Chapter 185 | I Owe You More Than I can Repay

Chapter 185: 185 | I Owe You More Than I can Repay

Back at the bungalow.

Mira stared at her own hand.

Her right hand, her actual, physical, flesh-and-blood right hand that had been paralyzed for three years.

The one that no doctor, no healer, no geneticist had been able to restore was wrapped around Dexter’s wrist.

She hadn’t meant to do it. She had reached out instinctively, intending to grab him with her Spectral Arm as she had done dozens of times before. But something different had happened.

Her Spectral Arm had materialized above, hovering in the air as intended.

But her real arm had moved too.

Her real, physical arm had reached out from the her lap, fingers had extended and her hand had closed around Dexter’s wrist

A tear fell from her left eye and dripped off her jaw onto the fabric of her blouse.

She didn’t wipe it away. She couldn’t. Her left arm was still paralyzed.

But her right arm.

Her right arm was holding her husband’s wrist.

She flexed her fingers. Slowly. Deliberately.

They moved.

Her index finger curled inward. Then her middle finger. Then her ring finger. Then her pinky. Each one responding to her mental command with a lag of perhaps half a second, the movements trembling slightly from three years of muscular atrophy.

But they moved.

They moved.

"Dexter," she whispered. Her voice cracked on his name. "I can..."

She couldn’t finish.

Dexter set the bowl down on the counter. Slowly. Carefully. As though any sudden movement might shatter whatever miracle was happening in front of him.

He knelt in front of her wheelchair.

He looked up at her. His eyes were bright. His expression was gentle. His voice, when he spoke, carried a quiet certainty that he didn’t fully feel but knew she needed to hear.

"You did it."

Mira looked at him. Her crimson eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, were wide and glistening. Tears streamed down her face in silent rivers.

She shook her head. "I don’t... I can’t..."

"Yes," Dexter said firmly. "You did."

Mira’s trembling right hand released his wrist. She raised it slowly, inch by inch, the muscles straining visibly beneath her pale skin. She held it in front of her face.

Her own hand was actually moving at her command.

It looked as though it was an illusion, but they were hers.

She suddenly looked at Dexter.

"Thank you."

The words were barely audible. Spoken through tears, through a throat tightened by emotion, through lips that trembled with the weight of three years of despair finally cracking open.

It was the most emotional thank you she had ever spoken in her life.

Dexter shook his head. "There’s no need to thank me. I didn’t do much apart from the massages and taking care of you. This was all you. Your body, your will, your strength."

Mira shook her head firmly. The tears continued to fall, but her expression had hardened.

"No," she said. Her voice was stronger now. Still cracking, but anchored by conviction. "I don’t know what you did. I don’t know how you did it. But I know one thing for certain."

She looked directly into his eyes.

"This was because of you."

Dexter opened his mouth to protest.

"Don’t," Mira said, cutting him off. "Don’t deny it. Don’t minimize it. Don’t stand there and pretend you had nothing to do with this."

Her right hand reached out again. This time, it touched his face. Her fingers, trembling and weak, brushed against his cheek. The touch was feather-light. Barely there. But it was real.

"I thought my life was over," she whispered. "I thought everything was gone. My talent. My future. My worth. Everything that made me Mira Calloway. I thought death was better than being paralyzed. I thought... I thought I was nothing."

Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. Continued.

"But you changed that. You tried your best and even though I would rather die than admit it, you gradually changed my thoughts and tried your best to heal me.’

She pulled her hand back. Held it in front of her face again, staring at it as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

"My family couldn’t do this," she said. "The Calloway family. With all their wealth. All their resources. All their connections. They couldn’t do what you did."

She looked at him.

"I owe you," she said. "I owe you more than I can ever repay. And I don’t say things I don’t mean."

Dexter stared at her. He had expected an emotional reaction. He had not expected this.

"Whatever request you want," Mira continued. "No matter how despicable. No matter how evil. No matter how villainous. I will honor it. Just give me the command, and I will do as you say."

Dexter’s eyes widened. "Mira, there is no need..."

Mira raised her right hand.

The movement was deliberate. Not the instinctive grab from before. A conscious, willed motion of a hand she had only just regained control of.

She raised it high.

"This promise," she said. Her voice was steady. Clear. Carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "I swear by the Death God in the night. I swear with my soul."

The words left her lips in a cadence that was not conversational. It was ritualistic. Ancient. Each syllable weighted with power that predated modern cultivation systems.

Dexter’s face changed.

The air in the kitchen shifted. The temperature dropped. Not from cold, but from presence.

Something chilling that existed between the living and the dead had been summoned by the invocation of a power older than the Hero Association itself.

A shadow emerged from the ground.

It rose directly behind Mira’s wheelchair. A phantom shape, roughly humanoid, composed of darkness so dense it seemed to absorb the light around it. It had no features. No face. No expression. It simply existed, towering behind the wheelchair like a silent witness.

Mira bit her right hand.

Her teeth broke the skin of her thumb. A drop of blood, dark red and vivid, welled up from the wound.

She extended her hand downward.

The phantom image descended. It reached toward the falling drop of blood with an almost reverent slowness. Its shadowy hand caught the blood midair, cradling it as though it were a gem.

Then it sank back into the ground.

The shadow vanished. The temperature normalized. The oppressive presence disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.

The entire event had lasted perhaps three seconds.

Dexter stared at the floor where the phantom had disappeared.

’She just swore a Death God oath. She bound her soul to this promise.’

That meant she was dead serious!

A Death God oath was the most binding commitment a person could make. Breaking it would tear the swearer’s soul from their body. The same principle that governed the marriage contract.

Mira had just put her soul on the line for a promise to him.

Dexter looked at her solemnly.

"Okay," he said quietly. He didn’t argue, nor did he protest. You didn’t argue with someone who had just sworn a Death God oath. You accept and honor it, making sure it was never abused.

Mira nodded her head as the contract was signed.