262 Answer 2

    "Dad..." Dyon's voice didn't sound out, but he felt like it took all of his strength to even mouth that word.

    His father stood in a state Dyon had never seen before. His handsome face was drenched in tears as he gripped the side of the coffin, silently muttering to himself.

    But, the view of the coffin itself was something Dyon couldn't bring himself to look at... Because he knew what it held... And it wasn't someone he could stand to see.

    And yet, against his wishes, his feet began to move.

    No matter how hard he struggled, his steps remained steady, pushing him up the church steps to stand right beside his trembling father.

    Dyon's head tilted downward, forcing him to look at the woman who lay in the coffin peacefully.

    His mother was a white woman with delicate features. Her hair was a long brunette strung with the petals of flowers, adorning her in death. And yet, even in death, her face still held a rosy color that made it seem as though she could stand at any moment.

    'I'm sorry I couldn't protect you...'

    Dyon didn't need to look over for his father's deep voice to fill his ears. He couldn't help but tremble under the sound - one he hadn't heard in what seemed like a lifetime.

    'I'll protect him until my time comes... He'll be strong and as stubborn as his father. But, he'll be as caring and as loving as his mother. I'll do my best to make up for my failures with you, with our son. I promise... I promise...'

    Suddenly, the room shifted around Dyon again.

    He was in the same church, except this time, there was only a ten-year-old boy a bit tall for his age standing in front of a coffin.

    The boy clenched his fists so tightly that blood dripped to the floor, saying not a single word as tears streamed down his face.

    To Dyon, it was as though he was experiencing his parent's death all over again. The pain of his father. The pain of his younger self. They were as palpable as they had been that day. And yet, all he could do was watch.

    Dyon felt his world spinning. He looked down at his hands to suddenly notice they were shrinking. He was melding together with his younger self!

    The room changed once again, and this time, he was in a training ground with his father running right at him.

    "Keep your hands up Dyon! How could you lose to such a pathetic excuse for a man? Who the ** is Darius Storm to a Sacharro. And you lost to him!?

    This is all because you don't listen to me! You're too arrogant and you don't listen to authority!"

    Dyon's father's fist slammed into Dyon's forearms, sending him flying.

    Dyon grunted, it was almost like the pain was being magnified. He could feel his own flesh tearing, but, at the same time, he could feel his father's heart aching because of the pain he was causing his son.

    And yet, Sacharro's face remained as cold as steel. "Tell me! What does being a Sacharro mean?!"

    Dyon crawled up, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "It means being smart in your fearlessness."

    "It means being smart in your fearlessness! It means recognizing your betters! It means respecting your elders and the authority they hold! You listen to none of these things!

    If you had put on all of your armor instead of just the arm guards, do you think that Storm boy would have beaten you to half an inch of your life? Do you think you were very cool staring death down in your loss? Sacharro's don't lose!"

    Dyon nodded his small head in agreement, lifting his fists up. "Sacharro's don't lose."

    "You've become to complacent in your intelligence. Too confident in your talent. Too satisfied with your past accomplishments. You need to remember the hunger that drives you. You need to stop doing things for your mother and me and do things for yourself. Do you understand?"

    Before Dyon could respond, his surroundings changed again.

    He had suddenly become even smaller. His hands wrapped around a knife and fork much too large for him as he sat at the marbled island of an elegant kitchen, watching the back of a petite woman working from the stove.


    Dyon almost couldn't contain his excitement as his voice actually made a sound this time.

    "Hm? Is something wrong Dyon? Do you want more pasta?" Dyon's mom turned around, wiping her hands on her apron as she went to sit beside him.

    "Dyon? What's wrong? Why are you crying? Did something happen at school? Tell mommy."

    A soft arm wrapped around Dyon as a hand wiped tears he couldn't stop.

    However, the moment didn't last long before Dyon was back in the church, his moments of warmth torn from him without warning.

    Suddenly, the room shifted again and he was in a dark cemetery, looking at the tomb stones of the both of his parents in front of him.

    Dyon sat there for a long time, the thoughts of his women and his parents running through his mind again and again for days on end...

    He didn't get a chance to listen to the things his mom had tried to ingrain in him from his youth, but they had never left his mind unlike like words of his father.

    She always wanted him to act based on what was in his heart. He was supposed to always treat women well, complimenting them whenever he could. He was meant to help those in need whenever he could, especially when it was more than within his power to do so. These were the words of his mother...

    It suddenly became very obvious to Dyon that this was a trial, yes, but, it was also a reminder... To remember the words of his parents. To remember his every action had consequences. To remember not to forget where you came from and the things you learned while you were there...

    "Well played old man..."

    Dyon took a last look at the tomb of his parents before he closed his eyes.

    "Well played..."
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