100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? Chapter 487 - Clara’s Faith

Lucien felt fortunate that his death had occurred.

The world following his return had shifted dramatically to benefit him.

He had reappeared within an odd blind spot.

Beyond it, the wider world hadn't recalled him yet. Oblivion’s distortion persisted throughout the Big World.

Alanthuriel hadn't come back either, meaning the solution to that wound stayed out of Lucien’s grasp for now.

This situation worked perfectly for him.

Without the world remembering him correctly, it wouldn't monitor him closely either.

He could construct.

He could fortify Lootwell.

He could hone his followers, his troops, his organization, and his own power without enemies scrutinizing his actions or plotting ambushes.

Lucien eased back in his chair, allowing the idea to sink in.

By remaining silent long enough, when the world eventually spotted him again, it would realize everything was already too late.

His thoughts wandered momentarily to Alanthuriel.

To the concealed secrets linked to true names, broken timelines, and the horrifying rationale driving Oblivion’s meddling.

He still couldn't pierce Alanthuriel’s history.

Even after all his ordeals and transformations, the name offered only pressure and clues, never complete vision. Fate still withheld its revelations there.

Maybe that would shift upon entering the Eternal Realm.

Maybe it wouldn't.

Regardless, that resolution could wait.

Lucien dropped his eyes and turned his focus inward.

His spirit stayed stable.

His laws stayed under his control.

His Divine Energy Core had returned fully.

And above all—

his realm stayed intact.

That aspect had puzzled several others upon his initial awakening.

The clearest analogy was an Eternal’s demise.

Or more precisely, its deceptive form.

When an Eternal fell improperly, typically only the body perished, not the complete entity. Their spirit, law-mark, identity-structure, and pillar-clause endured. If those core foundations weren't eradicated correctly, the Eternal could flee, reform a body, or seize a ready vessel and persist unchanged.

By that point, the world had fully acknowledged them.

That marked the key distinction.

An Eternal integrated so profoundly into the laws that bodily death didn't mislead the world about their core essence. The world still recognized: this being endures.

Lucien’s situation proved even more bizarre.

He hadn't attained Eternal Realm.

Under normal circumstances, that should've rendered his death more final, not less absolute. A Celestial lacked the world's complete endorsement embedded in their being.

The laws hadn't embraced him as an enduring clause within their framework. That's why Celestials could perish conventionally, whereas Eternals grew far tougher to eradicate completely.

Yet Lucien had revived via an unconventional path.

The Echo Bloom safeguarded his last echo. Memory secured his reality. The vessel welcomed his identity. The Divine Energy Core then slipped back into his conceptual realm and synced with the restored elements.

Thus, what emerged wasn't some impostor in Lucien’s form.

It was Lucien persisting via an irregular method.

His spirit never diminished. His laws never reverted. His realm never crumbled.

A realm wasn't mere flesh elevated to a specific stage. It encompassed understanding, law fusion, identity force, and internal framework.

It helped that his vacant vessel matched his Celestial body perfectly, letting all aspects stay unaltered.

Nevertheless, since his revival preceded the world's chance to re-register him properly, the world itself harbored doubt.

To the broader world, Lucien had perished.

To his own being, he had persisted.

This placed him in a paradox.

Alive within himself.

Dead in the world's eyes.

Lucien smiled subtly.

"A loophole," he whispered.

It was precisely the type of solution he preferred.

Right then...

A knock sounded at the door.

Lucien raised his head.

"Come in."

The door swung open, and the four elemental women stepped inside as one. Marie took the lead, beaming widely.

"Haha. You’re hard to talk to these days," Marie said. "There’s too much competition for your attention."

Kaia crossed her arms and propped herself against the doorframe with a grin.

"Brother, you’re too famous now."

Sylra merely smiled.

Marina skipped remarks entirely. She reached Lucien's side before the others finished their opening words.

Lucien nearly chuckled.

He understood their purpose.

To train alongside him.

And maybe, though none would voice it outright, to confirm Lucien was genuinely present, approachable, tangible, conversational, and ready for joint practice.

Thus, over the ensuing days, that's precisely what transpired.

They trained.

Occasionally, they clashed in straightforward spars. Other times, they delved into the interplay of laws. Sometimes, they examined how his recovered state shifted the harmony with their elements. At times, their gatherings sparked debates, led to displays, and resulted in joint advancements masked as sheer bullheadedness.

Marie was always the noisiest when breakthroughs occurred.

Kaia stayed the most blatantly rivalrous.

Sylra was the one who grasped shifts before words fully formed them.

And Marina wouldn't allow herself to lag in any matter tied to Lucien’s affairs.

Those days flowed smoothly.

•••

Then, one day, Clara arrived.

She stepped into Lucien’s view carrying the bearing of someone who’d already decided and was just informing the world of it.

Lucien recognized that expression.

It typically signaled he was on the verge of gaining a trouble wrapped in loyalty.

Clara halted in front of him, pressed her hands together, and spoke with utter gravity, "My Lord, I need a chapel."

Lucien blinked once.

"A chapel."

"A large one," Clara specified.

Lucien eased back gradually.

The quiet that followed wasn’t vacant. It echoed with him rethinking several life decisions simultaneously.

He was already aware Clara had amassed more devotees.

He knew the Desert Folk led by Sarin and Khasari had gravitated toward her perspective.

He knew a number of Lithrens had grown fervent too, particularly after Riri, overly thrilled by the notion, started describing Lucien in ways that blurred the boundary between reverence and worship into a mere whisper.

Lucien rubbed two fingers on his forehead.

He could picture it clearly already.

Lootwell Cult.

’Absolutely not.’

He lifted his gaze and faced Clara earnestly.

"Clara," he said, "you know I’m not a god. I’m just a human. I can die, and you confirmed that yourself."

Clara smiled.

That smile, beyond her words, gave him pause.

Because this smile was unlike before.

It felt tender, welcoming, and oddly warm.

"My Lord," she murmured softly, "no ordinary humans return from death."

Lucien parted his lips.

Then shut them once more.

After a beat, he replied, "That is... a separate issue."

Her smile grew warmer.

"It is not separate to those who nearly lost you."

That stopped him cold.

Clara dropped her joined hands to rest them in front of her.

"I know only worship," she stated. "That is my reality. I was born within it. Raised within it. Molded by it. From the start, I was trained to kneel, to trust, to direct devotion skyward."

Lucien observed her closely.

"So you’re aware you were brainwashed."

Clara cleared her throat lightly into her hand.

"I prefer the term properly conditioned."

Lucien stared.

She smiled once more, and briefly the familiar ridiculousness resurfaced.

Then it eased.

"But when I met you," she continued, "for the first time ever, faith filled the void inside me."

Clara advanced a single step.

"My Lord, I do not worship you because I enjoy acting mad."

A pause.

"I worship you because I chose where my faith should go."

Her gaze stayed locked on Lucien’s.

"If you are not a god, then I will make you one."

That declaration coursed through him like icy flames.

Before he could respond, Clara pressed on, her tone now stripped of all levity.

"When I learned that the world forgot you, do you know what truly terrified me?"

Lucien stayed silent.

"It was not only your death," Clara breathed. "It was that truth itself could be erased. That someone could scar the world so profoundly as to rip you from people’s memories."

Her eyes brightened, yet no tears spilled.

Not yet.

"If the Big World sees you as lord, some will obey, some will turn traitor, some will revere, some will dread."

She drew a small breath.

"But if the Big World holds you as god..."

A pause.

"...then they will not let themselves forget."

Lucien’s chest constricted.

Clara’s voice turned whisper-soft.

"A thing from the Abyss may erase names. It may blur faces. It may twist memories."

Her hands shook briefly before steadying.

"But if you become something sacred in their hearts, then forgetting you becomes a kind of blasphemy against the self. They will cling to you. Guard your form. Spread your name from lip to lip until even destruction can’t entomb you fully."

Lucien stood mute.

Because he grasped it now.

Completely.

Finally, he perceived the core driving Clara’s fervor.

This had never been mere blind loyalty.

It had been calculated.

A fortress forged from belief against a future where the world forsook him because memory was stolen away.

Lucien would deceive himself if he denied that scar still lingered within.

Being erased had wounded deeper than dying.

Death had concluded.

Forgetting had emptied him.

Clara had perceived it too, in her heartfelt manner.

She chose to respond not through solace, but via construction.

A sanctuary of belief. A framework for memory. A monument embedding him so deeply into the souls of others that Oblivion would have to clash against the entire form of conviction, rather than just fleeting recollections.

Lucien rose to his feet.

He moved across the distance to her at a deliberate pace.

Clara remained still.

As he drew near, the expression in her eyes shifted. Its devotion stayed intact, yet a softer element emerged alongside it. Something radiant, mortal, and nearly overwhelmingly innocent in its purpose.

Lucien extended his hand and placed it gently on her head.

"Thank you, Clara," he said.

That sufficed.

Yet it halted her completely.

Next, a smile bloomed on her lips.

The grin lighting up her features brimmed with such exquisite relief, warmth, and timid delight that Lucien truly blanked on his following idea for an instant.

A soft blush tinged her cheeks.

"Anything for you, my Lord," she murmured.

For an instant, both stayed motionless.

Lucien then released a breath resembling a chuckle.

"All right," he said. "You can have your chapel."

Clara’s eyes grew wide.

They then sparkled with sudden brilliance, like witnessing dawn erupt nearby.

"But," Lucien quickly continued, as his sense of self-preservation hadn’t fully vanished, "it will not be called a cult."

Clara snapped to attention instantly.

"Of course not, my Lord."

"And no frightening slogans."

"Understood."

"And no forced conversions."

She pressed a hand to her heart with grave poise.

"I would never."

Lucien gazed at her.

Then at the look of genuine indignation across her features.

He let out a sigh.

"Clara."

She blinked.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Be normal."

Clara pondered that deeply.

Afterward, utterly earnest, she inquired, "Could you define the term?"

Lucien hid his face behind one hand.

Strangely, Lucien sensed his heart lighter than it had felt in ages.