Phaethon also smiled, but he quickly reined it in. His gaze shifted to the Black Tide gathering once more in the distance, his fighting spirit rekindling: "Alright, esteemed 'Son of Gorgo'. Let's save the 'Crowned in Blood' ceremony for after the victory. For now..." He raised his hand. The Rod of God hummed once more as it hovered in the air, and the light of Law swirled in his eyes. "...we should focus our efforts on dealing with these uninvited 'guests'!"
The three shared a look and a smile, then simultaneously turned, standing shoulder to shoulder. Behind them was the allied army, their morale soaring, their heaven-shaking cheers reigniting their will to fight. Before them was the seemingly endless, coalescing, surging torrent of the Black Tide, radiating an aura of annihilation.
...
Outside Castrum Kremnos, the light of the alchemical grand array enveloped the entire city like an inverted giant bowl. Sigils flowed across it, emitting a steady, reassuring pulse of energy. Sturdy defensive works, now fully formed, stood like a forest of steel guarding the deeply scarred city.
Only after confirming the Tide's assault had been temporarily and effectively halted outside the walls could high-level combatants like Phaethon, Phainon, and Mydei finally catch their breath, taking turns returning to the city for brief respite.
Phaethon walked alone through the streets inside Castrum Kremnos, not yet fully cleared, still bearing the marks of battle. The air was thick with the smells of gunpowder, medicine, and a faint, lingering trace of blood. He let out a long, heavy sigh, trying to expel the accumulated violence and fatigue from the battlefield, but the grimness between his brows did not dissipate.
"Make way! Please make way! You ahead! Move aside—Elder... Elder Phaethon?!" Urgent shouts and hurried footsteps came from behind. Phaethon instinctively stepped aside. A team of harried medical personnel rushed past, carrying several stretchers. Their once-white uniforms were stained with grime and blood. The emblem on their chests was familiar to Phaethon—the mark of the Twilight Garden.
His gaze swept over the groaning, unconscious wounded on the stretchers—missing limbs, ghastly wounds, twisted expressions. Without hesitation, he quickly extended a finger. A stream of gentle, pure life energy flowed from his fingertip, showering like sweet rain upon the most severely injured. Healing ripples smoothed over some wounds, while a stronger analgesic spell temporarily numbed their pain.
"What are you standing around for?" Phaethon's voice was low and urgent as he berated the medical staff, momentarily stunned by his intervention. "The wounded can't wait! Get them to further treatment, now!"
"Y-yes! Thank you, Elder!" The lead physician snapped back to attention, offered thanks, and directed her team to hurry towards the temporary field hospital.
The team moved on, but the images of pain and its scent seemed to linger in the air. Phaethon stood there. Deep within his consciousness, nearly a hundred new, cold "data files" silently appeared, weighing heavily on his heart.
His thoughts drifted uncontrollably back to that crimson Strife trial space. That cold, grandiose voice echoed in his mind like a curse:
*"Ask yourself! In this trial of 'Strife,' use your prized calm and reason to think carefully—"*
*"Can you truly achieve a perfect salvation? Can you guarantee that on the path you choose, these people you care for, this world you love..."*
*"...will not lose a single one? Can you truly bear the consequence... of losing even one of them?"*
*"Is your confidence not just another form of arrogance and self-deception?"*
Each word accurately pricked his sensitive nerves. Watching those lives being carried away, he felt the crushing weight of the words "cannot guarantee" with unprecedented clarity.
"Ai..." An almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips. With somewhat heavy steps, he headed towards the tent assigned for his temporary rest.
However, just as he was about to reach the tent entrance, he was surprised to find a group of small figures gathered there—a bunch of young children, huffing and puffing as they carried a long, cloth-wrapped object. It looked quite heavy, straining the children and turning their little faces red.
Phaethon's brow immediately furrowed, his voice unconsciously taking on a stern edge. "You—! Who allowed you to come here? This is the front line! Not a place for you! It's too dangerous!"
The children were startled by his sudden appearance and stern tone, standing frozen in place. One boy, slightly older and braver than the rest, mustered his courage. He took a small step forward, raised his hand, puffed out his chest, and said loudly in a childish voice:
"Re...reporting, Elder Phaethon! We... we came on our own!"
"Oh?" Phaethon noticed the Kremnoan-style clothing on the boy. His tone softened a little but remained serious. He crouched down, bringing his eyes level with the boy's, and asked earnestly, "A little Kremnoan warrior? Hmph, you look the part. Well then, 'soldier,' tell me, why did you break the rules and take the risk to come here?"
Seeing that Phaethon didn't immediately send them away and even called him "soldier," the boy was encouraged, his eyes lighting up. "I... we heard from Grand Craftsman Chartonus that you had a very powerful new weapon forged there, Elder! But because the battle for Castrum Kremnos came so urgently, you hadn't had time to pick it up yet!"
He took a breath and continued, "When I heard that, I thought, how can you fight on the front lines without your best weapon? That's a huge disadvantage! So I volunteered! I brought my friends, and we figured out a way to bring the weapon to you! I have to say, it must be because it's Elder Phaethon's weapon—it's super heavy! It took seven or eight of us just to lift it!"
Hearing this, Phaethon was first taken aback, then couldn't help but chuckle. The children's innocent yet deeply concerned intentions felt like a warm current, slightly dispersing the gloom in his heart.
"Little one," he said, shaking his head with a smile, his tone completely softening. "You're absolutely right! How can one fight without a proper weapon? Thank you. This help couldn't have come at a better time."
He reached out and effortlessly took the long, cloth-wrapped bundle that had been so heavy for the children. It felt weighty in his hands. It was the weapon he had commissioned Grand Craftsman Chartonus to forge before the trial — Judgment of Shamash.