The Eternal Holy City—Okhema.
Golden threads carried tidings from afar.
Aglaea lounged lazily by the baths. Steaming mists blurred her breathtaking silhouette. Beside her, the red-haired Tribbie frowned adorably, her small face tense, fingers unconsciously twisting the golden tassels hanging from the bath's edge.
"Master, a message from Janusopolis." Aglaea's voice was slightly husky from the moist air. Her eyes, however, held a distant focus. "Oronyx has delivered an oracle. We are to go protect a girl."
"Janusopolis?" Tribbie's childlike voice piped up. "It's been so long since the 'Flame Chase Journey'... we... haven't returned to that 'cage' for a long time."
"But this concerns a 'Golden Descendant' from the oracles," Aglaea gently stirred the water, creating ripples. Her tone remained languid, but held a new note of indisputability. "The will of Oronyx is not something even we can easily ignore." She turned her head, water droplets tracing paths down her smooth neck, her gaze finally settling firmly on Tribbie.
Tribbie's little brows furrowed even deeper, almost knitting together. She was silent for a moment. Finally, she lifted her eyes. "Even without the oracle... we really should pay Janusopolis a visit."
A faint, knowing smile played on Aglaea's lips. The laziness receded, replaced by a sharp, perceptive acuity.
"Master, now that a crack has opened in that 'cage' of Janusopolis... you were always going to return eventually. The karma from a millennium ago must also be settled." She rose slowly from the water, droplets falling like broken strings of pearls, outlining her stunning curves. The mist swirled around her, as if clothing her in a veil of divinity.
"Prepare yourself, Master. I will have Castorice accompany you." Aglaea's voice regained its previous soft allure, yet carried an irresistible force. "Go see this 'Golden Descendant' who could move Oronyx to deliver an oracle... and also see..."
Her gaze turned towards the distance, as if piercing through Okhema's golden dome to rest upon that holy city called the "cage." "...what new sparks are being kindled within the Sanctuary, the place we deliberately forgot after the 'Flame Chase Journey'."
…
The half 'Savior' card still seared like a brand against his inner coat lining, burning Phaethon's skin through the fabric.
Outside the window, the wails of refugees, the shouts of guards, and a deeper, more unsettling wave of unrest crashed against the seemingly tranquil window frame of "Cyrene and Phaethon Eatery" like a prelude to the Black Tide itself.
Phaethon stood by the window, his fingers unconsciously tapping the cold wooden frame, his eyes sharply scanning the street below.
"Cyrene," Phaethon's voice was low and calm, shattering the dead silence inside, "find yourself a safe spot in a moment."
Cyrene's head snapped up, her eyes finding Phaethon. The line of his profile looked exceptionally hard in the dim light filtering through the window. The eyes that usually held a hint of playful cynicism or resignation were now filled only with a near-cold focus. She understood instantly—trouble wasn't 'possibly' coming; it was already at their doorstep.
"Little Phaethon..." Cyrene's mouth opened, wanting to say something, but in the end, she just gave a firm nod.
Almost simultaneously with her figure disappearing around the stairwell corner, the not-particularly-sturdy wooden door of the small eatery was violently shoved open from the outside!
*BANG!*
The door slammed against the wall with a dull thud.
The one who had burst in was none other than a breathless, deathly pale Jacob. His usual slacker, "salty fish" demeanor was utterly gone, replaced by sheer terror. His priestly robes were stained with dust and even torn in one place, making him look utterly disheveled.
"Phaethon! Miss Cyrene!" Jacob practically stumbled inside, his voice hoarse, sharp, and on the verge of tears. "Quick! Run! Get out of here! Now! Immediately!"
…
A group of people was slowly approaching the eatery from the left.
At their head was an elder wearing exceptionally ornate high priest robes, the gold thread so bright it was almost blinding. The robe was pristine, without a single wrinkle. His face was plastered with a nauseatingly false "benevolent" smile, and he even held a string of expensive, strangely fragrant prayer beads.
Behind him followed four other priests, similarly well-dressed but with shifty eyes and unsteady auras, along with eight Sanctuary guards clad in fine leather armor, swords at their hips, their gazes sharp and laced with contempt.
"My, my, my," the lavishly dressed elder priest stopped a few steps from the entrance of "Cyrene and Phaethon Eatery," his gaze greedily sweeping the interior before finally settling on Phaethon. His voice was artificially sweet. "Look at this... such a... lively little place. No wonder Priestess Cyrene is so reluctant to leave." He took a step forward, his smile widening, but it carried the coldness of a snake's tongue.
But at almost the same instant, from the shadows on the right side of the eatery, another group emerged.
Their style was completely different.
There were only three of them.
The leader was tall, clad in matte black scale armor that emitted a cold, grating *shick-shick* sound with his movement. It was Verto, the one under Ascalon's command. He bore no priestly insignia. The face beneath his helmet was like carved stone, utterly expressionless, only his eyes sharp as a hawk's, radiating a pure, professional killing intent. The two behind him wore identical black armor, their auras deep and could, their steps in perfect unison, like precise killing machines. The scent of blood and iron emanating from them was far denser and more potent than that of Helios's flashy but hollow guards.
"Hmm?" The elder priest's face flickered for a moment before instantly returning to normal. "Did Lord Ascalon send you?"
"What if he did? You're Helios's men?" The voice from within the armor was a low rumble, the armored man narrowing his eyes slightly.
"So both our factions have come for the same target..." The lavishly dressed elder priest drawled, his murky eyes shifting between the black-armored warriors. "Why not set aside our differences for now? Our goal is the same, why waste effort fighting each other? Taking the 'Saintess' back is the primary objective. As for her eventual...as for her allegiance..." He twisted the expensive prayer beads in his hand, producing a faint, irritating clacking sound, the false smile on his face intensifying. "...that can be discussed. Perhaps even... shared?"
The priests and guards behind him, though trying to maintain a façade of confidence, couldn't hide a trace of palpable apprehension in their eyes when facing the three silent, iron-tower-like black-armored warriors radiating pure lethality.
It wasn't just the difference between fine leather armor and matte black scale mail. It was also because the man opposite them was a Golden Descendant. A being who could crush mere mortals.
"You may attempt the recruitment first. But the person comes back with us," Verto finally spoke after the silence.
"You..."
"You have no choice."
"Fine, fine! But I will report everything that happened here today to Lord Helios!"
"Suit yourself." Verto turned his head slightly towards his two black-armored companions. "And you two. Clear out everyone... around here. No survivors needed."