Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Rahil's voice was so hoarse it was almost torn apart by the wind, echoing in the raging air currents like the wail of a falling man. His body was swept up by the wind, rising and falling violently with the dragon's tremors. He cried and sobbed like a child in desperation, flailing his arms and legs incessantly—a utter, almost desperate, instinctive struggle.

In his mind, Ignimus was the ultimate killing move, the kind of thing that could completely rewrite the course of a battle. As long as the dragon's breath swept across the city walls, as long as that burst of flame landed, that section of the defense would be burned to ashes.

In that way, they could get a moment's respite, and the dragons could regain their maneuverability, have time to regroup, adjust their posture, and regroup under the cover of the city walls.

In that way, the Dragon Prince and the Dragon Mages could discuss countermeasures during the brief intervals. They would no longer be in such a chaotic state, being tricked by Duruqi and manipulated by illusions and traps, fluttering around in the sky like blind men.

In fact, it does.

Everything proceeded according to its expected trajectory; flames brewed in the throat, energy flowed between the scales, and the air distorted by the impending explosion of heat.

Just as the dragon's breath was about to appear, Ignimus changed his flight path. He didn't roar or hesitate; he simply turned his head with an elegant, almost cold, demeanor and withdrew from the battlefield.

Ignimus ignored Rahil's hysteria; he simply flew, soaring into the distance. His wings sliced ​​through the air, each flap sending the heavens trembling. Under the watchful eyes of the Akregons, the Vorax, and countless Durochs and Dragonborn, he flew ever further.

There was no turning back, no roaring.

He broke away from the battle, becoming the first fire dragon to leave this land of death.

During this process, another Sun Dragon attempting a dive was shot down by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the vast ocean. She was also the last dragon to attempt to attack the city walls.

The sky fell silent for a moment after Ignimus, as if even the war had lost its rhythm with his departure. Lightning flashed through the clouds, the wind wept, its cries mingling with the sounds of explosions, shrieks, and crashes, and everything became blurred in that instant.

Rahil's voice finally became so hoarse that all that could be left was breathing.

"Do you still remember our agreement?"

After a long time, long enough that Rahil, who had completely collapsed, stopped shouting and slumped on his dragon throne, Ignimus finally spoke slowly.

The voice was low and weary, like the residual heat of cooling lava, carrying a sorrow that transcended life and death, yet also a strange—omen of rebirth. The voice wasn't just speaking to Rahil, but more like a whisper to himself, as if confirming some predetermined ending.

“I remember,” Rahil said weakly, his voice almost swallowed by the wind, like a wisp of ash licked by a flame. “So… it’s over, it’s all over, isn’t it?”

After he finished speaking, he felt as if all his bones had been removed, and the wind swayed him as it blew him around.

Ignimus did not respond; he merely let out a low, almost sighing breath. Then, the enormous figure circled in the sky, turned in another direction, and flew toward the Brilliant Tower.

The wind howled like thunder, the sea churned in his shadow, and the distant spire, like a spear pointing to the sky, silently awaited him—this rebellious dragon.

Rahil showed no reaction to Ignimus's actions; he felt no anger, only emptiness and exhaustion. He did not believe his former comrade would return to the battlefield.

Yes, in the past...

The moment Ignimus proposed the "agreement," he knew that his relationship with Ignimus was completely over.

"What's the reason?"

When Ignimus landed at the top of the Brilliant Tower, he asked, his tone filled with inquiry and curiosity, but also with the emptiness and hesitation that only those who have experienced hardship and suffering possess.

The wind howled atop the tower, and the echoes of the waves rolled high above, crashing against the rock walls. The air was thick with the smell of salt and sulfur—a blend of fire and sea, the breath of a dragon, and the sigh of a bygone era.

“You just saw those dragons fighting on the city walls…” Ignimus lowered his head, the firelight reflecting in his dim dragon eyes. As he spoke, his voice suddenly choked; he didn’t know what words to use to define those wingless offspring who could only walk on the ground.

“I saw it,” Rahil answered softly, his voice hollow as if shrouded in a thick fog.

"Some of them are my sons!"

“No wonder,” Rahil said, letting out a long sigh.

That breath was like the last exhale at the end of life, heavy, desperate, yet carrying a sense of relief at letting go of everything. After that breath was exhaled, he completely withered, becoming listless and dispirited, like a candle that had burned out, with only a faint glow flickering.

The dragon incubator was discovered by Darkus and the lizardmen in the ruins after the Battle of Conquata. At the time, there were only stone slabs, no physical objects, no explanation of the principles behind them, only conjecture.

However, this did not prevent Dakotas from making a decision.

He had always harbored a deep aversion to black dragons, viewing them as symbols of chaos, untamable creatures, products of twisted bloodlines and shadows—this was why he had never ridden one in battle. He wanted to forge a different path, a pure and controllable one. The appearance of the dragon breeding device was like fate placing a pillow before him, just when he most longed to dream.

But things took a different turn after he arrived in Elsin Alfvén... but the outcome was good.

Rahil had a secret, an unspeakable secret, a secret known only to him, a secret even his lieutenant Havar didn't know.

It is precisely because of this secret that his relationship with the other dragon princes has always been delicate, both respected and isolated.

He possessed a second vision, yet he couldn't control the tidal wave of energy, and his spellcasting skills were far inferior to those of a dragon mage. In the Kingdom of Caledor, the Dragon Prince and the Dragon Mages were the two pillars, the two wings of the kingdom. And he, Rahil Morven, belonged to the Dragon Prince's side.

When news of his partnership with Ignimus spread throughout the kingdom of Caledor, the entire land was shaken.

The dragon princes were thrilled and flocked to visit him, eager to learn the secret to awakening the dragons. Those nights, his manor was always brightly lit, and guests came in droves, offering wealth, armaments, and vows, all for a single word of truth.

They believed Rahil had mastered some skill, that he knew some language that could rekindle the dragon's heart. They wanted to emulate him and escape their fate of fighting on horseback.

But what should he say?
He couldn't say; he simply didn't know!

Was he going to tell them that when Ignimus awoke, he was just an outsider who had stumbled into the lair? Was he going to admit that it wasn't a summons, but a coincidence?

Is it a die thrown randomly by fate?

He got incredibly lucky, that's all.

That is indeed the truth.

At that time, Darkus entrusted the task of studying the dragon eggs to Master Ma. Before the appearance of the dragon incubator, a batch of dragon eggs transported from Nagaros were secretly sent to the continent of Lustria. Master Ma began to study and measure them, attempting to recreate the life process of the ancient dragons.

During the research, the sleeping Ignimus suddenly awoke. The resonance of his bloodline made him feel a calling, a call from his descendants, a creative aura that defied nature.

He awoke between rage and fear, flames scorching the air and turning the entire mountain crimson.

At that moment, Rahil happened to appear near his lair.

And so... the threads of fate intertwined at that moment.

A lost elf and an awakened ancient dragon, amidst firelight and roars, saw the reflection of their destinies in each other. (Those interested can refer back to chapter 514, "General Kaledo").
Initially, Ignimus thought that these so-called offspring were nothing more than distorted imitations, creations of Duruchi, and a disgrace to the dignity of the dragon race. He believed they would be like the black dragon, with wild, brutal, and cursed power.

But as time passed, and as he finally saw his offspring, he no longer believed that, even though they were not conceived naturally, but rather created.

All of this should have enraged him, but he couldn't muster any hatred. The texture of the scales, the firelight reflected in the eyes, even that longing for the sky—all of it was familiar to him.

He saw health and freedom in them. He could feel their emotions: fear, doubt, anger, stubbornness, courage—real souls burning, not illusions of creation.

At that moment, Ignimus realized that he was witnessing not only the birth of a descendant, but the awakening of a civilization, the emergence of a new form of life. What he saw was no longer a continuation of the past, but a brand new path, a path no longer bound by fate.

At this moment, the battle on the distant city walls was still ongoing. But there were no longer any giant dragons diving down on the walls. Those behemoths that were once regarded as gods had all been suppressed and dispersed, forced to fly to higher skies, or hover and struggle above the city and the lagoon.

Duruci held firm on the city walls; their lines were like shadows cast on stone, cold, solid, and layered.

Higher in the sky, lightning began to appear.

That was not natural lightning, but light that carried patterns, malice, and a structured magic.

Arcs of electricity tore through the clouds, and thunder echoed across the sky, as if an unseen hand was weaving a trap behind the clouds, forcing the dragon, which had been forced to fly higher into the sky, to descend again.

Rahil knew it was over, all over, utterly over.

To outsiders, this scene might have seemed spectacular and awe-inspiring, a calamity and glory worthy of a bard's song. But as the commander, he clearly understood what it meant: it meant defeat was inevitable, it meant the entire battle had slid into an irreversible abyss.

From the moment the illusion began, Caledo had already fallen into Duruci's trap.

That was the first trap, and everything after that went completely wrong, utterly out of control, like a headless fly spinning around aimlessly.

Once the dragons engage the ground forces, even if Imrek gains a significant advantage during the battle, it's all in vain. Within the framework of the hammer-anvil tactic, this situation means they're already bogged down.

Unable to escape, unable to regroup, and unable to utilize their absolute air superiority, the noble dragon horde became targets fixed in the air, surrounded and sealed off by layers of firepower.

He knew that this strange celestial phenomenon was created by Duruqi, and that beneath those rolling, churning clouds, there must be some kind of ultimate weapon, some terrifying power capable of changing the course of the war.

This is the most standard hammer-anvil tactic imaginable, only the space and dimensions have changed. It's no longer a traditional ground encirclement, but has become three-dimensional and multi-dimensional. The force on the ground becomes the anvil; while the force in the air becomes the hammer.

When the hammer and anvil come together, whether it is a dragon or a human, they all have only one fate: to be crushed!

At that very moment, a bolt of lightning exploded in the sky, the dazzling white light piercing through the gloom. Rahil seemed to catch something in the corner of his eye—a detail, a discordant trace.

He instinctively turned his head and looked towards the mountains to the east of Lorthorn.

The next second, he let out a silent laugh. It wasn't a joyful laugh, but a bitter laugh born of utter despair, of the collapse of all meaning.

He saw the sign that read "Dragon Attack," and the signal pole indicating the direction of the dragon's approach. The signs swayed slightly in the wind, as if mocking his foolishness.

It turned out that Duruci had known they would come all along. Before their arrival, he had made meticulous preparations and laid a trap—a trap with every step carefully calculated, even their breathing. They let the dragons crawl in step by step, like a hunter setting an iron cage, without even needing to prepare elaborate bait.

And those idiots—yes, those self-proclaimed noble dragon princes and mages—just walked right in.

"What are you planning to do next? Talk to them?" Rahil asked after a moment. His voice was low and dry, carrying a weariness ravaged by war. The wind swept across his cheek, taking away the last vestiges of his expression.

“Yes, if I could, I would like to join. You know, I am very old, and I should know some of these beings, if they are still alive. What about you?” Ignimus responded slowly, his words broken as he spoke, recalling as he went.

“Me? I’m tired,” Rahil sighed. “I don’t want to fight for the Kingdom of Caledor anymore, I don’t want to fight for Imrek anymore. I am who I am, not my father. I have failed my mother’s expectations, I have failed my name. I really can’t do it anymore, I’m really tired.” His voice suddenly became distant, as if he were speaking to the air, or saying goodbye to himself. “And… I don’t think Imrek will survive this day!”

He really didn't want to face that group of idiots anymore.

To him, Imrek, the Dragon Prince, and the Dragon Mages were no different from idiots. Not individual stupidity, but collective blindness, a collective madness blinded by the illusions of tradition, pride, and bloodline.

They have eyes, yet they cannot see. They have wisdom, yet they refuse to think.

His soberness made him stand out from the group, like an abrupt alien, a mortal who remained clear-headed in mythology, a general cursed by reason.

A bunch of arrogant fools, a bunch of self-conscious idiots, a bunch of stupid fools who couldn't be more stupid.

Dealing with these idiots any longer would drive him mad. A tooth-grinding rage was practically rising from his throat; he wanted to die, he wanted to smash his head against a wall, he wanted to kill them all, leaving no one alive.

Putting aside emotions, this is indeed the truth.

Ignimus's actions put him in a completely passive position, and whether he wins or loses, there will be no good outcome.

How will he explain this when these defeated soldiers return?
Besides, is an explanation even useful?
Those fools would only seize upon his every word and action, misinterpreting, exploiting, and shifting blame. He understood that he was the perfect scapegoat. Only in this way could those idiots appear less foolish and avoid admitting that they had personally caused the disaster.

He didn't think he could tolerate the accusations and insults from this group of idiots any longer. Their condescending accusations, illogical commands, and pretentious anger were enough to drive any rational being insane.

When we return victorious... No, that's simply impossible.

The defeat in this battle was inevitable, it was destined!
After Imrek awakened the dragons, he proposed launching a surprise attack on Anaheim and Nagaroth. This would disrupt Duroch's logistics and allow them to observe Duroch's tactics in battle, thereby identifying weaknesses in the dragonfighting system and strengthening their formations and combat strategies.

But Imrek denied it, explaining that he could understand it for political reasons.

Next, he proposed another plan: first, identify any spies that might be active inside; and before identifying the spies, do not rush into battle, but instead conduct systematic training.

He wrote a plan for this, which was so detailed as to be almost demanding.

He suggested that the dragon princes who were not chosen should also ride on the dragon's back to play a support role in battle, and could land on the ground, climb the city walls, or assist the dragon in battle when necessary; to forge armor for the dragon to protect its vulnerable belly; to optimize attack routes, accurately calculate the order of entry, and establish a formation cover and coordinated combat system.

He stayed up for three whole nights working on this plan, but all he got in return was ridicule and disdain.

To those idiots, everything he did was superfluous, cowardly, and laughable. Those idiots firmly believed that once the dragon appeared, once its shadow enveloped the battlefield, there would be only one outcome—annihilation!
Unrivaled and invincible, sweeping away all obstacles!
The results of it?
Duluth treated him like a fool, making him run around in circles.

He truly no longer had the courage to face this group of idiots; it was a weariness that came from the very marrow of his bones, like a raging fire burning away his heart, leaving only dry ashes.

"Do you want to know what's inside the dragonflight? Why am I there, and not in the Dragonspine Mountains?" Ignimus neither mocked nor denied; his tone was calm, like throwing a pebble at the edge of an abyss, carrying a hint of inexplicable probing.

"I'm curious, but not now."

"I'm sorry, my actions have put you in a passive position."

"What's done is done, isn't it? We need to think about what's next."

"So?" Ignimus raised his head slightly, flames flickering deep within his pupils.

"Can I go back first? You know..."

"Yes!" Ignims agreed immediately before Rahil could finish speaking. There was no hesitation, no questioning.

His actions were personal and driven by emotion; he wanted to take care of Rahil before taking any further action.

Rahil was different from him. Rahil was a lord, a man burdened with family and land, not just a warrior.

Then he spread his wings and leaped from the Tower of Glory, the wind and flames tearing long trails behind him. He flapped his wings, cutting through the sky, and flew towards the Kingdom of Caledon.

Meanwhile, the battle continued in the distance.

As the battle on the city walls gradually subsided, and as dazzling bolts of lightning tore through the sky, the dragon formation's space for maneuver was further compressed. They could no longer roam freely on the battlefield, and could only hover above the lagoon and the city.

In comparison, the airspace above the lagoon appears slightly safer.

There were no ships, no ballistae, not even the facilities on the docks in the lagoon. It was empty and vast, almost eerily so, with only a few small islands shrouded in mist floating forlornly on the water, like fragments of a broken dream. The mist was not naturally formed, but a product of magic; it appeared and disappeared in the light, as if it were breathing consciously.

Even so, the dragons that were still able to fight did not all rush towards the lagoon. Instead, they dispersed and swooped down towards the edge of the city, eliminating the long-range firepower deployed on the ground.

The dragons needed to vent their anger; their rage had been suppressed for far too long. Moreover, spreading out would not only release their pent-up fury but also effectively evade the twisting cannon's attacks.

At that moment, the entire sky of Lorthorn seemed to be shrouded in an invisible giant net. Lightning flashed and leaped among the dark clouds, while twisting artillery fire from the eastern mountains intertwined within, weaving this net so tightly that it was impenetrable. It felt as if the sky itself had been locked up, and even the air was scorching hot.

Crossbow bolts can cause friendly fire.

After their potential and kinetic energy dissipates, they are pulled down by gravity, like a sudden shower of metal. Each falling bolt can pierce armor and flesh, like rain-making projectiles falling to the ground, hitting someone...

However, there is also a probability factor involved. Unless you are extremely unlucky, the chance of being hit by a crossbow bolt falling from the sky is not high.

But the Twisted Cannon is completely different.

The Twisted Cannon is a wide-area weapon that inflicts friendly fire. Its kill zone is extremely wide, so its firing arc must be fixed within a certain safe range. Otherwise, if even one shot deviates from its trajectory and accidentally enters friendly territory, the consequences would be unimaginable.

After the battle is over, there will be an explanation; see you in a military court.

So, once the dragons were out of the city wall area, the twisted cannons located in the mountain immediately began firing horizontally, the energy drawing out thin cracks in the air. The dragons were forced to descend, their movements restricted, and they lost their air superiority, becoming firmly tied down by ground fire. This was exactly what Duruchi wanted; it was the situation they desired.

Just then, a deafening roar tore through the air.

The sound emanated from the mist of the lagoon, carrying the scent of blood and fury. Immediately afterward, a silver moon dragon emerged sideways from the mist, its blood dripping and staining the lake below crimson.

Finally, the silver moon dragon struggled violently in the air for a few moments before losing its balance completely. With a mournful cry that tore through the air, it crashed heavily into the lagoon.

Due to the water level, he wasn't completely submerged. His massive body floated halfway above the waterline, like a floating metal statue. White mist and the stench of blood filled the lake, along with the smell of burning.

But he was dead beyond dead, showing no sign of struggle whatsoever. His body was riddled with crossbow bolts, the arrows like nails embedded in his scales, reflecting a cruel light.

Besides him, the rider on his back, Lamelain, also died.

Its death was gruesome; its head was missing, its armor was shattered, and blood flowed down its back, mixing with the blood in the lagoon.

Imrek's close friend, the dragon mage Ramelaan, died just like that, in Lorthen.

Then, more roars echoed through the mist, like a mournful chorus.

In the lagoon, besides the scattered islands, there is also a palace—the Caladrell Palace.

The palace architecture was ancient and solemn, magnificent and imposing, like a dazzling jewel set in the lagoon, impossible to miss. But at this moment, it was shrouded in magical mist. (Introduced in Chapter 739)

As time passed and the era changed, the Vinnoor family, which once produced the Phoenix King, had long since declined.

Now only the Asanok family remains, but according to the "law of nobility," the ownership of this palace still belongs to the Wennault family. This is tradition, this is law, and this is symbolism.

During a casual conversation, Dakous asked Asanock if he was willing to fund the settlement of previous maintenance fees before officially transferring the Caladrell Palace back to Asanock's name, thus restoring it to the Vinnior family.

After Caladrell's death, the palace's repair and maintenance were funded and managed by the city of Lorthern. It was a complicated but essential expense, requiring officials to sign off on it, accountants to process it, and records to be filed.

This money needs to be settled.

The necessary procedures had to be followed. Dakota could have resolved everything with a single word, a single order, or a wave of his hand, but he didn't. He didn't want to; he didn't want to break the rules that had been painstakingly established.

However, Asanok declined, simply saying, "Thank you, but it's really not necessary."

Dakos understood; he understood Asanok's meaning better than anyone else.

This is not about money at all.

At their level and status, money is no longer important. What truly matters is belonging and anchoring, the fulcrum of the soul. This is why he chose to return to Nagalusa after his first journey to Lustria.

Asanok's anchor point is not here, not in this magnificent palace known as the "Crown of the Lagoon." His roots are in the Kingdom of Iris, in that family estate hidden in the mountains, the last tender corner of his memory, where he grew up.

The Caladrell Palace belonged to the old era, to his cousin, to a glory that had long since faded away.

Thus, the fate of the imperial palace was sealed.

It no longer belongs to any family, but to the city of Lorthern, and has been designated a museum, becoming a tourist attraction for people to remember and visit, and a symbol of the past.

However, now is not the time. We are still at war, and the day when it will be officially designated as a museum will have to wait until after the war ends.

If that day really comes...

Therefore, the Caladrell Palace was temporarily requisitioned by the Stormweavers Order and became the core of this battle. (End of Chapter)