"I... I just..." Cyrene bit her lip, her voice so faint it was almost inaudible. "This is, after all, the final Corefla that needs to be submitted in this world. I want... to wait a little longer."
She lifted her head, offering Tribios an apologetic, sowhat strained smile.
"Pfft," Tribios was amused by her expression, her tone light, trying to dispel the tension. "Is our Cyrie actually nervous?"
She affectionately put an arm around Cyrene’s shoulders, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Let tell you, when Agy submitted the ’Romance’ Corefla, she was even more apprehensive than you!"
"She was torn—she wanted to ask the Corefla for eyes that could see the truth of all things in the world, yet she was afraid she might lose her own beautiful, jewel-like eyes in the process. She was so conflicted she almost rubbed the hem of her skirt to shreds."
"But you know what happened?" Trianne Seliose’s smile grew brighter. "The ’Romance’ Corefla responded to her with incredible gentleness!"
"Agy isn’t just Okhema’s most skillful weaver now; she’s also the most famous painter in the entire holy city!"
Seeing Cyrene’s still-knitted brows, thinking she was still afraid, she continued in her reassuring tone:
"Cyrie, I’ll tell you a secret: it’s because of this that Agy still always loses argunts to Hysilens."
"Whenever they bicker, if Hysilens just brings up how scared and tearful Agy was when she submitted her Corefla, Agy is instantly ’checkmated’! Haha, it’s still so funny to rember."
However, these words of comfort did not relax Cyrene. Instead, they felt like fine needles, gently pricking at her heart.
The Coreflas responded gently to her companions? Such a beautiful experience? Yet it was precisely this beauty that made her feel an increasingly indescribable ache and heaviness.
"Mhm... I believe... the ’Ti’ Corefla... will also respond to gently." Cyrene murmured in agreent, yet her eyes uncontrollably grew slightly warm. She fought the urge to cry.
"That’s the spirit!" Tribios patted her back reassuringly. "Alright, Cyrie, I won’t disturb you any further! Take your ti, there’s no rush."
"Don’t worry, with several Demigods stationed here now, Okhema is as solid as a rock. That elusive figure in black absolutely cannot break in." Considerately deciding to leave Cyrene so ti alone, she turned and left the hall.
The vast hall was now empty, containing only Cyrene and the twelve Coreflas soon to gather.
She still did not move, rely standing quietly, like a frozen statue.
She was not afraid, nor was she hesitant about the submission itself. She was waiting for a response she had yearned for across countless cycles.
Ti ticked by. The silence here was broken only by the faint hum of energy flowing from the Coreflas.
Finally, an extrely soft, faint sigh drifted over from behind Cyrene.
Cyrene’s body shuddered violently.
She hurriedly raised a hand, roughly wiping away the lingering moisture at the corner of her eye, forcing the corners of her mouth to lift into that playful arc he knew so well, before slowly turning around.
"Phaethon, who’s been hiding from for so many cycles... is finally willing to see ? ... ♪"
She was still smiling, her voice striving to maintain its usual lightness, yet inevitably betraying a trace of tremor and grievance.
"Cyrene..." Phaethon gazed at the girl before him, stubborn enough to break his heart. His voice was saturated with endless weariness and incomprehension. "Why... are you so stubborn?"
This was Eternal Recurrence #2,825,638.
Having endured nearly three million cycles of repetition, his eyes had long been worn deep and weathered by ti and burden. Yet, the robe he wore was unusually clean.
Though it was covered in dense, ticulous stitching and patches, it bore little dust.
Cyrene did not answer his question. Because she knew that at this mont, any verbal answer would be pale, incapable of explaining this persistence and wait spanning an astronomical number of cycles.
"Phaethon," she suddenly threw herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him, burying her face against his chest, responding to his query with a choked question. "How could you bear it... not coming to see for so long? How could you bear it?"
The warmth of her body seeped through his clothes. Phaethon’s body stiffened for an instant, a corner of him softening unavoidably.
He sighed softly. His hand lifted hesitantly, finally settling on her soft short pink hair, stroking it with the lightest touch.
"To keep the lie from being exposed... To ensure all being can continue to exist." His voice was low, carrying a undeniable reason that brooked no argunt.
"To ensure this lie that has deceived countless cycles remains intact, the best thod is for , the ’hand behind the curtain,’ to vanish from the stage forever, to never let them know of my existence. Only then will they not doubt."
"But... why do you have to do this?" Cyrene lifted her head, looking at his face so close through tear-blurred eyes, seeking the answer deep within those pupils. "Why carry all this alone?"
Phaethon looked up I to the food. "I felt it... the Erudition’s gaze."
He murmured, his tone carrying a hint of uncertainty. "No, not a direct regard. It was more like... a ’blessing.’"
His focus returned, settling back on Cyrene’s face. "As I continuously deduce the mysteries of the ’Pri Mover of Life,’ my mastery over the underlying rules of the entire world of Amphoreus is deepening."
"If... if I can completely master Amphoreus, this ’scepter’... perhaps, the entire world can break free from its predetermined fate of destruction and attain true salvation."
Cyrene was montarily stunned, digesting this astonishing information. "This... is the path you chose for yourself?"
"No," Phaethon slowly shook his head, his voice light yet as heavy as mountains. "This is the path chosen together by all life on Amphoreus, with their will to survive. A path... pursuing absolute continuity, where not a single person will perish due to ’Destruction.’"
"Is that so... I see..." Cyrene repeated softly, her heart a turmoil of mixed feelings.
Should she be happy about this? After all, Amphoreus seed to have real hope of being saved.
But why... did this cold, precise, program-like "salvation" fill her with a bone-chilling unease down her spine, sothing she couldn’t bring herself to like at all?
As Phainon stepped onto this platform now holding twelve Coreflas.
The two exchanged a glance. No words were needed. The mont of parting had arrived.
...
After the conclusion of Eternal Recurrence #2,865,638.
Cyrene’s figure appeared within a strange space.
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