The Epic of the Disc Chapter 72: Knocking Some Senses

Chapter 72: Knocking Some Senses

"You really don’t know how to die, do you?" his so-called father said softly. He looked thin now—like he’d just been through the world’s most aggressive diet. His bulky figure was slowly depleting, muscle shrinking away with each passing second. Blood slid down from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks like crimson tears.

Shiro forced himself to his feet. His hand gripped around his stomach. The wound had healed—mostly—but not fully. A massive fist-sized scar still sat there like a souvenir from the worst night of his life. He kept his arm pressed against it anyway, because he could still feel the sensation of his guts trying to make a break for it.

"I wish I was dead already," he muttered, "because I feel like all my organs decided they want to switch shifts. My stomach is where my lungs should be, my lungs are somewhere near my knees, and I’m pretty sure my liver just handed in its resignation."

The words came out dry. The metallic taste of blood still clung to his mouth like a guest who refused to leave.

His eyes drifted toward the moon.

’Nice. It started.’

The mist began to thicken, crawling across the sky like something alive, wrapping itself around the moon until it choked away the silver glow.

He stumbled forward, one foot dragging after the other, walking past his grandfather. His body screamed at him with every step. After seeing his organs filing a complaint against the work environment, his entire body decided it was a good time file one as well.

He only stopped when he heard his grandfather’s voice behind him.

"Aren’t you going to end it?" A chuckle. Weak. Wet. "Because once I recover from this poison, you might not get the chance."

Shiro turned and stared at the man who was slowly perishing behind him. His grandfather’s skin was pulling tight against his bones. His muscles were eating themselves. His massive frame—the one that had once blocked out the moonlight, that had shaken the island with every step—was shrinking, collapsing inward like a building whose foundation had finally given up.

And he was still trying to sound intimidating. With one foot already in the grave and the other one slipping.

’Is he serious right now?’

"Are you that foolish?" Shiro said quietly. He wasn’t angry. Just really tired. "You don’t get it, do you? You were never immortal."

He gestured at him. The thinning arms. The sunken chest. The blood still leaking from his eyes.

"Look at yourself. You’re slowly dying. The more your body tries to heal, the more the venom eats you alive. It’s not fighting the poison. It’s feeding it."

The frail man glanced down at himself. At his hands—shaking, skeletal, barely recognizable.

And finally, realization hit him.

It landed on his face like a slap.

Shiro smirked. Cocky. The kind of grin that had no right being on someone who looked like he’d been through a meat grinder.

"I told you already. You were nothing but her little pet. And she probably thinks you’re worth less than anything in her collection." A pause. "Less than the dust on her shelves. Less than the box she keeps the dust in."

"Shut up and end this," his grandfather muttered, the words working hard to leave through his gritted teeth.

"And free you?" Shiro’s smile widened. "Yeah, keep dreaming, old man." He tilted his head. "This time there won’t be any labors to free you from the guilt."

And the smile got wider. Unhinged. "Instead, I’ll give you something better."

He plunged his dagger into his grandfather’s chest—not to kill, but to pull. The poison flowed back through the blade, crawling up the steel and into Shiro’s veins like it was coming home. And instantly, he began to feel rejuvenated. Stronger. Fuller.

’I didn’t know I could do that.’

’Good to know. Would’ve been nice to find out before I almost died.’

He pulled the dagger free and stepped back, watching the color return to his grandfather’s skin. Watching the frail, dying husk of a man slowly rebuild itself into something that could suffer longer.

"What did you do?" His grandfather’s voice came out thin, desperate. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled.

"I granted you the gift of life." Shiro looked down at him. Not with anger. Not with hatred. With something worse. Indifference. "So you can suffer."

His grandfather’s eyes widened. The realization creeping in slow, like poison—which was kinda ironic.

"Here, let me help you understand what you’ve done." Shiro’s voice dropped into something quieter. Colder. "You did the exact same thing as before. Killed your family with your own hands." He let the words sink in, let them perate through his grandfather’s skin. "But this time? No curse driving you mad. No divine hand forcing yours."

He paused. Letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

"You did it all on your own. Every choice. Every death. Every child you fed to that mountain." Another pause. Longer. Quieter. "All it took was a goddess whispering sweet words into your dreams. And you—the mighty Hercules, the god-killer, the man who dragged Cerberus out of hell with his bare hands—you rolled over like a dog and did exactly what she wanted."

He had absolutely no idea what any of those words meant.

But sometimes you don’t need to understand a wound to know exactly where to press.

He looked at his grandfather. At the weakest version of him he’d ever seen. A so-called god now reduced to something less than human.

"So tell me, how does it feel, old man?" His voice came out steady. "Knowing you killed your son. Your daughter. And your own grandson." His eyes glanced toward the top of the mountain. "And now them too. And now you’ll have to live with that knowledge for your whole miserable life."

Silence.

The next words didn’t want to leave his lips. They clawed at the inside of his mouth, fighting to stay in, because saying them meant breaking some of the chains of guilt wrapped around his grandfather throat.

And he didn’t want that. He wanted him to choke on it. Wanted him to carry it until his last breath and beyond.

But he forced them out. Because it was his father’s last wish. And Rei’s wishes were the one thing in this world Shiro couldn’t refuse.

"I was planning on keeping this to myself," he said. A pause. Long. Heavy. "Rei said—"

His jaw clenched.

"He said he forgives you."

A broken laugh left his grandfather’s mouth. Hollow. Shattered.

"I guess I’ve been played again by the gods."

Something inside Shiro snapped.

Because this whole thing—all of it—could have been avoided if this man had just let go of his past life and lived the one he’d been given.

And yeah, Shiro felt like a hypocrite. He knew that. He’d chased revenge too. He’d burned with the same fire, swallowed the same poison, walked the same stupid path toward the same stupid cliff.

But unlike him, he’d had people who pulled him back from the edge. Rei, who showed him what a care looked like. Nora, who refused to let him disappear. Ari, who stayed curled on his lap when things got horrible. Enkidu, who stood in silence and fought beside him and would until death.

His grandfather had none of that. Just a creepy goddess.

No one to pull him back. No one to grab his hand and say stop.

Just a goddess whispering in the dark and an empty throne waiting at the end of a road that led nowhere.

His expression softened. "Damn you, old man." The words tore through his throat, cracking like a man who was moments away from letting out the ugliest cry of his life. "Why did you have to do something that stupid? You could have just lived a normal life. Watched your kids grow. Watched your grandchildren grow." His voice wobbled. "And you could have died in the arms of people who loved you."

He tried to hold it back. He really did. But his eyes started leaking anyway, like his face had decided to betray him at the worst possible moment.

’I’m not crying. I’m not. It’s just my stupid handsome face being a traitor. There’s a massive difference.’

There wasn’t.

"Damn it, you old fool." He wiped his face with the back of his hand, angry at everything. "You could have had the life you never had before. The gods gave you a second chance—a family, a home, people who would have loved you—and you turned it into a curse."

His hand gripped his chest, fingers digging in, because just thinking about the life that could have been hurt worse than any wound he’d taken tonight.

"All because a goddess whispered sweet nothings into your ear, and you listened." His voice dropped. Raw. Shaking. "You listened. After everything they did to you the first time, you still listened."

Gritting his teeth, he kept going. Because apparently his mouth wasn’t done. It was almost like a parent scolding their child for misbehaving. And like a child, his grandfather just listened, lowering his head with each word, shoulders sinking a little further.

"Now I have to fix the mess you created." He snapped, pointing at the mountain. "You killed the only other person who could have helped me stop that thing up there."

His hand dropped. His voice didn’t.

"The damn so-called prophecy she whispered in your ears at night? It was never about protecting you." His eyes darkened. "It was about protecting that thing up there. You were never the chosen one, old man. You were the errand boy."

"Not only have you been feeding that thing godly children your entire life, but that witch is probably going to keep me prisoner—or turn me into a damn dog like you."

He exhaled. Sharp. Ragged. The kind of breath that carried every ounce of frustration a single body could hold.

"Damn it all."

He looked at his grandfather one last time. At the broken, frail, foolish man who had everything and burned it to the ground because a goddess told him the fire was beautiful.

"Goodbye, you miserable little god."

And before the words finished echoing, the shadow beneath his feet opened and Enkidu’s hand pulled him down—dragging him through the darkness, fast, and pulling him out at the top of the mountain.????????????????????????????????