Chapter 13: House of Fall
"Epoch."
The word left Dax's lips like a command carved into the bones of reality itself—quiet, absolute, undeniable.
Instantly, space warped.
A black hole materialized before them—silent, depthless, a yawning gate out of the void he called his lab. Its edges shimmered faintly, swallowing light and sound alike.
Dax gave Micah a simple, understated gesture.
"Follow me."
He stepped forward in slow, deliberate strides—each one devouring distance until he crossed the event horizon without hesitation, vanishing into the abyss.
Micah followed, the distortion rippling over him like cold water before swallowing him whole.
The world outside greeted them with open sky and crisp, breathable air—sunlight filtering through ancient trees, the distant cry of birds echoing across the Plains of Vabos.
Dax exhaled softly—a breath he didn't truly need, yet took anyway, savoring the shift.
But his focus remained fixed on Micah.
He watched.
Intently.
He watched as the strings of the world—those unseen filaments of law, mana, and existence—crawled back toward Micah like eager vines. They reattached themselves to the glowing mana ring on his chest, threading into flesh and soul with delicate precision.
It was like witnessing a puppet reclaiming its strings—or a soul rethreading itself into the fabric of creation.
A new light spread across Micah's form—subtle at first, then radiant. A glow that belonged not to the sterile lab, not to Dax's engineering, but to the world itself reclaiming what was its own.
And Dax…
Dax felt something twist violently inside his mind—sharp, intoxicating, bordering on ecstasy.
But his gaze remained cold, analytical.
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 true discovery could evoke.
Silently cataloging every tiny anomaly, Dax made mental notes of fluctuations, connections, the subtle dance of mana reasserting dominance.
Then, without shifting expression, he spoke.
"Micah. Lead the way. Destination: the House of Fall."
In a swift, quiet motion, Micah appeared beside him—hand steady on Dax's shoulder, aura flaring briefly with restrained power.
"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—a monolithic structure stretching across acres of land, cold and immovable, forged from the heart of night itself. It loomed like a scar against the landscape, unyielding and ancient.
Before them stood a massive black gate—thick as a mountain slab, etched with faint runes that pulsed with dormant energy.
Above it, intricate arrays shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Small cannons—compact, mechanical, positioned in precise, lethal rows—lined the battlements, their barrels humming with latent threat.
Dax's eyes narrowed sharply.
What sort of machines are these?
They were foreign—utterly unfamiliar. No design he recognized, no principle he could instantly dissect.
That alone ignited a fierce hunger in his core.
He wanted to touch them. To tear one apart. To understand every gear, every rune, every hidden mechanism.
Every instinct screamed for dissection.
But he held himself back.
Like the flawless actor he was, he let all strength and power drain from his posture—shoulders slumping subtly, stance shrinking.
His intimidating aura vanished entirely.
His presence diminished into that of an ordinary mortal—vulnerable, unassuming.
His gaze shifted—from bold, confident, 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 layer of himself.
Micah, witnessing this sudden, seamless transformation, froze inwardly.
Master… what are you doing?
His composure cracked for a fleeting moment—eyes widening before he forced it back together.
He took a slow, steadying breath, thoughts racing in silence.
Master is too devious. But why hide your strength?
In the short time he had served this man, Micah had observed enough to know one truth: Dax defied understanding.
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 him… I cannot read him at all.
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, humming faintly with ancient resonance. He held it out casually, expression cold and unyielding.
"Micah. Put this on."
Micah froze for a moment, lost in the whirlwind of his own confusion.
What could Master be thinking this time? He keeps surprising me…
Before he could piece it together, Dax continued—voice calm, deliberate, laced with quiet command.
"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."
He paused—then added with a lightness that belied the gravity: "Just make it clear that I am your student."
His expression remained blank.
"And show a bit of your power. Enough for them to understand you are no joke."
Micah felt his heart stumble.
How is this man simultaneously harmless and terrifying?
In an instant, Micah slipped the mask over his face.
The moment it touched his skin, his breath caught sharply.
His vision warped—shifted.
And he saw them.
Excalibur—his lost blade, shimmering in ethereal light.
And his beloved wife—Helga—standing beside it, her form gentle and radiant.
Familiar figures.
Familiar presences.
His chest tightened painfully, emotion surging like a flood.
This mask… was no ordinary artifact.
"It was made from your sword, Excalibur," Dax said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "And I know you're wondering how I knew her name. But I suppose she'll tell you herself."
Dax continued his act flawlessly—the fear in his voice organic, trembling just enough to sound real.
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.
Instead, when Micah thought about it—truly considered the implications—a surge of exhilaration rushed through him.
This man—the one who allowed him to see his dead wife again, who reforged his destroyed sword into something eternal—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, fragile hope filled Micah's heart with a happiness he had not felt in centuries—a warmth that chased away the shadows of grief, if only for a moment.