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Ewigegnade and Grimmacht's duet is so simple in comparison.

The notes gently rise and sharply fall, with the dignified and imposing pipe organ resembling a castle encircled by mountains, while the ethereal violin is like a waterfall pouring by the citadel.

The sound of water splashing onto rock is still clearly audible in the room furthest from the waterfall, but even in the closest it does not sound so noisy.

The two act like one, their movements as harmonious as if they had never split.

The symphonies sing a war song: two generations of Leithanian Kaisers fight before the throne, the entire Pavillon both their sand table and military formation. History bends and rewinds at this moment—

Gaul's flagship crosses the river valley under Corsica I's lead, soldiers bumping shoulders as they form a thick cloud and tear apart Sturmland's iron curtain-like defense line.

And then, Herkunftshorn's silhouette introduces its reign at the pinnacle. He stands atop the Spire, heaven and earth at his beck and call. The elements, thunderbolts, and sandstorms are all at his disposal—

To swallow everything.

Under the omnipresent dust clouds of blood, Ewigegnade and Grimmacht's movements are unremarkable.

They sneak into Vedunien under the cover of night and with a feint from the Kurfürsten's coalition army, and make a beeline for the Spire.

The Spire opens its doors, welcoming its visitors. The unsuspecting spire casters rush into formation, and one by one turn into the red leaves of late autumn.

Shield and sword shatter the Genesis Spire.

Just like that night twenty-three years ago.

My Pavillon, and everything in it, are disintegrating, dying.

The Pavillon... This imperishable hall is not my creation, nor the work of anyone else.

It is the accumulation of mankind's immeasurable sacrifices.

Technology, arts, evolutionary experience—every choice, every regret, every affection, and every resentment. Every hope and every despair.

Every thought and every prayer, the birth and death of every civilization, everything remembered and everything forgotten.

The Pavillon is humanity.

The Pavillon is our will.

Through annihilation the will has taken form, and from chaos the order was given birth.

A will true to reveal the origin. A will firm to conquer the source.

Originium.

The beginning of annihilation and the source of chaos were both mine to wield, and thus I compelled Originium to reveal the nature of its being, to present the fact of its origin.

But I became aware that no matter how Originium grows, overwrites, recreates...

It speaks the same truth, a truth laid bare right before our eyes all along.

It says the creator who was at the source of making was also a creation.

It says the dominator reigned long before its domain came to exist.

It says hope is lost, and eternity is no more.

And what truth did I obtain but heavier chains, and a more ruthless resolve at the origin, the root of all creation?

Undeniable as the silence of death. Unextinguishable as the light of stars.

Cruel was the maker. Vile was the maker. Sly was the maker.

By his hands our determination was shattered, but not annulled; maimed, but not overthrown.

It forged our sharpest sword. It built our toughest prison.

The truth is laid bare for all to see, but how can a seeker challenge the truth with their volition and sanity splintered?

Let the truth be seen by all eyes. Let the reason be heard to all ears.

Your determination has guided you to my Pavilion. More will follow.

You will see in me a nightmare, a traitor to freedom, a... tyrant.

But if the Genesis Spire has failed to reach the boundary with its thrust, then a pioneer must be there to step foot on a place beyond space and time.

If the root of all creation poses nothing but shackles, then we shall be the hands holding its chains.

If the Creator has willed the extinction of his creation...

Then we shall be the bell to toll his demise.

Void cannot and <i>will not</i> be the truth. I will never allow it, nor will I excuse it.

Harken well Herkunftshorn's ultimate vision, his sin, his final will:

The Creator must perish.

I see that your power has grown since our last meeting, twins.

The portion of Herkunftshorn which he discarded long ago is standing before him.

But you have perceived not yourselves, and known not... freedom. You have relinquished... humanity.

I had hoped Leithanien's sword and shield to be more than weapons.

Heed, my audience.

You have come before the throne to seek an answer, to pass down a verdict.

Only a man's answer can sate his kin. Only a monarch's verdict can convict his equals.

If you succeed, if you stand fast till the very end, you must see what I didn't, and be what I wasn't.

Hope may be gone. Enternity may be lost.

Their dearth mark but the end of Herkunftshorn, a monarch's downfall.

Leithanien shall stand, whose light will outshine the tallest beacon of hope.

Leithanien shall live, whose name will outlast the longest river of time!

He sees a rhapsody. He roars a fanfare. He demands a concerto. Now thunders have joined the chorus.