Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The moment he stood in the corridor, Malekith's face darkened, filled with solemnity. He stood motionless, as if transformed into a cold, stern statue, his gaze fixed in the light and shadow, seemingly weighing something, or perhaps recalling something. After a long while, he slowly began to move, his heavy footsteps echoing through the corridor.

"Your Majesty, the person has been brought." When he reappeared in the courtyard, Kohaiin came forward to greet him and reported in a low voice.

Malekith simply nodded, his expression unchanged, then turned his gaze to the courtyard. In an inconspicuous corner, an unfamiliar face was nervously bowing its head, its shoulders trembling slightly with its breath, the person resembling a small animal cowering in the shadows, searching for a non-existent sense of security. He glanced at it, then raised his hand and gently beckoned the other person over.

"Your Majesty..." The unfamiliar face approached cautiously, his steps heavy as if he were walking on a blade. When he got close, he knelt down and pressed his forehead against the cold floor tiles, the sound of his forehead hitting the stone surface making a dull thud.

"You did this before too?" Malekith looked down at him, not offering to help him up, but instead asking with interest, his voice tinged with indifference and mockery.

"I...I..." The unfamiliar face stammered, his voice barely audible, filled with fear.

"Alright, stand up. Be the same as before." Malekith's expression changed from interest to boredom. He suddenly remembered the words his deceased mother had once said, and in this situation, those words felt like a curse stuck in his heart.

Does he care? Does he care? Does he not care? Does he not care either?

The unfamiliar face remained motionless, his body trembling even more violently. His eyelids quivered, and cold sweat trickled down his temples, gathered on his chin, and dripped to the ground.

There was nothing he could do; standing in front of him was Malekith.

The legends surrounding the Witch King who emerged from the sacred fire of Asuyan could be told for three days and three nights without end. No matter how much the people of Lortheon tried to dispel their fear through propaganda and performances, they could not withstand the oppressive feeling when that name became a vivid figure before their eyes.

Facing Malekith was not just about fear, but more like facing an inescapable destiny.

It wasn't until Ke Haiyin stepped forward, stood beside him, frowned slightly, and whispered, "Are you deaf?" that he reached out and forcefully pulled him up.

Throughout the entire process, Malekith never looked at any unfamiliar faces, but instead observed Kohein's every move with great interest. He saw a resemblance to Kohein in him—that composure, that quiet sharpness.

But compared to Kolan, Kohein was more meticulous and cautious.

At least, they didn't create any inexplicable messes, such as just telling him they confirmed it but not actually bringing the person over, forcing him to make the trip himself, or having Ke Haiyin bring the person over.

Clearly, given Kohein's insight and shrewdness, simply appointing him as the captain of the White Lion Guard was somewhat of a waste of his talents.

But Malekith had no immediate plans to do anything, such as immediately promoting Vice-Captain Barriel to a higher position or reshuffling the White Lion Guard's ranks. Such things, even if they were to be done, could only be addressed after the war.

“I don’t eat people.” He suddenly spoke, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Even if I did eat people, I wouldn’t eat you, unless… you messed up?” As he finished speaking, a wicked smile crept onto his lips.

The stranger, who had been pulled up by Ke Haiyin, nearly collapsed to his knees upon hearing this. Fortunately, Ke Haiyin didn't let go; with a twist of his wrist, he held him steadily, like a chick.

"You are the best tailor in Lorthorn?" Malekith took a step forward, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable weight.

The tailor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, cold sweat almost blurring his vision. He didn't show a trace of pride in response to Malekith's question; instead, he gave a wry smile.

If he had a choice, he would rather not be the best, so that he wouldn't have to face this legendary figure, nor have he had to endure the feeling that his heart was about to jump out of his chest.

“I need you to make a family banner, the materials…” Malekith’s voice paused slightly when he mentioned the materials. He had intended to say the best materials, the thought flashing through his mind, but he suppressed it just before it could be uttered. His eyes changed, and his tone shifted accordingly, “Do you know any ancient crafts?”

"Your Majesty...you mean...?" The tailor tried his best to control his nervousness, his voice cautious, as if he were stepping on thin ice, which would shatter if he exerted too much force. But even so, the tremor in his voice was still obvious.

"During the Great Invasion."

The word was like a stone thrown into a lake, stirring up huge waves in the tailor's heart. He froze, his eyes widening suddenly, his heart skipping a beat. If he could, if the occasion allowed, if it weren't for Malekith standing before him, he would have wanted to shout out: This is too ancient!
"What?" Malekith narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning cold.

"Okay..." the tailor said with difficulty, then nodded.

Although it is so ancient that it has been almost forgotten, it has become a skill passed down orally within families, and can only be glimpsed in the classics and in families that have inherited it.

But he certainly can, because he has a legacy.

For him, the techniques used during the Great Invasion were actually much simpler than those used today, unlike the intricate processes of weaving and dyeing over the past five thousand years, which are dazzling and complex.

On the contrary, that era, simple, direct, and almost primitive, contained the purest power.

"What about an aged look?" Malekith asked immediately afterward.

The tailor was stunned again. He looked up, a look of confusion flashing in his eyes. He didn't understand.

“What I want to see is something that has survived from the Great Invasion to the present day, not a shoddy contemporary fabric.” Malekith’s voice was deep and slow, carrying an undeniable chill. “I don’t want a replica that makes people laugh out loud at first glance. What I need is the marks of time, the authenticity that remains even after being baptized by blood and fire. Magic is not your responsibility; you are only responsible for making it look old. Can you do that?”

"Yes!" The tailor nodded vigorously, his voice much more resolute than before.

He truly knows how to do it. This antique-making technique also comes from his family's tradition, but few people truly understand it. However, he does, and he has done it before.

“Very good!” Malekith nodded in satisfaction, his expression slightly relaxed. He slowly extended his hand, placing his palm on the tailor's forehead, exerting an invisible pressure, as if the other's soul had been peered into for a moment. After withdrawing his hand, he continued, “Do it this way, don't miss any details. If you need materials, you can directly contact Kohein. Payment… is not a problem!”

The tailor's eyes flickered, and he nodded repeatedly, almost holding his breath, not daring to show the slightest hesitation.

Seeing that he understood, Malekith simply waved his hand, as if to disperse a speck of dust in the air, indicating that the conversation was over.

Once he got here, he was actually fine.

Everything was running smoothly under Darkus's design. There were no documents that required his personal review, no orders that awaited his signature. In fact, those that needed to be signed had already been signed while he was still wearing his Midnight Armor.

When he stepped out of the courtyard again, before his feet had even truly touched the street, he was blocked at the doorway once more.

It wasn't someone causing him trouble, nor was it an angry protester, nor an assassin lurking in the shadows; it was simply... a traffic jam.

Yes, there was a traffic jam.

A convoy of trucks hauling construction debris blocked the narrow street, completely obstructing the entrance and exit. The heavy wheels creaked and groaned over the cobblestones, and the panting and shouts of the horses mingled in the air, thankfully without any dust hitting him. What could he do?
After the convoy slowly drove away, he didn't move immediately. His feet seemed rooted to the spot, and he stood firmly in place. It wasn't because of hesitation or indecision, but because he was blocked again.

It's still not this or that.

Traffic jam still.

He smiled the moment he saw the convoy.

Five horse-drawn carriages arrived.

The carriages were painted a vibrant, striking red, gleaming in the sunlight like burning flames. Exquisite bronze and brass fittings were inlaid throughout, reflecting a cool metallic sheen, giving the entire convoy both a magnificent appearance and an undeniable air of authority. Each carriage was pulled by two horses, their coats glossy and their manes meticulously groomed. The thrones at the front of the carriages were imposing, while platforms were provided on the sides or at the rear of the carriages for passengers to stand and hold onto.

What's most eye-catching, however, is not the car itself, but the passengers.

The entire group was female, with not a single man. The members possessed both courtly elegance and a certain disciplined order. The scene was like a striking contrast of colors, stretching across the gray-brown cobblestone street.

The leader of the group was his niece-in-law, Princess Alicia.

Malekith extended his hand, a casual yet dignified gesture, and waved to the convoy. The women, led by Alicia, returned the wave in unison, their manners impeccable, their expressions carrying a complex undertone. The red car, accompanied by the sound of hooves and rolling wheels, gradually disappeared around the street corner.

"Your Majesty?" Kohai stepped forward, his footsteps echoing clearly on the stone slabs. He lowered his voice, his tone cautious, his eyes flashing with an inscrutable light. That single word contained a multitude of complex emotions: worry, trepidation, anxiety, and a touch of unease.

“I don’t know,” Malekith said calmly. Although Kohein didn’t say it aloud, he knew what Kohein was asking. So, he simply shook his head. Then, he turned and glanced at Kohein, a hint of sarcasm playing on his lips. “What are you worried about? Shouldn’t he be the one worried?”

As he finished speaking, his gaze shifted to the other side—to Kadjohn, who was also following behind him, but remained silent.

“I…” Ke Haiyin opened his mouth, his expression conflicted.

Kadjohn responded with an eye roll.

“I know what you’re trying to say,” Malekith interrupted him. “My answer is I don’t know, I really don’t know! And you know, the decision on this matter isn’t in my hands!”

He spread his hands, his expression showing a kind of impatient helplessness, and then stretched out another hand, pointing to the convoy that had disappeared around the street corner.

"Besides, look at them...you know what I'm saying."

After saying that, he didn't give Ke Hein a chance to respond and strode towards the other side of the street.

A moment later, he arrived at the gate of Kadjohn's family mansion.

Kazorin and Ivarn came from the same place, which is why Bel-Ayhorn recognized Kazorin at first sight on Flame Isle. Before Kazorin became the Anointed One of Asuyan, they were in the same circle.

As for where they specifically came from... in the western part of the Kingdom of Itien.

Nobles own property everywhere.

This is why the Kazoin family mansion was often unoccupied, maintained only by servants. Now, with the arrival of Duruchi, the mansion has been requisitioned and turned into the Phoenix Guard's base. In addition to the Phoenix Guards stationed there, there is also a hundred-man squad of Duruchi's men, belonging to the Tenth Army.

Marekis had no intention of going inside, because his destination was not here, but the observation deck not far away.

The entire noble district was built on hills, offering a wide view. When he climbed to the observation deck, the entire scene unfolded before him: Lortheron's sturdy defenses gleamed in the sunlight, the lagoon shimmered, the western shore stretched out, and the distant North Harbor was bustling with activity.

It was a grand yet tense scene, with every detail foreshadowing the coming of war.

He knew all too well that this place might soon be engulfed in dragonfire, arrows, and shattered masts. The harbor would burn, and Lor'then's towers would crumble in the flames.

Thinking of this, his heart tightened slightly.

This is not just a war, but a catastrophe that will utterly tear Lorthorn apart.

He was both the creator and the witness.

A voice inside him reminded him: the beginning of all this was destined to be with him.

Malekith suppressed the momentary conflict and hesitation in his heart. He understood better than anyone that this war was not simply an act of honor, but an intertwining of bloodline and royal power, revenge and destiny. He narrowed his eyes, gazing at the distant horizon, as if trying to imprint the scene of the impending conflagration into his heart.

He stood there on the observation deck for a long time, his gaze deep and his expression unreadable. Only when the wind ruffled his silver robe did he move again, his steps slow but firm.

He had no intention of going to the working-class district or Phoenix Avenue; that was Dakota's style, not his.

In truth, he had briefly considered that morning whether he wanted to see for himself, or even just walk through the crowd, and feel the presence of those subjects who had never belonged to him. But the tailor's actions just now were like a bucket of cold water, completely extinguishing that last thought.

So he returned the way he came.

This time, he didn't step into the courtyard again, but walked straight through, and finally arrived at the temporary shelter.

Duruch soldiers belonging to the 10th Army and the conscripted laborers from Asur were working overtime, carrying out the final finishing touches. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and lime, making one's nose sting slightly. Trucks carrying construction waste, blocking the road, set off one after another, like a silent procession, separating the new order from the old.

Just as he was about to go in for a tour and inspection, Egileser appeared, looking rather out of place.

Malekith took the scroll, his gaze sweeping over it quickly. The words and symbols flashed in his eyes, bringing forth the restlessness hidden deep within him. After a moment, he abruptly closed the scroll, and as he was about to toss it back to Egileser, he paused, and instead tossed it to Kohein.

Kohein got the answer he wanted.

Malekith offered no explanation, nor did he leave a lingering glance. As he turned to leave, his silver robe billowed slightly in the wind, like a cold, unyielding banner. (End of Chapter)