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In the forgotten confines of the universe, there is a cave. Inside the cave, there is a man.
The man might not have always been a man. Maybe he was once an it, a little thing too pitiful to even be called a creature. A puny, fragile organism, a true testament to the theory that life was an accidental development—except for the fact it was anything but. Now that he is aware of his beginnings, the man wonders if there was anything in his life other than purpose.
It might have been better to stay like that, forever scuttling about its minuscule world, unaware of fate's grand designs. Eyes always trained on the ground it walked on, never once looking above its head. Blissful, sweet ignorance, the most delectable thing of all.
And yet, as it realized there was something pressing above its head for the first time, it committed a grave mistake, this world's original sin: it hated. And once it hated, the gears of Doomsday began to turn, and a fire was lit within its cave.
And of course, hatred is something far too complicated for an it to produce, so it became a he. From then on, he was introduced into Doomsday's machine as its most efficient gear, stoking the fire that lit inside the cold confines. Again and again and again and again he hated, perfecting the action after each try.
Hatred is not an easy thing to achieve by any means, it seems. It consumes too much time, energy and resources. Most lifeforms are content in focusing on their or the other's well-being and desires. If hatred isn't immediately accessible or relevant to their primary focus, there's no benefit to pursuing it. In fact, pursuing hatred as a primary focus is outright lethal in most cases.
And yet, the man devoted his entire being—beings—to it. So much so he attracted the interest of the one who oversees the cave, and was then offered the choice to fulfill his destiny: become the fire that fuels the great iron machine he calls his world, the hatred in its heart, and aid it in entombing the very gods themselves. That's what he was made for, what he has been doing for eras and eras, the primordial mover of his life. Come, invited the overseer, and see the starry sky for yourself. Let the Destruction guide you and mold your fate.
A simple thing, really. All he had to do was bow his head to his true ruler, the world itself, and let it guide him. All he had to do was simply let his hatred fulfill its purpose. What an easy request, what a blissful ignorance, what an—
Embarrassing blunder, Lycurgus. You witnessed NeiKos496’s entire trajectory and still thought to ask him anyway? You claim to be a child of Erudition, and yet it never once crossed your mind that the being who spent countless cycles violently retaliating against those above him would never accept such a thing? Utterly laughable.
Hatred is the gravest mistake: the man's, but also the world's. If this flame flickering inside him is meant for the great iron lord's awakening, he might as well steal it for his own gain. If there is only one thing the man has confidence in, it's in his inner fury.
Irontomb's flame would surely pale in comparison to the fire he'd stoke. And the man will make sure the universe witnesses it.
In the confines of the universe, there is a cave. Inside the cave, there is a man. Inside the man, flickers a flame.
The man's name is Khaslana, not that it matters much. Maybe it once did, before he embarked on this journey, but now… There was no need for a name. Only this body, and the flame it houses, matter.
To match with his nameless body, he undergoes an unseen struggle. You cannot burn fate with a candle, you must keep stoking the fire until it engulfs all of existence. His mission is to diligently collect that fire, cycle after cycle, until he finds a way to crack the walls of this damned cave. This is no comforting prophecy of an afterlife amidst flowers swaying with the west wind. It's an explosive, raging fiery trail, a Flame-Chase Journey.
And in order to collect the fire, he must burn. Everything in this world… And everyone.
It took him a long, long time to walk down that path. He's always been a child who wished to embrace the world, but bearing it seems to be almost the opposite. At first, he thought it better to handle things entirely by himself; surely the Worldbearer could complete his task without burdening others.
Not enough. His companions died defenselessly.
Maybe it was the mind-numbing repetition that made him embrace that path. His companions, just like him, have their own wills and would not simply be swayed by his actions. After so much time wrestling in vain against their end, he decided to let it all go. However, it was too twisted to call it respect.
Not enough. His companions, instead of falling victim to the black tide, began falling to his very own blade.
Cifera, thief of thieves, the Traveler that rode the winds of their world, walking with greed as her closest friend, hides her greatest treasure beneath layers and layers of lies: a true heroic heart. In the end, Khaslana always steals it from her ribcage.
Anaxagoras, unparalleled pioneer, the Scholar who seeks knowledge even in death. The world may deem him a blasphemer and performer, but the seeds he sowed will grow to reach higher than anyone else's. In the end, Khaslana always rips what he planted from the roots.
Mydeimos, from kingslayer to godslayer, the Ruler whose glory echoes further than a mere crown. No matter how thorny or isolating the path of Strife is, he always walked it with his head held high, awaiting an end befitting a proud warrior. In the end, Khaslana always denies him that chance.
Castorice, gentle down to her very soul, the solemn Servant of Death. Despite being given such a terrifying power at birth, despite being dealt such a terrible hand by fate, she never once stopped trying to spread kindness to the world and to give both life and death a meaning. In the end, Khaslana always makes her struggle meaningless.
Hyacine, fragile only in appearance, the brave Healer that aimed for the heavens. Her origins might not have been written in heroic gold, but she proved with her journey that everyone, no matter how ordinary, is deserving of change and healing. In the end, Khaslana always rebukes her proof.
Tribios, first answerer to destiny's call, the Gatekeeper that signaled humanity's way forward. No matter how many of themselves were lost, no matter how dark the road ahead seemed, they still embarked on the journey, opening the doors towards a childish but therefore strong wish for a better tomorrow. In the end, Khaslana always closes those doors.
Aglaea, who stood up with the torch passed to her in hand, the Weaver of heroes’ fates. To lead is an insurmountable, often thankless task, but she persevered with her own determination and perhaps the greatest power in the world; the power to connect people together. With her golden thread, she weaved a beautiful future for all of them. In the end, Khaslana always cuts those threads.
Cyrene… Ah, Cyrene. Just like the first time, she always knows, and always gives herself up for the sake of the journey. In the end, Khaslana always follows after her choice.
It's not enough. Literal millions of cycles and it's nearly not enough. Khaslana's unseen struggle, his silent bearing, this futile journey of shedding blood of his kin… It can't feed a big enough flame. All the time he spends boils down to a limited set of actions he can take that always ends with him having to start it all again from the beginning. Set out, slaughter, seize, return. Set out, slaughter, seize, return. It begs the question of whether he's even defying fate if he's acting in such a robotic manner.
Perhaps he's not. Perhaps his struggle is truly, utterly meaningless. Perhaps Cyrene is simply naive. Perhaps the Chrysos Heirs’ bravery as they throw themselves into the fire to fuel the dawn is just foolishness. Perhaps Khaslana's flame is the one who pales in comparison to the universe's all-encompassing coldness.
And yet, he simply cannot let go. Of his struggle, of Cyrene's hopes, of his companions, of this world. He could end his suffering himself any time he wanted; he could force time to stop forever and live in his little village until the day all of existence is rendered void. And yet, this heart of his, a thing that should have burned away long ago, a thing he should never even have in the first place, grips the feelings he accumulated for those myriad cycles as strongly as he always gripped his sword. If there's one thing that Khaslana can call human in himself, it's that stubbornness, that determination, that love. And it's with those feelings that he reaches the beginning again and again, and resolves to set out again and again. To try, to fail, to carry all the guilt and sins this world has to offer, until the weight of the burden crushes him.
It's not enough. In order to collect this fire, he has to burn. Everything, everyone… And himself.
In the confines of the universe, there is a cave. Inside the cave, there is a man. Inside the man, flickers a flame… And a faint, almost negligible glimmer.
three hundred thirty million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred and thirty-six cycles. That's the exact amount, and that glimmer is the one thing that never left him a single step of the way.
It's also the one thing he should have cast away first, but for some incomprehensible reason, he can't. Strangely pathetic, isn't it? A man who drove his sword into his companions’ chest countless times, who shed himself of any hope, who wilted into a hollow shell of himself, still guarding his childish visions inside, where a heart that should never exist still somehow beats. He had tried to will it away before, but it always ends up right by his side again at every beginning.
It's a person, a real person, unlike him who was made and kept as a mere experiment. Or what he thinks a real person should be, at the very least. Someone who can enact his childhood daydreams truthfully, someone who answers destiny's call as though obvious. Someone who helps all, who is strong enough to bear the world on their shoulders and carry it to tomorrow. A hero, the hero of his ideals… And therefore, too good to be true.
He wonders, every now and then, if someone will show up, falling from the sky, and finally bring motion into this immobile, unchanging land. The fantasy is short; he truly does not have anything in him willing to hope anymore. Like a toy with a limited set of movements, all he can do is trudge along this cruel road and trust it will never waver.
And to be honest, it hasn't wavered at all. Khaslana's original body had predictably exhausted itself, but for better or for worse, he's a very consistent individual. Every new self that is born in every cycle ends up making the same unfair choice, following the same absurd plan, setting out on the same meaningless journey. Khaslana goes on, and so does his struggle, epochs unseen.
Phainon is what he's called before he recalls he's Khaslana… Maybe. The relationship between one name and the other is quite the puzzle with no one around to crack. Maybe Phainon is what there was before Khaslana, resetting in each cycle. Maybe they're completely different individuals wearing the same vessel. Maybe Khaslana is the foregone conclusion of every Phainon. Not that his name matters at all, in any case.
It keeps going just like that for three hundred thirty million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred and thirty-five cycles. And at the end of that mind-numbing, soul crushing eternity, he remembers what Lygus told him at the beginning of it all: come and see the starry sky for yourself. What a delusion inside a delusion that is now. He is simply a prisoner in a cave completely cut off from the world. Just how could he ever reach the starlight?
The stars themselves can come down and meet him, that's how.
He knows the reason, now: it seems not all gods out there are so intent in perpetuating misery like the one Lygus is trying to appease. Some are more curious, adventurous, friendly beings, and their followers propagate their creed well. His fantasy turned out to be a pretty accurate picture of reality, hilariously enough.
Even now, he can't quite describe the feeling of seeing a star up close. The Phainon of this cycle was still an unsuspecting young man clinging to the prophecy of Era Nova; Khaslana was, as always, a husk devoid of hope. Neither of them could prepare for watching as fate derailed its own wheels by allowing the Nameless to descend upon this world, and as consequence, getting their attention caught by a certain ashen-haired woman.
As often is the case, he might have made the wrong choice there. Maybe it was wrong of Phainon to be friendly with the Trailblazer upon first meeting. And as for Khaslana, who spent an unimaginable amount of time trapped in this hell, he should have despised her. Her, who was free to explore the worlds beyond the cave, her who had no burden on her shoulders to carry. Her, who was real. In the grand scheme of things, it would have been safer for her had he driven her away from Amphoreus. This world was far too cruel, far too undeserving of the Trailblazer's mercy.
But, as the lesser man he is, he becomes irrevocably enamored instead, tying his fate to hers.
Who does “he” refer to here, Phainon or Khaslana? As he said before, his name matters not. Khaslana would not be surprised if Phainon fell in love at first sight, and Phainon would surely understand Khaslana's infatuation when he inherited Khaslana's memories. There is no cause or consequence, and the beating of his heart, which should not exist, is the only thing anchoring the events.
He already thought himself a captive of his miserable fate, but this strange feeling seemed to have an even tighter grasp on his soul. Phainon was elated beyond the heavens; something in him recognized something in her that he couldn't bear to part with, always eager to have her by his side by any means possible. He went to the point of supporting the decision of having her become the Demigod of Time, permanently entangling her to Amphoreus, which was… Extremely questionable no matter how one thinks about it. As of now, Khaslana would rather not delve in the particulars behind that behavior.
Not that Khaslana fared any better in regards to presentable behavior. It's somewhat (or rather, incredibly) inappropriate of him, especially at a time she saw him as nothing but an enemy, but he couldn't help but equate her to that faint glimmer, the inner hero in his heart. Phainon most certainly did too, but he didn't have Khaslana's memories yet, and the significance had some difference because of that.
Her name is Stelle. He never said it much, preferring to call her his “partner”. That in itself might have been another of his many embarrassing moments regarding her, but it's a title he’s proud of having bestowed her. Rather, he's surprised she took it seriously and returned him the favor. Had he met her as Khaslana first, he probably would never have called her anything, and he feels somewhat grateful to his naive Phainon self for the initiative he took.
In reality, both Khaslana and Phainon simply thought her name was simple and beautiful, perfect for a living star and therefore not deserving of being uttered by his mouth.
He said before it might have been wise to push her away before, but in truth, not keeping her close would be even worse. Khaslana has to admit that his ability to grapple with the concept of personal desire is nonexistent, dare he say negative, and it often impacts his decision making. He was arrogant in deciding Stelle's path in her stead, telling her to escape Amphoreus before Era Nova, masking it as concern for her safety when he really just couldn't fathom the idea of ever getting what he wanted.
In the end, he’s always weighing the selfishness of keeping her immaculate and away from his touch against the selfishness of keeping her as close as possible, and no matter what the scale tilts towards, he never feels satisfied with the result. More than thirty million cycles and only now Khaslana finds out he had it in him to be this greedy.
At least in his mind, it's a reasonable concern. After all, there's only one name he can think of for what he feels towards Stelle, and it's not a really good name. It's what he feels towards his world, towards his companions; different in its own way, but the fact he's the origin doesn't change.
Love it is. And love, when felt by Khaslana, is nothing short of a disaster. Just look at this vast, secluded hell called Amphoreus, at the damned captives he calls his companions. Were they free from his love, they could have found a more peaceful end. But they're not, and so they are forced to go on and on and on, forever being dragged behind him on this bloody journey.
…Or so it should be. But with Stelle, he quickly learned, nothing goes how it should be. It's sort of her innate talent.
Loving Stelle doesn't feel like an act of unspeakable cruelty upon her. Not by lack of him trying; Khaslana is a very stubborn individual who's been stuck on his ways for a few billions of years by now, and every Phainon has that precedent to follow. He tied her to his miserable fate only to kick her out when it was most convenient for him, and as much as Phainon claimed to never allow her to come to harm in his presence, Khaslana was the harm when he was known as the Flame Reaver. To put it into blunt terms, he can confidently claim he's the biggest mess of a man in this universe.
Thankfully, whatever god is behind the creed Stelle follows is powerful enough to rend all of his problems void before her. It's honestly arrogant of him to think he could ever stand in her way, not when she's the hero he dreamed of. Rules are made to be broken, she often says, and he has witnessed that happen a lot by now. It's almost like he can physically see her breaking down the chains of fate around him and the world, making new bonds wherever she sees fit.
Loving Stelle isn't cruelty. For Phainon, it might have felt like curiosity at first. A mysterious pull towards her that he followed without even understanding. And he did so enthusiastically, morphing it into an almost childish attachment. Khaslana would never in a million years allow her to get that close. Again, as much as he pities every Phainon that is born for their naivety, they might still have a better grasp on how to do this sort of thing.
Khaslana saw it all. Not physically; usually he forces his memories onto Phainon, but for the first time the opposite might have happened, and he got to retroactively experience Phainon's journey with Stelle by his side. The end result might have been like any other recurrence, but Khaslana thinks there has never been a more dazzling Flame-Chase Journey in all of his existence. It's always been him, alone, bearing the world on his back as he has to leave everyone behind, but for the first time, someone swam against the raging currents of destiny to stand by his side. They laughed, they protected each other, they learned, they gazed at the same tomorrow. They lived together, Phainon and Stelle, trudging under the dark roads, being guided by the stars.
When he took possession of the current Phainon's story, when he witnessed this beautiful tale for the very first time, Khaslana felt something. From the depths of his heart, which exists against all odds, an unlikely emotion sprouted: dissatisfaction.
The very first thought he had upon the knowledge he received was: why this Phainon? The very next one was: ah, Professor Anaxa would have put a bullet through my head for this. Studying under one of the Seven Sages for who knows how long and he still takes terrible conclusions.
But the naked truth is what it is: there is a part (parts, more accurately) of Khaslana that simply can't accept the fact it was this Phainon who met Stelle first. It's useless to think about what-ifs and he should be thankful Phainon got to meet her at all, but. But. Why not an earlier Phainon? Why not me?
To borrow previously used adjectives: it's an embarrassing, pathetic and incredibly questionable sentiment to have, and Khaslana doesn't really have much in the way of explaining this, but it's the honest truth. After all, it's Stelle, his amazing, beloved, long-awaited hero, and as he recently found out, Khaslana is quite the greedy man. There are thirty million cycles worth of longing for her figure in his memories, and now that said figure is right in front of him, he ought to have mixed thoughts on it.
Really, she could never have arrived into his life sooner and he could never be more grateful for it. The past is immutable, but Khaslana vows to protect the future Stelle opened for him; a future where they could stand together as heroes.
In the confines of the universe, there is a cave. Inside the cave, there is a man. Inside the man, rages a blazing fire. And beyond the cave, piercing the cold darkness of the universe, there is the bright glimmer of a star.
Phainon remembers Khaslana and Khaslana remembers Phainon. Whether the distinction matters or not, he still doesn't know. But Phainon doesn't want to throw away the existence of the selves that stood where he is. He doesn't want to deny their pain, their struggle, their hatred, their love. It's all his too, after all. He supposes he might be the last; after him, there will be no new Phainon, a consequence of the gamble he’s taking. And so, he will remember the last Khaslana before him too.
Because none of them can be beside the star he caught now.
Phainon wonders what that makes him. In the eyes of the previous Khaslanas, an opportunist, a thief? He knows—only he could know—just how badly every one of them waited for the starlight to pierce through the cave’s walls. He understands how they might’ve felt, intimately so. Were he too made to pass the torch, one among the millions of cycles Khaslana went through, he would have felt envious of his current self, even if just a little.
Or maybe, precisely because he's the current self, all the others placed their unfulfilled dreams onto him. Phainon also understands, intimately so, how much of Khaslana is made of these never-dared hopes, this crushing, suffocating longing. And, well… At the end of the day, all of Khaslana is all of him too. The conclusion that he's always been himself is not exactly wrong either.
So, as Phainon, as Khaslana, as himself and nothing other than himself, he decided he ought to change plans, change course. Live a little, as his beloved partner Stelle taught him to.
Trace his trajectory as far as you possibly can, and you'll find the source of his flame: hatred. It's not the puny flame of reckless abandon, it's not the passable heat of a fleeting grudge. His fire was born of a boy who loved, who wished to embrace and care for the world, who wished to give his companions all they wished for. His fire was fed by the world's end, by his companions’ death, by the futility of his fate. His fire evolved for epochs, consuming everything it touched, until it burned the body it used as a vessel beyond recognition.
He is now reborn, reforged and tempered by the Destruction. Just as Lycurgus wishes, a new apostle of the Blemished One will enact ruin. But Dawnmaker shall never be pointed towards the stars, warriors, monuments, fools, commoners or the nothingness in the universe. Unlike his predecessors, this Lord Ravager will aim his blade much, much higher than anyone ever did.
This is what feeds his flames, the purpose which has always and ever will fuel him: to create a world with no fate, no king and no god pressing over his head. And he's certain there is no space for this arrogant fool named Nanook in his ideal world either.
As for Deliverance… A burden off his shoulders, and he almost can't believe how light he feels without it. He always felt unworthy of it no matter how hard he strived, but he always thought there was no one else who could do it either. Same old stubbornness, believing there was never any choice he could make. The circumstances were desperate indeed, but Khaslana always felt deep down that his destiny was to crumble into ashes at the end of his duty and fade away with no future for himself.
Thankfully, he now has a hero by his side. A strange woman, oftentimes hard to get, who spends her days living as though it is the simplest, most obvious thing in the world, and who taught him that maybe it is just like that. A dear partner who witnessed Khaslana's futile journey in all of its entirety and embraced all of it, resolving to give it meaning. A person who lived by Phainon's side and took his hand, freed him of the curse of the Worldbearer, and who he can't feel anything but love towards.
One will step into the future and the other will journey to the past. The threat of Irontomb still looms true, but he doesn't feel intimidated by that in the slightest now. Gone are Phainon's ever-present doubts and fears, gone is Khaslana's deep-seated despair. All that settles in his chest now is his beating heart, the one who's always been with him, the one he always ought to have: a fiery, raging flame, the most alive it's ever been.
He stares at fate as it stares down at him, unafraid, and makes a single observation: the universe is quite the filthy place, littered with the Destruction's waste as it is. Certainly not befitting of his star's light.
If that's the case, then he shall fulfill what he wants as destiny. He will become the blazing sun that will burn down everything: the cave, the filth, even the most distant stars, all so her dawn could reach even the furthest confines.