Killed Me? Now I Have Your Power Chapter 488: The Tales of The Fool

Chapter 488 – The Tales of The Fool

’Blood and ashes...’

Kaden muttered inwardly, understanding now why he felt so much stronger than before his accident.

All his stats — without exception — had reached 2500, hitting the absolute limit across the board. Now only one thing remained.

’To surpass the limit of each one and take the Evolution Quest to reach the Epithet Realm.’ His thoughts churned. ’But I will need an Evolution Stone to do that.’

A Mythic Evolution Stone, to be specific. Anything lower wouldn’t feel right to him anymore.

The question now was how to obtain one.

"Still, before all of that, I have things to finish first." He muttered aloud, just as both Blanche and Reditha appeared beside him in the real world.

The Phoenix perched on his left shoulder, her appearance majestic in a way that influenced even Kaden, giving him a cosmic-like aura. Reditha took the form of a miniature version of herself and sat lazily on his right shoulder.

Kaden said nothing as he approached the spot where his grandfather had died. Nothing remained there now — only dust, blood, and weathered blackened skin.

Wordlessly, he crouched down before it, closed his eyes, and...what? Prayed?

And there was the problem.

It was genuinely hard for a man with no faith to know how to deal with the dead.

Any other mortal — or anyone of faith — would have prayed. Asked whatever god they believed in to be merciful to the soul of the departed, to be lenient in judgment, and perhaps even hoped to meet them again in some distant place beyond.

Kaden didn’t have that luxury. He believed in no god. Not even the one who was the very origin of his bloodline.

So how did he grieve?

Funerals mattered more than people understood. They gave closure — illusory closure, perhaps — but the sense of it was important to the human mind. A false sense of ending was still enough to keep someone moving forward.

It was in moments like these that Kaden envied the ignorance of mortals. How easy it was to live in a world unaware of the atrocities occurring beneath and above it.

The suffering happening in corners of the world where beings were screaming for help, their voices silenced, with no one caring to listen.

Ignorance was indeed a bliss.

But that was exactly why Kaden would still choose knowledge — true knowledge, not the kind fed by the powerful to blind the masses — over ignorance. At least then, he told himself, he would know what could kill him before it happened.

"Create your own." Blanche said quietly, cutting through his thoughts. "You can create your own, sweetheart."

"My own... what?"

"Your own way to mourn the dead." Her voice was soft, gentle, filled with the pain of having missed his lowest moment and the love she carried for him. "You don’t need a god or anyone else for that."

The thought was tempting. But Kaden shook his head. "If it were anyone else, I would agree. But I don’t want to attempt something like that for—!"

"That’s exactly why you should." Reditha interrupted. "It would make him happy. And doing something is better than doing nothing at all. Kaden, don’t forget—"

"—you are a worthy man." Blanche continued, kissing his cheek. "Don’t sell yourself short. You are nothing but a child. A seventeen-year-old boy. Yet look at yourself, sweetheart."

Kaden’s body tensed.

"So will you do it?"

He hesitated, pressing his lips together. Then he relented, exhaling softly.

"Fine." He breathed. "But let’s do it properly."

Blanche and Reditha smiled in quiet relief.

Kaden acted immediately. He wasn’t sure how to go about his own way of burial, but the moment he intended to find one, something surfaced in his mind on its own.

He didn’t hesitate.

He had a Trait obtained once from that woman Cerveau, one that allowed him to manipulate memories of beings he had been in contact with. Something he seldom used, having no fondness for dabbling in the minds of others.

Yet after recent events, the Trait had evolved far beyond what he initially understood it to be.

A new aspect had been added, the ability to copy a set of memories and transfer them into another person...or even into an object.

With that in mind, Kaden used his blood manipulation and drew from the small amount of his grandfather’s blood still on the ground, shaping it into a tombstone in the form of a Staff.

He pressed his index finger — glowing faintly with crimson light — to its surface and inscribed along it:

Then he used his Trait. He copied the memories of Raven speaking about his father, then his mother, then the ones about Dain and Daela.

He took each memory and transferred it into the tombstone, binding every set to the name of the person it belonged to.

When that was done, he took the entirety of his five days with his grandfather and placed it beside his own name.

He stepped back, looking at the Staff-shaped tombstone. Each inscribed name glowed with its own light — each unique, each carrying its own set of memories within.

Blanche and Reditha watched in hidden awe. This was something only Kaden could create, they thought in unison.

He stared at it for a long moment, then turned away. Everything he could do had been done. And with it, some measure of peace.

That was the first Tombstone created by Kaden Warborn.

Many would come. Then many more, until the Tombstones became something else entirely...a mark, a testament found along paths Kaden had walked, offering glimpses of his memories to those who found them.

A mark that said: I, Kaden Warborn, have been here.

And it was one the World would answer, joyfully yet sorrowfully:

...

Kaden walked through the house one last time and found things he hadn’t expected.

Two notebooks were hidden in an old corner.

The first was all white, and the opening title read:

Kaden didn’t know why his lips twitched at that, but he could vividly imagine his grandfather saying it with a proud face.

He opened the book and found only poems. Poems about war, love, death, companions, and the burden of a bloodline.

He read some of them, and recognised the melodramatic flair of his grandfather immediately. He smiled without meaning to, and found himself reading nearly half the book.

By the end, his eyes were shimmering, tears of pride and bitterness, knowing the talent of Raven that would remain unknown to the world.

"A poet, indeed." He murmured, and stored the notebook in his space ring.

He looked at the second notebook. It was all black. The title read:

His eyebrows lifted with immediate interest. He opened the first page and read.

"Reader, I am Raven Warborn, the Poet born in a bloodline of War, Blood and Death. Chosen by Space, but unable to be as free and unfettered as it is. And so I am bound — by duty, by expectation, by bloodline. But who can truly bind Space itself? I rebelled, as any young hot-blooded man would. Ah, it was thrilling, seeing the faces of my sister and parents that day. So I am considered a Fool for it. A Fool for being who I am, and for seeking advancement through words and connection rather than death and blood. I wanted to listen. I wanted to record. So here I am, Reader, taking my first step onto my own path.

I thought of many names for this book, but for once I will try not to be melodramatic. So: The Tales of The Fool. For a Fool I am, and proud to be one if it means walking my own path.

So, Reader, if this book finds its way to you, do as you please. But if you decide to read it, I welcome you into my story.

The story of Raven Warborn. The Fool and the Poet, born in blood and war, and hoping to die among the stars.

—End of Chapter 488—