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Gold has always attracted attention. It's associated with wealth, happiness, and a carefree life... Perhaps this is one of the reasons why, over a thousand years ago, swords were stained with golden blood; perhaps this is why Phainon's gaze was drawn to the blade piercing his chest and the shimmering liquid flowing down it, that seemed alien and unrelated to him.

The black-robed swordsman acted swiftly and mercilessly. Having finished the last aspirant to divinity, he drew his blade and let the body fall with a dull thud near the Vortex of  Genesis, his duty unfulfilled...

***

The chamber was bathed in a warm, golden glow. The Dawn Device of Kephale was a blessing that, instead of an any gift, reminded of the titan's boundless love for his creations, warming them even in their most desperate moments. Aglaea bathed in this light, but neither her blurred vision nor her ruined body could sense what the priests and faithful followers chanted about.

The woman's figure stood upright, somehow evoking a hidden nostalgia, as if Phainon had finally met his mentor after a long separation. Watching her, he almost missed the honeyed sound of her voice.

“…I see no reason why I should interfere with your studies with Anaxa.”

"I thought you two had a fight," he muttered uncertainly, looking away. "Sorry, graduation from the Grove of Epiphany was delayed because I didn't spend enough time studying. It's not his fault."

"Phainon".

The man looked like a lost puppy when a familiar voice called to him. Looking up at Aglaea, he encountered neither condemnation for defending the teacher nor encouragement for his actions. The woman's eyes were like precious stones, dulled in luster but still captivating in their depth and hidden thoughts. A warm golden thread wrapped around Phainon's wrist as she continued,

"He's the one who will teach you what neither I nor my mentor can," Aglaea said vaguely, still acknowledging other's accomplishments. "My only concern is how dedicated you are to the Flame Chasers' journey."

"I…"

Phainon didn't know how to respond to the one who had extended her hand to him at his most vulnerable moment, given him a purpose in life beyond vengeance and a home to which he could return. The luxurious garments she had woven with such love and care for her successor now pressed against him, urging him to say something. To deny what had been said. But he couldn't.

The voices of his mentor and professor merged into a cacophony in his head, their argument so furious that no one dared interrupt them. They spoke of prophecy, the future of humanity, and of him.

Noticing his doubts, Aglaea tightened the golden thread around his wrist, bringing him back to reality.

"This is the second journey of the Flame Chasers' journey," the woman's gaze never left her successor, but her memories carried her back to a time when she still heard battle cries, felt solid ground beneath her feet, and believed in a bright future. "If my predecessor or I had had any doubts about the fulfillment of the prophecy, the blood of a Chrysos Heirs would have continued to spill upon the earth."

Aglaea rarely spoke of Caesar, as if the topic were taboo. However, the story of the first leader of the Flame Chasers was buried along with the city, engulfed by the black wave, and no one remembered it often enough to visit Goldweaver and discuss the past.

Perhaps even Cypher, who accompanied her on the day the tyrant's blood was spilled, would not have spoken of it.

"I'm not asking you to trust me blindly; you must become a better leader than I was and not repeat the mistakes of your predecessors. But… if you don't yet see the future I'm weaving, protect what's dear to you ."

"I understand, Aglaea. You can trust me."

These words weighed heavily on his heart, as if he were lying, but it was true. He longed to live up to the expectations and hopes of others, to become the Deliverer and usher in a new dawn for this world... but was he truly the one spoken of in the prophecy?

Was Phainon the one who could promise Aglaea and the others that he would lead them to Era Nova?

***

He was awakened by the buzzing of a lamp. He could barely open his eyes after a long sleep, his head splitting with pain and a honey-sweet voice echoing in his ears. He couldn't make out the words, only a strange feeling that flared within him, forcing him to try to get up.

Only after some time did he realize he was in an empty room, his limbs chained to the couch. Standing above him was a man whose face he could barely focus on through the ringing in his ears.

"Anaxa!" the man exclaimed, first in surprise, then in delight. "Help me get out. I need to get the coreflame of Reason ..."

But the professor didn't answer; no, moreover, he paid no attention to the twitching man in the straitjacket, writing something down on a clipboard. Only when he finished did Anaxa look at him and conclude succinctly,

"It's okay. You don't need to rush anywhere, Khaslana ."

"What do you mean..."

Khaslana continued to try to escape, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. Despite his confusion, he knew he didn't belong here: if all the Titan cores were immersed in the Vortex of Genesis, the Era Nova would begin, and Cyrene's sacrifice, like the cycles he had lived through, would be rendered meaningless.

If the situation required it, he was ready to share his plan with Anaxa.…

"I thought you were getting better, so I decided to stop giving you the medication. It seems they triggered a relapse," but the professor merely sighed. His red eyes remained empty, more like a doll's than a living person's. "Judging by your expression, you don't believe me again. We've been through this countless times."

Now that he'd said it, Khaslana felt as if he'd said it before. Looking around the room again, he didn't find it unfamiliar. The walls and ceiling were made of white squares, and everything was so ordinary that it evoked no additional emotions in the patient, other than a lingering melancholy.

"Anaxa, why are you saying that?" the man tried again, looking into the familiar eyes, but found neither tenderness nor warmth there. "I'll tell you the truth about the titans, about those above them. Just let me go..."

"' 'Beyond Amphoreus, there exist entities called Aeons','" the doctor said wearily, as if he'd repeated it countless times before. "As I said, you won't see these 'dreams' anymore... and yes, stop calling me that."

In the dim light, a golden liquid flowed from the syringe. Approaching the bound Khaslana, who was struggling again, Anaxa bared his hand and inserted the needle into his skin. Perhaps due to the intense movements, the "medicine" took effect quickly, and the man began to feel drowsy.

Returning the empty syringe to its case, Anaxa glanced at the patient one last time. Whether it was a trick of the light or reality, Khaslana noticed a strange smile on his lips.

"The experiment is almost complete..."

Then darkness fell.

...

Perhaps days had passed since that vivid and macabre dream, or perhaps even yesterday. Confined to a straitjacket and shackles, Khaslana couldn't tell time, and the regular "treatment sessions" only further confused him, even though the doctor said he was getting better.

A cry of pain escaped the man as another jolt of electricity pierced his body. It felt as if thousands of ants were gnawing at his flesh, tearing it apart, and his head split open like a watermelon. Feeling nothing, he sat motionless in his chair, listening to Anaxa's calm voice.

"The shock therapy was effective. After the drug was administered, the number of hallucinations decreased significantly," he dictated into the microphone. "Subject NeiKos496 has become calmer and more focused on reality. According to preliminary estimates, his discharge date is near. End of recording."

According to the doctor, he suffered from a severe form of schizophrenia, in which fiction intertwined with reality, almost completely replacing it. Khaslana disagreed, because despite the fragmentary nature of his memories, he still burned with a burning desire to save everyone. Out of pity or as part of his treatment, Anaxa discussed his dreams with him.

While Khaslana was unconscious, he was returned to the hospital bed and tied up again before he could escape. Raising the black cloth, the doctor stared at the patient for a moment, then put it down and suddenly said,

"We won't need that today," he said without hesitation, sitting down in the chair where the patient had recently received a course of electroshock. "As your doctor, it's my responsibility to prepare you for life in the outside world."

The man couldn't comprehend how his refusal to wear an eye patch during a visit to the hallway had anything to do with his discharge, but he blinked lazily. His mind was still mired in residual pain, but Anaxa's presence and care filled him with an incomparable euphoria. Whether now or in dreams, he always evoked in him a special feeling of awe and peace.

While he watching at Anaxa in delirium, a familiar smile appeared on the doctor's face.

"Khaslana, I'm always open to questions," he reminded him gently. "I'll be leaving soon to attend to other matters, so if you've come to your senses, don't hesitate to ask."

 "...there were no other people here, as far as I can remember. So why do I see them there?" he avoided calling his memories "dreams," but the doctor didn't point that out.

His scarlet eyes remained blank, like fermented wine, devoid of any glimmer of emotion, which was both frightening and captivating. Hiding this flaw behind her long eyelashes, Anaxa patiently replied,

"When we return, you'll see the other patients' rooms. But they're empty. Is there anything else from your dreams that interests you?"

Empty... Khaslana muttered the word silently. A terrible premonition overtook him—in fragments of memory, he pierced the chest of a man who shared his own face; he stained the blade with his comrade's blood without a shadow of a doubt; his friend, whose eyes held the beauty of death, fell at his hands; the most cheerful girl ended her life with a smile etched on her lips...

And the only person whose blood he did not stain his hands with was Anaxa, who sat in front of him and continued to listen with care. A shudder ran through the man's body as he realized what might have happened to the other patients and why he himself had ended up in a straitjacket.

“What happened to them?” he managed to ask, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to know the answer.

“A failure during treatment,” the doctor explained briefly. "No need to worry. You... are the perfect test subject . So everything will be fine."

And there it was again. Anaxa spoke of a breakthrough treatment method, then referred to him as a test subject. Khaslana couldn't tell whether this was simply a quirk of his speech or a deliberate assumption, since he was the only other person there.

After checking the time on his wristwatch, the doctor stood up from his seat and wheeled the hospital bed back to the ward.

Khaslana saw this corridor for the first time. It was dimly lit with white light, casting deep shadows over everything. There were sections where the light was dark, plunging those walking into darkness until they reached the next light. Every few meters, there were rooms with signs with no numbers or names of patients... only code name.

KaLos618… OreXis945… PoleMos600… EpieiKeia216… HapLotes405… He didn't have time to read all the signs, and some of them remained shrouded in shadow.

“These names… They seem familiar to me,” Haslana muttered, feeling a twinge of headache.

"You spent a long time with these test subjects, but their wills weren't as strong as yours. After they left the experiment, your condition worsened."

"That's how..."

Although Khaslana seemed to agree with the doctor, he still felt like something was being hidden from him. The empty hospital, just the two of them, the strange drugs and treatments, and his own memories... Could he really be sick? And yet, why did Anaxa call it an experiment, and him a test subject?

Leaving the patient in his room, the doctor carefully turned off the light in the empty room. Just before leaving, he whispered goodbye, as if they were close,

"Good night, Khaslana. I hope you get better soon..."

His figure was shrouded in the dim white light from the hallway, making him look sinister and dangerous, but as Khaslana looked at his familiar features and gentle smile, he couldn't help but feel safe with Anaxa. Trusting him in either world was an instinct, a way of feeling safe. Was it because he was his doctor here, and his teacher there?

Exhausted by the shock therapy and the emotions he had experienced today, he quickly fell asleep, not knowing whether he would have another vivid dream or remain in a state of emptiness.

***

The oven radiated a scorching heat that filled the entire kitchen. Phainon had a certain admiration for the warriors of Kremnos and their ability to cook at such high temperatures. Removing his cloak and fanning himself with the recipe sheets he'd borrowed from Mydei, he continued speaking, leaning comfortably against the table.

"...for a moment, I thought Professor Anaxa had decided to return to the baths of Okchema, but I was mistaken. This scholar was so frightened when he was called by the name of a notorious blasphemer that he almost fainted," he laughed. His smile was youthful and not at all like that of an adult.

"Ah! How much can we talk about Naxy!" Trianne exclaimed discontentedly, stamping her foot. "De, aren't you tired either?"

"What?"

Unlike the two slackers, Mydei was immersed in preparing dinner for all the Chrysos Heirs, as well as fulfilling an additional order from three priests of Oronix, who wanted sweet cookies. Cooking was like a battlefield: if you were distracted, the ingredients would lose their flavor. But, being a good friend, he still tried to listen to Phainon's long stories about a certain scholar from the Grove of Epiphany.

"It's all right," Mydei concluded curtly. "The Deliverer rarely speaks of such things about anyone."

"Hey!"

Phainon laughed, and Trianne pouted charmingly, clearly displeased that her student had sided with his friend over her. And who would have guessed she was over a thousand years old? Glancing at the oven where her cookies were baking, she turned away, her nose in the air, and headed for the kitchen door.

“We have some things to do,” she stated confidently, as if she hadn’t just run away.

Silence reigned once again in the kitchen, broken only by the sizzling of meat in the cooking utensils. Never tired at all, Mydei skillfully managed to prepare several dishes at once, so one could not help but think that he had been a cook all his life, and not a warrior and crown prince.

Leaving the meat to simmer over low heat, he turned to Phainon and asked directly:

"Why don't you just go to him?"

“If it were that easy, I would do it,” he understood without further explanation.

"That's not like you."

Mydei was absolutely right: his friend was a madman who could have started his mornings with a jog to the Grove of Epiphany and bothered the professor every day if he wanted, but he didn't. Head bowed, Phainon crumpled the pieces of paper in his hands, unsure how to express his feelings.

But perhaps because he didn’t like to be overly frank, he could only force a smile and throw in an ordinary joke.

"I'm afraid Professor Anaxa will get too tired of me, ha-ha. You don't know him, so you don't know his harsh teaching methods."

Seeing that Phainon was not going to talk about it, Mydei did not intervene.

The search for truth is a lonely path. Sometimes Phainon caught himself wondering why exactly Anaxa should delve into the dusty secrets of their world when he could entrust it to him. Be it one dream or thousands, he was ready to fulfill the professor's request. But Anaxa remained silent, his gaze filled with loneliness, hidden behind the tenderness he showed everyone around him.

Every time he wanted to go to the Grove of Epiphany, he remembered the expression on Anaxa's face in moments of mirth. He was a man who had consciously chosen to push others away.

Looking at Phainon, Mydei could only say the same thing as always,

"I hope you have enough courage."

The phrase resonated in his heart, as if awakening something within him. But just as he was about to answer, the clatter of heels echoed in the hallway, and he sank back into a sleep-like state. The warmth from the stove was strangely soothing, and the approaching sound inspired an unusual thrill, as if a momentous event were about to occur.

However, turning around, Phainon saw Castorice passing by. A familiar black cloak concealed her figure. She would not have noticed the late visitors if she hadn't been called.

"Castroice, where have you been this time?" Phainon asked playfully, eager to hear another story from the Servant of Death. There was something captivating in the way she described her travels, the expression of human emotions, and how she presented them in poetry. "Castroice..."

Suddenly, the warm kitchen, filled with the enticing aroma of food, transformed into a scorching battlefield, where a deafening battle cry rang out. His blue eyes filled with horror at the contrast: the graceful, princess-like girl stood with her eyes wide open, while black sores crawled across her body like snakes.

Her thin limbs were unnaturally contorted, like a puppet, and her mouth was open, either in an attempt to speak or in pain as her skin melted under the influence of something unknown.

"Lord... Phainon..."

As the man rushed toward Castorice and extended his hand in a reckless attempt to do something for her, the Servant of Death crumbled into black fragments of flesh, as if suddenly transformed into a rotting corpse. His fingers touched the soft flesh, and Phainon's body shuddered.

Frozen before what had once been his friend, he couldn't come to his senses. His gaze was riveted on the crimson veins visible on the surface of the black body, until someone shouted at him:

"Deliverer, stop looking around!"

These words brought him back to reality. The sword felt familiar in his worn palms, the sounds of battle made his blood boil and his heart pound, carving a single emotion into it—hatred. He had no time to mourn the fallen; only a survivor had the right to the luxury of grief.

Phainon didn't know at what point the cozy kitchen turned into a bloody battlefield.

Fire burned in his chest, growing with every swing of the blade. It threatened to incinerate his body every time he saw the familiar sight: Aglaea, falling like a limp seamstress, engulfed by a black tide; Hyacine, sitting by the body of the fallen, trying to comfort him while black liquid flowed from her throat and eyes; Mydei, falling upon his fallen warriors, covered by a black wave...

The image awakened a hidden feeling within him, burning his body from within, scorching his skin and muscles. Something like this couldn't inspire the despair of one man; it resembled the heartbreaking howl of pain of millions of souls, fuel for a useless fire.

Alone in the middle of the battlefield, Phainon clutched his chest, sweat streaming down his face, evaporating instantly. Digging his fingers into his flesh, he seemed to want to reach out and rip out his burning heart, filled with despair, hatred, grief, and a sense of injustice.

"If dawn doesn't come..."

These words were drowned out by the silence of the battlefield, stained with the golden blood of Destruction.

***

The hallways were deafeningly silent, broken by a prolonged creaking sound from one of the chambers. The room, bleached to the point of disgust, was immersed in dense darkness, allowing a wild imagination to conjure up any image it desired.

When Khaslana awoke again, his body was tightly bound with restraints along his legs, torso, and neck. Still consumed by the rage tearing through him, Khaslana twitched on the couch as if convulsing. Saliva trickled down his chin from his fury, and capillaries burst in his eyes—if anyone had seen him like this, they wouldn't have been surprised that the decision had been made to immobilize him.

Suddenly, a strange aroma invaded his space, confusing his consciousness. It was as if dirt had been thrown onto the flames blazing within him, and everything was shrouded in a haze of bygone sensations.

"If you're so sensitive, you'll regret it."

For a moment, he thought Anaxa had come to see him when he saw the familiar, doll-like red eyes. But a stranger loomed over him, a captivatingly mysterious and artificial smile on her lips, continuing to peer coldly at the lost Khaslana.

Finally pulling away from him, she straightened up and allowed herself to be seen in the strange light: it was sometimes scarlet, sometimes pink; sometimes it came closer, illuminating the stranger's features, sometimes it retreated, plunging them both into darkness. Sitting down on a chair that appeared out of nowhere, she opened an umbrella over her head, making him think she, too, was crazy.

"Are you one of the patients..?" Khaslan asked, more reflexively than anything else, still teetering on the edge of consciousness. The pink hair seemed familiar, but he hadn't had much of an impression of the girl herself.

The doctor was lying, and there were other people here too? That's why they kept him in check, and often blindfolded him...

"Patient?" the girl tilted her head with the same smile, which, combined with her wide eyes, looked false and unnatural. "Do I look like someone in need of treatment?"

To be honest, Khaslana, who wasn't confined to a hospital bed, had no business talking about this. But the stranger clearly looked like another mental hospital patient who'd managed to get out and take a walk... Thinking about this, the man, instead of answering, began asking,

"Help me get out of here!"

But this time the stranger ignored him, continuing to stare with her hypnotic scarlet eyes. Her nimble fingers twirled the lady's umbrella, and the scarlet pattern on it also enchanted him.

"You're in a straitjacket, and I'm not," she answered her own question. "I can leave anytime as long as you're both locked in here. So how can I be a patient?"

The brief irritation caused by the stranger's behavior subsided when she finished speaking, and seeing the surprise on his face, she looked even more pleased. Twirling her umbrella once more, she rose from her chair and cast Khaslana one last glance, devoid of either sympathy or mockery.

"Now is the time to meet a friend."

"Wait! What?" the man exclaimed, jerking toward her, but the old bed only creaked beneath him. "At least answer that last question..."

He didn't see whether the stranger turned to look at him or had already disappeared. In the dense darkness of the room, he searched for the dim glow that had accompanied their entire conversation, and suddenly asked quietly,

"Your friend... is this Anaxa?"

He based his guess on both his own feelings and what he knew. In his vague memories, a certain pink-haired girl was friends with a scientist doctor . Could this stranger really be her? Besides, it seemed there were only two of them in the hospital—Khaslana hadn't had any visits from other doctors or patients, and he hadn't encountered anyone or heard any extraneous sounds.

Just when he had lost hope of finding out the answer, a voice rang out, quiet as a disappearing mirage.

"Let's just say we've become involuntarily close. Will that be a satisfactory answer?"

As the words faded, Khaslana's face suddenly lit up with a bright light. During their conversation, translucent jellyfish floated around the room, as if woven from the veil of sleep. They settled on the walls, leaving crimson imprints, and one of them landed on the man's face, bringing relief to him and easing the burning heat.

But at the same time, he had the feeling that he had lost something.

…

The iron taste of the spoon, the warmth of the broth, and the lingering taste on the tip of his tongue—all of this indicated that the hospital room before him was real, and the person sitting next to him, carefully feeding him, was the real Anaxa. As usual, the dim light illuminated his face, giving his skin a sickly appearance, and his gaze remained distant.

Was it because the doctor was accustomed to witnessing death? Khaslana didn't want to think about how lonely he felt.

"You're so obedient. Are you up to something, or are you just trying not to cause any problems for your doctor?"

"I didn't do anything strange..."

"Then who destroyed my treatment room?"

His recollection of the incident was incomplete. When Khaslana first arrived at the hospital, his condition was grave, and during a bout of delirium, he broke several instruments and punched a wall...

"I've already apologized for that."

"It's good that you understand your mistake. But I brought this up for another reason," Anaxa explained, setting down his cutlery and wiping the grease from the corners of his mouth. "The time of your discharge will be a momentous occasion. As the one who made you who you are, I consider it my duty to teach you to live without limitations."

"This means..."

"Tomorrow, before our meeting, you'll go for a walk. Take a look around in this moment of freedom," something ominous rang in the doctor's raised lips, but Khaslana ignored it. "First of all, is there anything you'd like to hear from me?"

He sounded like a storyteller offering yet another tale. Even his speech seemed to be playing with the listener, who wanted to know more the more he talked. And the patient, who had been listening to everything he said, perked up and asked,

"Can you... tell me why I and the others are here?"

"Oh, isn't it obvious?" Anaxa closed his eyes, tapping a rhythm with his finger on his knee. He seemed to enjoy playing with his patient. "I'm your doctor, and you're the patient..."

"But that's not the whole truth."

Slightly intrigued by Khaslana's insight, the doctor looked at him intently. His gaze was like that of a researcher who has made a breakthrough in his experiment and is eagerly awaiting the behavior of his lab rat.

Meanwhile, the patient began to talk about what he had collected over the past few days.

"No matter how you look at it, there's no one here but you and me. Isn't that odd for a functioning hospital?" he kept silent about the mysterious stranger who had appeared like a mirage and then vanished. "More likely, you're hiding and... conducting some kind of experiment."

“Not bad,” the doctor said dryly, neither praising nor scolding.

From the outside, this scene seemed insane: a madman in a straitjacket, chained to a hospital bed, asks his doctor how he ended up there, makes theories, and the doctor listens and fuels his curiosity.

They both looked mentally ill, but there was no one who could tell them so.

"This story began a long time ago," Anaxa began, looking at the door as if trying to recall a specific day. "Life is so absurd and stupid... One day, I made what I now call my greatest mistake. It became the source of all my troubles, the root of everything. To correct it, I embarked on a long experiment, and the result was you, Khaslana."

It sounded like a revelation, but from these words and fragmentary memories, the patient still couldn't piece together what had happened. Meanwhile, Anaxa moved his hand aside, gesturing like a true storyteller.

"I see you're interested in those who are no longer with us, and their fates. I won't tell you how they ended up... But they're also my precious test subjects, whom I wouldn't mind talking about. For example, EleOs252 should be very familiar to you. She was also a doctor in the past, but ended up among the sick due to her excessive desire to sacrifice herself."

A blurry image of a sunny girl appeared before his eyes, warming him with the mere memory of her smile. Her pink hair curled playfully, and her gentle green eyes, like a lush forest, sparkled with energy. When she spoke to the patient, her voice was full of compassion and kindness, touching even the hardest souls.

However, there was something sad and melancholy in her smile. The doctor explained the possible reason for this,

"During a small experiment, I needed an eye, and she readily agreed to remove it. Deciding that this quirk would be a new catalyst for the main experiment, I sent her to the other subjects, who welcomed EleOs252 with open arms. As expected, at our next meeting, she attempted to cut off her own hand with a stolen scalpel... Oh, I see you're shocked by the details. Perhaps I should tone this story down for you."

"Wasn't she your assistant..?"

After the doctor's words, memories began to surface in his mind, one after another, of the girl who had once worn a hospital gown now sitting among the patients. If Khaslana had had even a moment's doubt about how she had ended up among the mentally ill, he might have remembered him talking about the pain in his arm, and the girl eagerly snatching up a scalpel to offer him her small hand...

Even he was shocked, but the doctor sitting in front of him seemed to take it in stride.

"Sacrifice is a normal part of the experimental process on the way to the desired result. Isn't that right?"

His words seemed to be true, but Khaslana found it difficult to accept them. Meanwhile, as if inspired by the audience, Anaxa continued speaking.

"I also remember HapLotes405. Oh, she was the first participant in the experiment, and one of those who acted according to the calculations. Can we say she's still with us? Heh-heh, at least her pancreas—yes."

The meaning of Anaxa's words quickly dawned on him as Khaslana, retching in disgust, doubled over and vomited the contents of his stomach. A roaring sound filled his ears, and the face of a young girl with fiery red hair, oozing with home and comfort, appeared before his eyes. He felt so disgusted that he wanted to pierce his stomach with his hand and pull out what didn't belong there.

Perhaps his reaction was too strong, so the doctor touched his cheek with his palm, wiping away the cold sweat running down his pale face. Despite his warm smile, the light behind him cast ominous shadows on his face.

"What is the purpose..."

Khaslana asked in a hoarse voice, looking pitiful. Despite the horror of Anaxa's words, he couldn't help but rub against his palm, like a faithful dog rubbing its muzzle against the leg of its owner who had struck it.

"Something must remain unspoken, so the audience doesn't get bored," he said.

Khaslana couldn't remember the moment he fell asleep, as if after that day, the world where he was the Deliverer and the world where he was a patient in a mental hospital began to blur.

***

The gentle rays of the sun caressed the sleeping face of a young man who had fallen asleep in the shade of a tree, a book on his chest, and was now squinting in the bright light. His eyelashes fluttered, revealing sleepy eyes the unusual color of molten gold. Rising from the grass, he glanced at the familiar ears of wheat fluttering in the wind, but then shuddered.

Wasn't he in a hospital room..?

The greenery beneath his palms was cool and soft, and as soon as he inhaled, the scent of wheat mingled with an unusually refreshing mint filled his lungs. Hesitantly, the young man placed his hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat beneath it. Everything seemed so real.

"Khaslana, did you take my scroll?"

"Anaxa..."

Suddenly, a doctor appeared before him, scrolls in hand. His attire resembled that of a scholar: a long robe and a white cloth tied with a belt embellished with leaves. One of his eyes was hidden by an eye patch adorned with mysterious symbols, which Khaslana examined curiously until he was called out again.

"This time, you won't be able to avoid an explanation just by looking at me like that," Anaxa lightly hit the young man with one of the scrolls in his hands. "I won't tell Mrs. Audata if you promise to ask me before taking it next time."

"Okay..."

Khaslana didn't understand what was happening. Could this really be one of those "dreams" the doctor had told him about? Usually, these dreams were beyond his control, and he always acted as an outside observer, but now his actions were his own, and... he was called Khaslana.

Rising from the grass, he hurried after Anaxa, who, having gathered his things, continued on his way. Noticing the approach of his new companion, the scholar said,

"I've told you many times, don't be so nervous before entering the Grove of Epiphany. Even if you're dumber than a log, you'll still be accepted, because this place is made for learning."

"The Grove of Epiphany...?"

"Otherwise, why would you take my scrolls? Believe me, you won't find anything useful there until you learn the basics," Anaxa stopped and flicked him on the forehead, bringing him back to his senses. "Even if you make a mistake, my door and my professor's are always open. You can sit there and cry all day long."

"I won't..!"

"Hehe, keep that attitude."

Anaxa grinned, ruffling the fluffy hair, and the young man's face noticeably warmed. He was acting so strange, so unlike the doll-eyed doctor, but Khaslana couldn't tell the difference: was it just a dream, and Anaxa was just as he wanted him to be, or was it all reality, and the hospital room a nightmare?

He didn't know. He only followed the one person who accompanied him through cold walls and wheat fields.

They encountered no one along the way, but smoke rose from the rooftops, giving the impression of habitation. A warm breeze caressed Khalana's face, and the ringing of bells mingled with their footsteps, creating a calming atmosphere that made her forget her worries. As they passed the training field, Anaxa stopped, and the young man followed her example.

"All boys your age spend time here. Everyone dreams of heroic battles and glory."

After that, he fell silent, not addressing the young man or even looking at him. However, Khaslana realized that the question hanging in the air was addressed to him.

"But Anaxa was completely different as a child. I'm sure you always read books."

"I've changed my mind. Until you pronounce my name correctly, don't come to my door," the scholar hissed, glancing back at the straw figures, spitting out his prepared speech. "If you're driven to heroic deeds by selfishness or the desire to protect your loved ones and gain glory, there's nothing wrong with that. But when it's an impossible duty..."

"Then what?"

Khaslana inquired, leaning closer to Anaxa. It was easy—there was a slight difference in their heights, after all, and he still hadn't finished growing. But no matter how long the young man waited, there was no answer, until the soothing ringing of bells was interrupted by a mocking female voice.

"Then an adventure epic becomes a one-man tragedy, am I right?"

Shelter in the sun's shadow, as if trying to escape its warmth, stood the same pink-haired stranger. Unlike Anaxa, she hadn't changed a bit, standing out in her elaborate attire against the backdrop of the remote village, her long locks fluttering behind her like the elegant tentacles of a jellyfish. Twirling the handle of her umbrella in her fingers, she smiled at Khaslana again.

"As a follower of [ ], my brother will never give you a straightforward answer. But sometimes, if left to the unprepared mind, it will explode from overthinking."

The stranger, who introduced herself as the scolar's sister, laughed, elegantly covering her mouth with her hand. Upon closer inspection, they did indeed have some similarities, such as their unusual eye color and tousled hair, but Fainon didn't remember such a girl, as everyone knew that Professor Anaxa's sister had died .

Wait, what was he doing in [ ]? What was Khaslana doing here?

His memories were like a canvas on which several paintings were painted.

In one of them, he was a patient in a psychological clinic, participating in Dr. Anaxa's bizarre experiment. Every jumbled memory the man in the white coat clarified confirmed this. The despair and horror he felt for the fate of each patient, igniting a fire within him, were real.

The other image, by contrast, was devoid of any detail. He found himself in the middle of a wheat field, knowing only that it was his home, and this filled him with an overwhelming melancholy. However, upon closer inspection, everything seemed wrong: Anaxa's presence, the mysterious stranger with her confused speech, and his decision to go to the Grove of Epiphany.

There were also scattered memories of Phainon, whom he had created to become… Khaslana placed her hand on his head, feeling that this was where it all ended. Speaking of vivid dreams, he no longer remembered any of them, only faint echoes in his consciousness. Was this a consequence of his treatment, or something… else?

Seeing the sweat on the young man's face as he tried in vain to remember what he had lost, Anaxa spoke to him quietly.

"Don't listen to her. If it's not your choice, other people's advice doesn't matter."

"Hehe, even now you haven't changed your mind," the stranger smiled and turned her gaze to the young man. "You don't need to know my name. But take advantage of the gift I gave you in exchange for [ ]."

Khaslana listened, but couldn't make out the rest of the stranger's words. It was as if he'd been plunged into icy water, unable to hear what the others were saying. Without caring whether they understood her, the girl turned and continued down the path. As she left, the warm breeze with ringing bells, returned, caressing his skin and warming him.

Turning to Anaxa, he wanted to find an answer, but all he could do was ask in confusion,

"Your sister... I don't think she's good with animals. How can she be a veterinarian?"

"She..."

Anaxa couldn't say anything, only sighing. The young man couldn't understand this reaction; he'd always thought the scholar valued his sister greatly. But observing his confused state, he couldn't help but smile—for some reason, it seemed rare to find Anaxa in such a state.

The sun's rays fell on the scholar's face, illuminating the hidden tenderness and sadness in his eyes, a heady crimson like wine. Casting a careful glance at Khaslana, he returned to their previous conversation,

"It doesn't matter... The future is never predetermined, and you can become a scolar, a warrior, or a traveler. No, you don't need to answer me right now, let's continue our walk."

"Fine..."

Honestly, Khaslana didn't understand what Anaxa wanted from him. Looking back at the straw training dummy, he recalled picking up a wooden sword, practicing until his limbs ached... He wondered why he'd been so diligent about it.

Despite losing the memories of "Phainon" and his adventure, the young man remembered his goal—to save everyone. It was imprinted in his heart so deeply that it was impossible to erase.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the scholar’s voice as they passed the local school,

"Mrs. Pythias told me that one of her deepest hopes was that her students would be able to see the world beyond this remote place."

"You could say she doesn't want to see me," Khaslana pouted, clasping his hands behind his head. Everyone knew he was a mischievous child and often got into mischief.

"Someday you'll reach the age where you understand that there are teachers who wish their students a bright future," Anaxa paused and turned to the cheerful Khaslana. "There's not much time left, I hope you wake up and [ ]. They're all waiting for you."

Stunned, the young man stood frozen, watching the scholar's figure fade into the sunset. His smile was familiar—a heartbreaking farewell, with no hope of ever seeing him again. A gust of wind ruffled his long hair and clothes, bringing Khaslana back to his senses, and he extended his hand.

"What if..."

Pinned to the ground, Anaxa's eyes widened, staring in disbelief at the youth above him. Through the ears of wheat, Khaslana felt a cold palm, unwarmed even by the sun's rays, and intertwined his fingers with it, feeling the scholar shudder at such an intimate gesture, but he didn't push him away.

"What if I don't become a hero..."

He said it before he'd even had time to think it through. It was as if the thought had always been on the tip of his tongue—from the memory of standing before the scarecrow with a wooden sword, to the voice in his head telling him to become someone special, someone important. To become... A Deliverer, a hero to everyone.

But at the same time, he was so afraid he would have to leave his home and loved ones. He would have to walk this lonely road to the very end, and then… quietly disappear. His heart was breaking with pain and loneliness, and all these feelings spilled out in tears that rolled down his cheeks one after another under the stunned gaze of the scholar.

"I lack the courage to lead people forward, and I'm too selfish to let go of the hand of the one I love. What if I'm not perfect enough to be a hero, and you still won't turn your back on me?"

Before he could hear an answer, Khaslana raised the man's hand to his face, pressing it against his damp, hot cheek. He didn't want to look at Anaxa's face now, afraid to face judgment and criticism for his wrong, overly selfish, and unworthy desires, long and deeply buried within his soul. Rubbing his frozen hand, he hoped he wouldn't be rejected.

“Khaslana,” his heart trembled at that familiar, tender tone, “you have already become a hero... But as a human being, you can have your own desires .”

His wish..?

He was afraid to say it out loud, even in Anaxa's presence, and his lips were pressed tightly together. A heavy lump rose in his throat, preventing him from expressing the cherished dream he cherished, hiding it under the weight of duty and responsibility, trampled by every hopeful glance.

He dreamed of...

[ ], can this be considered a cherished wish?

Before disappearing into the rays of the setting sun among the wheat fields, Anaxa smiled at the man crying over him, putting all his love and support into it so that Khaslana would continue to remember this moment and not forget it, not forget his own aspirations.

"This is better than our last lesson. But I hope that when it comes true, you will think about your next selfish wish."

Despite some embarrassment, the scholar carefully wiped away the tears until Khaslana had no more strength left to cry. He continued to cling to the other man's hand, to the coolness and support it provided, unaware that the landscape had changed and the walls of the dark corridor, where the lights flickered intermittently, had replaced the wheat fields.

The familiar hand guided him forward, but Anaxa's figure remained unmoving. His silhouette became blurred, shrouded in a dim light, making it difficult to look directly at him.

"You can't stay here," he reminded. "Remember today and move forward boldly. There are no more instructions I can give you."

"Anaxa... are you leaving too..?"

He was returned to his hospital bed, shackled once more. It seemed like an absurd dream, and his confused mind only intensified the feeling. But, feeling Anaxa's hand on his cheek, he was ready to believe it was real, if only the scholar would say it was her.

"I have a plan in case of an emergency."

That was Anaxa's peculiarity: he never said what he thought, but he had several prepared options for every occasion, as if he could predict the future. But now he was so unsure that even Khaslana could see it.

"What if I don't meet you?"

He didn't answer right away, sliding his hand from his warm cheek to his reddened eyes, disappearing from view. Despite the man's protests, the scholar didn't allow him a last glimpse of his figure, slowly fading away, as if erased from memory.

"I have a plan for that too,” he didn’t mention that he wouldn’t like the outcome of putting it into action, “Just remember that you need to leave this place, no matter what… Even if you have to kill ‘me.’ Remember that?”"

"I can't..."

He recalled the doctor's words about other people living in this psychiatric hospital. He also recalled that they had all died unknown deaths, and no one had given him a direct answer as to why. Was he the cause of their deaths? Had the hallucinations of the other subjects also driven them to suicide?

"Remember what you told me about your [ ]."

Anaxa said nothing more, and the room fell silent and dark. Only the sensation of a light touch remained, as if it were real. Closing his eyes, he still remembered the distant village, their walk through the wheat fields, and Anaxa's casual remark.

So which was reality? The Anaxa who called for his own death, or the Anaxd who claimed he was recovering? Whoever it was, Khaslana didn't think she could ever raise a hand against that man.

...

As promised, at some point Khaslana's shackles suddenly loosened with a soft click. As if the walk through the wheat fields had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination, the man was able to sit up in the hospital bed, but his legs trembled slightly when he tried to stand.

His mind was clearer than ever, yet fragmented. So he focused on his actions, unwilling to be alone with his thoughts, sensing that even they could betray him.

'Will I meet Anaxa?'

His legs tensed as Khaslana rose to her feet. Instantly, he fell forward, doubled over on the floor from the pain of his head hitting the tile. His body was so stiff from prolonged immobility that the straitjacket was of no use.

A chill settled on his cheek, and the man looked wearily straight ahead. If not for the promise he'd made to Anaxa, he might have remained bedridden. After the stranger's appearance, his inner hatred had strangely subsided, along with his lost memories. He remembered that he had to save everyone... But who was this "everyone"? Test subjects like him, already dead?

With difficulty he leaned against the wall, found the strength to stand up and, still leaning on his shoulder, walked forward along the dimly lit corridor.

A white light fell on him, casting a thick shadow behind him that trembled, as if about to come to life. The only sounds in the silent corridor were the scraping of his straitjacket against the wall and the shuffling of bare feet on the icy floor. Perhaps he had just left the room, or perhaps he had been wandering for a long time, for all the corridors seemed to merge into one.

He thought he saw some kind of blurry figure in the distance.

"Snowball, there's something interesting here! Come on, we 'll show you the way ."

A mischievous girl with fiery curls, like a flame illuminating her path, raced down the corridor. Her innocent white dress fluttered as she ran, but no matter how fast she ran, she and Khaslana reached the closed door at the same pace.

Raising her fingers to form a rectangle, the girl reminded them,

"We only have the strength to open the gates once. The rest is your task."

The door opened with a soft click, and the patient's mind was blank—whether it was the red-haired girl's magic, or whether he'd managed to pull the handle himself. Looking down, he no longer saw the light, as if his little assistant had already left.

It was dark inside, but the light from the computer, on which words and numbers appeared one after another, caught her attention. Khaslana, as if in a trance, stepped in, drawn by these mysterious symbols, wanting to touch them, to merge with them …

There was a single line reflected in his eyes.

[ ], completion process 98.9%

"If death is inevitable, why not make it more beautiful?"

Turning toward the voice right next to his ear, he saw the blurred silhouette of a girl in the distance. Catching his gaze, she led him in the other direction, just like the red-haired girl before her. Behind her trailed a trail of flowers, enchanting with their sweet scent, but at the same time instilling a sense of fear and mortality.

The only sounds in the hallway were heavy breathing, shuffling, and the quiet steps of bare feet. The girl seemed to float in mid-air, her heels not touching the floor.

"As the guide of the River of Souls, I must lead everyone to the peaceful sea of ​​flowers. So do not resist, Lord Phainon."

The girl stopped and extended her hand to him. Her palm was small and fragile, but Haslana sensed its strength. Unfortunately, he was bound in a straitjacket and couldn't follow her even if he wanted to. When he looked up again, the girl's figure had vanished, leaving him standing before the room he'd previously missed.

Only a quiet whisper followed him.

"Don't let yourself burn to the ground."

...the sign had another code name on it, the memory of which caused a dull ache in my head: SkeMma720.

 It belonged to Dr. Anaxa.

Suddenly, without any indication of approach, a clapping sound was heard in the hallway. The man in a white coat stood in the flickering light, smiling as he watched Khaslana, who had managed to uncover one of his secrets during their walk. With his hands in his pockets, he stepped toward the patient, smiling.

"Unexpected plot twists are part of the show called life. It's exciting, isn't it, Khaslana?" Anaxa smiled at him, as she did every time he woke up in the hospital. But this smile was different from the one "scholar Anaxa" gave him. "I told you before that I made a stupid mistake and became just a cog, a weak-willed prisoner in a cave, but now everything is different. I've been given the opportunity to make amends."

He ran his fingertips along the door of the room that had once been his, then looked at Haslana. He looked expectantly, as if awaiting an answer to an unasked question, and silence fell over the hallway.

The doctor showed great patience and did not continue.

"You're sick," he muttered, stepping back awkwardly. "Anaxa... can't be so."

“Other people’s ideas are just illusions, shadows on the walls of a cave,” he remained adamant. “In this world, only I possess the truth.”

Khaslana glanced at Anaxa again. His face was so familiar, the color of his eyes, his smile, even the scarlet earring—he was staring so intently at the doctor that he couldn't help but lean against him, continuing to listen to that hypnotic voice, plunging him into an even deeper abyss of despair.

"I am your creator, and you are my creation, sharing my vision. Oh, you don't believe... Well, this place, my testing ground, holds all the results of my experiments. As part of it, look upon me and join me," his voice grew quieter, and the light in the corridor flickered, "on the path of Destruction ."

Claws scraped along the walls, sowing terror and confusion. Cold breath burned the corridor, and a premonition of impending death gripped the throat of every living creature as the dragon's long neck emerged from behind the door. With a mournful howl, it fixed its radiant gaze on Khaslana, consumed by madness and despair, watching both the monster and the girl disintegrate into black shards of flesh.

"You killed... you killed me... You didn't listen..."

In a fit of hysteria, two bone heads, each with a single eye, were smashed into him—they possessed a hypnotic effect, combining poisonous purple and yellow colors. As the giant creature, which had no place there, shattered the hallway tiles, it howled in pain, and the girl who appeared before the patient burst into tears.

"Why did you do this? I see... I see your flaw..."

A battle cry rang out amid the howling, and the clanking of heavy armor could be heard. As he slammed his hand into the wall, shattering it, another monster burst out of the next room, struggling to draw a spear. Its gaze was fixed on Khaslana, who saw the warrior covered in the blood of his comrades.

"You killed them... Now it's my turn to fight... [ ]."

Everyone looked at the man pinned to the ground with pain, despair, and horror in their eyes as they died. Many of them perished. Their clothes were covered in their own blood, and their hearts filled with confusion and acceptance of their fate each time Haslana struck.

The patient's heart pounded in his chest, filled with all the emotions of other people that he had carried with him throughout his life, all of them screaming in unbearable pain.

Watching the pale face of his subject, Anaxa (?) came even closer, cupped his cold cheeks with his fingers and looked into the eyes of molten gold that personified perfection, Destruction.

"You are just an experiment, your path was predetermined. Look into their faces, the faces of those you can never save, [ ] is just a human invention, an attempt at struggle... nothing more."

Haslan's eyes blazed with the same fire that had once nearly consumed him, making the doctor genuinely relish the results of his own labor. The body beneath his hands heated up, hatred and madness washing over the subject's consciousness like a wave, shaking his mind.

"Come with me..."

It was at that moment that Anaxa opened his eyes in shock and a groan of pain escaped his throat.

He was slammed against the wall with all his might, sending dust flying around him. Fingers gripped his thin throat tightly, not squeezing it but preventing him from breathing, forcing him to thrash about, gasping for air and trying to escape. The doctor stared in confusion at the man who had ripped the straitjacket and at his own body, which was turning into a blazing inferno.

"Enough, Lycurgus."

Before his hair caught fire, he broke the throat of the man who had been using Professor Anaxa's face this whole time, leading him on. But even so, Theoros seemed to manage to squeeze out one last laugh before his consciousness finally lost the ability to use this body.

"Haha... Khas..."

His own creation cast him aside, never hearing the last words the man who created him had to say.

Flames engulfed Khaslana's arms, tearing through the muscles, and a large wound opened on his chest, gushing the golden blood of Destruction. Clenching his jaws, he slowly walked among the monsters, who continued to howl in pain and ask why he had treated them so cruelly. If the Era Nova was not destined to happen, why not simply surrender and choose the only path left?

The role of the Deliverer was not originally yours.

Nobody is interested in maintaining just a set of codes.

The hero's path is lonely, so why follow it...

'I won't be a hero anymore.'

Khaslana reached into the void from which the soft light emanated. His body had almost burned to ashes, leaving behind only a useless flame, fueled for millions of cycles by the searing hatred of every fallen hero for the nonexistent Era Nova. But as he extended his fingertips, he felt a grip on the other side.

'My duty is already done... everything I wanted...'

A familiar face smiled at him from the shining light, a face whose name he'd forgotten within the walls of this hospital. But somehow it still seemed as incredible as the last time they'd met. Smiling through her pain, Khaslana murmured,

"Partner".

[Birth of Irontomb], process completed at 99.9999999@! ^%

...his greatest desire was to return home to everyone who was waiting for him.

***

The setting sun illuminated the branches of the giant tree that became home to all the scholars, including Kaslana, who had studied there for nearly ten years. No, if you counted all the cycles he had lived, it would not even be one lifetime. But after Lycurgus's final attempt to hasten the birth of the Irontomb and the intervention of the pink-haired stranger, who stripped him of most of his memories, his life as Phainon and the Flame Reaver remained blurred and shrouded in oblivion.

His gaze was drawn to the section of wood where Cerces's face was carved, looking upward. A thin line crossed her eyes, and from them flowed a golden liquid reminiscent of the blood of the Chrysos Heirs. In place of her chest, a gaping void revealed the Library of Philia.

When Khaslana awoke, Caelus and the Astral Express crew pulled him from the tree trunk that had carefully preserved his body after the battle with Nanook. Though he was unaware of it, Anaxa was at his side.

This stubborn scientist erased himself from Amphoreus's memory in order to be with him. 

At that moment, Khaslan's face didn't reveal a drop of sadness, but his soul was filled with the pain of a man who has lost what he already held in his grasp. Perhaps his desire to return home without losing anything was too selfish. 

But he wanted to be selfish. He wanted Anaxa to scold him for his recklessness upon his return, or to suddenly engage in an argument, trying to hide her embarrassment or bad mood. And then, when no one was around, he would ruffle Anaxa's hair and smile with such tenderness and care that Haslana's heart would instantly heal.

He heard approaching footsteps and a golden thread appeared in his field of vision.

"I thought he was part of my plan, but it turned out the other way around," the Goldweaver looked in the same direction as him, her blank gaze unreadable by the beauty of the colors, yet the emotion emanating from the man was enough. "I even used those fleeting memories where we spoke of him... Should I call him an ordinary mage now?"

"Aglaea..."

Now, looking at the woman before her, who had borne an unbearable burden for over several hundred years, Khaslana saw not only her beautiful side, but also her wicked side. Carefully weaving it into another golden thread, which she planned to weave into the future, into the Era Nova.

But it was all pointless.

"Criticize me if you like. The day you met Goldweaver, you were robbed of your free will," she stated bluntly, sensing his doubt. "Now that it's over, you don't have to follow me..."

"But that doesn't mean I'll abandon you," Haslana smiled faintly, watching as a moment of mild surprise crossed the woman's face. "That's it... I wanted to get back to everyone. Even if you used me, you don't have to be the leader of the Flame Chasers anymore."

"You," Aglaea sighed heavily, hunching over. She rarely showed such moments of weakness; only those closest to her, including her successor, could see this side of the demigoddess. "Come to my workshop, I'll sew you new clothes."

It was one way to show her concern for her loved ones, and also to fulfill a dream buried under the weight of prophecy. Now she had no such worries, and she could do as she pleased. However, she still had to manage Okhema.

 As they finished speaking, blue symbols appeared in the air. They floated gently between the golden threads, basking in the sunset's rays, until a pink-haired girl appeared, her expression serious, and she winked slyly at them both.

"It's time to meet our friend. Why such a grimace?"

"Cyrene, you're here."

The girl from his distant memories of their shared childhood was slightly taller than him, often teased him, and loved to read tarot cards. For some reason, he couldn't remember what she looked like as an adult, when she gave her life to the Vortex of Genesis, but now Khaslana saw her again.

She looked beautiful, and the dress suited her perfectly. It seemed to have been made especially for Cyrene, highlighting her playful and delicate nature with its snow-white ruffles.

Seeing his gaze that spoke of so much, so much unspoken, left between 33 million cycles, Cyrene extended her hand to him, smiling at the sunset.

"This story shouldn't end like this. We need to add a little romance to it, don't you agree?"

"Haha... you're right..."

Leaving Aglaea to enjoy the long-awaited silence, the reunited childhood friends headed toward the sanctuary of their fondest memories, and the scent of wheat and fresh mint reminded them of home—Aedes Elysiae, the beginning and end of their journey. As they approached the empty house, they were greeted by familiar faces, already looking around. Hyacine waved, calling out to them, and Castorice awkwardly greeted them.

The only unexpected guest was the pink-haired stranger from the Astral Express, who was still hiding from the sun under a woman's umbrella.

"I see you like my gift," she giggled, covering her mouth with her hand, and for a moment Haslan feared that this woman had been watching him and Anaxa the whole time, but she dispelled his doubts. "I don't look to see, to know."

"Hehe, such charming girls shouldn't be teased," she approached the girl and took her hand, which made her displeased. "Evernight, will you keep your promise?"

“That was also a request from dear Mart,” the girl smiled.

As Cyrene left, Evernight lowered her parasol, allowing the sunlight to illuminate her pale skin and gothic dress. Raising her palm, she allowed the memories of millions of cycles, taken from Khaslana in exchange for a small favor, to manifest. These memories depicted battle scenes, capturing the spirits of those who dedicated their lives to the Flame Chasers, as well as their aspirations and regrets, all but erased from history.

She fished out from Haslana's memory those fragments that were dedicated to Anaxa, and then smiled.

"How vulgar."

...only the two of them now knew what the man thought about every cycle when he saw his professor. But Khaslana had no strength left for embarrassment.

Here were those who best understood the late scientist during his lifetime, always elusive and hidden behind the hundreds of nicknames he was given. Here were also those he helped, even if the price was too high.

"Professor Anaxa, I've finished cleaning your lab. If you don't return before the school year starts, the students will have it too easy, unlike us. It's so unfair," Hyacine smiled, but tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, and her hand trembled slightly.

For her, Anaxa became the person who not only believed in her dream, but also supported her on this difficult path, extending a helping hand at the most desperate moment.

"Professor Anaxa, I've prepared new books on dromes and also repaired the toy you left behind. Until your return, they will be kept among a sea of ​​flowers, so that the passage of time will not touch them," Castorice whispered, pressing her hand to her heart.

For her, Anaxa was the one who allowed her to touch the ordinary life she only dreamed of. And it was he who sent her to Polyxia, allowing them to reunite at the River of Souls.

"Anaxa, our work together was wonderful. We should do this again someday," Cyrene said, extending her hand along with the others.

"The follower of Erudition," Evernight said briefly, continuing the other man's recollections. It seemed that this short phrase was enough to convey her special relationship with this man.

And the last one remained.

“Anaxa,” Khaslana said quietly, believing for the last time in a miracle and the favor of fate, “come back to me and teach me one last real lesson about how to live in this new world.”

Memories intertwined, forming a small seed, sprouting from their hopes and dreams for the future they had created through their own losses. As he approached the still-forming body, Khaslana draped a cloak woven by Aglaea over it and spoke softly, so that only he and Anaxa, who had opened his eyes, could hear.

"I'm back home. Can I make one more wish now?"

"How impudent of you, Haslana," Anaxa sneered, though he did smile. "Let your master rise in comfort before you make your requests."

A familiar sting made the man's shoulders relax, and the corners of his eyes redden. However, this time it wasn't from pain, anger, or resentment, but from a quiet happiness that had finally descended upon him. Seeing their professor alive, neither Hyacine nor Castorice could contain their emotions and rushed to embrace him, while Cyrene, eager to join the reunion, dragged Evernight along with her.

It wasn't a real greeting yet, not everyone had left, but at least something could be said... Finally, everyone was home.

And Amphoreus turned the page of his history, starting a new path.