I Got My System Late, But I'll Become Beastgod-Chapter 128: The Final Farewell

The twilight sky above Aryavrata’s capital was streaked with the remnants of smoke and fading embers from a battle that had shaken the world. In the silent fields beyond the capital walls, fractured portals began to open — circular rips of shimmering magic lined with ancient Aryavratan runes.

One by one, figures stumbled through.

Bloodied. Broken. Barely standing.

The few remaining soldiers of Aryavrata and its allied nations — those who had survived the wrath of Zorwath — emerged through the spatial gates carved by emergency runes. These weren’t teleportation scrolls for victory; they were escape paths — drawn in desperation when the enemy’s blade came too close.

The capital’s gates opened slowly. No fanfare. No cheers.

Just silence.

City guards and priests stood in stunned reverence as the survivors walked through. Many leaned on one another. Some carried the wounded on makeshift stretchers. Others... carried the dead.

A column of Valkorian warriors, now allies after Zorwath’s betrayal, helped carry the unconscious and assist the crippled. Their leader, Captain Jareth, limped forward, his once-golden armor scorched and cracked. "We lost more than we can name," he muttered.

Inside the capital, a hush spread as word traveled: The survivors have returned.

Healers rushed forward, guiding stretchers into infirmaries. High priests activated healing circles across temples. Civilians watched from rooftops, their hearts heavy. A mother dropped to her knees, crying for a son that wasn’t among the returning.

Banners flew at half-mast.

Nalanda’s courtyard, usually alive with training chants, now echoed only the sounds of muffled footsteps and groans of pain.

Among the returning soldiers, Seenu walked with a limp, eyes blank. Raj followed just behind, his shoulder bandaged, his usual smirk replaced by stone silence.

No words.

Not yet.

Their grief had no shape yet — only weight.

In the heart of the Trivnal Tower, sacred runes shimmered beneath Aamir’s unconscious body, still resting inside the healing basin. His skin had regained some color, but his breath remained shallow — as if the battle still clung to his lungs.

Seven mages stood around the basin, chanting in unison. Ancient Aryavratan mantras flowed like river currents. Golden light circled above.

Then—

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Cloaked in deep violet robes woven with silver runes, the figure radiated not heat, but presence — a divine, unspoken authority. No footsteps were heard. No spell was cast.

He simply was.

The mages faltered mid-chant.

The figure raised a hand, palm outward, and his voice echoed like a forgotten hymn.

"Leave. His spirit no longer needs hands... but guidance."

The head mage swallowed. "But... Lord Spirit... his vitals—"

"Will hold. But if you stay... you’ll hinder what must come next."

One by one, they obeyed.

Stepping back. Bowing their heads. Exiting in silence.

When the last door shut, the chamber darkened.

Only the spirit and Aamir remained — bathed in faint blue light.

The spirit knelt beside the basin and whispered:

"You bear the weight of thunder, child. Now it’s time to awaken... not as a boy..."

"...but as the flame Haider left behind."

The air grew still.

A pulse of magic hummed through the tower.

The spirit pressed his hand to the floor. A circle of glowing glyphs expanded outward — not from magic written in scrolls, but from divine memory.

Light burst upward, wrapping Aamir in a cocoon of gold and silver threads.

The basin cracked beneath him.

And with a rush of wind and silence — they vanished.

Appearing instantly... on a floor no one in the capital reached easily.

The Seventh Floor of Trivnal Tower.

A realm untouched by time.

The stone beneath their feet was etched with infinity symbols, always moving. The walls shimmered with starlight. The ceiling — there was none. Only sky. Vast and boundless.

Aamir floated in the spirit’s arms. His body glowed faintly. His veins shimmered with residual system energy, reacting to the divine energy of the space.

Before them stood a massive crystal gate.

It pulsed once.

Then... opened.

Inside, the world bent.

A floating forest stretched across suspended land, with rivers weaving through the air like ribbons, and golden trees rising from the void, their silver leaves shimmering in eternal bloom.

The spirit walked forward.

No sound.

No weight.

Just purpose.

In the center of this celestial plane stood an altar — not of stone, but of light. It shifted shape slightly with each step closer.

The spirit laid Aamir upon it.

He placed two fingers on Aamir’s chest and closed his eyes.

"Your spirit shattered. But not broken."

He looked to the heavens.

"Guide him, warriors of old. Let the Lion’s roar echo within him."

From the floating sky above, wisps of light drifted down like falling feathers.

Each one brushed Aamir’s skin — and faded into him.

"Forgive my interference," the spirit murmured, "but this boy... this broken ember... carries the will of too many."

A soft hum responded — not yes, not no — but acknowledgement.

The orbs pulsed in sync with Aamir’s system. The colors of his bindings shimmered faintly beneath his skin: white for purification, red for war, gold for divinity.

Then... a deep resonance spread.

A signal.

Something ancient was beginning.

Aamir’s system screen flickered open — not by touch, but by destiny.

System Reboot in Progress...

Host recovery at 34%

Nexus Synchronization: Delayed

Initiating Memory Fragment Alignment...

The light grew intense.

And Aamir’s body began to rise.

Back in the mortal world, the skies above Nalanda wept quietly — soft rain, as if the heavens themselves mourned.

The central courtyard had been cleared, transformed into a sacred space adorned with black and silver banners. The marble dais was polished to mirror shine, surrounded by soldiers in armor, mages in ceremonial robes, and citizens dressed in white.

At the center lay a white marble coffin engraved with the lion insignia of Aryavrata. Golden trims lined the edges, and a single crimson sash lay draped across its middle — Haider Ali’s command sash.

No music played. No priest spoke. Just silence.

Roses were placed at every corner of the courtyard, forming a circle around the coffin. Each petal was enchanted to glow faintly, casting a soft hue on the mourners.

At the edge stood Seenu, Riya, Raj, Kunal, and other survivors — their uniforms torn, blood dried on sleeves and collars. None of them looked at one another. None dared speak yet.

In the distance, a broken sword rested on a velvet pillow — Haider’s blade, shattered during the final stand.

From balconies above, mages and civilians watched quietly. Mothers held their children close. A dog barked once in the far corner of the city... then fell silent again.

The funeral pyre had been denied.

For heroes like Haider Ali... only the tomb beneath the capital’s heart was worthy.

The time came.

Seenu was called first.

He stepped forward slowly, limping slightly from an untreated wound. His eyes remained locked on the coffin.

He stopped at its side, removed the pendant Haider had given him during his promotion, and placed it gently on the marble.

"I wasn’t ready to lead. You knew that. But you let me fight anyway."

"I’ll carry your orders... till my last breath."

He gave a crisp salute, then stepped back.

Next came Riya. Her hair, once vibrant, now dull and uncombed. She walked without a tear in her eye, but her hands trembled as she pulled out a simple white ribbon — the same one Haider had gifted her when she won her first solo battle.

She placed it on the coffin, bowed deeply, and whispered:

"You taught me to strike with fire. But you never told me how to grieve."

Raj came next. He said nothing. Just placed his dagger — the same one Haider had thrown him during that infamous training session — and patted the coffin twice.

Kunal followed, eyes hidden behind cracked glasses. He placed a scroll — Haider’s handwritten instructions on war strategy. Kunal’s lips barely moved:

"You weren’t just a fighter. You were a mind."

More came after them.

Students. Warriors. Scribes. Every one of them had a token. A memory. A debt.

Then the courtyard hushed again.

King Veerendra stepped forward.

He no longer wore his royal robes — just simple black clothing, a golden sash over one shoulder. His right hand clutched a cane. His body shook, not from weakness... but from grief.

He stood before the coffin.

And raised his hand.

"All of you... listen."

"Today we do not bury a general. We bury a legacy."

His voice cracked slightly, but he steadied it.

"When I first met Haider Ali, he was a boy who punched a Royal Guard for insulting a commoner."

Soft laughter rose... quickly swallowed by silence.

"He said, ’A lion doesn’t care if it’s facing a prince or a pauper — if it’s wrong, it’s wrong.’"

He paused. freeweɓnovel-cøm

"And he lived by that."

"In the darkest hours... when demons clawed at our gates... when gods looked away... he did not."

"He fought not for glory. Not for coin. But for every child who dreamed of growing up in a land where lions protect the gates."

Tears streamed down faces across the crowd.

"He is not gone."

"Because every time we stand our ground... every time we refuse fear... he lives in us."

The king raised his cane high.

"He did not die..."

"...he gifted us another sunrise."

Soldiers knelt.

Priests wept.

And the Lion’s banner waved gently in the wind.

The stone path split open before the dais, revealing a deep chamber beneath the courtyard — carved from white crystal, lined with the names of past heroes.

The coffin was lifted gently by six soldiers.

One from each guild.

They carried it down the steps — slow, reverent — until it rested within the Tomb of Valor.

Above, a single trumpet blew once.

Then silence.

Each soldier stepped forward with a handful of earth, dropping it onto the resting place. Not with shovels. But by hand.

"Rest, Lion of Aryavrata."

Flowers followed — white, red, violet.

Then the stone gate sealed... and the courtyard closed.

The wind stopped.

And Aryavrata stood still.

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