Cyrene’s voice was low, her eyes holding a rare seriousness and concern. "Take a look. It might help you. This is... all I could gather. The last fragnts of the past belonging to that ocean demigod."
Phaethon was taken aback for a mont. The crystal in his palm seed to thrum with a heartbeat. He clenched it, nodded at Cyrene, and stored away this weighty gift.
...
Castorice hesitated no longer. She pushed hard against the door, sealed for who knows how many ages.
Inside was an imnse, circular space with a vaulted ceiling. The floor, walls, and even the entire do were carved with slowly rotating alchemical arrays glowing with a faint light. Their complexity and sophistication were beyond imagination, and the gathered energy made the air hum with a low drone.
"According to that alchemist’s words, the final material... should be myself."
Castorice stepped into the center of the array, her voice echoing in the empty hall. "But he did not know the full picture... The River of Souls is no ordinary thing. It is a manifestation of the world’s laws. It cannot be simply blocked.
"What truly prevents the dead from passing on, what causes all souls to linger, is no common obstacle. It can only be—the remnant of a divine body."
Her gaze grew sharp and clear as she continued, as if clarifying her final reasoning:
"And precisely because of this, to retrieve the Corefla of Death and clear the River of Souls, we have only one path—to awaken Pollux from death itself."
She slowly raised a hand, feeling the power flowing within the array. "But perhaps, what can rouse the Netherwing is not simply the sacrifice of my life, but rather... the entirety of the life I lived after leaving it. Those emotions, mories, understandings... they are the true, crucial ’materials’."
The ritual’s light began to brighten, imnse energy gathering with Castorice at its center.
Yet, at that very mont, a slender, hazy, yet incredibly gentle figure abruptly materialized within the swirling radiance, right before Castorice.
"Lady Amunet?" Castorice whispered in disbelief, icy composure cracking for the first ti into sothing akin to vulnerable astonishnt.
"Who is she...?" Cyrene inquired softly, both wary and curious.
Castorice’s gaze remained fixed on the suddenly appeared spirit, her voice carrying a barely perceptible tremor.
"She was the first family I rember... She raised on the barren lands of Aidonia when I was still young. Only now... she is but a lingering spirit."
The spirit nad Amunet had a benevolent and serene face. She gazed at Castorice and spoke slowly, her voice like a breeze that had traversed countless years.
"Castorice... perhaps you still haven’t figured it out. Why, in that distant past, would people willingly embrace faith in Death?"
"That’s right..." Castorice nodded honestly, her confusion laid bare. "Lady Amunet, I have never been able to imagine it. People in the legendary, supposedly eternal ’Golden Age’, enjoying near-limitless lifespans... why would they cast aside eternity to zealously embrace death?"
"Would you like to hear my perspective, Castorice?" Amunet’s spirit emitted a soft glow.
"Please tell , Lady Amunet," Castorice requested solemnly. "Though I have already decided what to do with the divine authority and Corefla of Death... I need to understand it completely."
Amunet’s voice was distant and profound, as if explaining a cornerstone of the world. "Castorice... what if love is not an innate gift Mnestia (the Titan of Romance) bestowed upon mortals, but instead, the deepest blessing death bestowed upon us?"
"Love...?" Castorice murmured, the word feeling so abrupt and shocking within this sanctuary of death.
"Precisely." Amunet’s spirit seed to smile. "Because there is loss, we learn to cherish.
"And precisely because all things have an end, because life is as brief as a sumr bloom, we learn how to love passionately, how to hold tightly to everything before us.
Once, in the so-called ’Golden Age’ where life was believed to be indefinitely extendable, no one invented the concept of ’cherishing’, because all the world’s beauty could be experienced an infinite number of tis, eventually becoming dull and tasteless.
In truth, the beings of that era were not truly ’alive’. They rely existed, walking and waiting wearily until they grew numb and despairing of eternity itself."
"So," her voice beca clear and forceful, "people ultimately chose to embrace death, not because they beca enamored with its grim and terrifying aspects..."
"But because of the impulses, yearnings, loves, and desires that arrived alongside finite life—that brief yet fiercely burning fla of ’living’ that intoxicated and enthralled them beyond reason. It was death that defined the value of life."
"..." Castorice’s breath hitched. A tempestuous wave surged in her once-bewildered eyes.
The core paradox that had haunted her was finally unraveled at this mont!
"So «Death» is not a cold, despairing thing, but rather... the reason people have tears in their eyes at parting, the initial kindling that ignites the passion of mortal life.
If the world truly had no death, it would revert to eternal stagnation and lethargy, and love would lose all its weight and aning."
An unprecedented understanding exploded within her, like the first ray of dawn illuminating the darkness of the underworld.
"I understand now... Lady Amunet." Castorice’s voice returned to calm, a certainty and gratitude born of finally navigating past confusion and reaching the far shore.
"It is precisely because life is finite that it shaped all the emotions and values we know and cherish. Thank you, my mother... You have given the final, and most important, answer."
She stepped forward, opened her arms, and gently embraced the gradually fading spirit. There was no sadness, only boundless gratitude and release.
Within her daughter’s embrace, Amunet’s spirit seed to fulfill her final wish. She emitted one last wave of warm, peaceful light, then peacefully dissipated, rging into the surrounding flow of light, finally laid to rest.
"Lord Phaethon, I am ready to step towards my fate. Please bear witness..."
Castorice’s farewell to her mother was gentle yet resolute. But when she turned around, her words cut off abruptly.
She saw Phaethon standing amidst the swirling motes of light. The purple crystal in his hand was dissolving into countless shimring fragnts, like falling stars swirling and rising around him.
"Lord Phaethon? What are you...?"
Her question dissolved into the air. The purple points of light did not vanish. Instead, they suddenly expanded and reconfigured, weaving before everyone a deep and sorrowful mory—a fragnt of the past belonging to another demigod, Helektra.
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