The truth hit Carter like a kid in front of Truck-kun, sort of reshaping his understanding of the world.
It wasn't just stories and whispers. Immortals truly walked this world, beings so powerful they stood above nations, above empires, above families, even possibly above fate itself.
Just one immortal held the power to bring kings to their knees.
To Carter, it felt like an insult, a degradation that such strength existed and yet had shattered his life so cruelly in just a matter of minutes.
Losing Uncle Ket, so faithful and enduring Uncle Ket, was more than a servant, more than a companion.
He was family. To Ahmoset, Uncle Ket was In fact a father he never had. His parents are dead. The older brother he has left years ago when Ahmoset was 8 years of age.
Carter had grown up with Uncle Ket by his side, had trusted him in times of joy and sorrow alike. Uncle Ket had been there for him like a quiet force of loyalty and care. His absence now cut deep.
As the past two years were very fun and memorable. Even annoying Uncle Ket was something he did out of love.
As Carter arrived at the secluded estate, the weight of it all pressed upon him. The estate, though humble, held memories of a time when he had purpose and respect.
Its rooms lay cold and empty, filled only with silence, more so now than ever. It had been a gift from their parents.
With gentle hands, Carter carried Uncle Ket's ashes through the courtyard and knelt beside a persea tree Ahmoset had planted long ago.
The tree had flourished under his care, and now, beneath its branches, he found a fitting resting place for the man who had been so much more to him.
"Uncle Ket," Carter murmured, his voice hoarse. "I planted this tree myself. It'll stand here and keep you company." He swallowed hard, the bitterness in his heart flaring into fierce resolve. "One day, I'll soak this earth with Khafra's blood in your honor. I promise you that."
As the words left his lips, his eyes reddened, and he closed them, standing silently beside the tree, letting the resolve settle into his bones. His breath slowed, and the stillness of the moment wrapped around him like a shroud.
When he finally turned to leave, his gaze caught on a figure standing quietly nearby.
A young woman in a dark, almost black, indigo linen dress with a slim gold belt, faint hieroglyphs woven into the fabric glowing subtly, and a sheer shawl draped over her shoulders, watched him, her expression unreadable.
She was beautiful in a way that felt untouched, almost ethereal. Her dark hair framed a face without adornment, her features soft yet striking.
Her presence radiated calm, but her robes of deep indigo created a stark, almost unsettling contrast to her natural charm, giving her a unique aura, one that felt both inviting and distant.
The woman's beauty was like something from an ancient painting come to life. Carter remembered the old sayings, describing a "lotus untouched by the murky waters" and he found it oddly fitting.
She was exquisite yet remote, a piece of perfection with a cold edge, like a rose with invisible thorns.
It had been two years since he'd found her unconscious near the Ten Thousand Fiend Mountains. Seeing her vulnerable to the elements and potential danger, he'd taken her in, bringing her to his home.
Yet, even after her recovery, she had refused to speak of her past, her name, or even the smallest details of her life.
In those two years, she had stayed within his mansion, a silent presence moving in the background of his life.
She never ventured outside, nor had anyone in the nearby town ever seen her. She was a phantom to them, but to him, she had become an accepted, albeit mysterious, part of his daily life.
He never asked her to leave, nor did he expect her to. Her silence was a mystery he respected, though he never ceased to wonder about her past.
Each day, Carter prepared her meals along with his own, leaving a portion outside her door, a silent ritual that had become second nature.
The mysterious young woman rarely appeared outside his parents room, and in the few times she did, their interaction consisted only of silent glances, the mutual acknowledgment of their odd coexistence.
As he looked at her now, he felt a strange weight in her gaze. Something was different in the way she looked at him, but he couldn't place it.
Carter inclined his head in her direction as a simple acknowledgment and turned to return to his room.
Behind him, she remained silent, as expected. He knew from experience that any attempt at conversation would be met with silence. Still, her presence lingered on his mind as he shut his door. He could feel her eyes staring, watching him still.
Inside, Carter moved to a shadowed corner of his room, retrieving an old, rusted knife from where it had been carefully stored. He turned the blade over in his hand, examining its worn, pitted surface.
The dagger at his side that was unsheathed was dropped along outside next to Uncle Ket. He'll be back for it later.
This old dagger was a tool once sharp, now dulled with age. With careful, methodical movements, he retrieved a whetstone and sprinkled water over it from a canteen in his nightstand, setting to work sharpening the blade.
His eyes, hardened with determination, focused on the rhythmic motions, the scrape of metal on stone filling the room with its somber melody.
After a moment, he looked up, glancing at his closed bedroom door where the mysterious young woman still stood, watching. Carter put two and two together.
The mysterious young woman was in fact the source of the feeling of him being watched. What transpired earlier solidified his theory to be true and she was using her spirit sense and whatnot.
"Get some rest early tonight," he called to her, his voice calm yet firm. "No matter what you hear, stay in your room."
Her face remained impassive, unresponsive, her expression giving nothing away.
Carter couldn't shake the strange feeling he had when he looked at her, a sensation of contrast between her quiet nature and the events of the night would well up inside.
She possessed a calm indifference that felt like the very opposite of the Immortals he despised. Despite her otherworldly aura, she seemed above petty cruelty and heartless ambition.
But there was no time for distractions. He returned to his task, focusing his attention on the knife.
After some time, he set the knife aside and went to the cellar, retrieving a jar of strong wine. With deliberate intent, he left a trail of spilled wine along the path to his door, creating an illusion of drunken clumsiness.
Once back inside, he let the jar fall, shattering against the floor and filling the room with the pungent, intoxicating scent.
Inside his parents' room, the woman watched his actions with what seemed like faint amusement, a slight curve at the corner of her lips, as though she were in on some private joke.
He returned to his room, leaving the door slightly ajar. The stage was set, and he waited, sharpening his knife once more in the dim light, the steady rhythm grounding him.
The silence of night settled over the mansion, a heavy blanket that stilled every sound, and Carter's senses heightened as he anticipated what was to come.
In the darkness, a shadow scaled the high gates, slipping into the courtyard. The figure moved with practiced stealth, though his caution was marked by quick, nervous glances.
It was Khafra, the man who had once stood beside Carter as an equal, now elevated through his acceptance under the Celestial Storm Sect.
His expression twisted with smug satisfaction as he took in the empty courtyard, his gaze landing on the spilled wine outside Carter's door.
The scent of wine thick in the air seemed to assure him. "Drowned in drink, are you, Ahmoset?" he muttered under his breath. "Pathetic."
Khafra's mouth twisted into a sneer as he imagined his revenge. The kid who once locked him in prison with no way out now lay within this room of his, weakened, humiliated, and vulnerable.
He pushed the door open, stepping inside with quiet confidence. The dim light cast shadows over the figure lying on the bed, motionless, as if deeply asleep. He crept forward, every step controlled, his dagger glinting faintly.
Then, from behind the door, a shadow emerged—silent, deadly.
In an instant, a cold blade pressed against Khafra's neck, a voice so quiet and deadly it could have come from the depths of the underworld whispered close to his ear, "Move, and I'll slice your throat."
Khafra froze, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Fear spread through his veins like poison as he realized he'd walked into a trap.
"W-who…" His voice quivered, barely a breath.
"Look," the voice whispered, an edge of danger sharp as the knife against his skin.
Slowly, Khafra tilted his head, his eyes widening as he recognized the face in the darkness.
It was Carter. But this was no kid, no defeated man. His expression was fierce, his gaze as sharp as the blade in his hand. Khafra could feel the killing intent radiating from him, raging like a storm.
"Ahmoset…" Khafra's voice cracked, terror stealing his words.
A dark chuckle escaped Carter's lips, a sound cold and humorless. "Hunted? My life means nothing now. Killing you only means one less rat in the world."
The calm, casual way Carter spoke sent a shiver down Khafra's spine. This was not the Ahmoset he remembered, not the idealistic scholar. This was someone far more dangerous.
"P-please," Khafra stammered, desperation twisting his features. "Spare me. I swear, I'll never come after you again."
Carter stared at him in silence, considering, his expression unreadable.
Finally, Carter released him with a single word, spoken with cold finality, "Get out."
To Khafra, it was a gift from the gods themselves. Scrambling to his feet, he clutched at the shallow wound on his neck and bolted for the door, his heart pounding, fear trailing behind him like a shadow.
But as he reached the edge of the courtyard, a dark thought twisted in his mind. He couldn't let Carter go. Revenge still burned, even now, and he turned back with a furious glare.
But there stood Carter, framed in the doorway, the knife gleaming in his hand, his gaze unflinching, fierce. He was a predator poised to strike. Khafra felt his resolve crumble under that stare, the last flicker of defiance extinguished.
With a final, reluctant glance, Khafra fled into the night, disappearing into the shadows, heart pounding, desperate for safety, and vowing silently that one day, he would make Carter pay.