Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The new enemy came from the manor of the Kadjohn family. Like the hundred men guarding the observation deck, they were torn apart, burned, and shattered by the dragon's attack, but some survivors stubbornly survived.

The centurion glanced silently at Kledan, then turned to look at the remaining combatants. Rainwater slid down the visor of his helmet, reflecting his suppressed resentment.

Including him and Kredan, the team now has only fifty-six people left, some of whom are armed.

Although it's called a 100-man squad, a standard infantry 100-man squad in the army actually consists of about 150 men. It includes ten squads of infantry, one squad of Reaper Ballistae (more than 30 men), and one squad of logistics, plus twelve decanters, a centurion and deputy centurion, Credan, and three standard bearers, etc. This is what makes a complete Duruch 100-man squad.

In other words, in that devastating attack, the 100-man team lost two-thirds of its members.

The deputy centurion died from dragon's breath, one of the three standard-bearers survived, six of the twelve captains survived, and of the remaining soldiers, two were logistics squads and one was a reserve squad in the courtyard. The rest of the soldiers were a patchwork of remnants from various squads.

In addition, there were five snake-men who had been waiting in the courtyard. Their scales were stained gray by the smoke, but their eyes remained sharp, and their tongues flicked incessantly.

Do they have combat capabilities?
Have!
The command structure remains, and the battle flag remains. As long as the battle flag stands, this unit still exists.

The soldiers in the logistics squad were regular soldiers, not some temporary conscripts or laborers. They were trained and knew how to form ranks, how to cover for the fallen, and how to continue advancing where the dead had fallen.

As time went by and the default rules became more prevalent, the soldiers in the logistics squad were almost all veterans.

As is well known, in Trucchi's military system, soldiers were expected to do the work. Whether it was preparing for a march or setting up camp afterward, everyone had a task and a responsibility. In emergencies, even officers like centurions had to join in, pulling, carrying, and moving things. The only exceptions were the standard-bearers and the logistics squads.

Flag bearers are veterans among veterans; their presence symbolizes honor and serves as a testament to the service. More importantly than being veterans themselves, flag bearers enjoy exemptions; they are among the very few in the military who are exempt from manual labor.

The logistics team is responsible for providing hot food, water, and supplies. Only when the emergency becomes extremely urgent will they abandon their cooking duties, pick up weapons, and join the work.

When it comes to carrying out the project, that's another story.

but now……

This hundred-man squad's previous mission was to guard the mansion and ensure the proper functioning of the defenses on the top floor. But now, due to the dragon's impact and the complete destruction of the main structure, the defenses have been destroyed.

Their mission changed from defending the position to digging out comrades buried under the rubble and rescuing those who were still alive.

However, the fierce battle at the observation deck put them on the defensive.

The enemy was exceptionally powerful, so powerful that it instilled despair; and they were so close, almost within breath of them. When the chaos subsided, and the remaining soldiers had barely regrouped, the battle at the observation deck was over.

The hundred-man team guarding the observation deck was completely wiped out.

It's so dead it couldn't be deader; even the framework is gone.

After glancing at his remaining men, the centurion looked at Kledan again. He had a strange feeling, a feeling that made his blood almost burst from his skin, that all the blood in his body was rushing to his head, and the heat was so intense it felt like it would burn through his helmet. The rain did nothing to wash away the burning tension; the veins on his forehead bulged, and his blood vessels throbbed as if they were about to burst.

In fact, this is not an illusion.

He was flushed, his chest heaving, and his heart pounding like a war drum, as if he had drunk strong liquor.

He was under so much pressure that he was on the verge of a breakdown.

He even had a ridiculous thought that the person who had just died from the dragon's breath should have been him, not the deputy centurion.

If that happens, it's all over.

He wouldn't have to face such a dilemma, wouldn't have to look at the ruins, look into the distance, or watch his subordinates struggling in the ruins.

If he could, he really wanted to pretend he didn't know. He wanted to pretend he couldn't hear the faint breaths and cries coming from under the rubble, to pretend that the cries for help were just the sound of rain, just the echo of the wind blowing through the broken tiles.

He wanted to rescue the wounded buried in the rubble. He heard their voices, those familiar cries filled with fear and pain.

But he couldn't, he really couldn't.

After the battle, he couldn't hand in his report. Even if he survived, he couldn't write it.

what does this mean?
It means a military court, it means shame, it means he will be nailed to the pillar of shame even after he dies.

However, he was also well aware that he did not think he could survive until the moment of being court-martialed.

He knew that the powerful enemy on the observation deck was regrouping. That enemy was too calm, too precise, too purposeful. Once the regrouping was over, once the strength was restored, that person would definitely come and kill them all, instead of running away.

Scattered among the ruins, they were utterly powerless to fight back, unable even to establish a proper defensive line. Instead of fighting like that, they might as well charge onto the observation deck and engage the enemy in direct combat.

Even if they all perish in battle, they should die like soldiers, like Duruci. In that way, their families, their honor, and their souls may be preserved.

Running away was out of the question; it wasn't even one of his options.

Being unable to win and running away are two completely different things. If you can't win, you can die a worthy death, but running away will only result in your name being erased.

He cannot bear the consequences.

Even if he wanted to escape, Kledan wouldn't allow it, and neither would the soldiers.

They were all like Trucchi; they were disciplined and orderly.

If only he still had a usable Reaper Ballista, he wouldn't have to think so much or make so many choices. As long as the ballista was functional, even the strongest enemy would be torn to shreds by the split bolts.

But the problem is, there isn't.

All the ballistae were destroyed by the dragon's breath; not a single one could be used again.

As the centurion looked at Kledan, Kledan looked back at him. Their gazes collided in the air, creating a brief spark like steel clashing.

Neither of them spoke, but they both knew what the other was thinking.

After looking around for a moment, Kledan looked back at the observation deck. Then, he took a step forward, his steps steady and powerful, and reached out to grab the arm of the nearest centurion.

"Go and fetch someone! Go and bring the captain of the White Lion Guard!"

His voice, filled with suppressed urgency and a commanding chill, pointed to the crossroads behind him.

"Turn left, he's on the next street!"

Before the position was destroyed, a giant dragon was shot down by long-range fire from the observation deck and crashed into the noble district. In the instant the lightning flashed, he saw the White Lion Guards rushing towards the crash site.

Seeing that the squad leader was still standing there in a daze, he suddenly slapped the squad leader's shoulder with such force that the squad leader staggered.

"Go!"

He and Kledan at the observation deck were from the same cult, and they often clashed, with him losing more often than winning. Although he didn't know how Kledan died, he could imagine it was no ordinary death.

He knew that if he went up there, he would die; there was no chance of survival. All he could do was defend and resist as much as possible, stabilize the situation, and wait for reinforcements to arrive.

In his view, there was no better way to handle it at the moment. Whether he survived or died in the end, someone had to hold the line, even if his blood only bought him a moment's respite.

Then he looked at another deputies.

"You go too!"

His voice was deep and hoarse, carrying both command and determination.

As the two deputies began to run, he held his halberd horizontally in front of him and slowly looked at the centurion, who in turn looked at him.

Their eyes met in mid-air, a brief silence followed, and then they nodded simultaneously.

In that instant, the fate of this 100-man team was decided by a silent nod.

Although they were both wearing masks and couldn't see each other's expressions, they could see each other's eyes through the narrow slits in their vision, and see the light gleaming within them. It wasn't fear, but determination—a determination unique to Duruci!
The centurion then made temporary deployments.

He used short, sharp commands to reorganize the formation; his voice was drowned out by the rain, but the soldiers responded precisely.

The sounds of metal scraping, bowstrings tightening, and armor clattering mingled together, as if proclaiming that this tattered hundred-man squad still existed.

After the deployment was completed, the sixty-three combatants, led by the centurion and Kredan respectively, split into two groups and rushed towards the observation deck from both sides.

Yes, there are more people now.

Originally, there were fifty-six men, but after the two deputies left, the number dwindled to fifty-four. However, during the centurions' temporary deployment, two black knights and a squad of sea guards heard the commotion and rushed over.

Without asking questions or hesitating, they resolutely joined the ranks and were incorporated into the combat sequence.

Because they all knew that this wasn't a choice, but destiny.

The moment Harald saw the enemy charging at him, his combat instincts kicked in. That instinct, honed through countless battles, was a reaction faster than thought.

He sheathed his secondary sword and swiftly picked up the shield that had fallen to the ground.

The moment he picked it up, he heard the sound of the bowstring snapping, a sharp tone unique to the battlefield, followed by the violent whistling sound of air being torn apart.

He didn't even think about it.

His body reacted instinctively, and as he held his shield in front of him, he quickly retreated behind the wreckage of the heavy ballista, knowing that it was the only cover that could temporarily shield him from the fire.

He would die if he didn't retreat. In the instant he stepped back, arrows and javelins appeared on his shield.

The violent impacts and the crackling sounds of metal striking the wreckage blended together, like a continuous downpour of metal.

Wood chips and sparks flew everywhere, accompanied by waves of hot air hitting his face.

A javelin pierced the shield, its tip suddenly thrusting out like a snake's tongue, the cold glint of its blade flashing in the rain. Fortunately, his gauntlets stopped the momentum.

He adjusted his breathing slightly, and after confirming that the shield was still usable, he swung his sword horizontally with a fierce motion. The blade sliced ​​through the air, cleanly severing the spearheads and arrow shafts embedded in the shield.

Harald then remained hidden, dodging long-range fire while listening intently. His breathing became extremely slow, his chest almost completely still, as if he had transformed into a stone lurking in the shadows.

He was waiting, waiting for the enemy to get closer, waiting for the enemy to rush up, waiting for an opportunity, a point of entry, a moment that would allow him to tear a gap out of the quagmire.

result……

For a moment, the two sides were locked in a strange stalemate. There was no scene of Harald seizing the opportunity to raise his shield and charge out, nor was there a scene of Duruci's orderly formation and earth-shaking battle shouts.

Raindrops pattered against the broken wreckage and stone slabs, splashing water that trickled down the armor, seeping into the seams, neck guards, and gloves, chilling to the bone.

No one is stupid.

Harald is fast, but he's not a mechanical monster like Malekith or Darkus, capable of appearing in the enemy ranks in the blink of an eye. During his advance, he must simultaneously fend off ranged fire from both in front and behind. No matter how fast he is, without a mechanism, he will be torn to shreds.

And what about the likes of Duluqi?

They had set a strategy from the beginning: surround without attacking, using the terrain and the use of bows and crossbows and javelins to keep the enemy firmly confined in the ruins, waiting for the sound of reinforcements to be heard in the distance.

Duruci doesn't need to work himself to the bone, he just needs time.

With Haiwei's involvement, this decision was further strengthened.

The naval guards were positioned at the forefront of the two formations. They abandoned their shields and melee weapons, drawing their bows to their limit, arrows gleaming coldly in the rain, pointing straight at the ruins. Behind them were the Duruci soldiers armed with javelins and repeating crossbows.

Melee combat? Absolutely not.

The enemy's position was too cunning; so cunning that if close combat broke out, they could only advance one by one, preventing the army from spreading out. Such an action was tantamount to suicide, sending their own people to their deaths.

Their comrades are still waiting for rescue; they cannot die here in vain.

Unless the enemy withstands the suppression of long-range fire and forces their way into the enemy lines, they will have no choice but to grit their teeth and fight, risking their lives.

Harald's only chance, his only way out, was to rush in while Duruchi was still regrouping and hesitating, to storm into the ruins before they could establish a firm footing. He might even be able to capitalize on the time difference, ending the battle before the Black Knight and Sea Guard arrived, and then eliminating them. But unfortunately, at that time he was recovering, resting, desperately trying to stop his arms from trembling and to restore the blood flow to his lungs.

And so, the rain continued to fall, the wind continued to blow, and the observation deck fell into a delicate, suffocating stalemate.

Harald knew this wouldn't work.

He was at a disadvantage, surrounded.

But he really couldn't break through. Even for a strongman of his caliber, stepping out of cover meant being exposed to arrows and spears.

During the stalemate, he peeked out. Luckily, he was quick enough, otherwise the arrow would have pierced his eye socket. The instant he pulled his head back, one arrow grazed the edge of his helmet, while the other struck the helmet surface with a piercing sound before being deflected.

A cornered beast will fight on; that became his description.

Then, he unleashed a curse, shouting hoarsely, roaring with all his might, using every last bit of his arrogance and anger to provoke the group of indifferent black-armored warriors opposite him.

He was trying to provoke Duruci into charging at him and engaging in close combat, so that he would have a chance, a chance for blood and steel to truly collide.

However, Duruci remained unmoved. They stood firm as statues, not even uttering a taunt in retaliation.

It was as if those people were no longer there, as if he were the only one left on the entire observation deck. His roars echoed among the broken walls and ruins, and the sounds of rain, thunder, and wind became his only audience.

The observation deck became his stage, a one-man show without an audience.

He coughed violently, a low, hoarse sound, as if rust was being crushed in his throat. Blood mixed with saliva, seeping from the corners of his lips, diluted by the rain, and slowly sliding down his jaw.

He tried to make the Durucis and his men believe that he was seriously injured. Once they believed it, once they thought he couldn't hold on any longer, they would be unable to resist rushing forward to engage in close combat, trying to gain merit and glory.

But Duruci remained unmoved.

They simply stood there quietly, as if watching a performance. Their cold, restrained, and calculating gaze made Harald feel like a wild beast being hunted, while the Duruci were waiting for their prey's final struggle.

Aside from attracting Duruci, Harald was genuinely hurt.

He could feel his internal energy was terribly turbulent, as if countless blades were scraping his lungs, and his trachea felt like it was being burned by flames, each breath accompanied by a tearing pain. He tried to suppress his cough, but couldn't; blood bubbles rose in his throat in waves, bursting and turning into a sweet, metallic taste.

Three minutes passed.

Neither of them moved, and neither of them gave the other a chance.

The air seemed to freeze, with only the sound of rain hitting the armor, floor tiles, and wreckage remaining.

Haral, who had been listening intently, suddenly heard the sound of orderly footsteps, a highly rhythmic sound that blended the clanging of armor with the clatter of boots striking the stone slabs, approaching like a torrent of iron.

He knew this wasn't because Duruci and his men were getting impatient and preparing for close combat. The sound was coming from a great distance; it was the footsteps of another army—reinforcements.

The enemy's reinforcements have arrived.

He was both angry and annoyed.

Anger surged within him, threatening to burst forth from his chest and unleash a thunderbolt.

But reason told him he couldn't rush out.

No.

He knew he was dying and that he couldn't leave.

But he still wanted to exchange a few more, to use his last bit of strength to kill a few more, and to use the enemy's corpses to erect a monument for himself.

However, before he could speak, the other party spoke first.

The voice was loud and firm, piercing through the rain like the collision of iron and ice.

"I am Captain of the White Lion Guard—Kohane Ironsword!"

"Although I don't know who you are, please come out! I challenge you to a duel!"

According to the rules of the table, Harald has a special rule: pride.

He must initiate duel challenges whenever conditions permit; and he must accept when his opponent challenges him to a duel.

Setting aside the rules of the game, this is exactly the result Harald wanted.

If he could kill Kohein, the traitor in his eyes, before he died, then his death would have meaning.

In his view, Kohein was no different from a traitor.

Otherwise, how can we explain Ke Hai's presence here at this moment, standing on the same side as Du Luqi? How can we explain Ke Hai challenging us to a duel in the name of the White Lion Guard?

Harald poked his head out, raindrops sliding down his blond hair and tapping against his armor with a series of sounds. He raised his shield, and after confirming that the newcomer was indeed Kohein, he slowly lowered it.

He took a deep breath, his lungs throbbing as if pricked by needles. Then he threw the tattered shield to the ground, drew his secondary sword, gripped it with both hands, and stepped out of cover.

Every step I took was through puddles.

The splashing water, accompanied by the screech of armor, sounded heavy and powerful in the rain.

He didn't speak; he simply raised his two swords, twirling them in his hands and creating a series of sword flourishes.

It was a silent declaration.

Under the command of the centurion and Cledan, Duruch's army slowly retreated.

They joined up with the arriving White Lion Guard and formed a closed semicircle around the observation deck.

In an instant, the observation deck became a gladiatorial arena.

The rain curtain is the backdrop, the corpses are the set, the sword master is the actor, and the gods are the witnesses.

There were no greetings, no small talk.

Only the tooth-grinding metallic scraping sound, and the dazzling sparks that erupted the next instant when swords clashed.

(I was going to finish writing this, but my mom came over and I had to go out for dinner. The duel and Ma and Yi's verbal sparring will be combined into one chapter tomorrow, and the dragon battle will be the day after tomorrow.) (End of this chapter)