The only thing he could "hear" was the system notification tone echoing endlessly in his mind like a final judgment, so cold it chilled his very soul to the core!
Each tone, each pulse, struck the deepest part of his spirit like the most cruel death knell:
[Notice: Repairable folder detected. Corresponding memories are being stripped away.]
[Folder: Cyrene] has been successfully repaired!
[Notice: Repairable folder detected. Related data is being stripped away.]
[Folder: Cyrene 1] has been successfully repaired!
[Notice: Repairable folder detected. Stripping in progress…]
[Folder: Cyrene 2] has been successfully repaired!
[Notice: Detected…]
…
The notification tones flooded his mind like a crazed virus.
In Phaethon's mind, there had always been two folders that were completely inaccessible—[Cyrene] and [Phainon].
But now, one of them was becoming readable, all because of the "death" of this real, living, fading Cyrene in his arms…
He had done everything… everything to save the original them, even if just one of them…
So… why did it turn out like this?
What exactly was the Prime Mover of life that Cyrene wanted him to prove?
Countless chaotic, illogical questions flooded Phaethon's mind.
…
*BOOM——————————!!!!!!*
This wasn't an explosion. It was something from a higher dimension making its presence known.
In that instant, everyone—Phainon and the Chrysos Heirs standing nearby, the Astral Express crew standing at a slight distance, and even Evernight hovering at the edge of the battlefield—
Every being capable of perception felt an involuntary shudder originating from the deepest instinct of their souls:
An immeasurably vast will, one whose power could not be fathomed, capable of viewing all of spacetime and anchoring cause and effect, had unreservedly cast its "gaze" upon this place!
It wasn't simply the feeling of being watched; it was the perception of one's very existence being locked onto by a higher order being!
"Information interference at this level…" For the first time, The Herta's face showed something akin to horror. She spun sharply toward the Intellitron gentleman beside her, not daring to casually call him "Machine Head" now.
"Screwllum! Is Nous Himself actually looking this way???"
"Confirmed." Screwllum's electronic eyes erupted with brilliant data streams. His voice retained its metallic texture, yet conveyed a shock he was suppressing, "Signal source confirmed. It is undoubtedly Nous, the Aeon of Erudition."
But then, both Genius Society members simultaneously realized something even more terrifying.
"No… that's not it!" Herta's voice was laced with disbelief, "This isn't just a simple 'glance' or attention! The way He's acting… He's preparing to focus almost all of His 'sight' solely on Asterion?!"
Screwllum's mechanical head tilted slightly upward, as if gazing upon the invisible will that enveloped everything. His synthesized voice carried a gravity as if revealing an ultimate truth of the universe:
"Or rather, Herta. Nous isn't just 'watching' Asterion."
"He intends to personally witness and anchor the final answer concerning the Prime Mover of life—the answer that has run through all of Amphoreus's cycles! For this, He doesn't even care if this place is the incubation ground for the Iron Tomb!"
…
Cyrene's consciousness took form. She stood in the middle of a tavern, looking around with some bewilderment.
A slightly dim yellow light spilled from behind the bar, illuminating dust motes that slowly floated in the air.
"Hee hee…"
A playful laugh broke the silence.
Behind the bar, a figure wearing a smiling mask leaned leisurely back in a chair. Between nimble fingers, a colorful deck of cards flipped and shuffled like living butterflies.
The gaze behind the mask seemed to pierce through the smile, landing directly on Cyrene. With the familiarity of an old friend greeting another, the figure asked:
"Welcome to the tavern, my beautiful and brave miss. You look travel-worn… Fancy a drink?"
"…"
Cyrene pressed her lips together, ignoring the seemingly friendly invitation.
She could feel the nature of her own existence and understood this was no ordinary place. She walked straight to the bar, her gaze sharp as she looked at the masked figure, asking the question that mattered most:
"What is this place? Shouldn't I be seeing Phaethon directly?"
"Sure you don't want a drink first?" The figure seemed completely unsurprised by her directness, voice filled with exaggerated regret as the cards froze in a perfect fan,
"When you have only time for a few drinks left, and you walk into this tavern, isn't it to have a drink and catch your breath?"
Cyrene silently assessed her own state. She could clearly perceive that the memories constituting her current existence—the ones originating from her "self"—were irreversibly slipping away like sand in an hourglass.
A wry smile surfaced in her heart.
The good news was, her gamble had paid off.
By dying in front of Phaethon in that specific way, through some connection to "Oronyx" (the Titan of Time), she had successfully preserved her self-awareness, avoiding immediate assimilation and being consumed by his abilities.
But the bad news was, this preservation was only temporary.
Like a drowning person's last gasp above water, once the accumulated memories of "countless Cyrenes" from over thirty million recurrences were finally archived, she wouldn't escape either.
Or rather… from the moment she died, she couldn't escape. Her inclusion was a foregone conclusion. And after inclusion…
This "her," possessing a complete, independent consciousness now—this "Cyrene" originating from the current cycle—would dissipate like morning dew, ceasing to exist.
Time was short.
But she still had something she *Must* accomplish. Before completely fading away, she had to find him, to change the result of his calculations regarding the Prime Mover of life.
So, she spoke again, her voice firmer than before:
"Where. Is. He?"
But the other party merely continued playing with the cards, offering no direct response. Cyrene understood—unless she satisfied this elusive being's desire for a bit of "entertainment," she probably wouldn't get the answer she sought.
She had to sigh softly, in a tone of compromise said:
"…Fine. Suit yourself. Just pour me something."
Then, pausing for a moment, she uttered the name:
"…Aha."