The funeral was held in the White Lions' private memorial garden behind their mansion—a space specifically maintained for honoring fallen members, though it had remained unused for years before today because their squad had been fortunate enough to avoid fatalities despite dangerous deployments.
The garden was small and intimate rather than grand—perhaps fifty feet across, enclosed by stone walls covered in climbing roses, the flowers white to match the unit's name, their petals catching morning light and making the space glow with ethereal quality.
A simple wooden altar stood at the garden's center, draped in white cloth embroidered with the White Lions' crest, the fabric moving slightly in gentle breeze that carried the scent of flowers and something heavier underneath.
Jax's body lay on the altar in traditional funeral arrangement—arms crossed over his chest, face peaceful despite how he'd died, the mortal wound cleaned and covered by the white ceremonial robes that all Rose Kingdom soldiers were buried in, the fabric concealing evidence of violence while letting him maintain dignity in death.
Photographs surrounded the altar—images from throughout Jax's time with the squad, moments captured during training and missions and the rare downtime they'd managed between deployments:
Jax grinning while holding a lightning bolt like a trophy after his first successful Thunder Cascade technique.
Jax arm-wrestling with Steel and losing but laughing anyway.
Jax teaching a younger recruit how to control electrical discharge without frying themselves.
Jax asleep in the common room after exhausting training session, drool visible and completely undignified.
Jax standing with the full squad after their first major mission success, his smile bright enough to outshine the sun.
Each photograph told story of person who'd lived fully, who'd embraced every moment, who'd brought light to situations that demanded darkness, whose presence had made everything better simply by existing.
Candles surrounded these photographs—dozens of them in various sizes, all burning with steady flames that represented prayers and memories and the specific weight of grief that required physical outlet, wax melting and reforming in patterns that looked almost intentional.
Insects had begun gathering despite the early hour—butterflies landing on the altar cloth, dragonflies hovering near the photographs, even a few bees investigating the roses, nature itself seemingly drawn to honor someone who'd burned so bright during life that death couldn't immediately extinguish his presence.
The White Lions and Daybreak members stood in silent formation around the altar—no one speaking, no formal eulogies yet, just presence and shared grief and the specific solidarity that came from losing someone who'd mattered to everyone present.
Elara stood closest to the altar, her captain's composure maintained through visible effort, white flames flickering unconsciously around her clenched fists, her gift responding to emotional turbulence despite attempts at control.
Kael stood with copper wires wrapped around his forearms—not intentional manifestation but unconscious activation, his gift expressing through metal what he couldn't articulate verbally, the wires forming and dissolving in patterns that suggested chaos barely contained.
Huna was crying openly, not bothering to hide tears or maintain stoic presentation, her healing gift activated and reaching toward Jax's body despite knowing it was futile, despite understanding that death was beyond her capability to reverse, unable to stop trying because trying was all she had left.
Steel stood like a statue—metal transformation partially active, his grief expressing as literal hardening, turning emotional pain into physical armor because that was how he'd always processed feelings too overwhelming to handle in flesh alone.
Frost had manifested ice crystals in her hair and on her shoulders—beautiful and terrible, frozen tears that wouldn't fall, grief that couldn't express through normal channels finding outlet through her gift instead.
Lena's guitar hung silent on her back—no music today, nothing to play that could adequately express what they'd lost, sound insufficient when words had already failed.
Robert stood slightly apart from the others, hollow eyes visible behind his lowered bandage, the darkness within those sockets somehow deeper than usual, whatever existed in place of normal human grief making itself known through his inhuman features.
Gabriel and the Daybreak members maintained their own formation, respecting the White Lions' need for space while offering solidarity through presence, understanding that grief required both closeness and distance in measures only the mourning could determine.
The sun continued rising, light spreading across the garden, illuminating the altar and photographs and the young man who would never see another sunrise, whose dreams of becoming Heavenly Star General had ended not in glorious combat but in friendly fire, killed by someone he'd called brother.
Still no one spoke.
What was there to say? What words could possibly encompass the loss or make sense of the tragedy or provide comfort when comfort felt like betrayal of the pain that was appropriate response?
They just stood there together, bearing witness, ensuring Jax wasn't alone in death as he'd never been alone in life, giving him the only gift they had left to offer—their presence, their grief, their refusal to forget.
Inside the King's mansion—a separate building from the White Lions' quarters, reserved for high-ranking officials and guests who required enhanced security—Max's eyes slowly opened.
Consciousness returned gradually, like surfacing from deep water, awareness building in layers as his damaged brain struggled to process sensory information and construct coherent understanding of his surroundings.
He was lying in an ornate bed far more comfortable than anything in the White Lions' barracks, soft golden sunlight filtering through tall windows that suggested this room was positioned to catch dawn light, the illumination warm and gentle in ways that felt wrong given what had happened.
His body ached everywhere—not sharp pain but deep systemic hurt, the kind of comprehensive damage that suggested he'd pushed himself past structural limits and was now dealing with consequences, every cell protesting as it attempted to repair trauma that normal healing couldn't address.
The White Lions and Daybreak members were gathered around his bed in loose formation—faces showing exhaustion that went beyond simple lack of sleep, eyes red from crying or perhaps from staring at nothing for hours, the specific appearance of people who'd experienced something that fundamentally altered them and were still processing the implications.
Max sat up slowly despite his body's protests, one hand moving to his head, rubbing temples where pressure suggested headache or possibly mild concussion, his movements careful and uncertain.
His voice emerged hoarse, damaged throat making speech difficult:
"I... I had this weird dream. Really vivid, felt completely real while I was experiencing it."
He paused, gathering thoughts that felt fragmentary and unreliable.
"I killed Kelvin in the dream. Used some technique called Despair Judgment, cut him in half. And then after that I killed... Jax?"
He laughed weakly, the sound carrying no humor.
"Like, how is that even possible? Why would I dream something that ridiculous? Jax is... where is Jax? He should be here making fun of me for sleeping in."
Heavy silence filled the room like physical presence.
No one answered. No one moved. They just stared at him with expressions mixing grief and anger and something that might have been pity or possibly disgust.
The silence stretched too long, became uncomfortable, transformed from natural pause into deliberate statement.
Steel stepped forward from his position near the window.
His massive frame was tense, muscles coiled, fists clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone white, his entire body radiating barely contained rage that made the air feel dangerous.
His voice emerged low, controlled, each word precisely articulated:
"A dream?"
Before Max could respond or process the tone, Steel grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off the bed with strength that normal human joints shouldn't possess, the metal user's gift apparently active beneath his skin even though visible transformation hadn't manifested.
CRACK.
A devastating punch landed on Max's jaw with force that should have shattered bone—would have shattered bone if Steel hadn't unconsciously pulled it at the last moment, instinct preventing him from actually killing despite overwhelming desire to inflict pain.
The impact sent Max crashing to the floor, body tumbling, vision whiting out briefly from the hit's intensity, blood filling his mouth where teeth had cut his cheek from inside.
Steel's voice shook with fury barely held in check:
"You murdered your own squadmate—put your hand through his chest, killed him while he was trying to restrain you for your own good—and you're playing it off as a fucking dream? Like it was just nightmare you can dismiss upon waking?"
His fists clenched tighter, metal beginning to show on his knuckles as transformation started activating unconsciously.
"You disgust me. You make me physically ill. And if these people weren't here stopping me, I'd beat you until you understood exactly what you've done."
Max's eyes widened as Steel's words penetrated through the fog in his mind.
Not a dream.
Real.
The memories came flooding back with brutal clarity—no longer suppressed by unconsciousness or psychological defense mechanisms, just raw unfiltered recollection of everything that had happened:
Ruga state activating. Blue lightning consuming his rational mind. The overwhelming rage that overrode everything human. Kelvin dying to Despair Judgment. Turning on his own squad because Ruga couldn't distinguish allies from enemies.
Jax trying to restrain him. Jax's arms wrapping around him. The sensation of his hand punching through flesh and bone and vital organs. Blood coating his arm. Jax's final words delivered with smile despite the fatal wound.
*"I'm glad I met you, little rookie."*
Tears instantly poured down Max's face—not gentle crying but immediate overwhelming grief, his body producing moisture faster than his ducts could handle, water streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor.
"No..."
The word emerged as whimper, denial of reality that his mind insisted couldn't be true despite evidence.
He struggled to his feet on shaky legs, vision blurred by tears and the lingering effects of Steel's punch, balance unreliable but movement necessary because he needed to confirm, needed to see for himself, needed to prove everyone wrong.
"No... no, this can't be... Jax wouldn't... I didn't..."
He ran.
Out of the room without looking back, ignoring the protests and attempts to stop him, just running because stopping meant accepting and acceptance was impossible.
He sprinted through the mansion's corridors like a madman, vision clearing enough to navigate but not enough to process details, just following muscle memory toward places Jax should be.
First to Jax's personal room in the barracks—door standing open, bed made with military precision, Lightning Gift training manuals stacked on the desk, everything exactly as Jax had left it because no one had the heart to disturb his belongings yet.
Empty. No Jax sleeping in or skipping morning formation.
Then to the training yard where Jax always did push-ups before breakfast, claimed the early morning workout helped him generate electricity better though the scientific basis was questionable.
Empty. No cocky grin, no challenge to beat his rep count.
Then to the dining hall where they'd shared countless meals, where Jax always stole food from other people's plates and defended the theft with elaborate justifications.
Empty. No laughter, no protests about portion sizes.
Then to the balcony where Jax liked to practice his lightning techniques while bragging about how he'd definitely become Heavenly Star General before turning thirty.
Empty. No electrical discharge, no ambitious declarations.
Max came back to the main hall breathing hard, tears still streaming, hope dying incrementally with each empty location, reality forcing itself into awareness despite desperate resistance.
He looked at everyone gathered there—Elara, Kael, Huna, Robert, Steel still radiating rage, the entire squad whose faces confirmed what he didn't want to believe.
His voice cracked when he spoke:
"Hey... where is Jax?"
Simple question. Desperate question. Final attempt to make reality bend.
No one answered immediately.
The silence was deafening, carrying more information than words could convey.
Max's voice rose, desperation overriding control:
"Why aren't you guys saying anything?! Someone just tell me where he is! He's probably sleeping in or training somewhere remote or... just tell me!"
Robert finally spoke, his voice low and heavy with grief poorly concealed:
"He's dead, Max. He died by your hands during Ruga state rampage. You killed a member of the White Lions family. You murdered your friend while he was trying to help you."
He paused, then added with what sounded like genuine regret:
"And we... apologize for what must happen next."
Max's face twisted in confusion mixing with pain:
"Why... why are you apologizing? What are you talking about?"
Elara stepped forward, her captain's voice steady through visible effort, delivering words she clearly hated having to speak:
"Rose Kingdom Military Code, Unit Regulations, Article 256:
Any member of a military unit who kills another member of the same unit through deliberate action or gross negligence resulting in death will be immediately stripped of their role and rank within said unit and will be permanently banished from the Rose Kingdom's territory and holdings, with return constituting capital offense punishable by execution."
She paused, looking away from Max's face because maintaining eye contact was too difficult.
"The regulation makes no exception for loss of control or extenuating circumstances. The law is absolute to prevent internal conflicts from destroying unit cohesion."
Max's legs gave out.
He collapsed to his knees, the impact painful but irrelevant compared to what he'd just been told.
"No... please... please don't do this..."
Tears fell freely onto the golden floor, each drop carrying fragments of a life that was being taken away.
"I didn't mean to kill him. I couldn't control the Ruga state. I would never... Jax was my friend, my brother, I would die before hurting him intentionally. Please believe me. Please don't—"
His voice broke completely into sobs, words becoming incoherent.
Elara looked away, fists clenched so hard her knuckles turned white, white flames flickering around her hands before she forcibly suppressed them.
Kael turned his face toward the wall, unable to watch Max break down, copper wires manifesting and dissolving repeatedly as his own grief sought outlet.
Huna was crying openly again, her hands covering her mouth, trying to muffle sounds that emerged anyway.
Robert stood silent, but his shoulders trembled slightly—whatever emotions existed beneath his inhuman exterior apparently struggling for expression through unfamiliar channels.
Steel remained unmoved, rage still burning in his eyes, apparently immune to Max's pleading because his anger was too fresh, grief too raw to permit sympathy yet.
The weight of what Max had done—and what it now cost him—crushed the room under pressure that made breathing difficult.
The boy who'd dreamed of becoming a Heavenly Star General, who'd trained desperately to protect people, who'd accepted Vista's resurrection specifically to gain strength that would prevent loss—
Was now being banished from the only home and family he had left.
Because he'd killed the person he most wanted to protect.
The irony was devastating.
The justice was absolute.
And no one present could find words adequate to express how completely everything had fallen apart.
To be continued