Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"You came to me, but you don't play the great game that determines the fate of the world..."

The monk glanced around and said mockingly. His gaze was as if he were scrutinizing a play that had gone astray, or as if he were deliberately provoking the playwright sitting behind the scenes.

As soon as he finished speaking, without waiting for a response, he instinctively touched where his heart should have been. The organ that should have been beating was empty, without rhythm or warmth. He then put his hand to his mouth; no breath. He checked his wrist; no pulse.

The whole action resembled an absurd yet helpless self-affirmation; he was confirming that he still existed, yet had already transcended the definition of life.

“This shouldn’t have happened.” Death shook his head, his tone carrying a deep and ancient sigh, as if he were forced to admit that the script had gone wrong.

“But it happened, so your great game… is ruined!” the mage lamented, his voice still light, but with an added weight of shadow.

He is questioning 'death,' he is provoking 'death': When fate itself is forcibly reversed, you, the god representing the end of fate—has your chessboard collapsed? Has your game become unplayable?
However, 'Death' was not provoked. It simply raised a pale, slender, sculpted hand and gently removed the ivory mask from its face. As the mask was removed, its movements were slow and solemn, carrying a sense of ritual that transcended the mundane.

Then, he tapped his brow bone with his knuckles; the hollow, cold sound was particularly jarring in the silent void. Immediately following, a long, patient sigh, as if slowly seeping from the depths of eternity, followed.

That was not the sigh of mortals, but the sigh of a deity, the sigh of the concept itself.

Heavy, still, yet powerful enough to make reality tremble.

"I doubt... its authenticity?" the monk sighed again.

He doubted the authenticity of the disruptive victory before him, and more profoundly, he doubted whether the path of doom that Kane represented—the one and only path to destruction—was truly the only reality.
Perhaps fate is not a predetermined path, but something softer and easier to rewrite.

“Life has been doing this since the beginning of the world.” Death’s tone was indifferent, as if stating a fact observed over countless eons, without blame, only a mixture of disappointment and helplessness. “I am surprised that you are still so indecisive among all the elves.”

"hehe."

The monk smiled without speaking, the curve of his lips seeming both a concealment and an admission. He knew that 'death' was merely a facade; the real issue lay deeper, in the undercurrent of fate that even the gods could not fully control.

Death's empty eyes were devoid of emotion, yet they seemed to gaze through endless time and space at the distant battlefield, at Darkus, who was still looking around. His inhuman voice rang out again, low and slow, echoing in the void, as if stating a truth he had just been forced to accept.

“You’ve seen him, I’ve seen him… His existence is like an anvil thrown into the river of fate.”

"It doesn't create ripples, but changes the course of the river."

"He caused a fork in the road to the predetermined end."

The monk's mocking expression faded slightly, and in that instant, his demeanor shifted from sarcasm to composure. He followed the gaze of 'death' and seemed to see, too, the river of fate, after being pressed down by some unexpected weight, cracking, deflecting, and extending into another path.

"A path... that no longer necessarily leads to you?" he said softly, this time not as a test, nor as a provocation, but as a confirmation tinged with subtle awe.

"A new era that... an elf might be able to enter."

The voice of "death" was devoid of joy or anger, hollow as if it came from the end of time, without a trace of fluctuation, only a pure cognition of possibility itself, like a scribe recording the laws of the universe recounting a page that had just been rewritten.

"The chains of hatred are breaking in his hands, not through forgiveness, but through... a more powerful, all-encompassing force. He is reforging the fragments of conflict into the foundation of his throne."

The voice echoed slowly, as if proclaiming the prologue to a new era, or as offering a final eulogy before the end of an old age.

The two extraordinary beings fell into a brief silence, a silence that was not blank, but a profound stillness that could resonate.

The distant battlefield is still burning, and Duruci's victory is unshakeable. An unprecedented order, centered on Dakos, is being born in blood and fire.

This is no longer an eternal cycle of vendettas within the elves, but the complete end of an old era and the beginning of a new era full of unknowns, yet absolutely powerful.

"And you? The founder of order, the guardian of ancient oaths..." After a long silence, 'Death' turned to look at the mage, its empty gaze seeming to pierce through the last ashes in the depths of the soul. "Faced with this new era that has incorporated your legacy into its blueprint, are you not going to do anything?"

These words were like a fine needle, silently piercing into eternal silence.

His voice carried an indescribable meaning, seemingly containing some kind of hint, perhaps a subtle request, or perhaps a deliberate test.

Perhaps He hoped that Caledo, as in some past years, would intervene in reality for the sake of balance, setting up obstacles for the variables that emerge from fate, hindering the chariot that is speeding toward the unknown.

The mage gazed back at Kane in silence, his eyes conveying a profound understanding and relief that came after countless years, like an old man who had witnessed too many cycles and finally saw his end and no longer needed to be bound to the times.

He said nothing, but slowly and firmly shook his head.

This action was his final answer.

He no longer intervenes, no longer guards the old cycle, and no longer fights for the past that is destined to pass away.

He chose... acceptance and letting go.

Choose to let the new era be born, grow, and make its own decisions without being bound by his will.

As he shook his head, his already illusory figure began to sway gently like a candle flickering in the wind, its light shining intermittently. The next instant, as if blown away by an invisible wind, he transformed into specks of light, gently yet decisively shattering and scattering into this strange space that was neither alive nor dead.

Caledo disappeared.

After he disappeared, the dialogue scene maintained by the wills of the two powerful beings also lost its support. The surrounding scenery, whether it was the illusory reflection of the battlefield or the pervasive divine energy, began to fade, peel, and dissolve like a faded, wet oil painting, and was finally blown away by the silent wind like ashes.

Ultimately, everything returns to nothingness.

"Boring." (Echoing Chapter 773)
Only Kane's silent figure remained, standing alone in the void of concepts. He gazed down upon the empty dimensions, as if listening to some unclassifiable rhythm. He had just witnessed the end of an era and the birth of a new era that he could not fully control. And the mortal who could discuss this matter with him as an equal had also chosen to depart.

The great game may not be over, but its rules have been changed forever.

The chess player who formulated the new rules is still in the mortal realm, just like he used to be.

As Kane prepared to leave, He paused slightly, as if He had heard something, or sensed a newborn power. He looked in another direction, then revealed an extremely rare and strange smile.

"interesting."
-

Nakari attempted to escape, its essence shimmering and struggling in the air like shattered glass. The faint fragments of its essence flew towards the vortex, then vanished into the distorted ripples, as if they had never existed. (Continued from Chapter 773)
It watched Aenarion depart from the nascent vortex, knowing full well that it was incredibly lucky to be alive. The weapon wielded by the Phoenix King was far more powerful than any demon could imagine; the sword's radiance still burned deep within its consciousness, causing every wisp of its essence to convulse as if scorched.

In its long life, it had never experienced anything like this before. Its senses were severely damaged, and it was even unaware of its own existence. Its thoughts were fragmented, as if torn apart and randomly pieced together, blurring even its own boundaries.

When Aenarion's figure vanished completely, it tried to escape, to flee elsewhere, to return to the Chaos Realm, to bathe in its eternal energy. Instinctively, it stretched its power, wanting to slide along the familiar fissure, back to that warm, turbulent, and eternally accepting primordial ocean.

However, nothing happened; it had nowhere to escape!
Anger and other emotions he didn't understand filled Nakari's mind. These emotions were tangled together like barbs piercing his flesh, and the more he struggled, the more painful it became.

Perhaps this feeling is fear?
For the first time, it realized that the inexhaustible confidence and arrogance of the chaos were now as powerless as if its bones had been removed. It was trapped in the powerful spells cast by the elves, preventing it from leaving this world. Those spells were like countless transparent cages stacked on top of each other, locking it in layer upon layer, making it impossible for even the will of a demon to break through.

But the anger didn't last long; a vague sense of self-preservation told it to stay calm and focus its strength.

Like a wild beast holding its breath in a trap, waiting for the hunter to let his guard down.

It was surrounded by enemies of terrifying power, who had sacrificed their lives to weave this great spell, and they were still weaving it now, and in the future. Strands of souls, like luminous threads, ceaselessly drew the power of the vortex, binding it firmly within.

Its duel with Aenarion had left it extremely weak, making it utterly vulnerable to the attention of those mages who had become spirits. Furthermore, it was impossible for it to find even the slightest flaw in this powerful spell. Those spells were as stable as the laws governing the universe; even if it were found, the mages would do everything in their power to seal it within the spell, ensuring it would never escape a second chance.

For Nakari, the most painful and humiliating thing was admitting that he was in a predicament. However, it took a long time to change his mindset, to come to like the feeling, and to enjoy the process. He began to savor the taste of fear and failure, like slowly chewing on a poison he had never tasted before, bitter yet with a strange pleasure.

It needed a plan, a way to completely escape this massive magical trap, and also to keep the souls from noticing it. It needed to wait, to wait for its power to return to its original level. The wait was as long as the deep sea, but for it, it was a familiar process of accumulating power.

Nakari was absolutely certain that it could leave this hellish place. It was a demon, and time meant nothing to it; even the bizarre shifts in time within the vortex had no effect on it. As long as it was careful enough not to attract the attention of other elves and beings, it could stay here and find a way to regain its freedom.

Then it will enjoy another feeling: revenge against Aenarion, and vengeance against all his bloodlines!

That thought was like an evil flower rising in the darkness, quietly blooming in the depths of its still unrepaired soul.
-

Time passed day by day, and Nakari, trapped in the vortex, slowly recovered while indulging in fantasy.

It relived its glorious past, those memories soaked in blood and fire pressed back into the depths of its consciousness like scorching iron. The power it led back then nearly conquered the entirety of Ulthuan; that unstoppable force, capable of devouring the world, still echoed deep within its shattered origins.

It saw itself sitting on a throne made up of a thousand living female elves, a throne woven from vibrant flesh, fear, and despair, and it leaned lazily against it, enjoying the offerings made up of a thousand elven children. The scent of blood and sweet souls mingled and surged back into its memory, like regaining a long-lost breath of air in a dream.

It saw the city it had reduced to ashes, the magnificent sight of ashes swirling in the air and flames engulfing the streets like a tidal wave. It relived the smell of burning, as if it were savoring the sweet soul of a dying person, rewinding and chewing over these memories without leaving a trace.

It saw itself fighting against Aenarion again, that ominous scene that would give any demon a nightmare, reappearing in the illusion, causing its entire body to tremble, as if the residual power of that divine sword had once again cut through its origin and pulled it back to the cold, piercing reality.

Around it, a giant vortex flows in a way that is incomprehensible to ordinary people. Only a demon, a mage, or a soul can truly understand everything around it: the magical trajectories that are so complex they are insane, the ceaseless energy tides, and the flickering of light and shadow without cause or effect.

It's like being trapped in a boundless maze, where every ray of light could be a trap, and every shadow a chain.

It wanted to escape; it wanted to leave this place. An intense sense of urgency, like claws, tore at its consciousness.

Nakari forced himself to think, to break free from the boundless dream, and to focus on his plan. It was too easy to lose track of time in this place, too easy to get lost in its overly vivid and real dream.

It is now slowly regaining itself, and the fragments that were torn apart by the world are finally coming back together.

Over a long period of time, it gathered power, discovered a flaw in the vortex, and knew that the vortex was weakening. Those once indestructible energy lines showed micro-cracks that were barely visible to the naked eye but were clearly glaring to the demon.

When that moment comes, it will erupt!
That moment was fast approaching; the stars had moved to their correct positions, and the ancient and mysterious celestial phenomena were arranged in a pattern with a clear meaning in the depths of the void.

It has regained its power, and the essence that was once shattered by the divine sword is being forcibly rewoven by it, making it teeter on the brink of collapse yet barely taking shape.

Soon, it will escape from this barren, tedious, and tormenting place.

Then, it will exact its revenge on all those of the Ainarion bloodline! It will make the whole world remember its name again!
-

Time is passing by day by day, and it is getting closer. The ancient power is weakening, and those constraints that were once as solid as mountains are now like copper cables cracked by the scorching sun, fragile and loose.

The ancient mages' souls were weary, their once-bright radiance now flickering like candle flames in the wind. Something seemed to have happened; in the distance, something had begun to crumble. The world was undergoing a new transformation, the flow of dark forces growing ever stronger, like a tide about to flood the world once more.

Something must have happened in the chaotic demon realm that transcends the real world. That high-pitched fluctuation seemed like a harbinger, signifying that the power of chaos would once again descend upon this world.

Perhaps this was just a whim of its owner and the three people, just for their own amusement.
But none of this concerns Nakari; all it cares about is the outcome.

For thousands of years, it has been lying in wait at the center of the vortex, remaining silent, like a predator patiently lurking in the deepest darkness, accumulating strength as much as possible so that others do not notice its existence.

It had become familiar with the wondrous circuits of magic and knew the energy circuits left behind by ancient relics at the location of the Great Vortex. Those ancient veins, as if etched into the structure of reality, gradually became clear in its eyes, like cracks radiating cold light stretching across the depths of the void.

Clearly, those mages also knew this. The ancient saints left behind many ruins that had altered this world. These ruins were like the disassembled parts of a giant machine, scattered throughout the world, yet still faintly maintaining a certain order.

Thus, the elves incorporated the creations of the ancient saints into the Great Vortex, weaving them into the foundation of spells, and forcibly fitting techniques belonging to another era into a new framework.

This has both advantages and disadvantages.

The advantage is that mages can directly utilize the energy circuits of the ancient saints, using this network to strengthen the Great Vortex and keep it stable even in a massive magical storm.

The downside is that the network of the ancient saints has long been damaged and is slowly disintegrating, allowing the power of another world to gradually seep into it. Those cracks are like breathing holes leading to the abyss, weakly but stubbornly attracting deeper darkness.

Ironically, in a sense, it bestowed upon the elves a favor they had never anticipated. It consumed a vast amount of energy, thus stabilizing the vortex and allowing it to remain stable, like a giant whose lifespan had been forcibly extended by an accident. It slowed the vortex's disintegration, though it was certain the mages wouldn't see it that way; they would probably prefer its complete annihilation to acknowledging their shared fate with the demons.

But that's not important. What's important is that, over time, it has determined the exact locations of the guide stones in various places, and it has drawn a huge and detailed map. Every line and every dot on the map has been personally examined and confirmed by it.

It understood this better than any mage: where the vortex was strong and where it was weak and crumbling. It saw the cracks others couldn't see, the subtle tremors hidden deep within the energy—signs of impending collapse.

The ancient defense mechanism of the Great Vortex is slowly crumbling, like an old, decrepit beast whose bones are beginning to crack slightly.

Nakari spared a glance at the spot it had chosen: a secluded valley visible from a mountaintop, where a guiding stone stood. The valley was shrouded in ancient forest, with mist rising slowly from the cracked rock walls, as if concealing some forgotten secret.

Centuries have passed, and the elves have long forgotten this area, never coming to hold a ceremony to stabilize this guiding stone, leaving it to decay alone in the wind and rain, and to age in the years.

Now, the guiding stone's condition has become quite unstable. The energy circuits within the channels are overflowing, like blood vessels about to rupture, nearly out of control. The stream of light sometimes shines brightly, sometimes dims, as uneven as the breathing of a dying person.

The guide stone was like a rusty nail with a heavy object hanging on it, causing it to slowly bend and soon slide off its original position.

The tension, the feeling of impending doom, made Nakari almost hear the groans of space itself. And all it had to do was give it a slight push; just a tiny bit of external force was enough to shatter the nail completely.

At that time, the barrier surrounding the vortex will be pierced, opening a passage from the outside to the vortex's interior. For Nakari, this will be its escape route. It will feel like seeing the first ray of light in the dark depths of the ocean—tiny, yet enough to ignite all its hope and greed.

Nakari knew he had to be careful; the mages' souls still guarded the vortex and were constantly patching up this masterpiece. They would notice any tiny flaw, and if they suspected anything was trapped within the vortex, especially if it was something else, the elven mages would not hesitate to destroy themselves.

It understood that it had only one chance to escape the vortex; if it failed, it would have to spend centuries accumulating energy. That would be a cycle even demons didn't want to relive: endless waiting, endless weakness, endless confinement.

And it had grown tired of waiting.

Of course, the worst-case scenario is that one is completely destroyed.

It was well aware of this, and it wasn't some exaggerated metaphor as before, but a true and complete end—without even the chance to return to the Chaos Demon Realm.

It knew that if it were destroyed in this state, it would be a true demise. Because it had no physical form to bind itself to, and its connection to the Chaos Demon Realm was severed by the Great Vortex, it was like a tree withered by its roots, forced to wither in a land that did not belong to it. It was a void more terrifying than death, a fate even demons could not imagine.

Therefore, it must seize this one and only opportunity and succeed.

It could almost hear its own origins calling out, tearing, and urging it to act quickly.

"It'll be quick," Nakari thought, "it'll be over soon."

The sound echoed in its mind, like the first breath of air after six thousand years of confinement, both painful and sweet.
-

It sensed the passage taking shape, the twisted energy like a gaping wound. Overwhelmed with excitement, it howled with glee, the howl echoing endlessly in the depths of the vortex, like a mocking horn.

The immense energy that Lorthorn had gathered became the final straw that broke the camel's back. When the guiding stone collapsed completely, the energy node exploded as if a heart had been torn apart, and a violent tremor ran through the entire space.

A gigantic claw appeared, slowly emerging from the crack, its black knuckles drawing sharp ripples in the air. Then came an arm, dragging a large shadow from the void, muscles and flames intertwined, like a frozen nightmare.

Next came a deformed head, its twisted horns whistling through the air. Finally, it transformed into a deformed hermaphroditic body, a malevolent entity fused with the characteristics of countless creatures, every inch of its skin trembling, eager to tear the world apart.

Nakari gazed down from the mountaintop for a long time, overlooking the slopes of a great mountain where the wind rustled through the pine forests, and the air was thick with the scent of a space that had just been torn open. After a long while, it raised one hand and clenched its fist, a gesture of victory and disdain, imbued with a strong sense of ritual, as if it were proclaiming to the entire world: "I have returned!"

It finally escaped the vortex and fully realized who it was and who had caused it to suffer for six thousand years. That pain, like a mark branded on its soul, had now transformed into a blazing fire of revenge, pounding wildly in its chest.

In the whirlpool, it was nothing more than a pale phantom, its thoughts and memories dulled, its passions blurred, its desires weak and repressed. The forces that once drove it were as if swallowed by the deep sea, leaving only empty shadows.

Now, it has regained its shape, its emotions are even stronger, each breath is like inhaling the burning life force, and with each blink, the world can be seen trembling.

Nakari remembered a whole host of things he had forgotten before. Memories worn away by the vortex surged back like a tide, and he felt once again the innate passion that drove the demon, the pure thirst for destruction, pain, and desire.

It laughed, revealing sharp teeth, a laugh so exaggerated and cruel it seemed to tear flesh apart. Then its shape changed to resemble an elf more, albeit with horns, sharp teeth, claws, and eyes like blood-red flames. But it was a mocking imitation, a malicious satire of the elven form.

In this world, its will is bound by foolish rules, and its magic must be performed according to mortal rules. That constraint is like heavy shackles, preventing its power from being freely unleashed.

But that couldn't stop it.

It spent a long time calculating what it needed, then carved a circle in the ground with its claws. The tips of its claws, sharp as obsidian, scraped across the scorched earth with a piercing screeching sound, sparks flying, as if even the earth itself trembled. Now, it was time for revenge, time to hunt its prey.

It recalled the image of Aenarion, the most minute details, fragments that had slumbered deep within its memory yet still lingered with a burning warmth. It remembered the exact marks of Aenarion's spirit and genetic heritage, a brand that only it could recognize, a unique imprint that transcended time and bloodlines, a genetic mark that flowed within Aenarion's body and into all his descendants.

It then pierced its own hand with its claws, and a drop of demonic blood flowed out. The blood was black with a purplish-red glow, as if it possessed its own life, carrying a pulsating heartbeat. It flicked the blood into the air and activated its power with a single sentence.

And so, the blood transformed into a cloud of dust imbued with energy. The dust twisted and spun in the air, as if lifted by an invisible wind, shimmering with an eerie light, like tiny stars shining in the night.

It imprinted the genetic markers of its memory onto this surface, then summoned more energy. As it did so, the primordial particles continuously split and replicated, like amoebas, again and again, as if performing an endless ritual of reproduction. Soon, it was surrounded by the cloud of mist it had created, which swarmed around it like fireflies, humming softly as if awaiting its command. With another gesture, it directed the energy away from it to seek its prey.

After the energy dissipated, Nakari flashed what she thought was a sweet smile, a stiff and bizarre smile, tinged with undisguised madness and malice. Ulthuan was vast, and the energy's return would take time, but it could use that time to do something else.

Then it began to unleash another spell. After a roar, it transformed a portion of its power into fine threads that were transmitted out of the guiding stone system. These threads, like veins of light, flew from its fingertips, pierced the sky, and disappeared into the gap between reality and the demon realm.

It knew that to achieve its goal, it needed followers, it needed an army, and more, it needed something else: the faith and souls of its worshippers to nourish itself. That sense of emptiness, that weakness that had persisted for six thousand years in the vortex, made it more thirsty than ever before.

This spell can reach those who have dreamed of it before, and those who are easily influenced by it. It will attract the people it needs and make them feel its presence.

Those dreams seep into their consciousness in the dead of night, intoxicating them like fine wine.

It can influence those exceptionally sensitive spirits through its power, allowing their dreams to merge with its own. It can imagine some spirits waking up in their beds, drenched in sweat, breathing rapidly, and feeling a strange tremor in their hearts—a tremor brought about by its whispers.

However, this approach has a drawback: the mages will sense something, for they are sensitive to energy and will not miss this signal. The watchers in the towers, the archmages immersed in starlight, will surely frown and begin to investigate that faint yet dangerous fluctuation.

Of course, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, at least not for Nakari. Because some of them will submit to him, becoming the prototype of his army. He longs to see them lose their minds, fall into fanaticism, and kneel at his feet.

Now, all it has to do is wait.

Waiting for those clues to flow back, waiting for those dreams to sprout, waiting for soldiers, fanatics, and hound-like followers to gather.

(The key information in this whole operation is that the Shadow King is to meet Malekith at the usual place. Nakari's appearance in Lorthorn at the wrong time is too abrupt. However, there are other events: Malekith ruthlessly eliminates the stepping stone.) (End of Chapter)