Phaethon of the Scorched Horizon

Light descends before the agony. Uncontrollable Ether erupts like a solar corona. The silhouette of what was once "human" is burned, disintegrated, and reshaped into an aberration resembling an Ethereal. Crystalline lenses tremble deep within their vision, spilling excess radiance — too bright, too close, as if someone had embedded the blazing sun into their eye sockets. Consciousness wears thin amidst the burning. The swing ends — like a reflex, like a habit, lacking even the concept of a target. There is only a suffocatingly familiar blankness, as if long ago, they had also lost their voice and weight like this, watching everything plummet amidst the light and heat. Those buried fragments surge upward along the residual flames: the cold glare of the lab table, the sudden uncontrollable force, the faces drained of life... The memories are sickeningly vivid, leaving indelible scorch marks on the mind. ...Who is calling out? That voice pierces the roar of blood rushing in the ears, briefly striking a faded name and granting their consciousness a momentary respite. Before their sanity is completely incinerated, a choice must be made — don't bring about another disaster. Go away. Leave... leave... ...Where to? With whom? To do what? ...... ...Ah, I think we did make a deal like that... ..."We shall catch the 'sun'." "To think your original sin would lead me to new heights over a decade later... How ironic, you legacy of 'Helios'." — An old man holding the Lead Scepter is reviewing the tournament's confidential reports