Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Cherion returned to his assigned dormitory, exhausted and with a throbbing headache, and lay back down on the bare bed, falling into a deep sleep almost instantly.

However, his father, Karendil, did not have such "blessing".

In distant Lorthorn, the wounds of war are far from healed.

Karendir sat alone in front of his collapsed house, using a few loosely stacked bricks as a stool. He kept his head down, not uttering a word, just silently smoking, the pungent smell of the tobacco intertwined with the deep sorrow between his brows.

His wife, Lerian, and her family carefully searched through their ruined home.

Their movements were meticulous and persistent. Their gloved hands moved aside broken wood and brushed away shards of tile, trying to find anything still usable or of any value among the fragments—a porcelain bowl that hadn't yet shattered, or even a small, still intact piece of brocade. Each tiny discovery brought a fleeting glimmer of light to their eyes, only to be quickly swallowed up by an even greater weight.

Survival is the most practical need at this moment, and grief is a luxury that must be suppressed.

In the dreary morning, the distinctive creaking sound of two wheels turning came from afar on the street.

It is Aranion.

He rode his two-wheeled bicycle through the streets, and when he saw his familiar neighbors, he forced a smile and nodded to greet their faces.

"You're back, Aranion?"

"Well, I'm back."

"As long as it's okay..."

The neighbors responded, their voices filled with genuine concern. But Aragion had a strange feeling; the gazes that fell upon him, besides the relief of surviving, seemed to contain something else he couldn't decipher—pity? Or unspoken words?

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he felt that the look in those eyes was strange. Exhaustion and the tension of being on the edge of his seat had drained his energy. At that moment, he had no time to think about anything else; he just wanted to get home as soon as possible.

When the familiar street corner turned and the outline of his home came into view, Aragion froze.

He was so stunned that the front wheel of his bicycle slammed into a piece of broken brick, causing the vehicle to lurch violently and nearly lose control. He barely managed to steady himself, relying almost on instinct and using the last bit of strength, his feet wobbling as he braced himself against the ground.

He stopped, his hands trembling slightly.

"Aranion!"

The first to see him was Karendir, the father who had always been as silent as a stone, who seemed to be instantly infused with vitality. He threw down his half-smoked cigarette, jumped up from the bricks, and almost ran over, kicking the gravel that clattered under his feet. When he reached his son, the old sailor, who was not good at expressing his emotions, opened his arms without hesitation, his movements even somewhat clumsy and hurried.

“Father.” Aranion’s voice was a little hoarse, a thousand words stuck in his throat, but in the end, they all turned into this word.

He was embraced by his father.

That wasn't a gentle hug.

Kalentil's arms, like iron clamps, patted his son's back forcefully, almost like a pounding, then he hugged him tightly, as if to confirm the real existence of this flesh and blood. Aranion could feel the taut muscles beneath his father's clothes and the barely perceptible tremor.

"Aranion!"

“Aranion…”

Then came the mother Lyrian's tearful calls, the lover Ilana's voice filled with surprise and joy, and the young son's mumbled cries as he stumbled over.

All the searching, all the worry, all the forced strength crumbled at that moment. The women dropped what they were looking for, ignoring the dust that soiled their skirts, and rushed over.

The family embraced tightly, without any gaps, in front of their now-ruins home. Lerian's tears instantly soaked her son's shoulder, and her hands kept stroking Aranion's cheeks and arms, checking if he was alright.

Ilana buried her face in Aranion's neck, sobbing silently, her arms wrapped so tightly around him. Her son clung tightly to his father's leg, his upturned face a mixture of smiles and confusion.

Karendir stepped back half a step, but one hand still gripped his son's arm tightly, his gaze greedily sweeping over his face, as if trying to etch his current appearance into his heart. He didn't speak again, only nodded heavily and repeatedly, his tightly pursed lips and reddened eyes saying more than words.

At this moment, this ring, tightly bound together by flesh and blood, tears and silent vows, exudes a vitality more robust than any complete building.

The home is still there, and everyone is back together. This is the first and most solid cornerstone for reconstruction on the ruins after the disaster.

"Where is Anissara?"

The warmth of the brief embrace had not yet dissipated when Aranion released his arms, his gaze quickly sweeping over his family members surrounding him. Immediately, his heart tightened, and his voice carried a hint of barely concealed nervousness.

He discovered that his sister was not part of the family.

He had been active on the city walls, but he had also heard about what was happening in the refuge.

“She…she’s been drafted.” Mother Lylian wiped away the remaining tears from the corners of her eyes, her voice complex, a mixture of reluctance and an indescribable sense of bewilderment.

"Conscription?" Aranion's tone rose abruptly, filled with disbelief. In the postwar context of Lorthorn, the word carried far too much uncertainty.

“She showed… well, good qualities when she was helping out at the field hospital yesterday,” her father, Karendil, continued, his explanation more specific and trying to sound more positive. “Those Duruci people took a liking to her and wanted to train her to become a doctor.”

As he spoke, Kalentil forced a smile onto his face.

From a father's most basic perspective, Annissa becoming a doctor was undoubtedly an excellent career path. It meant stability, a profession highly respected in any era.

Aranion's expression, however, remained frozen in a deeper astonishment.

He is a naval officer who has firsthand experience with Trudeau's efficient and rigorous military system. Just yesterday afternoon, he received basic treatment from Dr. Trudeau for a blister on his hand from a burn.

He knew all too well the rigorous selection and training that Dr. Trucchi, with his precise and skillful techniques, had to undergo before becoming a doctor, and that behind the seemingly glorious image of a doctor lay endless learning, advanced studies, and an almost ruthless sense of responsibility.

Now, his father told him that the notoriously strict Duruci was preparing to train his sister, who had only learned some herbal medicine and simple wound care before the war, to become a doctor in their system.
This……

It sounds like a fantasy, but it actually happened.

After the initial shock subsided, reason told him: This is indeed a good thing!
A mixture of disbelief and relief welled up inside him, and he grinned, revealing a brotherly smile that was one of relief and a touch of dazedness.

However, the smile vanished as soon as it appeared, his gaze sweeping over the familiar yet now rubble-covered homeland. The cold reality instantly overwhelmed the joy, and his eyes involuntarily shifted to the equally devastated street next door—where large sections of collapsed buildings stood, charred beams pointing towards the sky.

He knew where that gruesome trail of destruction came from; it was the path of destruction left by the dragon's fall. Unfortunately, his home, the place where he grew up, happened to be right on that path.

"You... are on vacation?" Karendil noticed his son's rapid emotional fluctuations and changed the subject, his voice filled with cautious anticipation.

“No…” Aranion responded softly, then gently kissed his wife Ilana on the cheek before picking up his bewildered son again and holding him close. “I’ve been chosen.”

"What?" Karendir's brows furrowed immediately, his nerves, which had just relaxed due to the reunion, tightened again.

“Yesterday… I was in command of the defensive operations in the waterway, and my performance… was passable, so I was selected.” Aranion spoke simply, avoiding the specific dangers and bloodshed. “In a little while, I will go to see my comrades off… on their final journey.” His voice lowered, and his gaze followed.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a simple yet solemn wooden coffin lying on the open ground beside him. A flag covered the coffin, the design of which made his pupils shrink slightly.

The top and bottom are a heavy dark red, while the central part is a somber black, with a shimmering silver line clearly separating the red and black. In the center of the black area, there is a majestic phoenix embroidered in red, symbolizing the authority of the Phoenix King.

"This is……?"

“Cahill, the Duruci official in charge of this street,” Karendil’s voice held a complex, wistful tone. “He…died in yesterday’s chaos, and I was chosen to be there to see him off on his final journey. He was Duruci…but he was a good man!”

Aragion nodded heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing before finally letting out a deep sigh, as if to release all the pent-up emotions in his chest. The aftermath of the war, in such a concrete and abrupt way, thrust death and responsibility forward simultaneously, whether they were former enemies or close comrades.

His gaze returned to the ruins, landing on the figures of his family members who had already resumed their busy work.

"Our home..."

He murmured, his voice filled with helplessness. "Druucci has agreed to organize people to help us rebuild, without us having to pay any price," Karundir explained, his tone devoid of joy, only pragmatism. "However, even if the house can be rebuilt, the furniture inside, and all those odds and ends of daily life..." As he spoke, he turned his head, looking at the ruins that held countless memories, now needing to be pieced back together brick by brick, watching his family members toiling away within them, and finally, he let out a long sigh.

He had heard Cahill mention before that regardless of whether the buildings survived the war, the entire old town would be systematically demolished in a planned manner. These buildings were too old, outdated in layout, and lacked adequate infrastructure, making them far from meeting the future development needs of Lorthen as the capital.

He clearly remembered that when Cahill talked about it, he spoke as calmly as if he were describing the weather.

Similarly, he clearly remembered the details: the buildings in the new urban area would be uniformly transformed into row of five-story buildings, the roads would be significantly widened, and lighting and ventilation would be improved.

Two previously crowded, adjacent streets will be merged into a ring of row buildings and blocks with gardens and green spaces inside.

The first floor of each townhouse is planned as a street-facing shop, which the owners can operate themselves or rent out; the second and third floors are recommended to be rented out to generate stable income; the fourth and fifth floors and the attic are reserved for the owners' families to use.

If there are not many family members, the fourth floor can also be considered for renting.

Each building will be equipped with at least two elevators. He didn't quite understand what they were, but he had heard they were mechanical devices that could easily move people up and down stairs, as well as underground spaces for parking carriages and storing goods.

Although unfamiliar with these new concepts, he firmly grasped the core: the living area of ​​the new building would be far greater than before, and the permanent ownership of the land and the building would still belong to him, the original resident.

Cahill also did the math for him: if the street-facing shops and the second and third floors were all successfully rented out, the rental income would be enough to ensure that he and his family would have no worries about food and clothing in the future, and even have a surplus. Of course, in return, he would need to pay a certain amount of property management fees and brokerage commissions to the Wanminyuan's affiliated agencies.

Thankfully, Aranion was a native local and not some otherworldly soul who had traveled from another world; otherwise, he would probably have already blurted out some strange phrases like "AUV," "smash," "get rich quick from demolition," "property swap," and "class leap."

To him, it was more like an incomprehensible vision of the future, imbued with the smell of metal and blueprints, alluring yet strangely alien, leaving him feeling empty inside.

This large-scale redevelopment plan, affecting the entire old town of Lorthern, was a decision made and promoted by Dakous after careful consideration. The generations of Asur residents living in Lorthern are one of the core groups, and the renowned Lorthern Sea Guard, which supports the backbone of coastal defense, came from the sons of these families.

It might be an exaggeration to say that we can't let them bleed and cry, but the necessary care and long-term arrangements must be in place.

We must never allow the situation to repeat itself in the transformation of large cities, leaving the original inhabitants with only an empty household registration and an accent to support their identity, while the whole family is crammed into a small room of a few dozen square meters, staring at each other, living a meager life despite soaring asset valuations.

If the common people of Lorthern are still living in old-fashioned bungalows where they have to fetch water from public wells and use rudimentary public toilets, while others have moved into spacious, bright, and well-equipped new homes, then it is a failure of Darkus.

The new design is full of practical considerations: homeowners can live on the top floor with the best sunlight and the most open views, and enjoy the convenience of modern facilities.

The equally comfortable and easily accessible units on the second and third floors can be rented to those out-of-towners who dream of Lorthorn… no, I mean the younger generation! They will bring vitality and tax revenue to the city, and their rent will translate into a stable and reliable long-term income source for local native families, forming a virtuous cycle.

This is not just about rebuilding bricks and earth, but about reshaping the economic foundation and community relations of a new era.

Karendir stood before the ruins, trying to visualize the future streetscape that had been transformed from blueprints into reality: sturdy new buildings, wide streets, a central garden, a flow of people, warm lights shining from his own windows, and perhaps the aroma of bread or the sound of metal being polished wafting from the shops downstairs.

The future remains uncertain, but at least the path from ruins to new life has been clearly marked, and it doesn't seem so far away.
“Yesterday in the shipping lanes… I killed at least three dragons.”

Aranion's voice wasn't loud, but it was like a boulder thrown into calm water. He paused, "Druucci needs to confirm the battle record and complete the procedures. Once it's confirmed..." As he finished speaking, he put down his son, patted his head, and then pointed clearly and forcefully to the pocket on his chest with the tip of his right index finger.

His message couldn't be clearer: with the victory confirmed, he would receive a special allowance. This money would be enough to help this family, who had just lost their home and were left with nothing, get through their most difficult time.

During the brief firing session, this seaman achieved a glorious feat that, if he lived to see today, he could boast about for the rest of his life, until he died. It was the kind of achievement that people would keep talking about even when wrinkles covered their faces and their teeth fell out.

If the coastal regions of the Kingdom of Itien hadn't lacked the tradition and culture of land burial, they might even have inscribed today's achievements on tombstones. Those who come to the cemetery to pay their respects might stop, their faces filled with disbelief, looking at the words and uttering a soft exclamation: "There really was such a person." (Chapter 867)
This sea guard who created a miracle was none other than Aranion!

Having achieved such a brilliant record, he had no reason not to boast about it to his father, who had also served in Haiwei and knew the hardships involved.

This is not vanity, but the most straightforward sharing of glory among warriors, and the most powerful response to the expectations of their fathers.

Sure enough, upon hearing this, Karendir's eyes widened instantly, filled with shock and disbelief, followed by a volcanic eruption of ecstasy and unbelievable pride. He opened his mouth, as if wanting to confirm something, but was momentarily speechless, overwhelmed by the astonishing news.

At that very moment, Aragion raised his head slightly, just in time. The morning light fell on his weary yet resolute profile. He said nothing more, only letting a mixture of weariness, relief, and hidden pride naturally emerge on his face.

This pride is not ostentatious, but rather a calm confidence and a clear conscience that comes from the depths of one's being after experiencing life-or-death trials and completing near-impossible missions. The way he looked at his father seemed to say, "Look, Father, I haven't disgraced Lorseen Seaguard, nor have I let this family fall apart in my hands."

Before Duruci arrived in Lorthorn, the Calendil family, though not wealthy, managed to save a modest living thanks to their diligence and the stipend from the Sea Guard. After Duruci took control, he implemented a new system of corvée labor and rationing, ensuring that as long as one was willing to work, basic necessities like food and clothing were provided. Before leaving with the fleet, the second son, Cherion, had given all his accumulated stipend to his mother, Lyrian, leaving the family with a safety net.

Kalandil was never one to spoil the fun. Especially now, facing his eldest son's glorious victory, achieved through a life-or-death struggle, a victory that could illuminate the family's darkest hour, the first thing surging in his heart was a surge of pride, like a giant wave crashing against the shore.

A family is a community, and every member has an obligation to contribute to the family—this is a principle he firmly believes in. But when this contribution is presented in such an earth-shattering way, he chooses to temporarily set aside those practical considerations about expenses and rebuilding.

As a father and a veteran who has weathered many storms, he knows better than anyone the courage, skill, and luck required to slay three dragons.

He didn't speak immediately, but took a deep, deep breath, as if trying to inhale the shock and glory into his very being, etching it into his memory. His eyes widened, initially blank from the shock of the bombshell news, then suddenly blazed with an undisguised, almost burning pride. His lips involuntarily twitched upwards, eventually forming a huge, even somewhat foolish, smile, smoothing out the wrinkles etched by the sea winds over the years.

"it is good!"

He shouted suddenly, his voice booming, trembling with a sob, yet filled with unwavering strength, "Well done! Aranion!" He stepped forward, not to pat his son's shoulder, but to place his hands heavily on his son's shoulders, his gaze piercingly fixed on his son's eyes, "You are worthy of being my son! You are worthy of being the Haiwei who came from this street!"

His praise was direct, fervent, and unreserved. It was the highest level of recognition a soldier could give to another, and the most unvarnished praise a father could offer for his son's achievements. He didn't use flowery words or rhetoric, but this simple excitement and affirmation carried more weight than any lengthy eulogy.

Then, he pulled Aranion into his arms, giving him another tight hug. This hug lasted longer; he could feel his son's body stiffen for a moment, then slowly relax. Kalentil squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the tears that might well up in his eyes as a father, and whispered heavily in his son's ear.

"Coming back alive... is better than anything else!"

After a moment, he released his grip, his expression returning to its usual composure, but the light in his eyes remained undiminished. "Don't worry about things at home." He paused, his tone shifting to a reminder, "Go do what you need to do, and do it well. Your mother and I will take care of things at home."

Amidst his father's undisguised excitement and affirmation, Aragion's initial deliberate pride transformed into a more solid warmth and confidence, and he nodded vigorously.

"I have to go!"

He shouldn't have been here; he squeezed in a break to rush back and check on his family. Now, he must get to the assembly point at the refugee camp immediately.

otherwise……

He didn't say anything more, turned around decisively, and his family's eyes followed his back, filled with pride and worry.

Kalandil stood there, watching his son ride his bicycle and disappear around the corner of the street, before slowly exhaling the breath he had been holding. He turned back to look at the ruins and his busy family, his face still bearing that proud smile that had never faded.

Then, Kalandil slowly sat back down on the few remaining broken bricks that had been barely managed to be piled up. Unlike his family, he didn't throw himself into searching through the ruins; instead, he chose to conserve his energy quietly, adjusting his breathing to be calm and deep. He knew that the road ahead was long and demanded absolute solemnity and reverence.

Being selected to participate was an honor he had never imagined, even bordering on the unbelievable. He absolutely could not, and would not allow himself to falter in the slightest due to physical exhaustion at such a crucial moment.

About fifteen minutes have passed.

Just as Karendil closed his eyes in deep thought, an unusual silence suddenly enveloped the neighborhood. It wasn't complete silence, but rather a stagnant feeling, as if the noise had been filtered out by an invisible barrier, and even the air seemed to slow down.

He seemed to sense something, opened his eyes, and looked up. Several figures had been standing quietly in front of him on the street.

He recognized the leader at a glance—that elegant, swan-like figure, yet exuding an undeniable authority, was none other than Finnubal, the prince of Lor'then, the previously questioned leader of the Asur, who, after yesterday's battle for Lor'then, held a pivotal position in the Alliance. The prince was not dressed in opulent court attire, but rather in a simple, solemn dark robe, his face serene, his gaze profound.

Behind and to the side of Finnubar, there were several people who were completely unfamiliar to him.

There was no prior announcement, no clamor of attendants. Finnubar's arrival was so sudden, yet so quiet, as if he were meant to appear before this ordinary ruin at this very moment.

Karendir's heart skipped a beat, but he quickly regained his composure. He stood up immediately, his movements slightly stiff from sitting for so long, but he straightened his back and instinctively smoothed out his dusty coat.

At first, he didn't know why Finnubar was there, nor did he know who those unfamiliar important figures were, but in an instant he understood that this undoubtedly meant that the scale and importance of the next matter far exceeded his previous imagination.

He held his breath, awaiting instructions. At this moment, the surrounding ruins no longer seemed like shattered homes, but rather the edge of a vast and solemn ceremonial stage.

And he, an old sea guard, an Asur, a commoner, stood at the entrance to the stage. (End of Chapter)