Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Malekith was thrown over by the force, along with the military lunchbox that had been sitting on the fire.

The scalding soup spilled out, most of it landing on the still-burning firewood, while the rest splashed onto their clothes and the ground. What rose was not pure water vapor, but a murky cloud of smoke carrying the smells of oil, burnt fish, and earth.

That was the instantaneous carbonization of grease upon contact with red-hot coals, the smell as pungent as burnt hair. Sparks scattered without any grace, a few red-hot embers landing on Malekith's neck and Aris's hand, quickly burning through the skin with a barely audible sizzle.

But nobody paid any attention to the burn...

Aris struggled to his feet amidst the chaotic dust and smoke, his knees slipping on the muddy, soup-slicked ground before he finally found his footing. He pressed down hard on the hip of the person beneath him, his movements as rough as if he were holding down an animal to be slaughtered. His fingernails were full of dirt, which he had dug into the ground while trying to regain his balance when he fell, and now his hands were clenched into tight fists.

When the first punch landed, Aris's wrist visibly twisted.

That was the reaction force of bone against bone; the punch didn't hit the chin or temple precisely, but instead slammed heavily onto the highest point of Malekith's cheekbone.

The sound of flesh tearing open was masked by heavy breathing; Aris's chest heaved violently, and a hoarse, gurgling sound, like a bellows leaking air, came from his throat. Extreme excitement and lack of oxygen caused his vocal cords to spasm, preventing him from uttering even a complete curse.

Then came the second punch, and then the third punch.

This couldn't be called an attack at all; it was more like a mechanical act of destruction, done to vent one's frustration. With each punch, a few drops of viscous liquid would fall, a mixture of blood and the soup that had been splashed earlier, and perhaps even some of his own uncontrollable saliva?

The fist slammed into his face, feeling slippery and hard. Aris's knuckles quickly broke and even began to swell and become congested with blood. But he seemed to have lost his sense of pain, relying only on muscle memory to raise his arm again and again and use the weight of his upper body to desperately pound down.

Marekis lay there like a dead fish, his body not curling up like a startled prey in the face of the relentless beating, but rather strangely relaxed. His arms were merely raised in a defensive gesture in front of his chest, not to protect his face which was already swollen and deformed, nor to try to grab Aris's wrists.

Each time a heavy blow landed on his face, his head would snap to one side with the force, then slowly turn back as his muscles pulled.

His eyelids were swollen shut, with beads of blood mixed with dirt clinging to the corners of his eyes, but his pupils behind those slits remained still. He didn't look at the fist that kept falling, nor at Aris's face, which was contorted and purplish-red from bloodshot eyes. His gaze pierced through the enraged man before him, through the rising fumes, focusing on a single point in the void.

There was no anger, no surprise, and even a very small reflex of pain.

It was a bottomless indifference, but Aris felt an even more intense and uncontrollable rage within this silent endurance.

Why not resist?

Why not unleash Asu's power?

Why not use that dark magic that could destroy everything?

This utter, almost contemptuous "non-resistance" drove him more mad than any fierce confrontation. He felt not that he was seeking revenge, but that he was using his flesh and blood to pound a lifeless stone statue.

"Fight back!"

He finally roared out broken words, his voice hoarse and almost torn, but his fists fell even more wildly. His knuckles were already torn and bleeding, his joints cracked and twisted, and blood dripped down the back of his fists, mingling with Malekith's blood, leaving mottled marks on the scorched ground.

But he was completely unaware, as if it were no longer his own body.

He wanted to shatter this peace, he wanted to see the pain, he wanted to hear the repentance.

He wants to collect this debt from five thousand years ago, using the most primitive, naked, and bloody violence, one debt at a time, by his own hands.

Broken bricks, ash, glass shards, blood, and wine... were repeatedly crushed and stirred, mixing into a nauseating, filthy mud. Broken stones were embedded in the mud, the wine had long lost its aroma, leaving only a sour smell, and blood gathered in the depressions, only to be scattered by the constant splashing.

That small campfire had long since been completely extinguished.

The once vibrant flames are gone, leaving only a pile of crushed and flattened ashes. Yet, in the center of the ashes, a wisp of indomitable smoke still rises stubbornly, thin and straight, swaying gently in the breeze, refusing to dissipate.

It rises from the charred ruins, hovering above the vortex of violence, like a silent and absurd footnote, a reminder: this was once 'life,' but now only 'liquidation' remains.

Five thousand years of hatred have not been sublimated or resolved.

It did not transform into a judgment, nor into the final chapter of an epic; it was simply dragged back to its most primitive form on this ruin that bore witness to the beginning of everything, degenerating into the most savage, unbearable, and naked brawl.

The beating continued mechanically, fists landing and flesh tearing open.

He lifted it up, and blood splattered everywhere.

Lift up, drop down.

Lift up, drop down.

Ares's senses had long been completely numbed by the excessive secretion of adrenaline. His fingertips had lost their ability to feel, and each time his metacarpals struck a hard object, all he felt was a dull and distant vibration, like striking the deep sea through a thick layer of ice.

again and again.

The tendons in his arms were already burning from the excessive swinging, and the tearing pain spread along his spinal cord like venomous snakes, but the groans emanating from his body seemed to be blocked on the other side of his consciousness. He couldn't feel it, or rather, he refused to perceive any signal other than 'Destroy Malekith'.

His entire world was now compressed into a tiny, suffocating circle. All he could see was the face beneath him—the face that had haunted his nightmares countless times, now completely covered in blood, dust, and rancid wine. Its features were blurred beyond recognition, and those once arrogant eyes seemed to have lost their luster under the weight of the blows.

A twisted, cold, and fishy sense of satisfaction quietly grew in his heart.

It was neither warm nor bright, but rather like a rusty iron weight, forcibly stuffed into his empty chest, so heavy it made him want to vomit. At the same time, a deeper, more unfillable emptiness slowly spread like the tide, instantly drowning out that meager pleasure.

Is he... going to be beaten to death?
The thought, like a cold, venomous snake, silently crept into Aris's mind. Marekis was to be beaten to death, utterly humiliated, like a stray dog? To die on this scorched earth he himself had created?

Five thousand years of long-cherished wish, five thousand years of planning, countless bloody scenes rehearsed in lonely nights, were finally realized in this... simple, crude, and utterly devoid of any sense of ceremony?

This sense of "victory" is like a piece of cheap candy mixed with shards of glass. Although it is sickeningly sweet, it cuts the throat the moment it is swallowed, causing blood and pleasure to rush into the trachea, making people suffocate and nauseous.

However, when Aris raised his already bloodied and mangled right fist high again, Malekith moved.

That wasn't the unconscious convulsions of a critically wounded dying person, nor the futile struggle of the weak. It was a bolt of lightning, faster than a visual afterimage, and with a precision bordering on cruelty. Ares realized what had happened, but it was too late. The irresistible, terrifying clamping force that surged through his right wrist in an instant was faster than his reaction.

The fist that was about to strike was frozen in place just inches from Malekith's face, with the wind of the punch already touching his skin. All the kinetic energy was instantly absorbed and annihilated by this sudden force.

Ares's wrist was gripped tightly, unable to move an inch further. Malekith's hand, like a cold and precise cast-iron clamp, firmly locked down all variables.

The sheer power he felt gave Aris an absurd illusion: he wasn't throwing a fist, but a reckless boulder crashing wildly into a silent, ancient, and unshakeable mountain.

Aris looked down in astonishment, his breath catching in his throat for a moment as he met a pair of eyes.

Marekis's eyes were swollen and blackened from the heavy blow, with bloodstains from ruptured blood vessels covering the whites of his eyes. But his eyes remained clear, his sharp gaze, capable of piercing the soul, was not obscured in the slightest by the bloodstains.

It was even more profound and terrifying than before.

Beneath those shattered eyelids, two dark flames suddenly ignited. There was no rage, no humiliation, not even a spark of revenge, only a chilling gaze that had transcended victory or defeat, life or death, and hatred itself.

Ares froze, his breath hitched, and his wildly beating heart felt as if it had been gripped tightly by an invisible hand, abruptly stopping for half a beat.

He instinctively tried to pull his right hand back, his muscles tensing, his shoulders and back even creaking unsettlingly from the excessive force, but he remained motionless. His hand was still firmly held in mid-air, as if welded to Malekith's palm, becoming part of the other's will.

Aris's heart tightened suddenly. He wanted to swing his left fist, the thought of destroying everything flashing through his mind like lightning, but his body became sluggish for a moment.

It was just a fatal half-beat too late.

This sluggishness is not simply due to physical exhaustion, but rather a kind of oppressive force that originates from a trembling soul.

Malekith's eyes, at this moment, were like the pressure of deep, dark water, silently yet omnipresent, enveloping him. This pressure was not brutal, but precisely penetrated every nerve ending of Aris, making his muscles sore and clumsy, as if his will no longer belonged to him, but had been dragged into a viscous, cold, black swamp.

Marekis did not rush to launch a massive counterattack. His gaze pierced through the surrounding blood and noise, past Aris's face twisted and ferocious with rage, and like two red-hot irons, pierced straight into the deepest part of Aris's soul.

In that gaze, Aris read neither hatred nor the arrogance of a victor. It was a chilling, almost cruel scrutiny.

Those eyes seemed to silently question in the deathly silence of the ruins: "Have you had enough?", "Five thousand years of hatred, is this all that's been honed into, this kind of street thug-like rabble?", "If this is the revenge you've been painstakingly seeking... then now, it's my turn."

But it was just an illusion; it was merely Aris's delusion.

Malekith, who had been slumped on the ground, seemingly helpless, suddenly tensed the muscles in his waist, abdomen, and back, emitting a muffled thud like leather stretched to its limit. Immediately afterward, a terrifying power, completely disproportionate to his current 'severely injured and dying' state, erupted deep within his body like a volcano that had been suppressed for millennia.

It wasn't a death struggle, nor a desperate shove. With an agility and explosive force that almost defied biological function and the laws of physics, he suddenly sat up!
The movement was swift as lightning, and the resulting stench was overwhelming, even forcefully brushing aside the few strands of hair on Aris's forehead that were stuck together with cold sweat and thick blood.

Their faces suddenly met at this extremely close distance.

They were so close that their heavy, chaotic breaths mingled together, so close that they could see their own狰狞 (zhengning, meaning ferocious or hideous) faces reflected in each other's pupils. Blood, hatred, cold scrutiny, and the desire for destruction were compressed to the brink of collapse within this narrow, confined space.

The whole world seemed to have been drained of all sound, leaving only this suffocating confrontation.

However, the anticipated impact did not occur.

Just as Malekith's face was about to collide with Aris's nose, and his murderous intent was about to materialize, his movements froze strangely.

It was an abrupt transition from extreme motion to extreme stillness, without any transition.

The next instant, Malekith's head, like a puppet, turned sharply to one side with an almost inhuman, chillingly fluid movement. His gaze was no longer focused on Aris in front of him, but rather, like a drawn blade, it shot sharply and coldly toward the edge of the ruins.

The primeval forest appeared even darker and deeper in the twilight.

The trees there resembled a thicket of fangs, their branches intertwined and overlapping, casting shadows that undulated in the wind. Apart from the low rustling of leaves rubbing against each other, there was nothing to be seen as far as the eye could see.

However, Malekith's expression changed in that instant. He slightly turned his head, a movement so subtle it carried the alertness of a predator towards its natural enemy. He was no longer 'seeing,' but 'smelling,' 'sensing' something that Aris couldn't reach for the time being, yet was approaching at an astonishing speed... some kind of alien 'existence.'

His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, that brief moment of focused concentration like that of an enraged lion suddenly smelling an ancient, more dangerous scent of blood.

This reckoning, in that instant, seemed to be brutally dragged into a broader, more dangerous, and more unknown dimension.

The ruins were eerily silent. Only wisps of smoke still lingered, accompanied by the heavy, thunderous breathing of the two figures as they clashed.

The next second, Malekith's blood-stained head snapped back, his gaze locking onto Aris's face once more. Due to the sudden surge of power and the eerie silence, Aris's expression was one of bewildered confusion.

Just as their noses nearly touched, Marekis's lips slowly, with a chilling rhythm, curved upwards into a clear arc.

There was no thunderous roar, no harsh curses, not even a single word of nonsense tinged with clear hostility.

Only one sound. "Heh..."

It was a short, extremely soft chuckle squeezed from deep within his throat. The laugh seemed to be soaked in icy venom, scraping against Aris's eardrums, carrying an undisguised, even weary, extreme impatience. It wasn't like a provocation to a mortal enemy, but rather an instinctive contempt born from years of witnessing foolishness.

It was this almost dismissive contempt that became the final, heavy, and fatal straw, striking precisely at the dam of Aris's remaining rationality.

The dam collapsed in an instant.

"why are you laughing?!"

Ares roared fiercely, his voice distorted and torn by pain and rage, no longer resembling the haughty tone of an elf, but more like a trapped beast struggling in a snare. Warm saliva splattered out, his breathing becoming rapid and disordered, spraying uncontrollably into the cramped, suffocating space between them.

However, Malekith ignored Aris's desperate roar. His head turned to the side again with the speed and precision of a hawk, his gaze transforming into two tangible blades, firmly piercing a particular shadow in the dark forest.

This time, it was no longer a fleeting moment of distraction.

Marekis's brow was furrowed deeply, his absolute focus, vigilance, and even a hint of disgust forming a stark and glaring contrast to his indifference toward Aris.

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of these recurring unusual movements that made them so convincing; or perhaps it was the battlefield intuition of a top hunter that suddenly sounded a sharp alarm.

Ares's mind, burning with rage to the point of near boiling, froze for a strange moment. Like a wild horse suddenly pulled back by its reins, his attention was forced to shift, following Malekith's frozen gaze, looking towards the forest with suspicion and uncertainty.

The next second, he was stunned.

Beside the ancient roots that twist and coil like snakes in the forest, at the dappled and bleak intersection of light and shadow, a figure quietly stood there, unnoticed.

She was an elf girl.

No...that's not right!
It was merely the outline of a girl resembling an elf.

A strange sense of incongruity, which makes people feel physiologically uncomfortable at first glance, and even nauseous due to sensory dislocation, comes over you like a cold fog.

She, or rather it, was unusually slender, her figure appearing at first glance even delicate and pitiful. She wore a long, elven-style dress whose original color was almost unrecognizable; the fabric was faded and badly torn, the edges covered with sticky dirt and some kind of indescribable dark stains.

Her long, flaxen hair cascaded loosely over her shoulders, swaying in the wind. Yet, between the strands, two dark red, slightly curled buds, like some kind of evil sprout, were forcefully breaking free of the scalp's constraints, growing menacingly upwards. In the dim forest light, they reflected an oily and ominous sheen.

As Aris's gaze inevitably shifted downwards, his pupils contracted sharply.
Where the feet should have been at the hem of the long skirt, instead appeared a pair of splayed hooves covered with short, stiff black hair. They trod steadily and silently on the damp moss and decaying leaves, without making a sound.

chaos!

demon!

This realization was like a bucket of ice water poured down on him. All the raging flames that had not yet been extinguished in Aris's mind—rage, pain, humiliation, and madness—like a receding black tide, surged briefly and violently before quickly being pulled away from the edge of Aris's consciousness.

Those inhuman hooves, those horns symbolizing chaos, and that faint, sweet yet putrid smell of chaos that suddenly filled the air.

All of these clearly and irrefutably reveal its essence.

The next moment, the tide reappeared, but unlike before, this time it was replaced by a more dangerous, colder state—a stiffness mixed with shock, disbelief, and a deeper sense of vigilance.

His breathing slowed down without him realizing it, not because it calmed down, but because he forcibly suppressed it.

This is Elanadris, his ancestral homeland, deep within the territory of the elves.

This realization echoed repeatedly in his mind, carrying with it an almost absurd sense of incongruity.

How could a demon appear here?
Moreover, it is in such a deceptive, blasphemous, and even deliberately provocative form.
Malekith's cold laugh; the uninvited guest who quietly appeared in the forest; his current disheveled and out-of-control "revenge"; and the family manor behind him, which had long since turned into ruins but still burned in his memory.

All the clues, like shattered glass, violently collided and reflected in his chaotic and rapidly working mind.

He suddenly realized that this "appointment," this showdown he had thought was only about the deep-seated hatred between the two of them that needed to be settled with blood, was probably much deeper than he had imagined.

It is also much more turbid.

And Malekith... seems to have known all along?
In fact, Aris's judgment was correct.

When the silhouette of the demon, disguised as an elven girl, quietly appeared at the edge of the interplay of light and shadow in the forest, the last vestige of uncertainty in Malekith's heart vanished completely.

There is no more doubt, no more testing.

Similarly, it was at this moment that Malekith finally pieced together all those scattered, vague, and seemingly accidental "signs" in their entirety.

Why did a stag appear so perfectly at the right time after he left the Sanctuary of Kunos?

Looking back now, the appearance of that stag was by no means accidental. It was very likely a subtle and ancient message from the will of Kunos.

The message conveyed may have two layers.

level one.

Kunos may be telling him: Aris has arrived.

Aris Anar was a devout follower of Kunos—a fact that Malekith had already discerned from Aris's fighting style and his almost instinctive hunting instincts when they first met.

The appearance of the Bucks is both a warning and perhaps a form of... tacit approval.

Let this ancient feud, which has lasted for five thousand years and has been witnessed by the forest, be settled here in some way.

Second floor.

Kunos may be warning him: Chaos is coming.

Something unclean has trespassed into the forest He protects. An aura not of this world has torn open the edges of order.

of course.

However, another possibility cannot be ruled out.

That is, there is no first layer at all. Kunos doesn't care about the bloody and obsessive "personal grudge" between him and Aris.

Kunos simply used the way of the forest, the eyes of the forest, to send a clear signal to him who had stepped into this place—something more troublesome had slipped in.

It's up to you.

Malekith arrived earlier than agreed, having already spent four days in the ruins. His reason for leaving early stemmed from the sleepless night following the Battle of Lorthorn.

That night, not all spellcasters were busy healing the wounded. Some high-ranking mages and sensitive individuals, after falling asleep, were drawn into a bizarre, alluring, and whispering labyrinth of dreams. The captivating yet terrifying display of Slaanesh's power, along with vague promises and blatant threats, repeatedly surfaced in their minds.

This is no small matter. Dreams have significance for elves, let alone a collective dream like this.

So, after the grand parade, an urgent, secret discussion, limited to the highest levels and core spellcasters, unfolded amidst exhaustion.

Ultimately, Darkus, who knew the 'script,' came to a seemingly astonishing yet most logical conclusion after listening to all the reports: "The Slaanesh archdemon Nakari likely took advantage of the upheaval of the Lor'then battle to escape the Maelstrom. These dreams are its attempt to locate, infiltrate, and bewitch individuals with weak wills or powerful energy; it is the beginning of its re-projection of influence in the mortal world."

To corroborate this terrifying conjecture, Dakwu specifically asked Alasia, who had the blood of Aenareon: "Yesterday, was there a moment when you felt a strange, eerie feeling of being watched by something invisible, yet unable to find its source?"
Alasya recalled for a moment, then nodded affirmatively and described the uncomfortable feeling of being both pricked by thorns and yet completely empty.

Malekith also had this feeling while waiting, and the two were combined.

Real hammer!
Clearly, the Nakari, having successfully broken free of their restraints, were eager to seek revenge on Aenarion's bloodline, or perhaps to corrupt him in some more sinister way. Aenarion had dealt a heavy blow to the Slaanesh, and this "attention" had naturally been passed down to his offspring.

Therefore, Malekith's "attendance" was shrouded in an even heavier shadow from the very beginning. He was not only there to confront Aris's five-thousand-year-old hatred, but also, as the most conspicuous and powerful bloodline bait of Aenario, he deliberately placed himself in danger.

After confirming that the Eternal Queen was under the perfect protection of a tight security force, he left the center of power alone and ventured into the wilderness, becoming the ideal "beacon" and target to attract the Nakari and their minions. Arathia, who was active in Lorthorn, was even safer than the Eternal Queen.

To paraphrase Dakota: There's no such thing as guarding against thieves for a thousand days.

Unfortunately, it didn't come earlier or later, but at this very moment.

At this moment, Malekith and Aris were in an extremely strange position. Due to the close-quarters combat just now and Malekith's sudden sitting up, their faces were almost touching, and their breathing could be heard.

Compared to the sudden appearance of the audience, in a way, it seemed as if the two of them were performing some kind of ritual or something unspeakable...

Ares could clearly see the 'masterpiece' left by his fist on Malekith's face: his cheekbones were swollen high on both sides, covered in bruises, his mouth was torn, blood mixed with dirt and dried wine stains, and his swollen eye sockets made his originally dignified and cold face...

It looks exactly like a pig's head.

There are no other adjectives or ways of describing it.

The 'elf girl' by the forest edge tilted her head slightly, her hooves gently scratching the moss on the ground. A hollow and greedy smile appeared on her face, her gaze shifting back and forth between Malekith and Aris, as if assessing which side's potential for pain, conflict, and depravity was more delicious and could better please its master.

Malekith released his grip on Aris's wrists, and with his filthy hands, he shoved Aris, who was straddling him, aside, though not gently, before slowly standing up. As he brushed the dust and blood off his hunting attire, his gaze swept past Aris, locking coldly and intently onto the demonic phantom, and... more figures slowly emerging from the shadows deeper in the forest.

More figures appeared.

They emerged, wriggling from behind trees, bushes, and even the shadows of the ground. It was a very mixed group: low-ranking Lupus demons with twisted limbs and skin that shimmered with a morbid luster; elven cultists dressed in revealing and bizarre clothes with fanatical eyes, their attire varied, some draped in tattered, ornate silk, others smeared with strange paint, all sharing a nauseating intoxication and hunger in their eyes; and there were also some beasts twisted by chaotic forces, emitting ominous roars.

They silently gathered around, their eyes fixed on Malekith and Aris, filled with assessment and covetousness.

"It seems our reminiscing will have to wait." Malekith's voice rang out, still calm, yet it seemed to have drained all the warmth from the surroundings, causing the air to freeze. "We need to deal with this uninvited guest first, and... its rather impolite servants?"

Ares clutched his wrist, staring at the approaching chaotic minions.

Five thousand years of hatred still burned fiercely in his chest, but the sudden and large-scale demonic threat before him was like a bucket of ice water, forcing him to forcibly pull himself away from the fervor of revenge.

However, when he heard Malekith's almost taken-for-granted tone that included him, the suppressed resentment in his heart surged up again.

"Are you ordering me around?" (End of Chapter)