Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

One dragon after another swooped down, descending with a destructive order, like gods descending to earth, like a judgment orchestrated by the gods themselves, destroying Duruchi's fleet in the guise of a judge.

The beauty of that order was breathtaking; even chaos was forced to submit to its rhythm. Every descent, hovering, and dive of a dragon was like a rhythmic drumbeat—the symphony of heavenly fire was playing the prelude to the end.

The golden dragon's head tore through the wind's resistance, flames brewing deep within its throat, emitting a low, resonant hum, like the heart of the world resonating. The sound shook the sea, causing even the waves to retreat in fear.

The next instant, a torrent of blazing white fire poured down from the sky, illuminating the entire sea surface.

The light came so suddenly and so holy that the shadows of the Truc fleet crumbled instantly in its light, as if the very existence of those ships was a lie.

As the golden dragon swept across the sea, its wings whipped up towering waves, the storm-like pressure nearly crushing the ships. The winds generated by its flight were enough to stir up ocean currents, tear through the air, and shatter the magically maintained shields.

Following closely behind, the crimson dragon unleashed a soul-shaking roar, a roar like thunder, like war drums, like the raging torrent of a stormy sea. Its breath, carrying the scent of metal and sulfur, exploded forth, instantly engulfing the entire deck. Scorching flames climbed up the masts, cracked planks shattered like charcoal, spewing forth a shower of blazing sparks that consumed the planks, rivets, mast, and even souls themselves.

The flames tumbled and twisted in the air, as if even reality itself was being burned and distorted.

The mast crumbled in the fire, the canvas burned to ashes, and the sea breeze whipped up the burning ropes, dragging the embers into the sky like a rain of burning embers. Thick smoke rising from the deck turned the sea a scorched black, while the spreading flames turned the sky crimson. The air was filled with a scorching, tearing roar, the wind carried the smell of burnt wood and blood, and even the air itself seemed to groan.

Truc was like a lamb to the slaughter, terrified and silent.

A second later, more than a dozen ships burst into flames.

A colossal bronze dragon appeared on the flagship's deck almost as if it had smashed down. At that moment, the entire ship groaned in agony, the sound of wood and iron snapping simultaneously echoing through the waves, as if the world itself were crushing its own bones.

With a single slam of its massive claw, the mast snapped like dry twigs, sending flying debris piercing the tumbling Duruchi soldiers. A sweep of its tail tore dozens of Duruchi warriors, weapons and all, into the sea, instantly engulfing them in a raging inferno. The once proud flags on the deck were swept away by the flames, reduced to ashes, and even the insignia melted into a pool of molten iron.

The roar of the sinking ship mingled with the fury of the waves, as if even Matheran was enraged. The seawater churned and steamed under the scorching heat of the flames, the steam and smoke mixing into a gray-white curtain that obscured the boundary between sky and sea.

The whole world became blurred, only fire burned, only dragons roared.

The ocean burned, burning so intensely that even the wind howled. The cries were low and drawn-out, like a requiem played by heaven and earth for the dead.

"Truch's fleet...will ultimately be destroyed by heavenly fire!"

Imrek's voice was shattered by the wind, yet it remained as hot as iron.

The wind howled past his sides, his cloak fluttering wildly, and the roar of Minasnir's dragon wings striking the air was like war drums, one after another, like a war symphony that shook the heavens. Each flap seemed to announce the return of the ruler to Ulthuan.

Below him, countless dragons launched their attack—golden, crimson, silver, and bronze—each radiating a light comparable to the sun, their forms intertwining to form a burning celestial map.

That was the rebirth of the glory of the Kingdom of Caledo, a king's dream woven from fire and scales.

On the back of the dragon, dragon mages clad in red and gold-trimmed robes raised their staffs. As incantations were chanted, the gems at the tips of the staffs shone brightly, and then beams of magical flame shot towards the sea.

It was the fire of magic, the fire of the soul, the fire of vows, the fire of vengeance. It had no smoke, no warmth, only pure light of destruction.

More of the Truc battleships burned to ashes in the flames, their figureheads melted, their armor burned through, and the soldiers' cries were swallowed by steam. The cries did not come from their throats, but rather seemed to seep from the cracks in their souls, shrill, broken, and quickly engulfed by the flames.

Countless ships snapped in two with a violent explosion, seawater rushing in and creating towering white waves. Countless wrecks and floating deck fragments rose from the sea, and burning wood bobbed up and down with the waves, like coffins lifted by the tide, rising and falling repeatedly between fire and water.

A colossal golden and red dragon alighted on the broken deck, its weight causing it to collapse and wooden beams to shatter like brittle bones. It raised its head and unleashed a roar that pierced the heavens—a triumphant roar, a declaration of ancient blood rekindled in the flames!

Truc's fleet was destroyed.

Only obsidian-like black arks, untouched by the flames, still stood, their massive hulls, like islands, floating in the sea of ​​fire, their decks writhing with magical flames, as if roaring in defiance of death.

But it's only a matter of time. Sooner or later, these black arks will also be burned to ashes and sunk into the burning deep sea.

And just then—Marekis appeared!
Darkness surged up like a tide, tearing a rift in the flames.

That was the Witch King's entrance. His midnight armor gleamed eerily in the flames, and his cloak billowed in the gale like the tentacles of night. He rode a jet-black dragon, bursting forth from the heavenly fire, like the lord of the abyss returning to the mortal world.

Minasnir soared toward the Witch-King, the wind whipped up by its dragon wings nearly shattering the sky. Imrek's lance gleamed like starlight, its light piercing the smoke like a star falling from the night. The dragon horn emitted a high-pitched challenge, its sound so loud it shook the clouds, as if only this call of destiny remained between heaven and earth.

The Witch King answered his challenge, charging towards him on his black steed.

Two dragon shadows sped through the flames and ashes; at that moment, even the world held its breath.

Just as they were about to collide, the dragon that Malekith was riding folded its wings, stretched its long neck, and its scales split open at its throat. A deep purple light began to gather from the depths of the dragon's throat.

That was a harbinger of destruction, an impending curse.

Just as the dragon was about to unleash its breath, Imrek blew the dragon horn once more, the sound like a spear of light piercing through the void. The dragon ridden by the Witch King convulsed as if struck, its wings trembling violently, and black mist exploded from its body. Taking advantage of that moment of loss of balance, he plunged his gleaming star lance into the dragon's belly.

The lance pierced the dragon's scales, tearing at its body. Blood and fire gushed from the wound, turning into a red mist streaked with light. The dragon roared in agony, its claws slashing across Minasnir's back, producing a deafening, metallic scraping sound—not an attack, but more like a curse, the lingering echo of hatred.

Malekith rode away on his dragon, while Imrek withdrew his lance, preparing to attack again. The lance struck its target once more, leaving a long gash on the dragon's rump.

When Imrek prepared to attack again, Malekith fled.

The black dragon flapped its broken wings, stumbling and staggering towards the distant clouds, leaving trails of blood and fire in its wake. The other dragons gave chase, and the dragon mages chanted ancient spells and hurled incredibly powerful fireballs.

The fireball ripped through the sky like a falling meteor.

Finally, Malekith's dragon drooped its wings, its black form trembled violently, let out a heart-wrenching cry, and plunged straight into the sea. A huge column of water shot into the sky, the waves rolled and swallowed it, and everything returned to a scorching silence.

Imrek's eyes gleamed with light and burned with fire as he watched the banner of Duruci crumble in the flames, watched the firelight dance on the crests of the waves, and watched Malekith, who had fallen into the sea, fail to appear.

The scene made him tremble, unsure whether it was excitement or relief.

His hands were trembling, even the knuckles gripping the lance were turning white. He could hear his own heartbeat, so strong that it seemed to pierce through the entire battlefield—the drumbeat of war, the rhythm of fate!
He saw the dragon swooping down, clawing, and stirring up huge waves; he saw the dragon mage chanting spells that split the sky and unleashed a torrent of lightning. He saw the Duruci on the sea crumble, ships colliding, capsizing, and burning; he saw the flag of Caledon fluttering in the wind, and the golden and blue radiance shining once more upon the sea.

He saw victory, saw order restored, and saw the shame of the past burned to ashes and scattered by the wind.

He saw...redemption.

But in that instant, a gust of wind blew by, the flames suddenly stopped, the smoke ceased to churn, and the waves froze in mid-air.

The world was put on pause; even heartbeats stopped echoing in that moment, leaving only echoes—empty, long, and jarring.
-

"Idiots, idiots, idiots! You bunch of idiots!" Asnir cursed, flailing his arms and legs as he was held by the war dancers, almost trying to break free from their grasp. His voice was hoarse and shrill, like broken glass scraping against stone, full of despair and rage.

In his view, four black arks were arranged around the Brilliant Tower, forming an almost perfect circle around it.

The four black arks are Nagor, Malicious Temple, Divine Tower of Evil, and Fortress of Eternal Fear.

These four black arks of varying sizes, like four dark continents, floated on the sea, perfectly surrounding the Brilliant Tower, like the outer ring of some kind of ritual array, so precise it was chilling.

Surrounding the Black Ark were countless patrolling fleets.

There were Durucci's raiding ships and Asur's vessels. The whole scene looked like the eye of a typhoon centered on the Brilliant Tower, with the outer fleet rolling around and circling the Black Ark in layers.

The interplay of light and shadow on the ship's silhouette reflected on the sea surface, like the sea dreaming, and the waves breathing in that dream.

There's nothing we can do; who knows which direction the dragons of Caledo will appear from? They might come from the west, they might come from the east, or they might launch a pincer attack from the southwest and southeast, just like they are now.

The advisors are just advisors; they are not prophets.

Besides the question of the direction from which the dragon came, there are many other problems, such as synchronization issues and rhythm issues, like audio and video being out of sync, or drumbeats being out of rhythm.

Therefore, going around in circles, like a panacea, became the best choice. This seemingly absurd solution was the only one that wouldn't go wrong.

In this way, it doesn't matter which direction the dragon comes from, or when the dragon appears; the circling will always match.

Now, the dragons swooped down, tearing the air apart, the roar making the runes of the Brilliant Tower tremble, and the magical lines on the stone walls flickered like pulses.

Flames burst forth, golden-red flames tearing through the sky and illuminating the boundary between heaven and sea—a radiance that even the sun would yield to, the burning glory of Caledon.

However, the expected scene of warships engulfed in flames, explosions, collapsing masts, and broken hulls did not occur.

Only the flames flickered silently, as if burning behind some unseen glass. The flames pierced through the warship, yet left no scorch marks, not even a wisp of smoke. The blazing white flames slid across the bow, and where the dragon's breath touched, not even a ripple spread.

It merely ignites the sea, merely skims across it, and with a dreamlike light, it paints iridescent lines—dazzling, real, existent, yet utterly useless.

Fire and water, illusion and reality coexist in the same space, yet do not disturb each other, like two phantoms from different worlds, forcibly placed in the same dream.

The dragon swooped down, roaring and opening its claws, trying to tear the warship in two. But in that instant, its giant claws pierced through the mast, through the deck, and through the flustered Duruci soldiers.

The scene of sawdust, canvas, soldiers, and blood swirling in the air did not appear; the claw merely swept across a layer of light, as if tearing open a curtain of illusory light.

A moment later, the curtain repaired itself and closed, as if nothing had happened. The ship was still there, intact, the flag at the top of the mast still fluttering, not even the folds at the corners of the flag changed.

Everything was so perfect, so lifeless, so perfect it was like an illusion, so lifeless it was like a nightmare.

The only change was that the golden-red dragon, with an unbelievable roar and fury, crashed straight into the sea, splashing water everywhere, churning up waves, and overturning the entire surface. The sound distorted the air slightly and caused the runic flames of the Brilliant Tower to flicker.

The dragon struggled to rise to the surface, waves sliding down the scales on its neck. The scales shimmered like scattered gold in the sunlight. When its giant wings spread, they stirred up towering waves that could almost swallow up the surrounding phantom ships.

He roared angrily, his eyes flashing with chaotic firelight and questions. The warship that should have turned to ashes still stood and moved, coldly reflected in his pupils like a huge mirror. The mirror reflected not the enemy, but his own angry face of being fooled.

He roared and looked up at the sky, as if questioning the reality of the world, questioning which of the sky and the sea, fire and light, was real.

But soon, as if some invisible hand reached out from the sea, it seized his massive body and dragged him down inch by inch. The force was cold, resolute, and irresistible. He struggled amidst the waves, creating white walls, the seawater crashing against him with a sound like shattering metal.

Then, his figure, along with the dragon prince on his back, disappeared into the sea, as if he and the dragon prince had never appeared. Only the sea surface remained calm, as if nothing had happened, with only the sound of the wind still lingering.

A colossal silver dragon angrily lunged at the bow of a ship, but its bite missed. Its fangs grazed the empty hull, leaving a trail of refracted light that swayed in the sea breeze like shimmering, fragmented iridescent shadows cast by sunlight through glass.

He roared and flapped his wings, trying to attack again, but all he heard was the sound of air tearing apart; there was no resistance from anything. The feeling of biting at nothing drove him mad. He slammed his giant wings together, creating towering waves, but the next moment, he plunged headlong into the sea.

There was no way to pull him up; he charged too fast and was too big, especially when faced with that feeling of being thrown off balance.

His wings struggled and flapped in the seawater, the waves scattering into hundreds of silver streaks as he tried to reappear in the air.

Then he roared.

However, this time the roar contained no anger, only terror and pain. He was being attacked; something beneath the surface, cold and eerie, was attacking while simultaneously pulling him downwards with some twisted force. He struggled and thrashed about, but ultimately, he vanished beneath the surface, even his final roar swallowed by the water.

More dragons joined the battle, swooping down from different directions, filling the sky with enormous figures and trails of fire. Breaths, roars, and the crashing of waves mingled into a chaotic symphony.

However, no matter how they attacked, the warships remained unmoved. Flames pierced the decks, the towers, and the statue-like Durucci soldiers; each attack was like striking a thin mist, creating only false ripples.

That eerie silence was more chilling than any roar.

The dragon mages stopped chanting their spells and cried out in alarm; their breathing and heartbeats became erratic. All signs indicated that the fleet they had attacked was merely an illusion, nothing more than an illusion.

And they, these spellcasters known as dragon mages, with their second eye—eyes that could see the flow of magical winds—hadn't noticed it a moment before. They had been deceived, fooled, and toyed with, their anger turning into fear.

Then, their gazes all turned to the Brilliant Tower.

They knew the fleet was fake, but the Magnificent Tower was absolutely real. Its towering form, appearing and disappearing in the illusory light and shadow, was the only tangible object, the only anchor point.

Inside the Glorious Tower, the spellcasters who had finished their work either left through the portal opened by Asanok or leaped into the sea from the bottom floor before the dragons began their descent.

They had already planned the timing.

They've mastered the art of showing off and then running away, to an unparalleled degree.

“This is an illusion…” A mocking aria appeared in Imrek’s mind, which was not involved in the attack. The voice was so light that it was almost like a laugh coming from the wind.

The world was put on pause; even heartbeats stopped echoing in that moment, leaving only echoes—empty, long, and jarring.

Imrek was stunned, and the flames in his eyes began to crumble, peeling away layer by layer like dust blown away by the wind.

He realized he had been tricked; none of what he had imagined had happened.

Duruci knew he was coming long before he arrived and had prepared this scene for him, but he, like an idiot, walked straight into it and crashed into the trap of illusion.

The illusion persisted. The magical rituals of the Tower of Glory continued, the pulse of the runes had not ceased, and the phantom fleet still roamed the seas, seemingly a part of reality. The dragons, too, were either still attacking or attempting to rise higher and farther. Their roars gradually merged, echoing like a storm in the void.

He was stunned, completely stunned.

The chaotic feeling was like falling into the depths of a dream, only to find that there were dreams within dreams. Every reflection on the sea seemed to be laughing coldly at their stupidity and sluggishness.

"Run away, run away, get out of here, admit your defeat."

The voice appeared in Imrek's mind again. It wasn't loud, but it was like a nail driven into the depths of his soul. There was no anger or resentment in its tone, only a chilling gentleness, the kind of gentleness reserved for the contemptuous. As if that wasn't enough, the voice added, so softly it was almost touching his ear, "The offspring of Caledor."

Marekis called Dakos despicable, but wasn't he just as despicable?
The words "son of Caledo" were like a branding fire, instantly igniting every drop of blood within Imrek. This wasn't a title, but a provocation, a mockery tearing at the last shred of dignity in his heart.

His pupils contracted sharply, his face contorted in the light and shadow, like a statue shattered and forcibly pieced back together. He looked up at everything around him, at the churning clouds above Lortheon, the clouds swirling like a raging sea.

Was it the wrath of the heavens, or a reflection of his own heart? Or... a feast prepared for him by Trucchi?
He then looked at the city's defensive system, which resembled a gaping hole between two front teeth. That gaping hole seemed to be laughing, as if it were opening its mouth in mockery. It wasn't a defensive line; it was a mouth baring its fangs, laughing at his foolishness, laughing at his blindness.

He looked at the illusion, at the dragon corpse floating on the sea.

The dragon's corpse swayed gently with the rise and fall of the waves, its massive body bobbing in the blood-red water. With each rise and fall, the seawater became a deeper shade of red, like a flowing stain of shame.

That was Caledo's pride floating, his dignity rotting, his glory being battered and crushed by the waves again and again.

This scene further enraged Imrek, who was already in a frenzy. His breathing became rapid, his chest heaved, and even his armor vibrated. He wanted to roar, but no sound came out; he could only hear the pounding of his heart inside him—a cry from his heart, a struggle of pride.

But his reason still burned with a last glimmer, and he knew he had to make a choice—to continue the attack or to leave.

Leaving? Perhaps leaving is the best choice, the rational choice.

But...does he have a choice?

Can he escape?

Is he able to leave here?
Can he admit his failure?

Every question was like a hammer blow to his heart. Every word was like a burn mark, branding shame and resentment onto his soul.

He is the son of Caledo!

It was not just a bloodline, but a curse, a destiny from which he could never bow down. From birth, he was taught—the blood of Caledon must not recede, must not yield, must not bow in the flames!

Even if the flames were to consume him, he had to stand, even if he were reduced to ashes.

Moreover, the current situation has pushed him to the limit, to the brink of a precipice with countless eyes watching him from behind.

He can only move forward, not backward.

If he were to back down, he would no longer be Imrek, no longer a son of Caledor, but merely a loser manipulated by illusions. He could withdraw from the stage of history, but not in this way.

After a while, the illusion disappeared because it could not be sustained. The sea returned to its emptiness, and only a sliver of light remained, as if nothing had happened.

Imrek closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them, what burned in his eyes was no longer anger, but determination.

He wanted the world to know that Caledo's sons could be fooled, framed, and driven to their deaths—but they would never bow down!

The sound of the dragon horn rang out, shaking heaven and earth and tearing through the wind and waves.

That was a summons, a command to fight, an answer from the depths of his blood. (End of Chapter)