Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

“Once, a tall, hooded traveler passed through our village. Hans, the miller's apprentice, who always enjoyed bullying the weak, thought it would be a good idea to threaten the traveler for money. Then, before I could react, a beautifully crafted longsword I had never seen before suddenly appeared in the traveler's hand, and I didn't realize what was happening until the sword had cleaved Hans from his collarbone to his sternum.” — Edgar, elder of a village in the Sigma Empire

“I’m done with this.” Darkus said casually after Schrinusto leaned closer, his tone nonchalant, as if the matter had never truly mattered to him. “You handle it.”

Schrinassto neither nodded nor shook his head, but stared at Darkus's profile, trying to decipher the subtle meaning behind his words. He knew very well that the man before him was not one to give up easily, and that every word he spoke often concealed a deeper meaning.

“There’s no need for that, is there?” Darkus raised his hand, pointed into the distance, and said listlessly, as if making a casual gesture, but setting the tone for his words.

Schrinassto glanced into the distance, his expression growing more serious. He quickly understood Darkus's intention, his chest heaving slightly. Finally, he nodded solemnly, then silently turned and left.

A single word or action can determine the fate of some people.

Then, Dakous leaned over the railing, arms casually draped, and quietly gazed into the distance. His eyes pierced through the shimmering sea and landed on the berths that looked like they were built by a child assembling building blocks.

He's back, back to Lorthorn.

The wood grain of the deck stretched out beneath his feet, like a horizontal boundary, reminding him that he was still at sea, still wandering between returning and not returning.

With the arrival of Duruqi, the once unremarkable Beigang underwent daily changes. Initially, it was just a simple "--" shape, then it gradually expanded into a "凵" shape, and then into a "凹" shape.

While described as "concave," it's more like an abstract symbol.

From a distance, it looks like a pattern struck by a barrage of sharp, pointed arrows. Except for the base, which remains stable, countless thin lines ("一" or "丨") have sprouted from the rest of the pattern. In reality, each "一" or "丨" represents a berth, capable of accommodating several Trucchi Albatross-class cargo ships simultaneously.

This design maximizes the port's functionality.

The '-' shaped berths close to the land, combined with mechanical equipment, can efficiently hoist stacks of containers into cargo ships; while the extended berths facilitate the direct loading of personnel and manually transported supplies onto the ship.

However, the situation has now shifted back to a U-shape. The special barges that were originally used to fill the structure have now been mobilized and are all moored in the inner sea, relying on the mountain to form a defensive position, like protruding stone teeth, biting down on Lorthern's northeast direction.

"Is this the last wave?" Colonia leaned closer, leaning against the railing to stand beside him, their gazes also fixed on the distance, watching the fleet that was making its final preparations before departure.

On the sea, Albatross-class cargo ships were lined up one by one, with appropriate gaps between them in all directions, the entire formation resembling a battle array that had been repeatedly calibrated. On the outer perimeter, escorting raiding ships cruised slowly, like a pack of wolves guarding a massive camel caravan.

The whole scene looked like an Allied merchant ship on the Northern Ocean or Arctic route. Fortunately, the enemy did not have submarines, commerce raiders, bombers, or the like, but the enemy did have dragons.

“Yes,” Darkus murmured, his words carrying an enigmatic meaning.

On the entire sea, only his ship was heading towards Lorthen, moving alone against the current. Almost without exception, all the other ships had departed from Lorthen. Besides the massive fleet that was currently assembling, three other ships had cast off their moorings at the dock and sailed straight away, their destination clear—Angriel.

Just as he was about to continue speaking, a sudden commotion and commotion arose from the rear of the deck. The noise, like a sudden gust of wind, interrupted his thoughts. He frowned and slowly turned his head to look.

The Hoss Sword Saints shoved and drove the cultists, who had been imprisoned in the cabin, onto the deck, accompanied by a chaotic commotion.

The dull thuds of bodies colliding with the ship's hull during the shoving, the curses and frantic swirling of the cultists in despair, and the impatient shouts and cold commands of the sword saints. Someone was shoved hard, crashing into the railing with a cry of pain, then roughly pressed down and forced to kneel.

The air thickened with a gunpowder-like tension in the blink of an eye, the chaotic scene on deck seeming ready to explode at any moment. But quickly, this commotion was suppressed again. The sword saints' steady and powerful movements kept the noise within a certain range, preventing it from spiraling out of control.

Chaos is just a facade; the outcome was predetermined.

Darkus watched, his gaze leisurely yet somewhat indifferent. He saw Schrinusto standing at the edge of the fence, greatsword raised high, and for a fleeting moment, he couldn't help but glance at his cousin beside him. Colonia, who was also watching with great interest, turned her head almost simultaneously, their eyes meeting.

The next moment, they both burst out laughing.

The laughter was soft, yet carried a profound meaning.

Throughout the entire process, the siblings did not exchange any words, but both understood what the other was trying to express.

That was an echo of Trucchi's old era, something etched together in his blood and deep in his memory.

In Darkus's view, Schrinassto's posture alone was enough to evoke another name. Donning a suit of black armor and replacing his greatsword with a cleaver, if the sky could turn from azure to leaden gray, Schrinassto would be virtually indistinguishable from Hal Gonci, the executioner long since vanished into the dustbin of history. Given Schrinassto's current status, he was at least a captain, certainly qualified to lead an execution squad.

That scene was almost like an ancient shadow briefly resurrected in reality.

In the name of Hosse!

Three words, three syllables, like the rhythm of an axe.

As the first syllable was uttered by Schrinusto, the sword tip, which had been resting on the deck, suddenly rose and pointed straight to the sky; as the second syllable fell, the greatsword sliced ​​through the air with a sharp whistling sound; and as the third syllable landed coldly on the ground, the cultist's head flew off and fell cleanly into the rolling waves.

"Excellent craftsmanship!" Darkus exclaimed softly, his tone revealing genuine appreciation.

As everyone knows, beheading is a skilled profession...

But the cut before him was clean and swift, without any hesitation.

The Hoss sword saints pressed the cultists' bodies firmly against the ship's railing, as if they were nailed to a chopping board. Their necks stretched out of the ship's railing, their necks wedged into the handrail, creating a bizarre and ritualistic scene.

Darkus was impressed not only by the swiftness of the execution, but also by the near-silence of the entire process. There was no ear-piercing sound of blades slicing through flesh and spine, nor the metallic clang of a greatsword striking a handrail.

Schrinassto's craftsmanship was in no way inferior to that of Hal Gonci, the executioner, and the craftsman who forged the greatsword was equally skilled.

The moment the head was severed from the body, it plunged directly into the waves, swallowed by the crashing spray, leaving not a trace of filth. And as soon as the blood gushed out, the sword saints, who had been holding the corpse, tacitly lifted the mangled body and, without hesitation, tossed it into the sea. The deck and railings remained spotless, as if nothing had happened.

Schrinassto sheathed his sword, his movements cold and decisive. Having completed the execution, he slowly turned back, his gaze landing on Darkus. That glance held both a sense of accomplishment and…

Knowing why the Demon Swordsman was looking over, Darkus smiled knowingly, raised his hand, and gave Schrinustoby a thumbs-up.

This is not just a simple compliment, but a form of recognition.

Seeing this, Schrinusto nodded in satisfaction, a cold smile flashing across his face. He then turned around, ignoring the cultists who were still shouting and cursing, and moved swiftly.

Then came the second, the third... all the way up to the tenth.

With each head that fell, the seawater churned and swirled for a brief moment, as if the ocean itself were swallowing these filthy souls. The air on the deck grew heavy with the spread of blood, but the sword saints' calm and skillful movements gave the entire execution scene a cruel sense of ritual.

Just as he was about to swing his greatsword to strike the eleventh, Fenrir called out to him. After a few brief, hushed words, he stopped, nodded, and sheathed the bloodless greatsword back on his back.

However, this does not mean that everything is over.

There are still twenty-two cult members awaiting their fate.

These people were among the spoils of Liver's successful mission; she brought back forty-two cultists as part of her haul. Of course, compared to her other, larger and more practical gains, these cultists were more like a side benefit.

But Daxius was adept at maximizing the value of the extras. He was well-versed in the workings of power and the psychology of rule, and he also understood that intimidation and ideology must go hand in hand.

So he selected ten of them and publicly executed them in the port of Elisthenes.

Of course, it wasn't simply a matter of beheading; rather, it was about creating an atmosphere and warming up the crowd before the execution.

Publicity should come first.

A few days in advance, notices were posted and banners were hung throughout the city, informing the people of Asur in the port of Elisthe that a just trial that was closely related to them would soon take place.

After Hermala returned to the port of Elisthenes, she personally oversaw the coordination and further publicity efforts. To ensure everyone could participate and witness the event, construction was even halted for the entire morning, effectively giving the public a holiday.

As a result, the port of Elisthenes was exceptionally lively that day.

The streets were bustling with noise, like a festival, as groups of Asur people, filled with curiosity and anticipation, headed towards the square. This was a rare respite; in the tense and oppressive atmosphere, they needed this release, just like people in ancient feudal times who would go to the execution ground to watch an execution, thus relieving their frustrations and seeking a kind of cruel pleasure.

At the edge of the square, Duruci's soldiers maintained order, while the people of Asur either stopped to visit the propaganda gallery or listened attentively to the officials' impassioned speeches.

The speech had only one theme—the dangers of cults and chaos.

The speaker delivered a passionate speech, exaggerating the atrocities committed by cultists against the Eternal Queen and inciting the audience's anger.

Ironically, these officials wore Asati's insignia on their chests.

Therefore, after denouncing the evil of cults and chaos, they naturally guide the public on how to "correctly" believe in Asati, telling them how to properly distinguish between Asati sects, which are official institutions, and which are cults.

A complete logical chain was thus brazenly implanted into Asur's mind.

Next comes the most "exciting" part.

One by one, the cult members were led to the execution platform, their necks pressed against the wooden rack. The people no longer regarded them as their former compatriots or relatives, but as mere entertainment. They pointed and whispered, some mocking, some cursing, some murmuring, and some even clapping and cheering.

Of course, the ten cult members were not executed all at once, as that would cause the crowd's emotions to rise too briefly.

Hemara's plan was a carefully orchestrated pace—one execution every fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, the square in the port of Elisthe was too small to accommodate the entire city's population. Officials had no choice but to divide the viewing into batches, by neighborhood, guiding wave after wave of Asur into the square to witness the beheading.

This would both manage the flow of people and prolong the bloody revelry to the greatest extent possible.

Each moment of a head hitting the ground became the climax of the day.

And what happens after the climax? Naturally, it's time to leave.

People went home to rest, eat, and drink, continuing to discuss the day's events. Work resumed on the construction site in the afternoon.

In Dakous's view, this arrangement was crucial.

Duruci intended to establish a long-term rule in Ausuan and a new order. Public executions were not merely a warning, but a ritual, a politically charged performance. They allowed Asur to gradually accept the new reality, transforming fear and hatred into habit and obedience.

At the same time, this is also a whitewashing, a reshaping of their understanding of Asati, and laying the foundation for order amidst blood and iron.

Most importantly, it deterred all possible resistance and cults lurking deep within.

Of the forty-two cult members, ten were executed in the port of Elisthe, leaving thirty-two remaining.

Darkus's original idea was to take the thirty-two men back to Lorthene and repeat the process from Port Eleste, from propaganda and speeches to executions in batches, as a form of re-education and further intimidation.

But now, it's no longer necessary.

This is like knowing that a typhoon is about to make landfall in the afternoon, but still insisting on holding a concert or organizing a mass gathering of tens of thousands of people at noon. This is not being carefree, but being stupid to the point of being pointless.

As for after the typhoon ends... there's even less need for that.

Besides being busy rebuilding and mending wounds, there will be newer and fresher forms of entertainment. This batch of entertainment is outdated, and bringing out these cultists to perform will only make it seem like they can't distinguish between priorities, and may even weaken the deterrent effect of the regime.

We can only wait until later.

In any case, Ulthuan has never lacked cultists. They are like poisonous mushrooms that grow after the rain. Once one batch is pulled out, a new batch will sprout up.

This is also why Dakous just told Schrinusto that "it's unnecessary."

However, there are still twenty-two cult members awaiting execution.

Schrinasso's sheathing of his sword didn't signify the true end of the game; it was more like a halftime break in a grand feast. After a brief lull, the second half was about to begin. However, at the start of the second half, it wasn't him who entered the game, but another substitute.

The person who took the stage was Evelynn Eagleblade.

She was a young woman who had only been promoted from Sword Servant to Sword Saint last year, but that wasn't considered official, as she hadn't received her own greatsword and lacked the ritual symbolizing her status. (This is discussed in Chapter 795.)
This year, she finally received her own greatsword, and thus, for the first time as a formal sword saint, she received her first real mission.

This mission was personally assigned by Mithril Silverstag—to escort Rianna Silverstag back to the Kingdom of Safre.

Acting as secret police, infiltrating and eradicating cults is just one of the many duties of the Hoth Sword Saints. They also have other responsibilities: replenishing the Phoenix King's army; escorting and protecting important figures; and patrolling the guidestones throughout Ulthuan to ensure the stability of the magical network.

In another timeline, after Finnubal ascended to the throne as the Phoenix King, the duties of the Hoth Sword Saints became even more demanding. They were also sent to check on Elsin Alwyn's condition, guard relics and nodes of great magical significance around the world, and so on.

For Evelyn, her first task was supposed to be extremely easy, as simple as a mercenary being hired to climb a tree, retrieve a kitten stuck in a branch, and hand it to an old lady below. She received this task because it wasn't dangerous and was the kind of job even a novice could do.

As a result... things took a completely different turn. (Chapters 747 & 8, following Chapter 836)
Did Fenrir graduate? Yes, he graduated. Did Fenrir graduate? No, he didn't.

As finished.

After his long journey through Elsin Alwyn, his already unruly nature became even more untamed, as if he had been completely unleashed and ignited by some power within that magical forest. His mentor, Arelani, rendered his discipline virtually nonexistent. Otherwise, he wouldn't have stayed in Ashriel for fifty years, treating it like his own backyard.

Now, Fenrir's relationship with the White Tower of Hoth is so complex that it's almost impossible to explain. He is, in a sense, a member, but not entirely. Having left the White Tower without permission to live in Eichriel, he should have been expelled according to the White Tower's rules, even labeled a traitor, hunted down, and tried.

However, reality did not unfold in this way.

Hos's will influenced Arelani.

As a result, Arelani fiercely defended him, insisting on covering for him by saying he was still wandering around Elsin Alvin, with his cousins. She even gave him the crown of Safri's conquest before he accompanied Rifer on his mission to the Kingdom of Avalon.

Ashriel's life left a deep imprint on Fenrir, an intense and undeniable mark of the Darkus faction. Beyond this factional imprint, his behavior, way of thinking, and even certain aspects of his logic all subtly bore the inertia of this imprint.

However, there is a subtle and indescribable relationship between Daculus and the White Tower of Hoss, to the point that... their positions become ambiguous.

It's hard to say exactly what kind of character Fenrir is.

But he was definitely not the bridge, because the one who truly acted as the bridge was the demigod Saril, not him. He was more like an existence caught in the middle, neither completely belonging to either side nor able to completely detach himself.

While in the port of Elisthenes, Arelani had a private conversation with Dacules. Her meaning was clear—she wanted Fenrir to return to the White Tower, and she wanted Fenrir to continue wearing the crown of conquest.

After all, the ownership of the crown of conquest originally belonged to the White Tower of Hoss, and its intention was obvious: it was both a symbol and a declaration.

Dakous did not express much opinion on this.

He didn't care about the White Tower politics behind this crown, at least not on the surface.

Although Fenrir's identity bears a strong mark of his faction, in Darkus's eyes, he has always been a member of the White Tower of Hoss.

If the war goes smoothly, Darkus even plans to heavily support the White Tower of Hos after it ends, and it would be ideal if Fenrir could become the secular leader of the Hos system. After all, Fenrir's strength is undeniable; his experiences with Ashriel have greatly increased his power, and his personality might trigger some kind of chemical reaction within the Hos system.

Tigris: ?
After the business was over, Dakota asked a seemingly casual but actually profound question—when would Fenrir graduate?

In fact, for Fenrir himself, whether or not he graduated was no longer important.

He has his own path, his own direction.

But for the White Tower of Hoss, it remained important, especially for Arelani. Arelani's answer was: wait until the war was over. Her attitude was both an act of protecting Fenrir and an explanation to the White Tower.

But these minor details do not prevent Fenrell from becoming Evelynn's mentor.

In terms of medical care, Drusara was Rianna's primary physician, while Fenrir and Liv served as her assistants. Fenrir was responsible for observing her psychological changes, preparing soothing potions, and using magic to calm her mind; Liv was responsible for dream guidance, leading Rianna into peaceful sleep to prevent her from being troubled by nightmares. Evelynn, as both a patient and a nurse and caregiver, stayed by Rianna's side, taking care of her daily needs and keeping her company in her loneliness.

In Darkus's view, Rianna was somewhat like an experimental subject, much like Oouchi Hisashi in "The Days of Being Wild," but the difference was that Rianna's symptoms were not as terrifying as Oouchi Hisashi's.

Or rather, nourished by the Tears of Aisha and healed by the high-level spellcaster, she survived the most dangerous period and regained a glimmer of life. Her breathing became steady, her eyes gradually regained their clarity, and her physical symptoms slowly returned—signs of being saved, making it undeniable that a miracle had indeed occurred to her.

During the treatment, Fenrir learned a great deal from Drusara and Liv, which was not only valuable temporary medical experience but also part of the path he would take in the future. He learned from Drusara how to treat bodily corruption, an extremely delicate procedure requiring patience and precise control of magic.

At the same time, he was also trying to weave a new spell – 'Dreamless'.

"Dream weaving" is the exclusive domain of prophets, but Fenrir is not a prophet. He cannot weave complete dreams for his patients, nor can he interpret the future and guide the direction through dreams like a true prophet.

But he can strip away dreams.

Let patients get a truly good night's sleep, without dreams, struggles, or the entanglement of illusions and delusions. Because both good dreams and nightmares can create potential directions, and these directions imply uncertainty and risk.

For elves, dreams have always been a very important thing, as they can be both a blessing and a curse.

So he made an extreme decision—stop dreaming.

Be more decisive and efficient.

He slept soundly, woke up peacefully, and followed the treatment plan step by step, using the established methods. After all, he knew very well that the path he was taking was to be promoted and developed in the future, so that more people could follow this path. Therefore, there had to be a standard, a complete method that could be replicated and taught.

At the same time, his gaze also fell on Evelyn.

The so-called "taking a liking" wasn't in the vulgar sense of romantic attraction, but rather an appreciation for her potential. Evelyn possessed a second vision, and she was walking the path of a magic swordsman.

He couldn't ignore such a promising talent.

Of course, the future is uncertain, but at least for now, he is willing to regard her as someone worth placing his hopes on.

then……

At that moment, Fenrir gave him an encouraging look, a look that seemed to say, "Go, don't back down."

Evelyn didn't refuse, didn't shake her head, and didn't decline. She simply took a deep breath, steadied herself, and leaned against the ship's railing. At that moment, her movements, though somewhat clumsy, carried a hint of resolute determination.

Schrinassto considerately reached out and put his arm around her shoulder, leaning down slightly to point at the cultist pinned to the fence, whispering in her ear with a hint of guidance in his words. He even gestured across the cultist's neck, demonstrating the location of the incision. The cultist's eyes widened in terror, like a fish struggling on a chopping board, desperately trying to breathe, yet unable to escape its fate.

Upon seeing this, Dakota couldn't help but let out a wry smile.

To him, the scene was like being slowly cut with a dull knife, pure torture. His eyesight was excellent, and he could clearly see the sudden twisting and horror on the cultist's face as Schrinasto gestured. That expression, even through the noise of the deck, was incredibly jarring.

So he beckoned to Fenrir, signaling him to come over.

Just as Fenrir approached, a sudden, abrupt sound rang out—a sound unlike any heard during the previous executions. Then, with a splash, a sea turtle successfully entered the water!
No, it's a head that successfully entered the water!
The next moment, the sword saints worked together to push the cultist's corpse out, and the icy seawater instantly swallowed it.

Evelyn, who had just become a Sword Saint, was far less skilled in martial arts than Schrinasto. Even with the on-site guidance of the Magic Swordsman, the trajectory of her greatsword still appeared somewhat clumsy.

That sound was undoubtedly the metallic clang of the greatsword striking the armrest. If nothing unexpected happened, the armrest should now have a deep dent cut into it by the sharp blade.

Seeing this, Schrinusto moved closer to Evelyn once again. This time, he didn't put his arm around her shoulders. Instead, he held a non-existent greatsword in both hands and made swinging motions, silently demonstrating to Evelyn how to adjust her strength and how to make the sword strike smooth.

"You've made a mess of this." After Fenrir approached, Darkus pointed in the direction of Evelynn, complaining with a hint of helplessness.

“You’re just a passenger! That’s something the captain should say,” Fenrir retorted irritably, then turned his gaze to his apprentice. The greatsword rose and fell in the air, but didn’t actually fall, the pause carrying an awkward hesitation. He pursed his lips, glancing at Darkus out of the corner of his eye, and asked, half-confirming, half-teasingly, “Is it a bit bad?”

"A couple more hits and they might not even have to miss, they'd scare people to death." Darkus nodded seriously at first, then couldn't help but continue to complain.

His sarcasm was as sharp as ever: the second cultist Evelyn was to execute was a woman, and this female cultist, in her panic, even lost control of her bladder, making a mess of the deck. The way she hesitated to strike, the way she held back her blade, felt like a sword hanging over her head, causing her to completely break down in humiliation and fear.

“You’ve made progress!” Colonia joked.

Finally, the sword fell, and this time, the greatsword struck cleanly and decisively, without the harsh clanging of metal against metal. It seemed that in that instant, Evelyn had suddenly found some kind of knack.

So she began the third one without hesitation, her eyes devoid of sympathy or pity, only filled with an obsession with the craft and a constant pursuit of mastery of the techniques.

"What were you thinking?" Darkus asked with interest as the third head plunged into the sea with a splash of white water. His tone was playful.

"When I was at Winterwood Palace, I wiped out a wave of cultists charging at me with just a glance. Thirty? Forty? It doesn't matter." Fenrir replied casually, as if he were discussing a lunch menu, without turning his head.

“Never mind, never mind,” Darkus laughed and shook his head.

“In my opinion, this is necessary,” Finrell said, still maintaining a serious expression.

"Oh? A treatment method? No, more like end-of-life care?" Darkus raised an eyebrow, asking with a mix of sarcasm and seriousness.

Fenrir turned his head, his eyes burning, a bright, almost blinding smile on his face, starkly contrasting with the bloody execution scene in the distance. He nodded repeatedly, saying firmly, "Yes, treatment methods, end-of-life care!" His tone carried an almost fanatical conviction, as if emphasizing that this was no joke.

“You’d be perfect to be the lord of Lirang Island,” Darkus couldn’t help but tease.

In his view, this was no different from the director of a mental hospital.

“Sorry, that’s not my area of ​​expertise,” Finrel immediately retorted, his tone firm. “The prisoners sent there are all healthy!”

Dakos could only smile, shake his head, and not continue. He knew that Fenrir's thought process was always different from ordinary people, and once he started arguing, it would never end.

In fact, this short dialogue touches on many profound issues—the spellcaster's morality, attitude towards life, and even the multiple uses of magic.

Magic can kill or heal, depending entirely on how the caster uses it. The same applies to supplementary academic research.

Just like Bellorda's research in atmospheric science, which encompasses multiple subfields such as meteorology, marine meteorology, and atmospheric physics, and even has a profound understanding of thermodynamics, hydrology, and the cycle and transpiration pathways of water vapor. All this seemingly academic research ultimately points to one purpose—to better wield magic.

Before long, Evelyn, having found her rhythm, had finally executed all twenty-two cultists. Each sword strike was like a trial run in this new field, each severed head like a case number on a research report, and each splash of water a piece of experimental data.

Having just entered the field of psychology, she used this bloody "hands-on" experience to complete the so-called "treatment" of these cult members.

When the last cultist sank to the bottom of the sea, this bloody hands-on lesson came to a successful conclusion. Her face showed no pity, only the calm and satisfaction typical of researchers after completing an experiment.

The fun is over, and the bloody performance has come to an end.

At this moment, the ship carrying everyone gradually approached Lorthern's North Harbor, and the sea breeze brought a solemn sense of impending arrival.

This is indeed the last wave.

The North Port, located on both sides of the lagoon entrance, has been completely cleared away. There are no ships moored on the docks anymore, only the roar of waves crashing against them.

On the port, the soldiers of Duruch and the laborers of Asur were still busy, their movements showing no sign of slowing down. Cranes roared as they descended, the chains and pulleys clashing with a sharp, grinding sound, as the gantry cranes slid slowly along their tracks, like a slowly moving steel behemoth. These facilities were undergoing final preparations before dismantling; the laborers used hammers and pliers to loosen the fasteners one by one, producing a clanging sound. Sweat streamed down their faces, but no one stopped, as if the entire port was racing against time.

One by one, containers, crates, equipment, and sails, filled with cargo, were pushed away in batches. The heavy crates creaked and groaned as they rubbed against the pulleys, as if whispering for the approaching storm. The packed supplies were tightly bound with ropes and then loaded onto the trucks in an orderly fashion. The knots were wrapped around and around, tightened tightly, as if forcibly compressing the last vestiges of order into a limited container.

Eventually, these supplies will travel along the railway tracks to a newly constructed temporary shelter not far away. The shelter's entrance extends downwards through a narrow but sturdy ramp, with the railway tracks disappearing into the ground along the ramp.

The bright lights inside illuminated the thick stone walls and steel frames. The laborers stacked boxes one by one into the marked compartments, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, carefully placing tools and supplies. The sounds of setting things up rose and fell, wood hitting wood, steel clashing against stone walls, making the entire underground space resemble a maze that was gradually being filled.

Once the supplies and equipment have been completely recovered, the railway tracks on the surface will be dismantled and placed inside the shelter. The staff inside the temporary shelter will then evacuate one by one. After everyone has left, the heavy physical fireproof door will slowly close, its metal teeth snapping shut with a dull, grating sound, like the throat of some giant beast closing.

Finally, the entrance will be disguised, covered with gravel, sand, and discarded wood to completely erase any trace of it.

Although we haven't reached the final step yet, everything is proceeding in a tense but orderly manner.

There was no commotion, only the noise of machinery and tools, and the low murmur of the waves. Everyone knew that war was imminent, and this busy wrapping up was the final preparation before the storm.

However, this is not truly the last wave.

There was one exception in the port: at the end of the dock, several rows of uncollected supplies remained piled up. They had been separated and, instead of being placed in the shelters, were neatly stacked, quietly awaiting their fate. Each crate and each roll of canvas swayed gently in the breeze, as if hinting at the busy work to come.

In the sky, the raiding ship slowly appeared, and the next moment, the raiding ship, acting as a pilot, landed steadily on the deck of the ship where Darkus was. Unlike the pilots who risked their lives to board the ship, the piloting work of Duruchi was done by spellcasters from the Stormweavers Order. With the mass deployment of raiding ships, the original steamboat piloting method was phased out.

The benefits of magic were fully demonstrated.

The pilotage process, which would normally require a great deal of time and cost, can now be completed precisely using magic alone. Landing pilots on the ship from helicopters carries significant risks and costs, hence the arduous journey to board, whereas raiding ships, with similar roles to helicopters, incur virtually no cost.

The raiding ship docked briefly before leaving, as it didn't require a pilot and Bellorda and Adana were also on board.

Guided by Bellorda, the ship slowly approached the dock where supplies were piled up. Passengers then disembarked in an orderly fashion. Immediately afterward, laborers and soldiers sprang into action, unloading the supplies from the dock one by one into the cargo ship.

The wooden crates and containers, aided by pulleys and winches, emitted heavy, rhythmic sounds. The rustling of chains and the tightening of ropes mingled together, transforming the dock into an organic mechanical system, playing a tense pre-war symphony.

Once the last crate of supplies is secured, the ship, which departed from the port of Eleste, will make a brief stop in Lorthen to complete the handover and resupply before setting sail again for Angriel.

Of course, Darkus didn't witness any of this; he disembarked immediately. After disembarking, he went straight to a building where the port met the city; he knew that Finubal and Karashir worked there. (End of Chapter)