Rayvox rose from his bed and stretched, trying to shake off the lingering fatigue. After a moment, he wandered over to his drawer, rummaging through it until his hand brushed against something neatly folded.
A tuxedo.
With a sigh, he pulled it out and stared at it with visible disdain.
"I really don't want to wear this..." he muttered, scowling at the suit like it had personally offended him.
Still, he changed into it. He adjusted the cuffs with practiced ease, but when his hands reached the tie, he froze. A memory stirred—one soaked in annoyance but tinted with warmth.
---
"Why do I even need to wear this?!" a teenage Rayvox had complained, arms crossed.
"Because, young man, I'm sick and tired of you looking like a barbarian," Elder Remmick had snapped. "You've got looks most nobles would kill for—and I mean that literally. I once had a friend who got his face skinned off by a noble just for being too handsome."
Rayvox rolled his eyes. "At least try to make the story believable if you want to scare me."
Remmick looked appalled. "I swear it's the truth! The noble turned it into a mask! Sure, he's rotting in prison now, but it's still terrifying what people will do for beauty."
"Yeah, yeah, old man... but how do you expect me to wear this suit if I can't even tie the tie?"
"Because I'm going to teach you, brat," Remmick snapped back, mimicking Rayvox's complaining tone.
"Are you mocking me, you geezer?!"
The elder gasped and clutched his chest with a dramatic expression.
"I would never! I'm offended you'd think so lowly of me."
Rayvox couldn't help but burst out laughing.
"You're an idiot, old man. Now teach me how to tie this."
With a grin, Remmick leaned forward and began explaining, tossing in jokes as he worked.
---
Snapping back to reality, twenty-three-year-old Rayvox stumbled back from the mirror. The weight of grief settled over him like a second skin.
"Why couldn't that old man have just left me at the orphanage like the others?" he whispered. "Why did he have to raise me... then go and die like that?"
Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away. He took a steadying breath and tied the tie—the exact way Remmick had taught him when he was fifteen.
---
As Rayvox stepped outside, he was greeted by heavy rain. A full downpour, as though the heavens themselves were mourning. He walked through the quiet village streets with long, purposeful strides. On any other day, heads might have turned—whether it was for his six-foot stature, sharp jawline, or his uncannily handsome face.
But not today.
Today, the village had lost someone irreplaceable—a man who had been family to many, and a friend to all. It happened when a Thunder Bear rampaged through the village. Most of the guards had already been injured or taken down, but Elder Remmick had stepped forward. He fought the beast off, forcing it to retreat back into the forest.
But the wounds he sustained were fatal. He bled out before help could arrive.
---
Rayvox climbed to the top of Burial Mountain, where more than fifty people had gathered. Though the number seemed small, it was practically the entire village. As he reached the gathering, a small elderly woman gave him a gentle nod.
"Remmick would've been on the floor, out of breath, if he saw you in that tuxedo," she said with a smile.
Rayvox smiled faintly.
"I know... he'd probably say something like, 'So who's the lucky lady?' And then launch into the birds and the bees talk again."
The old woman chuckled softly.
"That sounds exactly like my husband."
Rayvox glanced at her. "Why do you think he always made jokes, Elder Amanda? Even when he was injured?"
She gave a wistful smile and replied,
"Why else, sweetie? To get on your nerves."
Rayvox let out a quiet laugh that was somewhere between sorrow and fondness.
---
The service began with the priest offering solemn prayers, followed by heartfelt eulogies from Remmick's closest friends and loved ones—everyone except Rayvox. He remained silent.
Then came the village's tradition: each mourner would drop a sentimental item into the funeral pyre, a final farewell to the departed.
One by one, people approached—offering mugs, paintings, carvings, and trinkets. When it was Rayvox's turn, he stepped forward and knelt at the pyre, holding a wrinkled drawing in both hands. It was a crude crayon sketch of a stick figure, smiling with a crooked crown atop its head.
Above it, in messy handwriting, were the words:
"To the strongest Sovereign of all—The Sovereign of Jokes."
The name "Remmick" was scrawled above the figure.
With trembling fingers, Rayvox dropped the drawing into the flames.
"Goodbye... Dad," he whispered to the fire.
He returned to stand beside Elder Amanda, who gently rubbed his shoulder as he wiped away tears he hadn't realized were falling.
The pastor concluded the service with a cheesy, overused line:
"Forever in our hearts."
As the mourners turned to leave, Rayvox froze.
A voice echoed in his mind.
> "Hey kid. If you're hearing this, I'm probably dead. This is a mana message I made just in case. Go to my study. Walk five steps in, and remove the plank to the right of the door. You'll find the truth there."