Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The Black Knight's words still lingered in the air, but he had already turned around like an arrow released from a bow, striding away at breakneck speed, his back view exuding an undeniable, burning urgency.

The centurion took a deep breath, his eyes sharpening and regaining their ruthlessness—the kind that would bite the enemy to death even if it meant losing an arm. He didn't shout, nor did he blow the brass whistle used when the bugler was absent or in squad-level combat. Instead, a cold, almost cruel smile curved his lips as he muttered to himself.

"They really came..."

This wasn't panic; rather, it carried a sense of "I knew it."

The new era of Trudeau's army places great emphasis on contingency plans, namely emergency response plans for various extreme situations.

The energy gathered on the battlefield of Lorthorn is so vast and distorted that chaos may or may not appear. When formulating plans, staff officers would never naively gamble that chaotic forces won't emerge and then fail to prepare contingency plans; doing so would be court-martial.

The coldness at the corner of his mouth gradually transformed into an undisguised smugness.

After receiving the contingency plan, he made a bet with several colleagues about whether Chaos would get involved. He placed his bet, and it seems he won!

Thinking of this, the pent-up anger in his chest instantly turned into a pleasant gloom, and even the numbness and pain in his amputated arm were soothed for a moment.

As for combating chaos?

Born at the dawn of a new era, he received a clear and unambiguous education from a young age: Chaos is the eternal enemy of the elves and the entire world, and Duruki's reign over Ulthuan is not only to reclaim everything lost, but also to consolidate power and better combat this ultimate threat.

These ideas were instilled in their minds through countless stories of blood and fire in the classroom, training camp, and military life, forging hatred and responsibility into the backbone of the soldiers.

He was no newcomer to the battlefield; his encounters with the minions of Chaos were not uncommon.

Each time was accompanied by stench and roars, each time sharpening him on the edge of death, like a knife that had been put into flames and pulled out of ice water countless times.

"Hopefully those guys who lost will survive today..." he muttered to himself, "otherwise, who am I going to ask for my bet back?"

The smug look quickly faded from his face. He looked down at his left arm, which had already healed under the powerful magic treatment, and shook his head helplessly.

Before the Black Knight appeared, he leaned back in his chair, head against the wall, chewing on a cigarette, staring blankly at the ceiling. But at that time, he wasn't thinking about retirement life because of his injury, nor was he calculating how much land or property he could exchange for with his points to enjoy his old age.

There's an unwritten consensus in Trudeau's army: if you haven't broken any parts during your service, your military career is actually imperfect.

Only by breaking off something can you truly participate; only by missing something can you truly experience it.

What truly gave him a headache was how to write that damned battle report! He'd rather face the Chaos Demon than deal with that tedious paperwork, especially…

Pulled back to reality, he strode over to the doctor in charge who was busy in the area, extended his intact right hand, and pulled the doctor away from the wounded without saying a word.

"What's wrong?" The doctor, interrupted, frowned and spoke with displeasure.

"Something's up!" the centurion said succinctly, his expression more grave than ever before.

"What do you need me to do?" The doctor stared at the centurion, reading an undeniable certainty in his eyes. He immediately composed himself, nodded, and asked in a deep voice.

"I need manpower." The centurion's gaze was fixed on the doctor, while he deftly tilted his head to the side to indicate the direction.

The doctor didn't waste any more words, but simply nodded decisively, then turned around and strode towards the area where the group of lightly wounded soldiers were resting.

As he moved about, his fingers pointed quickly and precisely, like a military commander.

"you you you."

Those he pointed out were soldiers who were about to complete their observation period and had basically regained their ability to move.

The centurion followed closely behind the doctor, and when the selection began, he added in his distinctive, unquestionable voice.

"Those who have been called, stand up!"

Upon hearing the command, the lightly wounded soldiers, though somewhat puzzled, stood up one after another and quickly got into position. Their movements went from slow and sluggish to swift and efficient in just a few breaths, as if their fatigue had been reset by that single command.

The doctor's finger stopped in front of a wounded soldier. The soldier reacted quickly, trying to get up before the doctor could even point at him. However, the doctor's hand was faster, firmly pressing down on the soldier's shoulder and pushing him back down.

"You need to be observed further!" The doctor's voice left no room for argument.

The area erupted in laughter and boos, a stark contrast to the painful groans coming from afar. The wounded soldier's face flushed crimson, his emotions churning with humiliation and helplessness.

"You'll be in the reserve." The centurion grinned, walked up to the wounded soldier, and patted him hard on the shoulder with his good right hand.

This area was home to over 120 wounded soldiers, five snake-man warriors, and 22 Asur volunteers active in the neighborhood. Apart from the two snake-men who had come with him, none of the soldiers here were under the centurion's own command.

At the time, a Sun Dragon was shot down. According to standard procedure, Kledan should have led a team to the crash site for reconnaissance, while he, as a centurion, should have stayed behind to command. However, in order to gain merit that would allow him to advance further in his rank, he…

His left hand was lost at the point of impact. The critically wounded dragon prince launched a final, frenzied counterattack, his magical weapon severing his left arm. Besides him, two other snake-men traveling with him were also injured, and so…

He and the two snake-men came here to report.

This is also the main reason why he is most troubled about how to write the battle report; this report is really difficult to write.

If his hundred-man team had not suffered any other major losses in this operation, he might have been able to cover up his dereliction of duty as a necessary adjustment based on on-the-spot judgment and handle it lightly; but if the team suffered heavy casualties in this battle, then his decision to lead the team to explore and rush into the danger zone on his own would be enough to get him into serious trouble, or even worse.

Those rules and regulations, signatures and stamps, and chains of responsibility will relentlessly pursue him like hunting dogs.

Although these wounded soldiers were not his direct subordinates, that did not prevent him from recognizing some of their faces. Seniority allowed him to identify familiar faces, while experience allowed him to distinguish new recruits. This field hospital belonged to his regiment and was responsible for treating wounded soldiers who had fought in the nearby neighborhoods.

Similarly, this does not prevent him from exercising command authority in the future.

This is the case with the new era of Trudeau's army: highly organized and remarkably resilient.

The saying "Soldiers don't know their generals, and generals don't know their soldiers" has been utterly distorted by Trudeau's military system.

Officers, Kredans, and ordinary soldiers—each was like a cog in a precision machine, knowing their place and responsibilities. In critical moments, as long as this system remained in place, even if the main officers were killed in battle, the soldiers could quickly elect a temporary commander based on their seniority and experience, automatically reorganizing into a combat group capable of both fighting and defending.

The doctor quickly surveyed the area, and eventually, 85 soldiers and five captains and deputy captains stood up; the other soldiers still needed to be observed.

Without hesitation, the centurion immediately summoned the five captains and lieutenants to his side. He didn't give a long speech, but used the most concise language: explaining the seriousness of the situation, stating his intentions, and clarifying the priorities and established objectives.

At the command, the five captains scattered swiftly like hunting dogs, returning to the soldiers who had just stood up, and quietly ordered them to regroup. Despite their injuries, the wounded soldiers moved without hesitation, automatically lining up in several neat rows according to their branch of service.

After the queue was formed, a more detailed selection process began.

Because the selection process involved choosing team leaders who were expected to lead from the front rather than higher-ranking officers, the process was exceptionally swift. The temporary team leaders and deputy leaders for each team were determined almost entirely through a few glances and whispers.

"Those five snake-men can also join the battle, and twelve of the Asur volunteers are mobile; the others need further observation," the doctor added in a low voice as he returned to the centurion's side after completing his rounds.

"You will be in command of the mobile Asur units. Distribute weapons to all volunteers and medical personnel and prepare for the worst," the centurion ordered.

The doctor nodded and turned to proceed with the distribution.

"and many more!"

"What's wrong?" The doctor stopped and turned around.

"Weapons! Let our men go first!" The centurion's tone left no room for argument regarding priority.

The doctor nodded again and quickly left to make the arrangements.

Taking advantage of this brief lull, the centurion swiftly made his final arrangements, even his breathing barely touching the ground, as if wasting even half a second would push the situation further into an irreversible abyss. He left one of the five captains behind as his deputy commander, the most reliable choice he had weighed in just a few breaths—cautious, dependable, and tough enough.

His gaze had already swept across the entire hall like a falcon's, taking in the layout and structure of the space. The way the hospital beds formed a screen, the way the medicine shelves and supply boxes were stacked, all quickly combined in his mind to form a temporary battle plan. There were two main entrances and exits, one on the left and one on the right, neither too close nor too far apart, just enough for two small defensive teams to effectively intercept them.

His plan was clear and decisive: he had to hold these two passes at all costs until the reserves arrived.

He was responsible for defending one, while the deputy commander defended the other.

The other four relatively experienced captains were assigned to take charge of the wounded soldiers who still needed to be observed.

These people will serve as reserves.

The centurion knew that if these wounded soldiers needed to be thrown into battle, it meant the situation had reached an extremely critical point. At that time, the so-called observation period would be meaningless; regardless of whether their ribs had healed or their wounds were painful, they would have to grit their teeth and stand up.

Survival and holding this place are the only goals.

The five silent yet powerful snake-man warriors were also assigned to the reserve team.

A clear, efficient, and decisive temporary command chain was quickly established.

The soldiers began to move, heading towards the heavy crates in the corner of the hall where weapons were stored. Although this was a field hospital for saving lives, a certain number of standard weapons were still stockpiled according to the contingency plan, precisely to deal with such extreme and unpredictable emergencies.

As the soldiers silently lined up and elected their captain, the previously busy and oppressive atmosphere of treatment in the hall began to subtly change. The previous groans of pain, the urgent instructions from medical staff, and the clanging of metal instruments were all as if weighed down by a thick cloud, leaving only a suffocating silence and tension that quietly spread.

A sense of impending doom began to replace the previous noise and chaos.

When the weapons crate was flung open with a clang, revealing the cold, neatly arranged weapons, javelins, crossbows, and arrows inside, it was as if a silent thunderclap had suddenly resounded in the air. The light shone on the metal weapons, reflecting a blinding, cold gleam. All the medical staff and Asur volunteers who witnessed this scene froze in their tracks; the bandages, instruments, and medicine bottles in their hands even hung suspended in mid-air, frozen for a few moments.

They didn't know exactly what had happened, but the act of arming the wounded on such a large scale sent a chilling and unmistakable signal: an extremely deadly threat was approaching.

This place is no longer safe.

As the wounded soldiers of Duruch silently received their weapons and, following orders, quickly ran to the two entrances and exits, rapidly establishing makeshift defensive lines using the doorframes and piled-up supplies, the tense atmosphere of impending battle suddenly escalated within seconds, reaching its peak.

The sounds of metal scraping, heavy footsteps, and the muffled groans of the wounded, unable to be suppressed by their violent movements, all mingled together.
-
At the other end of the sanctuary, in the hall where Annesera's mother, Cherion's mother, and Kalentil's wife—Lyrian—was located, the oppressive peace was shattered once more. That familiar figure, clad in black armor, appeared again at the entrance like an ominous sign.

Like the other women and children, Lylian's eyes were fixed on the Black Knight. She assumed this cold-blooded administrator was there for the third round of volunteer recruitment. Looking at the dwindling number of people around her, she took a deep breath, held it, and clenched her fists. This time, she was ready to step forward herself. She even leaned slightly forward, like a doe cornered but still mustering her courage, preparing to take that decisive step.

However, the Black Knight's next words almost instantly froze Lyrian's blood.

"A demon has appeared!"

He didn't announce it; he roared it.

The sound erupted as if it were being ripped apart from the depths of a steel helmet, causing the walls to echo and roar, as if announcing the arrival of some irreversible disaster.

The word "demon" carried a chilling power, exploding in the hall and eliciting a moment of deathly silence. The air seemed to be sucked out, and everyone's breath caught in their throats. Then came almost uncontrollable whispers of panic and the sobs of children being hastily covered, their tiny hands trembling in their mothers' arms.

Ignoring the spreading fear, the Black Knight strode toward a previously closed iron door on the side of the hall. His movements were no longer the calm efficiency he usually displayed, but rather a urgency as if he were crushing time itself.

He quickly pushed open the iron gate.

Inside the iron gate were mountains of standard weapons and armor; the field hospital had reserves, and so did this place.

"Everyone!" The Black Knight turned, his voice like a tolling death knell, echoing in every corner, "Come and collect your weapons! Arm yourselves!"

His words had barely faded, and before the echo had even died down, a group of soldiers suddenly surged into the other entrance of the hall, accompanied by hurried and chaotic footsteps. They were not Duruqi, but rather the Lorthern Sea Guards dressed in blue and white battle robes.

Their arrival silently confirmed that the Black Knight's words were true.

The flames of war have reached this place.

And it's incredibly fast.

There is no time to cry, no time to hesitate.

Even fear needs to be suppressed.

Under the piercing gaze of the Black Knight and guided by Haiwei, the refugees, mainly women and some teenagers, formed a silent and trembling line and headed towards the open armory door that exuded a cold, steely aura.

The procession moved slowly and heavily, each step seemingly exhausting all their strength. Some had pale lips, some were trembling violently, but not a single person turned to run away; they knew there was no escape.

When it was Lyrian's turn, she watched as the Black Knight picked up a gleaming dagger from the pile of weapons. The metal blade flashed a blinding white light in the illumination, as if slicing an ominous crack in her eyes.

But the Black Knight didn't simply shove the weapon into her hand as he had done to the others. He paused, his hand, clad in black gauntlets, frozen in mid-air. His eyes, hidden in the shadow of his helmet, seemed to be fixed on her, as if confirming, or perhaps scrutinizing, whether she was prepared for some irreversible situation.

Then, he did something that almost stopped Riley's heart: he gripped the dagger in his backhand and pointed the sharp tip at his heart!
The action was cold and cruel, as if demonstrating a final, unavoidable choice.

“If necessary!” The Black Knight’s voice was deep and cold, devoid of any emotion, yet carrying a chilling seriousness. “You know what to do! Don’t hesitate!”

As he spoke, his helmet tilted slightly, his gaze passing over Lyrian and landing on her family behind her. In that instant, she could even feel the weight of that gaze, like an invisible knife, reminding her, warning her, and pressuring her.

In that instant, she understood everything.

This dagger is not meant for her to fight demons, but rather to give her the final and cruelest choice: the ability to end her own life and help her loved ones find liberation before suffering humiliation and pain worse than death.

A chill ran from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, like an ice snake crawling up her spine to the back of her neck, causing Lyrian's body to tremble uncontrollably. She stared at the blade pointed at her heart, as if she could already feel the cold, sharp pain piercing her flesh and bone. She shakily reached out her hands, her movements stiff and hesitant, as if accepting a red-hot iron, and took the dagger with immense weight.

The dagger was in her hand; it was icy cold, the chill penetrating her palm and reaching straight to her heart, almost causing her to drop it.

Before she could recover from the shock, a stern-faced Lorthern sea guard forcefully pulled her aside. Two other guards quickly stepped forward, their movements as swift as if they had practiced countless times, and slipped a standard breastplate over her shoulders, fastening and tightening it. The cold clasp against her clothing sent a chill down her spine.

The coldness and weight of the armor pressed down on her, like a heavy block of iron, sealing her last bit of weakness beneath the armor plates, forcing her to straighten her back.

She gripped the dagger that symbolized her ultimate fate tightly, turned to look at her family, her eyes swirling with emotions—endless fear, despair, and a primal, wolf-like resolve born from being driven to the brink of despair.

She was no longer Kalendir's wife, no longer Anisera's mother; she was just an ordinary elf caught in the torrent of war, forced to take up arms to protect the last dignity of her loved ones.
-
When the somber atmosphere instantly engulfed the entire hall like a cold tide, Anisera's first sensation was not a clear understanding, but an instinctive, physical discomfort.

The familiar smell in the air, a mixture of pain and medicine, seemed to suddenly change, becoming heavier, more pungent, and more like the wind blowing from the front lines, infused with a cold, metallic sharpness. She involuntarily shivered, the fine hairs on her arms standing on end. She looked up and just then saw the weapons crate being opened in the distance; the neatly arranged weapons, like cold needles, pierced her vision.

In an instant, her heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by an invisible hand, stopping and stiffening.

Immediately afterwards, it started pounding wildly, almost bursting out of its chest cavity.

She saw the wounded soldiers who had been sitting against the wall, groaning, instantly change their expressions after receiving weapons. Their exhaustion and pain seemed to vanish like a cold wind, replaced by a wolf-like vigilance and ruthlessness. Their faces remained pale, but their gazes were like blades. They ran and took positions in silence, their movements swift and agile, quickly constructing a deathly defensive line at the entrance.

"They...they're going to fight here?"

The thought exploded in her mind like a thunderbolt, bringing a wave of dizziness. This was supposed to be the place to save people, so why had it all turned out so suddenly...?

When a cold dagger was shoved into her hand, Anissara's fingers trembled violently, almost dropping it. The metallic feel was completely different from the rags and buckets she had touched before; it was terrifyingly heavy, as if it contained all the cruelty and death in the world.

"I...I need to use this...?"

She looked down at the murder weapon, its surface gleaming with an eerie light, and a wave of nausea washed over her. Just minutes ago, these same hands had been trying to erase the traces of a life lost; now, they were grasping a weapon that could end her own life?
In her opinion, fighting with this dagger was less satisfying than giving herself a quick death.

A tremendous sense of absurdity and fear enveloped her. She had just come of age and had only received some basic military training. How could the prospect of fighting suddenly and unexpectedly fall on her head like a stone? She didn't even have time to prepare, no chance to take a deep breath, or even the thought of rejection before she was pushed to the brink of life and death.

Her gaze involuntarily fell upon the two heavily guarded exits. The increasingly clear footsteps outside sounded like the panting of an approaching beast; the deep, dragging rhythm sent chills down her spine. Each step seemed to pound on her chest, making her breath quicken.

She could clearly feel the tension and fear in the hall gathering and fermenting, rising wave after wave like a tide, forming an almost suffocating low pressure.

She saw a young Asur girl beside her, just like herself, whose hands trembled like leaves in the wind after receiving a dagger. She forced back small sobs, but tears streamed down her face silently. She saw her companion, who had vomited earlier, now pale as a sheet, her lips bloodless, her eyes vacant, as if her soul had escaped from her body, which was about to face the flames of war, leaving only an empty shell standing mechanically.

Yet, amidst this extreme fear, another emotion, like a tender sprout struggling to emerge under a blanket of ice and snow, began to throb weakly. It was subtle, fragile, and easily crushed, yet stubbornly persistent and impossible to ignore.

She remembered her father's resolute figure as he left, she remembered the determination she had when she chose to stand up, and she remembered the faint peace she felt while cleaning up the bloodstains, a sense that she was doing something meaningful.

"If...if this place is breached, everyone will die. Including the wounded soldiers still under observation, including these...the doctors and volunteers who were just trying to save lives."

This realization was like a cold lightning bolt, cleaving through her chaotic thoughts, instantly dispelling all the noise, and giving her heart a sharp shock.

The dagger in his hand was still cold and repulsive, like a piece of iron that smelled of death.

But at this moment, it is no longer just a tool; it has become a heavy, cold bolt, an ugly but necessary bolt used to block the gate to the underworld and protect the fragile lives behind it.

Having received only basic training, she might not be able to fight like a soldier, and she didn't know if she could wield this weapon if she were truly facing the enemy. But at least, at this moment, holding it meant she hadn't given up, hadn't sat idly by waiting to die, and hadn't let fear completely overwhelm her. She stood here, alongside all those trying to survive, facing the unknown, surging darkness.

This is no longer a choice to be brave, but a forced confrontation.

Although the atmosphere in the hall was incredibly oppressive due to the tension of impending battle, this did not stop the Weaver from continuing to treat the troublesome patient on the platform. Her movements remained steady and delicate, as if the surrounding noise and the suppressed breathing before battle were separated by an invisible boundary. The space around her belonged to her alone, seemingly out of place with the atmosphere of the entire hall.

Arendil's judgment was almost certainly correct—she was Asley, from Elsoloren. She had been assigned to this field hospital because of her proficiency in Giron magic.

In terms of seniority, she is not considered ancient; she was not even born when the Asley army ravaged the Kingdom of Elion and conquered Gorond.

However, her life is marked by an experience far more profound and legendary than that of many of her peers. That experience is like a shallow scar that will never heal, embedded in her soul, constantly reminding her of the weight of fate.

The Season of Redemption has ended. Orion and Ariel have returned, and a new era for the Asleys has begun. The year is Imperial Year 2007. (Chapter 454)
At that time, Liv foresaw a horrific future: the forest would be reduced to ashes, and chaos would rage within it. She was certain that this calamity would not be limited to Atholloren; the entire world would be doomed. Although the Woodland Council remained as distrustful of her prophecy as ever, Queen Ariel sensed a violent disturbance and confirmed the gravity of Liv's prophecy.

To this end, Ariel and Liv gathered five hundred Asley spellcasters for an extremely dangerous expedition. They ventured into the Dreamwood, a perilous realm where the internal flow of time was highly unstable, and where dreams and reality constantly intertwined, tore apart, and merged, in an attempt to find the truth and a way out.

This expedition came at a heavy price.

After enduring months of demonic harassment and temporal distortion, the maddening whispers, the endless hallucinations, and the torment of disrupted day and night cycles continued to erode them.

When they finally left, less than half of the spellcasters who had accompanied them survived.

Many survivors, driven mad by witnessing the horrors of the woodland or by their heavy fate, had eyes that were now filled with a faltering light, as if they would shatter completely at the slightest touch.

This weaver was one of the survivors. She personally experienced that adventure of peering into fate and witnessed the fall and madness of her companions. She had to personally end the suffering of more than one companion who was completely consumed by dreams. She endured thirty-six days and nights alone in the time loop, even when her body was exhausted.

But she didn't go crazy; she held on and survived.

If she had been given more time, she would have become a Weaver by studying under the Srannical Priest Narhap. But she chose to come to Ulthuan, to this legendary place, a place that frequently appeared in the Asleys's words.

This unique background endowed her with a composure beyond that of ordinary elves. To her, the life-or-death situation of the individual before her was just as crucial and undisturbed as the grand shadow of the world's survival she had glimpsed. One could even say that her current focus was a response to the significance of her survival from her journey through the Dreamwood.

However, even without these things, she had to stay focused. This patient was different from the previous ones; the injuries were too severe, and life was like a spider's thread hanging precariously in the wind. The slightest mistake would break it, and she had to hold that thread steady.

Life and death hang by a thread; it all depends on her next move. (End of Chapter)