CHAPTER 1480: IRREPLACABLE

Lory swiped her phone, watching the news about Lucas’ appearance dominated almost every channel, by now all their enemy should know that Lucas is back and Harland will not be playing defense anymore, this time they must be prepared for the Harland offense.

Lory’s lips curved into a measured smirk. There was no trace of worry in her expression, only a cool anticipation. She wasn’t impatient for battle; she was curious. She wanted to see how their enemies would move, what choices they would make now that Harland had shifted from defense to offense.

Meanwhile, Lucas’s voice carried on, steady yet resonant, reaching every corner of the hall.

"It has been so long since the Dark Age War ended. Today, we live in prosperity, in abundance, in safety. But we must never forget how we arrived here, the price we paid, and the losses we endured." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the audience, eyes burning with a solemn intensity.

"I know many of you have lost something precious in that war... a home, a friend... a family."

The final word struck like a heavy bell, and silence rippled through the hall. Even the air seemed to be still. "And today," Lucas continued, his tone softening yet deepening with reverence, "I wish to take this moment to remember those we have lost."

With a slow, deliberate motion, he gave a faint nod. Not long after the luminous scenery that had framed the hall dissolved into darkness, as though the world itself had bowed its head. Then the giant screen behind him flared to life.

One by one, photographs appeared, soldiers, hunters, healers, medics, and common people’s faces, both familiar and long buried in people’s minds.

Smiles captured before battle. Eyes hardened by struggle. Wounds borne with silent dignity. These were not just images; they were fragments of the forgotten story, of sacrifices etched into history.

The images did not remain confined within the gallery. They spilled outward, projected onto the massive LED screens that towered over the city. Outside, the streets froze. Pedestrians halted mid-step, vendors stopped their calls, and drivers leaned from their windows, all drawn by the luminous tide of faces.

Everywhere, fingers pointed upward. Cries of recognition pierced the air. Some wept openly, shoulders trembling as names tumbled from their lips.

Others smiled through tears, their expressions tinged with longing and nostalgia, as if the photographs had reached into the hidden vaults of their memories and flung them wide open. The city itself seemed to breathe in unison with the gallery, bound together by shared remembrance.

Then her picture appeared.

For a heartbeat, silence struck—

and then it shattered. A ripple surged through the hall as gasps burst in unison, colliding with hushed cheers that trembled with longing.

People leaned forward instinctively, some pointing, some clutching at their mouths as her name spilled in broken whispers. Others wept, their voices catching as memories rushed back, while a few smiled faintly, shaken by nostalgia.

Lory’s image appeared, delicate and almost startling in its simplicity. She was only twelve, standing among her classmates in a school portrait, her smile wide and unburdened.

Another picture flickered into place: her bright face as she competed in a school festival, laughter etched across her features. Then a softer, quieter scene, Lory as a teenager, seated in the library, chin bent over her homework, her expression focused and utterly ordinary. For a moment, she looked like every other young girl in Harland.

But the images shifted. The next showed her sitting on the ground after training, her head resting against her knees, exhaustion written across her posture. Beside her, Lucas lay sprawled on the grass, utterly spent, both of them caught in a candid moment of youth and camaraderie.

Then the shift came.

The next images hurled the audience forward into the Dark Age War. The laughter vanished. The innocence stripped away. In its place, a warrior.

The final photograph seared itself into the crowd’s vision: Lory’s slender back, sword gripped tightly in her hand, facing the monstrous silhouette of a demon beast. She stood small, almost fragile in comparison, yet her spine was straight, her composure unyielding.

There was no hesitation in her frame, only defiance, an unwavering resolve that seemed to blaze even from the captured stillness of a single image.

A murmur rippled through the hall, spilling outward into the streets. The rumors, the whispered doubts about her cowardice, the accusations that she had hidden while others fought—all shattered.

The image mocked the lies, turning them to ash. How could anyone say she had run away in fear when the proof of her courage stood undeniable before them?

This single moment did more than silence her detractors. It rekindled something fierce in the people’s hearts. They remembered the other photographs of Lory they had seen throughout the war, proof upon proof of her bravery.

Now, any lingering shadow of suspicion collapsed. Her disappearance, they realized, must have had a reason. A very good one, and perhaps one day they would know. But even if they don’t, it still did not diminish what she had done for them.

Just as the emotions reached their peak, the screen dissolved once more into pure white. For a heartbeat, the crowd held its breath.

Then—

A single brushstroke appeared, sweeping across the canvas. Another followed, then another, the strokes gliding in a mesmerizing hyperlapse, as though an invisible hand painted before their very eyes.

Slowly, an image emerged from the silence: a young girl in tattered hunter’s garb, her body slumped in exhaustion as she leaned against the soft plumage of a great white bird. Before them, a small campfire crackled faintly, casting fragile light against the darkness.

The hall fell utterly still. The painting, crafted by Zhao Li Xin’s hand, was more than art; it was a memory captured in ink, a fragment of truth that pierced through time itself. It struck directly at the heart, stirring emotions too raw to contain.

Lucas, Fredhardt, and Fargo were no exception. Their eyes lingered on the fragile figure in the painting, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. This was not simply an image. It was the picture when Lory had left L’Markieth behind to challenge destiny itself.

The moment she shouldered the impossible burden of changing their tragic fate. For years, they had wondered what her path had looked like, what shadows she had walked through in her solitude. Now, for the first time, they were given a glimpse.

Though she was powerful, the truth cut deeper than any sword. At that time, she had been only in her early twenties. Still so young. Still human.

The painting laid bare the reality no one had dared to speak: she must have been afraid. Alone in that dreadful land, with only Girsha to keep her company, she had borne the weight of a kingdom’s future on her shoulders.

And yet, she had endured, and more than that, she had succeeded in flying colors.

Lucas quelled the heavy emotion rising within him, forcing his voice into steadiness before he spoke again. "We will never forget them, what they gave us, what they sacrificed, and forevermore, they will live within us for eternity, and nothing..."

His gaze swept the hall, sharp as a blade, yet vast enough to seem as though it pierced beyond the gallery walls and into the streets where the giant screens blazed.

"Nothing can replace them, in our hearts, or in our lives!" His final words thundered, ringing with unshakable resolve.

The hall erupted. Cheers exploded, so fierce they shook the walls, joined by the answering roar of voices outside. Thunderous applause crashed like a wave, spilling into the streets, echoing through every alley and square of Harland. It was a storm of devotion, pride, and grief transformed into strength.

However, for Alinna, it was a strike straight to the core.

The sound of joy and reverence hit her like a slap, each cheer a lash across her spirit, each clap a blade digging into her pride.

Her chest constricted, her face drained of color. For the first time, the carefully polished mask of poise she had worn began to fracture. Her expression faltered, and her head dipped, as if shrinking beneath the weight of the moment.

Then, sharp pain came abruptly. A sudden pinch at the back of her hand snapped her from her spiraling daze.

She turned, startled, to find Alexander’s face looking down on her. His expression was ice and hinted with warning.

"Raise your head," he hissed, his voice low and cutting. "Don’t embarrass me."

The words struck colder than the pinch. Alinna froze, staring at him in shock. In all her memories, Alexander had been a well of kindness, supportive, patient, and fatherly in his affection. Never once had he spoken to her with such scorn.

The change rattled her so deeply that she obeyed without thought. Her chin lifted, stiff and mechanical, though her heart quaked with confusion and shock.

From the side of the podium, Fredhardt observed quietly, his sharp eyes never still. He studied Alinna’s pale face, Alexander Behrenn’s cold mask, noting every flicker, every fracture in their composure.

They should understand by now that this exhibition was not merely an announcement of Lucas’s return to the world. More than that, it was a declaration, a challenge hurled directly at S.A.I.N.T. and at Luxemborough.

That they will not bow, they will not retreat.

And above all, The Lucient would never be replaced.