Infinity Blade 01- Awakening

hand. “I’m sorry,” she said more softly. “You don’t deserve this. It is true.”
    He looked down.
    “Don’t despair.” She rose, taking him by the arms. “You’ve done something wonderful , Siris. Something everyone thought impossible. You have fulfilled the dreams of your fathers, and avenged their deaths.” She pulled away and looked up at him. “Do you remember what we spoke of, on that night before you left?”
    “Honor.”
    “I told you that if you are going to do something, son,” she said, “you need to do it with all of your heart. You have something you didn’t have before. Hope. You’ve defeated one of them. They can be beaten.”
    She held his eyes, and he nodded slowly.
    “Good,” she said, squeezing his arms. “I’ll pack you food for your trip.”
    He watched her limp away. She’s right, he thought. I’ve done the impossible once. I’ll do it again.
    This time, however, he wouldn’t be hunting someone to kill. This time his quest would be more personal. Somehow, he would find the one thing he’d always wanted without realizing it.
    He’d find freedom.

Chapter Two
    The God King came awake with a deep gasp. It was the uncontrolled gasp of one who had been without breath for too long. The gasp of the dead returning to life, his heart pounding, his eyes opening wide. It was a terrifying, yet exhilarating feeling.
    It was a feeling he had never wanted to feel again.
    Around him floated the serene sounds of his Seventh Temple of Reincarnation. Soft rain outside, hitting leaves and the quiet rooftop, leaving the air cool and damp. A few muted beeps from the deadminds that monitored his vital signs. The swishing of robes in the hallway outside; his Devoted, hurrying to obey the call of reincarnation.
    Yes, outside was serenity. Inside was chaos. That would not do. Thousands of years of life had taught Raidriar many things, but the most important was to be in control. He sat up, reaching out to pick up the helm that lay on the nearby table. The faces of the Deathless were not to be seen by common mortals.
    He rose, bare feet upon the smooth bamboo floor, and crossed the room to where a suit of armor stood waiting. One of the newer sets, the height of current design and technology. He’d been meaning to begin using it—this offered a good chance.
    His old set had probably been taken by thieves by now, robbed from his corpse.
    He checked the wall-mounted deadmind mirror—that mirror would have been called a ‘monitor’ in earlier eras, but it had been so long that he’d stopped using such terms. They could be confusing to people in this era. The mirror’s information indicated that his new body was functioning normally, that reincarnation had been a success, and that all was well in this particular quarter of his kingdom.
    He stepped into the armor, which lay open and splayed like a corpse on a dissection table. It began to fold around him, locking into place.
    The fight replayed in his mind. Another in a long line of “heroes” come to kill him, responding to the seeded legends. An offer to join him refused. A duel, one on one, after the classical ideal. Did these mortals understand the honor he did them in granting them such a privilege? Probably not—after all, this mortal had ended that duel by ramming the God King’s own blade into his chest.
    For just a moment, lying stunned at the foot of his throne, the God King had known true fear. He could not suppress a shiver. That . . . that boy had used the Infinity Blade, killer of gods.
    I could have died, he thought. Died the final death, real death . The concept was unfamiliar. He turned it over in his head, like a man tasting a new vintage of wine.
    He found that wine bitter. It reminded him of something he had been long, long ago. He had no more in common with that person of old than an acorn had with a mighty oak. No—no more in common than an acorn had with a temple constructed from that oak.
    The comfortable familiarity of his armor enveloped him, locking onto his arms, hands, neck, torso. Cool air immediately circulated over his skin, and the armor took account of his vitals, delivering strength, bursts of healing, and other aid through careful injections. He slipped on the helm.
    The armor itself had no life, of course—not even a deadmind—and the boosts it gave were minimal. In clashes between the Deathless, one’s own body was the true test. Armor that worked like a machine had been abandoned millennia