A subtle fluctuation emerged from the void, akin to time itself sighing.
Both Witch Kings could feel that dimension-transcending oppression.
Some existences, even they dared not mention lightly.
The conversation shifted to a more macro level.
"The consequences of the eternal plague indeed made everyone overly cautious."
In the illusion of the King of Illusions, scenes from the end of the Third Era appeared.
A continent shrouded in black mist, where countless wandering souls, dead yet unresigned, roamed:
"But excessive order is sometimes deadlier than chaos."
"This is why we need some... moderate turbulence."
The history book of the King of Absurdity began to burn, yet where the flames passed, new text immediately emerged:
"Little Cassandra’s madness, although deviating from our expectations, at least broke this suffocating calm."
"Regarding that young person..."
In the mirror of the King of Illusions, Ron’s figure surfaced once more:
"How much support do you think we should give him?"
"Support?" The labyrinth of the King of Absurdity began to rotate slowly:
"I thought we had reached a consensus—to minimize direct intervention."
"Minimize, but not completely avoid."
The King of Illusions corrected:
"Proper guidance and hints can help him avoid unnecessary detours. After all, if he truly possesses such potential..."
"If he truly possesses such potential, then too much help would harm him."
The tone of the King of Absurdity carried fatigue:
"If we clear all obstacles for him, he will never obtain the strength needed to face true challenges."
"But complete neglect might lead to his premature demise," the King of Illusions argued:
"In this level of competition, one wrong decision can lead to irreversible consequences."
The labyrinth of the King of Absurdity ceased its rotation and fell into deep thought.
The energy fluctuations in the void became more subtle, resembling two ancient chess players contemplating their next move.
"Give him a hundred years."
The King of Absurdity finally made a decision:
"During these hundred years, we will maintain the minimum level of attention.
If he can demonstrate sufficient wisdom and strength without our direct help..."
"Then we will offer more support."
The King of Illusions picked up the conversation: "If he disappoints us..."
"Then, like countless other failures, he will become the dust of history."
The tone of the King of Absurdity was extremely weary.
Observing and intervening in countless cycles of eras restarting had made these ancient beings feel a weariness transcending time.
They had witnessed too many rises and falls, experienced too much hope and disappointment.
Now, like two old men who have played countless chess games, they were still searching for that one move that could truly change the game.
With the end of the conversation, the wills of the two Witch Kings began to retreat from this conceptual space.
The history book of the King of Absurdity slowly closed, then transformed into countless smaller paradoxical fragments, scattered throughout the void.
Each fragment contained a small absurdity, continuing to ferment on the edge of reality.
The illusion maze of the King of Illusions also began to fade, the mirrors reflecting different realities one by one lost their light and ultimately dissolved into the void.
But before completely disappearing, all mirrors briefly displayed the same image.
A young wizard stood beneath the stars, gazing into the infinite void.
Before their departure, the last exchange echoed in the void:
"Panadora elder..." The voice of the King of Absurdity became unusually distant, like an echo from deep within time:
"We are merely observers, not participants. Whatever the outcome, do not over-invest... emotion."
"Of course." The response from the King of Illusions was as gentle as a breeze, yet contained a subtle dissent:
"Sometimes, observation itself is a form of participation. Moreover..."
His voice became even more ethereal:
"Perhaps it is precisely because of our observation that those ’possibilities’ truly become possible."
Ultimately, the boundless void returned to silence.
Only those conceptual ripples continued to slowly spread, like ripples stirred by stones cast into a calm lake.
In the laboratory, Ron suddenly felt the feather pen in his hand tremble slightly.
He looked up, gazing out the window, faintly sensing something watching him.
But when he tried to perceive carefully, that feeling vanished, like a fleeting illusion.