Cyrene took the garments, her anger sparking again as she saw the remaining stains. She shot a glare at the two "quails" beside her.
Aglaea continued softly, "I am acquainted with a supremely skilled healer, quite versed in dealing with the aftereffects of various injuries."
"A pity, though..." She paused slightly. "She is currently pursuing advanced studies at the Grove and is temporarily unavailable to serve the Sanctuary. As for the arena matter, I have already spoken with the person in charge."
Cyrene was somewhat surprised. "What did they say? The damages weren't minor..."
"They said," Aglaea's lips seemed to curve into an extremely faint arc, "that witnessing a confrontation of power at such a level was an honor for the arena."
"They not only waived any request for compensation but considered it a rare 'performance.' They will handle the repair costs themselves. So, Lady Cyrene, you need not trouble yourself further with the arena matter."
Cyrene's tense shoulders finally relaxed a little. She let out a long sigh. "...Good. Thank you for handling that, Lady Aglaea. As for you two! Come with me! If you dawdle, I'll break both your legs myself!"
With that, she dragged the two moaning, unresisting injured parties away, storming out of the Garden of Life with determined energy.
Watching the three disappear through the garden entrance, the calm finally faded from Aglaea's face, replaced by a look of deep contemplation.
*Where exactly does the problem lie?* Her fingers unconsciously twisted a golden thread. *Before Phaethon's arrival, Phainon, while occasionally rash, was generally steady and reliable.*
*Trianne also repeatedly emphasized that Phaethon was known for being quiet and law-abiding in Janusopolis. But when these two are together...*
*The Flame-Chase Journey has reached a critical moment. The shadow of the Council of Elders still looms. Leaving these two potential 'volatile elements' here in Okhema...*
Aglaea's gaze turned towards the distance. An idea formed within her precise thought processes like a golden thread, growing clearer and sharper.
*Keeping them in Okhema is too high a risk... Wait...* A flash of rational light in her eyes was quickly covered by an extremely rare, almost "sly" emotion.
...The *Grove of Epiphany*! Aglaea's mind suddenly cleared. *As a Demigod who pursues romance and sensibility, seeking a better institution of knowledge and healing for the young descendants is perfectly reasonable care.*
*Mmm. Absolutely logical.* She gave a slight nod, as if convincing herself.
*As for incidentally letting a certain green-haired, one-eyed, "Droma" enthusiast experience a fraction of my current feelings... that is absolutely not the goal. Absolutely not...*
With this thought, the corner of her calm mouth seemed to lift another imperceptible fraction of a millimeter.
***
Meanwhile, deep within the Council of Elder.
Caenis was rubbing her hands together, preparing to teach the brat who had humiliated her in public a lesson. Just as she was about to issue an order, a trusted subordinate hurried in and quietly reported the earth-shattering battle at the Central Arena.
"Oh?" Caenis raised her meticulously drawn eyebrows, her anger mixed with a thread of satisfaction. "They fought? Hah! Excellent! Best if they cripple each other! That... country bumpkin? Phaethon? He really beat that Phainon until his nose bled and his clothes were torn?"
"Yes, Lady Caenis, the battle was exceptionally fierce. And..." the subordinate's voice dropped even lower, carrying disbelief, "...according to repeated confirmation from our agents placed in the arena, that Phaethon... he truly doesn't seem to be a Golden Descendant! During the fight, his blood was crimson!"
"What?!" Caenis shot up from her luxurious seat, her pupils contracting sharply.
*Not a Golden Descendant?* Yet possessing such terrifying strength, able to fight evenly with Phainon, who bears the name of Deliverer, and even win? This completely overturned her understanding!
After the shock passed, an even more enticing idea quickly took root in her mind. Her anger was instantly replaced by intense interest, a calculating smirk curling her lips.
*He is not a Golden Descendant... yet with such power...* Caenis paced to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down over the Sanctuary. *What does this mean?*
*It means he isn't inherently noble. It means he possesses a vast 'void' that can be filled! Wealth? Power? Gourmet food?... Beautiful companions?*
(Cyrene: Beautiful companions? Where?)
A light of absolute determination gleamed in Caenis's eyes. *As long as he has desires, unlike that impenetrable, cold machine Aglaea...*
She could already envision the scene: pulling this limitless-potential non-Golden Descendant genius under the Council of Elder's banner, turning him into a blade against Aglaea and Phainon's faction.
***
Several days later, Sanctuary Infirmary.
Phaethon lay bored on the sickbed. Even though he felt perfectly fine, Cyrene still refused to let him get up.
Phainon sat in a chair nearby, the bandage gone from his nose bridge, leaving only a faint bruise. He looked much more energetic.
The infirmary door opened, and Cyrene walked in, holding several scrolls. She looked at the two, her gaze lingering on Phaethon's injured leg for a moment before she let out an annoyed "Hmph!"
"Cyrene," Phaethon attempted to change the subject, "Any word from the Grand Craftsman? Can he forge the weapon I want?"
"He can!" Cyrene slapped the scrolls down on the bedside table with a *thwack*. "But he said the special materials you requested will take some time. Oh, and Aglaea has a new arrangement for you two."
"What arrangement?" Phainon asked curiously.
"Phainon, you're going to study at the Grove," Cyrene looked at Phainon. "Aglaea found time to assess your and Castorice's knowledge base."
"Castorice's foundations are relatively solid, but..." Cyrene sighed, her eyes settling on Phainon, "Phainon, Aglaea's exact words were:"
"'Phainon's understanding of how the world operates remains at the most basic, common-sense level. As a Deliverer who carries our hopes, one should be versed in both literary and martial arts, combining wisdom with courage.'"
Phainon subconsciously reached to touch his nose again, stopping halfway and awkwardly lowering his hand. He muttered under his breath, "I... I can fight, isn't that enough..."
"Pfft!" Phaethon couldn't hold back, laughing outright. "Hahaha! Hear that! Phainon! You're getting dragged off to school! Hahaha! Oww... It hurts to laugh."
Watching Phaethon's schadenfreude, the helplessness on Cyrene's face suddenly vanished. She crossed her arms, a slow smile spreading across her lips that instantly sent a chill down Phaethon's spine.
"Laughing? Phaethon, you find that very funny?" Cyrene's voice was terrifyingly gentle.
"Uh..." Phaethon's laughter cut off abruptly. A sense of foreboding flood over him.