Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Unlike when Malekith had passed by not long ago, the courtyard was now unusually quiet, with only a few figures moving slowly, dressed in typical Asur servant attire, clearly servants.

Occasionally, one can hear the faint sound of fabric rubbing together or the crisp sound of iron plates colliding, which only makes the space feel more empty and quiet.

In contrast, when he first passed by, the courtyard was a completely different scene, with rows of Duruci lined up neatly doing morning exercises in the morning light.

The current disparity, however, evokes a sense of desolation that is hard to describe.

As he pushed open the heavy door of the first-floor conference room, a wave of smoke rushed out, almost making him wince. He instinctively felt an urge to close the door immediately and turn away, as if something he didn't want to face was hidden inside. But he ultimately suppressed his instincts, took a deep breath as his chest heaved, and forced his emotions to the bottom before stepping inside.

The scene inside the conference room almost gave the impression that some kind of secret ritual was taking place. Smoke billowed and diffused from the ceiling and around the lights, like a thin mist swirling in the air, creating an almost unreal illusion.

In reality, there was no mysterious ritual in the room; the smoke was simply the stench produced by tobacco—real secondhand smoke.

Unlike Darkus's fondness for tobacco, Malekith had no affinity for it. He disliked both smoking and being enveloped by the pungent smell of tobacco. Deep in his memory, his first encounter with tobacco was a long, long time ago, when he was still Prince Nagarius traveling in Elsin Alwyn. By chance, he accepted the dwarves' warm invitation to Butcher's Keep, the dwarven fortress known as Karak Kadrin.

At that grand welcoming banquet, just as the fourth round of dishes was served and the wine was flowing freely, the dwarves almost simultaneously pulled out their own small pouches and uniquely shaped pipes from their robes. With leisurely movements, they calmly lit their tobacco, exhaling thick puffs of smoke that quickly filled the entire hall. The rhythm of their actions and their satisfied expressions struck him, the elven prince, as somewhat novel and intrigued.

But curiosity was quickly dampened by reality.

As the smoke thickened, the elves seated in the arena gradually became uncomfortable, their brows furrowed, their breathing rapid, clearly unable to adapt to the atmosphere. Malekith was among them, coughing incessantly from the secondhand smoke, his eyes even stinging. The dwarves, seeing this, mistakenly thought he wanted to try it, and laughed as they offered him an ornate pipe, but he simply smiled, shook his head, and waved his hand, resolutely refusing.

After that... comes the iconic scene. (It's described in Chapter 114, but it's too long to repeat.)
Thinking of this, a faint smile unconsciously appeared on his lips, but it vanished in an instant, replaced by a quickly darkening expression. The smile caused him to inadvertently inhale more secondhand smoke, and the pungent smell made his throat tighten.

It could be the irritation from secondhand smoke, or it could be the secret report from the morning; the combination of the two creates a feeling of having one's thoughts forcibly pulled away.

He didn't believe his memory was flawed, nor did he think these images were some kind of altered illusion. He remembered clearly that just as he was about to leave, an elven stable boy muttered, "Aren't you going to give me some money?"

Human development made him increasingly interested in humanity, and he longed to have more contact with them and to understand their character and their systems more deeply.

So he went north time and time again, sometimes with an army, sometimes alone. His curiosity and obsession gradually transformed into an impulse during this period—he wanted to personally explore the truth of that chaotic land.

However, on one of his return journeys, he arrived at Karak Cadlin again, looking forward to catching up with his old friends, but he sensed something was wrong as soon as he entered.

The dwarves who greeted him were all solemn, their steps heavy, and their eyes filled with undisguised sorrow. Upon entering the reception hall, the atmosphere was heavier than thick smoke, as if the entire fortress was shrouded in a suffocating gloom…

As time passed, the king of Butcher's Castle was no longer the one who had initially hosted him, but rather the son of that king.

While dwarves are indeed long-lived, living for centuries before their hair and beard turn white, it depends on the comparison. Compared to humans, dwarves are undoubtedly a long-lived race; however, compared to the truly immortal elves, their lives seem short and fleeting, like a torch that has not yet burned out but is destined to go out.

At this moment, the young king was surrounded by solemn-faced dwarf nobles, and a heavy, oppressive atmosphere filled the air. Their ancient faces seemed to have been crushed by time, and their heavy eyes foreshadowed the immense loss they were about to face.

Among them, he saw a familiar face—Kurglik. The dwarf who had initially acted as a bridge, it was he who established the earliest contact between the dwarves and elves, thus beginning their golden age.

But time shows no mercy to anyone.

Kugrik was no longer the foreman of lumberjacks he once was. His back was hunched, and his eyebrows and beard were almost entirely white. His once strong body now appeared heavy and sluggish, but his wealth had placed him at the top of dwarven society. His clan had long been incredibly wealthy due to trade between elves and dwarves.

Kugrik spotted Malekith in the crowd and, overwhelmed with excitement, hurried down from the platform, his beard trembling with urgency. He reached Malekith and grasped the prince's hands tightly, as if clinging to the last piece of driftwood while drowning.

"What happened?" Malekith frowned and asked immediately.

“The High King… he… he’s dying.” Kugrik’s voice trembled, a low sob escaping his throat. “Our messengers are searching for you everywhere, Prince. Please go to the Peak of Eternity immediately!”

Malekith's heart jolted, and his expression changed drastically. He looked around and saw the solemn and sorrowful eyes of the dwarves. He immediately understood that this was not an exaggeration, but a real and cruel fact.

He didn't have time to think much; only one thought remained in his mind—get on the road!
He whirled around and practically ran through the long corridor, ignoring the anxious calls of his elves behind him. Passing through the heavy stone gate, he rushed to the fortress gate, where a row of warhorses were tethered. Leaping onto his own, he leaned down and whispered something in the horse's ear. The horse jolted violently, then reared up and galloped south like lightning.

He quickly reached the foot of the mountain, then turned west and arrived at a border watchtower. Without hesitation, he changed horses and resumed his journey. The wind whistled in his ears, dust and sweat mingled together, and he no longer cared about hunger or thirst; only one thought remained in his mind: he had to reach his destination before the last moment arrived.

For three days and three nights, he barely slept, relying solely on his willpower to stay awake. His eyes were bloodshot, and his throat was as dry as sand, but his heartbeat kept urging him forward.

Finally, he arrived at the Rapids Pass, and after inquiring about some information, he continued his journey.

Soon, he passed the place where he had fought alongside Snowry, the land that had witnessed the blood and fire of elves and dwarves. But this time, he had neither the time nor the inclination to reminisce about the heroic deeds of the past. He simply tightened the reins, urging his warhorse to gallop faster; he had to see the High King, even if it was just for the last time.

Another day passed, and he finally set foot on the road leading directly to the Eternal Peak. The road was bustling with activity, a constant stream of caravans. Soon, he spotted an elven caravan, and on a whim, he spurred his horse to their carriage and signaled the driver to stop.

"Prince, what urgent matter do you have?" The coachman recognized him, his face changed drastically, and he was so surprised that he could hardly speak.

"Give me one of your horses." Malekith didn't bother to explain further, nor did he brook any argument. He bent down and untied the reins beside the carriage, his movements so urgent they were almost rough.

"Prince, where are you going? I can personally escort you..." the coachman hurriedly said, trying to step forward and dissuade him.

However, before he could finish speaking, Malekith had already spurred his horse and galloped away, becoming a blurry figure in the dust.

The coachman stood there, stunned, watching the prince disappear into the distance, muttering to himself, "Won't he give me any money...?"

He traveled for two more days without stopping, and finally, under the dim glow of the setting sun, he arrived at the gates of the majestic fortress—Karaza-a-Karak.

Upon arriving, he neither dismounted nor hesitated, but instead rode straight into the depths of the fortress. The heavy clatter of iron hooves echoed on the stone road, the reverberation reverberating throughout the ancient fortress.

Along the way, many dutiful guards tried to stop this unexpected figure, but more dwarves recognized him—the elven prince who had fought alongside them, and his urgent purpose. So they all made way, even reaching out to block the guards who still tried to stop him.

Finally, he arrived at the palace of the Supreme King.

There was no commotion in front of the palace; only a group of Snowri's closest and most trusted advisors and clansmen stood silently at the entrance. When Malekith's figure appeared before the gate, the dwarves were all startled, their expressions a mixture of surprise and bewilderment.

"Am I not late?" Malekith dismounted and almost urgently grabbed the hand of one of the dwarves, his voice filled with anxiety.

“No, no, Prince.” The dwarf was stunned for a while before he reacted, his voice slightly choked, “The High King is waiting for you.”

As the palace gates slowly opened, a deep and mournful drumbeat echoed within the palace, like the final beat of a heart, lingering between the pillars and the dome. The air was thick with the scent of pine resin and kerosene, as if bearing witness to this final moment.

In the High King's bedchamber, besides Malekith, only a dozen or so of his closest dwarves remained quietly by his side. The flickering candlelight illuminated their faces, each one etched with grief yet forced into a state of restraint.

Snowry lay with his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and almost imperceptible, his chest rising and falling slowly and gently. He lay quietly on the bed, his pale face blending seamlessly with his snow-white beard, like a stone statue sculpted by time.

As Malekith hurried to the bedside, Snowry suddenly opened his eyes with difficulty, a glint of light flashing in his cloudy blue pupils. His hands trembled slightly in the air, as if he were groping for something.

Without hesitation, Malekith knelt down, reached out, and firmly grasped the aged yet still strong hand. The dwarf's bed was low and wide, forcing him to kneel, but his action held no humiliation, only genuine respect and affection. In that instant, the High King's gaze focused on his face, and a forced smile appeared on his lips.

“You’ve come…” Snowry’s voice was low and hoarse, yet full of comfort.

Marekis nodded solemnly, knowing that his dear friend was facing the final moments of his life.

“I really envy you elves for living so long.” Snowry gave a strained smile, his voice tinged with helplessness. “If I were like you, I could rule for at least another thousand years.”

“But we will all die sooner or later. We judge a person’s worth not by how long they live, but by what deeds and legacy they leave behind. If a person lives an ordinary life, even if they live for a thousand years, it is meaningless.” Malekith took a deep breath, his tone steady yet full of strength.

“You’re right!” Snowry’s eyes lit up, and even in his weakened state, his expression turned serious. He gripped Malekith’s hand tightly, his voice tinged with urgency, “We created a legend together, didn’t we?”

Malekith's throat tightened, and many words welled up in his mouth but he couldn't say them. He could only nod heavily, using this gesture to replace all words.

"Two great nations fought side by side, defeating demons and beasts, making this land safe and habitable. Trade flourished, and wealth grew faster and faster." Snowry's voice grew weaker, but every word struck Malekith's heart like a hammer.

“You have made great history, Snowry,” Malekith said in a low voice, his voice trembling. “Your successor is excellent, and he will surely achieve even more on your foundation.”

“I hope so… I hope the gods will allow it.” Snowry’s voice was weak, yet still firm as stone grinding against stone. His chest heaved with difficulty, each word like the last stone chiseled from a rock wall.

“Though my life is coming to an end, my will remains as firm as the mountains. I am a dwarf, and the strength of the mountains flows in my veins.” He breathed heavily, a proud gleam on his wrinkled face. “Although I am weak now, soon I will enter the hall of my ancestors.”

“Grani and Varaya will give you a warm welcome, Snowry. You should be proud of yourself.” Malekith forced a smile, suppressing the bitterness in his chest.

“I have something else to say…” Snowry coughed so violently it seemed he was about to cough up his lungs. His body trembled from the pain, but he still stubbornly raised his head, his voice like the last strike on an anvil.

"Listen carefully, this is my oath, Malekith, my comrade on the battlefield, my confidant by the hearth. I, Snowry Whitebeard, High King of the Dwarves, bequeath all my titles and authority to my eldest son. Though I am about to enter the gates of my ancestors, my soul will guard the Dwarven kingdom like steel. My friends and enemies alike, understand this: death is not my end!"

At this point, he suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood, the bright red stain staining his beard. But when he raised his head again, his eyes were exceptionally clear and serious, like the last flame burning in the embers.

Marekis held his breath and silently met his gaze.

"I will return when revenge is needed!" Snowry's voice rose higher and higher, as if it could pierce through the thick stone walls. "If a powerful enemy descends, I will return to my people. When evil once again ravages the world, I will raise my axe once more! Once I have made up my mind to do something, especially to erase a hatred from its ledger, no one can stop my resolve! My wrath will shake the mountains!"

He suddenly gripped Malekith's hand tightly, almost crushing the slender elven hand bones.

“Listen to me, Malekith of Ulthuan, we have accomplished great things together! I have left you a great gift. You are my closest friend, and we have saved each other’s lives. Swear to me, my friend! I have sworn an oath to myself, and now you swear it to our friendship, to my soul! Be faithful to the ideals we fought for together! Remember, elves… will always be friends of dwarves!”

Malekith's throat tightened, and his heart felt as if it were on fire. Without further hesitation, he gripped Snowry's hand tightly and shouted with almost all his might.

"I swear! Before the spirit of Snowry Whitebeard, King of the Dwarves and friend of the Elves, I swear! The Elves will always be friends of the Dwarves!"

“You must…you must remember this oath…my friend.” Snowry’s face gradually relaxed, and a smile appeared on his aged lips. “You know…what I hate most is someone who breaks an oath…”

His smile froze on his lips, and the light in his eyes slowly faded. The heaving of his chest gradually subsided, and his voice lingered only as a murmur. Malekith stared at Snowry, hoping he would breathe again, but he quickly realized that everything had fallen silent.

He slowly reached out and gently placed Snowry's arms across his chest, his movements careful and solemn. Then, he took out a clean white silk handkerchief and first wiped the bloodstains from the High King's face, then carefully smoothed his red-stained beard.

Finally, he bent down and gently wiped Snowry's eyes with his palm; those once bright and piercing eyes were now closed forever.

Inside the dormitory, only the flickering candlelight illuminated the final journey of a great king.

"The High King has passed away." After finishing everything and seeing off his old friend, he rose and turned to the group of dwarves. He looked at the High King's son and said, "You are now the new High King."

While the dwarves were weeping, he silently walked out of the palace. He looked back at the empty throne and remembered the first time he met Snowry. At that time, he had focused almost all his attention on the elf who had arrived before him and had little impression of the High King himself. But now, his heart was filled with sadness because of his friend's departure.

result……

He remembered that after Darkus returned to Nagalos, he would tell him from the walls of Nagalond that Snowry Whitebeard was not dead!
As Daculus spoke, he bared his teeth, blew on a non-existent beard, glared at him, and approached him with a non-existent axe in hand.

At that moment, he thought that Snowry had really come to life and was standing in front of him, so much so that he involuntarily took a step back.

Thinking of this, he inhaled another puff of secondhand smoke, coughed loudly, and fanned the smoke in front of his eyes. A bitter smile appeared on his face. Dakos's words on the city wall and Snowry's dying words were true, without any embellishment or exaggeration. Snowry fulfilled his vow, and he...

He closed his eyes, his face contorted with pain. He knew he owed too much. Whatever his purpose or initial intention, he had ultimately broken his vow.

He was destined to repay this debt.

A sense of heaviness welled up inside him, a feeling he couldn't quite describe.

Dwarves would carve their vows in stone, while elves would often keep their vows buried in their hearts.

But even stones can withstand the erosion of time, and the things in one's heart can rot in self-deception and lies.

Snowy never doubted him, yet he chose betrayal in the cracks of time and fate. He suddenly understood that the heavy debt he felt was not merely a debt owed to Snowy, but a betrayal of his own soul.

Then he let out a series of bitter laughs. He didn't need to repay his debt to Snowry now; before that, he had to repay the debts to Aris, and even the entire Anna family. Perhaps…

After paying off the Anar family's debts, he no longer needed to worry about how to repay Snowry's debts, because by then Snowry would probably be dead? Killed by Aris?
This thought did not bring relief; instead, it was like a thorn stuck in his heart.

He is an elf, not a dwarf.

He understood that the real dwarf would rise from his grave to fulfill his vow, but what about himself?

He knew that even in death, he would not return to the earth like Snowry, bound by a vow. Although he had been resurrected once, it was a twist of fate and divine intervention, not an obsession with keeping his promise.

Thinking of this, his heart ached as if it were being scorched by lava. He could almost see Snowry glaring at him from the shadows, raising his axe and demanding to know why he had betrayed his brother.

His breathing was heavy and his chest heaving.

A bitter smile still lingered on his lips, but that smile had become a form of self-punishment, a premature acknowledgment of his inevitable fate.

He knew that the debts he owed would not disappear with his death.

He was destined to repay this debt.

Much later, when he was finally pulled out of his thoughts, he noticed that the smoke in the room had dissipated somewhat. Like a math problem involving both filling and draining water at the same time, the plants in the room had absorbed the smoke, their leaves trembling slightly, as if silently bearing the fatigue and anxiety of these advisors.

The staff officers, who had been smoking, discussing, and rehearsing in the meeting room, stopped in unison the moment he pushed open the door and walked in. Some stiffly stubbed out their half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray, while others instinctively hid unlit cigarettes in their palms. They stood facing him, their uniforms impeccable, their expressions a mixture of tension and respect for authority, watching him silently.

"You may continue." His tone was calm yet carried an undeniable air of authority. After speaking, he waved his hand, signaling the staff to resume their normal work, and then he slowly stepped to the sand table.

He had no opinion or stance on cigarettes.

He had lived for thousands of years and had only truly smoked once, when Darkus forced it on him just before he re-entered the sacred flame. By then, he had lost his sense of smell and taste, and the false numbing sensation brought by nicotine ultimately couldn't overcome the excruciating pain that tore his soul apart.

In other years, he simply watched others smoke: in Elsin Alwyn, watching the dwarves and Arandrians puff away; in Nagarus and Ulthuan, watching the elves discuss things while inhaling.

As for issuing an order to ban it? That's not possible.

He is domineering, but not quite that domineering. Moreover, the tobacco industry has long formed a complete industrial chain, with intertwined interests and taxes contributing significantly to the national treasury; a forced ban would only shake more foundations.

Moreover, in Darkus's words, the elves need this medium.

We must both block and guide.

Smoking is always better than anything stronger or more likely to lead to chaos and cults. After the New Order was established, those things were absolutely forbidden in Naga Lund and Ashriel—if caught, you'd die, no questions asked.

He himself doesn't smoke. What he wants to do is not to develop the habit, but to help his new body adapt to these environments and atmospheres, and learn to remain calm amidst the smoke and power struggles.

As he approached the sand table, the staff officers immediately resumed their simulations. The sunlight overhead shone on their uniforms, and the Loyk mark on their foreheads shimmered in the air, like a silent, divine protection. The scene was reminiscent of their days in Nagarlund—that solemn, austere yet highly efficient atmosphere was now being recreated here.

He placed his hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward slightly, and quietly watched the situation unfold on the sand table.

If Rahil were here and saw this sand table, he would be astonished.

The strategists were working on nothing other than the plan for the Caledonian forces to advance along the Inland Sea and launch an attack on the Kingdom of Ithaa. Unlike Caledonian's rough-and-ready calculations, Tariendan's were much more detailed and systematic, as if every stone and every drop of seawater was under their control.

At this moment, they were repeatedly calculating a detail: how many troops would Duruci need to land at Tal Tarrianza? Before Caledo's main force returned, could the defenders of Tal Tarrianza be completely annihilated with minimal losses? The required time, material consumption, and shipping routes were all precisely calculated.

Starting from this point, they extended their calculations layer by layer, outlining the possible developments in the subsequent battle.

Malekith watched quietly, and after a while, he slowly nodded. That expression of approval was unspoken, yet it was enough to inspire strength in the hearts of the staff officers.

He turned and left, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the conference room, crisp and resolute. He didn't go through the main entrance, but instead walked around the sand table, pushed open another heavy wooden door, and headed towards Newker's office.

"Progress?" He casually waved to Newkel, who had just gotten up, after pushing open the door. His tone was somewhat lazy, yet it conveyed an urgent sense of urgency that left no room for delay.

Upon hearing the question, Newker immediately picked up a thick stack of reports from the table, the papers slightly crumpled from his grip. He quickly walked to Malekith and respectfully handed them over.

The moment Malekith received the report, his gaze fell upon the densely packed symbols page after page. He felt dizzy, as if a layer of mist was swirling before his eyes. Many of those symbols were part of a system he had created himself, following Dakota's instructions, and which he still used to this day.

At this moment, these symbols stung his eyes like countless sharp needles. Even though he could understand their meaning, it did not prevent him from feeling a sense of physical dizziness when he saw the densely packed symbols piled together.

He struggled to suppress his discomfort, quickly flipped through a few pages, and found the data he needed. After confirming it, he handed the heavy report back to Newker without hesitation, as if shedding a burden.

Then, he suddenly remembered something, mimicking Darkus's expression, raising his eyebrows, drawing a faint smile to his lips, deliberately making an odd face with uneven eyes, and staring at Newker with a mocking gaze.

Seeing this, Newkel's face froze instantly. He subconsciously gasped, a speechless expression on his face, but thankfully he managed to resist the urge to roll his eyes; only his lips twitched slightly.

“Darkius is coming back.” Malekith stretched out his hands and waved them wildly without any kingly bearing, as if imitating an overly exaggerated bard. He muttered, “Alas, you’re going to get scolded.”

The drawn-out whine, carrying a mischievous, boyish air, instantly created a subtle tension in the office.

“You…” Newker paused, pointing a finger at Malekith, his lips parted slightly, but he couldn’t speak for a moment. After a while, he shook his head helplessly, then gave a wry smile. He knew very well that Malekith’s words were not a joke, but a premonition.

His expression turned pained at the thought of the scene he was about to face.

Because the Darkus of today is no longer the one he first met, the one he could manipulate at will.

Everyone knew that Darkus rarely lost his temper, but when he did, the scene was so terrifying that everyone from Malekith to ordinary people felt fear. It wasn't just ordinary pressure; it was a chilling aura that penetrated to the very depths of one's soul.

Newkel pursed his lips, spread his hands, and made a helpless expression. He knew that he hadn't done a good job.

He didn't even expect Malekith to draw fire for him, although theoretically Malekith had every reason to berate him after reading the report.

Unfortunately, reality is not like that, and the responsibility still falls on his own shoulders.

Who told him to be the main person in charge?

He oversaw the overall operations and was responsible for the management of Tariendan. Karashir was merely his subordinate, while Finnubal and Bel-Aihol, though involved and providing assistance, were not directly under his command. More importantly, at the systemic level, Tariendan's position was inherently higher than that of Thrawn, and the navy was only an appendage of the army, required to serve the overall land strategy.

In this way, when problems arise, the blame will naturally fall on him first.

“I still prefer you in your robes,” Malekith suddenly blurted out, his tone teasing. As he spoke, he raised his hand and playfully punched Newker on the shoulder, a lighthearted and knowing greeting between them.

The punch wasn't heavy, but it was enough to break the tension for a moment.

After greeting him, he turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, he paused slightly, turned back, and glanced at Newkel.

"Oh dear, you're going to get scolded." He repeated it, his tone more casual than before, as if he were deliberately trying to make a lasting impression.

After saying that, Malekith pushed open the door and left without looking back, leaving Newkel standing alone, his expression shifting between helplessness and a bitter smile. (End of Chapter)