Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

To reiterate, Alisa has extensive experience in political struggles.

She wasn't the kind of reckless woman who would only bang on the table and glare, nor was she the kind of elegant, smiling, but sarcastic, aristocratic vase. She knew when to advance, when to retreat, and when to launch a sudden counterattack when her opponent thought she was about to back down.

After the rhythm stalled, the Eternal Queen's side was completely overwhelmed by her agricultural system theory. Even when she brought up the "faith" card, it was easily blocked by her. She took another step back.

It's not admitting defeat, it's not backing down, it's giving the opponent a bait that "you can follow up."

She brought up medicine, not in a boastful way that "I'm better than you," but in a very natural way, like asking, "What achievements have you made in this field?"—with curiosity, as if waiting for the other person's answer.

So, Lilazel, who had already been lured in, naturally followed suit.

Who is Lilazel? She is the chief handmaid of the Eternal Queen. Not the kind of handmaid who serves tea and water and tidies clothes, but the kind of "high handmaid" who has been by the Eternal Queen's side for decades, accompanied her through countless days and nights, participated in countless decisions, and has absolute say in doctrine and etiquette.

Every word she utters can be seen as an extension of the Eternal Queen's attitude.

The moment she followed, Tirya and Salalel's eyes met briefly in the air—the unspoken understanding between hunters when they see their prey step into a trap.

In that instant, Queen Marist knew things were going wrong. She wanted to interrupt, to cut off Lyrazel's words, and to salvage the situation with a cough, a look, or a gesture that said, "Let's change the subject."

But the words had already been spoken; what's done is done. She could only sigh inwardly, lean back in her chair, and wear a "let's see what other tricks you can pull" expression to mask her inner helplessness.

As expected, the "Tirya Time" began.

Tirya continued Alisa's previous style, calm and unhurried, as if reading an annual summary, and began to talk about Duruci's maternal and child health care and medical system. Her voice was not loud, but very steady, as if it had been nailed to the table.

Upon arriving in Nagalos, she was nominally a handmaid of Malekith, responsible for managing Malekith's court, daily travels, and other mundane, aristocratic, respectable but not particularly important tasks.

But in reality... Malekith, who wears midnight armor year-round and doesn't need to eat, doesn't need her care, nor does she need to be responsible for Malekith's safety.

As a result, her work focus shifted.

She was in charge of managing the cellars in Nagalond, ensuring that the Duruci living in Nagalos could have leafy green vegetables to eat during the long winters. However, in this regard, she was only responsible for execution and ensuring the details were handled by the Fepper Gardens, which were led by Alisa.

She is an executor, not a creator.

In addition, she was also in charge of education, but only to ensure that Drusara had enough teaching staff. Most of the young women who taught children to read, do arithmetic, and recite prayers in the schools of Nagarus were recruited, screened, and trained by her from all over the country.

What she truly controls is the maternal and child health care, medical care, and epidemic prevention system. From prenatal checkups for pregnant women to vaccinations for newborns, to regular physical examinations for children, to the isolation and treatment of infectious diseases, to emergency responses to epidemic prevention, the entire chain, from policy formulation to grassroots implementation, is under her control.

In addition, she will provide medical personnel to the Trudeau Army, although the Felix Gardens will also be involved in this part, providing relevant technology and medicines.

It's a mix, yet not a mix.

In terms of the division of responsibilities, under Dakous's guidance, the distinctions were crystal clear.

If you're not cut out for this, don't take the spot; if you are, dig the spot deep, well, and so deep that others can't live without you.

Take agriculture as an example. The Aisha faction is responsible for planting and cultivation, while the future Lema faction will be responsible for transportation and logistics. But the Val faction is also involved. The trains running on the tracks, the vehicles speeding on the roads, and the cranes loading and unloading cargo in the ports are all designed, manufactured, and maintained by the followers of the Val faction.

Without the Vale faction, the Lyma faction simply cannot stand.

We can't expect the beast tamers to use the war hydra as locomotives to pull the carriages, can we?

In the areas of maternal and child health, medical care, and disease prevention, in addition to the Aisha faction, the Asati faction, which is responsible for managing people's livelihoods, is also heavily involved.

The followers of Asati manage household registration, statistics, and grassroots affairs. They know how many pregnant women are in which neighborhood and which family's child needs to be vaccinated.

Without them, the healthcare system would lose its eyes and ears.

The same applies to education, where the Aisha, Asati, and Loyke systems stand in a three-way balance, with the Hoss system to be added in the future.

Strictly speaking, in the Kadai pantheon, it is Lilith, not Hoth, who is in charge of magic. This is why the Archmages of Asur bear the insignia of Lilith. Hoth, on the other hand, is the god of knowledge and wisdom.

In the medical field, the Holstein Group will also join in the future, taking charge of pharmaceuticals.

It's a situation where we're intertwined, and neither can function without the other. But this inability to function isn't forced; it's a deliberate design.

When Darkus established these systems, he never intended for any single faction to monopolize them. Agriculture was not solely the domain of the Aisha faction, medicine was not solely the domain of the Tirja faction, and education was not solely the domain of the Drusara faction.

Every system is a network, and every node on the network is connected to other nodes.

You want to dismantle the net?

can.

But can you guarantee that after you've dismantled it, you'll still be able to stand still without falling?

But this didn't stop Tirya from repeating herself like a broken record during the meeting, laying out the numbers, cases, and processes she had already said countless times, word for word, in that "I know you don't want to hear it, but you have to" tone, covering the entire long table.

From the percentage decrease in maternal mortality rate to the increase in newborn survival rate, each number is like a nail, hammered into the invisible wooden board on the table called the "Aishar Aishah Belief System".

Lilazel, her face flushed, was still trying.

The word "charity" came out of her mouth.

Her voice trembled slightly, as if in a final struggle. She spoke of the traditions of the Aisha faith, of the priests who provided free medical care in the countryside, and of the Aisha believers who risked their own lives to care for the sick during the plague. Her eyes were red, whether from anger or from being overwhelmed by Tirya's cold, hard numbers, it was hard to tell.

As a result, he was brutally killed by Salalel, who remained silent throughout.

Salalel had barely uttered a word since the meeting began. She simply sat there, listening quietly, her fingers interlaced on the table, her gaze lowered, like an emotionless statue. It was as if she were merely there to make up the numbers, as if she were nothing more than Tirya's shadow, as if she had no say in this room. But when Lilazel uttered the word "charity," Salalel raised her head.

"Sorry, there is no charity in our system."

Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was as if it had been soaked in ice water, chilling to the bone. There was no emotion, no rhetoric, and no room for argument.

It's not "we don't use this word much," nor "we feel that charity is insufficient," but rather "we don't have it!"
It's not "we don't need charity," nor "we don't do that kind of thing," but a fundamental, systematic, and logical negation!

In her context, "charity" is charity, a condescending bestowal, a fleeting whim, something unstable, unsustainable, and unfit for the core of any system.

Duruci's system, however, lacks this condescending perspective.

People each have their own roles and responsibilities; everyone is in their own position, doing what they are supposed to do and receiving the rewards they deserve. There is no need for 'charity,' because 'charity' implies that some people are undeserving, that some people are living off the pity of others.

In this system, everyone deserves it, and everyone contributes to themselves and others.

This is the difference.

The meeting then descended into pointless arguments.

It wasn't the kind of debate that revolved around data, cases, and processes, but a more primitive, instinctive argument that felt like talking to a brick wall.

One side says, "We are solving problems systematically," while the other side says, "We are showing compassionate care."

One side is talking about "efficiency," while the other side is talking about "compassion."

One side is talking about "duty", while the other side is talking about "dedication".

Two discourse systems, two ways of thinking, and two fundamental understandings of "what is good" collided violently on this long table, producing a harsh, metallic sound.

Outside the window, it had already darkened. The streetlights were on, casting their light through the glass onto the table, mixing with the dented papers, numbers, and concepts tossed around, creating a complex mess that one didn't want to look at any longer.

The meeting room door was still closed, but the sounds coming from under the door had changed from "They seem to be arguing?" to "They seem to be fighting?"

ended.

At least the first meeting is over.

A perfect ending? Not really, no conclusion has been reached. But if you have to call it a perfect ending, then so be it; at least Duruci has secured two key positions.

It was a lively night.

The reasons... are many!
First, there were many people. A burly man came from the south, carrying five catties of sole; a mute man came from the north, with a trumpet tucked into his waistband.

In Asur, almost all the leaders, deputies, and nobles from various kingdoms came, and they came from different directions.

Terenlock's forces first arrived in the Kingdom of Nagarus. After meeting and reuniting, the two sides crossed the crater and passed through the Phoenix Gate.

Caledo and Elion arrived at the landing site by boat, while Charis and Avalon arrived by land, and so they fought last night.

The groups of Itain, Safre, Iris, and Kosquie arrived by boat, but they disembarked not at the landing site, but at Tal Paratul.

This only applies to Asur.

However, due to the unpleasant ending of the Elsa Group meeting, no aristocratic banquet was held tonight.

There were no long tables, no silverware, and no orchestra playing those courtly dances that everyone was tired of hearing in the corner.

So, the idle nobles naturally turned to the second option: gossiping about Elsa.

They either discuss what will happen tomorrow.

Another thing is...

"elder brother……"

Kaldor didn't respond; he stood there silently, like a stone monument eroded by time yet refusing to fall. Behind him was the stone wall of the barracks, and above him, the light of a streetlamp. That light stretched his shadow long, all the way to Kaledan's feet. His face was half light and half shadow; the light half showed sun-baked, rough, scarred skin; the shadow half obscured his expression.

Kaledan felt his throat go dry. He remembered the last time he saw his brother was on the day their father announced the heir—Kardo's eyes, like frozen lava, silently swept over him before turning away and never looking back.

That one look contained so much: anger, disappointment, resentment, and a trace of bewilderment at being betrayed by his closest loved ones—something he couldn't understand at the time, but later, after countless sleepless nights of reflection.

Upon returning to the White Tower of Hoss, he received news that his brother had left the territory and disappeared.

They didn't die in battle, they weren't captured, they left.

Fifty years have now passed.

He expected to see a warrior whose soul had been consumed by hatred, gaunt, sinister, with eyes burning only with the flames of vengeance, just like the legends about Nagaros that circulated in taverns.

The person standing before me, aside from a few more gray hairs at his temples and deeper marks of time etched around his eyes, remained as silent and resolute as I remembered. His shoulders were still so broad, and his jawline still so sharp.

But that silence was no longer the cold indifference of a knife's edge; it was more like a wall that was cracking. You looked at those cracks, not knowing when it would collapse, but you knew it wouldn't last much longer.

“Brother…” Kaledan called out again, his voice hesitant, yet filled with barely concealed guilt. When the word came out of his mouth, it carried a soft, youthful tone that he hadn’t used in fifty years.

He knew what his father's choice meant for his brother. In those years, while he was reading ancient books and practicing sword dance in the White Tower of Hoss, Kaldor was leading the warriors of the Coris family in a bloody battle against the scorpion-tailed beasts of the crater and the raiders of Duruci.

Every inch of the family territory was soaked with his brother's sweat and blood. And he, Kaledan, simply took what rightfully belonged to his brother by virtue of his so-called "extraordinary intelligence."

During the succession ceremony that day, he didn't even have the courage to look Kaldor in the eye. He kept his head down, listening to his father read the long document, to the sparse applause around him, and to his own heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.

He was never a usurper, but at that moment, he truly became one.

Kaldor remained standing there, the streetlamp casting a shadow beneath his brow, making his expression even more unreadable. But his right hand slowly rose, his fingertips caressing the pommel of Elrean's sword at his waist—the ancestral longsword's counterweight bearing the guilder of the Kores family. The movement was light and slow, seemingly unintentional, yet also deliberate.

What was he thinking about?
He remembered the moment he set foot on Nagalos. He thought he would chase the darkness among the icy cliffs of Nagalos, soak his hatred in the blood of his enemies, and one day return with the fierce winds of the North to reclaim everything he believed belonged to him.

But everything that happened afterward made him realize that the mountain weighing on his heart wasn't actually that heavy. It wasn't that the mountain had become lighter; it was that he had become stronger.

So strong that you can look back at that mountain and calmly say: Oh, so it's that high.

“Father was wrong,” Kaldor began, his voice hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time, each word sounding like it was being ground on sandpaper. He didn’t look into Kaledan’s black pupils, but at his younger brother, who was nervously pursing his lips, looking like he had done something wrong as a child and was waiting for punishment. The look was exactly the same as he remembered, even the downward curve of his lips hadn’t changed.

After a moment, he finally continued speaking.

“Druucci’s spies are wrong. Everyone is telling us…” He raised his hand, drawing a circle in the air with his finger, “You are smarter than me, more suited to rule the Coris family. But they have never asked whether I even care about that patriarch’s crown.”

Kaledan froze, his lips parted slightly, then closed, then parted again. His mind raced, processing the meaning of those words—indifference? But back then you clearly… when you turned and left, your back was clearly filled with hatred.

How could you not care?
"I care!"

Kaldo took a step forward, his boots making a crisp sound as they struck the cobblestones. The step was small, but heavy, as if he were trying to firmly plant himself on the ground, to make sure he had a stable footing.

“I’m sorry…” Kaledan’s eyes suddenly reddened, his voice trembled as if something was stuck in his throat, “Brother, I’m sorry… I was too young and too stupid back then. I thought you would hate me for the rest of your life, I…”

“I did hate,” Cardo interrupted him, not out of impatience, but with the kind of interruption that says, “I know what you’re going to say, but I have to finish mine first.” There was no anger or accusation in his tone; instead, there was a sense of relief, a weariness as if a stone that had been weighing on his chest for fifty years had finally been removed.

“In my first year in Nagarus, I hated you so much that the first thing I thought of every morning when I woke up was your name.” He paused, as if to confirm the accuracy of this statement. “It wasn’t the thought of hatred, it was hatred for you.” His voice lowered. “In the second year, I suddenly couldn’t remember what you looked like when you smiled. When you were little, you had two dimples when you smiled, the left one being a little deeper than the right. But I just couldn’t remember.”

He paused for a moment, his lips twitching slightly, a gesture somewhere between a wry smile and self-deprecation.

"In the third year... Duruci ushered in a new era."

It wasn't that he let go of his hatred; it was that the times were too vast, so vast that his hatred was relegated to a corner and no longer occupied the whole.

Kaledan could no longer hold back; tears streamed down his face, flowing down his cheeks over skin untouched by time, gathering at his chin before dripping onto his robes, leaving a small, dark, damp stain. He took two steps forward, then stopped, for he saw his brother take a step toward him.

The distance between the two people shrank from twenty steps to ten steps, and then to five steps.

The light from the streetlights slowly drew their shadows closer, overlapping them on the stone pavement.

“The prophecy says that brothers who quarrel will die at each other’s hands.” Kaldo stretched out his arm, his hand covered in calluses, with calluses from years of wielding swords at the base of his thumb. His palm faced upwards, as if inviting, or as if laying down. “But what if we lay down our swords?”

Kaledan stared blankly at the hand, which was not holding a sword. It was waiting for him, waiting for him to reach out and grasp it.

His vision was already blurred, but he didn't wipe it. He walked forward, quickly, so quickly that he almost tripped over the hem of his robe. He reached out and grasped that rough, warm hand, which was larger than he remembered.

His brother's palm was warm, his knuckles hard, and his grip on him was neither too tight nor too loose, as if he were afraid of crushing something fragile. He tried to speak again, but found that he couldn't make a sound.

Kaldor let out a long sigh, a breath he hadn't felt in fifty years, a sense of relief he hadn't experienced in his life. His eyes, which had witnessed too much killing and loneliness, softened slowly—not in a sudden, dramatic way, but like a river frozen all winter, gradually seeping moisture from its depths under the first warm spring sun. The surface was still hard, but you already knew it was about to thaw.

He stretched out his hands, making an embracing gesture. It was a soldier's most vulnerable posture, chest wide open, arms outstretched, all vital organs exposed to the person in front of him.

On the battlefield, this is tantamount to suicide.

But at this moment...

"Come here, little brother."

His voice was deep and calm, like a river finally flowing into the sea, no longer with turbulent waves, but with a slow, broad, and heavy sound carrying silt.

Kaledan lunged into his arms, the movement so violent that it nearly knocked Kaldor back half a step.

Kaldor closed his arms, the hands that once gripped hatred now resting steadily on his brother's back, fingers spread, the pads of his fingers feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of his brother's back through the fabric of his robes. He didn't pat him, didn't offer comfort, just let it rest, like a bridge finally connecting them to the other side.

The prophecy of brothers fighting did not come true, not because it was impossible, but because they chose to make another prophecy come true—the more ancient and gentle revelation about reconciliation that was deliberately hidden.

It's not that there's no hatred, no rift; it's that those hatreds and rifts are covered up by something bigger and heavier.

That thing is called time, and also choice.

“Thank Darkus,” Kaldor’s words whispered in Kaledan’s ears, as if spoken only to him. “It was him…”

He paused, as if organizing his thoughts, or perhaps confirming whether what he was about to say truly reflected his inner thoughts. Finally, he shook his head, and a sigh escaped his lips.

That sigh contained so much: relief, weariness, and a hint of resignation, a "never mind, I won't say anymore." Some words, once spoken, lose their meaning; some people, you know who to thank without even needing to say thank you.

Meanwhile, Eldan and Kel'Thuzad were experiencing the same thing. (End of Chapter)