[Is it simply the rearing of cute little lambs? Is it raised for morality? Is it to ease one's mind, or to build a colossal cosmic tombstone, thus piled with all the sparks and remnants of civilization here?]
Arms and legs, limbs have begun to turn into pure white ashes and disappear with the fiery flame, yet the Ashen King raises his head, eyes incredibly bright, as if looking at the sky with a blaze: [Of course not — Heavenly Father is hope, hoping that we, the 'children in the cradle,' can grow to a point where we can catch up with them!]
[Then, once we catch up with them, we can leave the cradle and fight against the end with them!]
Looking down, the Ashen King stares at Ian, his gaze intense and burning: [He hopes we will fight]
[Or rather, I hope they hope we'll fight]
[In this way, everything has meaning]
