100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? Chapter 475 - Echo

Luke and Cienna positioned themselves at Lootwell's core and triggered the skill in unison.

A gentle wave of light rippled across the territory, so delicate at first that it seemed utterly benign.

Then it reached the inhabitants.

And memories flooded back.

Throughout Lootwell, folks halted in their tracks.

Some let tools slip from their grasp. Others clapped hands over mouths. Some just stiffened, as if their frames could no longer feign the day's routine.

The laborers recalled who had toiled alongside them. The kids remembered the smiles directed their way. The monsters recollected the hand that drew them from darkness.

And upon seeing Lucien was gone—

All of Lootwell broke into sobs.

For now they could envision it.

They could picture the solitude Lucien endured after being cast from minds.

Among those overwhelmed by recollection, Morveth and Aerolith trembled the hardest.

For they had witnessed it firsthand.

They had lingered near enough that failure should have been impossible.

Yet fail him they did.

Aerolith gazed at Lucien’s visage for what felt like ages.

Then, for the first time anyone present could recall, the Void entity shed tears.

Tears streamed from her eyes as she dropped to her knees by the repose site.

"Big brother," she murmured. "I was there... and I still forgot."

Morveth loomed behind her, fist gripped until bones creaked under the strain.

His tone came softer than ever before.

"How does one forget a bond like that?"

Silence met his words.

For no reply could lessen the disgrace.

No rites of burial occurred.

Not yet.

For none could bear to concede the chapter's close was final.

Hope did not perish alongside Lucien.

It merely grew more agonizing.

Thus, rather than a burial plot, Anvil-Horn crafted a sanctuary for repose.

Not a crypt.

A site befitting revival.

With Law at his command, the veteran artisan molded stone, burnished timber, blooming alloy, and vital framework into a haven of serene honor.

He mended Lucien’s features as well as possible, not hiding the ordeal's marks, but denying brutality the last vision for his admirers.

Finished, Lucien appeared as himself once more.

Handsome. Youthful. Motionless.

And that smile lingered.

That smile deepened the pain of every visit.

•••

The ensuing days turned peculiar.

No one voiced it, yet Lootwell operated as if suspended in anticipation.

The healing drive in the West decelerated. The effort persisted, but no longer dominated hearts. Even those grasping its vastness now prioritized Lucien foremost, continent second.

Every free instant turned to reflection.

Watchfulness. Debate. Quiet. Then debate anew.

They sought to unravel the purpose of the skill:

Remember Me.

They scrutinized the seed clutched by Lucien unto death.

They probed it via spirit senses, arcane scrutiny, laws, pattern deciphering, sentiment attunement, every method save prying it apart and endangering the delicate remnant Lucien bequeathed.

No clear response emerged.

The seed stayed dormant.

No bud. No throb. No grand wonder. No abrupt insight.

As days dragged, doubt seeped into hushed thoughts.

Maybe that was its sole intent.

Maybe Remember Me was merely Lucien's last stand against oblivion.

A desperate bid to etch himself into the world despite demise.

No one uttered it.

For voicing it smacked of defeat.

Luke and Cienna spotted the shift in others right away.

They allowed it space at first.

Then one dusk, as the hush in the repose chamber thickened unbearably, Cienna broke it.

"You are thinking too small," she murmured gently.

The chamber pivoted to her.

Her eyes bore redness from endless mourning, yet resolve steadied them now.

"My boy is many things," she went on. "Dramatic when it suits him. Ruthless when he has to be. A little too proud. More than a little stubborn. But careless with skill names?" She shook her head. "No."

Luke exhaled softly through his nostrils.

"On a normal day," he said, eyeing Lucien’s serene countenance, "he would have called that skill something absurdly cool."

A faint stir rippled through the space.

Luke pressed on, tallying on fingers as if absurdity warded off sorrow's grip.

"He would have named it something like Mnemonic Rebirth, or Echo Recall Protocol, or Soulprint Restoration, or maybe something even more shameless like Chronicle of the Unforgotten."

Marie let out a feeble snort despite herself.

"Which means if he named it Remember Me, then he did it on purpose."

Cienna’s glance dipped to the seed momentarily.

"It was instruction."

The chamber transformed once more.

For with that idea voiced, hope shed its solitary guilt and united them all.

Remember him.

But how? As whom? Through what means? Why so direct?

The notion cut sharper now.

And this round, it offered no solace.

It posed a riddle.

•••

Some mornings on, Marie chose to enter Lucien’s quarters.

No one barred her.

She lacked a rationale that would ring true aloud. She simply yearned to be there, to occupy the spot of his everyday hours, to sense a trace of him untouched by reminiscence, myth, or anguish.

At the door, her hand on the latch refused to yield.

She scowled and tugged anew.

Still nothing.

Suddenly, an array-lock materialized on the panel, luminous patterns blooming in precise woven rings.

Marie gaped.

Grief swiftly yielded to indignation, startling her with its speed.

"Luc," she grumbled, eyes slitting. "You never lock your room like this."

And then it struck her.

Her pulse raced.

That barrier signaled one truth.

Something within stayed concealed in life.

Marie hesitated not a heartbeat.

She whirled and called for the rest.

...

Quickly, a throng assembled beyond Lucien’s door.

Far too many.

The realization hit fast.

The hallway brimmed with bated breath, sorrow, intrigue, dread. It felt profane to cram it like gawkers at a show.

This was his sanctum. The utmost private nook the Lootwell lord permitted himself. Making it a spectacle betrayed him.

Thus the multitude pulled away.

Primeval beasts retreated by ancient urge, sensing when a boundary favored kin over might.

Gathered folk bowed heads and withdrew likewise, stealing one last glance ere yielding the core to the vital few.

Ultimately, scant souls lingered.

Luke and Cienna fronted the portal.

Behind stood Lucien’s nearest women: Eirene, Lilith, Marie, Kaia, Sylra, and Marina.

The array-lock flickered as Luke and Cienna neared.

Then it eased.

For them, the construct proved no challenge.

"It’s his work," Luke breathed.

Cienna followed a glowing trace.

"And he wanted us here."

It unraveled swiftly.

The lock vanished.

The door swung wide.

...

Lucien’s chamber stayed unadorned.

A bed. Shelves. A desk. Seats. No lavish flair.

It mirrored the haven of one who claimed space for pondering, scheming, recuperating, then departing.

And there, upon the desk—

sat a journal.

All spotted it instantly.

None lunged.

Luke advanced, grasped it tenderly, and flipped to the opening sheet.

The script flowed precise.

Serene.

Vexingly vibrant.

He recited:

[If you are reading this, then I might already be dead.]

The chamber constricted sharply.

Marina uttered a fractured noise and nestled into Sylra once more. Lilith’s digits clenched.

For that phrase proved he had braced for demise.

Like one who faced the chance squarely, met its gaze, and plotted regardless.

Luke flipped onward.

The following line was briefer.

More perilous.

[Whether I live again or die forever will depend on you.]

Motion ceased thereafter.

Even breaths rang excessive.

Hope blazed through the space so sudden it stung.

Luke’s grasp quivered for the first since arrival.

Marie pressed palm to lips.

Kaia edged half a pace ahead, then checked.

Eirene’s gaze widened, then honed with urgent intent.

Lilith bowed her head.

Luke advanced the page.

This bore an illustration.

A seed.

Instant recognition dawned for all.

The very seed from Lucien’s death grip.

Below the sketch lay the annotation:

Echo Bloom — Absorbs the final "echo" of a dying breath, storing it until it can be replanted.

The chamber iced over.

For truth now gleamed keen.

The seed held no mere emblem.

It embodied Lucien’s essence.

Or precisely—

it captured his parting reverberation.

Further down, another inscription appeared.

[This seed does not grow from soil... It grows from truth.]

Luke and Cienna gawked.

Then laughter escaped them.

For the skill’s naming clicked at last.

Tears traced both cheeks as insight pierced mourning, blooming into wonder.

Luke breathed, "Of course."

Cienna clamped a quivering hand over lips.

Then Luke progressed the page.

There, in Lucien’s script, intent stood bare:

[Hold the truth of me together

so I cannot be lost, rewritten, or diminished.]

That summed it.

That defined Remember Me.

Stabilizing.

The Echo Bloom safeguarded Lucien’s last echo, yet an echo stayed partial, frail, waning.

It risked crumbling, warping, evaporating.

Untethered, rebirth as Lucien proved impossible.

It would dwindle.

His essence demanded collective hold.

Memories served not to mold him.

They guarded against alteration.

Luke reread the prior line, deliberate now.

"This seed does not grow from soil," he intoned. "It grows from truth."

Eirene voiced at last.

"That means memory is not the sentiment," she stated. "It is the structure."

Seran, arriving just before unsealing and poised mute by the threshold, exhaled measuredly.

"The anchors," he declared.

Luke inclined head.

"Yes."

All faced him.

He surveyed them, gravity in gaze shifting.

No mere sorrow or wish now.

A challenge yielding to solution.

"The folk here suffice to anchor the "him" we knew in the Big World," he explained. "But that falls short of full revival."

Cienna seized the thread seamlessly.

"He did not start here. Nor shape himself solely post-Big World arrival. For echo’s total rebuild, truths from life’s every phase are required."

The weight settled deep.

All grasped the hurdle instantly.

Lootwell’s assembly knew present Lucien.

But prior incarnations?

The child. The youth. The lad forging self ere these entered his tale.

Those tethers absented.

Suddenly, some divined the path.

And Lucien, naturally, had foreseen it.

Luke unveiled another sheet.

There—

Etched in crisp, undeniable precision—

lay coordinates.

To the small world.

For an instant, quiet reigned.

Then Lucien’s endgame crystallized.

He had foreseen demise. Secured his last echo. Charted revival’s route for fitting finders alone.

Lilith’s palm rose to lips.

"He planned this far," she breathed.

Marie chuckled anew.

"That idiot," she said. "That absolute idiot. He really prepared to die and still came out ahead."

Kaia grumbled, "Only Brother Luc would treat death like another problem he could outplan."

Sylra eyed the journal long ere whispering softly, "Then we’re not mourning him yet."

Marina raised from Sylra’s shoulder, eyes crimson and shaky.

"We’re bringing him back."

Luke shut the journal gently.

Then eyed Lucien’s sanctuary past the walls, as if barriers dissolved.

"Yes," he affirmed.

Seran grinned, thrill igniting eyes.

Lucien had withheld this scheme from him.

Then recall hit of prior words.

’To deceive an enemy, you must first deceive your allies.’

He shook head with wry grin.

And for the first since Lucien’s death—

Lootwell’s hope ceased questioning.

It turned resolve.