Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Chapter 1064, Section 916: You're Not Dead? (Transitional Chapter)

Imrek's cousin, Elisander, lies alone on the arched balcony of the tower.

He was hardly sitting; his body sank into the high-backed chair, his center of gravity unsteady, as if he had been carelessly placed down and then left unattended. His limbs hung loosely at his sides, unable to find a comfortable position. His gaze passed over the railing, falling on the courtyard and street below, but never settling on any particular point.

At dawn yesterday, this was still the noisiest place. Whitestone Square was packed with people, flags were raised one after another, and slogans and songs piled up, making one's ears feel tight. There was too much noise, so much that even the wind had nowhere to go.

Now, only empty spaces remain.

This wasn't the quiet of nightfall naturally; there was no lingering echo in the air, no gradual fading—the sounds seemed to have been abruptly cut off. The streets were still there, the buildings were still there, but nothing flowed within them, like an empty shell that hadn't been dealt with yet.

Ellesander didn't watch any further.

His gaze suddenly shifted away, his movements somewhat stiff, as if he had only realized what he should do a beat late. He reached for the wine jug, his grip unsteady, but he still managed to bring it to his lips.

He didn't go to get the wine glass.

The spout was cold when it touched his lips; with a flick of his wrist, the liquor poured down. The first sip was just cool; the second began to sting. He drank quickly, without pausing, as if afraid that if he stopped, something else would follow.

The coughing came very suddenly.

His back was hunched, his shoulders heaving uncontrollably. Wine spilled out, mingling with physiological tears, dripping from his chin and spreading on his clothes. He didn't reach out to wipe it away, nor did he slow down his movements, until not a single drop could be poured out of the pot before he let go.

The wine jug fell to the ground, making a crisp sound.

The sound appeared and then disappeared.

Alessand leaned back, sinking back into his chair. His head was tilted back, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky, but he wasn't really looking into it. His breathing was heavy, each inhale labored, carrying the smell of alcohol, and punctuated by a few awkward pauses.

He didn't curse or make a sound.

The alcohol didn't make him lighter.

Only a bitter taste remained in his mouth, but his chest felt empty and heavy. It was as if something that had been supporting him had loosened its grip without his notice.

The silence that had descended upon Tal Sammersan fell upon him.

After an unknown amount of time, he tried to stand up.

The movements were so slow they were almost uncoordinated, as if the body hadn't caught up with the decision.

He walked through the empty tower, his footsteps barely echoing the ground, as if even the stone walls were deliberately absorbing his voice. He passed through familiar rooms and chambers, finally stopping in front of Imrek's bedroom door.

The door stood quietly.

He raised his hand, paused for a moment, and then pushed it away.

Imrek remained lying in bed, fast asleep. The candlelight still burned, weak and steady, illuminating only a corner of the bed. His breathing was even and slow, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, as if the collapse of the outside world had nothing to do with him.

Alissant walked to the bedside and sat down, his movements so quiet they were almost silent.

He looked at that face.

Young, unchanged, so familiar. Yet, for some reason, I always feel there's something between us, like an untouchable barrier, right in front of me, but I can't get close.

He felt no turmoil in his heart.

There was no anger, no sadness. Everything that should have been there seemed to have been taken away, leaving nothing behind. My mind was blank; not even a thought had a chance to form.

He just watched.

It was as if he was waiting for something, or perhaps he no longer needed to wait. Time lost its meaning at that moment. He couldn't tell whether the candlelight flickered or the shadow moved, nor did he care anymore.

Then, a very slight anomaly touched him.

It wasn't a sound, nor a breath, but rather a kind of perception that was suddenly awakened and surfaced from the depths of consciousness.

Ellesander slowly turned his head.

Without him noticing, a figure appeared beside him. The outline was indistinct, as if pieced together by faint light and thin mist, its edges swaying gently in the air, as if it would dissipate at any moment.

This is the depths of the family's spire; no one should be here.

He neither got up nor spoke.

Because of a certain resonance from the depths of their blood, they had already made a judgment.

The figure took half a step forward.

Then, a warm hand gently landed on his shoulder.

In that instant, the outer shell that he had been holding up for so long shattered completely.

It didn't collapse, it shattered.

What had been suppressed beneath the deathly silence surged forth all at once. The humiliation of defeat, the weight of loss, the fear of the future, the loathing of one's own powerlessness—they all mingled together, shapeless and needing no distinction, simply pouring out.

Ellesander lowered his head.

His shoulders began to tremble, initially just rapid, disordered breathing, like a sound stuck in his throat, but it quickly spiraled out of control. His attempts to suppress his breathing failed completely; he hunched over, his entire body collapsing.

Tears welled up without warning.

Hot and urgent, tears streamed down his face, wetting his cheeks, his clothes, and the edge of the bed. He didn't wipe them away, letting his body tremble and lose its support.

At this moment, dignity has no meaning whatsoever.

Then, the world went dark.

-

When consciousness returned, it didn't feel like waking up.

It was more like being slowly dragged out of a cold, sticky darkness.

He found himself still in the high-backed chair, his body sunk deep into it. His head was tilted back, his neck stiff and aching, the soreness spreading up his spine.

He opened his eyes.

It was completely dark. The night sky was a deep blue, almost black, with sparse and distant stars, as if they didn't belong to this world.

My cheeks feel cold.

The tears had long since dried, leaving only sticky traces that quickly turned cold in the night wind.

He didn't move for a moment.

I can't tell whether what just happened was real or fake.

That room, that figure, that collapse—was it a dream, or another ongoing reality? Or perhaps, this moment of lucidity is some kind of longer dream?
He couldn't tell.

Time has lost its outline once again.

Finally, he tried to stand up.

As soon as he put his legs up, his support collapsed. He staggered and then fell heavily onto the marble floor. The sound of the impact was particularly hollow in the night.

A distinct pain shot through my elbow.

He just lay there, staring at the wine jug not far away.

The moonlight fell on the teapot, reflecting a cold light.

It took him a long time to slowly prop himself up. His movements were clumsy and slow, each step requiring great effort. He dragged his feet as he moved around inside the tower, the soles of his shoes scraping against the ground, making a soft, lonely sound.

Finally, he stopped in front of that door again.

He raised his hand, then paused.

Then push it away.

There were no lights in the room. Moonlight streamed in through the window, cold and thin, outlining a blurry silhouette on the edge of the bed.

In that dim light, Imrek opened his eyes.

He didn't get up.

The rhythm of her breathing did not change.

He just sat quietly, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Alexandan walked to the bedside and sat down.

He looked at that familiar, pale face, yet his heart was strangely calm. There was no anger, no sadness, and no fear.

All that remained was a kind of almost nihilistic tranquility.

He just stared at it, as if trying to see through that face and understand a course that could no longer be changed.

Time, once again, has lost its meaning.

Perhaps only a moment has passed, or perhaps a whole year has already gone by.

Ellesander couldn't tell the difference.

He sat motionless in the shadows beside the bed. He was still breathing, but his thoughts seemed frozen, as if solidified by something invisible. Time had lost its meaning for him.

Until there was a knock on the door.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the night, coming from outside the door connecting the living room to the downward passage, one sound after another.

Imrek did not react.

He stared at the ceiling with his eyes open, his gaze empty and distant, as if there was nothing left in his body to respond to the outside world.

Alexandane heard it.

But he didn't move.

The knocking continued, steady and patient, unhurried yet carrying an undeniable persistence, as if fulfilling some duty.

It took a long time for Ellesander to stand up.

His joints made a very faint sound. He walked out of the room, across the empty living room, his footsteps dragging on the floor with a low echo, and finally stopped at the door.

"who."

His voice was low and hoarse, almost not like a question.

"My lord... Rahil Movin requests an audience."

The voice outside the door was very low, restrained and cautious.

Ellesander did not respond immediately.

After a while, he raised his hand and opened the door.

The butler's gaze visibly paused for a moment when he saw him clearly. It wasn't rudeness, but rather an instinctive reaction that he couldn't completely conceal. His expression tightened for a very short time, then quickly returned to normal, but ultimately he was a beat too slow.

It's only for one day.

Ellisand stood there, as if repeatedly trampled upon. The shadows beneath him were clearly visible, his gaze unfocused, his entire body slumped as if the skeleton supporting him had been removed. His former sharpness and imposing presence had vanished without a trace. The butler even had a fleeting, incongruous illusion—that time within this tower seemed to be out of sync with the outside world.

"Let him come over."

Alessand spoke, his voice flat and without inflection.

"it's here?"

The moment the question left his mouth, the butler realized his mistake and immediately shut up.

Alessand did not respond. He had already turned and slowly walked towards the sofa in the center of the living room. His steps were uneven, just inching forward.

He paused in front of the sofa for a moment, then sat down. The soft backrest supported his body, but it couldn't stop the feeling of continuously sinking.

Half an hour later, Rahil sat down opposite him.

"You're not dead?"

Alessand spoke first, his voice dry. As soon as he finished speaking, he shook his head slightly, a barely perceptible smile curving his lips.

The question itself is meaningless.

"Where is the dragon?"

Rahil's tone was steady, and his gaze was fixed on Ellen Sander. Even from a distance, the sense of defeat mixed with the smell of alcohol and exhaustion was still clearly discernible.

"You do not know?"

Alessand suddenly looked up.

In that instant, his gaze suddenly tightened, and shock was almost written all over his face.

"do not know."

The answer was brief and definite.

"How could you not know?"

Alessand stood up, his movement so sudden that he swayed. His voice finally lost control, like a long-suppressed crack suddenly bursting open.

Rahil did not get up.

“Ignimus dropped out of the fight midway through,” he said in a flat tone. “I don’t know what happened after that.”

An absurd truth unfolds between the two—

Those who personally stepped onto the battlefield knew nothing of the inevitable defeat; but those who remained in the tower, awaiting news of victory, pieced together the collapse little by little from the survivors' fragmented accounts.

"why?"

Alissant's voice was very soft, almost without any inflection.

After saying that, he sat back down. His body sank into the sofa, his back pressed against the cushions, and he no longer tried to maintain his posture, as if he had already accepted that whether he was supported or not was irrelevant.

“His sons are on the city walls,” Rahil said. “He has no reason to continue the attack.”

After he finished speaking, there was a moment of silence in the living room.

Ellisand stood there, not reacting immediately. His expression shifted briefly, then quickly returned to normal, as if a thought had been abruptly cut off.

Then he laughed.

The voice started low, just a breath escaping from his throat. It gradually grew louder, echoing in the empty space, yet sounded hollow and powerless. He tilted his head back, his shoulders trembled slightly, his eyes were red, but he didn't blink.

Rahil laughed along with him.

His laughter was shorter and lower, barely spreading out before it subsided, as if confirming something he already knew.

The two kinds of laughter briefly overlapped in the living room before dissipating.

Silence returned.

“So,” Rahil spoke again, his voice lower than before, “what about the dragons?”

His question was neither urgent nor sharp.

This question never needed a real answer in the first place. It just required someone to say it.

"left."

Ellisand spoke softly, and stopped after he finished speaking, without adding anything further.

The air seemed to be suffocated by those two words.

"leave?"

Rahil repeated it, his tone rising slightly, but it didn't sound like a question; it sounded more like a confirmation.

“Only four returned.” Alessand’s gaze was unfocused, as if he were looking at a scene that no longer existed. “After a brief stay here… they flew to the Dragonspine Mountains.”

Leander sacrificed herself to clear a deadly airspace, creating a precious, fleeting window of opportunity that tore a path for the surviving dragons. Legnius, carrying Imrek and the eight remaining fire dragons, shot off like arrows through the aftershocks of the white light, fleeing desperately towards North Harbor.

However, even if the airspace is temporarily cleared, what awaits them is not liberation.

That was just the beginning of the second stage.

Three giant dragons were struck down from mid-air, their massive bodies tumbling and falling out of control.

This was because Dakotas had sounded the horn.

If that horn had not sounded, the already positioned air forces would have relentlessly pursued the remaining dragons until they were all shot down, leaving none behind.

The remaining dragons managed to escape the main battle zone, but they still could not escape the shadow of death. Two of them, on their way back, were too badly injured and lost their balance, eventually falling silently into the desolate mountains and dense forests where no one knew them.

In the end, only Legnius and three other fire dragons truly returned to Tal Sammersan.

They landed in the city and unloaded the elves from their backs.

Without a roar, without pausing, and without even glancing back at the city whose glory had been burned to ashes, it spread its wings once more and flew straight south toward the Dragon Ridge Mountains.

Both the dragons and the elves knew that their relationship had completely broken down.

"Four..."

Rahil murmured to himself, as if confirming a number he had misheard. His expression gradually froze, his eyes losing focus and becoming blank and lifeless.

Just yesterday at dawn, a colossal dragon took flight from this city, its immense size blotting out the sky. The magnificent sight, seemingly tearing the heavens apart, still lingers in his memory.

But now...

He knew that the Kingdom of Caledo had lost, but the casualty ratio was still far beyond his most pessimistic and darkest imagination, so exaggerated that even anger seemed pale and superfluous.

“Arrogance has ruined us.” Allesander closed his eyes, his voice hoarse and broken. “You are right, Rahil.”

“What’s the point of saying all this now…” Rahil slowly shook his head, his movements as weary as if he were wiping away non-existent dust. “It’s already happened.” He paused, his gaze returning to Elisande. “Next… what do you plan to do?”

After leaving the battlefield yesterday, he returned to his territory.

Initially, there was anger, followed by disappointment, and when these emotions cooled down, all that remained was inescapable contemplation.

But the more I thought about it, the more something seemed wrong.

The shadow of his mother, the entanglements of factions, and the responsibilities on his shoulders were like an invisible yet heavy shackle, binding him firmly to this large ship that was tilting, taking on water, and sinking.

Whether he likes it or not, whether he regrets it or not, he can no longer easily escape.

After much deliberation, he decided to make a trip to Tal Sammersand. He wanted to witness firsthand this predetermined ending, and also to see if Elisander had any plans for the future.

He was even prepared to die here.

"to be honest……"

Al-Lesson finally spoke.

His voice was steady, without hesitation or evasion, so calm it was almost devoid of warmth.

"I do not know."

He finished speaking and said nothing more.

That honesty was like a dull knife, slow but thorough, severing all remaining illusions and excuses, leaving no room for compromise.

Rahil did not respond.

He simply stared at the other person for a long time, and then, extremely slowly, nodded.

Yes.

He wouldn't know if their positions were switched.

Now that things have come to this point, all the questions that could be asked have long since lost their meaning.

Rahil didn't press the matter further. He leaned back, sinking deeper into the sofa, as if yielding to gravity and gradually descending. The posture was almost one of escapism, as if sinking just a little deeper would allow him to dissolve into the fabric beneath him, temporarily escaping the weight of reality pressing on his chest.

Ellesander also did not move.

There was no further communication between the two.

Only the sound of breathing remained in the living room, low and slow, intertwined with an invisible yet heavy stillness, like something slowly solidifying.

Time has lost its clear outline.

I do not know how long it has been.

Just as Rahil's consciousness began to waver, his reason gradually waned, and he was almost dragged into sleep by exhaustion—

He heard footsteps.

It came very lightly and slowly from behind.

In this excessively quiet space, the sound was so clear it was almost jarring.

Rahil sat up abruptly, his heart clenching, and turned to look.

The next moment, his expression froze.

Imrek stood in the doorway.

He gripped the doorframe with one hand, his knuckles turning white from the force. His face was deathly pale, his lips cracked, and his eyes were vacant and unfocused, as if he hadn't truly woken from his coma and had only been drawn here by some instinct.

But he was indeed standing.

Rahil paused for a moment.

Then, the corners of his mouth slowly twitched, forming an arc that even he himself couldn't define—something between shock, absurdity, and a kind of cruel relief.

He exhaled softly.

"You're not dead?"