100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? Chapter 480 - Echo

Eirene’s familiar clutched the Echo Bloom in its tiny hands.

Among those assembled, she grasped seeds, roots, soil, life-force, and the hushed principles of growth more deeply than anyone else. Thus, when the moment arrived to commence, nobody contested handing the duty to her.

The seed felt far from commonplace.

Eirene had sensed that earlier.

A subtle aura emanated from the Echo Bloom, complex rather than plain. It resembled the Revenant Asphodel eerily, that wondrous bloom Eirene had nurtured with exhaustive effort before.

It bore the identical uncanny trait of lingering betwixt life and revival, like death had attempted to seize it once yet couldn't clinch the claim.

The small familiar descended nearer.

She didn't merely deposit the seed into the dirt.

She calculated precisely.

The tilt. The burial depth. The roots' alignment with the ley-flow. The dampness level. The air's respiration. The balance between heat and calm.

Every factor that could influence, she considered fully.

Only afterward did she embed the Echo Bloom into the selected earth with utmost precision.

As it contacted the soil, faint motes of pale green radiance drifted from the familiar’s diminutive form. They descended languidly across the patch, akin to a benediction too soft for sorcery yet too purposeful for mere nature.

Silence reigned.

All recognized the ritual had commenced.

This growth would defy the usual.

It wouldn't heed water, sunlight, or cycles of season.

The Echo Bloom would flourish mirroring their recollections of Lucien.

Hence, they lingered.

•••

The initial day post-planting saw no key figure close to Lucien stray far from the spot.

Vivian stayed put. Sebas stayed put. Cielius stayed put. Luke and Cienna stayed put. Others rotated through, yet the memorial field encircling the Echo Bloom never stood deserted.

The atmosphere transformed.

More hushed still. A sanctity born when sorrow observes a site too intently to allow mundane sounds.

Luke and Cienna took the lead.

No debate needed.

They positioned themselves by the sown seed, recalling him from the start.

The infant Lucien.

They recalled the escape days. The era of pursuit for craving a normal existence.

They recalled his birth moment.

Followed by the far harsher recollection thereafter.

The minuscule form that failed to draw breath rightly. The inconceivable quiet of a babe meant to wail. The frenzy. The denial. The offering.

They recalled lending fragments of their essence to yank that infant back to vitality, sacrificing their own prospects.

Luke recalled committing all to Sebas later. They recalled perishing with just that minor solace... the child endured.

As sentiments intensified and recollections shifted from narrative to raw reality, it occurred.

The earth quivered.

The Echo Bloom germinated.

Not a spectacle.

Merely a delicate dark-green tendril emerging from the ground, as though it had battled fiercely for that scant progress.

Over the sprout, a modest warped orb of luminescence appeared.

It lingered there hesitantly.

Irregular. Weak. Unfinished.

Not Lucien yet.

Yet his resonance.

Vivian pressed a hand to her lips. Cielius shut his eyes. Sebas averted his gaze, scrubbing his face with hands rougher than warranted.

Luke merely gazed.

Cienna’s digits trembled against the soil.

"It worked," she murmured.

Luke breathed out deliberately.

"No," he replied. "It started."

•••

The next day, they verified it.

The resonance responded to verity.

When Lucien’s memories surfaced with sufficient vividness and emotion, the diminutive light sphere quivered subtly. At times it sparked. At times it altered hue. At times it quavered toward the speaker, seemingly pondering if the voice rang familiar.

It stayed unfinished.

Yet responsive.

Thus, they refined their method.

Rather than everyone voicing simultaneously and blurring recollections, they opted for rotations.

Not solely due to timeline’s relevance.

But since reminiscence proved personal.

Certain words for Lucien some could utter privately, never publicly.

Confidentials, shortcomings, affections, vows, mortifications, remorse.

If authenticity fed the Echo Bloom, those truths required pure delivery, untainted by show or restraint.

They sequenced it accordingly.

Starting with earliest knowers.

On day three, Sebas knelt solo before the resonance.

Not as retainer to lord.

As one whose existence revolved around a youth, now permitting buried heartaches tied to that role to surface.

For extended moments, he stayed mute.

He simply regarded the hovering gleam, permitting recollections to swell within.

Then he spoke.

He recounted fleeing with newborn Lucien cradled amid a collapsing world.

The inaugural finger grip by the boy. The debut fever. The pioneer grin. The initial defiant clash. The revelation that service stemmed not from duty, but the youth anchoring his survival drive.

He recalled imparting useful skills, only to find the boy perpetually ahead.

He recalled quirky instants too.

Lucien dozing amid tomes. Lucien feigning indifference yet acting kindly covertly. Lucien scrutinizing others with precocious intensity.

When Sebas addressed the resonance outright, his tone cracked.

"Young Lord," he declared, "I have regarded you as my blood son in every way but lineage. That endures forever."

His palm shook upon his knee.

"I shadowed you in growth to safeguard your radiance. I’d repeat it. A thousandfold."

Sebas grinned.

"Thus, return. Please return. I await still."

The resonance stirred.

It drifted closer, pulsed once, like innate urge acknowledged the pledge.

Its contour sharpened.

Still mere light orb—

yet more compact. Less warped. Truer to form.

Sebas chuckled amid tears.

•••

Day four brought Vivian to sit beside.

She arrived calmer than anticipated.

Composure vanished swiftly.

For where Sebas evoked Lucien via obligation and loyalty, Vivian summoned everyday joy prior to the world’s relentless thefts.

She recalled games together. Quarrels. Minor shields only kids deemed vital. Envy of adults’ carries, then fierce pride when he favored her in trivialities.

She recalled Virel and Aniel likewise. The nurturing days pre-trouble’s total grip. The terror gripping her small hands’ first hold of Lucien, fearing a drop.

She chuckled at that.

Then wept fiercer, sweetness and pain inseparable now.

"You were so tiny," she breathed to the resonance. "Everyone saw fragility, yet stubbornness defined you early."

Her tears soaked the soil under the sprout.

Memories infused them.

And she sensed it.

The earth now embraced sentiment and fact as sustenance.

Vivian lowered her head.

"You overextended for all," she stated. "You idiot."

She beamed amid tears.

"I’m your sister. Let me contribute too. Sprout right. Return right. Don’t force me to haul you from death by ear."

The resonance shifted anew.

It stretched.

Light contracted, forging a sharper outline.

A minuscule coiled silhouette materialized in the sheen, unfinished yet clearly embryonic, no bigger than a ping-pong ball.

Vivian gaped.

Then hands muffled her mouth as ecstasy and sorrow collided.

"He heard me," she breathed. "He heard me."

•••

Fifth day summoned Lucien’s followers.

They approached like shrine pilgrims.

Green. Stone. Lukas. Elk. Cecil. Plus Lootwell’s founding folk who witnessed decline then Lucien’s revival into defendable realm.

They genuflected before the Echo Bloom, holding so much of the day.

None hurried them.

None urged brevity.

Their truths merited space.

Green evoked initial yields under Lucien’s odd directives, transforming nonsense to abundance effortlessly.

Stone evoked debut fortifications by Lucien, envisioning bastion in ruins.

Lukas evoked tasks granting honor over toil.

Elk wept over attire.

Clothing, of all.

She evoked sewing for Lucien pre-broadened shoulders, pre-hardened by maturity, conflict, drills.

Through sobs, she pictured his twenties manhood, raging that demise robbed her re-measurement chance.

"My Lord, upon awakening," she avowed, "I’ll craft fresh garb. Fitting ones. Superior. Cease resistance, hasten."

Cecil remained Cecil.

Tears brimmed, zeal blazed vocally.

"I told them!" he proclaimed to the resonance, reporting to Lucien direct. "I insisted you didn’t vanish idly. You slew gods."

Several shot glances.

Cecil stiffened defiantly.

"Well? Wrong?"

None could refute neatly now.

For if godlike foes qualified, Lucien had indeed.

Post-Lootwell originals, allegiance thickened airily tangible.

Lucien’s resonance reacted.

It swelled further.

Tiny shape clarified. Encircling light stabilized. Sprout rooted sturdier.

Followers departed weeping.

Yet grinning too.

•••

A week elapsed fully.

Clara then appeared.

Truth hadn’t come softly to her.

Augustus shielded initially. She extracted it regardless. Reaching Lootwell, her sorrow had forged into fervent blaze.

She appeared altered.

Former youth’s gentleness honed to near-divine poise. Stance upright. Aura purified. Unmistakably Holy Nation leader now.

One constant persisted.

Her gaze upon Lucien.

Not the resonance. Lucien himself.

Even now, that frail speck drew her eternal awe, as if he’d humbled to vulnerability for esoteric cause.

At the plot, no pause.

She knelt.

Palms interlocked.

Gaze locked on resonance.

Initially, a smile. Shaky, pained, utterly genuine.

"My lord," she murmured, "you look fragile."

Smile intensified.

"But only for now."

Her belief burned brightest.

For Clara, conviction transcended death’s persuasion long ago.

Eyes shut, prayer flowed.

Clara’s invocations fit perfectly.

Fervent. Outlandish. Profoundly true. Mildly mortifying to all but her.

"My lord, peerless below heavens and likely above, heed this meek plea."

Clara persisted gravely.

"You surpassing sages in wisdom, fiercer than beasts, kinder than kings amassed, handsomer beyond entitlement..."

Luke cleared throat into hand.

Cienna’s mouth quirked.

Clara surged undeterred.

"You gathering wonders casually like others hoard laments, foes perishing baffled, comrades thriving via your foresight, death mere calendar hiccup..."

There, Vivian loosed a soggy, yielding chortle amid tears.

Clara’s cadence held firm.

"Thus, hasten back. This flawed realm falters sans you. Crops thrive, aye, but lack flair. Folk persist, aye, but sans assurance. Folly foes deem safety in your tininess."

She dipped deeper.

"Ascend anew, my lord. Not that death binds you—evidently not—but we crave your audacious presence."

Then, hushed:

"And my faith never wavered."

As prayer pierced beyond memory, celestial force stirred ambiently.

Subtle at onset.

Then coalesced, as veneration found anchor.

Force converged on resonance.

Not wholly devoured.

Not yet.

Yet etched into the form, accepted seamlessly.

That stunned sufficiently.

Signifying Lucien’s resonance gained not just form—

but recognition.

The embryonic speck enlarged.

Clara knelt on, palms gripped, eyes sealed, tears streaming as prayers escalated in wild sincerity.

Done, none escaped impact.

Some sobbed. Some laughed tearfully. Some both.

Central to it all—

Lucien’s resonance hovered over sprout, fragile, unfinished, distant from full return—

indisputably advancing.

The rite succeeded.

First since demise claimed him—

hope felt not defiance.

It felt certainty.