"Look, when leaves fall, new ones will grow next year. But... if you don’t look up now to see this sunset glow on the horizon, if you don’t feel the breeze brushing against your cheek at this very mont, then this sea of clouds, this wisp of wind, will be missed by you forever."
"You’re always saying ’wait until next ti,’ ’wait until everything concludes perfectly.’ But Phaethon, the wind won’t wait for you. When it cos, you must reach out and catch it, to feel whether it’s warm or cool."
"Phaethon, it’s not easy for you to walk this world once. Don’t just beco the world’s savior while carelessly losing yourself in the process."
Her voice carried a sincere sorrow. "I don’t think that counts as living. That’s called... martyrdom."
"Give up? Or not give up?" Cipher 496 shook her head. "I think this very question is torturing you. But perhaps the answer isn’t a multiple-choice question of either this or that."
"You need to learn to be kinder to yourself first. ’Save’ yourself from this endless exhaustion, let your heart beco whole again, beco warm again."
"Only then can you use a truly vibrant heart to save the world you wish to save, right?"
Her final words were as light as a falling feather, yet they struck Phaethon’s heart with imnse weight:
"For soone whose heart has already turned cold, who can no longer feel the beauty of life, what aning does a saved world hold for them? A canvas of gray and white?"
Phaethon fell completely silent. He gazed at the girl before him, at the reflection in her eyes—a weary, stubborn, self-imprisoned version of himself.
Four hundred and ninety-six cycles. Across that vast stretch of ti, no one had ever spoken such words to him.
People begged him, relied on his power, feared his existence, even resented him out of despair. But never had anyone... told him to save himself first.
In the distance, the wind swept across the wilderness, carrying the scent of earth and grass.
He looked down, for the first ti, truly and carefully, at the string of now lukewarm grilled fish in his hand.
Suddenly, he rembered Aglaea 496’s hesitant look when she saw his torn clothes, rembered Cipher’s eager excitent when she presented the boots like a treasure, and rembered the absolute desolation that existed within his heart—solely for "duty" and "goal"—during his countless journeys through mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
Save the world?
Yes, that was his inescapable destiny, his ultimate objective.
But saving himself...
Perhaps, this was the lesson he truly needed, the most important one, on this endlessly long and despairing journey of cycles.
Not far away, Aglaea 496 leaned quietly against the doorfra, holding in her hands a set of clothes identical to the ones Phaethon wore, yet clean and warm.
She did not approach to disturb them, rely watched silently, a faint, yet genuinely existing glimr of hope quietly surfacing in her eyes.
Perhaps this seemingly reckless, yet actually warm and transparent little cat could truly use her unique way to gently knock open that icy heart’s door, which had been tightly shut for millions of years.
From that day on, two small things were added to Phaethon’s life.
The first was eating grilled fish. Cipher 496 would always insist on grilling it for him. While she focused on turning the skewers over the fire, Phaethon would wait quietly nearby.
He still didn’t speak much. But after taking the grilled fish, he would carefully pick out every tiny bone, then eat it slowly.
The second was nding clothes. Even if it was just a small tear on a cuff, he would find needle and thread and nd it himself.
The new clothes Aglaea had given him were long since neatly stored away, but he still preferred to wear that old robe, now patched all over.
He was still that Deliverer battling the Black Tide. It’s just that now, on his journey, there was the smokey aroma of grilled fish and monts of peace while sewing.
Because he had co to realize: only a Deliverer capable of loving himself is qualified to save the world.
(End of mory)
...
"Ti flies so fast, Castorice 8128... it’s ti for you to leave." Phaethon suddenly lifted his gaze and said softly.
His tone was calm, yet carried a certainty that saw through fate.
Hearing this, Castorice’s slender fra trembled slightly. Her pale lips pressed together gently, a complex, indescribable guilt flowing in her eyes:
"Lord Phaethon... I am sorry. Sorry that I ultimately overca the trial at the end of the long, arduous journey and beca the demigod of 「Death」. If I had not borne this authority, you and Lord Phainon perhaps wouldn’t have had to..."
"It’s fine." Phaethon cut her off, his gaze distant, as if piercing through the ages of countless cycles. "A conflict between Phainon and myself was destined. To place this unavoidable rupture in the 8128th cycle—such a perfect number—perhaps... can also be considered a decent end."
Tap—tap—tap—
Clear footsteps sounded from behind, neither hurried nor slow, each step falling upon one’s heart. Phaethon did not turn around.
"Asterion," ca the voice of the newcor—Phainon 8128.
"You should reclaim the Corefla of Death now. To prevent... this world from being utterly destroyed."
"Letting them beco demigod was a mistake from the start. I thought... you would have Castorice... willingly hand over the Corefla." Beneath his calm words lay an almost imperceptible stiffness.
Phaethon slowly turned to face his forr brother.
Castorice stepped forward, bravely eting Phainon’s seemingly icy, yet deep within churning with boundless sorrow, azure eyes:
"Lord Phainon, your eyes still hold compassion. Tell , if I am unwilling to hand over the Corefla, will you... carve it out from my chest by force?"
Phainon took a deep breath, forcibly crushing the last trace of hesitation in his eyes. "In the previous cycle, and the one before that, and the one before that... you also asked this. The only difference is, this ti, your status is that of a true demigod."
His voice suddenly beca rapid and cold. "My patience is wearing thin. I don’t want to waste more words. Listen well, Castorice: hand over the Corefla, and we can pretend this confrontation never happened."
"Only then can Phaethon and I proceed to the next cycle. And you... and this dying world of yours... might have a sliver of hope."
"You truly... are no longer the Lord Phainon I knew, the one who would grieve for the departed." Castorice’s voice was as light as a sigh, laden with ineffable sorrow.
At that mont, Phaethon took two steps forward, placing himself between Castorice and Phainon. His gaze locked onto Phainon. "Phainon, before everything begins, answer one question: what exactly is ’saving the world’ in your eyes?"
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