The Real Powerhouse Is the Supposedly Pitiful One

Halfway up the mountainside, in the cemetery, stood a brand-new tombstone. Before it, several dozen people gathered in solemn silence, forming a dense, dark mass—a sight both grand and imposing. Yet, only four stood in the very front, occupying the foremost places of honor. The others lined up dutifully behind them, not daring to overstep in the slightest.

Faint sounds of weeping drifted through the air, subdued and, to some extent, perfunctory.

“There’s no need to cry,”

At that moment, the elder standing at the very center of the front row spoke. His voice, though marked by age, remained resonant and commanding, unwavering in its authority. Instantly, the sobbing ceased.

Only when all was quiet did the elder continue, “Has she arrived yet?”

The man to his right instinctively adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, glanced at his watch, then nodded, replying in a gentle tone, “Judging by the time, she should be here any minute.”

As the two spoke, a faint rustling arose behind them. The crowd turned to look and saw that, from the farthest edge, people parted to either side, opening a narrow path down the middle.

A striking man in a black suit, his face struggling to mask his agitation, escorted a young woman forward. She was slender and tall, her long hair cascading to her waist, her simple black dress understated in its elegance. Her face was half-hidden behind a pair of heavy, black-framed glasses that obscured the delicate details of her eyes and brows, yet could not conceal her remarkable beauty.

She exuded