Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"May I?"

As Malekith asked the question, a subtle yet distinct smile curved his lips, a smile that contained not a trace of genuine concern, but only undisguised mockery.

After asking the question, he glanced casually at Newkel beside him, as if he were just checking to see if the 'prop' was still in its original place.

Newkel, who was gazing at the devastation of Lortheon after the war and lost in some heavy thoughts, was pulled back by this light yet jarring question. He turned his head and his gaze met Malekith's expression.

The moment he saw it, his fist clenched.

Malekith's expression was incredibly sarcastic: his eyebrows were slightly raised, his eyes were glancing sideways, and the smile on his lips was as cold as a poisoned blade, as if he were watching someone else's struggle, whose ending he already knew.

Nuker knew all too well what Malekith was asking: whether he could hold on during the long parade and subsequent ceremonies without showing signs of fatigue or lapse in decorum in front of the crowd.

But the problem is this tone! This expression! How can this be an inquiry?

If Malekith weren't the Phoenix King, and not the undisputed superior in name, law, and power, Newker had no doubt that his fist, now imbued with the wrath of the Helban family, would have already slammed into that handsome face filled with mockery, letting the Phoenix King taste the sincere greeting of Helban's iron fist.

He has a temper too, but... what can he do when the other party is Malekith?
Newkel forcefully suppressed the surging anger in his chest, even feeling his back teeth clench until they ached. He looked away, returning his gaze to the ruins, and squeezed out a hard, emotionless syllable through his teeth.

"can!"

He suddenly realized that something about Malekith was becoming more and more like Darkus. Not in appearance or strength, but in that wicked sense of humor hidden beneath his calm demeanor, that way of taking everything under control and deriving subtle pleasure from it.

Is this the revelation of a nature suppressed for millennia? Or is it the arrogance that comes with securing a stable position and holding absolute power?
Nucker recalled that in the long years before the Great Schism, the Malekith he knew was never like this. Back then, the prince always had an unyielding gloom and heaviness between his brows, tormented by responsibility, betrayal, ambition, and pain, rarely showing a moment of true relaxation or exuberance.

A sorrowful expression was almost the most common underlying color on that face.

And now... the Phoenix King before me, though still unfathomable, possessed a certain ease and playfulness that I had only ever seen in Darkus before—an ease so profound it bordered on taunting.

This change felt foreign to Newker, and even more so to him, an inexplicable unease. He would rather face the somber, serious, at least genuinely sincere Malekith, though behind a mask, though unseen, though his flesh was burned beyond recognition by the sacred fire of Asuyan, than deal with this new version, who had learned to use Darkusian irony to mask his sharp edges, yet was now even more biting.

However, it is gratifying that in this respect, Dakous is better than Malekith, and Malekith still has a long way to go.

Marekis seemed completely unconcerned about Nucker's answer and the almost explosive emotional outburst that moment, or rather, that was exactly the effect he expected and was happy to see.

He let out a very soft laugh, like ice scraping against metal, and glanced at me again, returning the simple question like a poisoned dagger.

"Really?"

This time, the tone was slower, with a slight upward inflection at the end, amplifying that playful and distrustful tone to an infuriating degree.

Nucker knew perfectly well that Malekith was simply messing with his mentality, using this tedious yet effective repetitive pressure to wear down his patience and composure.

It must be acknowledged that Malekith succeeded.

The instant that "Really?" entered his ears, a burning impulse, a mixture of rage and frustration, surged to the top of his head. For a clear moment, the tendons in his knuckles tensed again, and he was almost ready to launch a verbal, or even more direct, counterattack without restraint.

He recalled a point of connection between them that was once the same yet vastly different—his mother.

Now, it's different.

Moras is dead, reduced to ashes of history and hatred; but his mother Annasara is still alive. Just before he set off, she found him and gently placed a carefully prepared secret potion that could relieve fatigue and boost spirits into his hand. In her silent gaze was the unjudgmental worry and support that only a mother could give.

But in the end, reason prevailed and a firm hand forcefully suppressed the boiling impulse.

Newkel took a deep breath of the salty sea air, forcing back the sharp retort that was about to burst from his throat. He said nothing, but suddenly and heavily raised his hand and slapped his shoulder hard, making a series of dull thuds.

This action was anything but elegant; it was even somewhat crude, as if it were swatting away those invisible mockeries and using the touch of the flesh to confirm one's own existence and restraint.

Just then, the ship shuddered slightly, accompanied by a dull thud and the creaking of taut cables—the ship had reached the shore.

"Then let's get started!"

Malekith shouted.

This time, the previous irritating banter vanished without a trace, replaced by a settled, undeniable weight. The voice wasn't loud, but like a drawn sword, it instantly pierced through the faint clamor and wind from the shore.

As soon as he finished speaking, the man in the dragon armor bent over first, kneeling and crouching down in a standard and steady posture, like a warrior about to charge, or a cheetah gathering its strength. Almost at the same moment, Newkel, on his other side, also suppressed all his emotions and crouched down in perfect sync.

Immediately afterwards, the back row moved.

Throughout their previous conversation, Barkolomew and Villanix, who had remained motionless like two armored statues, now bowed in turn. Their movements carried the restrained yet precise power characteristic of seasoned veterans, the rustling of their armor plates subtle and rhythmic.

Then came Azalion and Ivarn in the third row. Azalion's movements were swift and decisive, while Ivarn (the Eagle Gate Guardian in Eternity, introduced in Chapter 723) exuded the discipline and solemnity unique to the Eternity nobles, ingrained in their very being.

In the fourth row, a Grand Legion-level Kledan from the First Guards Army and the Inspector General who oversees the Black Knights of Lor'then also simultaneously completed their crouching.

These eight people, except for Ivarn, all bear the same prominent and weighty label: the Truc Army System.

Malekith himself is undoubtedly the highest military leader in elven society today, and the supreme commander of the armed forces. Nükel, as the head of Tarrendan, is the second most important figure who controls the brain and nerves of the army.

Vilanis Shadowdisaster, one of the Black Tower's masters from the old era, has risen to prominence in the new era, now commanding the elite First Sentinel Army, a steadfast shield and sharp blade protecting the core. Barkol, on the other hand, leads the Tenth Army, also a pillar of the legion.

Azsalion, who served as Malekith's lieutenant in Nagarus, has now been entrusted with the important task of building and commanding the Army of Iris.

However, reality is somewhat regrettable. The framework of this new army is not yet fully formed, and a large number of soldiers are still stranded near Wildwood Island. With Duruci's decisive victory in the Battle of Lorthorn, the urgency of its establishment and its strategic positioning inevitably face new scrutiny and adjustment.

Ivarn's presence sends a clear signal. In yesterday's fierce battle, only the Lorthern Sea Guards from the Kingdom of Itien participated as a naval unit, while Ivarn joined the battle individually, riding a giant eagle. Now, he is among these eight, officially representing the will and presence of the Kingdom of Itien's army, symbolizing a broader military alliance and cooperation.

As for the Grand Legion-level Kledan and the Black Knight Inspector General, they represent the cornerstone and ironclad rules that enable the army system to operate efficiently and purely.

The character of Claydan can be described as a combination of sergeant major, martial arts instructor, chaplain, political commissar, instructor, inspector, and even cultural instructor. He is the absolute core who penetrates every centurion, unites morale, and implements will.

The Black Knight, on the other hand, is the military police and judge of the army, a cold hand that maintains discipline, enforces military law, and ensures that the internal order of this war machine is not shaken in the slightest.

Eight crouching figures formed a silent yet weighty silhouette along the ship's side.

They are not just eight people, but a microcosm of the entire Trucchi war machine's power structure, command network, and violent aesthetics.

The ship has docked, and the stage is ready. But unfortunately, these eight people are not the protagonists who are about to step onto this stage and lead the magnificent and cruel chapters that are about to unfold.

The protagonist lay quietly in the wooden coffin located between the eight of them.

Inside the coffin lies Kledan, a centurion-level soldier who bravely died in yesterday's brief but extremely brutal battle. In life, he was the cornerstone of morale and will, and now he is a heroic soul to be remembered and celebrated.

The coffin was covered with a solemn and dignified banner: the top and bottom were a heavy dark red, while the center was a somber black, with a long, gleaming silver line clearly separating the red and black. In the center of the black area, there was a banner embroidered with red thread, standing majestically, symbolizing the Phoenix King's authority and the spread wings of a phoenix.

The flag itself speaks of honor, belonging, and ultimate destiny.

People were already waiting on the dock.

Standing at the forefront were three women: Elsa's chosen one—Alisa, Elsa's priestess—Tirya, and Liv...

Behind them was a sizable and uniquely styled orchestra, led by Tolandil Redleaf, the Mantra Master and Oracle Director, and Ryan Lafarrell, the Eternal Dream Weaver and Oracle Deputy Director.

There is no permanent military band in the Truc army system. On necessary occasions where music and ceremony are needed, artists from the Pentecostal Academy temporarily play this role.

At this moment, this temporary "military band" consists of more than half of the elites of the Spirit Oracle, who are skilled at using music to evoke emotions and create atmosphere; while the rest are local art celebrities from Lorthern.

Among them, the most dazzling were Narentil, who was renowned in the art world of Ausuan, and the musicians of the "Lothern Masquerade" under his command, who were known for their skill and splendor.

Their participation undoubtedly elevated the funeral to the pinnacle of combining art and ritual.

Tolandil's gaze slowly swept across the room, first landing on Alyssa, Liv, and Tirya ahead. The three ladies, their expressions solemn, nodded slightly in unison, indicating they were ready. His gaze then shifted to his second-in-command, Ryan, who responded with a firm nod. Finally, his eyes passed over the standing orchestra members, across the space, and met those of the pallbearers, who were already positioned on the ship, crouching like rocks.

The air seemed to freeze for a few seconds, all the noise faded away, leaving only the gentle lapping of the waves against the pier and the soft rustling of the wind through the flags.

The next moment, the music started.

It began with a deep, resonant horn call, like a wind blowing from the depths of history. Then, the strings and woodwinds joined in like mercury, weaving a magnificent, tragic melody with an indomitable, upward-rising power. In the midst of the music, a clear and penetrating aria rose, singing the first phrase.

"The winds of change are ever-shifting..."

This music and singing are the signal, the beginning.

This is a martial arts anthem created by Tolandil with his heart and soul. Since its creation, it has been widely praised for its magnificent narrative and soul-stirring melody, and has been sung by Nagarus and Ashriel.

Today, it has become the most symbolic and unifying spiritual hymn of this new era. It is sung by children with innocent and earnest voices. This song is their enlightenment poem, a carrier of their shared history, and an innate cultural resonance flowing in their blood.

In all important public ceremonies and solemn occasions, the Duruchi would always sing in unison. The red dragons could sing, and those Duruchi, Asur, Enil, and Aslai who lived in Nagareth and Aishriel, unless they were mute, all of them could sing.

It has become a vocal bond that transcends ethnic barriers and connects people with a shared destiny, just like Aenarion leading the warriors of the ten kingdoms against the tide of chaos in the song.

"When the tides of chaos tore through the heavens, and the demonic torrents devoured Ulthuan, the great Aenarion rose from the sacred fire..."

A deep and rhythmic song burst forth from the chests of the eight coffin bearers, who, carrying the coffin on their shoulders, took their first step forward steadily to the beat of the song.

Just as the weight of the coffin pressed down completely on his shoulders, a very strange expression flashed across Newkel's face.

That feeling... was too light.

It was unusually light.

If it weren't for the tangible tactile sensation, he would have almost thought he was lifting nothing at all, or that the coffin itself had no weight.

He understood instantly.

Despite his earlier verbal taunts and provocations, Malekith had silently taken on the majority of the physical burden. Moreover, the Vellanis and Barklon who had stood like statues behind him during his conversation with Malekith were not actually statues.

A complex warmth, mixed with relief and an indescribable emotion, welled up in Newker's heart. His lips involuntarily curved into a slight, genuine smile, but this smile lasted only a fleeting moment before he quickly suppressed it. He refocused his mind, turned his gaze straight ahead, and with a more concentrated and solemn expression, continued chanting the unfinished martial arts song.

Not far behind them was another coffin bearing the same honor.

The coffin was lifted by a completely different group of people.

Located on the right front is "Mother of Dragons" Modax, whose majestic dragonborn form remains imposing and awe-inspiring. She is the undisputed leader and spiritual pillar of the red dragonflight, and the decorations designed by Darkus further enhance her uniqueness. On the left is "Terrible" Malathex, the acknowledged strongest among the red dragons, silent as a mountain, yet radiating an invisible pressure.

In the center are the brothers Agatagu and Akregon, two dragons who have long been deeply integrated into the Duruch army system, and there is no reason for them to be absent.

Because resting in the coffin was a young dragon.

In yesterday's battle, she served as a junior officer in her dragonborn form, holding the fortress of Lorthorn alongside her soldiers, where she ultimately died, fulfilling her duty as an officer until her last breath.

Two dragon warriors were carrying the coffin from behind. They were the direct subordinates of this young dragon commander, from the lowest-ranking combat units.

At this moment, they bid farewell to their superior officer with the most direct action.

After transforming into its dragonborn form, the dragon's size decreased significantly from its true form, but it remained exceptionally robust, so much so that it could not accommodate eight beings carrying the coffin simultaneously. This procession of six red dragons and dragonkin already represented the dragon race's deepest and most solemn respect.

The singing grew louder and more unified amidst the sea breeze and the solemn accompaniment of the orchestra. Fourteen figures, bearing the weight of the heroic souls together, stepped forward on this long and glorious final journey, protected by solemn music and invisible sorrow.

The sequence of the entire funeral procession was already clearly defined.

Holding the Staff of the Moon and dressed in a pure white priestess robe, Liv walked steadily at the head of the procession. Just as she had done in the depths of Ashloron (Chapter 468), she now led this heavy procession as guide and comforter, as if illuminating the path to rest for the departed souls.

Alisa and Tirya stood on either side of Liv, forming the core of the procession with Liv, infusing the funeral with sacred solace and divine care that transcended death.

Following closely behind was the "military band" led by Torandil and Ryan. As they marched, the musicians continued to play the stirring martial arts song. The notes, like tangible ribbons, wrapped around the procession, pushing the emotions of tragedy and glory high into the sky.

Following the military band were the two coffins carrying victims of different races, yet equally heroic. They were steadily lifted by two groups of pallbearers, moving slowly forward, forming the heart and focus of the entire procession.

The many elves and red dragons who were not chosen to carry the coffins themselves spontaneously and orderly followed to the left, right, and behind the coffins, forming a silent and vast escort. Their faces were solemn as they loudly sang the martial arts song, their eyes always following the two coffins, using their presence and attention to offer a final and broadest tribute and farewell to the heroic souls.

The sky was overcast, the sea breeze howled, and music, songs, and countless silent footsteps intertwined, forming a slow-flowing, sorrowful, and solemn river on the scarred docks and streets of Lorthorn, flowing toward its final destination.

The sacrifices are remembered, the glory is displayed, and the living will continue to move forward. (End of Chapter)