After the attendant left, Perfikot turned to look out the window—the desert's night sky was boiling with stars, starkly different from the snowy nights of the Northern Territory.
Kallen's letter reminded her that besides the threat posed by the gods, human political struggles still existed. Expecting everyone to set aside their interests and unite against external enemies was unrealistic.
Just like now, while she was preparing to confront the Old Gods in the desert, the council hall in Langton was probably in chaos over budget allocations and sending out immigrant groups.
"Truly... a time of troubles," Perfikot sighed softly, a sense of indescribable melancholy in her eyes.
Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the Golden Touching Rod at her waist, the coolness of the metal reaching her fingertips, making her gaze somewhat unfocused.
Perhaps when she truly defeated the Ancient Gods and saved this world, these trivial political games would become irrelevant.
