100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? Chapter 636 - Mourning

The following days, the world was quieter.

The leyline tremors had slowed. The false beats left behind by the broken array no longer pulled at the continents with the same violence.

The seas still stirred from time to time, and coastal reports continued to arrive, but nothing had surfaced from beneath the sealed waters.

For now, the danger had retreated into warning signs.

A few more days of stabilization were still needed.

The slimes remained busy. Formation masters still marked damaged routes. The Lunarians continued Stillness rotations around unstable zones.

But the worst immediate collapse had passed.

So Lucien gave an order that surprised many people.

Rest.

Not forever.

But for one day, the world would be allowed to breathe.

Lootwell’s most important people were called back or assigned to the main mourning sites.

This was not only a procession for Lootwell.

It was for every force that had stood against the Keepers.

Every continent would mourn in its own way, but the rites would be connected through Lootwell’s channels.

Each main territory would hold a central procession, and everyone would be given space to remember its dead.

Lucien took the West Main Territory himself.

Vivian and Eirene stood with him.

Vivian had returned quietly after the immediate danger passed.

During the war, Lucien had sent her away with Cielius, Sebas, Luke, and Cienna to a safer location. He had called it necessary. He had called it practical.

Vivian had understood all of those words.

That did not make them easy to accept.

Now, Luke and the others were helping stabilize the West with the slimes and support teams, while Vivian stood beside Lucien before the first rows of memorial tablets.

Her expression was calm, but Lucien knew her well enough to see the weight behind it.

She had grown. The Fruit of Creation had changed her law. Her path had opened wider than before.

But compared to the enemies that had just tried to bend five continents and wake the sealed seas, she still felt small.

That feeling hurt her more than fear would have.

She looked at the tablets and spoke softly.

"I wanted to help more."

Lucien did not turn away from the names.

"You did help."

"By staying safe?"

"By surviving."

Vivian looked at him.

Lucien’s voice remained quiet.

"There are burdens I do not want you to carry before you are ready."

"That sounds unfair."

"It is."

He did not soften the answer.

Vivian lowered her gaze.

"I know why you did it."

"I know you do."

"That does not mean I like it."

"Good."

She blinked.

Lucien finally looked at her.

"If you liked being protected while others died, I would be worried."

Vivian was silent for a moment.

Then she let out a small breath that was not quite a laugh.

Eirene stood on Lucien’s other side, brush in hand, recording the names that arrived from the branches. Her sleeves were clean now, but her fingers still carried faint tremors from the strain of Living Equivalence during the basin battle.

She did not mention them.

Lucien noticed anyway.

The West Main Territory prepared in silence.

Rows of tablets were arranged beneath pale banners.

Those with bodies had coffins or ashes.

Those without bodies had names.

No one was told that death was light.

No one was told to be happy that the fallen had become heroes.

Heroism did not make absence painless.

Lootwell would remember them properly.

•••

Across the other continents, the same structure unfolded in different forms.

At Grand Confluence in the Middle Continent, Virel, Aniel, Tavian, Mirelle, and Auren stood before a vast gathering of Celestials, Lunarians, Liberators, and survivors who had helped.

Grand Confluence had seen the heaviest fighting.

Its procession began with light.

The Celestials raised controlled radiance into the sky, not as celebration, but as witness. The Lunarians answered with moonlit stillness, holding the glow in place so that every name spoken beneath it lingered for one breath longer.

Virel stood with his head lowered.

Aniel’s expression was calm, but her hands remained clasped tightly enough to pale.

Tavian read the names of fallen support teams.

Mirelle read the names of healers.

Auren read the names of those who had no family left to speak for them.

No one there had to be reminded what the war had cost.

The ground itself still remembered.

•••

At Ironhaven in the North, Elias, Cecil, and Kael stood with the Obsidian Collegium.

The North’s procession was colder.

Not in feeling, but in form.

The Collegium recorded every fallen name into black plates of memory. Each plate accepted no exaggeration.

If someone died carrying water, the record said they died carrying water. If someone died holding a relay breach long enough for three squads to escape, the record said that too.

Elias appreciated that.

Cecil found it severe.

Kael found it expensive when the Collegium requested archival-grade materials from Lootwell stock.

He approved the request anyway, then complained so thoroughly that three scholars began taking notes.

•••

At Dawnforge in the East, Lilith, Seran, and Seraphine took charge.

The East did not mourn quietly.

Its factions had too many grudges, too many old rituals, too many prideful elders who believed even grief needed proper posture.

Lilith handled them with frightening efficiency.

She arranged the procession so rival sects did not stand close enough to argue over ceremonial order.

Seraphine placed Liberator branches where old feuds might ignite.

Seran appeared in reflections whenever someone looked like they might start a dignity contest beside a funeral tablet.

He did not need to say much.

His smile was enough.

The Eastern procession became orderly through a mixture of respect, exhaustion, and fear of being embarrassed by Seran in front of the dead.

•••

At Bellhaven in the South, Clara stood with the Silent Monastery.

The South mourned with bells.

The Abbess allowed Clara to stand beside the bell-bearers, though several monks watched her with the careful expressions of people observing a bright candle near dry scripture.

Clara behaved.

Mostly.

She spoke of grace, but not glory.

She spoke of protection, but not worship.

She spoke of the dead as people who had stood, not tools that had been spent.

That was because Lucien had spoken with her before the rites began.

"Faith may help them stand," Lucien had told her. "Do not let it teach them to kneel."

Clara had gone still.

Then she bowed her head.

"I understand."

Lucien had looked at her for a moment longer.

"Clara."

She had lifted her eyes.

"I mean it."

This time, her answer had carried no playfulness.

"I know."

At Bellhaven, she kept that promise.

The Silent Monastery bells rang beside her, and the Grace System stirred quietly among those who grieved without knowing how to continue.

Not as chains.

As a hand at the back, helping someone stand.

•••

Lucien’s important people came before the procession began.

Edric arrived first, followed by Maxim and the rest of their family.

They looked older than they had before the war.

In understanding.

For most of their lives, danger had been something close enough to fear but far enough to survive. Lootwell had changed quickly. Lucien had changed faster.

The world had grown wider around them until one day the war had become something that shook five continents and stirred the seas.

They had stayed in Lootwell because Lucien had asked them to guard it.

Everyone knew what that meant.

They had guarded home.

They had also been kept safe.

Edric looked at the memorial tablets and said nothing for a long while.

Maxim’s usual sharpness had dulled into something quieter.

The others stood behind them, unable to decide where to place their hands.

They had heard the casualty lists.

Some of the fallen had eaten in Lootwell’s halls.

Some had trained in its fields.

Some had once bowed awkwardly to Lucien’s uncles because they did not know how formal they were supposed to be around them.

Now their names were etched on tablets.

Edric finally spoke.

"Nephew... you protected us."

Lucien did not pretend not to understand.

"Yes."

Maxim closed his eyes.

"We could have died with them."

Lucien looked at the tablets.

"Yes."

The honesty hurt.

It was also necessary.

Edric’s jaw tightened.

"You said you value fairness."

"I try to."

"But you favored us."

Lucien turned to him then.

There was no excuse on his face.

Only truth.

"Yes."

The word settled heavily.

No one in the family seemed comforted by it.

Lucien continued.

"If that makes me unfair, then I will carry it. I will not apologize for wanting someone I considered family alive."

Edric looked at him for a long time.

Then his shoulders lowered.

The guilt did not vanish.

But something in the room steadied.

Maxim let out a rough breath.

"Then make us useful."

Lucien’s gaze shifted to him.

Maxim’s eyes were red, but focused.

"If you protected us, do not let us become decorations protected by the dead."

The others stiffened.

Then nodded.

Lucien looked from one face to another.

He had thought they might ask for comfort.

Instead, they were asking for burden.

Pain could become many things.

This one could become resolve.

"I will," Lucien said.

That was all they needed.

•••

Reaper and Eldran came next.

Robin was with them.

Midas and Augustus followed behind, both quieter than usual.

The shadow divisions had paid heavily in the war.

They had entered places where banners could not go, carried messages through broken routes, sabotaged Keeper relays, protected retreat lines, and died in corners where no crowd would ever see them fall.

Eldran had cultivated many of them personally.

Reaper had trained them to move, vanish, endure, and return.

Not all had returned.

Robin stood with his head lowered, fists clenched.

He had lost brothers in arms.

That kind of brotherhood did not care about blood.

It came from shared danger, shared silence, and the knowledge that someone had watched your back in a place where no one else could see you.

Reaper’s expression was hidden, but Lucien had known him long enough to recognize grief in stillness.

Eldran looked toward the tablets of the shadow division and spoke quietly.

"They did well."

Lucien answered, "They did."

Robin’s voice came rough.

"I should have protected more of them."

Reaper turned his head slightly.

"That is what every survivor thinks."

Robin did not look up.

"Does it stop?"

"No."

The answer was cruel.

It was also honest.

Midas stood beside Augustus.

Both had contributed during the war more than many expected. Their names had spread again as people who had acted when the world needed action.

Midas looked at the gathered shadows and then toward Lucien.

"We gained reputation from a war that buried better men."

Augustus’s face was solemn.

"That is not a comfortable thing."

"It should not be," Lucien said.

They both looked at him.

Lucien continued, "If reputation feels comfortable after a war like this, it has already gone rotten."

Midas was silent.

Then he nodded.

One by one, the people close to Lucien carried their own realizations to the memorial.

Helplessness.

Guilt.

Grief.

Anger.

The bitter knowledge that the world had become too large for the old version of themselves.

But it did not break them.

That mattered more than comfort.

It became motivation. The kind that survived after the procession ended.

•••

The mourning began when the first bell rang in the West.

At the same moment, communication devices across the five continents lit up.

Every place that had sent someone to the war opened its channel.

For the first time since the battlefield, the continents were connected not by commands, warnings, or emergency reports.

They were connected by names.

The tablets stood in rows.

Every name was etched.

Lootwell did not list only the powerful.

Lucien stood before the West Main Territory’s tablets with Vivian and Eirene at his sides.

When he spoke, the communication devices carried his voice across the continents.

"Today, Lootwell remembers."

Lucien looked at the tablets.

"Every name here belonged to someone who stood beneath the same sky as us. Some died fighting. Some died healing. Some died carrying messages, guarding roads, holding formations, or protecting people they had never met."

His voice did not rise. It did not need to.

"The war took from all of us. Lootwell will stand with the families of the fallen. Those who fought beside us will not be abandoned now that the battle is over."

Across the five continents, people listened.

Lucien continued.

"The Keepers are finished as a war. But the world is not yet at peace."

No one needed him to explain why.

"We will mourn today. Tomorrow, we will continue repairing the world."

His hand closed slowly.

"The dead paid for time. The living will not waste it."

That was the end of the speech.

It was enough.

•••

The mourning lasted the whole day.

Each continent grieved in its own way.

Connection did not bloom like a festival.

It budded like a stubborn plant in ash.

Lucien watched the channels quietly.

This was good.

Not because grief was useful.

Because grief shared honestly could become trust.

And the world would need trust.

•••

As the processions continued, the Grace System expanded.

Lucien and Clara verified each step.

The first recipients were chosen because they had stood where standing mattered.

The Grace System settled like a small light.

Some received it with tears.

Some with suspicion.

Some with quiet relief.

Some did not understand what had changed until a warmth settled near their heart and the nearest healer told them their breathing had steadied.

Clara watched from Bellhaven, eyes bright but controlled.

The Silent Monastery bells continued behind her.

She did not announce miracles.

She did not turn the dead into propaganda.

For once, no one needed to restrain her.

That made Lucien more nervous than if she had misbehaved.