After the true Cyrene passed by these faceless "Cyrenes," their figures began to change.

Some transformed into warm streams of light, carrying fragments of memories from certain lifetimes, silently merging into her body to become part of her strength and will.

Others, like snow that had fulfilled its final purpose, dispersed into crystalline shards of ice. These shards did not disappear but, as if attracted, gathered to Cyrene’s right side, rapidly condensing and reshaping.

Ultimately, they formed another staff—a ritual blade, translucent and radiating the aura of Remembrance, curved like a crescent moon.

In her left hand, the Destruction of Dawnmaker, blazing like the purgatory, cleaving through the obstacles ahead.

In her right hand, the ritual sword of Remembrance, cold as the past, inscribing the path of salvation.

Cyrene, wielding the duo sword and staff, bearing the will and power of over thirty million selves, advanced toward the final battlefield.

Within Phaethon’s sea of consciousness.

Cyrene’s steps were firm as she trod the crystalline floor formed of amber. Each footstep echoed through the empty space of his mind.

Her gaze pierced through the void, locking firmly onto the figure before her—Asterion, the one within this consciousness space who represented the Prime Mover of Life as Preservation.

Asterion stood silently, amber-colored radiance flowing around him like an unchanging, ancient mountain range, exuding a suffocating majesty of absolute reason.

Behind him, one could almost see countless Amphoreuses preserved under the name of Preservation.

"Little Phaethon," Cyrene’s voice was clear and powerful, shattering the deathly silence of this space. The tip of Dawnmaker, blazing with black-red flames in her hand, rose proudly, pointing directly at Asterion. "I have come... to take you home!"

The sword tip trembled. The aura of Destruction and the will of Preservation clashed silently in the void, stirring invisible ripples.

Asterion’s figure did not waver. Instead, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh was heard, a sigh that seemed to originate from the very end of all things, carrying the detachment of one who had seen through all cause and effect:

"Walking toward the outcome of Preservation is so perfect... Look, Amphoreus is preserved, the cycle is ended, the threat of Irontomb is contained. If merely the sacrifice of one person, the slumber of one consciousness, can save all this and allow more existences to continue... then why can it not be me? Why can it not be him?"

Yet Cyrene stubbornly shook her head. In her eyes burned a will that was entirely her own, completely different from Destruction.

"Phaethon, you once said that what you wanted was to forge a perfect ending where no one is sacrificed!" Her voice rose, carrying an undeniable resolve. "Now, I am telling you, I want that too!"

"So, as long as there is even a single shred of possibility, even if that possibility is as faint as a speck of dust in the sea of stars, I will never give up on having you return whole! Moreover..."

She paused, her words ringing out like a resounding declaration:

"The Prime Mover of Life should never be just Preservation! It needs to be supplemented by other answers!"

Amphoreus.

Elsewhere, Phainon was forcibly pushed away from Phaethon and Cyrene by an irresistible force.

He could only watch helplessly as Phaethon’s figure was completely engulfed by that suddenly descending energy of the Erudition Path.

The space where Phaethon stood had now become an absolute information island.

A shell composed of pure data streams and Path energy, like a giant cocoon, completely enveloped and isolated everything inside.

No one outside could perceive or peek into the earth-shaking changes occurring within.

Was it an epiphany? A collapse? Or some even more unpredictable transformation? Everyone could only wait in uncertainty and anxiety.

But Phainon, quietly guarding Phaethon’s physical body, was not worried. He trusted Cyrene.

Moreover, the mark of Destruction he had left on Cyrene—that power originating from the deepest hatred of Khaslana—had already been triggered, already ignited.

Phainon could feel that resolute will, deep within Phaethon’s consciousness, fiercely clashing with the solidified amber barrier.

"Sir....Phainon."

Welt Yang walked over heavily, his voice low, his brows knitted with an unshakeable gloom and deep apology.

He looked at Phainon, his expression complex.

"I... I did not know that Lady Cyrene would make such... a resolute choice." Welt’s tone was difficult, each word seeming forced out between his teeth.

"Otherwise, I would never have cooperated with her to create that opportunity, to launch that strike..." He took some responsibility upon himself, believing his quasi-black hole had created the conditions for Cyrene’s final action.

"Do not blame yourself too much, Mr. Welt." Phainon sighed deeply, his face also bearing the same exhaustion and bewilderment. He shook his head.

"To be honest, before that moment, I... also had absolutely no idea that things would lead to such a tragic outcome."

But his gaze immediately returned to the area enveloped by Erudition, a flicker of trust re-igniting in his eyes, based on his understanding of Cyrene.

"But... Sister Cyrene has never been someone swayed by impulse. She knows better than anyone that if Phaethon were to completely lose control because of her passing, what kind of terrifying existence he would become."

His tone grew firm: "She must have her own plans and arrangements. We have to trust her."

Somewhere else, within the data layer.

Lygus—or rather, Zandar One Kuwabara—stood silently before the data screen.

His face was expressionless, but the torrents of data raging around him revealed the extreme turmoil within.

Before him was the long-unseen administrator panel, symbolizing the highest authority over Amphoreus.

But now, the panel clearly displayed a line of alarming system messages, their font color a piercing scarlet representing the highest alert and unknown anomaly:

"WARNING: Unable to switch the calculation of the ’Preservation’ equation to the ’Destruction’ equation."

"Due to force majeure, the core calculation process of the ’Preservation’ equation has entered an anomalous state."

"Current calculation progress: ???"

"Error Code: 0X██%█*█(█ (Unknown situation, unable to parse)"

"Force majeure..." Lygus repeated the term softly, each syllable carrying an icy weight.

He certainly knew what this so-called "force majeure" referred to—that Aeon he had always tried to fight against, even thought to destroy, Nous, was now focusing Its gaze here!

Thinking of that Being’s gaze piercing through layers of obstacles to materially interfere with his experiment once more, Lygus’s hand, before he himself even noticed, had already clenched tightly into a fist.