Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Darkus's gaze remained fixed on that small yet crucial figure in the distance—Liandra, and the dragon horn in her hand that seemed to embody the last vestiges of Caledon's fortune.

In Darkus's eyes, the other beings were merely part of the grand backdrop of the battlefield, the necessary fireworks and roars on the real stage, not the main characters.

If we consider everything that happened in Lorthorn today as a grand drama, then he is undoubtedly the playwright who wove all the clues and destinies. He personally drew back the curtain, secretly controlled the rhythm, and the clash between climax and tragedy unfolded gradually along the track he had set.

Leandra, on the other hand, was a foreshadowing he had laid long ago, a hidden thread that, only now, has arrived, bringing the most tragic and glorious climax to her character arc.

Even from such a great distance, Darkus seemed to be able to penetrate the void and feel everything that Leander was going through at this moment—a triple collapse of body, will, and soul.

The gushing blood from her mouth was a manifestation of the backlash from the magic, and an outward expression of the complete collapse of her spiritual world under the crushing weight of cruel truth. She had witnessed firsthand how Kaledo's ambition to make his first battle the decisive one had been reduced to dust. This blow to her will was devastating, enough to make any proud dragon mage lose the will to live in an instant.

However, the most fundamental collapse stemmed from a complete disruption of cognition. The awareness that I had always been walking on a path paved by others was more cruel and devastating than any magical trauma.

Darkus could see that the terrible thought, like the coldest venom, silently seeped into the depths of her consciousness: she herself was the most crucial link that led to this disaster. All her choices, all her efforts, even her sense of responsibility to return to Ulthuan, may have already fallen into his carefully woven net, ruthlessly guided and exploited by him.

The fact that Leandera became a top spellcaster instead of running an inn shows that she is very smart, and she should have realized it by now.

The mental breakdown wasn't as violent as a sudden storm, but rather like ice slowly cracking—silent, yet chilling enough to pierce to the bone. She traced her decisions step by step, the clearer the thoughts becoming, the more desperate she felt. Those seemingly accidental, seemingly logical moments were, in fact, strung together with uncanny precision, forming an inevitable trajectory leading to today's tragedy.

Yes, from the moment Basil learned that "Leandra is still alive" (Chapter 260), she had entered his field of vision. Initially, he was only interested in the Dragon Song, but as he reached a deeper agreement with the Red Dragon forces, her value and position changed, from a potential collaborator to the most perfect, and least aware, pawn in the strategic deception.

Every hesitation, every choice, and every seemingly proactive action she took unwittingly helped him complete his plan.

If fate is a long, rushing river, then Dacules is not merely a boat adrift with the current, but a master craftsman capable of altering its course at crucial moments, even forging new channels for it.
He was both an observer and a shaper; he controlled the storm and guided the tide. He knew better than anyone what he was doing, and he faced the civilizational upheaval he had personally triggered with greater composure than anyone else.

and so……

This was by no means a simple military victory, but a crushing defeat across all dimensions and levels, from strategy and intelligence to psychology.

This overwhelming force is not simply due to superior strength or numbers, but rather a calm and almost cruel wisdom that dismantles and destroys the enemy's cognition, judgment, beliefs, and even soul layer by layer with surgical precision.

Truc successfully staged a grand strategic deception.

By cleverly utilizing the return of the messenger Leander and the crucial intelligence she brought, they precisely induced the high command of the Kingdom of Caledon to make a fatal misjudgment, leading their main force headlong into Lorthene, a meticulously prepared slaughterhouse.

Darkus had a precise grasp of Leandera's psychology and anticipated her predictions. He knew deeply the longing for her homeland, the arrogance unique to spellcasters, the dedication to responsibility, and the small yet brilliant hope of using her own power to change the situation.

He even reached an agreement with Lilith to indirectly influence her through that ethereal dream, making her willingly and step by step embark on this path that leads her compatriots to destruction.

Those elusive hints in her dreams, those seemingly divine revelations, those subtle pulls that gradually convinced her that she had to return to Ulthuan…

Everything Leandra did seemed to be guided by an invisible hand, leading her to this inevitable tragic end.

This is the most typical tragic character in the conflict between personal choice and grand narrative.

Her motives were beyond reproach on a personal level: to help her fellow human beings and awaken the dragons to fight the threat. However, her kindness, her sense of responsibility, and her special abilities were all transformed into perfect tools for her enemies to exploit, ultimately destroying everything she cherished.

Her story, in the most brutal way, highlights the powerlessness and tragedy of the individual swept up in the grand tide of history. She did not lose to power, but to her fate, which had already been foreseen and manipulated.

That absurd feeling of being bound hand and foot by fate, yet still believing she was running forward, was now retaliating against her in the sharpest and most ruthless way. The more she struggled, the more it proved that the invisible hand had never left her.

Thinking of this, Dakotas sighed.

This sigh is not born of cheap pity, but rather a complex lament from a historical perspective. It contains a tinge of respect for a formidable adversary, a sigh for the cruel twist of fate, and a subtle empathy—the kind a screenwriter feels for a tragic character. It's like witnessing someone exceptionally intelligent and talented, yet tragically pushed into the abyss by a structural destiny; that sense of helplessness is a detached, cold compassion unique to an observer.

He knew that Leandera wouldn't survive the day; the dragon horn had sounded too late, appeared too late, and the best opportunity to retreat had slipped through his fingers like sand.

This breakout attempt was nothing more than a last-ditch struggle in a desperate situation, a flickering, fragile, and destined-to-be-extinguished glimmer of light in the eye of the storm. He clearly saw her continuous vomiting of blood and the backlash of her energy. She was completely exhausted; neither her body nor her mind could sustain her any longer for a successful escape.

Strategically, Leander's value has been completely exploited; emotionally, she knows too much and is too deeply connected to Lilith. Her very existence is living evidence that she cannot be allowed to continue wandering the world.

From any perspective, Dakota would not allow such a potential, uncontrollable living history to leave unscathed.

Her death was a necessary condition to ensure the perfect ending of the script.

While in Laurent Laurent, he learned from Belloda's account that Soriol (Casillas' nephew) had written a memoir, and inspired by Soriol's memoir, he conceived the idea of ​​writing his own memoir.

This is not for the purpose of seeking fame or reputation, but rather to serve as an internal reference for educating the core leadership and passing on their strategic thinking and wisdom of governance.

Perhaps it will also circulate among the common people, providing material for ballads for wandering poets?
In writing, could we vindicate Leandra from another perspective?

Darkus knew perfectly well that Leandera was no ordinary person. Her abilities and her choices objectively became key catalysts for the realization of his grand plan.

To deny her is, to some extent, to belittle his own meticulously planned grand scheme, while to give her a fair evaluation is a disguised affirmation of his own strategic art.

By revealing the truth through innuendo, his purpose was not only to exonerate Leander personally, but also to demonstrate to future readers his absolute control over strategizing and manipulating people's hearts.

Those details he deliberately preserved, those seemingly unintentional yet precisely targeted narrations, are like delicate threads that guide the reader to the only path of interpretation:
She wasn't foolish; she was simply facing an opponent who was far too powerful.

She didn't fail; rather, she was drawn into a game of chess that transcended the mundane.

Leandra's tragedy will be the most significant chapter in his most brilliant case of strategic deception. Her vindication is precisely the cornerstone of his own myth.

This may be the only, and final, mercy he could offer to this tragic opponent.

It wasn't about saving her life, but about writing this footnote in history's judgment: she wasn't foolish or treacherous, but rather defeated in a game of chess far beyond her imagination, woven by gods and tyrants.

What Tzeentch's Chosen...

This makes the tragedy and helplessness of fate more apparent than mere death.

This made him wonder if he was too cold-hearted, or even arrogant.

However, this idea was fleeting and was quickly replaced by a grander strategic vision.

No, this is not simply cold-bloodedness, but rather a rationality and efficiency in the face of historical inevitability. The ending he arranged for Leandra—physical destruction and limited historical vindication—is a reflection of his worldview: I destroy you, but I will give you an eternal place in my history books, a place defined by me.

This demonstrates the absoluteness of their power and will even more than mere killing.

However, beneath this absolute control lay a genuine sense of gratitude that he himself had to admit!
His mind clearly deduced another possibility: a timeline without Leandra, one that was even bloodier and muddier.

In the illusion of that timeline, even the sound of the wind seemed to fade, and the war drums beat dully in the distant, fictional future. He could almost see the bloody steam rising from that road.

If it weren't for Leandra, if she hadn't chosen to return to Ulthuan...

Then, the dragons of Caledor will continue to slumber. Those ancient dragon nests will still breathe the heavy sulfurous air deep within the ridges, showing no sign of awakening; Asur will lose their most powerful, decisive strategic force.

Lorthern will not be present in today's first and decisive battle, which brings together almost all of the top combat forces from both sides.

Everything will not erupt so concentratedly, so condensed, so dazzlingly, but will drift slowly and spread endlessly like a rotting river.

War will revert to its ugliest and most destructive form.

That was a form of warfare that he utterly despised.

Duruci's army will have to gnaw at Ulthuan inch by inch, turning every elven city into a meat grinder.

Mages would unleash their final spells amidst the ruins, holding out until only ashes remained; knights would launch pointless assaults on the burning streets.

Every step forward was taken by treading on blood-stained gravel.

Asur's army will relentlessly wage guerrilla warfare and harassment along the long front, relying on terrain and magic. They will appear and disappear like ghosts, making them difficult to completely annihilate, but unable to stop the overall defeat, only prolonging the suffering.

The war will be prolonged indefinitely, perhaps for decades or even centuries, and everything from the past will repeat itself in the future.

The conventional troops deployed by both sides will bleed to their last drop in this protracted war of attrition, countless towns will be reduced to scorched earth, and the hatred accumulated over thousands of years will seep into every inch of land in the most thorough way.

In that future, Ulthuan would no longer be the jewel of the world, but a wasteland whose souls have been drained by war.

Although Darkus had also prepared for this, and would mobilize all forces to Ulthuan when necessary, that was not what he wanted to see. It would be a slow, agonizing bloodletting without glory, an unbearable disaster for both sides.

The appearance of Leandera brought all of this to an end.

Her figure seemed to illuminate his deductions like a blinding beam of light, forcefully cutting a rift in the bottomless quagmire of war.

She acted like the most potent catalyst, condensing what could have been a chronic plague lasting decades into a single, devastating, yet highly efficient surgical procedure that decided fate in a single day.

Such high efficiency, such concentrated cost...

She helped the Kingdom of Caledon assemble its main forces: the hope and intelligence she brought back prompted the Kingdom of Caledon's leadership to resolve to concentrate their strength on Lorthorn and seek a decisive battle.

The belief she ignited became the core fuel of Caledo's fighting spirit.

She created the perfect opportunity for Trucchi: to lure the enemy's most vital forces to a pre-arranged battlefield and eliminate them in one fell swoop.

She even unknowingly played the role of the perfect executor in luring the enemy deep into her territory, personally pushing the backbone of a civilization to the guillotine.

From this perspective, Leander inadvertently played the role of an accelerator of history. At the cost of her own tragedy, she prevented more unnecessary sacrifices and prolonged suffering.

She prompted Duruci to launch a full-scale attack, directly destroying Ausuan's strongest resistance and fundamentally undermining the enemy's will and ability to continue the war.

This is not an achievement in the ordinary sense, but a key variable that changed the course of the times!
Therefore, Dakota was genuinely grateful to her.

Even though this gratitude is logically cold and emotionally cruel, he still cannot deny its existence.

Thanks to her, this war of unification was accomplished in the most cost-effective and efficient way.

He thanked her for sparing his soldiers from falling one by one in the long war, and for sparing the elves of Ulthuan from shedding their last drop of blood in desperate resistance. This gratitude was so contradictory and cruel; he appreciated the contribution of this adversary, a contribution achieved precisely by destroying her and burdening her with the guilt of causing the disaster.

Such gratitude carries an almost divine coldness and absurdity.

Perhaps... this is the ultimate manifestation of his philosophy of power?

His philosophy of forging order through destruction and efficiency through tragedy made him appear exceptionally lonely, yet incredibly resolute, in his silent contemplation.

As for Imrek...

He may live to see today, or he may not.

Darkus's decision not to launch a dedicated hunt for him was not out of mercy, but based on a higher level of cost accounting and political considerations.

He calmly weighed the pros and cons in his mind, as if he were assessing the vital value of a kingdom, rather than deciding the life or death of a person.

If Imrek could survive and handle the post-war affairs of the Kingdom of Caledo, he might be more valuable to Duruci than a cold corpse.

The thought slipped gently through his mind, cold and clear, without the slightest emotional fluctuation.

The logic behind this is clear and ruthless.

The first possibility: a dignified exit, a happy ending for all.
If Imrek can recover from his crushing defeat, stabilize the situation in Caledon with his remaining strength, and ultimately lead Caledon to accept the new reality in a dignified manner, completing the transition from a hostile kingdom to a vassal or collaborator.

For Darkus, this would be the most ideal and cost-effective outcome.

This means that Duruci will not have to carry out a long and bloody extermination of those stubborn dragon princes in the rugged mountains of Caledo.

Darkus wouldn't mind giving Imrek the recognition he deserves in future history books—a tragic king who made the final and most difficult choice for the survival of his people in dire straits.

He could even imagine the elegant, slightly regretful sentences in history books describing Imrek's demise as the final curtain call of an era. Even in his final moments, he would stand center stage, bearing his last dignity, becoming an elegant sacrifice to the old era and a magnificent embellishment to the new order.

For Dakota, this was not only reasonable but also highly symbolic—the victor's tolerance was the sharpest display of power.

This is the kind of tolerance that Dakotas can offer, based on practical interests; it is a calculated tolerance, not an emotional handout.

The second possibility: Refusing dignity, leading to self-destruction.

If Imrek awakens, blinded by hatred and humiliation, refuses to accept reality, and insists on gathering Caledor's last strength for a hopeless and insane revenge...

Then, Dakous will not hesitate to withdraw his tolerance.

If the Kingdom of Caledon can launch an attack on Lorthorn in this way, then Duruci can do the same, and perhaps even more thoroughly, more precisely, and without the slightest hesitation.

At that time, there will be no more reservations or restraints.

Darkus will use all his power to systematically and thoroughly erase Caledo from existence as an independent military force, burying its ancient heritage and pride, along with its last bloodline, beneath the ruins.

It would be a calm, rational, yet utterly merciless act of annihilation, a necessary evil that is common in history but forever terrifying.

What Daculus gave Imrek was not a simple choice between life and death, but a choice about the fate of his people: to integrate into the new order with dignity and leave a tragic ending in history; or to choose meaningless resistance, to make the entire Caledonian kingdom perish for his obsession, and ultimately leave only the mark of a loser who was out of touch with reality and brought about his own destruction in history.

The answer to this multiple-choice question will determine whether the Kingdom of Caledon becomes a legendary tale worth remembering or a historical site utterly trampled to the ground.

"Ok?"

After making his decision, Darkus looked away, then his pupils contracted slightly, his expression changed drastically, and his free left hand instinctively reached for the horn.
-
Sleepiness overwhelmed Annesera like a tide. Karendil's youngest daughter could not resist the exhaustion of body and mind. She unknowingly sank into a light sleep on the floor of the shelter, which was covered with a thick carpet. Her face was buried in her arms, and her breathing was so light that it was almost inaudible.

She was completely isolated from everything that was happening outside.

The deafening roar of battle was like thunder tearing the heavens and earth apart; magic shrieked and exploded in the air, its echoes carrying a violent power that distorted reality. And the intermittent roars of dragons from afar, those sound waves that struck the soul and made the heart tremble, continued to assault the broken air above Lortheon.

These elements intertwine to form an endless symphony of terror, enough to drive anyone mad.

However, they could hardly penetrate the thick, solid walls of the shelter. The soundproofing was superb; even the rolling vibrations were absorbed and swallowed up by the layers of structure, as if it were a quiet room isolated from the storm. Every disturbance from the outside world was kept out, leaving only an illusion of calm frozen in the air.

However, this brief and fragile peace was torn apart in an extremely brutal manner.

A sharp, undeniable shout, delivered with a heavy foreign accent, pierced the stifling air of the shelter like a suddenly thrown poisoned ice spike, instantly pulling everyone out of their drowsy state.

"Anyone with medical knowledge, come out immediately! We need manpower! We need volunteers!!"

Anisela sat bolt upright in shock, her heart pounding violently in her chest as if it were about to burst through her ribs. Her dazed state was instantly jolted awake; she instinctively wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, only to find her fingers trembling slightly.

Looking in the direction of the sound, one could see that the small door in the corner of the shelter, which had originally been used as an emergency escape route, had been violently pushed open from the outside.

A warrior clad in dark armor stood in the doorway, his figure almost filling the entire frame. The pungent stench of blood, acrid smoke, and gunpowder assaulted the senses like a wild beast, followed by an oppressive atmosphere that made it hard to breathe. His hawk-like eyes coldly swept over the huddled Asur refugees, his gaze like a blade cutting across their faces, leaving them stiff as if they were being called upon for execution.

Panic erupted instantly in the crowd, spreading rapidly through the air like an invisible plague. Anisera also felt a chill run down her spine, making her almost instinctively want to shrink back, her fingers gripping the hem of her clothes tightly.

But the words "need personnel to assist in the treatment of injuries and illnesses" struck her heart like a hammer blow, echoing for a long time. Deep in her mind, the resolute figure of her father's departing back flashed, and a sharp tremor ran through her chest.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to suppress the sobs in her throat and the trembling in her body. She turned to the side and gently pulled her pale-faced, trembling mother and other family members beside her. She lowered her voice, almost audible to each other, her tone urgent and weak, yet carrying a courage forced out of her.

“They need someone who knows medicine… There must be… there must be many wounded people outside. I… I learned some herbal medicine and bandaging from Aisha’s priests.”

"It's too dangerous, Annie!!" Her mother's voice was choked with barely suppressed sobs, her cold hand gripping Annie's wrist tightly, as if letting go would sweep Annie away in a storm. Her eyes shone with extreme fear, her pupils even slightly contracting.

“I know, Mother.” Anisera’s voice still trembled slightly, the tremor seeming to spread from her fingertips to her chest, but beneath that tremor was an unusual determination. “But if no one stands up, more elves will die, and perhaps… among them are people we know. Father is fighting for us outside, and I… I can’t just hide here and do nothing.”

As she spoke, tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself not to blink, as if her courage would crumble through the cracks if she did. The words "We can't do nothing" seemed to be spoken to her mother, to herself, and even more so to her father, who had not yet returned and whose fate was unknown, as a silent vow.

A brief, silent exchange of glances took place in the air. The mother looked at her, her eyes filled with layers of fear, pain, and struggle, as if countless emotions were trapped within those eyes softened by time, yet she couldn't find a single word to stop her daughter. Her lips trembled, as if she wanted to speak again, but in the end, nothing came out.

Then, large tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and slid down her cheeks. As if all her strength had been drained away, her shoulders slumped slightly, and she slowly released her grip on Annesera's wrist, the movement so light it was almost like a gentle breeze. Finally, she nodded very slightly, as if reluctantly acknowledging that her daughter was no longer the little girl she could protect in her arms.

During their brief discussion, several Asur, as if having made some irreversible decision, stood up one after another. Their movements were hesitant and restrained, yet they carried a courage forged in the face of dire straits.

Without further hesitation, Anisera quickly straightened her dress, which had become slightly wrinkled from sleep, and ran her hands along the hem and shoulders, trying to appear more composed, more like a comforting hand that could be leaned on, rather than a girl just awakened from a nightmare. She took a deep breath of the slightly cool air and then took a firm step forward.

"follow me!"

The Black Knight didn't even wait for the Asur to line up; his hoarse, metallic voice suddenly exploded, filled with urgency. He waved his hand, his movements as swift as if he were commanding on a battlefield, not selecting volunteers in a shelter. Then, without hesitation, he turned and disappeared back behind the half-open door.

Behind the small door was not the narrow, dark passage that Asur had previously imagined, but an unusually wide, brightly lit corridor. Neatly arranged lights on the ceiling emitted a steady, bright light, illuminating everything as clearly as daytime.

When the group of apprehensive Asur stepped into the passage, they froze almost simultaneously, their steps seemingly frozen in place.

However, before the fear could fully spread and take over everyone's hearts, the leader of the black knights' hoarse, cold, yet penetrating voice rang out again, like a whip lashing the stagnant air.

"Walk close to the wall!! Don't make eye contact with them!!"

What stunned the Asurs was a group of Durucci soldiers running towards them from the front of the passage.

Their ranks were chillingly orderly; their armor was black and sharp, reflecting a dark, cold luster under the light. The metallic clang of their armor as they ran was rhythmic, heavy, and oppressive, the vibrations of their footsteps sending shivers down the ground as if the entire passage was moving with them.

The murderous aura swept over us like a whirlwind.

Upon hearing the command, the Asur, like a flock of startled sheep, suddenly reacted and obediently pressed themselves against the cold, hard wall. Some were so tense that they were almost unrecognizable, while others dared not look up, shrinking their bodies to their smallest size, their breathing rapid as if they were trying to escape death itself. They tried to make themselves smaller, more harmless, and less noticeable, minimizing their presence as much as possible.

The Duruqi soldiers, who also heard the Black Knight's shouts, responded with low, grotesque jeers and hisses, tinged with mockery. Those sounds were like a cold wind rising from the abyss of malice, carrying contempt, amusement, and a cruel, almost playful quality. They seemed to be engaged in a silent contest with the Black Knight, neither disobeying orders nor missing any opportunity to display their superiority.

As they continued running, their heads snapped to one side in unison, the movements so precise they sent chills down one's spine. Countless cold, scrutinizing, and even cruelly curious gazes fell upon the Asur pressed against the wall, a chilling stare.

In that instant, Anisera felt as if an invisible blade had lightly grazed her skin, a chill creeping up her spine. Those gazes weren't simply hostile; they were the gazes of a predator scrutinizing its prey, a playful, shadowy smile, a cruel choice to wait rather than strike at any moment.

Those brief few seconds felt like they were stretched out indefinitely.

But that's all.

The intersection happens in the blink of an eye.

The ranks of Duruci's soldiers surged past them like a torrent of steel and darkness, the whistling wind carrying the smell of sweat brushing against their cheeks, the heavy footsteps quickly fading into the distance.

Only then did Asur, a man who looked to be just over 18, lower his voice and mutter with lingering fear in front of Anisella.

"A hundred-man squad, should it be a reserve team?"

His Adam's apple bobbed. He had received basic military training and tried to dispel his fear with analysis. He struggled to make his voice sound calm, but the slight tremor at the end betrayed his true emotions. After speaking, he couldn't help but turn his head, his gaze passing over Anisera and looking in the direction where Duruci and his men had left, as if the black-armored warriors might return at any moment.

But Anissara didn't turn around; her gaze was fixed on the passageway ahead, her eyes widening slightly, revealing an uncontrollable fear. A clearer, more chaotic sound was pouring into her ears from around the corner ahead.

It was a heart-wrenching wail, a scream of extreme pain, a furious curse, and the sharp clang of clashing instruments. Various sounds, high and low, mingled together, like a vortex of pain, rage, and blood, constantly rolling and tearing, forming a symphony belonging to the underworld.

It wasn't just a sound; it was more like a thorny hook that ripped at the soul, making every Asur instinctively want to escape.

"Don't stand there, move!" Seeing the Asur slow down because of the voice, the Black Knight urged them again. His voice was as sharp as a blade cutting through metal, forcibly pulling everyone back to reality from their fear.

Then, seemingly realizing that intimidation alone wasn't enough, he added a rare touch of reassurance to his tone, "After today, you will be rewarded. That's my guarantee to you! You know who I am, and you know what I represent!"

Driven by his promises and instructions, the group was forced to continue. Footsteps echoed through the passage, heavy and disordered, each step feeling like a beat against their own heart.

When Anisera followed the Black Knight and finally stepped into a vast hall at the end of the passage, the sight before her made her blood almost freeze instantly.

She witnessed a scene that sent chills down her spine. (End of Chapter)