The torrent of memories continued its relentless surge forward. But this time, the scene unfolding before the Astral Express crew made Stelle's pupils contract sharply. She even forgot to breathe.
This scene... was familiar.
In the dim light, that solitary Deliverer sat quietly in the shadows, like a traveler who had wandered through eternal night for countless epochs.
Then, he raised his head, as if piercing through endless nothingness and despair, finally... spotting the one thing he had sought across all his recurrences, the final ray of light capable of bearing hope.
That ray of light bore Stelle's face.
"Dead..." The Phaethon in the memory murmured, gazing at that hard-won "light."
"No... I won't allow it." His voice carried an unquestionable finality.
"Before you find me, before you help me take them to tomorrow..."
"You... must not die."
BOOM——!
As if struck by a thunderbolt, Stelle finally remembered everything!
When she, Dan Heng, and Mr. Welt first stepped across the border into Amphoreus, they had encountered a terrifying attack they couldn't resist... but she had actually died in that assault long ago!
It was Phaethon who, at the critical moment, gathered her fading consciousness, consolidated her collapsing form, and allowed her to "survive," to continue walking and exploring this land.
And it was precisely at the moment he met her that Phaethon found the final piece of his mad savior's puzzle— a "variable" from outside this world, unbound by Amphoreus's cycles, possessing the ability to traverse the sea of stars, a "Trailblazer" with both the power and the reason to truly lead everyone he wanted to protect out of this eternal prison.
...
"This... is the end of his memories." Evernight's voice rang out, shattering Stelle's stunned recollection.
The usual languid mockery had long since vanished from Evernight's face, replaced by a solemnity mixed with respect and complex reminiscence.
This man before her, with his solitary struggle and persistence across over ten million recurrences, seemed to have inadvertently struck some chord deep within her, stirring dusty fragments of her own past.
Regardless of whether his actions would ultimately prove futile on the grand scale of the universe, the very act of such persistence was enough to earn the respect of anyone who knew its full story.
...
At the very end of the memories, all flowing images solidified and dissolved, leaving only a final recording, like a last testament, personally left by Asterion.
"So... Nameless of the Astral Express," he began slowly, his voice echoing steadily in the silence,
"Having witnessed that long and tedious past of the one called 'Asterion'... do you understand now?"
"「Preservation」is not the enemy of 「Trailblaze」."
He repeated the message initially conveyed through Evernight, but now, these words carried an entirely different weight.
He continued to explain the final plan, his tone as if he were arranging the most ordinary of funeral affairs:
"What you need to do is simple. At the moment I fully integrate with the 「Destruction」equation and Amphoreus's calculation is complete, take away the 'amber' containing the consciousness of everyone in Amphoreus... all of it."
"After becoming a miracle on the Path of 「Preservation」, even if those consciousnesses can't be considered true, naturally-born life, they can certainly be defined as self-aware curios."
His words even carried a faint, barely perceptible hint of longing:
"They will have new lives. They can set foot upon the sea of stars. They can say to that vibrant, wonderful universe you know so well... 'Hello, world!'"
Then, he painted an ending that, for the crew, could be called "perfect":
"Then, you can continue your great Trailblaze journey. After returning to the stars, someone will also announce in the interstellar broadcasts: It was the Nameless who saved everyone in Amphoreus. It was the Nameless who thwarted the 「Destruction」's scheme and prevented the birth of a Lord Ravager. See? What a perfectly happy ending. Isn't it?"
Finally, as if to ease any moral burden they might carry, he offered a guarantee, his tone resolute and unquestionable:
"Don't worry about the 「Destruction」equation hatching later. Don't worry about the birth of a Lord Ravager. I promise you... there will be no trace of 'Iron Tomb' left in the galaxy..."
Asterion's image continued to calmly explain subsequent details of the plan, but... who among those listening could truly pay attention anymore?
...
The memories belonging to Asterion had long since finished playing.
But this space, bearing endless memories, had fallen into a deathly silence.
Still, no one spoke. The heavy atmosphere pressed against everyone's hearts like a physical force. Thousands of words stuck in their throats; any attempt at speech felt frivolous.
Screwllum's mechanical eyes calmly swept over his companions, all immersed in shock.
Perhaps none of them had the right to judge Asterion's ultimate plan, one that used himself as a sacrifice. But at this moment, the silence needed to be broken. This epic, spanning over ten million recurrences, required someone to offer the tribute it deserved.
So this gentleman of machinery, forever maintaining elegance and reason, slowly removed his top hat and placed it against his chest.
Then, facing the empty void at the end of the memories, he gave a slight bow.
When he straightened up again, his calm metallic voice carried an unprecedented reverence:
"My respects to you, Lord Asterion."
He spoke sincerely,
"I withdraw my shallow and presumptuous comments, made based on incomplete information."
In his electronic eyes, complex data streams seemed to swirl like a galaxy, eventually coalescing into the highest praise, straight from his core:
"You are... a true savior/Deliverer."
"From an absolutely rational perspective, your plan... is a great one... that addresses both the symptoms and the root cause."
This was not complete agreement with his methods, but the highest accolade for a will to sacrifice that transcended all gain and loss... pure dedication.
...
Elsewhere, in the real world atop the ruins of Okhema, the luster of amber, the shards of ice crystals, and the embers of destruction interweaved.
Phaethon hovered in mid-air, gazing down at Cyrene and Phainon below. Though wounded, their auras chaotic, they still gripped their weapons tightly, their eyes as stubborn as ever.
Their fresh wounds, the dust and dried golden bloodstains on their clothes—all testified to the intensity of the previous battle and his absolute advantage.
To say there was no stirring in his heart, no trace of softness born from countless recurrences of shared memories, would be impossible.
That bond, deeply rooted in the very soul, was not something easily severed by temporary power or differing ideals.