Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Kalanion initially followed Aenarion, but after Malekith left the Kingdom of Nagarris for Elsin Alwyn, he sided with Morath and became one of Nagarris's most brutal butchers.

During the civil war in Nagarris, he was pardoned by Malekith, who entered Tal Anlek, though the method of pardon was... his spine was broken. He was then healed by dark magic and sustained by potions made from the blood of his victims.

A cruel and satisfied grin hung on his twisted face, a smile that seemed to be squeezed from the depths of his bones, cold and hollow. His long, silvery hair fluttered in the wind on either side of his face, reflecting the flickering firelight on the battlefield. He said nothing, not even a sentence, but silently thrust out the burning spear, his movements calm and practiced, as if he were carrying out an execution that had been rehearsed countless times.

As the spear, enveloped in black flames, pierced Eslier's body, Aris let out a hoarse, broken roar, a sound swallowed by the clamor of the battlefield, yet exploding within his own chest. His father staggered back a step, his boots slipping on the mud, nearly falling, but managing to steady himself with his last ounce of willpower.

Esriel slowly turned to him, the movement unusually slow, as if each turn was accompanied by an unbearable weight.

The next moment, his knees lost their support, and he fell heavily to the ground.

The sword fell from Aris's sight, crashing into the grass already trampled by countless footsteps with a dull, unnoticed thud. The banner of the Anar family slipped from his increasingly weak fingers, billowing in the wind before drooping limply. Blood gushed from his throat, flowing down his jaw and frothing at the corners of his mouth with dark red foam.

However, what truly defeated Aris was not that shot.

It wasn't the moment the spear pierced his chest, nor the color of the gushing blood, nor the mud splashed up when his father fell.

It was his father's gaze.

In those suddenly widened eyes, there was no trace of the bravery he had been taught to remember since childhood, no tragic grandeur befitting a martyr, not even anger. Only a primal, utter fear remained—the instinctive panic and despair that arises when one finally realizes everything is beyond redemption.

That wasn't the expression of a soldier.

That was a person's fear of death itself before their life was forcibly cut short.

"Quickly...escape..."

Esriel's voice was almost indistinct, like air being squeezed out of a torn lung.

These were his last words to the world, to his son. Before the words had even finished, his body could no longer support him, and he collapsed forward. His heavy frame slammed into the mud, and dirty water splashed up, quickly covering his face and engulfing his still-open eyes.

Immediately afterwards, a low and composed laugh rang out.

Kalanion's laughter.

The laughter was unhurried, carrying the contempt and composure characteristic of a victor, as if it were all a predetermined outcome.

Ares opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Anger, despair, and fear exploded simultaneously in his chest, but he could find no way out, turning into a silent roar stuck deep in his throat.

The next instant, he suddenly rushed forward.

No more thinking, no more judging.

He charged toward Kalanion, toward that ferocious and terrifying mount.

He had only taken two steps when a strong hand suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him aside.

Staggering, Aris tried to break free, flailing his arms and legs wildly, but was immediately grabbed by more rough and firm hands. He was lifted up, dragged off the ground, and forcibly taken away from the battlefield.

"let me go!"

Ares screamed, his voice distorted by his cries, almost losing its audibility. He struggled desperately, but to no avail. More soldiers rushed forward, forming a barrier with their own flesh and blood, separating the roaring dragon from their lord.

The commander's death was like a heavy hammer, shattering the will of the entire army.

Thousands of Anar family followers turned and fled in terror, their formation crumbling and their commands broken. Only a few hundred warriors, still lucid, formed a rearguard, sacrificing their lives in an attempt to slow the pursuers.

Ares was dragged back up the hillside. His body was repeatedly rubbed against the mud and gravel, a dull pain shooting through him, barely enough to rouse him from his reverie. Despair, like an icy tide, washed over him from his feet, slowly filling his chest. He finally lost his footing, his whole body going limp, letting tears stream uncontrollably down his cheeks, mingling with the dust and blood, indistinguishable from each other.

Amidst his intermittent sobs, he neither struggled nor resisted, simply letting the soldiers carry him away from the battlefield and towards what they vaguely and reluctantly called a "safe place."

As night fell, the remaining troops of the Anar family retreated eastward into the mountains. However, they soon encountered more fires in the darkness ahead—Druucci had already laid out defenses there, blocking their retreat. The flickering flames rose and fell in the distance, like a hunter's tightening net, making the outcome immediately apparent.

The column was forced to turn south. Ares followed numbly in the ranks, his steps unsteady. Fear prevented him from recalling the blood-stained slope, and exhaustion rendered him powerless to consider what would happen next. His mind was blank, like an empty shell, with only his body relying on the instincts honed by years of marching, mechanically stepping, stopping, and then stepping again.

When the pursuers closed in again, the adjutants ordered a westward turn, leading the remaining troops into the dark swamp.

For twenty-three days straight, they hid among the intricate waterways and wetlands. Every time the roar of dragon wings flapping through the air swept overhead, the survivors would immediately scatter and lie low, pressing themselves into the mud and reeds, holding their breath as if even their heartbeats would give them away.

They operated only at night, struggling through thick fog and stagnant water. The group gradually disintegrated, with squads and individuals scattering to survive. Some lost their way deep in the swamp, silently swallowed by the mud and fog; others risked fleeing south, only to fall into the hands of the Duruci patrol along the coast, never to be heard from again.

The small group of people who stayed with Aris ultimately survived.

But this was not because of his command, nor because of his decision. He did not issue any orders, nor did he formulate any plans; he simply carried out the instructions of his adjutants in silence and sluggishly, like a shadow being dragged along.

He survived, but he barely participated in the process of survival itself.

The soldiers began to whisper among themselves that Aris's mind was broken.

This is not far from the truth.

Ares is trapped in a lucid nightmare.

The image of his father's death replayed in his mind again and again, impossible to shake off. Time and again he saw his father fall under Kalanion's gun, black flames devouring flesh and blood; with each breath, he seemed to still smell the nauseating, poisonous stench of dragon breath; and in his ears, his father's last desperate cry echoed endlessly, refusing to fade away.

Ultimately, Duruci relaxed his pursuit.

The survivors were able to drift eastward again, heading towards Elanadris.

They trekked through the swampy mist for another two days.

Exhausted, hungry, and depressed.

At dawn, plumes of smoke rose from the eastern mountains.

That was no wisp of smoke from a campfire; instead, a thick, black column of smoke shot straight into the sky, like a slowly unfolding shroud, heavily enveloping the entire foothills, appearing particularly abrupt and glaring in the morning light. The smoke tumbled high in the air, its edges tinged with a dark red by the rising sun, as if it were still burning.

An ominous premonition silently weighed on Aris and the survivors' hearts. No one gave the order, but everyone unconsciously quickened their pace, hurrying towards the direction of the rising sun. The clanging of armor and pack bags sounded particularly heavy in the early morning.

Before noon, they arrived at the first village that had been reduced to ashes.

The building's originally white walls were completely blackened by the thick smoke, as if a layer of dirty ink had been splashed on them. Under the collapsed roof, twisted, charred corpses could still be seen inside. The residents were locked inside and burned alive in despair and high temperatures, their limbs frozen in an extremely unnatural posture at the moment of death.

Along the way, they discovered more bodies dismembered in various gruesome ways.

During his trek, Aris witnessed even more horrific scenes.

Everywhere you look, there are symbols painted with blood, crude, chaotic, and disorderly, yet carrying a nauseating sense of ritual.

The survivors of the battle in the Dark Swamp finally collapsed.

Cries of anguish rose and fell; some threw down their weapons, knelt on the ground, and wept uncontrollably while embracing the remains of their loved ones found in the ruins; others ignored warnings and broke away from the group, stumbling and running toward their homes that had long since turned to rubble.

Hundreds and thousands of soldiers left, the ranks thinning out. Aris did not stop them; he was powerless to ask them to stay, just as he could not stop them from breathing.

Halfway through the afternoon, Aris had exhausted all his hatred.

If he had been merely numb before, now he was utterly empty. The scale of the massacre far exceeded what reason could comprehend; the grotesqueness and repetition of the atrocities made it difficult to remember them completely.

Everything faded into a blurry and heavy black shadow in my mind.

The refugee camps were also attacked, and the fields were piled high with corpses. Some died quickly, killed instantly upon being attacked; but many more corpses clearly showed that they had been subjected to prolonged and brutal torture before their deaths, dying in extreme pain from trauma, blood loss, or fear.

Flocks of carrion birds swarmed down from the mountains, landing densely on the pile of corpses. Only when the spirits approached did they clumsily flap their wings and leap away, emitting piercing cries, indicating that they had already feasted on this horrific banquet prepared just for them.

When Aris saw the thick smoke billowing from within the manor walls, his mind went blank. Ever since he first saw that column of smoke at dawn the day before, he had already anticipated this scene. That extreme and chilling fear had already been washing over him, smoothing out all his emotions.

At this moment, the fact that his nightmare had come true could no longer stir any ripples in his heart.

As he passed through the gate, Aris initially thought the manor's outer walls had turned into something else, or that the approaching twilight had deceived his eyes.

As he staggered closer, he saw that the outer walls of the dilapidated mansion were covered with countless elven corpses. Their bodies were impaled by large iron nails and fixed to the wall, like trophies on display.

Most of them were too weak to hang, their bodies stiff; but a few still trembled slightly as he approached, making a barely audible sound.

He recognized the bloodstained, mangled body nailed to the door as Gellison's and practically stumbled over to it.

The nail pierced the old elf's elbow and knee, embedding itself deeply in the hard wooden door. Blood dripped from the wounds, forming a dark red puddle at his feet.

The butler of the Anar family slightly raised his head, struggling to open one bloodshot eye, while the other eye was completely covered by the blood clots from the wound on his forehead.

"Aris?"

"Gerison asked hoarsely, his voice so soft it was almost blown away by the wind," he said.

"it's me."

As Ares spoke, he took a water pouch from his bag, his fingers trembling slightly with effort, as he tried to bring the pouch to Gerison's lips. But the old elf turned his head away with difficulty, his movements subtle yet incredibly resolute.

"Water...can't save me."

"Gerison said in a low voice, his gaze briefly unfocused as if his consciousness was drifting away, before he forced his attention back to Aris's face.

"They...captured Lord Eloran alive..."

These words struck Aris like a cold, white lightning bolt.

A heavy and cruel reality crashed down upon him; his grandfather was about to face a fate more terrible than death. Thinking of his family, Aris reached out and, with trembling but restrained strength, lifted Gerison's chin.

"Where is my mother?" he pressed, his voice so low it was almost not a question, but a belated, futile confirmation.

"Don't let me...die in torture..."

Gellison slowly closed his eyes in response. His facial muscles relaxed slightly; these words had exhausted his last bit of strength.

Ares took a step back, momentarily at a loss. His foot stepped into the still-dry blood, making a slight sound that seemed to jol him awake. The others had entered the manor courtyard one after another, their steps hesitant, their expressions stiff, as they looked around in horror at the cruel and deliberate display—a 'wall' made of corpses and iron nails.

"Put them down!"

Aris suddenly unleashed his power, letting out a low growl—not loud, but carrying an undeniable, tearing force. He drew a dagger from his belt with lightning speed, almost without a second thought. The blade flashed through the air in a short, cold arc before swiftly slicing across Gereson's throat. Blood gushed out, flowing over his fingertips, warm and viscous. He instinctively shook his hand, flicking the blood to the ground.

"Give peace to those who are still alive, and move all the remains into the mansion!"

Under Aris's command, the elves began to move.

Silently, they collected the remains of the loyalists of the Anar family, carefully, yet inevitably roughly, lowering the bodies from the walls, for some bodies were too irreparable to be separated. The remains were placed inside the mansion, arranged in the hall that had once been carpeted and echoed with laughter.

Among the dead were Duruchi, as well as warriors from the kingdoms of Charis and Terenlock. They kept their oaths and fought to the last for Elanadrilis in this place, their deaths equally gruesome, yet they were not displayed publicly.

Ares ordered that the enemy's corpses be left to the crows and vultures.

As he carried out this solemn and cruel task, Aris was blind to the bodies he was carrying. To him, they were merely blurry shapes and cold weights, not the faces of his friends, servants, and loved ones.

He may have moved his mother's body, but he didn't know it. The fact that his mother was among the dead was enough; he didn't need to know how she died, nor did he need that image become another inescapable nightmare.

As dusk fell again, enveloping everything in deep darkness, Aris and the survivors retrieved timber and oil from the warehouse, piling and soaking the entire mansion, turning it into a massive cremation pyre.

Ares lit a torch and threw it into the fuel. Flames shot up, illuminating the broken walls and remaining pillars.

He then turned and left.

He did not turn back to watch how the rapidly rising flames, with their dazzling light, drove back the night; he could not hear the roar and explosions as the flames devoured the wooden beams; nor could he smell the pungent odor of blood, flesh, and thick smoke.

Everything he owned had vanished, leaving only a shadow.

And so he, as a shadow, ventured into the depths of the mountains.
-
Aris Anna stood before the ruins of the manor.

This place is no longer just a location on a map, but a piece of history sealed by time. The charred ruins are half-hidden among weeds and vines, the stone foundations have collapsed, the beams and pillars have turned to ash, and the corridor that was once illuminated by lights is now only marked by the repeated erosion of rain.

This used to be my home.

It is the place where bloodlines continue, the place where names are whispered in the night.

Now, only the remnants gnawed by the flames remain, and nature, slow and indifferent, is slowly swallowing them up.

He thought he was already used to it.

I thought those memories had long been exiled, buried, and dried up by time.

But when he actually stood here, with his feet on familiar yet unfamiliar land, those images surged up without warning—not linear memories, but fragmented, overlapping, and simultaneous nightmares.

The smell of burning seemed to re-enter my nasal cavity, making my throat feel tight.

The cries echoed in my ears, I couldn't tell where they came from, or whether they were real or not.

The cold glint of swords flashed and disappeared at the edge of my vision.

Familiar faces emerge in the firelight—relatives, servants, soldiers, children—only to shatter and collapse in the next instant.

Every broken brick, every charred piece of wood, even those long since rotted and buried in the earth, seemed to still be silently shrieking. They didn't need to make a sound; their mere existence was enough to drag him back to that night, to tear time apart, and press him back into place.

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together almost imperceptibly. Veins bulged on his forehead, his fingernails dug deep into his palms, his skin was cut, and blood mingled with sweat. With pain bordering on self-harm, he forcibly pulled his consciousness out of the mire of memories.

Cold sweat soaked my back, clinging to my clothes and bringing a bone-chilling cold. My breathing was heavy and disordered, my chest heaving, and my lungs burned like an old bellows that might fall apart at any moment.

Just as his consciousness was on the verge of being completely swallowed by darkness, something unusual entered his senses.

smoke.

It wasn't the thick, billowing, sky-covering column of smoke I remembered.

It was not a death announcement accompanied by screams and flames, slowly unfolding like a shroud.

Instead, it was a wisp of extremely thin, straight blue smoke.

Its pale color, carrying the warmth of everyday life, swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, yet never dissipated, as if guided by some invisible force.

Fragile, yet resilient.

It stubbornly exists amidst the deathly silence.

This wisp of smoke, out of place with the ruins, carried an almost brutal force, forcibly pulling Aris back to reality from the abyss of his heart.

Almost instinctively, he moved in the direction from which the smoke was rising.

He moved with utmost lightness, his breathing suppressed once more. Every muscle in his body returned to its familiar state of alertness. Like the most cautious predator in the forest, he moved along the shadows. Broken walls, collapsed pillar bases, and half-buried stones became natural cover.

After passing a section of crumbling wall covered with withered vines and thorns, the view suddenly opened up.

A small clearing had been cleared by hand. The gravel had been swept aside, and the weeds had been trampled flat. In the center was a simple stove pit carefully built with stones, its structure sturdy and clearly not hastily constructed.

Several dry branches of varying thicknesses burned quietly within it. The flames were small, but well controlled, emitting only a soft, rhythmic crackling sound.

The flame licked at a military mess kit that was placed on top.

The pot was bubbling away, steam rising slowly, releasing a simple aroma mixed with roots and dried meat. The aroma wasn't strong, but it was so real it made your heart clench—it was the smell of someone who had marched, camped out in the open, and was alive.

That straight wisp of smoke rises from here.

Beside the stove, a figure stood with his back to him, slightly bowed, intently busy at work.

The man was dressed in a black hunting outfit reminiscent of Duruci, tailored to fit perfectly but without any embellishment. His not-too-long black hair was simply tied back, with a few strands of hair damp with sweat clinging to his neck and swaying gently with his movements.

He was stirring the food in the pot with an iron ladle, his movements steady and restrained, with a clear rhythm. Occasionally he would stop, unscrew a small spice bottle, and sprinkle in a little powder, the amount just right.

There was no haste, and no waste.

That's a kind of earnestness that belongs to everyday life.

A certainty that tomorrow still exists.

Ares held his breath, burying himself even deeper in the shadows, revealing only a pair of calm and sharp eyes. The churning pain and chaos within him were forcibly abruptly cut off by this absurd yet tranquil scene, compressed into a highly focused vigilance.

At the heart of the ruins that buried all his happiness and sins, in a place where only wandering souls and curses should remain, someone was actually lighting a fire and cooking.

absurd.

But the next moment, the figure straightened up after stirring the wok. A very subtle movement followed—he habitually used his left thumb to lightly rub the edge of the iron spoon, as if checking its weight and balance.

Aris's heart suddenly tightened.

That action—

It wasn't intentional, nor was it a show-off.

Rather, it is an instinct honed through countless life-or-death experiences. It is a subconscious reaction that only occurs when a top-tier warrior adjusts the center of gravity of their weapon.

In addition, there are the seemingly slender shoulder and back lines that contain a stable strength like a mountain—a strength that is not outwardly displayed, but silent and solid, like bedrock buried deep in the earth.

And that unmistakable aura.

Even in such a simple and ordinary setting, there still exists an absolute sense of loneliness and an absolute sense of authority.

The wind changed direction at that very moment.

The wisps of smoke rising from the stove were dispersed somewhat, making the outline of the flames clearer. The profile of the figure was gradually outlined by the interplay of the leaping firelight and the afternoon sun, as if forcibly carved into reality with a sculptor's knife, imprinted on Aris's retina with unparalleled clarity and cruelty.

Memories, at this moment, flowed back uncontrollably.

“Aris, I want you to meet a very special person.”

Esriel's voice came from the depths of time, steady and solemn.

As soon as he finished speaking, his father wrapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him forward a step. The gesture was both protective and carried a sense of entrusting his fate to someone.

Aris instinctively bowed his head in respect, his movements precise and restrained—a courtesy ingrained in the blood of the Anar family descendants. But his gaze never left the face of that "very special person."

"It is I who should bow, not you."

The special person bent down, reached out and took Aris's arm, helping him up. The hand was steady and strong, with just the right amount of force, neither oppressive nor hesitant.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude that can never be easily repaid."

After saying this, he flicked aside his cloak, the heavy wind sweeping through the air in a low arc. Then, he knelt on one knee for a mere moment. It was a fleeting gesture, yet it was enough to make everyone present hold their breath.

Then, he stood up, his movements clean and swift, without any unnecessary pauses.

“Liberate Nagarus, and we'll be even,” Aris said.

The father's stern shout boomed like thunder, yet his intervention was interrupted by a smile and a casual wave from that extraordinary person. The smile was faint, yet sharp; the wave was light, yet it seemed to draw a line across the entire world.

"I will fulfill my part of the promise, and Moras's tyranny will end today!"

Then he turned to Aris again. This time, his expression was no longer casual, but became unusually serious, his gaze deep, as if he were confirming something, or as if he were entrusting something.

Reality and the past intersect and merge again.

The Shadow Army gathered in the ruins of Elanadrilis.

The scene before them was horrifying: the charred stones were littered with the broken, twisted, and piled-up remains of the dead Duruci; and the scorched earth where the crematorium that Aris had built was still barren, without any sign of new life.

In the center of what was once the main hall, a tree grew, its roots tearing through the stone slabs and emerging from the rubble. Its branches and leaves were pale yet tenacious, with ivy and thorns spreading wildly, climbing into the ruined manor and tightly entwining the broken walls and pillars, as if slowly sealing away this history.

The moment of decisive battle has arrived!
Ares could sense an unusual atmosphere in the air. Dark clouds hung heavy over the mountains, layer upon layer, yet no rain fell. An eerie calm pervaded the wilderness; even the wind seemed to deliberately avoid this land. But at the edge of his senses, Deha's presence stirred—danger, violence, and an ancient malice about to be unleashed.

Yes, he told himself.

Today, he will surely find out the truth.

They knew who the Witch King really was.

Before long, Duruci's army appeared on the horizon.

They marched along the road to the northwest, their black silhouettes spreading out across the foothills like an endless ribbon, cold and orderly. Despite having endured countless hardships, Aris's chest involuntarily tightened for a moment when Duruci's army was fully deployed across the hills.

Their numbers were unimaginable, roughly estimated to be over 100,000. The dense formations, shimmering armor plates, and layers upon layers of banners made the entire land seem narrow.

Where did all these soldiers come from?

Has Moras been secretly amassing such a massive army all these years? Perhaps she is indeed waiting for a suitable leader to emerge?

Duruci's troops stopped at a distance, just beyond the range of long-range weapons—a deliberate, provocative pause.

Just then, whispers and terrified screams spread through the ranks. Ares turned to look at his shadow warriors, who pointed to the sky.

The clouds churned, and a giant dragon slowly emerged from them, casting a massive shadow over the wilderness, blocking out the light.

This was the largest beast Aris had ever seen, half a size larger than the dragon carrying Kalanion. Its wings spread, and the air vibrated. He was about to order his army to retreat to the hilltop defenses, but his steps faltered at the next moment.

The dragon did not come towards them; it bypassed the battle line, flew towards the front of Duruci's army, and then slowly landed in front of them.

So Aris stopped in his tracks.

A towering figure landed beside the dragon. The moment he descended, it was as if he wasn't simply stepping on the earth, but rather forcefully pressing his presence into reality. The surrounding air trembled violently, as if repeatedly struck by an invisible hammer. Mist surged forth, mingling with the rising heat to form a shimmering curtain that distorted vision.

He was much taller than any elf, not simply because of his physical advantages, but because of an abnormality in proportion. His shoulders, torso, and limbs all exceeded the limits that elves should have, as if this body was not born for elves.

He wore a full-body suit of black armor, thick and tight-fitting, without any superfluous decoration, yet it was impossible to look away from it. As the figure strode confidently and rapidly toward the hillside, and the distance closed to less than a hundred paces, Aris suddenly realized that the armor was not entirely black.

Between the seams and edges of the armor, a faint, dark red light flowed, like hot blood slowly surging beneath the black iron. It wasn't reflected light, but heat seeping from within.

Wisps of steam swirled around the figure, and Aris's pupils suddenly contracted. He realized with horror that it wasn't mist; the armor was smoking. Every plate, every seam, every rivet looked as if it had just been taken out of the furnace, still hot and almost glowing.

Wherever his figure went, the snow beneath his feet melted rapidly, then boiled, and finally turned into scorched watermarks; the land was scorched, cracked, and carbonized, and the air itself seemed unable to bear his presence, forming a visible swirling vortex behind him before being forcibly torn apart.

The shadow warriors, bows drawn and arrows taut, muscles stiff, watched the figure warily. Their instincts screamed wildly, telling them this was a target that had to be shot immediately.

But Aris raised his hand to stop them, ordering the shadow warriors not to attack without his instructions.

He needed to know who dared to call themselves the ruler of Nagarius.

Then, he drew a dagger from his waist, and with a flash of cold light, the blade cleanly and neatly cut the canvas rope tied to the spear. With a flick of his wrist, he shook the spear shaft, causing the tightly rolled canvas bag to fall off.

A gentle breeze blew.

A flag tied with a gold thread sprang off the spear shaft.

The flag was tattered and stained.

The fabric was riddled with holes of varying sizes, as if it had been repeatedly torn by sharp claws; the stitching along the edges was worn down, and in some places only a few loose threads remained, trembling in the wind. It was originally white, but now it had been stained a dirty brownish-gray by the years, blood, and ashes.

Nevertheless, despite the blurred design, anyone with even a slight knowledge of heraldry would immediately recognize it at a glance as the banner of the Anar family.

Even covered in filth and scorched by flames, a golden griffin with outstretched wings still maintains its pouncing posture.

A surge of courage rushed through Aris's body, a power like a warm current that dispelled the fear that enveloped the approaching figure and steadied his almost unsteady breathing.

This flag has stood here since the time of Aenarion.

It has weathered the triumphant winds and been soaked in the blood of traitors. The flames of massacres once rose behind it, and the armies of exiles once marched away beneath its feet. Glory, sin, and curse, layer upon layer, are pressed into the long-faded fabric, heavy and stubborn.

Ares is still holding it.

What he drew from it was not encouragement, but a will honed by the passage of time—slow, hard, and refusing to perish. That will traveled from his palms, up his arms, and into his chest, making his almost hollowed-out heart solid again.

He straightened his back.

His feet were firmly planted in the rock and soil, like an iron nail driven into the ground. He raised his head, his gaze burning yet restrained, meeting the figure in front of him without flinching.

“Without the lord of the Anar family.”

He held the tattered flag high, his voice echoing through the valley, clear and sharp.

"Without the permission of Aris Anar, the Shadow Lord of Nagarius."

His tone suddenly dropped.

"What right do you have to set foot on this land?"

Before the words were even finished, the vow followed immediately.

“If you have come to negotiate,” he said, “I bear witness with the dead—all sins will never be forgotten, nor will they be forgiven.”

Ahead, the figure stopped six steps away.

A wave of heat rolled across the ground, scorching his skin. The pain was palpable, yet it didn't deter Aris from taking a single step. His feet remained rooted to the spot, as if he were one with the earth itself.

The gaze slowly shifted to the flag in his hand.

Then, a hand was raised.

There was no build-up, no ceremony.

It was just a flick of the fingertip.

The flag swayed slightly.

The next instant, black flames rose.

There was no explosion, no sound. The flames were silent and complete, engulfing the entire flag in a mere instant. The fabric disintegrated, carbonized, and fragments scattered in the air, falling to the ground as ash.

All that remained in Aris's hand was a charred spear.

The wood was cracked, the edges were charred, and thin wisps of white smoke rose up before quickly dissipating into the air.

"The Annal family is dead."

The figure spoke, his voice deep and heavy, making the air feel tight.

"Only I can rule Nagarus."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone steady to the point of being almost calm.

“Swear allegiance to me and your past can be erased.”

"Your betrayal will be forgiven."

"This land will remain under your rule."

"You only need to be loyal to me."

Aris smiled.

The smile wasn't big, but it was sharp and piercing.

“You want me to be the prince of the grave,” he said, “a man who has kept nothing.”

His smile vanished, and his gaze turned cold.

"On what grounds do you expect me to be loyal?" he asked, emphasizing each word.

The figure took a step forward.

With just one step, the air seemed to be compressed for a moment.

Ares's body tensed, his legs trembling uncontrollably. A wave of heat washed over him, making it hard to breathe; his lungs felt like they were being filled with fire. His eyes quickly became dry and stinging, tears welling up. His exposed skin tightened and cracked painfully. He licked his lips, tasting only dryness and the metallic tang of blood.

But what truly caused him to almost lose his balance was not his physical body.

Rather, it is a force.

Filthy, ancient, invisible yet omnipresent. It seeps into the body through the air, through the gaze, through the breath, slowly spreading deep within the blood. Each heartbeat feels like being scraped by a sharp blade.

"Don't you recognize me, Aris?"

The figure bent down, speaking calmly, without mockery or anger.

"Aren't you willing to serve me again?"

The voice was low, hoarse, and rough, like metal that had been repeatedly scorched by flames.

The words, which should have been unfamiliar, caused Aris's consciousness to freeze the moment they reached his ears.

He recognized it.

Not now, but in the extremely distant past.

In an era so distant it's almost forgotten by history, that voice made a promise to him. Back then, he placed all his nascent hopes on those words.

The voice had sworn to liberate Nagareth.

And he had believed in it without reservation.

Now, that voice is demanding that he surrender.

The thought exploded in his mind like a thunderbolt.

That's Malekith.

"Lord of the Anar family, Shadow Lord of Nagarius—Aris Anar, would you like something to eat?"

It's still him.

His tone was casual, even gentle, as if he were asking a passerby a casual question on an afternoon afternoon.

Aris's mind went blank.

All the scenarios I had repeatedly envisioned—accusations, trials, reckoning—were shattered at this moment by this almost mundane invitation.

Nothing is left.

Is this his "keeping the appointment"?
Sitting amidst the ruins he himself created, he lit a fire, cooked, and then invited his enemies to share a meal.

absurd.

Incomprehensible.

A feeling colder than hatred gripped him. It wasn't anger, but the emptiness that followed the collapse of his understanding.

The sword, prepared five thousand years ago, struck empty air.

Five thousand years of fire were poured into deep water.

Malekith made no defensive stance, nor did he adopt any posture; he simply sat there.

This is more cruel than any provocation.

Time passes slowly.

The firewood crackled and popped.

Ares moved, not because he made a decision, but because his body reacted first. He stepped out of the shadows, his steps heavy as if he were not alive, as he walked over the gravel and ashes.

He sat down by the campfire without looking at Malekith.

His gaze was fixed on the flickering flames; the stones were cold and rough, but he felt nothing.

Malekith took a bottle of wine from his bag and placed it beside him.

“Aishiriel’s,” he said, “is drinkable.”

Aris reached out; the bottle was icy cold. He simply pried open the cork.

boo.

The aroma of the wine wafted through the air, and he tilted his head back and took a swig.

The next instant, the bottle was swung up.

A shattering sound exploded.

The wine, glass, and flames scattered simultaneously.

Ares let out a dissonant roar and lunged forward.

No declaration.

No ruling was made.

Five thousand years of grudges began in this out-of-control attack—in the most primal and chaotic way. (End of Chapter)