Bloody Odyssey

Chapter 85 85: Departure

Moments passed after their discussion.

Now his father stood in the testing grounds, a regular sword held in his hand. Nothing special. No enchantments. No runes.

Just steel.

He moved.

The blade wove through the air with intense grace—each stroke deliberate, each cut precise. Creatures surrounded him: aliens, behemoths, things grown in vats and programmed to kill. He diced through them like a chef slicing vegetables.

On each body, as the blade passed, a strange pattern appeared.

Not random. Deliberate. The geometry of the wounds told a story that Dax was only beginning to read.

From above, Dax watched with intense focus.

My god. He's better than expected. Even with a regular blade.

He tilted his head in deep thought.

Should I increase the intensity?

He didn't wait. His mind won.

The testing ground hummed. The creatures multiplied, increasing the pressure.

His form is incredible, Dax noted, eyes tracking every movement, every shift of weight, every minute adjustment of grip. It's clear he has been fighting for a long time.

Omin's half-repaired core glowed from within his chest—grey light pulsing through the cracks, feeding strength into muscles that should have been atrophied.

He vanished.

Crack.

Space split where he had stood. A jagged fracture in reality, bright and sharp, sealed itself shut a moment after he passed through.

Spatial transmission, Dax thought. He's using his mana to teleport.

His father reappeared across the chamber, already cutting, already moving. The behemoths behind him collapsed in pieces, their bodies falling in directions that made no sense.

Could this be a coincidence? Dax's mind raced. Even Grandfather's core is grey, and he can manipulate space magic. Maybe if my talent wasn't stolen, I would have…

If Ancestor was a space mage, then this is a space master.

This man—his father—was cutting through aliens and behemoths like they were nothing.

Dax took notes.

"What is this place, really?"

The patriarch moved through the crowd of monsters like a ghost. Teleportation carried him from one side of the chamber to the other, and each time he appeared, destruction followed. He destroyed the path he passed—purposely, leaving chaos in his wake.

"If I was told all this with words, I wouldn't believe it."

He grunted, dodging flying fragments of bone and chitin like an unbothered hermit. A piece of shrapnel the size of a man's torso passed through the space where his head had been a heartbeat before.

He didn't flinch.

But something is definitely different.

He leaped into the air, clearing a wave of clawing hands.

My body feels off.

He twisted mid-flight, avoiding a tentacle that had no right to move that fast.

I shouldn't be able to even manifest a wisp of mana.

He landed on the other side of the chamber, surrounded by bodies.

But I don't understand. My body is serving as a container.

He looked at his hands. The hands that had been dead.

Not to mention this strength.

He raised his hand. Pointed his fingers like a gun, then let his mana flow freely.

The screaming stopped.

A series of punctures tore through the battlefield—holes in space, each one perfectly placed, passing through a monster's brain and heart. The creatures fell where they stood, their bodies intact except for the small, precise wounds that had ended them.

He looked at his fingers.

The tips were gone. Vaporized by the force of his own attack.

He watched as flesh knitted back together. Bone reformed. Skin grew.

"Ho."

He clenched his fist.

"I feel unstoppable."

He placed one hand on his face and burst into maddened laughter.

This is too much.

Dax himself was surprised. His face, usually so composed and controlled, had slipped into something rare.

Should space users be this strong?

Before he could teleport his father to his side, the man appeared beside him. The testing ground fell silent. The remaining creatures dissolved into fragments of light.

"My boy." Omin's voice was rough with shock. "What did you really do to me?"

Dax answered with another question.

"What technique did you use last? And what is your exact realm? You're just too strong. It makes me wonder how you lost."

Omin blinked. The questions were not what he had expected.

"I'm a rank nine space master." He paused, still processing. "The move just now is called Gone Gun."

Dax's eyebrow rose.

"It was created by your grandfather." A hint of pride entered Omin's voice. "And perfected now by me. Because of this new body."

"Let me guess." Dax's lips curved. "It was also Grandfather who named it."

Omin's awkward smile was all the confirmation he needed.

"Yes, Father."

Dax's expression shifted. Something had come to mind.

"I will be leaving for the empire with two of my companions. Please put the Wyvern Squad to use while I am away."

His father's brow furrowed.

"Why the capital?"

He was taken aback. That was where he had been attacked. Where the Church of Light had ambushed him. Where he had died.

But Dax simply smiled.

"It's business."

He met his father's eyes.

"With our current force, the Blood River can barely harm us. So we need to strike them before they can even have a thought of us."

Omin was silent for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"Then tonight." His father placed a hand on Dax's shoulder. "We drink."

The next morning dawned grey and cool.

Behind the carriage—a sleek, reinforced vehicle large enough to carry three passengers and enough supplies for a journey across the continent—house guards moved with practiced efficiency. They loaded trunks, secured bindings, and checked the reinforced wheels again and again. The horses, rank-four scaly mounts, stamped impatiently, their flame-affinity manes casting flickering shadows across the cobblestones.

Dax stood apart from the bustle.

Madeka was at his right, her arm looped through his, her body pressed close as if any space between them was an insult she refused to tolerate. Nadia stood at his left—close, but not touching. Her golden eyes tracked the loading process, but her attention kept drifting.

To Dax.

To Madeka.

To the space between them that she was not occupying.

"We will travel through the eastern pass," Dax said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "It's a twenty-day journey, but it avoids the most dangerous territories."

Madeka nodded, her gaze never leaving his face.

Dax turned to Nadia.

He leaned forward—reaching for something. His hair draped forward, his face suddenly closer than it had been a moment before.

Nadia's breath caught.

What is he—

She didn't know what was happening. Her mind raced, searching for context, for explanation, for anything that would make sense of this sudden proximity.

She closed her eyes, preparing herself.

Instead, came the sound of a sword being unsheathed.

Nadia's eyes snapped open.

Dax had straightened. In his hands, he held the replica of Excalibur—the blade she had carried, the blade that had broken against his guard in the Backrooms. He turned it over, studying it with the intensity of a gemcutter examining a flawed stone.

Madeka released a beautiful, mocking smile toward Nadia.

You thought—

Nadia's eyes narrowed. Her jaw tightened. She threw an aggressive look at Madeka.

This is not over.

Madeka's smile only widened.

Dax, oblivious or indifferent to the silent exchange, continued his examination.

He noticed something.

The difference between the original sword—the one he had turned into a mask—and this replica was evident. The metal was similar, but the essence was different. The way energy moved through it. The way it responded to its wielder.

And its problem was clear.

I have just what to use to fix it.

He remembered the angel's spear. The Longinus spear he had left in Level 1.5. The divine spear that had pierced his heart and was broken by his will.

He nodded, returning the blade to Nadia.

"It will be fixed," he said.

Nadia took it, her fingers brushing against his.

Madeka's eyes tracked the contact.

Crack.

The sound of something breaking through the atmosphere echoed across the courtyard.

Guards reached for weapons. Hands went to hilts, to bows, to the triggers of enchanted crossbows. Auras flared. Bodies tensed.

Everyone readied themselves.

Everyone except Dax and his team.

Dax did not move. Madeka did not flinch. Nadia's hand remained on her broken blade, but her posture stayed calm.

The guards stared in deep shock. Most of the present guards didn't know the physical appearance of the patriarch. But when they saw Dax bow and heard his words—

"Welcome back, Father."

—realization dawned. They dropped to their knees.

"We greet the head."

The patriarch—Omin—floated for a moment longer, his feet inches above the ground. He looked down at Dax, acknowledging his son's bow with a slight inclination of his head.

Then he vanished.

"Daxy."

Madeka tugged at Dax's robes, her voice a sweet, insistent whine.

"You didn't introduce me to Father-in-law."

She pressed closer, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder, her crimson eyes gleaming with something that might have been mischief or genuine complaint.

Father-in-law.

Nadia's eye twitched.

"Freaking pick me."

Her voice was soft and jealous. The contrast between her gentle tone and the sharpness of her words made the statement funnier than it should have been.

Madeka's smile turned predatory.

"Darling," she purred, still tugging at Dax's robes, "I think someone is feeling left out."

Nadia's golden eyes flashed.

Dax sighed.

"We have a journey ahead of us," he said, extracting his arm from Madeka's grip with the practiced ease of a man who had done this before. He walked toward the carriage as Madeka and Nadia followed.

Behind them, the guards resumed their work—loading, securing, preparing for the road ahead. But their eyes lingered on the three figures climbing into the carriage.

"Ahhh, I wish I was in his shoes—to have two stunning beauties fight over me." A guard stopped, staring at Dax's departing figure.

Behind him, his fellow guards laughed at his wishful words.

The carriage door closed. The horses stamped, and the journey to the capital began.