Tap... tap... tap...
Footsteps echoed across the boundless amber earth, crisp and solitary.
Phaethon walked through this space, manifested by his own will and the might of Preservation.
Each step fell upon crystals sealing countless memories.
His expression was calm, devoid of joy or sorrow, only a profound weariness and resolve, honed over more than thirty million cycles, settled deep in his eyes.
He raised a hand, and another file was precisely extracted.
He gazed at it for a moment, then gave a gentle push. That "file," representing a person from the past, rapidly solidified like an insect encased in resin, becoming part of the vast amber earth beneath his feet, another eternal piece in the collection.
He knew that "Anaxa 33550336" was trying to expose the lie he had meticulously woven through endless cycles, to tear open the curtain named "prophecy."
But that no longer mattered.
The lie had been a necessary tool. But it was only to collect the Titan Coreflames more efficiently, only to allow the flame of Amphoreus's civilization to continue through countless destructions and rebirths.
However, a turning point had arrived. Amphoreus, this lone boat tossed countless times in the dark end times, no longer needed to rely on endless cycles to sustain itself.
He, Phaethon, had touched that indestructible path, the cornerstone protecting the universe—Preservation.
Qliphoth had answered his plea, promising to seal away, in immortal amber, all thirty million Amphoreuses that existed only in his memory.
Since this universe's laws allowed consciousness to match new vessels, he would preserve all the consciousness accumulated over those thirty million-plus cycles through the power of Preservation.
He would use this amber, born of an Aeon, to forge an unprecedented Ark of Consciousness.
Then... through his own "false" hands, he would let all living beings of those thirty million Amphoreuses... reach for that real starry sky.
As for himself? The place where three Paths clash unto death is not easy to escape from. Wanting to let something leave... it's impossible without paying a price...
...
Deep within the core of the Dawn Device, Phaethon slowly opened his eyes.
His consciousness withdrew from that spiritual realm built of amber and obsession, returning to this body that bore too much weight.
Upon returning, he leaned against the cold wall, softly murmuring the address that had sustained him across countless cycles:
"Cyrene..."
Phaethon's somewhat weary voice echoed softly in the empty room.
"I actually know you wanted me to take another path, one that relies on the people from beyond the stars. But..."
His gaze refocused, filled with unyielding resolve.
"But the burden of saving Amphoreus should not, and must not, fall upon the shoulders of any 'passersby'—no matter how good their intentions."
"Because it is unfair to them; they have their own starry skies and journeys. And it is unfair to Amphoreus; our fate should be shaped by our own hands."
"I will save Amphoreus. In my own way. Because... only someone truly born here, grown here, and who loves this place can bear the heavy responsibility of leading it into the future."
...
Meanwhile, the Vortex of Genesis.
When Anaxa, following the method he had acquired, guided everyone through the final luminescent barrier that rippled like water, the sight before them made all present hold their breath.
This was not an altar deep underground, built of rock, as they might have imagined. It was a boundless, strange space as if situated within the interior of a sea of star.
Myriads of stars slowly rotated overhead and all around. And at the center of the space hovered a water altar (spirit basin), similar to the one they saw in the River of Souls' depths, but vastly larger.
The altar's interior seemed to contain a miniature, breathing starry sky.
"Is this the legendary... Vortex of Genesis?" Hysilens's voice held a barely perceptible tremor. She involuntarily stepped forward, her slender fingers gently brushing the altar's cool surface.
The ancient patterns and flowing runes carved upon it gave her an indescribable, familiar feeling from deep within her bloodline—an aura belonging to the Ocean.
Aglaea's eyes, always holding wisdom and poetry, widened. Her gaze was firmly captured by the starlit drape unfurled like a dome directly above the altar.
Upon that drape, twelve Titan symbols, each radiating a different shape and light, were slowly revealing themselves.
Her voice was soft as a whisper, filled with unbelievable shock. "The Dromas fanatic's speculation... was actually true? A place like this truly exists? A... final altar specifically for gathering and submitting all Titan Coreflames? We... have been deceived?"
All the Golden Descendants present fell into speechless silence, beholding this scene beyond imagination, directly connected to the world's origin.
The air was thick with a mixture of reverence and confusion.
Suddenly—Tribbie seemed to receive a message from someone.
"Agy! Something terrible has happened! The Holy City... the Holy City...!" She jerked her head up, her usually lively voice now filled with unprecedented panic and fear.
"Teacher, do not panic excessively. Speak slowly..." Aglaea instinctively reached out, wanting to calm the clearly extremely unsettled Tribbie, to have her explain calmly.
However, her comforting words had only just begun when her perpetually gentle face instantly lost all color.
Aglaea's heart lurched as if pierced by an ice pick! Because... the protective golden threads outside the Holy City had snapped!
"Hmm? Dux Goldweaver? Dux Fatorum? What is the matter with you two?" Cerydra keenly detected the two's abnormal distress. Her petite frame instantly tensed, the authority of the "Law" naturally emanating from her. She frowned, looking at the pale-faced Aglaea and Tribbie.
Tribbie and Aglaea quickly exchanged a glance, seeing the same horror and confirmation in each other's eyes.
Without need for further words, the two spoke in unison, delivering the news that sank everyone's hearts to the depths:
"The Holy City Okhema—is under attack!!!"
...
Not long before, in a quiet, tidy ward within the Holy City of Okhema.
Hyacine carefully carried a bowl of freshly brewed, bitter and faintly herbal-scented medicinal soup and gently pushed open the door.
On the sickbed, the Skyfolk Clan's most esteemed elder—Seliose—was half-sitting, leaning against soft pillows. Slightly surprising, her complexion appeared much better than before.