Marie moved forward, positioning herself between Janus and Amiya. Her hands found theirs, squeezing gently. "Let's turn this place into a memorial for them. We can use sticks from the trees around to create a gravesite for them. What do you all say?"

Amiya's eyes widened slightly, and hope flickered on her face. Janus nodded quickly, eagerness evident despite tears still falling.

"Can we?" His voice carried uncertainty. "But wait… Don't you all need to-"

Joseph spoke up immediately. "It's fine. I can understand how you guys feel, and I would be grateful if my friends helped out with something like this."

Reinhard and Brunhilde nodded, faint smiles appearing.

Janus blinked before grinning, while Amiya's smile appeared more subdued. Veryn trembles, but she smiled as well, glancing around as if she was expecting someone to speak up in a situation like this.

…

They moved to the forest edge where healthy trees grew. Branches were selected carefully, straight pieces approximately three feet long, thick enough to drive into the ground, plentiful enough for what was needed.

Sixty graves.

One for each townsperson who'd remained, who'd chosen staying over evacuation, and who'd faced the tide knowing death approached.

They worked methodically. Sticks were sharpened at one end before being driven into the ground in rows, suggesting organization. The graves formed a grid pattern in the town square's center, visible from all approaches, and a permanent marker.

Amiya and Janus moved between graves, kneeling at each one. Their fingers traced names into dirt beside markers, writing identities on the ground that would be washed away by rain but existed now.

Soft words accompanied each name. Gratitude for a hot meal on a cold night, a remembered lesson in building, a shared laugh in the town square, a kindness shown to a child. The words were personal, specific, fragments of a shared history that belonged only to Amiya and Janus.

Then, Amiya reached two graves positioned side by side. She gasped as her hand began trembling as her index finger carved the first name, Lena and then the second, Darius.

Her parents.

The woman who'd held her as an infant, singing old forest ballads, who had brushed her hair and whose eyes had shone with pride when her daughter chose the path of a Seeker. The man who'd taught her perseverance and helped her when she was having trouble or needed advice.

She knelt between both markers, her knees sinking into the soft soil as her heart trembled in pain. Her voice emerged as a whisper, a direct response to the words spoken through the Light Signal before the end.

"Mom... Dad..." The tears came then, not in a storm, but in a steady, quiet rain, each one splashing against the dirt and darkening the names she had written. "I heard you. I heard everything you said."

Her fingers pressed against earth where names were written.

"I'm happy you were proud. That you didn't regret letting me go." Her voice splintered on the last word, but she pushed the air out, forcing the promise to form. "I promise I'll keep going. I'll live the life you couldn't. I'll see things you never got to see."

She drew a shuddering breath that seemed to drain her of all her strength.

"And I'll be happy. Even when it's hard. Even when I miss you so much, it feels like my chest is being squeezed." Her shoulders curled inward, her spine bending. "I'll be happy because you want me to continue moving forward instead of stopping."

Her forehead pressed against the ground between both graves, body curling inward as grief finally released without restraint.

…

Janus knelt at three graves. He wrote his first name with a steady hand despite tears leaking down his face, and the name was Nigen. Then the second, positioned beside the first, was Misha. His mother, a ghost from his childhood who deserved her place beside the husband who had never stopped loving her.

The third grave remained separated slightly. Someone else from town, a respected elder who'd guided Janus alongside his father.

But his focus remained on the first two. His hands pressed flat against dirt beside markers, as if trying to reach through the ground to something beyond.

"Dad..." His voice was rough, breaking on a single syllable. "You said I was strong. That I took a step you wouldn't."

He laughed bitterly. "I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm falling apart."

Janus then gritted his teeth as he shook his head and forcibly pushed away those negative thoughts.

"But I heard you." A fresh tear dripped from his chin, creating a small, perfect crater in the loose earth. "I heard that you were proud. That you loved me." He swallowed hard. "I carry your memories. Your wishes. Your encouragement. I carry it all."

He drew breath that shuddered through the entire frame.

"You said we were Naraku Town's greatest miracles. I... I'll try to live up to that. Even though you're gone. Even though it hurts."

His hand moved to the second grave. "Mom... I wish I'd known you longer. But Dad told me stories. About your laugh, how it could fill the whole tavern. About your strength. How you would have smacked him upside the head for forgetting what truly mattered."

A small smile appeared despite tears. "I'll make you both proud. I promise."

…

Veryn worked separately, her movements precise and controlled. Ger knight discipline held the storm of her emotions behind a wall that was visibly cracking. She did not join the town's rows, but instead, she chose a spot apart. Where the morning sunlight would fall first, and crafted a simple grave. She took a straight stick and carved a name into it before placing it on the ground.

Casseo.

Her fellow Luminous Knight and partner. A friend who'd chosen staying over fleeing, who'd facilitated final goodbyes rather than saving himself.

"I'll make another in Aya Continent." She said softly. "In the Sanctuary where all fallen Knights are remembered." Her fingers traced carved letters. "But you deserve one here, too. Where you died protecting people and fulfilling your responsibility."

She knelt, her pristine white robe pooling in the shallow water that surrounded the memorial, the fabric darkening. "I'll tell the others of your actions. I will ensure the chronicles speak of how we greatly helped the Saint. And I will make certain everyone knows that your last act was one of profound grace, ensuring others could say goodbye."

Her composure finally broke as a sob escaped before she could stifle it. Then the tears fell freely, mixing with the water already present, salt meeting fresh. "I'll miss you." She whispered, the professional knight gone, leaving only the grieving friend. "Both of you… You and Honor. The Luminous Knights lost so much here. We lost our best."

She pressed her palm flat against the simple marker, the wood rough against her skin. "But we gained something, too. An understanding. A connection to the people we came to help, not as saviors, but as allies." A small, watery smile appeared, full of a sorrowful warmth. "You would have liked that, I think. You were always better at that than I was."

…

While Amiya, Janus, and Veryn spoke with the dead, the others worked. Reinhard, Marie, Joseph, and Brunhilde gathered materials for the memorial's completion.

Wooden fences were constructed from larger branches, creating boundaries around the grave site. Stones were collected from the stream, and then they placed stones around individual graves.

The work was silent with repetitive actions, allowing minds to process without requiring conversation. Hands stayed busy while thoughts wandered through recent events, current grief, and uncertain futures.

Marie worked near Amiya, maintaining proximity without intrusion. Joseph positioned himself by Janus, offering silent support through presence. Reinhard moved past Veryn, but he didn't say anything, only gently rubbing her back as he went back and forth. And Brunhilde handled heavier construction, building fence sections that would withstand the weather.

The memorial took shape gradually, and when completed, it stood together. Seven people surrounded the memorial to sixty, acknowledging the sacrifice that had enabled survival.

The water lapped gently against submerged buildings, and birds called from the trees. Sunlight filtered through the restored canopy, painting everything in shades of gold.

Naraku Town was gone, but its people were remembered. And those who remained would carry forward memories, wishes, encouragement, and ensure their sacrifice meant something beyond a simple ending.

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