Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Chapter 1065, Section 917: Elanadrilis
The forest swallowed up all the echoes from the palace and the battlefield.

The towering canopies of trees intertwined overhead, cutting the sky into scattered patches of light and completely isolating it from the outside world's clamor. Here, there were no horns, no commands, and no lingering warmth from blood and fire. The world was compressed to an extremely simple level—the soft, continuous rustling of the wind through the needles, the scent of damp, cold earth mixed with decaying leaves, and the occasional soft crunch of fallen leaves underfoot by some living creature, intermittent, like the slow, rhythmic breathing of the forest itself.

Malekith was alone.

His figure moved among the giant trees, leaving almost no trace of his presence. His steps were extremely light, each footstep perfectly avoiding dead branches and pebbles. It was neither like deliberately sneaking around nor cautiously probing, but rather as if he already knew the shape of this forest by heart, or perhaps he was simply allowed to pass by the forest itself.

He wasn't wearing the dragon armor that symbolized royal power. The majesty and weight represented by metal, jewels, and heraldry were left to Lorthorn. At this moment, he was simply dressed in a black hunting suit that allowed for easy movement, tailored to fit snugly, made of supple fabric, without any superfluous embellishments, rising and falling slightly with his breath and steps, yet making no sound.

The Destroyer was also absent.

In its place lay the Yangyan Sword, quietly sheathed, and an antique-style hunting bow. The bow was in excellent condition, gleaming with a low-key, gentle sheen in the dim forest light. A quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, the fletching neatly arranged, unpainted and unmarked.

He chose the bow and arrow.

Perhaps it's out of some inexplicable nostalgia, or perhaps it's simply a need for this slow and intimate way to reaffirm some feelings that have been put aside for a long time but have never truly disappeared.

He was chasing a stag.

It was a fully grown male deer, robust in build, its muscles undulating in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, its fur gleaming with a dark metallic sheen. Its alertness was almost ingrained in its very being—its ears were always perked up, its nostrils twitching slightly, and if the air carried even the slightest scent not belonging to the forest, it would vanish into the depths of the undergrowth in an instant.

But it never noticed Malekith.

His breathing was suppressed to a very low pitch, the rhythm overlapping with the sound of the wind; his route was constantly subtly adjusted, following the undulations of the terrain, using the shelter of tree trunks and changes in wind direction to keep himself outside the edge of what the other could perceive. These movements were not calculated, but rather as if his body was making choices for him.

The chase dragged on for a very long time.

Time stretches out in the forest, losing all meaning, leaving only moving forward, stopping, and moving forward again, repeating almost endlessly.

Finally, the stag stopped at the edge of a small clearing. It lowered its head and nibbled at the moss covering the rocks and tree roots, its neck fully outstretched. Its broad flanks were exposed to the air, and the position of its heart was uncomfortably clear.

Approximately seventy steps.

A distance that is almost impossible to go wrong with.

Marekis stopped.

He seemed frozen in place with the shadows, all superfluous movements stripped away, leaving only the essentials. Drawing the arrow, nocking the string, drawing the bow—the movements were slow and steady, with no power leaking out.

The bow arm was taut under his deliberately suppressed force, emitting a barely audible creak. The bowstring was stretched to its limit, and the vibration was locked in place.

His gaze followed the arrowhead and landed on the narrow, deadly area behind the stag's shoulder blade.

Where the heart is.

The world seemed to fall silent at that moment, with only breathing and a taut bowstring remaining.

Muscle memory is returning, but at the same time, there's a noticeable sluggishness—like old marks covered by time, resurfacing now. The movements are still correct, the judgment is still clear, only the rhythm is no longer perfectly synchronized.

Of course he would use a bow.

Moreover, it used to be used extremely well.

However, the feeling of drawing a bowstring in the forest and aiming intently at a living creature had been absent from his body for far too long. So long that the world had changed, the methods of warfare had changed, and his name was etched into the land and cities, no longer requiring a bow to pinpoint his location.

In Elsin Alfvén, he relentlessly expanded his territory. The lands that were trodden upon, conquered, and named piled up piece by piece, eventually forming the map we see today. His name is repeatedly invoked there, treated as an established fact.

But now, in this forest, as he gripped his bow once more, time had finally caught up with him.

He was not a nobleman revered for his lineage and title, but the true king of this land.

His achievements are beyond the reach of other elven nobles.

But he rarely returned to Aesol Taralion, the city built of marble and tradition, which had long since become too cramped for him. He spent more of his years in the wilderness of Elsin Alwyn.

He thought about Ausuan more than once, and on countless long nights he would think of his dull and traditional homeland ruled by Bel-Shana.

He had pondered repeatedly whether to abandon the place completely, allowing the Phoenix King and the other nobles to remain on that land, forever indulging in their boring, tedious court games.

He himself sought glory and fame here.

In the true frontier, in an ever-changing world, write your own chapter.

But things changed.

Twelve hundred years after the development of the elven colony, the people living in Elsin Alvin were extremely wealthy. This was not merely an accumulation of wealth, but a confidence and ease brought about by long-term stability, continuous expansion, and successful conquest. Magnificent towns spread along the valleys and main roads, trading posts were scattered throughout the area, silver coins and gems circulated constantly in the markets, workshops operated day and night, and magic and craftsmanship developed in parallel.

But one day, a message came.

It was neither a battle report nor a rebellion, but a message from Ulthuan—Bel-Shana intended to travel to Eternal Peak to meet the High King.

For the elves of the colony, this was undoubtedly a momentous event. The appearance of the Phoenix King symbolized legitimacy, recognition, and glory, and also meant that the ancient and heavy order of Ulthuan would once again extend its tentacles into this new world shaped by iron and blood, a world far removed from its homeland.

Malekith was furious about this, a mixture of anger stemming from being violated, ignored, and re-examined. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop Bel-Shana's arrival; neither his status nor the tacit political understanding of elven society allowed him to do so.

What followed was a series of unpleasant events, which at the time might have seemed like mere friction, arguments, and untimely interference. But in retrospect, they were like tiny, sharp barbs, deeply embedded in the cracks.

These events later became the catalyst for what followed. (Discussed in Chapter 233)
Marekis then said that Aiso Talalion had some things to take care of and left without accompanying Bel-Shane for the next event. His farewell was brief and cold, impeccable in etiquette but devoid of warmth.

In fact... he entered a forest.

It wasn't for hunting or patrolling; he spent a month there venting his anger. Several months later, he gradually calmed down from that near-out-of-control rage and tried his best to return to a normal life.

That's not forgiveness, nor is it letting go; it's just sealing away the anger and suppressing it to a deeper level.

For five thousand years, he has wielded scepters, demonic swords, and halberds, and cast spells that burn cities and destroy kingdoms. He has stood atop the throne and traversed mountains of corpses and seas of blood; his power and skill have long since transcended to a terrifying dimension unattainable by mortals.

Those skills rely on will, destruction, and domination.

But bows and arrows...

This primitive skill, which requires extremely precise muscle coordination, breath control, and instantaneous intuition, has long been buried deep in the memories, covered with the dust of "power" and "war".

At this moment, the feel of the bowstring against his fingertips carried a hint of coldness and tension; the slight itch as the arrow grazed his cheek made him instinctively tense his facial muscles; and the tension of his entire body's strength being compressed, concentrated at one point, and waiting to be released was like a string about to break.

All of this felt both strangely familiar and unsettling, causing his fingertips to stiffen slightly.

The stag seemed to sense something and its ears twitched.

That is the prey's most primal and accurate alertness.

Marekis no longer hesitated. He held his breath, and at that moment the world seemed to be stretched into a thin line.

Loosen your fingers.

The bowstring vibrated, emitting a clear and short hum that echoed through the forest before being quickly absorbed.

The moment the arrow left the bowstring, he knew—it had missed.

It was neither an imbalance of power nor a change in the target.

The rhythm is off.

It wasn't that his hand malfunctioned at that moment, but rather that a feeling that had once been perfectly synchronized with his breathing and heartbeat failed to respond to him when it should have.

The bowstring came loose completely.

The vibrations were short and clear.

The arrow transformed into a gray shadow and flew through the air, grazing the stag's raised antlers and tugging at a few stray hairs before crossing the clearing and embedding itself firmly in the trunk of an ancient pine tree behind it.

Benedict.

Low-pitched and decisive.

The fletching of the arrow trembled violently in the air, emitting a fine, piercing buzzing sound.

The stag was startled and let out a short, sharp cry. Its massive body unleashed power in an instant, its four hooves pounding the ground, and it burst into the dense forest like a brown lightning bolt. Branches were flung aside, leaves flew everywhere, and after a few breaths, all sound was swallowed by the forest.

The open space fell silent again.

All that remained were trampled moss and dust that had not yet fully settled.

Malekith remained in the same position after releasing the bowstring. His arm hung down, but not completely relaxed; his shoulder line was still taut. He stared at the arrow embedded in the tree trunk for a long time.

Long enough for the winds of war to reclaim the woodland;

The distant birdsong resounded once more;
The forest returned to its original rhythm after a long time, as if nothing had ever happened.

His face showed no anger, no frustration, not even obvious disappointment. The outcome of this arrow seemed to have already been accepted somewhere. Only in his dark eyes did a very faint, very quick glint flash—like self-mockery, or perhaps scrutiny.

Perhaps, there's also a elusive memory. About a more distant era, about the days when the world was still measured with bows and arrows, about that version of myself before I was fully shaped by power and responsibility.

He exhaled slowly.

The white mist appeared in the cold forest, lingered briefly, and was then torn apart and diluted by the breeze, so much so that even breathing itself was unwilling to linger.

He put down his bow, walked to the tree, grasped the arrow shaft, and pulled hard.

The arrow, along with a few pieces of freshly peeled bark, was pulled out, the wood shavings still carrying the scent of pine resin. He didn't check the arrowhead for deviation, nor did he turn back to measure the distance; he simply twirled the arrow between his fingers to confirm it was undamaged, and then steadily placed it back into the quiver.

His movements were calm, restrained, and perfectly composed.

It's as if that missed shot wasn't worth getting emotional about.

He turned and looked in the direction the stag had disappeared. The woods were quiet and intact, their branches swaying gently, as if nothing had ever intruded. His gaze then darkened, returning to its usual deep and calm—the gaze of a hunter, and of a ruler, suppressing all turmoil deep within his heart.

The hunt failed.

But something was touched and reaffirmed in this arrow. It wasn't regret, but rather something closer to a silent introspection.

He slung his bow over his shoulder, adjusted the position of his quiver, and, just as he had come, silently disappeared back into the shadows of the forest, continuing his solitary journey.

Soon after, he arrived at the banks of the Varis River.

He stopped and watched the fish swimming in the clear water. They darted and leaped among the rocks and rapids, their scales reflecting a cool, lively light underwater. The river lapped against the stone banks, making a deep, persistent sound.

He knows this river.

It springs forth from a hidden cave deep in the hillside, nourishing Elanadris, irrigating the forests and meadows, and finally flows south, returning underground at Hermes Falls, completing a long and silent cycle.

The next moment, he was standing on the other side of the river.

The water's surface remained unbroken, without a ripple. The wide river beneath his feet lost all meaning, becoming merely a boundary line to be overlooked. He steadied himself and continued along the riverbank without pausing.

The river meandered here, its sound fading into the distance. He followed the undulating bank, his pace neither hurried nor slow, always carefully avoiding slippery mud and pebbles. Reaching a gentle slope, he disappeared back into the woods.

The canopy of trees closed overhead, compressing the sunlight into fragmented spots of light. The shadows of the pine forest fell heavily, and the ground was covered with a thin layer of frost and pine needles. Stepping on it produced only a soft, crisp sound, like precisely controlled breathing.

He did not slow down.

A certain inner sense was guiding his direction—not an impulsive intuition, but a judgment that had been repeatedly verified. He discerned the almost untouchable warmth behind the clouds, captured the subtle changes in the wind direction, and felt the continuous and hidden undulations of the terrain beneath his feet.

These pieces of information naturally came together in his mind, as clear as an unfolded map.

He walked eastward through the woods and along the mountainside.

High up, birds briefly take off and land, the sound of their wings flapping fleetingly.
Lower down, four-legged hunters roam among the bushes, sniffing, lurking, and circling.

No living being noticed his passing.

The forest accepted him.

His route eventually led him to a patch of exposed rock.

The boulder cleaved through the trees, rising hundreds of meters from the ground. Its gray-white surface was covered with wind-eroded textures, and its very existence formed a stark boundary. At its base, there was a low cave, half-hidden by vines and shadows.

The clouds and mist flowed down the hillside slowly and heavily, shrouding the forest clearing in a hazy gray, making colors dull, sounds silent, and even slowing down the flow of time.

He bent down and crawled into the crevice in the rock, his movements as natural as if he were returning to a familiar place. Soon, he arrived at a more spacious cave.

Apart from the faint light seeping in from the entrance, the cave was pitch black, a deep and quiet darkness. He reached out to his right, his fingertips tracing the rough texture of the rock face until they touched a torch stuck in a stone candlestick, made of bundled branches, which had clearly been replaced regularly.

The next moment, a spark lit up the top of the torch.

The sliver of light spread rapidly, engulfing the dry fibers and transforming into a steady flame. Using this light, he ventured deeper into the cave. Although, in Darkus's words, this action was somewhat pointless—he could clearly perceive everything around him even without light—he did it anyway.

The existence of flames is a choice.

The cave suddenly opened up.

It unfolds before you, forming a natural hall shaped by thousands of years of erosion and sedimentation. Stalagmites rise from the ground, and stalactites hang from the dome, approaching and connecting with each other over the ages, eventually forming gleaming stone pillars, like the columns of a magnificent temple, solemn and primitive.

The flickering firelight illuminated dozens of skulls embedded in niches in the cave walls.

There are wolves and foxes; there are bears and deer; there are eagles and rabbits.

They were carefully arranged; some were gilded, gleaming with a dim yet solemn luster in the firelight; others were engraved with exquisite prayer and thanksgiving runes, the lines ancient and devout, clearly from different eras.

Although it was Malekith's first time here, he knew that this was a sanctuary of the hunter god Kunos.

All of this—blood and bone, glory and end, awe and gratitude—is a sacrifice offered to Kunos.

Kunos is the god of hunting, the lord of the wilderness, and the creator of all animals.

He is not a god who bestows prey, but a being who sets boundaries. He teaches perseverance and determination, requiring hunters to be clear about their reasons for drawing the bow—never to kill for pleasure, never to shed blood for vanity. Only when survival is necessary, or to obtain the flesh and hide needed to sustain the herd, may one hunt dangerous beasts.

Offending Kunos is to invite disaster.

Those who defy its tenets will tread carefully in the wilderness; the wind will deceive them, their prey will turn against them, and the path beneath their feet will crumble. It is not a curse, but a rejection by nature itself.

In Ulthuan, Kronos is revered by the elves of the kingdoms of Elion and Charis. The elves living there are close to the wilderness, and they know restraint and reverence.

In other places, He was also worshipped. In many secluded places far from towns, hidden by trees and rocks, there were often altars and sanctuaries made of animal horns, bones and thorns for believers to offer sacrifices, pray and repent.

He knew about this place because Eloran had mentioned it when he took him hunting and taught him how to use a bow and arrow. It wasn't a formal lecture, but rather a casual remark made during a break in the hunt, while gathering arrows and preparing the game.

This is a wild sanctuary.

Scattered on the muddy ground were fallen leaves and twigs, compacted by footsteps and covered again by time. Hunting scenes were painted on the rock walls, predators chasing their prey, spears and bows clashing, claws and fangs tearing through the air. Some murals had rough lines, their colors worn away by time, leaving only outlines; others... were brightly colored, with sharp lines, clearly more recent works, even still retaining the smell of paint.

Malekith did not prepare any offerings, nor did he kneel before the altar.

The so-called altar was merely a stone platform scattered with twigs, ashes, and debris, devoid of any ornate or sacred decorations. He simply stood there, gazing at the burnt branches and withered leaves before the platform.

Clearly, someone had been here not long ago.

A moment later, he left.

Before leaving, he extinguished the torch and carefully put it back in its place, as if preparing for the next visitor, rather than leaving something for himself.

When he bent down and crawled out of the cave, reappearing in the forest, he froze.

Right in front of him stood a stag, unlike the stag he had aimed at before; this was an extraordinary creature.

Its shoulders are taller than its body, and its physique is slender and upright; its outstretched antlers are wider than its outstretched arms, with complex and symmetrical branches, like a natural crown. The stag's fur is pure white, almost shimmering in the dim light of the forest, except for a black stripe running across its chest, like a deliberately marked mark.

The stag stared at Malekith with his deep brown eyes, a gaze calm and profound, revealing neither hostility nor panic, as if scrutinizing or waiting.

Malekith did not launch an attack; he simply stood there quietly, watching the stag lower its head, shake its massive antlers, and paw at the ground with its hooves, making a deep, rhythmic sound.

He knew this was some kind of omen bestowed by Kunos, but unfortunately, he didn't know its meaning.

The stag began to appear more agitated. It raised its head, its neck taut, and let out a long, hollow call from deep in its throat. The sound echoed through the forest, as if calling out, or perhaps warning.

He took a step forward, extended his hand, and made a reassuring gesture, the movement slow and restrained, without any sense of threat.

But in the next instant, the stag suddenly turned around and leaped into the depths of the forest. Its white figure flashed among the trees and quickly disappeared completely, leaving only the ripples of swaying branches.

Malekith did not chase after them or look back; he ignored the encounter.

Although he would attend various grand and elaborate ceremonies at Daxus's request, he did not believe in God.

I've never believed it!
His attitude remained unchanged, even though he was now the Phoenix King, and even though Asuyan's power flowed through his body.

Soon, he returned to Elanadris, back to the manor, back to the ruins.

Elanadrilis, along with the entire mountain range and its surrounding area, was granted to Eloran by Aenarion and is the territory of House Anar.

It was true in the past, it is true now, and it will be true in the future...

After acquiring the right to inherit the kingdom of Nagareth, Malekith fulfilled his father's promise, ensuring that the lands and wealth of the many princes who had fought alongside his father were not eroded or reclaimed.

In his father's heart, apart from the great dragon tamer Caledo, the most respected person was the standard-bearer of the Phoenix King—Ailoran Anar.

Therefore, he granted the lands of Nagareth in the eastern part of the Ring of Fire to Eloran for administration. However, at that time, he was more of a warrior and ranger than a capable politician. As he left Nagareth to conquer new territories for the elves and pursue greater glory, the seeds of division were sown.

It didn't sprout immediately, but over the long years, it quietly took root. (Mentioned in Chapters 567 and 630)
in case……

No if!