The Scepter of Silent Sorrows
The Aethelgard Alliance delegation radiated an aura of unblemished, almost oppressive, righteousness. Their robes of pristine white and silver shimmered with spiritual purity, and their movements were synchronized, flawless. Leading them was the Lord Protector, a man whose gaze held the unwavering conviction of a zealot, his features etched with an iron will. Long Hu felt the familiar thrum of hidden sorrow, but from this delegation, it was different: a vast, ancient bitterness, so deeply buried it formed the very foundation of their proclaimed unity. It was the trauma of fractured peace.
Their tribute was a "Unity Scepter," a staff of polished starlight crystal, pulsing with a steady, harmonious light. It was meant to symbolize their realm's perfect cohesion after a devastating civil schism decades ago. Long Hu's intuition screamed. This wasn't harmony; it was suppression. A forced, fragile peace built on unmourned devastation.
He stepped forward, his hands hovering over the scepter. Closing his eyes, he delved. The purity was a formidable barrier, not a deceptive illusion, but a wall of collective self-delusion, reinforced by rigorous spiritual discipline. He felt the vast emptiness within it, the silence where a million screams should have been, the cold resentment of an old, deep wound cauterized but never healed. It was a mental fortress of forced peace, designed to contain the very despair the Devourers craved.
He pushed, his unique sense acting like a probe, seeking the cracks in their enforced unity. It was the most difficult purification yet. He felt the echoes of old battles, of betrayal, of families torn asunder, all stuffed beneath layers of ceremonial spiritual practice. The mental strain was immense, threatening to splinter his own fragile composure. A specific memory flashed—not of his power, but of the internal dissent within his own legions, the subtle whispers of rebellion he had crushed, the loyalties he had demanded. The crushing weight of leadership, and the silent cost of maintaining power. He gasped, his body trembling, the agony of a buried, collective grief washing over him.
The Lord Protector, his gaze unwavering, subtly intensified his own spiritual pressure, a crushing weight designed to shatter Long Hu's concentration. "Apprentice," his voice resonated with cold authority, "are you truly capable of discerning purity, or do you merely seek to conjure impurities from thin air?"
Empress Xianxia, witnessing Long Hu's visible distress and the Lord Protector's veiled intimidation, released a wave of her own imperial aura. It was like a soothing balm, but also a sharp, precise blow that shattered the Lord Protector's spiritual pressure. "My apprentice discerns truth, Lord Protector," her voice rang with steel. "A task often discomforting to those who prefer illusion." Her eyes, blazing with formidable power, challenged him directly. Her fierce protectiveness for Long Hu was now undeniable.
With Xianxia's unspoken support, Long Hu pushed through the final layer. The Unity Scepter pulsed erratically, its harmonious light flickering. A wave of silent, raw pain radiated from it, a collective sob that had been held for decades. The scepter's crystal core pulsed, no longer with bland peace, but with a vibrant, albeit melancholic, truth. He had not just purified; he had given voice to a realm's unacknowledged trauma.
The Lord Protector's face, usually so perfectly serene, contorted in a brief, raw spasm of fury and exposure. He looked as though his very soul had been laid bare. He quickly recomposed himself, but the tremor in his hands was evident. "The Empress's discernment is... profound," he stated, his voice tight with suppressed rage.
"Indeed," Xianxia said, her eyes piercing the Lord Protector. "The Aethelgard Alliance's unity now feels truly... earned. A testament to enduring strength." Her words were a chilling acknowledgment of the price they had paid, and the grief they had hidden.
Long Hu retreated, utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The Devourers were not just about personal despair; they were about grand-scale manipulation, feeding on the unmourned wounds of societies. They cultivated unity through enforced silence, turning collective trauma into a vast, unending feast. The sheer scale of their insidious tactics was terrifying.
Xianxia met his gaze, her eyes reflecting the profound understanding that now bound them. The Conclave, once a symbol of the Azure Heaven Realm's supremacy, was now revealed as a potential smorgasbord for cosmic parasites. She reached out, her hand gently brushing his, a touch of silent solidarity amidst the swirling chaos of the hall.
"This Conclave is nearing its end, Apprentice," she murmured, her voice low, for his ears alone. "But our work has only just begun. They have been exposed. Now, they will react. And when they do, the true war begins."
Long Hu felt the immense weight of that shared statement, the unspoken promise of a partnership forged in cosmic fire. The alliance of the exposed delegations, the Devourers' cunning adaptation, and the terrifying knowledge of humanity's hidden sorrows converged into an ominous storm. He was no longer just the Empress's apprentice; he was her fellow warrior, staring into the abyss of a war for all existence. Their shared path, forged in betrayal and tempered by cosmic dread, was now irrevocably set.