Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

As the Archmage of the Tower of Hosse, Miserion Silverstag's mind should have been like a spinning top—balanced, precise, constant, and unwavering. His thoughts should have operated like astronomical instruments, forever pointing towards the North Pole of reason and logic.

However, the weight called "gratitude" quietly fell onto the scales of his soul. It was heavy enough to disrupt the trajectory of countless structures, causing the northward-pointing pointer to tremble and deflect.

Before today, and even during that long, almost cyclical standby time just now, a debate was silently burning deep within his soul, in the meditation room belonging to the "Grand Mage".

It was a confrontation between reason and emotion, a struggle between logic and belief.

The voice of reason prevailed time and again, only to be shattered by another, more subdued and stubborn will.

The voice was like the heartbeat of an ancient mountain range, deep, slow, yet unbreakable: Dakous.

The name alone was enough to throw all the lines in his mind out of place, turning hundreds of years of cultivation and countless calm deductions into ashes in an instant.

It was not a simple favor, but a call that touched the very essence of existence, a weight that transcended language.

"If we fall into a disadvantageous position..."

This thought, like a piece of scorched metal, repeatedly imprinted and churned deep within his consciousness. The monk's premonition made it clear to him that this was not a hypothesis, but a fragment of a near-inevitable future.

But eventually, another thought slowly sank to the bottom of his mind, like a meteorite crashing into calm water.

"I must stay."

That was the most profound thought, one that overwhelmed all calculations and deductions, overwhelmed the pros and cons of survival, leaving only a pure and resolute personal choice.

"This has nothing to do with stance."

"This has nothing to do with the rules of the White Tower of Hosse."

"This is only about me."

Miserion's breathing gradually calmed down, a kind of tranquility that came from finding a foothold again in a sea of ​​chaos.

"They can weigh the pros and cons, assess the situation, and even abandon or escape; that is their freedom."

He closed his eyes, slowly exhaled a breath full of energy, and etched a vow in his heart.

"But I can't."

His will, like steel being tempered, gradually became hard, sharp, and transparent.

“Darkus has been kind to me.”

This sentence became the anchor of all his thoughts, preventing his spirit from drifting in the storm. It was not just a rational conclusion, but a belief that transcended logic.

So he whispered his final answer.

"Then I will fight to the death."

He did not hesitate or sigh. He knew very well what this meant: to burn out every bit of energy and every spell until the soul fire was completely exhausted, and even the ashes turned into dust of energy, scattered by the wind across the battlefield.

He clearly foresaw this outcome and accepted it calmly.

As a great mage, he was never afraid of the consequences.

however……

Michelleon found that all his previous tragic and resolute mental preparation seemed... somewhat ridiculous. All his rational struggles, spiritual vows, and even his heroic imagination of death appeared pale and powerless, even a bit pretentious, in the face of what was happening now, in the picture painted by absolute power before him.

He looked down.

Looking down from high above, the scene between heaven and earth resembles a painting created by absolute power itself.

That was not a scene of war, but a concrete manifestation of destruction itself.

He felt his reason being brutally cracked, a feeling akin to the unyielding white tower in his heart being slowly and silently crumbling, bit by bit, before some incomprehensible entity.

He saw that the cooperation between Marathex and Anasara was no longer just tacit understanding, but a resonance at the level of laws. The bombs and rays were no longer weapons, but rather extensions of their will; with each flash, they precisely erased an existence.

The Silver Moon Dragon was swept by that blazing white ray and, like butter being cut by an invisible giant blade, it was severed in two and fell into the lake. The precise and ruthless efficiency of its destruction sent a chill down the spine of even this archmage.

He saw Caledall transform killing into a cruel art; every maneuver she made was perfectly timed to the rhythm of death, delivering a fatal blow to her opponent, leaving them to fall in despair. The entire process was fluid and seamless, without a single wasted moment, as if it weren't a battle, but an execution with a predetermined outcome.

He witnessed Ashdaron's efficient, almost brutal, hunts: a single swoop, a precise throat-lock and tear, and a Sundra's head was severed from its body; a ferocious tail strike and twist, and a second Sundra was instantly robbed of its life. The last surviving one was left only with the instinct to flee for its life.

His attention finally settled on the largest island, where Modax was overwhelming the Starshine Dragon with sheer power. He watched as she defied the dragon's breath as it swooped down, slammed it to the ground with a brutal impact, used her armor to withstand every counterattack in close combat, and finally, with a ferocious kick, sent the Starshine Dragon crashing into the island like a sandbag.

Shock, like a cold tide, surged up from the depths of his consciousness without warning, almost instantly engulfing him.

It wasn't just simple astonishment, but a complete feeling that froze even the soul.

He realized how wishful thinking, how ridiculously insignificant and ignorant all his previous assumptions, all his seemingly meticulous deductions and reasoning, were in the face of this truly destructive force.

Does Duruci need him to fight to the death with all his might?

Does Duruci need him to fight to the death with all his might?!
Do not!
He suddenly realized that they might not need him at all.

What they might need is simply a safe enough and distant spot, a spectator seat where they can clearly see the horrific spectacle they unleash without being affected by the destructive storm they themselves have unleashed.

What they need is to maintain each other's dignity.

A sense of absurdity, like a sudden gust of cold wind rising in a heatwave, quickly dispelled the heaviness and solemnity in his heart.

All his internal struggles, the long tug-of-war between reason and belief, his vow to be fulfilled with his life, and his self-proclaimed tragic and noble determination, all seemed so ridiculous at this moment, like a character immersed in a tragic epic who suddenly discovers that the stage has already been occupied by the gods.

He wasn't even a supporting actor; he didn't even have a chance to appear on stage. He was just an audience member, a stunned bystander who hadn't even had a chance to applaud before being completely speechless with awe.

His psychological transformation was dramatic, yet also remarkably rapid.

From the solemn determination to face death, to the astonishment of being crushed by absolute power, and then to a kind of almost relieved smile, a smile mixed with helplessness, exhaustion, and a strange clarity.

He suddenly realized that he no longer needed to think about how to fight to the death, no longer needed to use the sword of righteousness that had long been ready in his heart and was always ready to be drawn in desperate situations.

The sword slowly returned to its sheath.

It wasn't because of a loss of meaning, but because he finally understood that in the face of such overwhelming power, the tragic heroism of solitary courage was no longer the most urgently needed option.

Instead, a deeper, calmer, and more essential way of thinking emerged, a way of thinking that was the way of thinking of the White Tower of Hoss taking back control of his soul.

"It's not about how to face death, but... how to establish oneself!"

The thought flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning, instantly cleaving through the fog that shrouded his thoughts. He had heard Darkus speak of the future, of his grand vision, of his vision that transcended hatred and the old order.

At that time, these words sounded profound and alluring, yet they also carried a certain sense of emptiness and unreality, like studying an ancient magical structure in a secret room: it was exquisite, but ultimately lacked a verifiable basis in reality.

That is merely a perfect theory, not an actual truth.

However, at this moment, he was witnessing the foundation being poured.

It is not a metaphor, not an ideal, but a reality forged in the most primitive, savage, and impactful way, between the sky and the earth, amidst roaring flames and falling steel!
"This is not a pipe dream...this is reality that is happening."

The thought exploded in his mind with a chilling clarity.

Immediately afterwards, a strong sense of crisis and urgency, like ice water poured over the back of his neck, instantly snapped him out of his daze. He didn't want to be eliminated, didn't want to become an insignificant spectator in this surging torrent destined to sweep across the entire world.

He refused to be abandoned by the times, and refused to become a witness who could only look up but had no way to participate.

His value should not be limited to witnessing.

His value lies in his wisdom, his knowledge, and the strength and insight he received from Hosse and honed through years of hardship and self-cultivation.

These things should rightfully find their place in this grand blueprint of the new order—a unique and irreplaceable place.

He had to reposition himself. As a…builder? Or at least, a participant who could understand, engage with, and even add entirely new dimensions to this force.

At that moment, he seemed to hear the astronomical instrument symbolizing order in his heart returning to its original position, the pointer slowly stabilizing amidst the trembling chaos.

His gaze swept down again, to Modax, who was crushing the Star Dragon, redefining the word "power" in an almost ritualistic manner.

In his eyes, she was no longer just a simple embodiment of violence. She was a symbol of the new order, a concrete manifestation of crushing the arrogance and delusions of the old world and building a new era on that foundation.

“I must find my place…” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost carried away by the howling wind, yet it carried a newfound determination. The shock and confusion in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by the focus of a scholar, of an insightful observer, “A place worthy of this kindness, and even more worthy of this… future position.”

Unlike most giant eagles that swoop down to claim their positions, a very few descend at an extremely slow pace. Instead of launching a predatory dive, they steadily towed their massive Skybreakers.

Finubal and his son Jerian were also among them, truly embodying the saying "like father, like son." Finubal piloted the giant eagle, while Jerian controlled the ballista.

At this crucial moment, the Sky-Slaying Ship was in the perfect position, neither too high nor too low, and could see clearly everything happening below—every roar, every impact, every tremor.

Time seemed to freeze at this moment.

A long, almost suffocating silence stretched through the air. It was broken by a very soft, relieved sigh.

The voice came from Jehovah.

His taut shoulders relaxed slightly at this moment. In his eyes, which were so complex that they were almost unreadable, countless overlapping emotions surged: there was vigilance, stemming from an instinctive grudge against Duruci; there was doubt, stemming from suspicion of his father and brother's choices; and there was also a trace of extremely deep, almost indescribable... bewilderment.

It was a sense of uncertainty about the future, a sense of uncertainty about a possible new order.

But at this moment, these mixed emotions are being replaced by an even stronger wave.

The initial shock was the instinctive tremor that comes from witnessing the pinnacle of power. But deeper was a kind of indescribable dissolution, a contradiction that had been suppressed for too long finally beginning to crumble in this clash of sight and belief.

He instinctively turned his head and looked at his father, Finnubar, beside him.

Finnubal did not look at him. This leader, who had staked his fate, honor, and faith entirely on Duruci, maintained his almost ritualistic silence.

He did not respond or speak, but continued to look down at the battlefield, at the gamble he had orchestrated and at the cost of all his beliefs.

However, on that face as hard as steel, the line at the corner of his mouth softened slightly. It was an extremely subtle curve, almost imperceptible unless one looked closely.

That wasn't the arrogant smile of a victor, but a profound sense of relief after a judgment has been proven, a burden finally lifted after decades of deliberation.

That barely perceptible arc concealed both weariness and relief.

At that very moment, Jerian's turning of his head met Finnubar's gaze, which seemed to have turned unintentionally, in mid-air.

No words.

Jerian saw the unspoken, yet immense, pressure in his father's eyes.

That weight wasn't just about the success or failure of a single decision, but about the fate and continuation of the entire race. It was a path of no return, no way back, no middle ground, only victory or annihilation.

Finnubar has staked everything on today. On this sky churning with flames and dragon shadows, and on the future that Duruci represents.

Finnubar, however, saw another familiar struggle in his son's eyes. He knew that contradiction and hesitation all too well; it was the expression he himself had once possessed in his youth, an expression honed repeatedly between the sharp edges of belief and reality.

He saw that the long-standing resistance and disbelief were gradually crumbling and settling under the hammer of reality.

This brief exchange of glances seemed to bridge the long-standing gap between father and son caused by their differing stances and the times they lived in.

Then, Yelian's lips twitched slightly, not with a bright smile, but more like a helpless, self-deprecating, wry smile as he shook his head. He seemed to be saying to his father, and also to himself, "I don't completely agree, but... I understand."

Finnubar responded with an extremely slight, yet incredibly clear, nod.

That nod contained no command, no pressure, only a father's affirmation of his son's awakening soul amidst the flames of war.

As a father, he understands his child.

Unlike Bel Eihorn, who completely embraced his own beliefs and firmly stood by Duruci's side, Jerian always wavered between reason and faith. They argued, quarreled, and even had nights that nearly led to a complete break. He would listen and obey, but he never truly surrendered.

His inner world was always contradictory and complex: he resisted while going with the flow, went with the flow while doubting, doubted while still obeying, and at the deepest part of his obedience, there was an unquenchable resistance.

Smile at each other.

That smile washed away the superfluous words and melted the icy tension of the past. It didn't mean that Jerian instantly and completely agreed with all of his father's choices, but it at least meant that he understood the weight behind those choices, the inevitability that had long transcended power, honor, and clan.

Finnubar also saw in this the possible beginning of his son taking the same steps as himself.

In that instant, he seemed to see a continuing thread, reconnected amidst the flames and smoke—a thread of blood, of belief, of destiny.

“Fenubal’s choice… perhaps… wasn’t entirely wrong?”

This thought, like a ghost, quietly took root in Arslan Silverstar's heart. The voice was soft and calm, yet extremely corrosive, like a cold wind seeping into a crack. He had resisted it all along, but faced with the overwhelming force, he could only go with the flow, passively following the situation. But now, under this burning sky, before that unimaginable power, he wavered for the first time.

What he witnessed was not just slaughter, but the reconstruction of an order. That order no longer belonged to Asur, no longer belonged to the past, but was being rewritten by Duruci in a manner of iron and blood.

He tried to refute and insist, but after witnessing that display of absolute power, he found that hatred and prejudice seemed so pale and powerless in the face of such power.

The stands were packed with people, but the entire sky was deathly silent.

Faced with the overwhelming power displayed by the red dragon, the flying creatures fell silent. Only the wind howled past, carrying away their silent terror and their completely reshaped worldview.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of blood and rust, along with an almost divine pressure that made all life instinctively prostrate itself.

Some once thought Duruci was just a barbaric man who relied on intrigue and plunder; others once mocked their cruelty and looked down on their system. But now, all prejudice and arrogance have been evaporated in the flames of reality.

Regardless of their feelings, one fact was undeniably etched into the hearts of every elf: what lay beneath was a systematic and overwhelming power. The cooperation and synergy displayed by Duruci transcended tactics, bordering on a cold art—precise, ruthless, and breathtakingly perfect.

That kind of art uses destruction as its brush, blood as its ink, and the roar of the dragon as its declaration.

An era in which Duruci defines the standard of power is descending with the roar of dragons and the explosion of thunder!

Another blazing sun dragon, enveloped in Beg-Shun's breath, was trying to escape the battle. Its body was burning, its wing membranes were riddled with holes from the acid, and it trailed a long, fiery tail. (Continued from Chapter 877)
The sideways flanks are the most vivid description of this blazing sun dragon at this moment: scorched, broken, and on the verge of collapse.

The dragon prince on the dragon's back... was gone. His golden-red cloak had vanished without a trace, leaving not even a speck of light behind.

Anyway, Dakotas didn't see it.

It's unclear whether the dragon prince perished or was shaken off his feet and fell into the lagoon. At that height, without magical protection, an elf falling into the lagoon below would have no chance of survival.

However, Darkus is more inclined to believe that the dragon prince was gone on the spot, melted, dissolved, and completely erased.

The acid spewed by the forest dragon is no joke.

He didn't look at the Fiery Sun Dragon again; in his mind, the Fiery Sun Dragon had already been sentenced to death.

Although the Fiery Dragon, drenched in acid, was still flying, its flight resembled a convulsion driven by instinct. Its posture was erratic, and the rhythm of its wingbeats lost its asymmetry, each flap bringing forth large patches of charred scales and scalding blood. Its altitude was slowly and steadily decreasing, as if pressed into the abyss of fate by an invisible hand; it was only a matter of time before it plunged into the lagoon.

Darkus withdrew his gaze and looked around. The wind swept across his face, carrying the smell of ash and gunpowder—scorching, pungent, and invigorating.

At this moment, his expression was somewhat strange, indescribably complex, as if he were both mocking himself and confirming some absurd fact.

Like Malekith, he sees himself as a safety net, someone who steps in at crucial moments to stabilize the situation and avert unexpected events, a calm, composed, and never panicked support.

but now……

Did he pocket it?

Like a pocket.

Did he or she have a pocket?
Like a pocket. (End of this chapter)