In the 3,345,670th cycle, it was carved by a down-and-out artist into an unappreciated piece of art, standing silently in a corner of a plaza;
In an even earlier cycle, it was even a sacred object used for rituals by a primitive tribe...
Countless cycles had bestowed endless history upon the most ordinary things in this land.
Every grain of dust, every leaf, was soaked in the ocean of time, saturated with the aura and memories of "others."
And all of this now transformed into a raging tide, battering against Phaethon's teetering boundaries of self.
A long time later.
The chaotic waves that had nearly torn him apart slowly receded, leaving Phaethon with only bone-deep exhaustion and emptiness.
Leaning against a stone pillar he had just created with his ability, Phaethon slowly slid down to sit on the ground.
*In the beginning, during the early cycles, I could still maintain "Phaethon" as the core self amidst these overwhelming memories of "others."*
*Like a reef, battered by waves but still standing firm.*
*But now... after tens of millions of cycles of erosion, the reef has long been worn smooth, eroded, on the verge of crumbling.*
*I can only use an almost obsessive belief, called "continuation," as a final anchor chain, desperately holding onto the "self" about to be drowned by the deaths and pasts of billions of living beings.*
*This belief itself has become the sole proof of my existence, even turning into the instinctive answer I give to all external inquiries.*
He looked around at the seemingly tranquil forest, every inch of which silently screamed of the past, his heart turning cold.
*It seems merely hiding in sparsely populated places can no longer block this pervasive memory invasion.*
*Everything has its history, and all history is a burden to me.*
*Furthermore, in this cycle, because I stayed away from the vortex of the Flame Chase Journey, Terravox almost slipped up.*
*Next cycle... I still need to stay closer to Okhema.*
He thought, perhaps there is only one place, not only less remembered by people, but also close to Okhema.
That is the interior of the Dawn Device.
Even across endless cycles, the beings qualified and authorized to step inside could be counted on one hand.
*Because the one with the authority is too lazy to look. Those curious enough to want to look don't have the authority.*
*Perhaps... only there can I find a moment of true peace.*
...
The 23,570,000th Cycle.
The Eye of Twilight.
Suspended above a sea of clouds, it was a wondrous realm where light and shadow intertwined.
Eternal twilight cast a layer of softness and melancholy over everything.
Giant floating platforms drifted silently, beyond their edges churned waves of clouds and endless sky.
Hyacinthia—the Sky Demigod of this cycle's world—stood quietly at the edge of a platform, her back to the only entrance.
She gently cradled the Coreflame symbolizing the Authority of the Sky in her hands, her gaze seeming to pierce through the clouds, seeing the underlying code of the world's operation.
"As expected..." she murmured to herself, her voice ethereal yet tinged with a weary understanding. "Once you truly swallow the Coreflame, becoming one with it, the truths hidden beneath layers of concealment naturally surface, like an iceberg emerging from water."
Footsteps sounded from behind—steady, rhythmic, devoid of any killing intent, yet carrying a heart-stopping weight that seemed connected to the very pulse of the world.
"Demigod... you should not have... fused with the Coreflame." Phaethon's voice rang out, as if coming from behind a heavy curtain, devoid of any personal emotional fluctuation, only a declarative calm. "You... need to move toward continuation..."
Hyacinthia's fist clenched silently within her wide sleeve, knuckles whitening slightly.
"Hmm... heh," she suddenly let out a soft laugh, gentle as if speaking to a patient with a difficult illness. She slowly turned around. "May I have your name, mysterious sir? I will use the gentlest script to write it... on the patient record form of the Twilight Court."
However, when her eyes fell upon the visitor's face, her gentle smile froze for an instant.
That face... bore a startling resemblance to Lord Phainon, who was currently locked in fierce combat with a menacing swordmaster clad in black robe in the distance, yet it was fundamentally different.
The person before her was more... hollow, like an exquisite puppet pulled by countless strings.
"Lord Phainon? No... that's not right, you are not Lord Phainon." Hyacinthia's gaze sharpened; her healer's insight allowed her to instantly discern the difference. "Lord Phainon is battling that Coreflame-stealing swordmaster right now. Who are you, really?"
"I am... the Deliverer of Amphoreus, who will guide you toward continuation. As for my true name... You, need not know..." Phaethon's voice remained steady, as if stating a fact. "You only need to... hand over the Coreflame... and then... continue... to persist."
His gaze rested calmly on Hyacinthia—no threat, no persuasion, only a suffocating obsession with "continuation" itself.
"How can that be acceptable?" Hyacinthia shook her head gently, her eyes shining with the unshakable resilience unique to a healer. "Right before me is a patient suffering from a heavy 'ailment.' As a healer, I cannot easily abandon treatment just because the patient is uncooperative or secretive."
"I can do it... sir." She leaned forward slightly, her tone utterly serious. "As the true Sky Demigod, I can connect to the emotions of all things; as a healer of the Twilight Court, I can soothe wounds of the soul... I will surely find the root of the problem, cure you, until..."
"Such understanding and empathy..." Phaethon interrupted her, a faint tremor seeming to enter his tone for the first time. "You are an... excellent physician."
But immediately, that tremor vanished, replaced by an icy warning.
"Do not attempt to touch... the depths within me. They will... utterly drag you into the abyss, beyond all redemption. Hand over the Coreflame, and you... still have a chance to turn back."
"Sir," Hyacinthia stubbornly continued her "diagnosis." Through the Authority of the Sky, she faintly perceived the turbulent undercurrents beneath that cold exterior. "Your being carries such an intense, such a vast... desire to 'live.' That will is almost condensing into substance."
"Only... I do not understand, why? Within that oceanic will to live, the part that belongs solely to 'you,' the wish for your own survival, is... so minuscule?"
"Compared to... the wishes of all living beings, the cries of billions of lives..." Phaethon fell silent for a moment before slowly answering, his voice seeming to drift from a great distance. "An individual's will... is far too small... too insignificant..."