The " Eternity " flames burn without reason, caring whether you have a broken arm or a clipped wing, piercing every inch of Phainon's still-pulsating flesh until it burns.
He propped himself up with one hand and struggled to his feet. Blood gushed from the severed wound again, soaking large patches of the wheat ears beneath him and turning them red.
Phainon gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the crevices of the pile of golden corpses beneath him—his companions crushed beneath him were his greatest motivation at that moment.
With his entire right arm and half of his right wing missing, Phainon's center of gravity inevitably shifted. He had to rely on the remaining half of his left wing and his legs to support himself, standing unsteadily as if he might fall down at any moment.
But he eventually stood up. The wound at the cut reopened inch by inch as he stood up, and golden blood flowed down his shoulder blade to his waist. The golden mist that rose up enveloped half of his body, like a small piece of moving sunset.
Crimson flames surged around him, not dissipating outwards but coiling around him, circle after circle, as if mending his severed arm and broken wing.
Phainon raised his face and looked directly at Zephyro.
Those golden eyes burned fiercely, with blood vessels crawling out, staining the entire pupil a murky golden-red.
The Bai E's features were contorted with extreme pain and rage—its mouth was agape, its teeth were bared, its brow bone was stained with dried gold blood and black ash, and its hair was charred and curled up in clumps, sticking to its forehead.
His gaze seemed to burn through the white flames of the Zephyro Wind.
Phainon is no longer the weak boy in the Aedes Elysiae, nor even any of his appearances from the hundreds of thousands of reincarnations.
This is a Savior driven to the brink of despair, burning with the rage accumulated over thirty million lifetimes into his very bones—a madman clinging to the last shred of his unyielding spirit.
The Zephyro did not move; the blazing white storm stood silently in place, its two dark eye sockets undisturbed.
He just stared at the man on the ground, swaying and barely clinging to life.
Then, He raised His hand.
A golden light swept past the corner of Phainon's vision.
Zephyro threw the sword back at him.
" Dawn's Advance," the longsword that had been cleaved away along with his right arm in that last strike and was now deeply embedded in the barrier membrane.
It spun through the void, tracing a clean arc. The golden flames on the sword, far from being extinguished by the collision, appeared even purer and more intense due to the brief dissipation.
Flames shot high along the spine of the sword, turning the entire sword into a flowing golden pillar of light.
Zephyro tossed his sword to Phainon, like a true opponent throwing back a weapon at a one-armed enemy.
Phainon's gaze followed the golden arc, and the burning madness in his eyes suddenly solidified.
Phainon neither dodged nor tried to catch the sword. He stretched out his intact left hand, spread his five fingers, and firmly and forcefully grasped the flying sword hilt!
The moment the sword touched his hand, a scalding flame licked his palm, but he gripped it as if it were a life he would never let go of, his knuckles turning white, and blood trickling down his palm along the hilt.
Phainon gripped his sword, but a new problem arose: with half of his right wing missing, standing on the sloping, undulating mountain of corpses, he couldn't maintain his balance.
As soon as he tried to use the momentum to rush forward, his legs gave way and his whole body tilted to the right. A sharp pain shot through his empty right shoulder, and he almost fell back into the wheat field.
Phainon tried twice, but couldn't move a step either time.
Zephyro stood in front, like an immovable statue burning with white flames, waiting for him to finish this struggle.
Phainon stared at the half of his left wing that was still unfolding behind him. The golden-black feathers trembled slightly in the crimson flames. The wound at the base of the wing had reopened due to the movement just now, and golden blood dripped down the gaps in the feathers.
It was this half-wing that caused him to lose his balance, making it impossible for him to take a single step.
Phainon, panting, stared at the half-wing for about two breaths.
Then, he raised the " Dawn's Advance " sword in his left hand, the blade pointing backward, aimed at the wing root below his left shoulder.
Pfft!
A golden line of blood was drawn across the void.
He had severed half of his golden-black wing by himself, and the pile of feathers, stained with golden blood, tumbled and fell onto the golden wheat field, leaving large dark marks, like a handful of scorched wheat awns scattered by the wind.
The excruciating pain of the severed wing made Phainon shudder violently, and his face instantly paled.
But even with his wings severed, his already crippled body strangely straightened out.
There was no longer the left wing pulling backward; instead, there was only a ball of crimson fire in the chest and abdomen, pressing all the weight forward.
He stood atop that golden corpse mountain, like a war god whose wings had been torn off and who was left with only one breath, his body leaning forward, his center of gravity fixed at a forward, resolute angle.
The crimson flames rose again, more fiercely than ever before, evaporating the golden blood gushing from the broken wound into a thick, golden cloud.
Phainon began to charge forward, stepping on the golden wheat field paved with the blood of his comrades from thirty million lifetimes, stepping on the golden blood flowing from his broken arms and wings, his figure like an arrow released from a bow.
He charged straight at Zephyro still, blazing white storm of Destruction, fueled by an inextinguishable, unyielding rage that even he could barely contain.
The wheat ears beneath Phainon's feet parted to the sides under his footsteps, then slowly, layer by layer, closed back together, like a silent farewell.