Lygus turned slightly, facing Caenis at the head of the table. With an extremely restrained and detached demeanor, he gave a slight bow.
"Elder Caenis, please forgive my rudeness. The bodies of Antikytherans are naturally averse to the chaotic intoxication brought by alcohol." Lygus's voice was steady. "Before departing, allow me to offer a toast with pure spirit, in place of this wine in the cup..."
Finally, he paused, his gaze meeting Caenis's ambition-burning pupils directly. "…To your… fathomless ambition."
Before the words had fully faded, and without waiting for Caenis's response, Lygus's figure vanished like ink dissolving into shadow, disappearing swiftly and silently beyond the noisy door, leaving behind a flash of displeasure in Caenis's eyes in the seat of honor.
Outside the Council of Elders, the Death Corridor
"Are you ready, hyenas of the Council?" A whisper, carrying the mocking, icy chill of ice shards colliding, drifted lightly through the brightly lit yet utterly silent corridor outside the Council.
Phaethon's body seemed to become shadow itself, pressed against the cold, coarse stone wall. Only the index finger of his right hand, hanging at his side, moved with an elegant rhythm within an extremely minute range.
Above his fingertip, a point of cold glint flickered with his heartbeat—it was a dagger of ancient and simple design, with sleek lines. Ironically, this seemed to be one of those "precious art pieces" the Council had hypocritically gifted before?
Around the pommel's end, a strand of brilliant golden thread, so fine it was nearly imperceptible to the naked eye, was wrapped around it, flowing with an understated luster in the dim light.
This golden strand was precisely the token of promise and risk delivered by Aglaea.
"I spent… a very, very long time carefully 'studying' the memory crystals Cyrene condensed about the 'Cleaners'." The corner of Phaethon's mouth slowly curved upward, an arc so cold it held not a shred of warmth. The movement between his fingers abruptly ceased, as if time itself had frozen for it.
"For no other reason than to witness with my own eyes… the desperate, ugly… frozen final moment of each and every one of you 'Cleaners' as you draw your final breath."
*Humm—!*
The golden thread wrapped around the pommel seemed endowed with life, instantly tautening like the most resilient bowstring!
The next instant, that ancient dagger was no longer a simple thrown object. Propelled by the golden thread with terrifying power surpassing the mundane and control precise to the millimeter, it was catapulted forth!
It transformed into a silver-white lightning bolt tearing through the air, emitting a sharp, piercing shriek!
*Thwick! Thwick! Thwick! Thwick! Thwick!*
The originally solemn and silent corridor instantly became an echo chamber for a death knell! The silver-white lightning madly reflected and ricocheted between the towering stone walls on either side, carved with the Council's glorious history!
Every icy impact was accompanied by a short, muffled grunt swallowed by the piercing shriek, and the harsh sound of scalding liquid violently splattering on the ancient stone. Dark red patterns rapidly bloomed and streamed across the moonstone, like paint wantonly splashed by a hellish artist.
That originally gentle and smooth golden thread, soaked and stained red by the scalding blood drawn along its path in the high-speed dance of death, drew out scarlet, glaring, lethal trajectories one after another. It resembled a venomous snake gone mad after drinking its fill of blood, weaving a web of death within the narrow space!
Cold stone bricks greedily absorbed the splattered warmth. The air grew thick with the cloying, metallic sweetness of blood.
Yet Phaethon's heart was like polar ice, utterly unperturbed: *Midnight has passed. Although… I never wished to stain the anniversary of my parents' passing with blood.*
*But…* A thought flashed by like solace: *If the companions in Aedes Elysia knew that those I sent down tonight were the scum who dared threaten Sister Cyrene… they would surely forgive me for this special 'gift,' right?*
*No… not right.* Listening to the system's voice in his mind, a madness mixing absurdity and icy cold surged in Phaethon's heart. He almost let out a low laugh: *Ha… hahaha! They… don't even qualify to go to the underworld? Truly… a truly perfect ending!*
*"Hmm~ ♪"* A hum, light-hearted to the point of eeriness, arose from the shadows at the corridor's end.
Phaethon's figure materialized like a phantom. His finger merely hooked elegantly.
The scarlet golden thread, now sticky with blood and heavy, as if possessing intelligence, suddenly contracted. It accurately pulled back the life-sated dagger with a "whoosh" to rest between his fingers.
(Aglaea: What is this? Why is my 'camera' smeared with blood?)
A few drops of blood splattered onto Phaethon's head, weighing down and staining that originally defiant white cowlick!
He lowered his gaze, glancing at the scarlet thread, warm and sticky, wrapped around his finger, and the droplets of blood constantly dripping from the dagger. He emitted a light, airy chuckle:
*"Cleaners Code, Article Twenty-One: 'Maintain personnel vigilance on the left-front and right-front at all times'… Heh ♪"*
The laughter held mockery laced with potent poison, exceptionally clear in the empty and deathly silent corridor. *"For a thousand years, you couldn't even bother to change the positions of your sentry 'markers'? Really… painting one vibrant bullseye after another and delivering them right to me. Tsk tsk tsk."*
...
Phaethon's figure hung upside down like a ghost defying the world's logic, elegantly suspended from the grand and icy dome of the Council.
His toes lightly touched upon the stained glass and relief carvings depicting ancient deities and epic battles. His pace was as leisurely as strolling through the corridor of his own garden.
Gravity seemed to lose meaning around him. The hem of his robe fluttered upward against all reason, outlining a kind of disquieting, inhuman quality.
Below, in the broad corridors and halls ample enough for troop movements, large numbers of the Council's private soldiers clad in refined steel heavy armor, with standardized longswords at their waists, were patrolling in formation.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hollow stone walls. Armor scraped, emitting dull metallic grating sounds.
Their alert gazes swept forward and to the sides, completely unaware that a deadly shadow was looming over the 'sky' above their heads.
The bloody scene from the Council's outer perimeter had not yet seeped here. Everything seemed still under control.
However, with each of Phaethon's soundless steps across the dome, directly beneath his path, those fully armed soldiers suddenly froze!
"Decree: 'In this place, all those armored and bearing blades shall—bleed from all seven orifices, have their bones shattered, and die in agony.'"
As if an invisible giant hand had instantly seized their hearts and blood vessels, their raised legs stiffened mid-air, their hands gripping blades halted at their waists, their turning necks stiffened into grotesque angles.
Time seemed drained away, leaving only the nerve-grating, creaking sound emerging from armor seams—the faint sound of bones warping and shattering under irresistible force.
Immediately after, viscous, dark red blood, as if forcibly squeezed out from within, began to ooze, then surge, madly gushing out from the seams between helmets and gorgets, the breathing holes of face guards, the joints of vambraces, the buckle gaps of breastplates…