Chapter 292: Continue

Elizabeth stood quietly at the edge of the gathering, clad in her court gown with silver-white hair draped over her shoulders. Though she was close to the throne, there seemed to be an invisible chasm separating her from it.

As a member of the royal family, she theoretically possessed the right to inherit the throne. But that remained only a theory.

Reality was cold and cruel. None of the factions present had any intention of choosing her.

The high nobles would never support her. The union she controlled and fervently expanded had already threatened the very foundation of many nobles’ wealth, which was built on the exploitation of laborers.

Were it not for their fear of the enigmatic and unfathomable Lu Yan behind her, the noble class would have long since banded together to crush the unions.

To keep her far from the center of power—that was precisely what they hoped for.

Nor would the royal family support her. She lacked a powerful maternal clan and deep roots. In the eyes of veteran royals steeped in political struggle, she was nothing more than a pretty face with some minor cleverness.

That she used Prince Charles as a tool to force King Charles into abdication, then attempted to approach Lu Yan in hopes of borrowing his momentum to seize the throne?

Such petty scheming, in the eyes of the old royal relics, wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

They had allowed her plan to dethrone the king to proceed only because it served their own interests. The moment Elizabeth reached for the throne herself, they would not hesitate to sever any delusions she held.

This shift in power was merely a manifestation of Lu Yan’s will. The royal family and nobles had no choice but to accept this humiliating reality for the sake of retrieving the Royal Scepter.

But that was the limit of their tolerance.

They absolutely would not allow Lu Yan—a man they regarded in secret as a great enemy—to interfere in the Victoria Kingdom’s core succession through Elizabeth.

To let her become the new monarch? That would be a public affront to both the royal family and noble class—a line that could never be crossed.

And so, Elizabeth could only stand here like an outsider, silently watching this division of power that would determine the kingdom’s future.

“Who do you think the real winner is?”

The old King Charles’s voice was low and slow, tinged with fatigue, yet it clearly rang in Elizabeth’s ears.

She turned to her father, the once-mighty king whose abdication was now sealed.

Though battered by the tides of political struggle, beneath his slightly aged face still shone the wise gaze of one who had seen the world.

Elizabeth did not answer immediately. Instead, she slowly scanned the great hall.

Her gaze first landed on Prince Charles. The former heir’s face was dark as iron, and the tight line of his lips betrayed how deeply his resentment and unwillingness burned.

Elizabeth understood perfectly. By now, Charles must have realized he was nothing more than a sharp blade pushed to the frontlines by various factions to force the king’s abdication.

On the surface, he had succeeded. The conservatives were defeated. The king had stepped down.

But the cost of that success was his own right to inherit the throne.

To be placed in charge of overseas colonies many times larger than the Victoria Kingdom itself?

Such lofty words made it sound like an unparalleled honor.

But everyone in the hall knew that those vast and barren lands were valuable only for funneling resources and wealth back to the kingdom.

To the common folk, they might be full of challenges and opportunities. But to a prince who once stood a step away from the throne, it was nothing short of a gilded exile.

Elizabeth turned her gaze away and looked toward Prince Ford.

He was now basking in glory, surrounded by joyous nobles. Holding a crystal glass filled with crimson wine, he chatted cheerfully, his hearty laughter echoing through the hall as if already planning the grand future of the kingdom.

Prince Ford had inherited the throne. By all appearances, he was the final victor of this power struggle.

And yet Elizabeth saw the truth—this victory was hollow.

Charles had taken control of the colonies. Diana now held the noble parliament. The kingdom’s power had been clearly split.

Moreover, Prince Ford’s foundation and influence were far weaker than Charles’s.

It was foreseeable that for a long time to come, this new king would be nothing more than a symbolic figure, bound and restrained by countless forces.

Elizabeth’s gaze finally settled on Princess Diana.

The princess known for her beauty and pride stood gracefully among the dukes and noble supporters who backed her.

She had a powerful maternal family and the open support of several esteemed royal princes. Now she even held the expanding power of the noble parliament in her hands.

On the surface, she seemed the true winner—deeply hidden and handsomely rewarded.

But Elizabeth saw things differently.

Everyone seemed to overlook a crucial point: no matter how talented or shrewd Diana was, she was still a princess, not a queen.

She lacked the official title and inherent authority that symbolized the highest power of the state.

The noble parliament was filled with ancient, deep-rooted houses—each with their own agendas and schemes. Though they might obey the current results of negotiations, would they really allow a mere princess to command them for long?

Elizabeth doubted it greatly.

Handing the parliament to Diana was likely just the first step for the nobles to fully sever the parliament’s authority from the monarchy.

Once the noble parliament stood completely independent, a princess without royal sanction—what real authority would she hold?

As for those prince-level powerhouses who supported her, most were high-ranking extraordinary beings used to remaining aloof.

To them, a short retreat or slumber could last decades or centuries. So long as Diana maintained superficial peace and didn’t threaten their core interests, why would they bother intervening in the infighting of the noble parliament?

After all, the Victoria Kingdom was no longer ruled by royal decree alone.

Everything… still needed to follow “rules.”

These three seemingly glorious princes and princesses—none were true victors.

Elizabeth knew this clearly.

The real winners of this power game were the nobles who filled this grand palace hall—those silent forces that had successfully weakened royal authority.

She took a deep breath, preparing to share her assessment with the old king beside her.

But in the next second, her pupils contracted sharply. Her thoughts froze.

Her gaze shot past the crowd, piercing the thick palace walls, and locked onto the direction of the Orank Industrial District.

In the depths of her soul, a ripple stirred.

Months ago, knowing that Anna was valued by Lu Yan, Elizabeth had secretly gifted her a special sealed artifact—the Ring of Life—to protect her at a critical moment and serve as a hidden link between them.

And just now, she felt it activate.

Along with that activation came a clear surge of soul ascension, the unmistakable aura of extraordinary advancement—transmitted directly from the industrial district, imprinted into her senses across space.

Elizabeth knew exactly what that meant.

Anna had successfully crossed the threshold—she had stepped into Sequence Seven.

More importantly, the path Anna walked was the very Netherworld Path personally created by Lu Yan.

Anna’s advancement was like a beacon suddenly flaring in the dark, announcing one irrefutable truth—

Lu Yan… had returned!

In an instant, the haze of defeat and helplessness that had shadowed Elizabeth’s eyes was swept away like morning fog before the rising sun.

Her back straightened on its own. Her gaze regained its sharpness and clarity.

She turned to her father beside her. His eyes held complex meaning.

Her voice was soft, but it carried unwavering certainty:

“There is only one winner.”

King Charles stared at her, stunned, as Elizabeth’s tightly pressed lips slowly curved into a confident—no, slightly provocative—smile.

“And that winner… is me.”

Almost at the same moment her words fell, the palace steward responsible for presiding over the ceremony stepped to the center stage.

He cleared his throat and announced in a formal tone to the gathered nobles and royals:

“Regarding the matter of succession, after consultation among all parties, it has been decided that His Highness Prince Ford shall ascend to the throne.

“Does anyone present have any objections?”

It was supposed to be a mere formality—a final question before closure.

After days of fierce negotiations and compromise, a fragile consensus had been reached.

To voice opposition now would be to challenge every vested interest, inviting attack from all sides.

And yet—

Before the echo of the steward’s voice had even fully faded, a crisp and resolute voice rang out across the grand palace hall:

“I object.”

Every gaze turned as if drawn by invisible threads.

Elizabeth stood in the center of the hall, having stepped from the shadows near the throne.

Her expression was calm, her gaze steady. Facing the shocked, doubtful, and scrutinizing eyes of the crowd, she spoke again:

“I, as a Princess of Victoria, am entitled to an equal right of succession according to royal law.”

A stunned silence fell over the hall—then a low wave of suppressed murmurs rippled through.

“You?” gasped a chubby noble nearby, disbelief written all over his face.

“Your Highness, you must be joking,” another voice sneered, drawing a few soft chuckles.

“Impudent! This matter has been decided by both the royal family and noble parliament. How dare you question it!” snapped a gray-haired royal, his face flush with anger.

Even King Charles on the throne looked utterly astonished.

Clearly, he hadn’t expected Elizabeth—excluded by all—to challenge the established order so openly.

But Elizabeth showed no fear.

She stood tall, her eyes icy as she swept across the hall and rebuked coldly:

“Just because I don’t have the endorsement of you so-called elites, you think you can strip me of my rightful claim?”

Her declaration was like a spark igniting a powder keg, instantly triggering the fury that Prince Charles had long kept bottled up.

He stormed from his supporters, face contorted with rage, and jabbed a finger at her:

“Who do you think you are?!”

His voice echoed through the hall, dripping with contempt.

“You’re nothing but a pitiful mutt groveling at the feet of that union leader!”

“You really think clinging to that thick thigh gives you the right to dream of Victoria’s throne? Laughable! Delusional!”

The more he shouted, the more hysterical he became. Spittle flew as he sneered:

“Not even you, and certainly not your patron—he has no place meddling in our royal affairs!”

“Is that so?”

A calm voice suddenly echoed through the hall.

It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to resound directly within everyone’s soul.

A chilling tide of dread swept over the crowd.

Every head turned in unison toward the grand open doors.

There stood a young man.

He wore a tailored black suit—simple, elegant, and refined—his posture upright and composed.

But what drew every eye was not his bearing—but the scepter in his right hand.

An ancient, solemn artifact.

The Royal Scepter.

Though many present didn’t know the man, they knew that scepter well.

The long-lost emblem of the royal path—a symbol of power, the flawed shard of uniqueness belonging to Victoria’s monarchy.

“It’s Lu Yan!” someone gasped.

“That’s him… the one who killed Prince Rhine!” Whispers spread like wildfire, fear and awe warping every face.

Lu Yan’s expression was tranquil, his eyes calm as a frozen lake as he looked at the shouting Prince Charles.

Just one glance—no pressure, no aura—but Charles’s entire body froze as if struck by lightning.

The fear he had felt when facing Lu Yan at the ruins of White Manor surged back like a crashing wave.

He couldn’t breathe. Cold sweat poured down his pale face.

He thought that within the heavily guarded palace, surrounded by allies, he’d no longer fear this man.

But now, confronted with Lu Yan in the flesh, he realized how foolish he’d been.

In the face of absolute power, all protection and courage were illusions.

But Lu Yan didn’t bother with him. His gaze passed over Charles like one would a speck of dust.

Then he began walking toward the center of the hall—toward the seat of ultimate authority.

Thud.

The base of the scepter tapped the polished marble floor, releasing a low, resonant echo.

And then—something incredible happened.

Golden light burst from the ground at Lu Yan’s feet like molten lava.

It rapidly coalesced and took form—becoming a throne of solid gold, opulent beyond imagination.

The throne appeared at the highest point of the hall—towering above even the king’s seat below.

In the stunned silence of the crowd, Lu Yan turned, his movements unhurried, and sat upon the throne of gold.

He leaned the scepter at his side and gazed down at the silent hall.

Then he spoke—calmly, clearly:

“Continue.”

(End of Chapter)