However... what gushed from the severed neck was not pure, bright red blood, but was mixed with a strange, pale blue, viscous liquid that shimmered with a faint metallic luster.
...
"Hmm?" Phaethon looked at the blade in his hand, then glanced at the head on the floor and the peculiar "blood." He raised an eyebrow slightly and let out a thoughtful hum. "The feel of that decapitation... is rather interesting."
As if suddenly remembering something amusing, Phaethon walked over to the table laden with the Council's fine wines. He casually picked up an unopened bottle of vintage, pulled the cork, and immersed the golden thread Aglaea had given him—now stained with gore—into the clear, chilled liquor.
The dark red stains spread and diluted along the thread-like strand, dripping away with the flowing wine.
"Lady Aglaea, did you see everything that just happened?" He spoke softly to the thread, which was gradually regaining its brilliant golden color.
"Sigh... Phaethon, I gave you the golden thread not for you to... never mind. I saw it all. Caenis, the one I've struggled against openly and covertly for so many years... was actually an artificial human..." For the first time, a note of exhaustion seeped into Aglaea's voice. "An artificial puppet who had 'expel the Golden Descendants' engraved into her core programming. How... ironic."
A sigh came from the other end of the thread, but it ultimately faded into silence.
The Elders huddled against the wall widened their eyes. A wave of murmurs arose.
"What? Elder Caenis... is... is an artificial human?"
"No wonder! I always wondered why the leaders of the Cleaners over several generations were so similar."
"Me too! I thought they were all from the same family. But now it seems... we've been led by this... thing that's neither human nor ghost?"
...
Phaethon flicked the cleaned golden thread, shaking off the liquid droplets, and wrapped it back around his finger.
Only then did he turn around, that harmless smile back on his face as he scanned every ashen, trembling Elder present.
"So now..." Phaethon's voice was clear and pleasant. "Esteemed Elders of the Council, what are your... thoughts on my 'coup'?" His tone lifted slightly at the end, carrying a hint of teasing sweetness.
Meanwhile, the sharp sword in his hand, which had just performed the decapitation, still dripped with the thick fluid—a mixture of pale blue synthetic blood and scarlet human blood—tapping out a faint, yet utterly chilling, *drip... drip...* on the floor.
"..." The banquet hall fell into a dead silence, the air as heavy as solidified lead.
The silently spreading pool of blood outside the doors, and the complete lack of guards rushing in despite the enormous commotion, had long since revealed the hellish scene beyond.
Fear, like an icy tide, completely drowned the reason of everyone present.
Just then, a trembling voice, squeezed out as if with every last ounce of strength, rose from a corner. It carried a desperate, clawing will to survive:
"Elder Pha... Phaethon... is wise and mighty!" This voice was like the first spark.
Immediately, a wave of fawning erupted. Fear gave birth to the most twisted form of loyalty:
"Y-yes! Th-thanks to Elder Phaethon! His... his thunderous methods! He has excised the greatest tumor from the Council—that scourge, Caenis!"
"Elder Phaethon will surely lead our holy city of Okhema to unprecedented glory! He will restore the splendor of the Golden Age!"
"That's right! M-my youngest son has always regarded your illustrious deeds on the battlefield, Elder Phaethon, with idolatry! He dreams day and night of following in your footsteps!"
"Elder Phaethon is the true hope of our holy city! The choice of the people!"
...
Words of praise, like cheap perfume, were sprayed madly into the blood-filled air, trying to mask the bone-deep fear and stench.
Phaethon listened with a smile, but deep within his eyes lay an eternal, polar ice.
*I'll let you scum live a little longer for now...* he murmured silently in his heart. But this was by no means mercy, nor was it softness.
*Aglaea... she has already exhausted her heart and strength for this city.*
*Those trivial, troublesome, nauseating administrative affairs... must not wear her down any further. She deserves true peace and rest.*
His gaze fell back upon the group of Elders before him—startled birds desperately forcing obsequious smiles onto their faces. The corner of his mouth curved into a smile of ultimate coldness.
*And you... maggots struggling in the rotten mire... Your value is to replace her, to become the—'consumables'—that keep the massive machine of the holy city running.*
*Don't worry. Your coming days will be a living hell.*
...
Dawncloud Cliff, On the Eve of the Citizens' Assembly
The biting morning wind sliced like invisible blades across the soaring platform of Dawncloud Cliff.
The massive, ring-shaped assembly ground, capable of holding ten thousand, stood silent at the cliff's edge, above a churning sea of clouds below.
Sparse crowds began to gather. Whispered conversations were torn and amplified by the wind across the spacious cliff top, only to be swallowed by the cold stone.
"What's going on? This early in the morning... what scheme are those Council folks cooking up now?" A middle-aged man wrapped in a thick cloak rubbed his hands, his tone full of confusion and wariness.
"Who knows! The city was restless last night, quite a commotion... and now suddenly calling a Citizens' Assembly?" His companion lowered his voice, eyes darting around uneasily. "I heard... another city-state to the west has completely lost contact, didn't even send a distress signal... Could it be..."
"Shh! Don't speculate wildly!" an old man scolded, but his clouded eyes were similarly filled with worry. He looked toward a spot that stood empty. "Strange... Where is Lady Aglaea? Normally by this time, she would have been there long ago."
An atmosphere mixed with bewilderment, suspicion, and a lurking unease, like a cold mist, spread among the gathering crowd.
Behind the Assembly Ground, the Secret Passage
Cold stone walls isolated the noise and cold wind from outside. The passage was dimly lit, with only a few wall lamps casting swaying shadows.
Aglaea, the Guardian of the Holy City, stood there quietly, like an unchanging sculpture from antiquity.
Her robes were immaculate, her golden hair flowing with a soft light, but those eyes that once held starlike wisdom and emotion now seemed like dust-covered glass, calm to the point of emptiness.
Her gaze rested upon Phaethon, who had just finished processing all the Cleaners using Caenis's memories.
The Phaethon before her now wore the uniform that symbolized "Deliverance" in a certain world. Aglaea had personally attended to it until not a single crease remained, and no trace of last night's bloodstain could be found.
He stood there like a sword sheathed, its edge concealed, yet radiating an undeniable aura of command.