You have my love

The forest seemed to mourn alongside the warriors as they regrouped. Their earlier triumph was now muted, replaced by the heavy burden of Jarik's loss. Though they carried twice the spoils—the monstrous wolf-like beast and the serpent-tailed panther—none of it felt worth the cost. Many of the warriors bore injuries from the fight—claw marks, bruises and cuts—but they were alive. Jarik was not.

The warriors moved with a somber efficiency, gathering their weapons and organizing the spoils. As they prepared to return to the camp, Ryden's eyes fell on Jarik's lifeless body, still lying in the clearing where he had fallen. His face hardened as he turned to Arika.

"We're just going to leave him here?" he asked, his voice low but edged with disbelief.

Arika's expression was stony, though her red-rimmed eyes betrayed her grief. "For the animals to eat," she said matter-of-factly. "It's our way. Bringing him back would make the camp smell."

Ryden stared at her, his dark eyes flashing with something fierce and unrelenting. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "I'll handle it."

Without waiting for permission, Ryden stepped forward and knelt beside Jarik's body. He gently placed his hands under Jarik's shoulders and knees, lifting him in his arms with surprising ease. Jarik's limp frame seemed almost small in the pale twilight, but Ryden carried him with a reverence that made it clear this wasn't just another body—it was a friend, a brother in arms.

The warriors watched in silence, their faces unreadable. Even Arika, so resolute, didn't stop him. She simply turned away, her jaw tight.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Ryden returned to the camp, the sky painted with streaks of deep purple and orange that faded into the encroaching blackness of night. As he walked through the camp with Jarik in his arms, the non-combatants—the elders, the children, the healers—stopped what they were doing and stared. Their expressions were a mix of sadness and curiosity as they followed him, forming a silent procession.

Rice and Darius trailed close behind, their earlier grief now mingled with a sense of purpose. Ryden led them to the outskirts of the camp, to a small, quiet clearing where the earth was soft and undisturbed. He set Jarik down gently on the ground and began to dig, using his hands and a crude spade he had grabbed along the way.

Darius joined him without a word, his powerful hands breaking through the soil with ease, while Rice, usually quick with a joke, worked silently beside them, his face uncharacteristically serious.

The grave was deep, the work hard and unrelenting, but none of them paused. When the hole was finished, they lowered Jarik's body in with care, his head resting on a folded piece of leather—one of the trophies he had always carried.

As the first shovelful of dirt was placed over Jarik, Ryden suddenly stood straight, his hands at his sides, his eyes closed. Then, he began to sing.

The first note was soft, almost fragile, like the quietest breath of wind through the trees. But as Ryden continued, his voice swelled, rich and resonant, filling the clearing with a haunting melody.

It wasn't a tribal chant or a warrior's cry; it was a funeral song, a lament far older and deeper than anything the Toquiri had ever heard. The words weren't in the Toquiri language but in another tongue entirely—soft and flowing, yet heavy with emotion.

Ryden's voice was like nothing anyone had expected. It was smooth and pure, each note carrying an almost ethereal quality, as if it belonged to something greater than this world. It rose and fell like waves on a shore, wrapping everyone in a cocoon of sorrow and beauty.

The Toquiri warriors, who had been stoic in the face of battle and death, began to break. One by one, tears streamed down their faces, their hardened exteriors crumbling in the presence of Ryden's mournful song. The non-combatants who had followed stood with their hands clasped to their chests, their sobs echoing softly in the night.

Even Darius, ever composed, wiped a hand across his face, his stoicism giving way to quiet tears. Rice, sitting cross-legged by the grave, didn't even try to hold back. He cried openly, his usual grin nowhere to be found.

As the final notes of the song faded into the stillness of the night, the clearing fell silent.

The quiet didn't last long. Above Jarik's grave, a faint blue light began to shimmer. It was soft at first, like the glow of fireflies, but it grew brighter and more vibrant, illuminating the clearing with an otherworldly radiance.

The tribespeople gasped, stepping back in awe as the light swirled and danced, its movement almost joyful. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, the light shot upward, streaking into the midnight sky like a comet.

The clearing was left in darkness once more, the blue glow replaced by the distant sparkle of stars.

The Toquiri stared at the sky in silence, their faces a mixture of wonder and reverence. Arika stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. "He is with the ancestors now," she said, her gaze fixed on the heavens.

Ryden lowered his head, his shoulders sagging as the exhaustion and grief of the day finally caught up with him. Darius placed a steady hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity, while Rice sniffled loudly, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

The clearing remained quiet as the last notes of Ryden's song faded into the night. The tribe, warriors and non-combatants alike, were allowed the space to mourn. Quiet sobs and the occasional whisper of Jarik's name punctuated the stillness, the sound of grief raw and unfiltered. Even Arika, her iron resolve cracked, sat on the ground, staring at the fresh grave with glassy eyes.

Hours passed, and the tears began to subside. The weight of the loss remained heavy, but the sounds of mourning quieted into an exhausted hush. Finally, Rice stood, brushing the dirt off his trousers, his silver-gray eyes still rimmed with red. He forced a small, lopsided smile and clapped his hands together.

"Alright," he said, his voice cracking slightly but gaining strength. "Jarik wouldn't have wanted us to stop living because of him. Come on, let's celebrate his great life. I'll make some food!"

The tribe turned toward him, their faces etched with fatigue and grief, but Rice's words kindled a spark in their eyes.

Arika pushed herself to her feet, her movements slow but deliberate. She looked out at her people and nodded. "Yes," she said, her voice firm despite the lingering sadness in her tone. "Let us celebrate. Not just our victory, but the life of Jarik. He gave us his strength. Tonight, we give him our joy."

The somber atmosphere of the camp transformed into a roaring, vibrant celebration fueled by the tribe's need to honor Jarik's memory. A massive bonfire roared at the center of the camp, casting flickering golden light on the smiling, tear-streaked faces of the Toquiri people. Warriors swapped stories of Jarik's bravery, recounting his exploits with laughter and pride, while children danced around the fire, their joy infectious.

The feast was unlike anything the tribe had experienced before, made all the more remarkable by Rice's efforts.

Rice worked furiously in the background, his hands a blur as he experimented with the unusual monster ingredients. A slab of meat from the serpent-tailed panther sizzled on a makeshift grill, its fat dripping and hissing as it hit the flames. He chopped herbs and roots with precision, mixing them into a sauce that he tasted and adjusted with a critical eye.

Next, he prepared a stew from the wolf-monster's leg, its broth thickened with wild tubers and spiced with foraged berries. He tossed a pinch of dried leaves into the pot, muttering to himself, "Gotta balance the flavor—these people deserve the best."

At one point, he tried to flambé a dish. The resulting flare nearly singed his eyebrows off, but he grinned, unbothered, and waved away the smoke.

The final dishes were served on large, woven platters, their rich, savory scents wafting through the camp. The Toquiri flocked to the food, their curiosity quickly replaced by amazement as they tasted Rice's creations. Laughter and cheers erupted as warriors and elders alike dug in, their grief temporarily replaced by the joy of sharing a meal worthy of Jarik's memory.

Ryden sat near the fire, surrounded by a group of Toquiri who eagerly asked him about his song. He waved off their compliments with a modest grin, but his dark eyes shone with warmth. For the first time since their arrival in GAIA, he felt truly connected to the people around him.

Darius, meanwhile, had become the focus of another group, primarily warriors and craftsmen. They peppered him with questions about the spear throwers, asking for tips on how to refine their technique or make repairs. He answered with quiet patience, demonstrating his method with calm precision.

Though the two outsiders were distinct in their approaches, it was clear that they were no longer strangers to the tribe. They were family now, bound not just by circumstance but by shared triumphs and losses.

As the night deepened, Ryden leaned back against a log, a small, satisfied smile on his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the booklet that had been given to him when they first arrived.

His relaxed expression shifted to confusion as the booklet began to pulse softly with a blue light, the same shimmering hue that had risen above Jarik's grave.

"Hey, uh, guys?" he said, holding the glowing booklet aloft.

Rice and Darius joined him, their curiosity piqued. As Ryden opened the booklet, the blue light intensified, illuminating the pages with a soft, otherworldly glow. Text began to update before their eyes, scrolling as if written by an unseen hand.

[NAME: Ryden]

[AGE: 23]

[ROLE: N/A]

[SKILLS: Singing Level 1 (+5% morale boost to allies within earshot)]

[STATUS: Alive]

"Morale boost?" Rice muttered with a grin, nudging Ryden. "Guess your singing really is angelic."

Ryden rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile.

Darius's name appeared next.

[NAME: Darius]

[AGE: 24]

[ROLE: Tribal Craftsman]

[SKILLS: Craftsmanship Level 1 (+10% efficiency in creating tools and weapons, +5% durability to crafted items)]

[STATUS: Alive]

Darius frowned slightly, studying the entry. "Tribal Craftsman," he murmured. "Guess that fits."

Ryden flipped the page, and a brilliant burst of light erupted from the booklet. The three of them shielded their eyes as glowing words appeared, shimmering like stars in the night sky.

Congratulations, great achievement!

Darius has taught the Toquiri tribe the spear thrower.

Effects: Increased accuracy and power for all Toquiri warriors. Improved tool-making efficiency.

Ryden has taught the Toquiri tribe the concept of honoring the dead.

Effects: Accumulation of mana rate increased. Morale bonus improved. Enhanced cultural identity: Increased resilience against mental and emotional strain.

The words lingered for a moment before fading, leaving the trio in stunned silence.

Rice was the first to speak, his grin wide and incredulous. "We just made history, didn't we?"

Darius looked down at his hands, his usually stoic expression softening with pride. Ryden closed the booklet, a thoughtful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Not bad for a bunch of outsiders," Ryden said quietly, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction.

Above them, the stars continued to shine, bearing silent witness to the legacy they had begun to forge.