"You cannot save it. The destruction of this world is already a foregone conclusion—the endpoint of entropy, an irreversible destiny.
Even if you have stolen the authority of the 'Law,' grasped that seemingly supreme power..."
The projection's voice even took on a tone of programmed pity, "...you cannot change the final outcome. The Black Tide will consume everything, reshape everything. You, and all you hold dear, will ultimately become nourishment for the birth of a new world. Struggle then, Asterion. Await destruction's embrace amidst your despair."
Phaethon's brow furrowed tightly. *Cowardly to this extent?* He didn't even dare attach a sliver of interactive consciousness to the projection anymore?
Had it completely devolved into a one-way, self-aggrandizing recording?
...
At that moment, outside Amphoreus
Lygus felt a part of his core was genuinely feeling a bit 'finished'.
The sensation was like having a magnum opus, painstakingly crafted over countless eons with immeasurable resources, on the verge of completion—only to be smashed to pieces by a precisely aimed brick falling from the sky at the final brushstroke!
The Iron Tomb! That construct designed to annihilate the Aeons! The experimental progress had clearly reached 99%! Just the final step remained! The dawn was in sight!
Why, at this critical juncture, did such an... unfathomably unpredictable variable emerge?
*Asterion!* The name burned in his consciousness like a red-hot brand.
And now? His most core administrator privileges were permanently frozen by over half thanks to that damned `Ultimate Protocol`!
He was like a regular user kicked out of his own supercomputer's admin account—and added to the highest-level blacklist to boot!
He'd even lost control of Amphoreus's Ultimate Protocol itself!
Now, forget intervening; he didn't even dare let a projection of his consciousness enter Amphoreus just to look!
While he knew he couldn't truly die within Amphoreus, who knew the activation conditions of that guy's ability? What if he tried sneaking in once actually got him counted as dead?
Had he... become entertainment in the eyes of some higher-dimensional existence? A clown to amuse Them?
A torrent of emotions—colossal rage, immense frustration, and a trace of... a fear he himself was unwilling to acknowledge—churned within his ancient consciousness.
"Enough..." After a long while, a sigh that seemed to emanate from the end of time echoed in the void. It was filled with forcibly suppressed brutality and a near-frigid resolve. "Asterion, you wish to play the savior? To ignite that insignificant spark of hope?" Lygus's consciousness fluctuated, issuing the final command.
"Then have it your way. Let this play... hasten towards its curtain call."
"Recreation Process, execute final phase directive. Black Tide propagation rate... maximize!"
"Let the Black Tide... come more fiercely! Consume this iteration of Amphoreus at the fastest possible speed!" The icy command rang like a funeral bell.
"After all..." A final thread of 'consolation' flitted through Lygus's thoughts, as if persuading himself to accept this clumsy damage control, "...isn't it said... that a complete reboot can solve 99% of system problems?"
"This time, let me... format it a little more thoroughly!"
...
As Phaethon descended the final stretch of stone steps from the Dawncloud Cliff, his pace steady but betraying a hint of weariness, the wound on his left hand still seeping blood slowly,
A pink figure, like a cherry blossom caught in a gust, shot out from the shadow of a nearby rock with an air of palpable anxiety!
"Phaethon—!" Cyrene's voice was laced with unmistakable worry. Her eyes, usually brimming with laughter, were now filled with alarm and distress.
She practically flung herself forward, without a word, seizing Phaethon's injured left hand tightly in both of hers, her movements frantic, even clumsy.
"You! How could you be so reckless! No matter how much you wanted to prove you're not siding with the Chrysos Heirs, you can't... you can't hurt yourself like this! ...Hyacine! Hyacine, come quick!"
Cyrene spoke while anxiously looking back for her companion, her pink hair flying wildly in the wind.
A warm ripple suddenly spread across the icy lake of Phaethon's heart, as if a stone had been dropped into it.
He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the figures gathering behind Cyrene:
Phainon, steady as a mountain, brows tightly knit;
Mydei, arms crossed, his expression complex yet unable to conceal his concern;
Hyacine, summoned by Cyrene, already stepping forward, hands aglow with a gentle, healing light;
Castorice, standing quietly, her eyes offering silent support;
The three little ones squeezed at the back of the crowd, their small faces tense with worry;
And the dignified Lady Aglaea, who now also showed a trace of solicitude...
Their gazes felt like intangible threads, wrapping around him.
This weighty warmth gave him a fleeting sense of... something akin to home.
But in the end, Phaethon still somewhat stiffly withdrew his left hand—the one still slowly seeping blood—from Cyrene's warm, soft grasp.
At the same time, he shifted slightly to avoid Hyacine's outstretched hand, shimmering with verdant healing light.
He forced a smile, attempting a casual tone. "Cyrene, I just used this hand in front of the entire citizenry to prove I wouldn't side with you Chrysos Heirs... Now the Chrysos Heirs are all here to bandage me up?" He paused. "I'd rather not give people reason to gossip so soon."
Cyrene's hands froze mid-air. Hyacine's movement halted.
The surrounding air seemed to freeze for an instant. The concern in his companions' eyes deepened, mixed with a heartaching helplessness.
Under their silent, heavy gaze, Phaethon felt an invisible pressure.
He took a deep breath, turning his gaze towards Aglaea in the crowd. He gave a slight nod, his voice low but clear:
"Lady Aglaea, the Council... those remnants of the old era still await their final disposition. Time is pressing. I... must take my leave."
Before his words fully faded, he had decisively turned and strode towards the grand, cold gates of the Council of Elders.
He did not look back, but his back remained ramrod straight. He could almost physically feel those several gazes still clinging to his back—warm, weighty, like silent sighs, yet also like silent support.
"Sorry... everyone..." This whisper was so light only he could hear it, lost in the wind sweeping the cliff face.
...
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the broad stone steps leading to the Council's main hall.
A stern, forbidding atmosphere began to permeate the air. Phaethon gathered his focus, preparing for the political reckoning to come.
However, just as he was about to step onto the final step and reach out to push open the massive doors symbolizing the core of power—