Chapter 699: It Was Truly Blessed Thing To Retire!

Meanwhile, on the steps below the dais, the Veynar elders were standing in a state of absolute, petrified paralysis, their spines stiff as dried pine.

Unlike the foreign envoys, the elders hadn’t been the direct target of that suffocating pulse of authority. Veylara’s control over her Fifth Layer foundation had been precise enough to shield her own council from the brunt of the strike.

Yet even the stray, residual draft of that sovereign pressure... the faint, secondary ripples that had leaked into the hall... had scared them completely shitless.

They knew their Warchief had broken through. They had watched the sky crack, had stood in the Great Square,, and heard her proclaim her ascension to the Fifth Layer with their own ears.

But in the bustling days that followed, Veylara had been relatively quiet, absorbed in managing the conquered supplies and directing the garrisons from within the lodge.

So much so that the elders had secretly begun to wonder. Veylara had seemed mostly the same: walking through the yard in plain leather, eating roasted meat, and issuing practical administrative commands.

She had looked more majestic, felt grander, certainly, and her posture more imposing and her voice carrying an unnatural weight, but they had assumed it was merely the lingering prestige of a massive military victory.

The old men had subtly begun to reassure themselves that Layer 5 was perhaps just a slightly stronger Layer 4.

.

.

.

They had never imagined that the Fifth Layer was this.

Just a stray, careless wisp of her aura... a fraction of a fraction of her true power... had leaked past, and it had locked their old meridians up so tightly that their spirit beasts had curled into trembling balls inside their chests! If that pressure had been aimed two inches to the left, their aged bones would have shattered on the spot!

That stray wisp of aura hadn’t just startled them; it had chilled their souls to absolute ice.

It wasn’t "slightly stronger." It was an entirely different plane of reality.

The terrifying gap between Layer 4 and Layer 5 was not a hill to be climbed; it was a bottomless chasm that separated mortals from living gods.

The thought that she could have pulverized all twenty of those elite envoys into wet paste with an offhand flex of her ribs sent cold sweat pouring down the elders’ spines, soaking their bodies.

Any lingering fantasy of using seniority, ancestral precedent, or council authority to check her power evaporated into thin air.

Elder Bran, standing at the head of the elder ranks, felt a cold drop of sweat trickle down the deep crevices of his wrinkled nose, dripping silently onto the ground below.

His ancient fingers gripped his cane so hard the knuckles were stark white.

All those lingering, traditionalist thoughts he had harbored over the past few moons... the quiet schemes of using his seniority to check her absolute authority, the subtle plans to whisper ancestral laws into her ear regarding the distribution of the captured resources, the arrogant belief that an elder council was needed to guide a young, headstrong warlord... evaporated into thin air.

Burned away. Annihilated to the core.

Seniority? Bran thought, his old heart thudding in terrified rhythm with the envoys’ knocking heads. Ancestral laws? What ancestral law applies to a living god?!

Even though the elders had always been loyal to the clan, they had still possessed the annoying, stubborn arrogance of old men who believed their gray hair gave them the right to lecture the young.

Now, looking at the ice-cold woman sitting upon the high seat, every single elder in the hall came to the exact same, unanimous conclusion.

We are old, Bran’s mind raced frantically, his heart hammering an irregular, terrified rhythm against his ribs as he stared at the flagstones. We are very, very old. The bones ache when it rains. The eyes grow dim in the winter. What need is there to argue over borders? What need is there to question the allocations of the resources?

In fact, the entire council of elders seemed to arrive at the exact same profound, unanimous epiphany at the exact same instant:

It was a truly wonderful, blessed thing to retire.

In fact, the weather was turning quite cold, and their bones were weary. It was an exceptionally good time to retire. It was a wonderful, blessed time to simply enjoy the sun outside the lodges, sip warm broth, spend the rest of their winters in absolute, quiet peace and let the great Warchief handle the exhausting, tedious burdens of governance.

After all, why would they ever need to exert their influence?

Look at their glorious Warchief!

She was wise! She was immensely sensible! She was brilliant, extraordinarily intelligent. A prodigy the likes of which the Great Orrath had never seen in ten thousand moons!

She was the jewel of the northern expanse, the benevolent mother of the mountains, a visionary tactician whose wisdom outshone the ancestral stars themselves! A paragon of restraint! She was merciful! Magnanimous! Exceptionally forward-thinking! A peerless leader of supreme wisdom, unmatched grace, unparalleled tactical genius, and divine foresight! A benevolent protector of the weak, an unyielding wall against enemies, a flawless jewel of the ancestors, a radiant sun that illuminated the northern Orrath!

Truly, anyone who dared to question a single breath that left her lips was an ungrateful, brainless beast who deserved to be tied to a tree and used for spear practice!

Truly, the heavens had blessed the Veynar with a sovereign so flawless, so generous, so kind, so unyieldingly just, so—

"Speak."

Veylara’s flat, icy tone cut straight through the chorus of weeping foreign envoys and instantly snapped the elders out of their frantic, silent bout of hyperbolic praises.

The Warchief tilted her head slightly, her deep sapphire eyes looking down at the shivering, prostrated figures huddled before the dais, her lips curling into a cold, merciless sneer.

"What could have possibly brought such distinguished guests into our lone, weak tribe?"

At the same time, the weeping foreign envoys froze, their foreheads glued to the stone floor, terrified to move, terrified to speak, yet knowing that if they remained silent, the ice in those sapphire eyes would freeze their blood where they lay.