"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 moment, then this sea of clouds, this wisp of wind, will be missed by you forever."
"You're always saying 'wait until next time,' 'wait until everything concludes perfectly.' But Phaethon, the wind won't wait for you. When it comes, 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 become 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 become whole again, become 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 immense weight:
"For someone whose heart has already turned cold, who can no longer feel the beauty of life, what meaning 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 time, 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 time, truly and carefully, at the string of now lukewarm grilled fish in his hand.
Suddenly, he remembered Aglaea 496's hesitant look when she saw his torn clothes, remembered Cipher's eager excitement when she presented the boots like a treasure, and remembered 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 doorframe, 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, merely watched silently, a faint, yet genuinely existing glimmer 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 mending clothes. Even if it was just a small tear on a cuff, he would find needle and thread and mend 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 moments of peace while sewing.
Because he had come to realize: only a Deliverer capable of loving himself is qualified to save the world.
(End of Memory)
...
"Time flies so fast, Castorice 8128... it's time 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 frame 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 overcame the trial at the end of the long, arduous journey and became 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," came the voice of the newcomer—Phainon 8128.
"You should reclaim the Coreflame of Death now. To prevent... this world from being utterly destroyed."
"Letting them become demigod was a mistake from the start. I thought... you would have Castorice... willingly hand over the Coreflame." Beneath his calm words lay an almost imperceptible stiffness.
Phaethon slowly turned to face his former brother.
Castorice stepped forward, bravely meeting Phainon's seemingly icy, yet deep within churning with boundless sorrow, azure eyes:
"Lord Phainon, your eyes still hold compassion. Tell me, if I am unwilling to hand over the Coreflame, 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 me this. The only difference is, this time, your status is that of a true demigod."
His voice suddenly became rapid and cold. "My patience is wearing thin. I don't want to waste more words. Listen well, Castorice: hand over the Coreflame, 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 moment, Phaethon took two steps forward, placing himself between Castorice and Phainon. His gaze locked onto Phainon. "Phainon, before everything begins, answer me one question: what exactly is 'saving the world' in your eyes?"