Silence. A dead silence.
The howling wind of the Eye of Twilight could not disperse the confusion clouding the hearts of every Chrysos Heir.
Khaslana—the "Phainon" whose face was now covered in cracks—silently raised his hand.
In his palm, the eleven Coreflames of this cycle slowly materialized, still radiating a warm and powerful light.
With a gentle push, he sent these Coreflames, once filled with countless hopes, floating quietly before each Chrysos Heir like docile fireflies.
If they wished, they could claim all eleven Coreflames for their use at this very moment.
But what good would that do now?
A profound sense of absurdity seized them all. The Flame-Chase Journey they had risked their lives for, the goal they had fought with all their might to collect, protect, and strive for—it was all just an elaborate game of make-believe.
A pacifier, elaborately orchestrated to keep them—these unpredictable variables—"well-behaved" enough to wait for the final act within a predestined script of annihilation.
What were they supposed to do now?
Be angry? Hate the puppeteer who had woven this colossal lie, deceiving every living being across countless recurrence of Amphoreus—Asterion?
Yet, the moment this thought surfaced, it was drowned by an even deeper sense of powerlessness.
Did they... have any right to hate him?
No one in all of Amphoreus—from them, the demigods, down to every ordinary person struggling to survive in the end times—had the right.
No one had the right to hate Asterion, nor to blame Cyrene and Khaslana, the other two puppeteers who had dragged the world into this eternal recurrence.
Because, without their defiance of fate, Amphoreus would have long ago turned to cosmic dust in the face of true, absolute Destruction. Even this fake recurrence would be a luxury beyond reach.
Their deception was precisely what had sustained the possibility of existence for everyone. No matter how cruel that existence was.
Cyrene watched the complex emotions playing across the faces of the Chrysos Heirs—a mix of confusion, pain, the emptiness of shattered faith, and an anger they could not even feel righteous about. A bitterly wry smile touched her lips.
Indeed... in countless recurrence past, when the truth was revealed, your expressions were always exactly the same as they are now. Her voice was soft, but it fell like salt on their bleeding wounds.
"Time is short, Phainon." Khaslana suddenly spoke, breaking the suffocating silence. His voice was hoarse, but carried an undeniable urgency.
"What... what is it?" Phainon was still deeply mired in the vortex of his overturned perceptions, barely able to process this sudden information.
"Asterion's Preservation equation is about to hatch, seeking to replace the original Destruction equation." Khaslana explained, his voice low and heavy.
"He is walking a path... from which there is no return. For himself, and for everyone in Amphoreus, it will be a more complete devastation than mere Destruction... an eternal abyss."
Phainon's heart clenched. He seemed to grasp Khaslana's unspoken words. So you want me to...
"This body, a vessel carrying the embers of Destruction, has burned for far too long." Khaslana stated calmly.
"It is nearly consumed, its cracks beyond mending. To face Asterion at your most complete, your most powerful, you must..."
He paused, his gaze burning into Phainon, "...inherit everything from me. The power and memories accumulated over countless cycles. And the power... and pain... of Destruction itself."
Khaslana slowly lowered his broken sword, its embers flickering. The metal clinked softly against the ground.
Then, he opened his arms wide, a gesture utterly defenseless, accepting his fate. It was a stance both tragic and resolute.
Phainon's breathing quickened, his heart a tumultuous storm. But soon, the faith of the Deliverer reasserted itself, however heavy it now felt.
He gripped Dawnmaker tightly. The blade, previously pointing at the ground, slowly rose, eventually steadying, aimed at Khaslana.
"Setting aside the fact that Asterion is the hero who saved the people of my homeland... the mere possibility that what he is doing now could drag Amphoreus into a silence more terrible than Destruction..."
Phainon's voice was firm and decisive, each word imbued with an unshakable will. "As the Deliverer, I cannot ignore this!"
"The Deliverer... heh. Khaslana let out a chuckle, complex and unreadable. If you cling to such naive, black-and-white thinking..."
He shook his head, saying no more. He gave Phainon one last, lingering look. "Never mind. You will soon... understand everything about the Khaslanas."
Without further hesitation, Phainon's eyes sharpened. His hands, steady and unwavering, thrust forward!
Ptoo—
Dawnmaker, precisely and slowly, pierced through Khaslana's chest.
There was no violent resistance, no death throes.
Only golden blood, like molten gold, flowed down the gleaming cold blade, dripping onto the cold ground with a soft sizzle.
Then, from the wound where the blade entered his chest, a blindingly bright light erupted!
It was not pure light, but a flood of memory fragments, countless shimmering images!
The accumulation of over thirty million recurrences. The intertwining of hope and despair countless times over. All the plans, all the pain, all the sacrifices of the Flame-Reaver...!
These memory fragments swirled, merging, bit by bit, into Phainon's very being.
...
None could say how long passed. Phainon's form slowly rose, floating. He emanated a presence completely different from before—profound, deep, and powerfully strong.
He slowly opened his eyes. The innocence and naivety were gone, replaced by the calm of one who had witnessed epochs pass, and a sharpness that saw through to the core of things.
Having fully received everything from Khaslana, he finally understood. The self who, moments ago, merely shouted the slogans of a Deliverer and clung to simplistic notions of good and evil—how naive, how insignificant that self had been.