Two figures stood silently upon the hilt of the greatsword embedded in the ground.
It was Phaethon and Phainon.
Looking down from their high vantage, they gazed expressionlessly at the city-state representatives below, who had shrunk together in fear, trembling like ants beneath the eyes of deities.
In the next moment, countless brilliant golden threads materialized in the air.
They interwove, coiled, and shimmered.
The Authority of Romance wove a glorious, long stairway before everyone's eyes, stretching from the pinnacle of the greatsword down to the platform in the assembly hall.
Phaethon lifted his foot and took the first step.
His boot landed on the golden step with a crisp sound.
In the silent hall, every sound he made seemed to strike directly upon the hearts of those present.
Step by step, Phaethon descended. His unwavering voice echoed through the hall, cold and oppressive:
"What fine, 'public-spirited and patriotic' virtuous officials indeed..."
His gaze swept over the head of the Radon representative on the ground, its eyes still wide open, and he let out a few dry, utterly humorless laughs.
"Heh heh heh, so silver-tongued. Dressing up selfishness as nobility, packaging cowardice as prudence, labeling outright rebellion and power-grabbing as some glorified plea for the people's welfare?"
Phaethon raised his eyes. Those deep pupils slowly shifted toward the petrified, nearly suffocating representatives below the platform. Wherever his gaze fell, no one dared meet it.
"You," his voice was low, yet each word struck at the heart, "should be immensely grateful you heeded the imperator's summons and stepped into this hall. For this, you have reclaimed your first life for yourselves."
"Then, after the imperator declared the campaign against the Titan, though you harbored ulterior motives, you did not... eagerly leap out to vehemently oppose it like he did. This is the second life you have reclaimed for yourselves."
"Of course, you may also consider it a mercy I bestow upon you. After all, your performance earlier was hardly what I'd call pleasing."
Phaethon's steps halted at the center of the platform. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Cerydra, he scanned the entire assembly.
He deliberately drew out his tone, letting the fear fully seep into the marrow of everyone present.
"Now, the Earth Titan has been slain. I appreciate clever people who can distinguish what can be done from what cannot."
"I hope—in your future interactions with me, you will continue to be as 'wise' as you were today, and for yourselves... reclaim even more lives."
"Oh, and a reminder: don't leave the assembly hall now. Because a purge has already begun spreading through Okhema. Those representatives who didn't show up have completely lost their chance to live. As for you... if you don't want to be mistakenly killed, stay put right here, obediently."
Phaethon was never a merciful man.
Back then, if Cyrene hadn't been by his side, he wouldn't have simply opened a small restaurant in Janusopolis.
It's just... these people before him weren't so fortunate. They encountered a Phaethon without Cyrene at his side.
...
Okhema's streets still bore the scorch marks and cracks from the recent Black Tide assault.
The air usually hung with an oppressive weight difficult to fully dispel.
Yet today, a subtle change was taking place.
Two soldiers on rotation leaned against a crumbling low wall, stealing a rare moment of leisure.
The younger one nudged his companion with an elbow, his lowered voice unable to conceal his excitement:
"Have you heard? Those two—the 'Deliverer' who descended from who-knows-where—they claim to have the ability to reignite the Dawn Device!"
The older soldier frowned, casting a wary glance at the empty street. "Shh! The Imperator's personal order is to address them as the Solar Duke (Dux Solar) and the Fortune Duke(Dux Fortune). Watch your words."
"Ah, brother, you're too rigid. What does it matter, they're honorifics either way... Fine, fine, as you say, the Solar Duke and the Fortune Duke." The young man waved his hand with a smile, but a gleam still shone in his eyes.
A brief silence fell.
The wind whistled past the broken wall, emitting a low moan.
Suddenly, the young soldier spoke again, his tone much lighter than before. "Speaking of which... how long has it been since any new Black Tide creations emerged in this district we're guarding?"
The older soldier stiffened slightly, as if only just realizing how much time they'd stood there.
He lifted his head, gazing toward the overcast sky, silently calculating. "Since those 'Solar Duke' and 'Fortune Duke' severed the head of that subterranean fiend... it has been a full eight hours now."
"Eight hours..." the young man murmured, his tone tinged with disbelief. "A full eight hours without new monsters pouring out... We never dared dream of such peace before."
His voice gradually softened, almost becoming a sigh. "You think... if they had come just one day earlier... even just one day... would the Captain have..."
"Don't dwell on such thoughts." The older soldier cut him off, his voice steady yet carrying an unmistakable heaviness. "The Captain died fighting to protect Okhema's people. His death was honorable. No room for 'what-ifs.'"
He paused, then changed the subject. "Never mind that. After our shift... want to go see little Gilna together?"
The young man's expression brightened. "Of course! I plan to buy her a little gardening trowel. Guess what? This morning, the little lass proudly bragged to me that she grew a flower in her father's old water cup—to be honest, it's not that she suddenly got clever; it's clearly thanks to that 'golden rain' earlier..."
"Don't say that," the older soldier gently shook his head, though the corners of his mouth lifted in a faint hint of a smile. "If she hadn't planted that seed with a heart full of hope, even the Captain's cup couldn't have produced such a beautiful flower..."
They fell silent again, straightening their backs, resuming the silent posture befitting sentries.
Their gazes once more swept sharply over the ruined outlines of the street, their weapons held steady in their hands.
The wind remained biting, the skyline still gloomy. Yet a certain fragile but steadfast belief had quietly taken root in their hearts.
It did not stem from grand proclamations or impassioned speeches.
It came from eight hours of peace, from a flower a girl grew in an old copper cup, from the promise of "after our shift."
A seed named "hope" had quietly sprouted within the hardened soil.
People remained weary, yet they had begun to believe that tomorrow, perhaps, truly could be better.
...
Upon the high platform, even the wind seemed to stagnate here.
The colossal Dawn Device stood silently at the platform's far end.
Under countless gazes cast from all corners of Okhema—gazes mixed with fear, anticipation, doubt, even madness—
Phaethon ascended to the highest suspended platform before the machine.
He stood firm, his figure appearing exceptionally upright against the backdrop of the massive device.