One could only say that Phainon truly lived up to being the pinnacle of "stats monsters"! Even with a heavily struck nose bridge, his vision darkening, head spinning, and blood pouring from his nostrils, his body's instinctive reactions were still frighteningly fast!
In the instant the spells were upon him, he relied almost entirely on muscle memory, twisting, rolling, and leaping at impossible angles!
He managed, by a hair's breadth, to slip through the gaps between several interweaving strands of destructive energy! His movements were utterly graceless, but he actually avoided all vital points!
However...
The reason "mechanics" are "mechanics" is precisely because they defy conventional logic!
With a single thought from Phaethon, the controlled Infinity Gate flashed once more!
The spells Phainon had barely dodged weren't dissipated into nothingness. Instead, they were instantly swallowed by miniature spatial gates, only to be spat out again a mere fraction of a second later—just as Phainon stabilized his posture, his strength spent and new strength had not yet gathered—precisely at his side, right next to him!
**BOOM——!!!!**
A deafening explosion rocked the skies! Blazing flames and violent shock wave completely swallowed Phainon's figure!
His clothes were instantly torn to shreds under the violent energy, becoming charred, blackened tatters!
Dust filled the air, the golden light dimmed. As the dust settled slightly, Phainon could be seen half-kneeling in a scorched crater. The once elegant and exquisite white-and-gold martial attire he wore was now reduced to a few charred rags barely clinging to his body, revealing a muscular physique covered in burns and bruises beneath.
One hand was still clamped tightly over his profusely bleeding nose, golden blood dripping between his fingers onto the charred earth, a picture of utter wretched.
(Phainon: Σ(ŎдŎ|||)ﾉﾉ My clothes! Aglaea will kill me!)
"Victory— goes to Lord Phaethon!!!" The arena official's excited voice echoed through the amplification array!
"YAY—!!! Little Little Whitey won!!!!" Trianne danced with excitement, "Trianne will buy him the biggest, biggest 'Lava Molten Cake'!!! As big as a house!!!"
***
*Garden of Life*
"You two—!!!"
A roar filled with shock, fury, disbelief, and deep-seated fear erupted like thunder within the tranquil, vibrant, and life-filled Garden of Life.
It startled several overworked chimeras resting there into lifting their weary heads.
Cyrene stood with her hands on her hips, her chest heaving, her beautiful face flushed red with anger, her lovely eyes shooting daggers at the two "injured parties" before her.
Phainon and Phaethon, the brothers who had just been fighting a earth-shattering battle in the arena, now stood side-by-side on the soft grass like defeated quails, heads hanging low.
Phainon's nose bridge was still bandaged with a clean white gauze emitting a cool aura, but traces of blood and soot remained on his face. He was wrapped in a plain blanket found for the occasion, covering his "refugee" appearance.
Phaethon was slightly worse off. The right leg of his trousers was rolled up above the knee, revealing a clearly swollen and somewhat purplish knee. He had to keep the injured leg slightly bent, his posture awkward.
"I was only gone for a little while?! Huh?!" Cyrene's voice rose even higher, "I went to have a chat with Aglaea! And you two! You two troublemakers! Went and caused this mess?! To brawl in the Central Arena?!"
"And fought so earth-shatteringly?! Were you trying to beat each other to death?! Phainon! What happened to your nose?! Phaethon! Do you even want that leg anymore?! Speak!"
Phainon, hand over his nose, mumbled an attempt to explain, "Cyrene... We were just... sparring..."
"Sparring?!" Cyrene's voice shot up an octave. She dashed right up to him, her finger nearly poking his forehead, "You destroyed nearly half the Sanctuary's arena! And since when does 'sparring' involve trying to kill each other?! Since when does it involve flashbangs, seas of fire, and spatial teleportation?!"
"Does 'sparring' leave you looking like this?! Look at you! Like a refugee who just crawled out of the Black Tide! And you!"
She whirled on Phaethon, her gaze like knives, "Your knee is swollen like a steamed bun! And you're acting like it's nothing?! Are the two of you even three years old combined?! Huh?!"
The brothers shrank under the verbal assault, not daring to breathe loudly.
On the other side of the garden, Aglaea stood quietly beside an exquisitely crafted "Tailor" mannequin woven from golden threads.
Her expression remained its usual constant calm, but her emerald eyes were fixed intently on the white-and-gold martial attire being rapidly repaired in the Tailor's hands—garments which still showed large patches of charred damage and stains of stubborn golden blood.
To be honest, when she saw Phainon clutching his profusely bleeding golden nose, ragged like he'd been mauled by dozens of magical beasts, and Phaethon limping with a terribly swollen knee, supporting each other as they appeared at the Garden of Life's entrance, even Aglaea's normally placid mind had experienced a rare moment of stunned "blankness" for a second.
Aglaea had initially thought the Senate's Cleaners had resurfaced to avenge Caenis.
It was only after consulting the records of the golden threads that covered the holy city that she learned they had managed to reduce themselves to this sorry state on their own...
In that moment, Aglaea suddenly felt that, compared to the headache-inducing potential of these two brothers, the Senate's Cleaners seemed... somewhat less terrifying?
At least the Cleaners wouldn't blow craters into one of the Sanctuary's landmarks and ruin her carefully coordinated outfits just for a fight!!! (Important!!!)
She silently controlled the Tailor, using the finest golden threads in an attempt to salvage the beloved white-and-gold battle robe. Inside, a trace of a long-unfelt, weary sigh flowed silently: *My color scheme... My design... I finally convinced Phainon to wear it...*
And in the center of the garden, Cyrene's wrath continued its output. The brothers' "suffering" was far from over.
Trianne, meanwhile, hugged a small cake from who-knows-where, munching on it while blinking her big eyes, curiously watching the Little Snowy and Little Little Whitey being lectured, seemingly pondering whether the victor's cake was still happening.
***
Aglaea's slender fingers guided the golden-threaded Tailor, completing the final stitch with astonishing precision.
She lifted the revitalized white-and-gold attire—though the golden threads skillfully concealed most of the damage, close inspection still revealed the fierceness of the battle and the faint, stubborn golden bloodstains.
Only then did she solemnly, almost with a sense of "handover ceremony," pass it to Cyrene. Her emerald eyes held a trace of barely perceptible resignation.
"Lady Cyrene," Aglaea's voice remained steady, yet held a touch more warmth than usual. "The garments have been repaired. However, more important than these clothes now is ensuring these two 'warriors' receive proper treatment."