Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

However, Injo Eros's appeals went unanswered.

The wind howled in her ears, as if the entire sky was avoiding her voice. For a moment, she even had the absurd illusion that if the hunting spear hadn't been still firmly planted beside the dragon throne, she would have truly thought that Alallos had been blown away by that unseen wind and swallowed up by the darkness while she wasn't paying attention.

Seeing that Alaros did not respond for a long time, she did not say anything more. She simply silently withdrew her gaze, slowly adjusted her breathing, and leaned back on the dragon throne. Her armor made a slight friction sound in the wind, the kind of sound that only occurs at high altitudes and when the wind is strong—thin, hard, and piercing, yet with a reassuring sense of rhythm.

She curled up, as if conserving her body heat, or perhaps conserving her thoughts.

Just as she adjusted her posture, a slight movement came from beneath the right armrest of the throne. Alalos's head slowly emerged from below, like a trapped beast awakened by the wind. She instinctively looked over, and through her goggles, she clearly saw Alalos's vacant eyes. That look wasn't like weariness, but rather a blankness as if something had been hollowed out from within.

"what happened?"

Alallos's voice was extremely low, almost torn apart by the wind. His tone was as if all emotion had been drained away, leaving only a physiological response.

"No...nothing..."

Zhuo sighed softly, her voice tinged with helplessness and a touch of pity. She didn't want to ask too much, knowing she wouldn't get an answer anyway. So she simply responded in a low voice, then slowly closed her eyes.

The moment she closed her eyes, a painful twitch flashed across her face, not from her body, but from her soul.

She pressed her body even closer to the throne, her left hand resting on the armrest, her metal gauntlet slowly stroking the side of her helmet. The movement was slow and gentle, like a form of self-soothing, or perhaps a confirmation of reality.

Unlike other lords, strictly speaking, Kavalok's territory was not actually her family's true domain.

More accurately, she was simply the head of that territory; her family originated from the capital of the Kingdom of Elion—Tal Elier—and was an ancient noble family with a long and distinguished history.

After the Great Schism ended, her ancestors chose to leave Ausuan and arrive at Elsin Alvin, settling in the hilly region of what is now southern Bretonnia, where they continued their family line through animal husbandry.

Those years were peaceful, but short-lived. The flames of revenge engulfed Elsin Alwyn, forcing his family into the war, into slaughter, into defense, and into the catastrophe that lasted for centuries.

As the war drew to a close, and the Elves were defeated, they did not choose to return to Ulthuan. For they had long understood that their foundations were gone. For them, Ulthuan was nothing but a name; there was no land, no refuge, no tribal right.

Going back would only be the beginning of a life of wandering, the beginning of living under someone else's roof.

Why? Because her ancestor wasn't the eldest son. He had no right of inheritance and no substantial estate. That's why her ancestor resolutely chose to leave Ausuan and seek a new path in Elsin Alwyn.

Finally, they arrived in Azsolo.

When the crisis subsided and the spirits allowed outsiders to settle, the exiled family made their home in Kavalok. Unlike the other territories of Azorloth, it was sparsely wooded, windy, and vast, with endless grasslands.

That was the perfect place for them.

Of course, they're not the only ones.

Many nobles and commoners from the Kingdom of Elion also chose to settle in Kavalok. They banded together for mutual support and rebuilded their former dignity on foreign soil.

The livestock they grazed and the warhorses they raised gradually influenced the continent west of the Grey Mountains. Most of the hybrid horses ridden by the Barto lords could be traced back to their bloodline, and the elven warhorses they couldn't take with them when they left were forced back into the wild, only to be domesticated again over time. (Chapter 608)
Through the accumulation of prestige, influence, and status, her family gradually became the core power in Kavalok. As time passed and the family line was passed down through generations, it reached her generation.

Injo Eros naturally became Kavalok's successor and the head of the territory.

She gently stroked her helmet, the wind whistling in her ears, dark clouds rolling like a tide. In this dark, high sky, she sat alone, her back against the world of iron and wind, as if even her breath carried the weight of the past.

To be honest, she didn't have much affection for Orion and Ariel, but that didn't stop her from being a staunch hardliner. She would never show mercy to enemies who dared to invade Atholloren, at least that's what she always believed.

She was always calm and resolute, and firmly believed that iron and blood were the true language for maintaining order in the forest. But deep down, she knew that such so-called toughness was sometimes just armor erected to avoid being swallowed up by the forest. In many ways, she was even on the opposite side; she disapproved of some of the couple's actions and their politically motivated choices. She felt it wasn't rational governance, but rather an overly emotional game of divine authority.

This is also why she did not choose to join the fight when that battle took place.

She didn't fight, but most of the woodland riders she brought were wiped out. The team, composed of various families and personally selected and trained by her, was torn to pieces right before her eyes.

Who told her she was just the one in charge?
It means you can speak, but no one has to listen to what you have to say.

After the battle, the landscape of Azsorloth changed.

The ruler changed to Darkus. Although he didn't concern himself with the specifics and only set the rules, and Aesolloren never appeared in the years that followed, there was no doubt that he was the true ruler of Aesolloren, and she was very clear about that.

It was an undeniable pressure, not the oppression of commands, but the weight of existence itself. She had seen the forest tremble when Orion roared, and the starlight pour down from the treetops when Ariel cast spells, but Darkus was different. He was like a static center—all the storms swirled around him, yet could not shake him.

This is why she offered the horse to Daculus. It wasn't out of awe, but rather a kind of almost rational submission; she understood that obedience could sometimes be a form of protection.

(She first appeared in chapter 319, "Adding Flowers to Brocade," where she was the main character...)
Unfortunately, Dakotas did not accept it.

She continued living as before, as if the couple were still alive, as if Darkus had never been to Azsorloth. She continued to fight the Beastmen and Greenskins, and continued to count her arrows and repair her armor before each winter. Occasionally, she would also have to deal with harassment and intrusions from dwarves and humans.

The enemy hasn't changed, but the teammates have.

They transformed from wild hunters into more disciplined lizardmen. Lizardmen who could hold out until the cavalry arrived, lizardmen who could employ the hammer-and-anvil tactic. Often, the battle was over before the cavalry even arrived. The lizardmen crushed the enemy, leaving the cavalry with nothing to do but do what they did best: happily pursue them.

That tacit understanding and efficiency gave her a sense of order and exhilaration on the battlefield for the first time.

Thinking of this, she laughed. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but a weary laugh, as if she had finally accepted the changed world.

"What do you want to say to me?" Alalos, who had poked his head out, did not pull it back. When he saw Indra open his eyes and smile, he asked.

Zhuo didn't respond to Alalos immediately, but instead let out a heavy sigh. That sigh contained so much—disappointment, relief, exhaustion, and a touch of helplessness.

“Times have changed…” she murmured.

“I know, I’ve known for a long time,” Alalos replied.

“No…you don’t know, child.” Indra slowly shook her head, her tone carrying both maternal tenderness and the coldness of a warrior. Then, she denied that Alaros was right.

In the past, Alalos would have definitely argued back, but now, he wouldn't. He simply nodded; if it wasn't true, then it wasn't.

Sometimes, silence is more of a form of understanding than argument.

"Look around, what do you see?" Receiving no response, Yin Zhu smiled, a smile tinged with speechlessness but mostly with relief. She pointed.

“It’s too dark.” Alalos retorted, saying in a nonchalant tone what Indra didn’t want to hear.

"Yes, it's so dark," Yin Zhuo remarked.

She didn't add anything more, because "too dark" wasn't just a description of the darkness before her eyes, but also a metaphor for the times.

Black, boundless and endless, even the wind hesitates within it, even the gods…

She had a delusion that although she lived in this era, she had been abandoned by it, that she couldn't keep up with its pace. It was like standing beside a raging torrent, knowing the water was already above her ankles, yet refusing to back down or leave.

She knew she was still alive, that her body, will, and responsibilities were still there, but that feeling of being alive was increasingly becoming more like a habit.

This illusion became even clearer when she saw Tyrandor and Cyonlan again. She and Tyrandor were of the same generation, and like them, she had briefly returned to Ulthuan with Orion, returning to her original homeland. But unfortunately, she hadn't come to visit relatives, but to seek revenge. She had been to Gorgrond, and she was present when the fate of Morath was decided.

Now, she only feels alienated.

Especially when Tyrandor and Cyonlan spoke in words she could barely understand, the sense of unfamiliarity almost suffocated her.

Legion, Grand Legion, Army Group, Army Group Cluster...

The words, when spoken by them, sounded like a completely different language. Although she could understand the words, and had heard them spoken by Alalos before, that was all she could do.

For Duruci, war was more like an art, a craft where rationality and cruelty coexisted, rather than a child's game like she did.

Yes, that's what she thought, that's just kids playing house.

She recalled the wars she had commanded, the woodland riders weaving through the shadows of the trees, galloping across the grasslands, using the terrain and mobility to ambush the enemy—at that time, she felt that this was the ultimate form of warfare.

Now she realizes that it was just an illusion, a primitive, simple, almost romantic hunting game.

A legion has 6,000 men, three legions make up a large legion of nearly 20,000 men, and three large legions make up an army group of nearly 60,000 men.

And Truc had twenty such army groups!

Twenty army groups, twenty torrents, each one enough to engulf her entire past world.

This only includes the army figures, not the navy. It doesn't include Asul's newly reorganized legion, nor the expeditionary forces from Asley and Enil. It's said that Nagarus still has a large reserve of unmobilized forces.

If all of these factors are taken into account, then the dimensions of war have already changed.

It was no longer a hunt in the forest, no longer a small-scale skirmish, but a systemic war of unimaginable scale. It was a war centered on time, resources, industry, and order; a massive and terrifying machine at work.

She could hear the roar of the machine; even though she was high in the air, the sound of the wind blowing through her armor was like gears meshing.

Upon arriving in Ulthuan, the person in charge of reorganizing the Asley forces was not the always passionate Alaros, but the calm, collected, and highly organized woman.

This is her duty, and also her constraint.

The reorganization process was lengthy and complex, like an endless weaving process, involving tactical standardization, logistics allocation, organizational reorganization and the establishment of a collaborative system. Each step required cutting into the framework of the old system.

She modified the markings on the map again and again, and drew new command lines with the tip of her pen time and time again, each stroke like signing a death certificate for the old world.

She tried to understand and adapt to this unfamiliar era, to be like Tyrandor and Cerón, able to command large armies and wage war in a calm and efficient manner.

She wanted to be able to speak naturally and confidently when mentioning terms like "legion" or "large legion," without feeling out of place. She tried to be like them, speaking with that metallic rhythm, her mind filled with numbers, divisions, and proportions.

However, the more she learned, the more shocked she became.

What is shocking is not only the scale, but also the precision of the system and the terrifying logic.

Duruci had a set of manipulatives, a complete and almost ruthless set of manipulatives. They had written military theories, tactical manuals, troop coordination regulations, theater command systems, and military discipline articles.

They can break down war into four phases—deployment, advance, strike, and cleanup—in a disturbingly calm manner. Each phase has a corresponding executor, substitute, and corrective mechanism.

She realized that at the heart of it all was not hatred, but order—an order that chilled her to the bone.

Although she had read the books Araros brought back while she was in Esoloren, the sheer impact of combining theory with practice nearly crushed her. It wasn't just a simple shock, but a complete spiritual erosion.

When she first saw Duruci's military formation drawings, she almost thought they were some kind of religious ritual formation, with that geometrically perfect order, like a sacred geometry stacked up with coldness and logic.

Every formation and every command line was executed with terrifying precision; the position of each soldier was like a stroke of a rune, neither superfluous nor off-target.

From infantry to cavalry, from air power to artillery, every level was intricately linked and meticulously coordinated. It wasn't the kind of war she understood; it was a massive machine—rhythmic, logical, and breathing. Their soldiers weren't just soldiers; they were part of the army, trained to be armed cogs in a machine. They would prepare before orders arrived, automatically forming ranks before the bugle sounded. No one needed to say an extra word, and no one would think twice about a single command.

That self-conscious mechanicalness chilled her to the bone as she watched the drills.

Trucchi's war was not an extension of passion, but a continuation of reason—calm, calculated, and ruthless. They emphasized wartime etiquette, not out of pity, but out of order!

That order was like some kind of sacred creed, permeating every conflict. In their eyes, war was a ritualistic redistribution of order. There were prescribed bugle calls when setting out, standard stride intervals during marches, and after the war, the numbering of the fallen, the order of replacements, and the filing of spoils all followed strict procedures.

Even victory itself is defined within a predetermined loss ratio.

Victories that exceed expectations are not celebrated, because they represent a failure of the plan, while those that fall short of expectations represent a valid model. They purify war from a frenzy of blood and fire into a trial of logic.

And she, Injo Eros, realized for the first time that the glorious battles she believed in were like ancient folklore in the face of this order.

Although she didn't want to admit it, the Asleys were warriors, and only warriors, in comparison. They knew how to hunt, how to maneuver in the woods, and how to connect with nature intuitively.

They fought based on experience, conviction, and personal willpower. They didn't need orders, because within each of their souls lay that forest.

The direction of the wind, the breath of the trees, the low groans of the beasts—that is their clarion call.

But when these two systems are placed on the same battlefield, the difference becomes as clear as an abyss. Duruci's army is a massive and calm machine, while the Asley warriors, no matter how valiant, are just clusters of burning flames.

Flames can illuminate darkness, but machines can keep running.

Flames have a soul, and machines have a future.

For the first time, she truly felt what it meant to be crushed by the times.

"It's so dark, an endless expanse of darkness," Yin Zhuo sighed again.

Although it was so dark she couldn't see far, she knew what was in the distance.

She knew from that war council meeting that it was not a chaotic darkness, but an orderly darkness, a vast force operating in the shadows, and she was a member of that force.

It was a strange realization: she was both a part of this vast order and clearly aware that she was out of place within it.

That sense of alienation almost made her laugh—she, a rider from the forest, had now become a cog in the war machine.

There were disagreements in the meeting room, but they were within a manageable range; as for the specific plans, they were made long ago, even before Duruci arrived in Ausuan.

She sat at that cold, impersonal table, listening to them discuss the proportion of killings in an almost mathematical tone. Every arrow, every curve seemed to be the result of thousands of calculations, and every troop movement seemed to be weighed by an invisible scale, determining victory, defeat, and cost.

She could even recreate the sand table in her mind: markings, curves, symbols, groups. It wasn't a battlefield, but a living maze where every breath and every movement occurred precisely.

All the commanders at the meeting had to do was make some appropriate adjustments to the details based on the established blueprint.

So when the order to take off was given, everyone saw a scene that seemed almost impossible.

At that moment, the wind seemed to hold its breath.

The flight formation had not undergone joint training, and its members came from different ethnic groups and cultures, but from takeoff to formation, from attitude adjustment to speed synchronization, everything was perfectly coordinated.

It was an almost morbid perfection, a breathtaking orderliness.

The sky is finite, yet it is also boundless.

At this moment, that boundless space transforms into a measurable, calculable, and arrangable order.

There were no unnecessary wing vibrations, no chaotic shifts in formation, and no chain of swaying caused by differences in airflow.

Each flying creature entered its own course at a near-perfect angle, its breathing rhythm seemingly governed by some invisible law.

Within an hour, the entire sky transformed into an almost artistic order. It was no longer just flying; it was a ritual, an aerial ceremony woven from steel, spirit, and will.

As one of its members, Yin Zhuo knew very well that this was the power of the system, an order built up by logic, standards, and ruthless calculations, an order that was calm, silent, and terrifyingly precise.

That order doesn't even need language; it's infused into the blood and imprinted on the soul.

With everyone united as one... cohesion +10%
With everyone working together with one heart and one mind, we are all closely united under the same force. Even if someone harbors selfish motives, they will be suppressed by the overwhelming collective will, ensuring unity and integrity.

That kind of unity is not based on emotion, but on rules; not on trust, but on discipline.

When danger arrives, this order will unite people in their hatred of the enemy, forming an unshakeable torrent.

This is a manifestation of civilization and order.

Ruthless, yet efficient; repressive, yet perfect.

Under that sky shrouded in war, order itself had become a belief.

She stared silently into the darkness, the wind blowing in through the gaps in her helmet, carrying a damp, salty smell.

She knew that this wind no longer belonged to the forest; it was the breath of machines, the wind of a new era.

"Have you thought about the future?" Indra asked Alalos, her voice so soft it was almost carried away by the wind, yet it carried an unusual clarity and determination.

"Let's talk about it after today." After Alalos finished speaking, seeing that Indra remained silent, he added, "I can do it, you believe me, I know what you're going to say."

He smiled, a smile that contained neither frivolity nor evasion.

“If I live to see tomorrow, I’ll discuss it with them. I’ll write a letter to Tyrandor and Seionlan,” Indra whispered, as if speaking not to Alalos, but to herself. She closed her eyes briefly in the wind, as if in prayer, or perhaps making some kind of concession to fate. Then she called out to Alalos, “You deserve it, Alalos. You must live through today. You must grow up quickly. I believe… you can do it!”

Alaros simply nodded, offering no response. Though he seemed carefree and nonchalant, he wasn't stupid. He knew what Indra was implying, he knew why Darkus had called him by name at the Temple of Asur, and he knew why he was allowed to attend the high-level meeting.

They hoped he would step forward, shoulder the responsibility of the great pillar called Asley, the great pillar called Atholloren, become the leader, and even... become the pillar of the great pillar called the elves.

He did not respond, but a part of his heart had been ignited.

Time ticked by, and finally it was 11 a.m.

The horns had not yet sounded, but all of Ausuan held its breath; the sky, the sea, and the earth—all awaited the first horn.

Inside the Brilliant Tower, Asanok, who had been fast asleep, suddenly opened his eyes. In that instant, the air seemed to freeze, and even the floating lights inside the magic lighthouse paused slightly.

Then, he slowly sat up, remained silent for a moment, and his breathing became deep and steady. His gaze was empty yet clear, a kind of awakening from a nightmare, a calmness suddenly awakened by fate.

After pausing for a moment, he stood up and nodded to the spellcasters who were already prepared. He then went to the other end of the lighthouse, where he could clearly see the directional markers on the distant mountain.

"Interesting," he muttered after a moment. His tone was casual, yet carried a hint of amusement.

"Does that mean they're not stupid?" Liver, standing beside her, replied with a smile.

“In my opinion…” Asanok sighed, “it’s not a matter of being stupid or not, but rather… having no other choice?”

After he finished speaking, without waiting for Liver's response, he shook his head and walked back to his place. There was a strange composure in his steps, as if everything was within his expectations.

The directions have changed; in addition to the original ones, there is now another one, one pointing southwest of Lorthorn and the other pointing southeast.

This indicates that Caledo's forces did not choose a direct offensive, but rather took a detour, circling the vast ocean. Moreover, during this detour, they split their forces, with one group remaining in the southwest, awaiting their deployment in the southeast, before advancing together to form a pincer movement and launch a pincer attack.

This arrangement is brilliant, but unfortunately, Trucchi has Time Sentinels.

As he thought of this, Asanok's lips curled up slightly, a smile that carried both contempt and pity.

As he walked to his seat, thinking about what was about to happen, he felt like laughing, and then he actually did. The laughter echoed in the hollow of the tower, sounding particularly abrupt and eerie.

Those who heard the laughter knew what he was laughing at. Some were infected by it and laughed along, while others shook their heads helplessly. They knew very well what was about to happen, what they had to do, and that they would witness together an irreversible turning point!

Ten minutes later, apart from Lylas who had come to observe, all the other spellcasters had arrived at their designated positions. The air became heavy, and even breathing seemed to have weight.

At this moment, Lylas gripped the longevity lock tightly in her right hand, muttering prayers.

Has she become somewhat superstitious?

Maybe?
She had asked herself this question more than once.

Because of her birth, she had a very smooth life. Her life was like a line drawn by the gods, until the Battle of the Vale Anvil—when the Longevity Lock was removed from her body for the first time, and she almost died.

When she woke up, the first thing she did was ask where the centurion was, because she wanted to get the longevity lock back.

But she soon stopped praying, for the time had come. Like the other spellcasters, she focused her gaze on Liv, watching as Liv took a crystal from her bosom and held it high, level with the Lilith statue atop the Moon Staff.

The crystal shimmered with a dark gray hue, and tiny, flowing shadows appeared within the light, as if it were breathing with life.

“Let’s begin!” Liver took a deep breath and announced.

Then, the spellcasters moved simultaneously, beginning to extract the energy contained within the arcane sphere sealed in the box.

The energy was drawn out, transforming into visible vortexes that swirled in the air, emitting a low hum. The tower trembled in response, and even the outer magical defenses rippled slightly.

Asanok, Adana, Veltiri, Heramar, Marin, Liv, Bel-Tanya, Areda—these spellcasters, though their species and identities are complex, share one thing in common.

They are all spellcasters... all masters of the Ulku Wind, and they all grasp the essence of shadow magic.

At this moment, they were no longer individuals, but a colossal ritual machine. The rhythm of magic flowed between them, coursing through the entire magnificent tower like blood.

Time ticked by, and finally it was noon.

Asnil's gaze inadvertently swept across the sea, and his eyes widened instantly. For a moment, he even forgot to breathe. Then, he rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

In his sight, the fleet that had left... suddenly returned!

That's not an illusion; it's a reversal of time, a rewriting of reality as it's torn apart by shadows.

"No!" he cried out in a desperate, agonizing voice, as if his chest had been crushed by the claws of a dragon.

His voice pierced the air, growing hoarse in the reverberation of wind and magic, like the death knell for an impending war. (End of Chapter)