Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"I've prepared a birthday present for you."

Tyrion stared at the towering warrior before him, his mind racing instinctively. He wondered if he was being fooled by the White Lion Captain, or if this was merely a well-intentioned test.

He looked around and saw that all the soldiers, led by his aunt Marlene, were busy with their own tasks, wiping their weapons and repairing their armor, and no one seemed to notice what was happening here. The feeling of isolation made him wonder if this really was a joke playing on him, then no one would have noticed his foolish appearance.

Kohain unbuckled his belt with a calm, precise, and decisive movement, displaying the composure of a true veteran. He slowly removed the longsword from its sheath, carefully folded the belt neatly, and solemnly handed it to Tyrion as if performing some kind of ritual.

"Now, this sword is yours. Draw it."

Tyrion's heart pounded violently, almost bursting out of his chest. His hands trembled slightly, but he still carefully drew his sword from its sheath.

It was a true elven sword, slender, straight, and incomparably sharp. The light reflected from its blade was almost blinding; sunlight was refracted by the blade, forming a dazzling line of light. Ancient runes were engraved on the blade, and a huge, crystal-clear sapphire was set at the rounded end of the hilt, gleaming like the deep sea in the light. Above the sapphire, the image of a giant dragon was clearly engraved, as if it were about to take flight at any moment.

Tyrion gripped the sword tightly, his hand slightly numb. He could feel it breathing, pulsating, and it was heavier than he had imagined.

"I'm sorry, I can't accept this."

He paused for a moment, then twirled his sword, the blade flashing through the air with a soft whistling sound. He refused, his tone revealing a youthful stubbornness and pride. Although he truly desired it, he possessed his own pride, a pride that ran deep within his bloodline and was rooted in the soul of an elf. He was unwilling to accept such an expensive and beautiful gift from a stranger.

This is charity he doesn't need.

He may be poor, poorly dressed, and from a declining family, but he possesses an ancient bloodline, a belief instilled in him by his father at all times—a dignity that needs no proof of wealth or power.

He swiftly and politely returned the sword to its sheath. Then, he extended his left forearm and handed the sword back to Kohein.

However, in that instant, he suddenly realized that what he had just said seemed a bit off.

Those words were perhaps an unintentional insult to Kohein.

At the same time, he didn't want to appear like a pitiful creature receiving pity during the ceremony of obtaining his first sword at such an important moment for an elf.

Kohein simply looked at him, his expression remaining calm.

“Then consider this sword as a temporary deposit with you for one season,” he said calmly, his tone devoid of blame, but rather carrying a sense of detached understanding. “If you no longer need it, return it to me in Lorthorn. But for now, you still need it; otherwise, how will you begin my lessons? If your pride prevents you from accepting that sword, then… consider it a birthday gift from me, just as I said before.”

Tyrion paused for a few seconds, then gave a genuine smile.

This condition was a perfect compromise for his pride.

He really wanted that sword.

"That's wonderful!" He took a deep breath, his tone filled with the sincerity and anticipation unique to young people. "Thank you for your generosity."

Sunlight shimmered on the blade, reflecting in his eyes like a cluster of flames.
-

The rain was still falling, the wind was still blowing, and fine raindrops slanted against the armor and stone bricks. The air was filled with the fishy smell of rain, the rusty smell of blood, the lingering smoke of burnt wood, and the smell of barbecue...

The duel paused temporarily; neither side made a further move, and the observation deck fell into a chilling silence. This was not a peaceful pause, but rather a brief gasp before the storm.

This moment is like halftime.

Kohein stood there, distanced, staring blankly at the sword in his hand. Rain dripped from his hilt, trickling down the blade before finally settling on the ground. His breathing was slightly rapid, but his gaze remained clear—the expression of a warrior contemplating his fate.

Harald was a master swordsman, and so was he.
To be precise, he was not a master of swordsmanship or archery, but a master of weapons.

He is proficient in all elven melee weapons. Besides swords, he is also skilled with battle axes and spears, and his archery is equally superb. He is a true Charis, the kind of Asur who lives by battle and whose creed is discipline.

After fifteen rounds of fighting, he was unharmed, as was Harald.

But in another timeline, fifty years later, he would give his sword to Tyrion as a birthday present to that boy; now, it is broken in two.

This sword was personally bestowed upon him by the tenth Phoenix King, Bel-Hathor, upon his appointment as captain of the White Lion Guard. It was forged by the master craftsmen of the White Tower of Hoth and symbolizes honor and responsibility.

That was a testament to his youth and loyalty.

Now, it's broken, broken into two pieces.

A fragment of the sword, still bearing the lingering glow, lay on the ground, washed by the cold rain. The broken blade reflected a chilling light, like a cold, ironic sight.

"Fañol!"

Standing on the other side, Haral suppressed the urge to cough, spat out a mouthful of blood, and mocked in a sarcastic tone.

That hoarse, blood-stained curse exploded in the rain, like thunder splitting the air.

'Fanio' – in El Salin, it was once a synonym for the lowest class, used to refer to the Asur among the working class; it was a heavy and insulting word.

The good news is that it's now considered slang, but the bad news is that it can still easily pierce the defenses of dignity. Some nobles use this word when referring to Asur of the kingdoms of Avalon and Charis to imply their humble origins.

Although it's just slang, saying it to someone's face is almost as damaging as publicly insulting their ancestors or maternal lineage. To be more specific, it can be directly translated as "bastard."

Without a doubt, this is an extremely damaging word.

When Harald's voice disappeared, the sound of rain seemed to freeze for a moment.

The White Lion Guards, who had previously formed a semi-circle, moved. They stepped forward in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized, like a moving white wall. Some warriors raised their battle axes, poised to strike. At Kohein's command, they would charge forward and hack Harald to pieces.

The White Lion Guards, armed with bows, were even more decisive. They had already nocked their arrows and drawn their strings; the bowstrings vibrated slightly from the rain, but this did not affect their focus in the slightest. Their arrows were all aimed at Haral, a silent intimidation, a disciplined killing intent imbued with calm anger.

The sudden change caught the centurion and Kledan off guard. They didn't understand why the White Lion Guards were reacting so strongly. They were stunned for a moment, then reacted at the same time and ordered their troops to take a step forward.

The formations drew closer to each other in the rain, the sound of steel footsteps echoing on the stone slabs like the beat of war drums.

The air was compressed to the point of almost solidification.

Just as the atmosphere was about to reach its climax, Kohein extended his left hand, which was not holding a sword, and made a stop gesture. His movements were steady and restrained, as if he were suppressing a torrent of rage.

Although he didn't show it, he was already enraged. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze as cold as a knife, and looked at Harald.

As a wise and thoughtful warrior, he did not retaliate with words, as he considered it pointless.

And the most meaningful...

It means killing the opponent in a duel!

Then, he made a loose grip with his left hand; although he couldn't use the sword, he still had the battle axe.

However, what awaited him was not the familiar touch of the axe handle, nor Harald's deadly attack, but a hand that suddenly grabbed his arm. The hand was cold and hard, carrying a strange sense of pressure, as if it could sense the other's intentions directly through the armor.

He turned his head and saw Itaris.

Itaris raised an eyebrow at him, his expression carrying a hint of mockery and ridicule. He gave Itaris a disapproving look, then his gaze fell upon Itaris's sword.

His physique was robust and tall, which was undoubtedly a great advantage when wielding the battle axe. The coordination of his muscles and skeleton made each swing like a thunderous strike.

However, it is not as effective when using a longsword.

Every advantage has its disadvantages.

Unable to execute extreme evasive maneuvers, he could only rely on steady footwork and solid parries to deflect the oncoming attacks.

In the duel with Harald, this was undoubtedly a disadvantage. This disadvantage was not due to inferior skill, but rather the contradiction between physique and martial arts technique.

That's why his sword broke in two.

When bidding farewell to Bell-Hassol on his final journey, Itaris, who was usually idle, also went.

On the ship, Malekith and Itaris sparred. Ultimately, after Malekith emerged victorious, he acknowledged Itaris's martial prowess.

So he gave the Seagold Blade to Itaris.

To the White Lion Guards and Belanar, this was a typical attempt to win them over, but in reality... it wasn't.

Malekith was merely using this as an excuse to present the newly forged sword to Itaris. Ostensibly a commendation, it was actually a reward for Julian's hard work and contributions during his years of infiltration of Ulthuan.

Changed again...

“You are my champion now, Julian Poisonblade!” Malekith said in a confessional tone, his voice deep, carrying the authority of a king and a cruel tenderness. “You must equip yourself with better weapons.”

Julian bowed in gratitude, his posture respectful.

Two temporary workers stepped forward, their movements clumsy yet extremely cautious. They opened the huge lead-clad wooden crate, inside which lay two long, black blades. Like sleeping venomous snakes, they gleamed with a cold, chilling light. Ancient runes were engraved on the blades, from which faint, eerie green light emanated, flickering like a heartbeat or a breath.

“Be careful, don’t touch the blade with your unprotected hands,” Malekith warned, his tone calm but carrying an undeniable air of command.

Even without this prompt, Julian would never have done so. The texture and fluctuations of those runes reminded him of dimensional stones, those terrifying substances with corrosive and cursed properties.

He took a deep breath, reached out and grasped the hilts of the blades, raising them. The double blades were as thin as feathers, yet carried a dangerous weight. Their sharpness was otherworldly; he had no doubt that these blades could easily pierce the heaviest steel armor and the strongest shields.

Malekith made a slashing gesture.

Julian understood. Without hesitation, he approached one of the two labor dispatch workers. Just as he had believed, the double blades pierced through armor, muscle, and bone with ease. The movement was clean and swift, without a sound; even the air seemed to be sliced ​​apart by its sharpness.

Moreover, the double-edged sword has an unexpected side effect.

The dispatched worker writhed and struggled on the ground. Where the double-edged sword had touched, his skin rapidly turned black, liquefied, and began to rot. The corrosion was like a living toxin, spreading throughout his body along his blood vessels, filling the air with a pungent odor that almost suffocated him.

"You really are... Poison Blade now."

“Your Majesty, I thank you for the honor you have bestowed upon me.” Julian bowed again.

The Sea Gold Blade is a gleaming blade, its metallic sheen not from the reflection of light, but from its own radiant light—a miraculous blade forged from the finest sea gold. This sword is not only incomparably sharp, but also a powerful magical weapon, capable of slicing through steel, ignoring armor, and striking straight at the soul.

This is why Kohein looked at the Blade of the Sea Gold. At this moment, he lacked a suitable sword, a sword that could counter the sword of victory. Facing a swordsmanship master like Harald, he knew that although the battle axe was fierce, it would be difficult to win in this exquisite sword duel.

Having dealt with Kohein for decades, Itaris had no reason not to know Kohein's plans. He was all too familiar with that look in his eyes; once Kohein revealed that expression, it meant he had made up his mind, regardless of the cost. So, he gently released his hand from Kohein's arm, the movement unhurried and deliberate, carrying an enigmatic composure.

He took a step back, a slight smirk playing on his lips, his expression carrying a subtle mockery and teasing—a tacit understanding unique to old friends, and also a warning. He shook his head, a silent smirk flashing in his eyes, while his hand made a clear gesture of refusal.

However, the action changed in the next instant.

The Sea Gold Blade, which had been lying quietly in its scabbard, appeared in Itaris's hand with a soft click. A flash of light, and the raindrops were shattered into countless fine silver threads. He took a step forward, shielding Kohein behind him, his steps as steady as a rock, carrying an unwavering resolve. The tip of the sword was pointed directly at Harald.

"Harald?"

"you?"

"Itaris!"

“I don’t mind…” Haral twisted his wrist, performing an elegant sword flourish, the blade whistling through the air with a piercing sound, as if mocking, “Actually… you don’t need to cut in line, you can wait in line!”

Having said that, he took a sudden step forward, his longsword flashing as it hurtled towards Itaris with a storm of killing intent.

Ah, fates intersected at this moment.

This brings us back to the old story. In another timeline, during the Battle of Fennouil Plains, Julian, also known as Italis, used the Twin Blades of Dimensional Stones to first kill Ahair, "the man who defeated Tyrion," in the final battle (as mentioned in Chapter 691), then personally killed his close friend Kohein, and finally, was killed by his own student Tyrion.

Although Tyrion never appeared, he seemed to have become an anchor point.
In another timeline, Italis, Kohein, and Harald, each representing the pinnacle of swordsmanship, mentored Tyrion: one taught him calmness, one taught him anger, and one taught him to kill.

And now...
-

Imrek was stunned. Everything was completely different from the plan he had envisioned in his mind. Chaos, utter chaos. The battlefield, once as precise as a chessboard, had become unpredictable, and he didn't even know how to adjust. The feeling of powerlessness was like that of a navigator trying to steer in a storm.

The next second, his chaotic thoughts were interrupted. He had a strange feeling that the Star Lance had been touched. It wasn't a hallucination, but a real sensation, as if someone had suddenly tugged at him, reminding him: a guest had arrived.

He looked up at the tip of the gun.

It's not just like, it's exactly like.

At the tip of his lance, a blurry shadow appeared out of nowhere. The shadow was like smoke and mist, yet it possessed a presence that sent shivers down his spine. Under his gaze, the shadow solidified at a visible speed, its lines becoming clear, its colors emerging, and its outline becoming as real as reality itself.

That's a person.

His solidified left hand gently gripped the tip of the gun, while his right hand rose to greet him.

At that very moment, Imrek's eyes widened suddenly, his pupils contracted, and disbelief filled his face. The enemy had appeared on Minas Nilsnir's back without him noticing. But what shocked him even more was the armor—the man was wearing dragon armor, the same dragon armor that Aenarion had worn.

"It's very similar."

"What?" Imrek frowned, his voice tinged with wariness and confusion.

“I said, you look a lot like Imrek,” Malekith said calmly, his left hand still gripping the Star Lance tightly as he spoke, his steps slow, firm, and heavy, like an ancient statue awakening as he approached Imrek.

“But you are not him after all.” Malekith’s voice was drawn out in the wind and rain, becoming low and hoarse. “You were too reckless, child, you were blinded by passion… You came too fast and too hastily.”

The sound of rain seemed to grow louder at that moment, as if the entire sky was holding its breath for this fateful dialogue.

"Who are you?" Imrek ignored the man's lecturing and asked in a low voice, though he probably already guessed who the man was, but he still wanted to hear it from his own mouth. "Yes!" Malekith's answer was extremely brief, yet like the first strike of a war drum, it resonated deep within his soul.

Imrek jerked his Star Lance, attempting to create distance, but the lance, a symbol of glory, remained unmoved, as if locked in place by some invisible force. Malekith, however, did not stop; instead, he continued to approach step by step, his eyes cold and calm, radiating a suffocating pressure.

Imrek drew his sword, and in that instant, a flash of cold light and lightning simultaneously left streaks in the air.

And so, the lance was positioned to Imrek's right and Malekith's left. This lance, now a barrier, stood between them. The wind and rain lashed the shaft, creating a mist that seemed to divide the world in two. Yet, despite this, it did not prevent them from continuing to draw closer to each other.

“Go back.” Malekith suddenly stopped and said in a low voice, his tone carrying an undeniable sorrow. “Stop.”

“Impossible!” Imrek roared in refusal, his anger almost burning through his chest. His eyes flashed with a mad light in the lightning, and in that instant, he no longer resembled a son of Caledor, but rather a dragon driven to the brink of destruction.

"Sigh..." Malekith sighed heavily, his eyes as deep as an unfathomable abyss. He slightly raised his head, letting the raindrops fall on his face.

"How about we make a bet?"

"What are you gambling?"

"Let's see who gets the highest kill count..."

"nerve!"

However, the conversation between Malekith and Dakous did not end there. After Dakous finished cursing, he added another sentence.

“Some of them fought alongside your father.”

Without a doubt, those words awakened Malekith. In that instant, his mind was completely shaken. It was also one of the reasons that those words brought him to Minasnil's back.

To be honest, he was a little scared.

He knew that Darkus possessed some abilities that were unparalleled, unmatched by anyone. That power seemed to transcend the mortal realm, representing a kind of conceptual control. He also knew that the new generation of Durucci was a completely transformed race, vastly different from the old, like steel compared to bronze. The old Durucci wouldn't even be worthy to carry their shoes.

But Malekith hadn't had a clear understanding of this before, or rather, his pride had led him to deliberately ignore it. Until today, until this moment, everything has been shattered.

He had made various plans and laid out countless backup plans, but he always had another one in reserve, his last trump card: to use his unique abilities to start a battle.

This is the real reason why he wanted to make a bet with Dakos.

He had the ability and the confidence. At least, he thought he could handle the situation.

He had dealt with dragons before; he had his own dragon companions during the time of Elsin Alwyn, but they perished in the battle against Chaos. Snowri was also present in that battle, as the combined forces of elves and dwarves fought against the tides of Chaos.

Then came the Great Severance, the Black Dragon, the Age of Blood and Ashes, until last time, it was Mencius.

He had dealt with dragons many times; he understood their power and their will, and he always had a clear understanding of them.

But today, everything has changed.

Everything that happened today completely overturned his understanding.

For the first time, he had seen so many dragons die on the same day. They died from sea monster attacks, from ballista bombardments, from recklessness, from arrogance.

He even felt an almost suffocating sense of desolation. Everything he had experienced, understood, and believed in before seemed like a ridiculous joke compared to today.

Only now did he truly realize what kind of monster he and Darkus had unleashed.

"Let's stop here, okay?"

There was not a trace of sarcasm or the arrogance of a king in Malekith's words; only sincerity, even pleading. His voice was heavy and hoarse, revealing a rare weariness and compassion.

He truly didn't want to fight anymore. For him, enough was enough. Blood, flames, sacrifice—everything had to come to an end. The rest could be resolved through politics, through winning hearts and minds, even through compromise. He was even willing to concede, just to bring this long war to a complete end.

"Sure! But you have to die first!"

Imrek's reply was almost a roar, his eyes burning with anger and dignity—the flames of Caledon, the stubbornness of the dragon prince. Before he finished speaking, he rushed forward.

Malekith drew his Blade of Destruction and parried, and the two engaged in close combat across their lances, the sound of metal clashing exploding in the air.

Throughout the entire exchange, Malekith remained on the defensive, while Imrek relentlessly attacked. Every strike was imbued with rage, every block brimming with restraint.

After nine exchanges, Imrek struck Malekith again.

This time, Malekith did not parry; he watched the sword descend silently, as if accepting the judgment of fate.

The longsword struck Malekith's figure, but to Imrek's surprise, he didn't feel any real impact. In that instant, the blade pierced through the air, through the fog. Had he not pulled back at the last moment, his movement would have been twisted and deformed.

And indeed, Malekith once again vanished as a phantom.

With his lance no longer restrained, Imrek swung it, sweeping it towards the illusory black shadow with lightning speed. But he missed; the shadow vanished like ashes scattered by the wind.

“We can sit down and talk.”

A voice, deep and calm, yet carrying an irresistible power, appeared in Imrek's mind.

"Impossible! It's either you or me who dies!" Imrek roared.

"You can't kill me. Only Darkus can. Unfortunately, you are not him." The voice remained calm, even tinged with sadness. "Besides, he won't kill me either."

"Come out!" Imrek roared, his lance trembling in his hand.

"it is good."

The next second, the Star Lance was touched again, and a blurry shadow condensed at the tip of the spear.

The air distorted slightly, as if a crack had been torn open in reality.

Everything is like a cycle, the scene is reset, and fate repeats itself.

Malekith's figure materialized again, his gaze complex and unfathomable. He looked at Imrek and sighed inwardly.

To paraphrase Darkus: "With a dragon charging in, how can we lose?"
This "flying dragon" does not refer to a two-legged wyvern, but rather to absolute dominance.

Although he didn't know why Darkus used such a strange phrase, he had to admit that it perfectly reflected Imrek's current situation.

He fully understands this.

However, unlike last time, Imrek did not say anything this time. After taking a deep breath, he rushed over quickly.

Melee combat resumed.

This time, it was still Malekith parrying and Imrek attacking, sparks flying like a rain of stars, the pace of the battle was rapid and deadly.

After ten rounds of confrontation, Malekith made a move.

He seized upon the fleeting, seemingly insignificant yet fatal flaw in Imrek's movements.

With a gentle flick of the back of the Blade of Destruction, it struck the hilt of the sword.

Boom——!
Imrek's longsword flew from his hand, tracing a perfect arc in the air, flashing with light, before being swept away by the wind and falling into the lagoon below.

Malekith raised the Blade of Destruction and pointed it at Imrek.

At that moment, both sides froze.

Currently, Malekith is in an awkward position regarding the use of weapons. In Darkus's words, the Sunfire Sword is not meant for attacking elves. He agrees with Darkus.

then……

if not?
What else could he do? Use Kane's Dimensional Sword? Or draw Kane's Sword? He even tried borrowing Vessar, but...

Dais only repaired his dragon armor; he didn't forge any new weapons.

Kill me! End all of this!

Imrek broke down, roaring as his voice tore through the air like that of a trapped dragon.

“If it were before, I would, I would not hesitate at all, but now…”

Finally, Malekith sighed, letting out a long breath as if releasing the weariness and sorrow that had accumulated over a thousand years. He slowly shook his head and looked at the Dragon Horn.

“Sound the dragon horn, shall we? Go back. They've done enough. Let's avoid any more unnecessary casualties.” He paused, then his tone took on a hint of helplessness and a judgmental calm. “You've already lost. Not to any one person, not to any great being, but to a great system!”

Imrek did not respond.

He simply stood there silently, his chest heaving, his cloak fluttering in the wind. His gaze was fixed on the dragon horn, his expression complex and pained, as if he were looking at a piece of history that could never be undone.

The next moment, he slowly reached out and brought the dragon horn to his lips.

But he didn't blow the whistle.

He stopped, looked up, and looked at Malekith.

Then, he gave a bitter smile, a smile that contained mockery, stubbornness, and a kind of almost tragic dignity.

“Curtain call!” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I need a dignified, magnificent curtain call, my final dance!”

Malekith closed his eyes, a look of pain on his face, his fingertips trembling slightly, his breathing becoming heavy. He could feel the will and despair behind those words; he knew what Imrek meant. It wasn't a request, but a resolution.

“If this is what you want to see,” he whispered, almost a murmur, “then let’s finish this last dance.”

After he finished speaking, he nodded to Imrek, a gesture of respect and farewell.

This was their first and last meeting.

The moment the action was completed, his figure began to blur, the light distorted around him, and his outline gradually turned into a misty shadow.

The dragon horn sounded.

The sound was deep and resonant, like a call from ancient times, echoing in the sea breeze and traveling farther and farther.

That means to assemble.

The sound of the horn pierced the night sky and echoed throughout Lorthorn.

Malekith appeared on the third floor of the Caladrell Palace.

Today, Lorthorn has many spellcasters skilled in shadow magic, but he is the most skilled among them. He wears a brass ring on his hand and a steel headband on his forehead.

As Serene's Roller continued to turn, the winds of Urku lingered in Lorthorn.

This further enhanced his power; under this sky, he could go wherever he wanted, moving between reality and illusion like a shadow.

Serene opened her eyes and looked at him. He nodded to Serene, and Serene nodded back.

Then, he vanished again, leaving no trace, as if he had never existed.

On the observation deck side, the wind was still blowing, but the rain had lessened.

Itaris gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently, blood mingling with rainwater flowing down his nails. He was wounded; his left shoulder, right arm, left rib, and right calf were all slashed and torn open. He still gripped his weapon, half-kneeling, barely managing to stay upright.

Haral collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing, making intermittent sounds in his throat, spitting out blood.

The rain has stopped; it's stopped falling.

Anger, resentment, murderous intent—all emotions dissipated with the disappearance of the rain, like the tide receding, leaving only emptiness and silence.

He thought of the meeting after Imrek's successful return from summoning the dragon, and the questions he had posed.

"Why are you here?"

He thought again of Rahil's efforts, and of the parliament, decisions, glory, and arrogance that had taken place from the beginning until now.

Lying on the ground, he thought as he watched the dissipating dark clouds. He saw it—he saw the power that had been hidden within the clouds, that oppressive will.

Now, he finally has the answer.

arrogant!

The source of all glory and tragedy.

Then he fell silent.

A master swordsman, one of the most renowned in elven society, is dead. He died in Lorthorn, at the observation deck. (End of Chapter)