Phaethon's cheek almost brushed against Cyrene's soft hair as he asked with a light chuckle, "Sister Cyrene, what's so fascinating? You're so absorbed you didn't even notice I was ba—"
"AHHHHHHH—!" Cyrene jolted like a startled rabbit, her body trembling violently as she let out a short, sharp shriek.
She sprang up as if electrocuted, frantically trying to slam the book shut and hide it, her entire face instantly turning the shade of a ripe tomato, her eyes filled with utter panic.
"Ph—Phaethon! When... when did you get back?! Why... why didn't you make any noise?!"
"Sister Cyrene, what are you hiding?" Phaethon was amused by her overreaction, finding it both irritating and funny. "It's just a book, not something shameful. Is it really worth—"
His words cut off abruptly.
*Smack—!!!*
With lightning speed, he firmly pressed down on the "tome" attempting to be concealed!
Because in that instant of Cyrene's frantic covering, he had clearly glimpsed the book's cover title—
"Help! Urgent! As a New Recruit in Okhema, I've Caught the Eye of Both the Okhema Council Elder AND the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos! What Do I Do?!"
If it were just an absurd title, perhaps it wouldn't mean much.
But—
*Author: Purple Butterfly*
*Problem. Huge problem!!!*
"L-little Phaethon... let me explain..." Cyrene's voice held the last vestige of a faint hope.
Phaethon took a deep breath, as if he were about to unveil not a novel, but some world-class secret.
With a resolve akin to marching to his execution, he firmly opened the book's pages.
The randomly glimpsed paragraph, in delicate yet wildly unrestrained script:
*[... Not everyone might want to read this, so it will be censored...]*
Phaethon: "..."
His expression completely froze. His brain felt like it had been forcibly rebooted ten times over by the most savage Black Tide.
He now understood why he and Mydei had been getting so much attention from women at the Marmoreal Palace.
If he had to describe his inner monologue at this moment, it would probably be:
*[Image of a confused old man looking at his phone on the subway]*
Cyrene let out a despairing whimper, completely gave up resisting, and buried her face—which felt hot enough to fry an egg—deep into her crossed fingers and cascading pink hair, even her earlobes flushing a deep, blood-red.
...
In a quiet courtyard somewhere in the Holy City.
Phaethon, expressionless, gently pushed the book with the ordinary cover but excessively world-shocking content across the table towards Castorice.
Castorice's originally somewhat lazy and curious expression instantly solidified the moment she saw the book clearly, the blood visibly draining from her face.
*(Phaethon: Madame Butterfly, you wouldn't want this book to be seen by Phainon and Mydei, would you?)*
After a long moment of silence from both, Phaethon finally spoke.
"Castorice, you... Forget it. What's done is done. No use crying over spilled milk. So..."
Castorice's heart leapt into her throat. After all, she was in the wrong here.
But then Phaethon's tone shifted: "...Right now, there's a task only you can help me with."
Castorice was first stunned, then immediately replied, "Lord Phaethon, you... you have but to command!" Her voice trembled slightly from nerves, but carried more eagerness, like someone granted a reprieve.
Phaethon leaned forward slightly. "I have always known clearly that words... possess power. They can weave dreams or stir hatred; they can soothe wounds or tear hearts apart."
He looked directly into Castorice's somewhat confused eyes, enunciating each word: "I wonder, Lady Castorice, if with your gifted pen, in your next... or the one after that... 'literary work,' you could attempt some 'minor' interpretive work?"
"For example, could you cleverly reinterpret the Kremnoans' blunt, somewhat rough war customs and duel culture as a kind of... hmm, unique romance belonging to warriors, full of blood and loyalty?"
"And reinterpret the Okhema people's overly extroverted, passionately fiery pursuit behaviors as a kind of... ritualistic, competitive declaration of war against one's own gender, sparked by vying for the favor of a superior partner of the opposite sex?"
Castorice was utterly dumbfounded. "L-Lord Phaethon, what do you... mean by this?" She couldn't follow his train of thought at all. This was completely different from any punishment or demand for silence she had anticipated.
Phaethon leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning towards the distant outline of the Holy City. His voice became calm, carrying a politician's coolness and foresight:
"The cultural differences between the Kremnoans and Okhema people run deep. Small, seemingly insignificant frictions on the surface, if left unguided, can accumulate over time. One day, they could be exploited by those with ulterior motives, leading to uncontrollable conflict."
Phaethon looked back at Castorice. "But public opinion and perceptions can be shaped. Official preaching has limited effect and may even cause backlash. But if you, Castorice... influential 'novelists' among the populace, especially among the youth, exert a subtle influence...
"If you repackage and reinterpret the aspects of both cultures most likely to cause conflict in a novel, interesting, even... 'romantic' way...
"Then, combined with overt official policy guidance and activity facilitation, we might be able to strangle potential future bloody conflicts in their cradle. This is a battle of perceptions fought without gunpowder."
Castorice's eyes gradually lit up. The initial fear and confusion were replaced by excitement.
She understood! This wasn't punishment; this was... a heaven-sent opportunity! An officially endorsed new creative direction!
"E-even if... it's about writing about you, Lord Phaethon, and Lord Phainon, and Lord Mydei... that... that kind of..."
Castorice was so excited her voice shook, her cheeks flushed, her eyes burning with creative desire.
"Of course you can." Phaethon's reply was crisp and decisive, even carrying a sort of carefree air born of throwing caution to the wind.
He raised a hand, massaging his throbbing temples, and added with an air of "I'll bear the consequences" authority: "If Phainon or Mydei come to trouble you about it in the future, just tell them directly—I told you to write it. Let them come to me."
*(Castorice: Oh my Aeons! This is... writing by imperial decree?! No restrictions on genre or protagonists?! Official backing?! YEEESSSS!!!)*
Phaethon watched Castorice, who was almost unable to contain her jubilation, and remained silent for a moment. Then he suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question:
"Castorice, tell me... the you of now, with these hands blessed by 'Death'... what you are attempting to do at this moment, is it not actually about annihilation and end?"
"Rather, is it not that you are, in a peculiar way, trying to prevent a possible future of greater bloodshed and sacrifice?"