Chapter 395: ROLE MODELS AND IDOLS
The sun had long since dipped behind the spires of Eldoria, leaving the world painted in muted shades of blue and silver. The Grey family estate was hushed tonight, its guards silent and its courtyards heavy with an unspoken dread of what was to come. The looming shadow of Endless had cast itself upon the world, and every man and woman in the estate knew that tomorrow could mark either salvation—or the end of everything.
Morris Grey and his elder brother, Drake, walked side by side down the gravel path that wound through the family’s inner gardens. Neither spoke. Their boots crunched softly on the stones, the only sound in the stillness of the night. Both carried with them the same weight, the same burden pressing against their shoulders, though they bore it in different ways.
At the end of the path stood the crypt—an imposing marble structure that gleamed pale beneath the moonlight. Ivy curled across its surface, and the great stone doors bore the sigil of the Grey family: a shield adorned with a wolf and a rising star. For generations, this crypt had housed the honored dead of their bloodline. And now, their parents lay within.
Drake paused at the entrance, his jaw tight, his broad shoulders squared as if bracing for a storm. Morris stopped just behind him, his expression shadowed, his hand brushing the hilt of his scepter almost absently.
"...It’s been months already," Drake finally muttered, his voice low, edged with something between regret and longing. "And get, I still feel like he’s watching me. Watching both of us."
Morris gave a bitter chuckle. "He probably is. You know Father... even in death, he’d never let us out of his sight. Not until he was sure we lived up to his expectations."
Neither smiled. The words hung between them like a truth too heavy to dismiss.
With a heavy push, Drake opened the stone door. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faint, ancient scent of stone and incense. Torches flared to life along the walls, reacting to the presence of the Grey bloodline. Shadows leapt across the crypt’s interior as the two brothers stepped inside.
At the center, resting side by side upon carved pedestals, lay the stone coffins of their parents. Their mother’s name, Elara Grey, was etched delicately into hers, adorned with symbols of grace and wisdom. Their father’s coffin was far simpler—Ben Grey, Head of the Grey Family, one of the protectors of Eldoria. The words were etched with a stark, almost militaristic sharpness, just like the man himself.
Morris’ throat tightened at the sight. Memories flooded in—memories of his father standing at the head of the family table when he was nothing more than 7 years old, his deep voice commanding silence with a single word. Of training grounds where his sharp criticism cut deeper than any blade. Of the rare, fleeting moments of pride when his father’s stern eyes softened, just barely, after Morris achieved something that met his impossible standards.
He swallowed hard, stepping forward until he stood before his father’s coffin. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed them against the cold stone.
"...Father," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You were harsh. Unforgiving. And yet, I... I wouldn’t be who I am without you."
Drake moved beside him, his shadow falling long across the coffins. His eyes lingered on their father’s name, and for once, the unshakable Drake Grey seemed uncertain. He exhaled slowly, bowing his head.
"Although people outside might see you as a juvial person, but you never spared the rod with us," Drake said, his tone low and firm, but carrying an unmistakable strain of emotion. "You pushed us harder than we thought possible. At the time... I hated you for it. But now—" His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists. "Now I understand. You weren’t just shaping heirs to a family. You were preparing us for this. For today."
Morris’ chest constricted. He could see it too. Every relentless lesson, every impossible standard, every sleepless night of training—they had all forged the steel in their veins. And though he had resented it for so long, standing here now, he could not deny the truth.
Both brothers sank to one knee before the crypts. The silence was suffocating, filled only with the echo of their breathing.
"I never said it enough," Morris murmured, his voice low, heavy with emotion. "But I respected you, Father. More than anyone. Even when I couldn’t show it. Even when I wanted to run from your shadow... I wanted to be like you. That’s why I desperately wanted to enroll in Pacesetters Academy, because I want to follow in your footsteps"
Drake reached out, placing a firm hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. His gaze never left the stone coffin.
"You already are," he said quietly. "More than you realize. He’d be proud of you, Morris. Proud of us both."
For a long while, the two of them stayed there—warriors, sons, heirs, but in this moment, nothing more than grieving children mourning the man who had defined their lives.
Finally, Morris rose to his feet. His eyes burned, but his resolve was steady. He looked down at the coffins one last time.
"Rest easy, Father. Mother. We’ll finish this. We’ll end Endless, and protect what you built." His voice hardened into steel. "I swear it on my life."
Drake stood beside him, his expression equally grim and resolute. He placed his hand over his chest in a soldier’s salute.
"For family. For Eldoria."
The torches flickered as if in answer, shadows dancing across the crypt walls. And with that, the two brothers turned and walked back into the night, leaving behind the weight of their grief but carrying forward the fire of their legacy. Tomorrow, they would face Endless. And they would not falter.
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It was still nighttime and In that stillness, Charlotte moved quietly, her footsteps careful as though not to disturb the resting dead. The lamps of the compound had long been extinguished, but she carried no torch; her resolve itself lit the way.
She returned again to the secluded chamber where her mother often sat, the one place within their home that always seemed cloaked in memory rather than time. Charlotte paused at the entrance, taking a slow breath before stepping inside. The air was faintly scented with incense, the same fragrance her mother had kept burning for years as though to preserve a lingering connection to the man they both lost.
Her mother, dressed in plain mourning robes though years had already passed, sat before the small shrine that bore her late husband’s name. Her face was illuminated softly by the dim glow of a single lantern. When she turned at Charlotte’s entrance, her eyes carried that familiar exhaustion—aged by grief more than by time.
"Charlotte..." her mother’s voice wavered slightly, both in surprise and in the quiet resignation of a woman who knew why her daughter had come.
Charlotte lowered her head respectfully, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. "Mother. I came because I must tell you something important. Something I know you feared would one day happen."
Her mother straightened, a trace of apprehension in her gaze. "And what is that?"
Charlotte stepped forward until she stood just before the shrine. Her hand gently touched the offering table, her fingers brushing against the old, worn carvings of their family crest. Her voice, though steady, carried a weight.
"I’ve mastered it."
The silence that followed was unbearable—an almost suffocating quiet. Her mother’s breath hitched as her body froze in disbelief. The technique. That technique. The one that had claimed the life of her husband. The one she had prayed her daughter would never touch.
Charlotte looked up, her eyes shimmering but unyielding. "I have mastered the technique Father died for. The one he chased until the end. But unlike him, I will not fall to it. I will not let it take me."
Her mother’s hand rose to her mouth, trembling. The tears came unbidden, flowing freely down her cheeks as her body began to shake. "Why, Charlotte? Why would you follow his path knowing it brought only death and emptiness to us? Why would you risk becoming—becoming just another grave for me to weep over?"
Charlotte’s jaw clenched, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally whispered. "Because he was my father. Because despite his failings, despite the pain, he was... my idol. He showed me what it meant to chase greatness, even if it consumed him. I couldn’t let his dream die with him. But Mother—" she reached out and grasped her mother’s trembling hands firmly, "—I am not him. I have surpassed him. I won’t end the same way he did. I swear it."
Her mother sobbed openly now, her head shaking even as she gripped Charlotte’s hands tightly, as though afraid that if she let go, her daughter too would vanish into the past. "Your father thought the same, Charlotte. He thought he was unbreakable. But the heavens proved him wrong. How can you promise me you will not be next?"
Charlotte’s voice softened. "Because I have you. Because I have everything he never had. I learned from his failure, not just his ambition. I don’t walk his path blindly, Mother. I walk it with his shadow as a reminder, not a curse."
For a long moment, only her mother’s sobs filled the air. Finally, with shaky breath, the older woman nodded faintly, unable to fight the inevitability of her daughter’s path. She wiped her eyes and whispered, "Then... come. There is something I must show you. Perhaps it will steel your resolve... or break it."
She rose slowly, Charlotte supporting her as they walked out of the chamber into the moonlit night. The world felt heavier as they descended into the ancestral gardens. Their steps carried them down winding stone paths until they reached a quiet, enclosed grove, guarded by tall cypress trees that stood like silent sentinels.
There, in the very heart of the grove, lay a simple stone grave. It was not adorned in grandeur despite belonging to a man of immense stature. It bore only his name, etched deeply, and the words: "He dared to reach beyond his limits."
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. Though she had imagined it countless times, standing before her father’s grave in the dead of night made the weight of it real in a way nothing else could. She knelt, pressing her hands against the cold stone, her lips trembling as she tried to speak.
"Father..." Her voice faltered, breaking under the emotion swelling inside her. She swallowed hard and forced the words out. "I’ve done it. I’ve mastered what you couldn’t. I’ve taken the technique you bled and died for... and made it mine."
Her fingers tightened into fists against the stone. Tears slipped down her cheeks, but her gaze was fierce, unwavering. "You were my idol. Even when others whispered that you were reckless, even when Mother wept because of you, I... I admired you. I still do. But I won’t fall the same way you did. I won’t let this technique claim me. You may have been the one to start it, Father, but I will be the one to perfect it."
She leaned forward, her forehead pressing against the gravestone as the tears flowed freely now. "I will not end up like you, even if I follow the road you carved with your life. That’s my promise to you. I will honor your dream, but I will live beyond it. Watch me, Father. Watch me prove to you that it can be done."
Her mother stood behind her, silently crying as she watched her daughter pour her heart into the grave. And though the pain in her chest was unbearable, a faint sense of pride stirred there as well—a painful pride that felt like both a wound and a blessing.
Charlotte remained there for a long time, her body trembling with emotion, before finally rising to her feet. She wiped her tears, her expression steeled with determination.
"Come, Mother," she whispered, her voice still raw but resolved. "This will not be the last time I visit him. But next time... I will come with proof that I have truly surpassed him."
Her mother looked at her daughter—so much like her husband, yet so different—and nodded through her tears.
Together, hand in hand, they left the grove. The moonlight stretched long shadows behind them, as though her father’s spirit walked silently at their side.