Guess Who Will Win?

For the commoners of the royal city, today was just an ordinary night. As usual, they prayed on their balconies, in parks, and along the streets—anywhere they could see the White Lady and the Blue Child. They could never have imagined that when the sun rose the next day, when they awoke from their slumber, this royal city would have a new master. Inside the palace, the atmosphere had turned bone-chillingly cold. Neither side dared to make a move, terrified that a single mistake would lead to total ruin. The grand hall was deathly silent; one could hear a pin drop on the floor. Azar was filled with doubt. Why hadn't the King contacted him? Logically, he was the King's greatest reliance. Thinking back, even Azshara hadn't received any special instructions, just standard overtures; one could tell by the messengers sent that they weren't the King's inner circle. Was the King suspicious of him? It was highly likely! After all, killing the King's unborn child was the only way to secure his own position as heir. Though he had never thought of it that way, he was the kingdom's youngest God of War, a leader of the younger generation, and the King's nephew—he had the ability, the lineage, and the best chance to inherit the throne. In other words, if the old King's child were born, it would be the greatest threat to him; if the child died, he would be the greatest beneficiary! They were all thousand-year-old foxes, calculating more shrewdly than anyone! A faint ripple of Arcane energy made Azar instantly alert. Who could it be at a time like this? The two men in the center also flashed a look of confusion. Was it him? Was it him? Was it him! "That's enough!" A majestic voice came from behind the crowd, instantly drawing everyone's gaze. He walked slowly toward the center of the hall, standing tall and straight, dressed in magnificent attire with a one-handed sword hanging at his waist. Azar recognized him at a glance: Daresmar Sunstrider. He had never met Daresmar, but he knew that sword—Felo'melorn! The legendary weapon of the Fire Mages! Seeing his appearance, Azar looked involuntarily at his wife beside him, his eyes filled with doubt. Yet Azshara continued to watch the center of the hall as if nothing were amiss. Something was wrong! His wife definitely had a problem, because her hand movements were currently poised to cast a spell at any moment! Why was she doing this? What role was she playing in all this? The two men in the center saw Daresmar walk out and felt a surge of wild joy. See? My reinforcements have arrived.

"I said, the banquet is over." Seeing no reaction from the crowd, he repeated himself with a heavier tone.

"Why aren't you moving? Do you all think you're the winners, or are you unsure if you should be the ones to withdraw?" With his second sentence, the King and the High Priest's expressions changed drastically! He isn't my man! Azshara! You are ruthless. Not only them, but Azar was also struck by a shock no less intense than theirs! His own wife, his own wife was the oriole stalking the mantis! I've been played too. Azar stared blankly at his wife, his mind racing through everything that had happened recently. The more he thought, the colder his back felt! A woman's heart is as deep as the sea! This time, he had become nothing more than background scenery. First, she had pacified him, appearing to work hard with him on conceiving a child, while secretly laying everything out. Using her status as a double agent, she had been quietly cultivating her own forces all along. The poor old men had thought she was their own! He had been her best cover; the King thought he held the military power and that success was near, while the High Priest thought he had won her over and let his guard down against him! And he himself had believed Azshara was his wife, even preparing to have a child with her; everything she displayed was centered on the family. She had successfully deceived everyone! She had used everyone! His hand gripped Quel'Delar; he wanted to draw his blade right now! Calm down, I must stay calm, he warned himself, simultaneously channeling the Power of Order within. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and slowly, his hand moved away from the hilt. Think again, think again. She had no intention of attacking him; her spell preparations were aimed at the two men in the center. Azar saw it—Azshara's Arcane anchor had been dropped at their feet, very subtly; no one but him had noticed. What exactly is she trying to do! Azar's face twisted slightly, the struggle within him evident. Looking at Azshara, perhaps due to extreme tension, she didn't notice her husband's emotional fluctuations. Her focus was entirely on the center of the hall; the grand drama she had directed was about to reach its finale, and the key player was about to take the stage.

"Come out. Don't send a small fry to cover for you; he isn't qualified." The High Priest spoke, his tone calm and desolate, as if he had already resigned himself to his fate. Hearing this, the crowd was shocked. Was there a mastermind behind the scenes? Azshara walked slowly forward, arriving in the center of the hall, while Daresmar quickly stood behind her, maintaining a defensive stance.

"I knew I couldn't hide it from you, Teacher." Azshara's tone was also calm, as if they were just chatting.

"I didn't think of it before, but if I can't see it now, I'd be a true fool. It seems we really are old, Jabani." At this moment, the High Priest seemed to age to the extreme, his tone filled with profound sorrow. The King looked at him, then at Azar, and finally, his gaze landed on Azshara's face. He asked sharply, "Was it you?"

"Does it matter, Uncle?" Azshara said, looking at the King with a firm gaze.

The King's expression withered instantly. Yes, it doesn't matter anymore; it only adds to the sorrow! To lose is to lose. After a hundred years of hard struggle, he had ultimately been defeated by his own judgment, despite everyone praising his foresight. The High Priest was right; his ability to judge people was truly flawed. At least Azar hadn't been involved; looking at his expression now, he still valued their bond—after all, he was his nephew. All of this must have been this woman's scheme.

"There's no turning back now. I know what I taught her, and I suppose you taught her quite a bit as well. Very well, it can be considered passing on my mantle." The High Priest consoled himself helplessly. He surrendered completely. Just as everyone thought the High Priest had accepted his fate, he suddenly raised his right hand and struck his own forehead! There was no sound, but those who understood knew he would die...

"No one can defeat me! Except for myself!" These were his final words, heard only by the few people surrounding him. The King saw this and sighed softly, "You really are a man who remains proud until death. Very well, let me accompany you a while longer!" Having said this, he immediately performed the same action as the High Priest, ending his own life with his own hands! His mouth moved as if to say something, but no one heard it except for Azar. He said, "Child, there is something in the lining of the throne."