased.
"My god… what is that blade in your hand?"
His grandfather changed the topic instantly—snatching Cil from his grip with the impulsive speed of youth.
He studied her carefully.
The patterns along the blade shimmered faintly—crimson veins pulsing like living arteries.
Dax stiffened.
He remembered how impulsive this man was—but he said nothing.
Suddenly, Cil hummed violently—shaking free with a sharp, indignant vibration.
In a flash, she vanished back into Dax's hand.
Grandfather's eyes widened—shock rippling across his face.
"It can't be… a divine relic."
His heart sank.
How did this boy obtain such a thing?
What has he been through?
Within himself, he tried to remember Dax's age—counting the years, the centuries, the impossibilities.
He steadied himself.
"How did you acquire such a weapon?" he asked—voice low, almost reverent.
Dax only placed a finger against his lips—smiling faintly.
"I don't know about divine weapons," he said quietly.
"But… I believe you should bond with Heaven Piercer."
Grandfather's mind shook.
That cube… is it truly of this caliber?
A chill ran through him—cold, exhilarating.
Is this child… a walking golden finger or something?
Moments before the banquet…
Ancestor Godfall rushed to his private manor after seeing Dax's weapon. With gentle hands, he held the cube—admiring the strange patterns carved into its surface. He turned it over, studying every angle, trying to understand the mystery behind it.
A faint prick.
A drop of his blood seeped onto the cube's surface.
Instantly, the cube dissolved—liquefying before sinking directly into his body.
"What is this thing…?" The old man grew wary. Something had invaded him. "This child will be the end of me," he muttered.
He was about to interfere—to force the object out—but then a soft mechanical voice whispered:
"Welcome back."
Ancestor Godfall stiffened.
He released his aura at full range—scanning the entire room, the entire manor, even the space around him.
Nothing.
No intruder. No spirit. No formation.
"Where did that voice come from…?"
Then:
Booting 1%… 20%… 40%… 90%… 100%.
A force pulled him inward.
Suddenly he stood in a strange white void—a vast mental space. At its center floated a single white sword inscribed with elegant glowing runes.
"Master…" the blade spoke, its voice filled with longing.
The old man was stunned, but he forced himself to remain calm.
"It is good to see you again," the sword continued, shining brighter.
Ancestor Godfall frowned. "Who are you?"
Silence.
He corrected himself. "No… what are you? And why do you speak to me like you know me?"
The sword's glow wavered gently.
"I see you have forgotten me, Godfall… or should I say—Benjamin."
Ancestor Godfall's eyes widened. No one alive knew that name.
The sword continued before he could react:
"You do not possess your memories. Let me share some of mine."
Light swallowed him.
Suddenly he stood in a futuristic world.
The air was metallic. Machines hummed faintly. He watched a man—himself, but younger—polishing a broken blade at a workbench.
Then a small boy ran toward him, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
His appearance was unmistakable.
Dax.
"Grandfather, why do you polish a broken blade?" little Dax asked, peering at the cracked metal.
The old man watching the memory felt a strange tug in his chest.
The sword spoke beside him:
"At that time, I resented the boy for that question… but that resentment faded quickly."
The past Benjamin began to speak—but the projection paused, frozen.
"Where is this place?" the ancestor asked, staring at the sword spirit.
"This is your memory," the sword replied. "I have only ever had one master."
The scene shifted again.
Benjamin stood before the young Dax.
"My boy," he said gently,
"let me teach you something. When an item is treated with care—treated as if it were alive—a spirit may awaken. Slowly, the weapon gains a will. It becomes an extension of yourself. Like those coins in movies that protect their owners."
Young Dax's eyes sparkled with amazement.
In an instant he ran to a plasma gun and began speaking to it like it was alive.
"Little brat… he's taken it too far again." Benjamin smacked the child's head lightly.
The vision shifted once more.
This time, the ancestor saw a lab—cold, metallic, filled with floating screens. Beside him stood the current Dax—shirtless, wearing his black robe—watching a blade hover inside a cylindrical tube.
The ancestor frowned.
"What is going on…? Why can't I hear anything?"
"This," the sword said, "was the moment I was reborn."
"What does that have to do with Dax?" the old man asked.
"…Everything."
The sword glowed intensely.
"You will understand when we enter the state of Perfect Synchrony."
In a flash, he appeared in his room with the blade Heaven Piercer and a ring in his hand.