Chapter 184: The Funeral and the Final Resting Place
Chapter 184: The Funeral and the Final Resting Place
Zack's funeral was held three days later.
There was no grand cemetery, no somber black drapes—just the spot under the old lemon tree in May's backyard.
May had planted that tree with her own hands twenty years ago. Now its trunk was as thick as a bowl, and its dense branches swayed in the breeze, filtering the summer heat into dappled, soft shadows on the ground.
The headstone stood in the deepest shade—a rough, unpolished chunk of black granite with sharp, jagged edges that vaguely resembled a tactical folding knife half-drawn from its sheath.
Akira had spent two full days locked away, carving it bit by bit with a grinder and polisher. The surface was polished smooth as a mirror, but the edges still held hard curves precise to the millimeter—just like his usual no-nonsense style.
At the center of the stone was a single short line carved by Eli's own hand, with no birth or death dates, no titles or honors:
"Zack Cole, our family."
Jack stood quietly before the headstone in a neatly tailored black suit. Sophia stood beside him, her slender fingers lightly clasped in his palm.
Behind them stood everyone who had survived.
May, Leah, Lawrence, Akira, Eli, Seraphina, Erin, Nolan, and all the remaining members of the Blade team. There were no grand eulogies, no dramatic farewell ceremonies—just the warm sunlight and the fresh scent of lemon leaves in the air.
May slowly stepped forward. Though her eyes were red, her steps were steady. She bent down and carefully folded the blue wool scarf she'd just finished knitting, placing it gently beside the base of the black stone.
She reached out with her rough palm and touched the cold stone surface, then quietly stepped back into the crowd and took Leah's hand. Leah pressed close to Lawrence's side, her right hand gripping his thick arm tightly.
Jack walked up to the headstone step by step.
From the inside pocket of his suit, he pulled out the folding military knife that had stayed with Zack to the end. His fingertip traced gently over the cold, hard texture of the blade's spine, where the fierce heat of that night still seemed to linger.
Jack stood silent for a long time, then crouched down and placed the knife neatly on top of the blue scarf.
"Bear witness to this world... for me."
Jack whispered, then stood up and returned to Sophia's side.
The funeral ended quietly, and people gradually dispersed.
A breeze swept through the lemon tree's canopy, and a pale yellow lemon petal fell loose, tracing an elegant arc through the air before landing softly beside the brief inscription on the stone. Sunlight caught the petal's edge, casting a warm, pure golden glow.
The day Eli flew alone to the Arctic Circle, the polar weather was almost luxuriously good.
No raging blizzards, no low-hanging lead clouds—even the fierce white wind had stopped. The Arctic sky showed an almost transparent, pure blue, and the endless ancient ice field sparkled under the blazing sun with billions of tiny diamond-like flashes of light.
He stood at the edge of a sheer ice cliff, holding a small black metal urn in his hands.
Inside was Marcus's ashes. After the base collapsed, Dr. Grant had personally led the search and rescue team through the melted metal ruins for three full days before collecting these remains that could be confirmed as Marcus through DNA testing.
There weren't many ashes—just a small handful—but for someone who'd wandered half his life, it was enough to carry a soul.
Eli removed the metal lid of the urn. The faint Arctic breeze passed by, and the air was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat.
He scooped up a handful of the black and white ashes and opened his fingers. The ash scattered in the air like a wisp of delicate ink, drifting down into the deep blue polar ocean below the cliff.
"You're free now, Marcus."
Eli's voice was very soft, carried away by the cold wind toward the endless horizon.
He tilted the urn and poured out the remaining ashes into the sea, then placed the empty metal container on the hard ice surface.
The box was empty, but he felt that the heavy knot that had filled his heart for over ten years had finally come undone. He crouched down at the cliff's edge, quietly gazing at the drifting ice floes on the water.
On the horizon, pale green aurora began to spread, twist, and rise across the blue dome—like a divine corridor of light unfurling over the ice field, leading to an endless beyond.
The day the "Gray Gene Warrior Relief Fund" was officially established, May's small yard was filled with wooden tables and benches.
Nolan sat at the end of a long table with a heavy list spread before him, clearly listing thirty-seven names marked with special codes.
These were the first batch of confirmed identities—"failed test subjects" left to fend for themselves in corners of the world after Kane Corp's complete collapse.
Some were hiding in isolation, some were barely alive. Behind each name was a childhood brutally stolen away and a future desperately in need of redemption.
Leah stood beside Nolan wearing a sharp light gray suit, her black hair tied in a neat low ponytail. Her eyes were bright and focused as she skillfully entered the paper files word by word into the global relief database.
Her fingers flew rapidly across the keyboard, then Leah's movements suddenly stopped. She looked up at Nolan:
"Second target, designation B-091. Last location was in an abandoned textile factory in Mexico City. He has severe genetic rejection reactions—if we're too late..."
"We won't be late."
Nolan cut off her worry, tucking the list inside his jacket, his eyes resolute. "We leave now."
Two days later, inside an abandoned factory in a remote slum of Mexico City.
The air reeked of mold and the stench of heavy metal wastewater. Jack walked through collapsed brick walls and found the boy designated B-091 in the dim shadows.
He was a teenager who looked only seventeen or eighteen, skeletal thin with ribs jutting high, his exposed skin covered in horrific purple-red scars from genetic rejection. His eyes were sunken deep, filled with a numbness and wariness far beyond his years.
The moment he saw Jack and his people approaching, the boy instinctively shrank back, every muscle in his body tensing like a drawn bow. But he didn't run—because he had nowhere left to run.
Jack stopped three steps away and unfastened his tactical vest straps, showing he carried no weapons.
Then Jack slowly knelt on one knee before him, bringing his gaze level with the teenager's.
"My name is Jack." Jack's voice was steady and warm. "I'm like you—I came out of that hell called Kane Corp too."
Jack extended his palm upward toward him, his eyes clear and firm:
"You don't have to hide anymore, kid. You have a home now."
The boy stood rigidly in the shadows, his eyes instantly bloodshot. His lips trembled violently and his throat made a choked sound, but despite all his effort, he couldn't form a single complete syllable.
After a long moment, the boy slowly raised his scarred, withered arm and carefully placed it in Jack's palm.
Jack closed his fingers and gripped that trembling small hand tightly.
Sunlight poured through the broken factory skylight, overlapping their two shadows and stretching them long, very long.