How Can It Be Described by the Word "Love"?

Under the astonished gazes of the crowd, Azar walked straight toward the throne. Daresmar instinctively reached out to stop him, but Azar ignored him entirely and continued forward.

"My lord, please st—" Before he could finish, a loud bang echoed through the hall. He was sent flying, slamming into a pillar with a thunderous crash. Everyone watched the scene unfold in an instant, too stunned to speak, simply staring at him in silence. Azar reached the throne, crouched down, and slowly extended his hand to stroke it, as gently as one might touch the soft skin of a young maiden. Suddenly, a crack rang out, sending a jolt through everyone's hearts as Azar shattered the throne right down the middle, splitting it in two. A book fell out; he picked it up gently and, without even glancing at it, tucked it into his robes before turning to walk out of the hall. As he passed Azshara, he said, "Let's go home." His voice was soft, as if nothing had just happened and he were merely taking his wife out for a stroll. But Azshara knew her husband was struggling to Overpower his own rage. Behind him, she left a single instruction: "Handle the rest."

"Yes," several voices replied. Azar's brow furrowed—he had heard the voice of Number Zero!

In the bedroom, Azar lay on the bed, the crystal lamp overhead casting a soft pink glow. They had picked it out together while shopping the day after their wedding, both agreeing that pink suited the room and stirred their passion; for all these years, they hadn't been able to bear replacing it. Now, looking at the exquisite crystal lamp, Azar's heart was filled with fury. He slowly raised his hand toward it—he wanted to destroy it! End it. Let everything end. He slowly closed his eyes, and a tear slid down. It had been a long time since he had cried, but now, his heart was wounded, and he wept. He opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, as if he had made a decision. Just as he was about to act, a figure blocked his path. "If you want to destroy it, you must kill me first!" She stood tall, slightly pushing out her stomach, as if to say, Kill us both, mother and child! Kill her? That was impossible. He slowly lowered his hand and asked coldly, "Do you care?"

"I care! I care!" Azshara screamed hysterically. "You can hit me, curse me, but please, do not doubt my feelings for you! For the sake of the child, please forgive me. I did this for our family." By the end, Azshara was practically begging.

"Yes! You knew exactly that I care about you, about our feelings, about our family, and about our child, which is why you dared to use me so unscrupulously! To satisfy your ambition!" Azar roared. He no longer suppressed his emotions; he needed to vent. He was profoundly depressed—not because of his miscalculation, nor his wife's ambition, nor even the death of his uncle. It was heartbreak, a suffocating ache, a coldness in his soul. His own wife had used him and deceived him! I am her lover, the person closest to her. Why didn't she tell me? Why! Why was I the last to know?

"I did it for your own good. You couldn't be involved in this," she insisted, still holding her ground.

"Do you think we can be separated? What you've done only makes the truth harder to see!" Why did women always act so presumptuously? A clever person would never think this was Azshara trying to seize power; they would only assume it was Azar's intent, and that he simply couldn't act directly due to familial ties. No one would care about the messy details; everyone who knew she was the King's student was already dead—no witnesses left. What, you say Azar? Do you think he would speak up? Even if he did, would anyone believe him? She had calculated everything; she was truly a brilliant woman. More importantly, she had succeeded, and she would weave a perfect ending to this story. The King realizes his mistake and holds a banquet to apologize; the High Priest, dissatisfied, attempts a coup; Azshara, to uphold the kingdom's orthodoxy, puts righteousness before her master-student bond and eliminates the traitor; and Azar? He watches from the sidelines, steps onto the throne after the event, and produces a book. The story could also be told this way: The King was a good man who, since the Great Migration, had strived for the future of the entire race, and after founding the nation, he lived in harmony with the people and fostered rapid development. His death is a tragedy; the masses will sympathize with him, grieve for him, and hold a grand funeral. The High Priest is a schemer whose efforts were always for power! He will be reviled, the Temple of the Moon will suffer a massive blow, and everyone associated with him will be implicated. His death is not worth pitying. Azshara? The embodiment of beauty and wisdom in the Elf kingdom—righteous, sensible, and decisive. Let us choose her as our Queen. The Count? Sorry, you've been ignored. But what exactly did he take? Why does no one know? No one present even knew there was something there. How did he know? Him as King? No, put him on the waiting list; maybe another time.

In just one month, Azshara handled everything perfectly. She was truly worthy of being the future Light of Lights; her capabilities were top-tier. Even Azar had to admit she had done a beautiful job. We must believe that there are geniuses in this world; they are not dimmed by your diligence or foresight, but rather, they shine even brighter in contrast to such things.

Azar left, taking his loyalists with him, departing the capital. Yes, they were going to Eldre'Thalas, returning to their own domain. He was wounded—wounded in his heart—and he needed to return to his nest to weep alone and heal alone. He was a loser, a loser in the political struggle. All his arrangements had served as a wedding dress for another. He had tried his best, but the enemy was stronger. He could only blame himself for being too naive; he had underestimated the magic of power. Honestly, he couldn't even guarantee that, without knowing the future, he would have been able to resist the temptation of the throne himself. He thought for a long time and concluded that he could not. So, he had to go and summarize the lessons learned—not to harm others, but to protect himself. He would not be used again, nor treated like a fool. Once was enough. Failure is not terrible; what is terrible is failing to see one's own failure.

But could things really go as he wished? Would his life truly only hold this one heartbreak? Men always struggle to pass the trials of love, don't they?

Volume One, End.