Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

This dive had transformed from a desperate attack into a one-way journey to the Underworld. The air was torn apart beside them, turning into shrill wind blades, as if silently reminding them: this descent meant there was no turning back.

However, inertia, glory, and despair still drove the remaining fire dragons along this doomed path, rushing towards the airspace shrouded in mist and death. Even as their scales charred and peeled off under the scorching energy, they still forced themselves to keep low, like burning spears that were about to break but still desperately trying to stay afloat.

Their figures appeared so fragile and helpless amidst the recoiling energy barrage and leaping ball lightning.

A young Sun Dragon, perhaps participating in a battle of this scale for the first time, let out a roar that was a mixture of fear and courage, its sound trembling and fragmenting in the heat-distorted air. He tried to evade with irregular flapping, his wings trembling as he awkwardly and frantically adjusted his posture.

A strange ball of light swept past his abdomen, accompanied by a series of ear-piercing crackling sounds of electricity. He successfully dodged the ball lightning, but instead crashed head-on into a dense rain of energy projectiles.

Three energy blasts struck his right wing root, neck, and abdomen almost simultaneously. In that instant, light exploded on his body, like three miniature crimson suns. His right wing was blown off at the root, bone fragments scattering everywhere; a huge hole appeared in his neck, revealing charred bone rings inside; and his abdomen was completely ripped apart, with flames and blood gushing out together.

He couldn't even utter a mournful cry; like a torn rag, he tumbled and fell into the mist below, leaving only a lingering trail of blood and the smell of burnt flesh in the air. That smell, as he fell, seemed to be torn into countless strands by the wind, seeping into the nostrils of the other fire dragons, making the throats of the living even more painful.

The other, more experienced Silver Moon Dragon displayed astonishing flying skills amidst this deadly storm. She was like a petrel weaving through the tempest, or a dancer performing a deadly ballet on a knife's edge.

Every flap of its wings, every twist, was so precise it was breathtaking.

Under her exquisite control, the massive dragon body changed direction and undulated with almost impossible, minute movements. She narrowly avoided an energy blast that grazed her wingtip, and then dodged another with a rapid descent, letting the energy blast pass over her head, just half an inch away from destroying her entire skull.

She miraculously made it through the outermost layer of dense firepower!
The dawn of victory seems to be just around the corner!
She could clearly see the outline of the edge of the mist, and even feel the chilling energy fluctuations emanating from the direction of Malatex. The energy surged onto her scales like a tide, causing her muscles to tense inch by inch. She successfully locked onto the terrifying, mountain-like outline that was faintly visible in the mist.

The long-breathed-up, soul-destroying power was ready to be unleashed. The surging energy condensed to its limit in her throat, like a star core that could explode at any moment. Just a little closer and she could unleash this destructive force on her target.

The dragon prince, riding on her back, felt his heart pounding in his chest. He gripped his dragon spear tightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of ecstasy and determination, preparing for this life-or-death strike that would turn the tide of battle. He could even feel the heat of the dragon's breath churning in its throat, the searing power traveling from its spine down to his feet, almost bringing tears to his eyes.

However, at that decisive moment, an energy blast that had just brushed past them and whose trajectory was originally heading towards a higher altitude, seemingly no longer posing a threat, suddenly drew an extremely abrupt and illogical sharp-angled line in the air without any warning!

The great Red Dragon! 'Terrible' Malatex inherits the glorious traditions of the Red Dragon! Wait, wait, wait—at this moment, his spirit is possessed! Malatex, a dragon, represents the long and glorious traditions of the Red Dragon! At this moment, he is not just a dragon fighting!
At this moment, Annasara exerted her full power. Originally, she could barely manage it, but with the blessing of the Sunlight Staff, she was completely at ease and in complete control. The staff in her palm seemed to have become the axis of celestial motion, with light patterns flowing on its surface, as if a miniature sun was dancing at the tip of the staff.

This energy blast was like a deadly flying needle controlled by invisible threads. It suddenly changed direction in mid-air and swooped down straight and precisely towards the Silver Moon Dragon's head, the source of its breath energy, at an even faster speed than before!

The movement was so fast, so cunning, so abnormal that all the dragons and knights around had the illusion that it was not an energy blast, but some kind of weapon with its own will, acting with the purpose of killing.

This scene defied all common sense and reason.

The dragon prince's ecstatic joy was instantly replaced by unparalleled shock and fear; he didn't even have time to issue a warning. In that instant, time seemed to stretch into a fragile thread, and he could only watch helplessly as fate crashed down upon him.

puff!

A faint yet incredibly clear sound, like a hot knife piercing through ice and snow. The sound was unbelievably subtle, yet its abruptness made it seem utterly cruel.

The energy blast didn't explode; instead, it pierced through the back of the Silver Moon Dragon's head without any resistance, like a real, incredibly sharp nail.

It penetrates scales and bone, cleanly, efficiently, and precisely like a surgical procedure.

Silver Moon Dragon's pupils froze instantly, then dissipated. The breath she had been condensing to its limit in her throat, losing its will and control, dissipated like a punctured balloon, turning into a wisp of chaotic, harmless smoke that escaped from her slightly open maw and the hole in her forehead. That wisp of energy drifted and refracted in the air, like a beam of destructive light that had already died before it was even born.

Her flight posture instantly crumbled, her massive body seemingly stripped of all its strength, carrying the ashen-faced dragon prince on her back, as she was propelled by inertia, falling helplessly and heavily into the deathly mist below. Her wings drooped limply, her tail trailing a feeble arc, slowly swirling like a falling star, casting a heartbreaking shadow.

That energy blast, whose trajectory had been altered, accomplished an incredible kill that defied the laws of physics, coldly declaring that any skill or courage was futile before this absolute power, which could even alter the very rules of existence.

It is a power that forces even the rules to bow down, an undeniable superior authority.

Darkus stared at the distant sky shrouded in a red barrage of bullets, a bizarre illusion rising in his mind. Those relentless streams of fire resembled dive bombers from World War II, while Maratex… his torrent of destruction was clearly a dense close-in weapon system with unlimited ammunition.

This is a confrontation that is not from the same era at all.

It's just a simple bot for beating people up.

A force ahead of its time, a unilateral massacre of past glories.

The scene even gave Darkus a sense of unreality, a feeling of unease; it was too stark, too desperate, too overwhelming.

He exhaled softly, shifting his gaze from the doomed airspace to the battlefield higher above. There, Ashdaron and Caledar, who should have been there, were absent; they had encountered their true challenge.

Ashdaron and Caledar, a couple, are locked in fierce combat with a powerful fire dragon that is no less large than themselves.

The dragon's scales were dark gold, shimmering with a metallic sheen in the sunlight, each twist like flowing molten gold; its movements were fierce and swift, able to simultaneously counter Ashdaron's frontal pressure and Caledar's ghostly flanking attacks.

The three of them entangled, bit, and tumbled in the air, like three trails of flame tearing through the sky.

Caledale, the aerial dancer of death, is trying to find the perfect angle. She hovers like a ghost, tracing eerie and elegant arcs high in the sky, her crimson figure appearing and disappearing as if she might evaporate into thin air at any moment.

She was waiting, waiting for the perfect moment to strike at the opponent's wing root or neck. Her eyes gleamed with the calm and patience of a hunter, her vertical pupils slightly contracted, and that focused, almost cruel gaze made the air tense.

However, just as she caught that fleeting opportunity and was about to strike like an arrow, the dragon mage on the fire dragon's back, who had been silently gathering strength, unleashed his power!
Instead of unleashing a destructive spell, she thrust her hands forward with a clean, decisive motion, as if opening an invisible door. In an instant, the light in the vast sky centered on the fire dragon was strangely refracted, the sky appearing as if it had been crushed and then folded back together!
Countless hexagonal, semi-transparent force field shields, resembling a giant honeycomb grid, instantly unfolded and assembled, forming a dynamic defense matrix that constantly adaptively adjusted to completely envelop the fire dragon.

This matrix is ​​not static; it is flowing and rotating. Each hexagon oscillates at a different frequency, emitting a subtle and dense humming sound, deflecting and dispersing Ashdaron's breath, like rocks parting water, causing the high-temperature flames to bend in the air into winding streams of light.

Even more astonishingly, the moment Calladelle slashed in at top speed and her claws were about to touch the dragon's scales, the hexagonal force fields in front of her instantly changed their nature, transforming from absolutely hard into an extremely viscous colloid.

Her attack was like crashing into an invisible swamp, her entire body was instantly slowed down, and her claw strikes, which were powerful enough to tear dragon scales, were buffered and deflected layer by layer, ultimately sliding away in vain, only stirring up violent, colorful energy ripples in the air, and even leaving behind streaks of refracted colored light around her.

This scene was magnificent.

The dynamic defense matrix refracted rainbow-like halos under the sunlight, creating a breathtaking magical spectacle with the surrounding interwoven dragon breath and exploding sparks.

The dragon mage single-handedly transformed the airspace into a constantly shifting tactical maze, perfectly fulfilling her duty: to prevent the fire dragons from being harmed and to create an absolute offensive advantage for her dragon companions. Her robes billowed in the gale, energy poured from her fingertips like a tidal wave, and the entire sky folded and twisted at her will.

The previously smooth hunting rhythm was abruptly interrupted, forcing Ashdaron and Caledar to readjust their posture, their wings outstretched, tracing huge swirling arcs in the high sky, facing this unprecedentedly formidable opponent who combined offense and defense. Even the airflow around them began to become turbulent, forcing them to reassess every attack route.

"Hmm?" Darkus let out a soft exclamation, his previously indifferent gaze becoming focused.

If we were to use the generational differences between fighter jets as an analogy, then the Sun Dragon would be generation 1, the Silver Moon Dragon would be generation 2, and the Starry Dragon would be generation 3. Of course, this example is a bit abstract.

The dark golden fire dragon in front of us, which is fighting the couple and not losing ground at all, is more like a second-generation dragon, somewhere between the Silver Moon Dragon and the Starry Dragon. Perhaps in a few centuries, this fire dragon will become a Starry Dragon.

But what truly caught Darkus's attention wasn't just the dragon's size. It was its fighting style, brimming with the wisdom and ruthlessness honed on ancient battlefields. The dragon's composed, experienced technique, never wasting an inch of its strength, made Darkus frown involuntarily.

When Ashdalon charged with his signature, imposing straight-line attack, the dark gold dragon did not choose to meet his attack head-on. Instead, it displayed a sophisticated maneuver that was disproportionate to its size: at the last moment, the dragon's body suddenly tilted to the side, the movement as steady as if it had experienced the same scene countless times before; it did not completely evade, but rather used a posture of dissipating the force, meeting Ashdalon's claws with its powerful shoulder blades.

Amidst the sparks and screeching sounds of the collision, the fire dragon simultaneously used the force of the impact to lash out with its long tail like a long-planned steel whip, viciously striking Ashdaron's relatively weak wing membrane joint.

This time, offense and defense were perfectly integrated, turning the impact into an opportunity for a counterattack, a tactic of extreme shrewdness. It was as if they had fought against flying creatures of the same level more than once, knowing where the weakest point was and how to inflict the most damage on the opponent with minimal effort.

The dragon's motives were exceptionally clear; he seemed well aware that engaging Ashdalon in a pure power struggle was a poor strategy. Therefore, he constantly used short, sharp maneuvers to try and steer the battle into close-quarters combat, limiting Ashdalon's space to exert force, while simultaneously compressing the angle at which Caledal could flank him. Each of his evasive maneuvers seemed to anticipate his opponent's intentions, positioning himself a fraction of a second ahead, even forcing Caledal to constantly adjust his entry line.

This grasp of timing and meticulous calculation of energy and stamina is something that ordinary dragons cannot possess. It is more like an old soldier who has crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood... That cold and hard will that has survived countless deaths can be clearly seen in every pounce, tail swing, and broken wing.

Perhaps he participated in the Great Invasion? Survived the flames of the Great Elven Scramble, and even survived the subsequent war of revenge? The weight of history is evident in his every move, as if every scale of his is etched with the scars of an ancient battlefield.

And the dragon mage on the dragon's back...

As we all know, Darkus currently has two sets of armor. One is dragon armor, which is reinforced and not affected by the Curse of Cain; the other is sea gold armor, which is worn at sea, but can also be worn underwater.

Unlike his frequently used trident, he rarely wore the sea gold armor. The only time he officially used it, it didn't even involve combat; it was more like a display of his status, a way to show off to the Asur navy. (Chapter 711)
He mostly wore dragon armor, but the armor wasn't complete; it lacked a helmet. However, he acquired a strange helmet in Obi-Wan that blended perfectly into his style, as if it were tailor-made for him and just waiting for him to claim it. (Chapter 211)
Inside the helmet, in the right eye area, was a monocular device made of an unknown material. While it couldn't display the opponent's fighting power like in the Dragon Ball world, it could lock onto high-speed moving targets and had a telepathic connection-like function that allowed the wearer's ranged weapons to "see" the target, further enhancing their marksmanship. Now, the monocular device was operating under his control. He closed his left eye and used the device like a monocular telescope.

His breathing became steady in his chest, his vision was stretched, narrowed, locked, focused, and penetrated. In an instant, his world consisted only of the dark gold fire dragon and the mage on its back.

"No wonder."

He muttered something to himself, and as his field of vision widened, he recognized who the dragon mage was.

Once his vision returned to normal, he looked up to a higher place where the raiding fleet had entered the adjustment phase and was about to launch an attack.

The raiding ships might inflict damage on the fire dragon, but the dragon mage would inevitably inflict heavy losses on the raiding fleet. Her spellcasting skills could easily plunge the fleet into a nightmarish quagmire.

Darkus knew this well, and more importantly, he wanted to say a final goodbye to his opponent. He then switched from observer mode to attack mode.

As he vanished from his spot, Ibas the Sapphire Eye adjusted her flight path, having also spotted this formidable opponent. Her massive blue crystal dragon wings folded slightly, their angle shifting abruptly, like a refracting blue blade slicing through the sky, piercing diagonally in another direction.

Below, despite the terrifying, near-absolute defensive perimeter constructed by Malatex, the dragons' descent continued unabated. Along this treacherous path woven with death, every second a dragon was torn apart by energy blasts, paralyzed by ball lightning, transformed into blossoming flowers of flesh and blood in the air, and plunged into the churning mist below.

However, in this death-defying procession, one figure stood out from the rest: Minasnir, Imrek's dragon companion.

He was also badly wounded; a ghastly gash had been torn open on his left wing membrane by a grazing energy blast, the edges of which were still smoldering, and dragon blood dripping continuously along the laceration. His flight posture carried an undeniable heaviness and strain, each flap of his wings feeling like tearing open his wounds, causing his breathing to tremble almost imperceptibly.

His dark golden scales were covered with charred burn marks, and streaks of dragon blood seeped from multiple wounds, leaving a faint trail of blood behind him. The trail of blood scattered and swayed in the wind, like…

But he continued forward, like an old sailor stumbling through a storm, his gaze fixed on the source of death in the center of the fog—Maratex.

On the dragon's back, Imrek lay hunched over. His cold resolve and concern for his companions did not intertwine in his eyes. Instead, his eyes were filled with madness and hysteria, the obsession to pierce the abyss even at the cost of his life.

Minasnir's ability to break through to this unprecedented close range was not due to luck; he demonstrated the wisdom and experience of an ancient dragon who had endured countless battles.

He wasn't dodging the barrage of bullets; he was reading and utilizing them. A kind of insight beyond intuition flashed in his dragon eyes. He seemed to be analyzing the minute changes in every energy trajectory, judging that it wasn't a random storm of killing, but a flow of firepower with rhythm, breathing, cooling, and turning logic.

Unlike the young Sun Dragon, he didn't maneuver wildly and erratically, which would only deplete his stamina faster and lead him into unpredictable trajectories. Instead, he keenly grasped the rhythm of Marathex's fire, the subtle pauses in the firepower caused by adjusting targets, and the relatively fixed fan-shaped coverage of the energy barrage. He moved like a dancer to the beat of death, weaving through the gaps in the barrage.

When a nearby blazing dragon was simultaneously struck by several energy blasts and forcibly torn into blazing white fragments in mid-air, scattering like bright flames, he did not dodge. Instead, he suddenly tightened his wings, causing his entire massive dragon body to plummet like a suddenly broken bow, using the shockwave from the explosion and the flying debris as temporary cover.

Using the turbulent currents torn apart by the explosion, he plummeted dozens of meters downwards, falling like a spear sinking into the deep sea, skillfully avoiding the next wave of bullets that swept past his original position. Those bursts of energy storms almost grazed his back scales as they swept past, burning the air into painful vacuum marks.

He ruthlessly and effectively used the destruction of his companions as a stepping stone for his own advancement.

He deliberately made a large maneuver to the left, luring a small stream of energy projectiles to be fired in that direction ahead of time. Just as the projectiles were about to cover him, he made an extremely difficult emergency stop, almost defying the laws of physics, followed by a side slide, causing his entire body to violently arc through the air, barely stopping at the edge of the barrage, watching the scorching energy pass right in front of his nose.

The beam of light burned his pupils, and he could even feel the numbing sensation on the outer layer of his skull as the heat wave licked at him, but he succeeded.

However, he did not completely avoid all attacks.

For some less threatening, scattered energy blasts that couldn't be completely avoided, he would choose to withstand them with the hardest parts of his body. Those scattered beams of light, like splashing hot shards of rock, constantly struck, burned, and shattered his scales. Waves of burning pain came, scales shattered, and even charred fragments were peeled off by the wind in the turbulent airflow, but he protected his vitals and Imrek on his back.

This is using tolerable damage to avoid a fatal blow.

It was with combat experience that seemed to run in his bones and skills that allowed Minasnir to carve out a path to the core, under the cover of other dragons and dragging his battered body, in this death zone where the sky was torn apart and energy storms swept like an apocalyptic flood.

Finally, after a full-force, life-burning sprint, he burst through a relatively thin layer of bullets and rushed into the relatively calm core airspace shrouded in mist.

Maratex's massive, cold, armored figure was right in front of me!
It was a monster that resembled a mobile war fortress, its metal plates gleaming with a somber, cold light in the dim glow.

"It's now!"

Minasnir let out a roar that was a mixture of pain and determination, the sound reverberating in his throat, splattering blood as he channeled his last bit of energy into his wings. He forced open his wings, which were already on the verge of tearing apart, and let them flutter like battle flags unfurled in burning agony, bracing against the air currents to stabilize his swaying body and create that fleeting, perfect platform for his companion on his back to launch an attack.

Just as Minasnil had carved a bloody path with his own flesh and blood, stabilizing himself at a fatal distance beneath Maratex's abdomen, Imrek moved!

Ignoring the turbulent energy currents and dying cries around him, he poured all his spirit, will, and ancient glory into the legendary lance in his hand that radiated starlight—the Star Lance!
The gun burst forth with an unprecedentedly brilliant light, its radiance resembling a compressed starry sea vibrating between the blades, the silver-blue glow carving out miniature star trails in the air.

With the final push of Minasnir, Imrek and his spear merged, transforming into a shooting star that pierced the sky, resolutely thrusting into Maratx's relatively vulnerable abdomen!

boom! ! !
The tip of the Star Lance struck the target precisely.

The deafening impact was not the clang of metal, but a violent collision of energy and matter at the most extreme level, like a miniature star being forcibly pressed into the real world and exploding in an instant.

However, the anticipated scene of the spear piercing the dragon's belly and tearing apart its internal organs did not occur. Between the spear tip and the dragon's belly lay a thick, despair-inducing layer of armor plating covered in runes!
This is Marathex's ultimate defense as a 'terrifying' creation.

The starlight and the armor clashed and tore each other apart in a frenzied battle. The Star Lance displayed its unparalleled sharpness as a divine weapon, its tip forcefully piercing the seemingly indestructible armor.

A blinding, molten crack spread rapidly as the spear tip advanced, its blazing light diffusing outwards along the crack like sealing wax, emitting a teeth-grinding, grating sound, as if the entire sky were groaning. The air was instantly evaporated by the excessive energy vibrations, turning into visible, distorted waves of light.

It's been cut open!
But it was just... cut open.

After penetrating most of the armor's thickness, the dragon spear's momentum, like a spent arrow, exhausted all its kinetic and energy just before it could truly touch the flesh and blood, with only a thin membrane separating it from the rest.

The brilliant starlight dimmed rapidly, shrinking quickly like a flame extinguished by cold water. The gun emitted a groan of strain, the vibrations causing Imrek to lose feeling in half of his arm, and finally... came to a stop.

Failure is a success!

In that moment of utter despair, a blurry image flashed in Imrek's mind. He seemed to see a hint of mockery in the lowered, cold dragon eyes of Malathex. That gaze was filled with contempt for the weak and disregard for resistance, sending chills down one's spine.

Immediately following, an indescribable surge of terrifying energy from all directions—perhaps a passive defense mechanism of Marathex, or perhaps an immediate counterattack from Anasara—slammed down like an invisible giant hammer from the sky and the earth, striking Imrek and Minasnir beneath him squarely.

The power was sudden and relentless, leaving no time for anyone to even think of struggling before they were completely swallowed up.

"Is it still... not working...?"

This was Imrek's last clear thought before his consciousness faded. There was no anger, no resentment, only a deep-seated weariness and powerlessness.

He seemed to see the figures of countless generations of Caledonian ancestors flashing before his eyes, their glory of fighting alongside dragons and soaring through the skies now appearing to fade along with the extinguishing of the Star Lance.

Those glorious memories were shattered in the energy shock, slipping silently through his fingers like grains of sand.

He saw Minasnir's enormous dragon eyes, filled with pain and worry, and felt the faint life force emanating from his companion, like a candle about to be extinguished. In that instant, he even heard the faint, almost non-existent cry for survival unique to dragons, like some kind of choked breath.

Overwhelmed by guilt and sorrow, he ultimately failed to lead his companions to victory, instead dragging them all into the abyss of death.

The pain of having your chest torn apart is more direct and cruel than any physical injury.

Rahil was right!

His vision began to blur and darken, and his consciousness seemed to be drowning in the deep sea, sinking deeper and deeper.

Finally, what came into his view was the molten crack, like an ugly scar, that he had personally slashed into the Maratex armor. The crack seemed to mock his overestimation of his abilities, to ridicule the paleness of his former glory in the face of absolute power.

The deafening sounds of the battlefield rapidly faded into the distance, replaced by a hollow hum that seemed to come from the depths of the ocean. A chilling sensation spread through his limbs, consuming his last vestiges of consciousness.

Everything went completely black. (End of Chapter)