Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

As Anisera followed the Black Knight and finally stepped into the vast hall that connected at the end of the passage, an intense, suffocating odor, like an invisible, decaying wall, slammed into her face.

The smell was so thick it seemed to have a physical form, like a rope soaked in blood plasma, mercilessly wrapping around her nostrils and dragging her stomach downwards.

It was a unique aura, brewed from the violent mixing of cloyingly sweet blood, charred flesh, and festering wounds with pungent disinfectant, that belonged only to the Abyss of the Underworld.

The smell lingered in the air like thick smog; every breath felt like being shoved with poisoned rust into your lungs, instinctively triggering a resistance from the depths of your soul.

Then, the sight that came into view made her soul tremble.

What kind of hall is this?
This is clearly a meat grinder running at full speed, tailor-made for war, a massive purgatory supported by the suffering and remains of countless lives.

As far as the eye could see, there was hardly an inch of intact ground.

Dark red blood flowed freely, meandering down the cracks and grooves in the ground, gathering into viscous, scarlet puddles that reflected an eerie light. Those puddles trembled uneasily in the light, as if they were still breathing.

Discarded, blood-soaked bandages piled up like mountains, sticking together damply, resembling dark red moss growing wildly from the cracks in the underworld, constantly devouring the space and air.

What's even more stomach-churning are the scattered limbs and broken armor, violently cleaved and twisted.

A severed lower leg lay casually against the wall, as if carelessly placed there. The jagged bone fragments and the outward-blooming, bloodless muscle at the break made it look less like a living thing and more like a completely broken and discarded tool, a meaningless but nowhere-to-discard burden.

The chaotic sounds heard earlier in the passageway were amplified and mixed here into an endless symphony of suffering.

A mournful wail, so shrill it was inhuman, surged from all directions, the sound waves overlapping and tearing at each other. Some were high-pitched and sharp, like sharp nails rubbing against an iron plate; others were as hoarse as a broken bellows, each breath seeming to be squeezed out of the chest.

The doctor's harsh rebukes were interspersed throughout, his voice filled with impatience, exhaustion, and a habitual cruelty. What was even more chilling was the dull friction sound of the bone saw cutting, the texture of metal grinding against bone that made one's teeth ache.

The muffled roars, somewhere between whimpers and howls, that the wounded soldiers waiting to be treated uttered from deep in their throats sounded like the final struggles of souls bound by chains.

"If you need to throw up, do it now!"

The Black Knight frowned and glanced at the hall, then turned to Asur and spoke.

His icy voice was like a starting pistol, crisply shattering the mental shells of those stunned Asur, finally making them realize that they were still among the living.

vomit!
Behind Annesera, one of her companions, Asur, could no longer hold back. He suddenly bent over and began to vomit violently, his voice wet and desperate, as if he wanted to expel everything from his body.

Annesera herself felt a wave of dizziness, and a strong feeling of nausea surged up her throat. She covered her mouth tightly, her nails almost digging into her palms, barely managing to keep from losing control on the spot.

Her throat was constricting, her breathing became sharp, her eyes involuntarily welled up with tears, and her knees buckled, making it difficult for her to stand.

She had never seen such a sight before.
This is no longer the tragic wounds of poetry, but a naked, brutal battlefield where life is ravaged by the most primitive and savage violence, and people struggle to survive.

After speaking, the Black Knight ignored them and strode towards a seemingly responsible doctor. After a brief exchange, the doctor, whose hands were covered in blood, hurried over, his movements revealing a frantic energy born of someone on the verge of collapse yet still forcing himself to be efficient.

"Have you seen enough? This is war!"

The doctor's voice was hoarse, as if worn down to the texture of sand by countless fireworks and screams. His tone left no room for argument, even carrying a fierce edge born from suppressed anger and exhaustion: "Since you're here, put away your weakness! Men, come with me! Women..."

He raised his hand, which was covered in dried blood, and pointed to a corner where tools and a water tank were piled up. "Go get the tools, clean up the blood and your vomit on the ground, and put away those... things and broken armor so that there's at least a place to step!"

"There!"

He pointed to another corner, his tone so violent it was as if a moment's delay would mean someone would die right before his eyes.

"Move!"

He practically roared out his last words, and that roar still pierced the hall filled with screams. It was not just an order, but more like a desperate attempt to protect himself from the brink of despair.

After saying that, he stopped looking at the pale-faced Asur, not even wasting a glance, and turned to look at the Black Knight, shaking his head with a furrowed brow.

"That's not enough; we need more manpower."

The Black Knight didn't say anything, but nodded, then quickly walked to Anisera's side and patted her on the shoulder.

The tap wasn't light, nor was it heavy, but it carried a clear sense of trust and command, making her feel as if she had been suddenly illuminated by a beam of light.

"You're very good, very courageous. You'll lead them from now on, and I believe you can do it!"

Aniseira was stunned by the Black Knight's sudden slap and words, and she didn't even have time to react. The hand had already withdrawn, and the black figure had swept past her like the wind. He dodged the panicked crowd and quickly disappeared into the passage he had come from, leaving only a fleeting afterimage and an echoing sound in her ears.

Lead them?

I?
A sense of absurdity and panic gripped her instantly, like a cold hand clutching her heart. She was just a young girl who had barely come of age, and had almost vomited like the others just moments before. What right did she have to lead others?
Was it simply because she didn't vomit? Or was it because she was slightly more stable than the others?
However, reality did not give her time to hesitate.

The Asur women behind her, equally pale and bewildered, were looking at her with a mixture of fear, confusion, and a faint glimmer of hope.

That kind of gaze makes it impossible to pull away; it's not dependence, but rather the last straw grasped when cornered.

After the Black Knight left, they were like a flock of sheep without a leader, and Anisera was unexpectedly pushed into the position of leader.

She took a deep breath of the nauseating air; the strong stench of decay and blood felt like a dull knife cutting into her lungs, but she forced herself to calm down.

Fear won't solve the problem, and vomiting won't either.

“We…” Her voice trembled at first, like a flame suppressed by the cold, but it quickly became firm, even carrying a strength she herself was unaware of. “We’ll do as he says! Let’s go get the tools first!”

She led the way to the corner where the tools were piled up, her steps unsteady yet firm. The other women seemed to have found their anchor, silently following behind her like shadows, their steps unsteady, but at least they were beginning to move forward.

The initial work was extremely difficult.

They had to endure their physical discomfort and use cold mops soaked in disinfectant to wipe up the bloodstains on the floor.

The wails and groans that filled the air constantly assaulted their nerves, some even right next to their ears, making each breath feel like walking on a tightrope that could snap at any moment.

But in the midst of this frustrating process, Anisera's keen eyes began to catch some details that differed from her first impression.

The initial, overwhelming fear and shock pressed down on her senses like a tidal wave, but as her breathing gradually calmed down from the turmoil of nausea, some subtle order, obscured by blood and screams, slowly emerged from the sea of ​​chaos.

She discovered that, despite the bloodstains covering the floor, a relatively clean main passageway had been unknowingly left in the center of the hall.

The passage wasn't deliberately marked out; it was a lifeline forged by countless rapid footsteps. Duruqi soldiers carried the wounded through quickly, their steps synchronized and swift, without hindrance.

Although the Dr. Duruci and his medics were verbally abusive, quick in their movements, and even seemed ready to overturn tables at any moment when they were emotionally agitated, they each had their own areas of responsibility.

Some people are specifically responsible for initial screening and triage, their eyes sweeping over the wounded with sharp, piercing gazes, deciding life-or-death priorities almost instantly. Others focus on stopping the bleeding, while still others seem to treat only specific types of severe injuries.

They communicated rapidly with short, incomprehensible terms and gestures, sometimes as sharp as military orders, sometimes as precise as a surgeon's scalpel, with astonishing efficiency.

Every roar was to prevent a wounded person from losing too much blood due to hesitation for even half a second; every rough shove was perhaps to make way for a dying person.

She even observed that the corner she initially thought was a death trap had not been completely abandoned.

Occasionally, a soldier would hurry over to check on the wounded, tapping their shoulder lightly with his knuckles to confirm if they were still conscious; he would give some of those who could still swallow a few sips of water, his movements rough but carrying a certain rusty restraint. It was more like a weighing of resource priorities than a complete abandonment, a cruel yet pragmatic strategy.

These discoveries, like glimmers of light, pierced through the initial shadow of fear, illuminating a corner of her heart that was almost submerged in despair.

"This place... is not a complete mess."

As she scrubbed the floor vigorously, she whispered to a shivering young girl beside her, "You see, they know what they're doing. What we're doing... is helping them, preventing things from getting worse here."

The girl's eyes darted around, as if she hadn't understood, but Anisella didn't explain further. Now wasn't the time to patiently reason with her; she began to assign tasks proactively.

“You guys, come with me and collect these… severed limbs into the box.”

"You guys go and pack up the armor. Be careful not to cut your hands."

"We need more clean water! You, you, and you, go fetch some water!"

Her instructions were initially a bit hesitant, as if they were being squeezed out of her throat, but with each command she gave and each one quickly carried out, her voice became more and more steady and fluent.

She no longer passively carried out cleanup orders, but began to actively observe, try to understand the operating logic of this bloody system, and integrate herself into it. It was as if she had found a rock to lean on in a chaotic torrent, gradually transforming from a fearful drowning person into a fulcrum that other drowning people could rely on.

She was still afraid, and her stomach was still churning from time to time.

The temperature of the blood, the stench of decay, and the faint yet real weight of the severed limbs touching the tools made every movement feel like she was stepping on her heart.

But a stronger feeling is growing: a sense of responsibility, a clarity born of self-suppression, and a peculiar calmness built up in dire circumstances.

She realized that in this hellish place dominated by Duruci, filled with death and suffering, there existed a cold and efficient order.

And she, Kalendir's daughter, is now leading a group of Asur women, becoming a small but essential cog in the machine that keeps this order running.

This realization gave her the courage to persevere. She was not only wiping away the bloodstains, but also the fear in her heart. That fear was gradually being erased, revealing a resilience that she herself had never noticed.

"Turn over!"

Arendil was taken aback for a moment, then looked at the source of the voice.

He was one of the volunteers, the one who had identified the group of soldiers as the reserve team when they were in the passageway.

He was quite certain that the voice did not come from Asur or Duruci.

Their unique attire, the texture of the fabric, the color of the leather, and the accessories that seemed to carry the scent of the forest were completely different from the armies on both sides, making them seem more like beings who had just emerged from the depths of an ancient, dense forest.

And that peculiar accent.

Enil? Asley?
He didn't know, he didn't even dare to be sure.

All he knew was that this unfamiliar and silent being made a gesture of turning over, a movement that was swift, precise, and without the slightest hesitation, as if performing some kind of ritual that was so practiced it could not be more so.

Arendil immediately joined forces with three other volunteers, exchanged glances, and carefully turned the unconscious Duruch soldier from his supine position to his prone position. The body was cold and stiff, yet surprisingly heavy, clearly on the verge of collapse due to blood loss and the intense heat.

Throughout the entire process of turning him over, the wounded soldier lay like a rag doll, limbs hanging limply at his sides, without uttering a sound, not even a twitch of pain. "Disassemble!"

The weaver gave another brief and concise instruction, quickly pointing to several key buckles and straps on the wounded soldier's torso and limbs. These were the connection points of the armor, each hidden in the gaps between the armor plates, and inexperienced people often had to fumble around to find them.

Immediately afterwards, she lifted the wounded soldier's head with one hand and gracefully but swiftly removed the metal visor covering his face. The visor made a slight scraping sound as it left, and almost without pausing, she casually tossed it into a nearby storage box. The crisp metallic clang made several volunteers' hearts skip a beat.

Then, she made a strange yet captivating gesture.

Extending her right index and middle fingers, she brought them together like a sword and precisely placed them on the wounded soldier's exposed forehead. Her fingertips were incredibly steady, as if she could feel the flickering spark of life beneath the skin.

An indescribable energy then rippled outwards, like a gentle breeze or a delicate ripple in the air.

Peace spell: The target will be enveloped in a deep sense of peace and well-being. Those tormented by fear will be instantly calmed; while other recipients will become drowsy, lethargic, and unable to take any initiative.

Meanwhile, Arendil and the other volunteers began dismantling the armor from the wounded soldier, following instructions. Their movements were initially tense, but they gradually became more focused. The upper body and arms progressed smoothly, the armor structure largely intact. However, when they touched the lower body, the sight before them caused everyone to gasp, and their hands instinctively paused for a moment.

Miserable.

The wounded soldier's legs were clearly severely burned by the intense flames. His leg armor was stuck to his charred, melted clothing and even his flesh, and every millimeter of pulling could rip out dark red, sticky threads. The pungent smell of burning protein suddenly filled the air, mixed with the murky odor of charred hair, almost instantly filling the entire space and making the volunteers' scalps tingle and their stomachs clench.

"Cut it open with scissors!"

The Weaver glanced at the Asur volunteers, who were somewhat flustered and at a loss due to fright, curled her lip, and a hint of undisguised disdain flashed across her face. It wasn't directed at the Asur, but at their incompetence and hesitation.

Arendil and the others then realized what was happening and quickly grabbed what appeared to be gardening knives used for pruning thick branches. Trying to keep their hands steady, they carefully cut away the fabric and leather clinging to the wounds. The blades made a slight clicking sound as they touched the charred material, and each cut was accompanied by a slight tug, making them almost breathless.

The process was extremely difficult, and the volunteers were often terrified when they touched the blurry, almost unrecognizable flesh and blood below. The texture, the color, and the indescribable stickiness made each approach a tremendous effort of courage.

"Don't vomit here!"

The weaver keenly noticed that one of the volunteers' faces instantly turned pale, his throat bobbed, and his eyes reddened. She immediately shouted coldly. The voice didn't rise, but it was more oppressive than a roar, directly suppressing the urge to vomit that was almost overflowing from his throat.

"Turn over!"

Under the weaver's command, everyone worked together again to turn the wounded soldier over like a piece of cargo, so that he could lie on his back again.

This time, without further instructions, the volunteers quickly and skillfully removed all the still-intact armor from the wounded soldiers, as well as the armor fragments that had turned into still-warm metal pieces, and threw them all into the recycling bin.

The weaver had picked up the scissors, intending to cut open the wounded soldier's clothing to examine his injuries, but after glancing at the fabric that was completely and almost indistinguishable from the burned flesh, she paused for a moment and then abandoned the idea.

Then she picked up a relatively clean cloth and quickly and meticulously wiped her hands, carefully cleaning between her fingers, palms, and even wrists, as if trying to completely wipe away any unclean touch and traces of blood from her skin. After wiping, she precisely tossed the used cloth into the waste bin.

Then, she opened her waist pouch and took out a small glass bottle and a gleaming metal syringe. The translucent liquid inside the bottle swayed slightly with her movements, reflecting a chilling light. Her movements were fluid and precise, as if she had practiced this procedure countless times, like performing a sacred yet ruthless ritual, creating a strange, even chilling, contrast with the surrounding bloody and chaotic environment.

She gently pushed the syringe to expel the tiny air bubbles, then reached her left hand towards the wounded soldier's neck, her fingertips keenly sensing the pulse beneath the skin. Locating the vein, she plunged the syringe in, the movement so fast it was almost too quick to blink.

The medication injected into the vein is an anesthetic; the cold liquid enters the blood vessel through the syringe.

Spells are not very effective at this point. Peace spells are more like tranquilizers, and they also have effects similar to hibernation or tortoise breathing, but they are obviously not enough to meet the needs of treating the wounds.

It was a job that required complete cutting and enduring pain.

"Saw!"

As she gave the order, she pulled out the needle and casually tossed it into a box specifically for needles; the metal clanged softly. After doing this, she saw that the volunteers hadn't moved an inch, either frozen in place or stunned and afraid to approach. So she snorted coldly, her eyes revealing impatience.

"is it hard?"

Her tone was sharp, like a blade slicing through glass, instantly making the volunteers' backs tense.

After saying that, without waiting for anyone's response, she pushed aside the nearest volunteer, forcibly making them give up their spot. She picked up a saw, grabbed Arendil's hand, and shoved the saw into Arendil's palm.

"Here! And here! Saw it off!"

As she spoke, she gestured along the wounded soldier's festering thigh, her fingertips moving up and down, causing the charred edges of the soldier's leg to tremble slightly, making Arendil's stomach churn almost instantly.

Arendil's body trembled uncontrollably, his breathing short and rapid, his chest feeling as if a stone was pressing down on it. He kept swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully. Seeing the Weaver's brief but unambiguous encouraging, or rather, commanding look, he gritted his teeth, his fingers stiffly gripping the saw handle, and finally began to move.

When Annesera led her team to clean up the area, she witnessed a horrific scene: her neighbor, who had been walking ahead of her, was now holding a saw and pulling it back and forth across the rotting tissue.

Click——click——

The sound of saw teeth rubbing against charred flesh and bone was like sawing wet wood, or cutting something that shouldn't be cut. The piercing, crisp sound echoed in the space, making one's teeth tingle and hair stand on end.

Annesera's steps froze almost instantly. The sound was like a saw blade piercing her mind, scraping against her nerves again and again, but she quickly recovered, or rather, she had adapted to the environment.

While the volunteers sawed, the weaver had already entered her own work rhythm. She remained undisturbed by the chaotic and noisy environment, her movements clean and efficient, as if the groans, the scraping of metal, and the sounds of flesh being cut around her were irrelevant to her.

She bent down, took out her stethoscope, and placed the cold metal against the wounded soldier's chest, listening to his faint but regular breathing. As she carefully assessed the expansion and echo of his lungs, her brow relaxed slightly; the soldier's lungs were fine.

Then, she slid the stethoscope along the trachea, firmly placing the metal end on it. Just then, the volunteer received two final, heavy, and teeth-grinding clicks.

As the wounded soldier's legs were completely sawed off and fell into the recycling bin, the Weaver's slightly relieved expression quickly turned grim. She listened quietly to the faint, slow, yet moist and obstructive noise coming from deep within his trachea—a sound unlike that of normal breathing.

She sensed danger in it.

She sighed heavily, put the stethoscope back into her waist bag, a movement that was both helpless and swift, as if she had a premonition of the complicated situation she was about to face.

Then, she went to the wounded soldier's legs, which were severed at the root, extended her right hand, made a grasping gesture, and held her palm steadily in front of the bright red cut.

Regeneration: The caster breathes new life into fallen comrades, healing wounds and fractures at a supernatural speed.

The next instant, a faint light emanated from her palm, gentle yet carrying an undeniable power.

Under the spell's influence, the amputation site healed at a visible speed. Flesh and blood began to fill in, and the tissue moved and reconstructed, like tender shoots sprouting anew after the winter snow melted. Blood flow stopped within seconds, and the cut closed rapidly, without the need for bandages or hemostats. The volunteers watched in stunned silence, even forgetting to breathe.

However, this is not the end.

The weaver, having just cast the regeneration spell, immediately stood up and strode back to the wounded soldier's head. She pulled a cold metal endotracheal tube from her pouch, skillfully pinched the soldier's jaw, and pried open his mouth. A faint clicking sound came from the bones, but she didn't even blink. She pushed the tube down his mouth, precisely inserting it into his trachea, ensuring air could flow freely without any further obstruction to his life.

The regeneration technique is no longer usable.

The wound inside the trachea is different from the amputation site. Although regeneration surgery can accelerate mucosal repair, reduce edema, and promote ciliary regeneration, allowing the airway to regain its self-cleaning ability, it needs a clean environment to work.

If necrotic tissue and phlegm crusts in the airway are not removed first through bronchoscopy, regeneration surgery will only seal these wastes firmly in the body, which is equivalent to burying them alive.

Only at this stage is the rescue considered complete.

after that……

The weaver waved his hand, signaling the soldiers waiting in the distance to bring over the stretcher. The Asur volunteers and the Duruqi soldiers worked together, gripping the stretcher's handles, and carefully moved the wounded soldier onto it.

The weaver let out a long sigh, raised his arm, and wiped non-existent sweat from his forehead with his forearm. It was more of a habitual action than a sign of fatigue.

She then immediately began directing the volunteers to clean the platform, her tone carrying a hint of tired satisfaction.

"We successfully saved a life!"

Before the volunteers could respond, she reached out her hand again, signaling the soldiers to bring over the next wounded soldier.

As the wounded soldier was brought over, the volunteers gasped almost simultaneously. They knew they had to move the soldier to the platform, but standing beside the stretcher, looking at the shocking injuries, they felt a profound sense of helplessness.

Compared to this one, the previous wounded soldiers were practically beginner level.

It's like a child who has just learned 1+1=2 being asked to solve an advanced calculus problem.

The wounded soldier looked as if he had crawled out of a sea of ​​fire.

The volunteers didn't even need to use their imaginations; just by looking at the scorch marks, cracks, and peeling skin on his body, they could picture the desperate situation he had endured.

"You can save them, don't just stand there, do it!" The Weaver glanced at the petrified crowd, sighed, and his voice suddenly turned cold and sharp.

On the other side, Anisela had stopped working. As the manager, she had been assigned some more people. She didn't know these new volunteers, but that didn't stop her from giving instructions. She quickly assigned tasks while checking whether everyone understood her instructions. The sense of urgency of being pushed along by the chaos made her feel agitated in just a few minutes.

Having completed the coordination, she let out a long sigh of relief, her shoulders slumping slightly as if an invisible weight had been lifted. Then she looked towards the passageway, where the Black Knight who had brought back the volunteers earlier had returned. She didn't recognize this Black Knight, but she remembered him vividly because he wasn't wearing skirt armor or leg armor. Unlike the Black Knight who had recruited him, this Black Knight was riding a two-wheeled vehicle, with his armor strapped to the back seat.

Seeing that the Black Knight wasn't there to see her, she turned around and continued her work.

The black-clad rider on the two-wheeled vehicle drove directly into the hall and stopped in a corner where rows of benches with backrests were placed, filled with lightly wounded soldiers. Most of these soldiers had suffered injuries from falls and crushing, and the light shining on their pale faces made them look like a group of people who had just been dug out of the rubble.

After receiving basic treatment, they were placed here for observation to prevent internal bleeding, especially splenic bleeding.

The Black Knight, having stopped, didn't properly park the two-wheeled vehicle, but instead let it fall to the ground with a heavy thud. This caused several lightly wounded soldiers to instinctively look up and glance at it before weakly slumping back down.

As he walked, he kept waving his hand to disperse the secondhand smoke in front of him as he searched. Soon he found his target: a centurion.

The centurion's left forearm was gone, probably severed by a magical weapon. His armor had failed to provide any protection. He leaned back in his chair, his head against the wall, chewing on a cigarette, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Although he has lost his fighting ability, he is a centurion and can still command, which is enough for the Black Knight.

Upon hearing the sound of the two-wheeled vehicle crashing, the centurion snapped out of his daze and looked at the Black Knight standing before him. In that instant, his expression turned serious. Given the presence of volunteers, he didn't believe the Black Knight had come to have him organize the wounded to help; there must be something else, something important, because the Black Knight's expression was equally grave.

"Chaos has arrived!" The Black Knight leaned down and whispered beside the centurion's helmet.

The voice was like a cold knife, piercing through the edge of the armor and into the ear, going straight into the heart. No matter how low it was suppressed, it couldn't hide the urgency and danger within.

The centurion stopped chewing, staring intently into the Black Knight's eyes, which held a look of confirmation. Seeing the Black Knight nod emphatically, he nodded emphatically in return, then spread his legs, spat the chewing tobacco onto the ground, and abruptly stood up.

"They've really come? What do you need me to do?!"

"Guard the main hall until the reserves arrive! I'm going to call the reserves now." (End of Chapter)