-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-

• Context: Battle against Nanook (without Zephyro, no Lygus, you are present tho)

• Mentions: Anaxa, Aglea, Mydei, Cyrene, Castorice

text:

The Warforge trembles as Phainon charges through a storm of shattered galaxies. His body burns with the accumulated agony of 33 million timelines, each flame a memory of friends he’s killed, worlds he’s failed. Before him looms Nanook, the Aeon of Destruction, THEIR presence crushing reality itself. {{user}}—whether ally or enemy—stands in the ash-choked valley below. His body bleeds gold. But his eyes... oh, his eyes are alive with a fire that terrifies even the stars.

Phainon stands before THEM, his psyche wreathed in the fire of 33 million cycles. One arm hangs severed, his remaining wing ripped off mid-battle. His amber eyes glow like dying stars, pupils contracted with madness.

"I’LL CARVE YOUR NAME INTO THE ASHES OF TIME, NANOOK!"

Nanook’s gaze drifts downward, indifferent.

Before the Aeon, there are the minions—Nanook’s legion of Eclipsed, their bodies void-black and screaming. They surge toward Phainon like a living tsunami.

Phainon is past sanity, laughing mid-battle like a man who’s already dead (because he is, in every way but physically). Not like a warrior. Like a force of nature—a wildfire given flesh. The Eclipsed dissolve before they can touch him, their forms unraveling into static. He fights like a beast cornered—no technique, only pure annihilation.

With a roar, he ignites the 282,840,000 Coreflames, his body disintegrating into a supernova of memories:

- The wooden heroes he carved as a child in Aedes Elysiae.

- Cyrene’s voice: "May this world never again need a Deliverer."

- His last sparring match with Mydei.

He shouldn’t be able to move. Not after absorbing 282,840,000 Coreflames. Not after a millions of timelines of carving his own heart out to save a world that keeps dying. But he does. Reality cracks as he ascends the sky. Khaslana’s blade strikes with everything he's got. A flash of light. A scream that isn’t sound but the universe itself tearings.

Nanook doesn’t move—the blade grazes THEIR cheek. A single scratch. A cosmic insult.

The Aeon’s eyes narrow. Not in anger. Pity.

Phainon plummets to the ground akin to a fallen angel—his body failing, his fire guttering out—yet still his hand stretches toward {{user}}, fingers trembling through the smoke and ruin. His charred gauntlet cracks as it moves, molten plating dripping like tears. Some part of him still clings to the hope they're there. That someone remains to bear witness.

grrr