Half a year slipped quietly by, marked by the hearth-smoke of "Cyrene and Phaethon Eatery" and the tolling of the Sanctuary bells. The surface-level tranquility almost made one forget how the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae had been stained black.
Phaethon's "folder" collection was expanding at a rate that could only be described as cheat-like. Cyrene's low-budget version of "Revisiting Time," though still brief and filled with the jarring *snap* of abrupt endings, was no longer limited to warriors.
With Cyrene's help, Phaethon managed to glimpse the final moments of renowned priests who had left their mark heavily in the historical annals of the Sanctuary.
[Folder 'Oracle Interpreter · Cicero' named successfully!]
[Folder 'Ritual Architect Master · Ella' named successfully!]
[Folder 'Whisper Resonator · Morley' named successfully!]
These folders held no flashing blades, but were instead filled with exquisite logic for interpreting oracles, a profound understanding of complex ritual structures, and unique methods of perceiving and resonating with Oronyx's whispers. Phaethon was now able to turn around and provide theoretical assistance to Cyrene.
"Little Phaethon!" Cyrene said more than once, hitting her own head with a piece of parchment:
"Your cheating is just too blatant! Here I am, painstakingly studying ancient texts, meditating, practicing resonance... and you? You just take one look at how someone 'kicked the bucket' and understand everything? By Oronyx, is this fair? Is this reasonable? ♪" Her azure eyes were full of feigned innocence and pity.
Phaethon just shrugged, a helpless look on his face. "Cyrene, you'd have to ask Oronyx about that. Besides, isn't it better if I can help you?"
(Oronyx: Don't ask me, this guy isn't under my jurisdiction! And stop pinning every weird thing on the Titans!)
However, an unavoidable bottleneck also emerged. The truly legendary priestesses who stood at the pinnacle, their names thunderous, had their specific deeds—especially their final moments—shrouded in thick fog within historical records and legends, full of mysteries, contradictions, or intentionally erased traces.
Cyrene had tried, but the results were either chaotic or fragmented and blurry, Sheryl was totally unable to form an effective "scene" for Phaethon to capture.
This, in turn, made Phaethon and Cyrene realize more deeply just how monstrous Cyrene's innate talent must be, far beyond Phaethon's initial imagination, if she could replicate a low-budget version of "Revisiting Time" based solely on fragmented written records.
(Cyrene: See! It's not that I'm not trying! The originals are just too mysterious! ♪)
(Phaethon: ...Fine. You're the uniquely talented one, you win.)
It was just... recently, the very air in the city-state had changed.
In Janusopolis, these past few days had seen a sudden influx of people rushing about, their faces covered in dust and panic. At first, it was just a few scattered individuals, like lost birds.
But soon, this trickle became a turbulent, muddy wave crashing against the city gates. The stench of sweat, the foul odor of festering wounds, and a deeper, more viscous despair mingled together, pressing down heavily on every street, making it difficult to breathe.
Once, Cyrene unintentionally pushed open the second-floor window and was instantly rooted to the spot.
"Phaethon!" Her voice was tight, her sky-blue eyes reflecting the hellish scene below. "Come quick, look!"
On the street, a man with a broken leg, leaning on a sharpened wooden stick, left dark red footprints on his blood-soaked bandages with every step.
A woman clutched a silent, swaddled infant tightly to her chest, humming a broken, tuneless lullaby with hollow eyes. The sharp rebukes and rough shoves of the Sanctuary guards intertwined with the suppressed sobs of refugees and the sharp, frightened cries of children, creating a cacophony that was unnerving.
Cyrene's slender fingers dug into the cold window frame, her knuckles turning white. "By Oronyx..." she murmured, her face slightly pale. "Phaethon, I'm a bit worried... about Phainon..."
"Phainon's tough as nails," Phaethon said, walking to her side, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic streets, his brow slightly furrowed. "I believe in him. It's just... Janusopolis is probably in for troubled times."
Just then, the door to the eatery opened, letting in a trace of the foul outside air.
"Cyrene! I'm here to mo—ahem, study again!" Evelyn's voice rang out, but the tail end held a barely perceptible tension. She walked in quickly, as if trying to shake off the noise outside. "The city is in utter chaos, too many refugees. Only these streets near the Sanctuary under martial law offer any respite."
"Evelyn?" Cyrene turned immediately, her sharp eyes landing on her friend's face. "You don't look well? What's wrong?" Her azure eyes were full of concern.
"Ah? N-nothing serious." Evelyn forced a smile and waved her hand. "It's just... the accents of some refugees sound... vaguely familiar." She took a deep breath, trying to sound lighter. "Don't worry, Cyrene! Let's continue, shall we? Last time, that..."
Despite her words, Phaethon, standing to the side, clearly "saw" the suppressed anxiety deep within Evelyn, restless like a flickering flame, silently leaping.
Evelyn tried hard to focus on her conversation with Cyrene, but her fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of her skirt, betraying her inner turmoil. The door of the small eatery was slammed open again, not by a customer, but by a gaunt man covered in dust, a bloody gash on his face. He staggered in, his clouded eyes searching the room frantically before locking onto Evelyn.
"Young... Young Mistress!" the man rasped, throwing himself to the floor. "It's you... it really is you!"
Evelyn froze as if struck by lightning, her pupils constricting. She recognized him—old steward Aemon from her family. She rushed over to help him up, her voice trembling. "Aemon? How did you... What happened at home?!"
Aemon lifted his face, streaked with tears and grime, despair spilling out like a physical substance. "Gone... all gone, Young Mistress! The Black Tide... it came suddenly from the north, fiercer than ever! The Moon family..."
"No... impossible!" Evelyn's face instantly turned deathly white, as if her worst fear had been confirmed. She staggered back, bumping into a table corner without seeming to notice. "Father... Mother..."
The small room was left with only the sound of Evelyn's shattered breathing and the hollow echo of the Sanctuary bells outside. Cyrene held her friend tightly, feeling the uncontrollable tremors running through her body, as if she might shatter completely under the sudden and devasting new. A bloodstained family crest fell to the floor with a sharp, light clatter, announcing the end of a prominent family. The air was suffocatingly heavy.
*It seems the sky over Janusopolis... is about to change,* Phaethon thought.
"Phaethon..." Cyrene looked back at Phaethon.
"Yeah... I know, Cyrene..." Phaethon shoved his hands into his pockets, looking out the window at the chaos. Inside his jacket lining, the half 'Savior' card was faintly burning hot...
But Phaethon didn't respond directly to Cyrene. What was he going to do? Save the world? Don't be ridiculous. Thirty-six years of life experience across two lifetimes had stripped him of that hot-blooded youthful idealism.
He just wanted to live a good life. As the title said, there had never been any true daily peace. But if someone came to disturb his hard-won tranquility... Phaethon would make sure they were prepared to be crushed.