Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"hold onto!"

"I can not make it……"

“You are a dragon, a proud and noble dragon! You cannot fall here, this is not your home!” Harald Corona said in an encouraging tone, but his voice was filled with suppressed twisting and anger. His voice sounded hoarse in the wind and rain, as if he were tearing his own heart apart.

"But I really... can't... I... can't hold on any longer." The dragon's voice was low and intermittent, coming from deep within its chest, mixed with violent panting and the sound of blood churning.

Hearing the dragon's response, Harald said nothing more, but closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain. Rain continued to pelt the dragon's back and armor, trickling down its shoulder blades and gathering into thin streams between the seams.

Thunder rumbled, as if tolling a death knell for their fate.

As a master swordsman, he usually fought on foot. He could ride a horse, but only when traveling, as warhorses were unworthy of his noble status. He could also ride dragons, but his first attempt at this ended in this way…

Rain streaked his face, and the wind almost stifled his breath. He knew his companion was wounded; in a place he couldn't see, in his blind spot, an arrow had struck the dragon's belly.

He had just heard the metallic clanging sound, and the muffled thud of scales being torn apart—and not just once. He knew his companion couldn't hold on much longer; this wasn't something words could change. He wasn't a mage who could heal a dragon's wounds.

Just as I closed my eyes, the dragon’s enormous wings flapped, creating a gale that churned the rain into a mist.

"Must! Eliminate!" The dragon roared, then flapped its wings violently, trying to fly higher. The roar was as loud as thunder, filled with pain, rage, and a final act of defiance.

Haral opened his eyes, turning his head to try and find the dragon and the dragon prince, but he saw nothing but a curtain of rain. The wind howled, the clouds churned, and everything was swallowed up in the gray torrential rain.

Until the lightning flashed, he saw it, but the result was not what he wanted. It was too far away, too far to contact. In that instant, his heart felt like it was being torn apart, burning fiercely with pain, helplessness, and the feeling of having no way to use his strength.

Then he looked ahead, where there was a cliff. But he recognized where he was; he had seen it before, had been here before. He knew that the upper part of the cliff was the aristocratic district, the observation deck.

The dragon gradually rose higher, soaring towards the top of the cliff. Its wings, in the wind and rain, were like blades tearing through the air; when lightning struck, its scarred scales reflected a pale silver light.

"From now on... it's up to you... yourself."

The dragon spoke again, and as it spoke, its wings flapped even faster, as if it were using its last strength to clear a path for its knight to survive.

The observation deck, the one that Malekith used to overlook Lorthen before the war, has now changed beyond recognition. Due to its terrain and viewpoint, and its prominent position, four heavy ballistae have been deployed here. Fortifications have been built around it, including chevaux-de-frise, sandbags, and wooden stakes; this place has become a temporary firing position.

The ballistae fired incessantly, the deafening twang of the bowstrings mingling with the grinding of metal gears, like chains being torn apart in a storm. Soldiers took turns operating them; when the crossbows were fully drawn, a dull click echoed as the string locked.

The loaders carried crossbow bolts, rain streaming down their helmets, their eyes gleaming in the lightning. The enormous bolts, taller than them, gleaming black, were lifted by two men together, aimed at the chute, and carefully pushed into the track.

They held their breath, waiting for the sky to tear open once more. The instant the lightning struck, the flash illuminated their faces and the entire battlefield, allowing them to make out the outline of their target.

The outline was captured, but the soldiers were stunned.

They saw a head, a colossal head, emerge from the rain like a fallen mountain. Its mouth, so close they could almost touch, gaped open, and the churning red light within illuminated their armor; dragon breath was gathering.

"Adjust the gun depression angle! Adjust the gun depression angle!"

The centurion was the first to react, and he shouted hysterically.

However, he was still too slow, and the air seemed to boil over at that moment.

Without warning, without a chance to catch their breath, the dragon's throat swelled and bulged with high-frequency vibrations—a sign of impending destruction. The next second, crimson flames erupted, seemingly tearing the entire night sky apart. The dragon's breath roared as it swept towards the battlefield, and waves of fire rose in the rain, like an enraged serpent of light and heat, engulfing everything in its path.

The fortified barricades were instantly ignited, and the wooden stakes and sandbags all exploded. Rainwater evaporated into steam, and the air was filled with a pungent, acrid smell. The burning wood emitted a piercing crackling sound, the sound of flames tearing at the steam.

The soldiers had no time to react; the afterglow of lightning still flickered in their eyes when the flames engulfed them. The soldiers standing closest were thrown back by the shockwave, their waterproof tarpaulins ignited, and their black armor plates were scorched red-hot. Some screamed in agony, while others collapsed to the ground, trying to extinguish the flames with water, but the flames clung to them too tightly, like living things.

The ballista remained fully drawn, its string taut and twisted in the intense heat, emitting a groaning sound as metal was scorched. The wood of the crossbow crackled and splintered, and the scalding bolts hissed as they fell onto the stone bricks. Someone tried to restart the ballista but was crushed by the suddenly collapsing support; the massive crossbow arm broke in the fire, falling like the bones of a broken-winged beast.

The position was burning; the wet sand in the sandbags exploded due to the high temperature, sending steam billowing up, mixing with thick smoke and ash, almost engulfing the entire platform. The firelight flickered in the rain, illuminating the figures who were collapsing and writhing in agony.

A soldier's helmet gleamed from the flames. He struggled to remove it, but before his hand could even touch the metal, his skin was scorched black. He fell, along with his comrade beside him, becoming a burning shadow.

Harald saw all this from the dragon's back; the firelight reflected in his eyes like countless shattered suns. He could hear the screams disappearing in the flames, and see the outline of the position collapsing and twisting in the fire.

At this moment, the observation deck was no longer an observation deck, but a purgatory. The ballista positions were completely destroyed, and chevaux-de-frise, sandbags, soldiers, metal, blood, and stones mingled together in the sea of ​​fire.

The rain continued to fall, but even the heaviest downpour could not extinguish the raging flames. It ignited from the embers of the dragon's breath, spreading from the soldiers' armor, skin, and bones, slowly devouring their last remaining form.

However, the dragon that delivered this devastating blow did not fare well either. Not far from the observation deck was the mansion of the Kazorin family, and on the rooftop of the mansion was the Reaper Ballista position.

The dull thud of the bowstring ripped through the rhythm of the downpour, and the crossbow bolts tore through the air, flying out with a thunderous and deathly whistling sound.

With the commander's order, which was delivered with a ripping throat, the ballistae opened fire.

Haral instinctively dodged to the side, two crossbow bolts whizzing past him. But the dragon wasn't so lucky; its size was too enormous, too conspicuous, and too weak.

The arrowheads pierced through scales, shattered bones, and tore through flesh. One arrow pierced the left eye, the bursting blood and debris mixing into a blood mist; the second arrow pierced the top of the head, sparks and blood spurting out simultaneously; the third arrow grazed the jaw, tearing open the scales and ripping off half of the face.

However, he did not let out a painful cry.

He let out a low growl, a sound more like an indomitable breath. He continued to flap his wings stubbornly, even as the air was thick with the smell of blood and burnt flesh, even as his vision was obscured by rain and blood. He kept flying, persisting, rising higher and higher, climbing inch by inch toward the sky.

The rain lashed at Harald's face, burning like fire, making it almost impossible for him to open his eyes, yet he remained fixed on the distance. His face was streaked with tears in addition to the rain.

He knew that his partner could no longer hold on.

He could feel the dragon's back trembling violently; it was the dying instinct driving the last bit of strength in its muscles.

"Goodbye..." he murmured softly, his voice almost swallowed by the wind, carrying a broken calm.

Having said that, he practically sprinted forward, the dragon scales beneath his feet becoming slippery in the rain and blood, but he didn't fall. He was the strongest swordsman in Ulthuan, without a doubt! He used the momentum to jump down, the air whistling in his ears, his cloak being torn by the storm like a tattered flag. The moment he landed, he rolled, forcefully dissipating the impact.

The scalding steam hit his face, burning it, and he let out a painful growl, but he didn't stop.

The observation deck is located in the heart of Lorthern city.

He knew his time was running out; his body was reaching its limits, the enemy was closing in, and the city was burning—everything was pushing him to his limits.

"Then let me do it!" He raised his head, facing the wind and rain, his eyes flashing with madness and determination, and roared.

However, his partner persisted.

The dragon stretched out its forepaws and grabbed the edge of the observation deck, its massive claws leaving deep marks on the stone slabs. With this support, it leaped up as if in a final burst of energy, using the momentum of its body and its willpower in its pain to climb onto the observation deck.

Harald had drawn his sword of victory, energy pulsating along its blade, reflecting his rain- and tear-streaked face. He cleaved the Duruchi soldier who had tried to attack him in two at the waist, blood spraying into the rain and flowing in crimson streams. As he prepared for his next strike, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of his comrade running toward the ballista positions.

At that moment, time seemed to slow down.

Each step the dragon took seemed to tear the earth apart, flames flickering from its wounds, heat surging from its body. When it opened its mouth, dragon breath erupted once more. Flames surged like a tide, illuminating the night sky, and even spewed from the wounds on its head, overflowing from its ruptured eye sockets and cracked skull, making it resemble a burning statue.

The ballista positions near the edge of the rooftop were completely swallowed up.

The ballistae melted in the intense heat, their arms glowed red-hot, and their frames were twisted into charred remains. Sandbags billowed thick steam. The soldiers' screams were drowned out by the roar, their figures swaying in the firelight, collapsing like burning shadows.

The dragon continued its charge, showing no sign of slowing down, even though its body was already torn to pieces.

In Harald's view, the massive figure crashed into the mansion.

Roar, shattering, collapsing.

That was the dragon's final roar, its final flight, its final proof.

Having delivered this final blow, the dragon could no longer hold on. Its head slowly drooped, and its body collapsed with a crash. Rain fell on its corpse, hissing and steaming, as if the last embers of its life were dissipating.

More tears streamed down Harald's face, but he had no time to wipe them away, no time to mourn. The enemy was closing in, their iron boots clattering, their sharp shouts exploding in the firelight. He turned, raised his sword, anger and grief mingling in his burning eyes.

At this moment, he was no longer a sword master, nor a dragon prince; he was the last warrior in the flames!

The moment the halberd swept across, Haral appeared beside Kledan.

Kledan was shocked. The enemy was too fast, so fast that he had no time to react; even his instinctive reflexes were frozen by a dulled fear. And indeed, the enemy's weapon tore through his armor and ruptured his heart.

That power was clean, precise, and cruel. The sound of shattering metal mingled with the rain, like the breaking of fate. As the force of the halberd dissipated, he fell to the ground, filled with resentment and disbelief. His armor scraped against the stone slabs with a harsh sound, and blood flowed through the cracks, mixing with the puddles.

Haral, having completed the attack, did not stop, nor did he look at Kledan.

The Victory Sword he wielded was a creation of the Great Invasion Era, the family sword and heirloom of the Suncrown Clan. Its craftsmanship was superb, its blade as sharp as frost, its gemstone inlays exquisitely beautiful, and each swing reflected a cold, gleaming light. In his hands, it allowed for preemptive strikes and precise accuracy. Its blade was incomparably sharp, capable of piercing even magical armor, while ordinary standard armor was easily torn apart like paper.

The whistling sound of the sword, like the roar of a storm or some ancient lament, seemed to be an accompaniment to all this slaughter.

He himself was exceptionally handsome, with long, soaking golden hair that clung to his face, and his eyes gleamed with an almost sickly determination. He wore silver scale armor made from Yseramar scales, the scales reflecting a blinding, cold light in the flashes of lightning.

In battle, he was a formidable opponent, his speed and precision almost surpassing that of elves. Often, his enemies were killed before they could even draw their weapons, without even having time to process the thought of death.

However, despite his immense power, his character was flawed by the sin of arrogance. He firmly believed himself to be invincible and considered the sons of Caledon to be supreme beings far superior to the other Asur.

But at this moment, he felt no elation, no arrogant smile of a victor; only anger. It was an anger that surged from the depths of his chest, an anger that almost tore his reason apart. Blood churned beneath his feet, and raindrops struck the blade, bursting into tiny sparks.

Without the interference from ranged attacks, his martial arts skills were fully displayed.

He raised his sword to parry, and sparks flew as they clashed. He not only blocked the snake-man's slash, but also cut the snake-man's Messer sword in half, the sound of the breaking being like a howl tearing through the air.

The snake-man straightened up, its body twisting and turning in the process, attempting to unleash a storm of blades, using its height and the remaining three Messer blades to repel the enemy. However, the enemy was too fast; before it could even spin, its snake body was severed, and blood spurted out like a fountain, mingling with the rain to form a dark red stream.

Then, Harald swung his sword in a backhand strike, a strike of unparalleled ferocity that first severed the spiked club, then the blade grazed the soldier's throat guard, severing his throat and artery. Blood gushed from the severed wound like a burst of released steam. The soldier's body remained in an attacking posture due to inertia, before collapsing to the ground the next moment.

After delivering that blow, he turned again and plunged his sword into the head of the snake-man struggling on the ground. The snake-man's body convulsed the moment the sword pierced through, then relaxed completely, and the light in its eyes dimmed in an instant.

The observation deck was still burning, black smoke swirling in the air with the rain and mist, and the inextinguishable flames engulfing the ruins. The dragon's corpse lay to one side, its scales charred and radiating a scorching heat. Broken crossbow arms, charred ropes, and molten arrowheads were scattered all over the ground.

In the rain, Harald's silhouette resembled a vengeful god, lonely, proud, cold, and tragic.

Despite the enemy's exceptional strength, the remaining Duruci soldiers did not panic or flee. They were well-trained soldiers who maintained order and formation.

Their mission was to hold the line. As long as they lived, the line would remain even if the ballistae were destroyed. Even if the centurion died from dragon breath, even if Kledan was instantly killed.

"Shrink the array!"

The voice came through the rain, low, cold, like a knife cutting through the air; it was the deputy centurion who had just narrowly escaped death.

Footsteps echoed in unison, pounding on rubble and corpses, their rhythm chillingly precise. Shields were raised, spears held high, each step imbued with restrained power, each turn precise and accurate.

At this moment, the entire observation deck seemed to have become a giant trap, with all the spearheads pointing at the single target—Haral.

Lightning once again tore through the sky, illuminating his solitary figure.

Harald did not retreat; instead, he leaned forward slightly, his steps as steady as a rock. His blond hair clung to his cheeks, and his eyes burned with a cold light. The wind blew the tattered fabric of his cloak, like a battle flag fluttering amidst blood and fire.

“The son of Caledo… will not fall before the darkness!” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the wind and rain, but the resolute tone was chilling.

The Durucis did not attack; they played it safe, they waited, they stalled, they waited for Harald to inhale more water vapor.

But this didn't stop Harald from launching the first attack; besides his sword of victory, he also had a secondary sword. A hail of spears rained down, gleaming with the cold light of metal, like countless venomous snakes pouncing simultaneously.

He raised his sword and slashed horizontally, creating a clean, almost artistic arc of light.

Sword and spear clashed, sparks flew, and his figure blurred into afterimages. His secondary sword parried the spear's thrust, and then the sword of victory swept across once more, shields shattered, formations crumbled, and he weaved through the ranks. One-handed weapons were severed in an instant, followed by a mist of blood from slit throats. The gloomy swordsmen fell silently and in unison, like ears of wheat broken by the wind.

The deputy centurion roared the order, and the soldiers immediately adjusted their formation, advancing with spears and swords and shields in alternating waves, surrounding the enemy like a tide.

Harald was caught in the throes, like a lone peak being battered by waves. His sword movements grew faster and faster, the sword and the wind becoming one, each strike signifying the loss of a life. The blade slashed throats, severed arms, pierced chests—each movement ruthless and merciless.

He moved through the blood mist like an avenger born from flames. Even with a bullet in his shoulder, he could still turn around and slash back, splitting his enemy in two, head and helmet intact.

The ground of the observation deck was already soaked with blood, and rainwater washed over the bodies of the dead. Severed limbs, broken shields, and snapped gun barrels were piled up into small mounds.

Duruci's soldiers continued their attack, unyielding, fighting madness with discipline, and legend with numbers. But they faced a true master swordsman, a master swordsman who ranked among the best in elven society!

"Keep pushing!" the deputy centurion ordered again, his voice carrying the cruel rationality characteristic of Duruci. "Waste him! He'll bleed too, he'll die too!"

After saying that, he beckoned to the snake-men, instructing them to flank and launch an attack.

The remaining snake-man obeyed the command, hissing as its scales rubbed against its armor. It bypassed the broken ballista support and approached along the flank. The Messer blade gleamed in the rain, its curved surface reflecting the flames and the shadows of corpses.

Harald stood amidst the pile of corpses and the flickering flames, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but he did not retreat, nor did he have anywhere to retreat. Beneath his feet lay a thick layer of mud mixed with blood and rain, so heavy it seemed to swallow him whole. The wind whipped his cloak into a fluttering roar, blurring the world before him; all that remained were his enemies and his sword.

The serpent-man charged forward first, its movements swift and fluid, its curved blades slashing down with a force heavy enough to cleave a stone pillar. Harald whirled around, his sword of victory trailing a silver arc of light, accompanied by a thunderous hiss. The first Messer shattered, the second was deflected, the third plunged into the serpent-man's throat, and before the fourth could fall, the serpent-man, along with half its body, was torn apart, the blood spraying out like a crimson mist, washed away by the rain.

At that moment, Duruci's attack arrived. They formed a semi-circular formation, their gun tips aimed at Harald's chest. The guns fired simultaneously, with a speed and precision as if controlled by a single hand.

Harald let out a low growl and charged forward, his sword of victory slicing through the forest of spears. Spears snapped, splinters of wood and flesh flew everywhere, and he used the momentum to leap up, his sword flashing as he brought it down, cleaving the deputy centurion and two soldiers behind him in two.

Blood gushed out, and the stone slab beneath Harald's feet shattered the moment he hit the ground. He knelt, panting, his entire body covered in blood, which was warm but was quickly washed away by the cold rain.

The remaining Duruci did not retreat; they maintained that deathly silence of order.

On the observation deck, it seemed as if two wills were in conflict: the order of life and the will of death.

Harald rose again, his body torn apart by the burning pain, but his will still burned. He took a step, blood seeping from his wounds, then another, and the blade was raised once more.

The remaining Duruci charged forward, shields and swords, spears and blades, blood and fire intertwining to create the final purgatory.

There was no retreat, no begging for mercy, only a frenzied tearing and slaughter of each other.

Harald's movements became mechanical, yet still precise. With each strike, someone fell; with each breath, a muffled thud of death followed.

He had lost track of time, knowing only that the battle continued. The wind howled, the fire burned, and the rain pattered against his armor. The sounds seemed to be prayers for the dead, or witnesses to the final struggle.

When the last Duruch soldier fell, the observation deck fell completely silent. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coals and blood, and the firelight reflected off Harald's sword, gleaming with a cold, sharp light.

Is Trucchi weak?
Not weak at all!

Instead of panicking and fleeing after being attacked by the dragon, they chose to regroup, regroup, and hold their ground. Facing a powerful enemy, they gritted their teeth and coldly charged forward, even if death lay ahead!

The centurion died from the dragon's breath, his bones swallowed by the flames; Kledan was killed instantly, without even a chance to react.

Even so, they fought to the very last moment. Even though the enemy was someone they could not defeat, they persisted, fulfilling their vow to fight to the end with every breath, every swing, and every drop of blood, trying to inflict even the slightest harm on the enemy.

But there's nothing we can do, that's just how it is, we really can't win!
In the world of cultivation, they were soldiers of a dynasty, beings forged into iron on the battlefield, but they were merely soldiers of a dynasty. Kredan, assigned to the hundred-man squad, was a Qi Refining stage cultivator.

Unfortunately, there are also differences among cultivators.

A being of Haral's caliber, empowered by both sturdy armor and a magical sword, seemed poised to break through the shackles of Qi Refining.

This is simply not an enemy they can handle.

All they could do was fight. They had to find opportunities in the fighting, and carve out a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. They had to compensate for their lack of strength with sheer numbers, discipline, and that ruthless rationality unique to Duruci.

But the difference in power was like an insurmountable chasm.

Above the Qi Refining stage, there are even more terrifying existences. They are either beings whose 'numerical' attributes—strength, speed, and defense—surpass all those in the mortal realm; or beings whose 'mechanics'—a kind of crushing power that is almost at the level of rules, rendering your skills and courage meaningless.

The rain continued to fall, as if trying to wash away the traces of the massacre, but it could not dispel the boiling murderous aura. The wind blew, lifting the tattered corners of Harald's cloak, like some kind of silent war song.

He stood in the middle of the sea of ​​corpses, his hands gripping his sword, trembling slightly. His armor was riddled with cracks, and blood trickled from between his fingers, mingling with the rain, dripping down the blade and splashing onto the broken stone slabs beneath his feet.

The sound was faint, yet it echoed on the deathly silent stage, as if counting time, or like a heartbeat.

He slowly raised his head and looked around.

A new enemy has appeared. (End of Chapter)