Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Ares straddled Malekith and slammed his fist down hard.

One punch, two punches, three punches...

However, when he raised his fist again, Malekith beneath him was once again reduced to that lifeless, helpless fish, completely at his mercy. His swollen face showed no defense, no retaliation; even the mocking smile from before had vanished, leaving only a deathly, detached indifference.

Ares seemed frozen in place, his bloodied fist hanging stiffly in mid-air, trembling slightly. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared intently at the face before him, which had been beaten into a swollen mess, yet still retained faint traces of its former features.

The next second, two streams of warm, murky liquid unexpectedly washed over Aris's face, which was covered in dirt and blood.

Tears streamed down her face.

He suddenly looked up, and his face, which had been hidden in the shadows for thousands of years, was now exposed without reservation to the dappled, pale sunlight filtering through the tree canopy.

Immediately afterwards, a heart-wrenching roar exploded from his chest.

“Ah!!! Ah!”

The roars came one after another, shrill and desolate, not like the voice of an elf, but more like the final lament of a lone wolf, grievously wounded and having lost all its pack in the wasteland, gazing at the waning moon.

There was no murderous intent in that voice, only endless sorrow.

The moment the roar ended, Aris seemed to have all his strength drained away. He slumped over and collapsed heavily into the soil beside him. He curled up, clutching the withered leaves beneath him, sobbing incessantly, repeatedly murmuring those seemingly contradictory yet heart-wrenching murmurs.

"This shouldn't have happened..."

"It should be like this..."

"This shouldn't have happened..."

"It should be like this..."

Malekith remained lying there like a dead fish, his limbs outstretched, gazing up at the sky, fragmented by branches and leaves. But unlike before, tears silently welled from the corners of his swollen, almost closed eyes. The glistening liquid slid down his temples, past his ears, and finally dripped onto the scorched earth beneath him—this land that, in name, still belonged to him, but was already shattered.

Yes, it shouldn't be like this.

At this moment, Malekith understood Aris's words better than anyone else, and comprehended why the seemingly indestructible Shadow King would completely crumble at this moment.

Nagarius was meant to be powerful, the sharpest sword and the strongest shield of Ulthuan.

It shouldn't have become a ghostly ruin, a synonym for exiles and traitors, as it is now.

The Annall family—what a glorious name it once was.

Aris's grandfather, the great Eloran Anna, had followed Malekith's father without hesitation, conquering all sides; Aris, like his grandfather, should have become Malekith's most capable right-hand man and a legend of the new generation.

It should be like this: just like before, they stand side by side, working in perfect harmony without needing to say a word, driving away demons like harvesting weeds, and protecting the purity of this land.

That was their destiny, the path that Nagarius was meant to shine upon.

It shouldn't be like this: it shouldn't be like this now.

There should not have been that civil war that tore the clan apart, that great schism that sank the continent, the massacre of the entire Anar family, and two souls burdened with the same hatred and memories, tearing each other apart like wild beasts for five thousand years.

He messed everything up.

This thought, like a rusty, blunt knife, pierced Malekith's heart, which was already as hard as iron, without warning, and then stirred it violently.

For the past five thousand years, in countless cold, dark nights in Nagaron, he had become accustomed to blaming it all on the injustice of fate, on Asuyan's betrayal, on Bel-Shana's usurpation, and on the woman who gave him life yet injected venom into his soul—Moras.

Yes, Morales. His mother, that beautiful, madwoman.

How easy it was to shift the blame onto her! It was she who whispered in his ear day and night, instilling in him a thirst for power; it was she who founded the Pleasure Cult, corrupting the foundations of Nagarius; it was she who, when he hesitated, placed that poisoned dagger into his palm.

Telling himself "I'm just a puppet controlled by my mother" and "I'm only doing this to meet her expectations" gave his shattered self-esteem a sliver of comfort.

But it was ultimately a lie.

On this homeland he had destroyed with his own hands, amidst Aris Anna's desperate cries, the lie seemed so pale, so ridiculous.

Morath may have brewed the poison, but it was he who raised the cup and drank it down. Morath may have offered the torch, but it was he who chose to throw it at Ulthuan, igniting the Great Sundering that consumed everything in its path.

It was he who was blinded by jealousy and arrogance; it was he who, unable to bear being subservient, personally strangled that golden age that could have lasted for ten thousand years; it was he who, for that damned chair, pushed the entire Nagarus, this land that was loyal to him and regarded his father as a god, into an abyss of no return.

Looking at Aris, who was weeping bitterly beside him, Malekith felt an unprecedented sense of suffocation.

This Shadow King, convulsing in the mud, should have been his most loyal general, his sharpest blade. The Anar family should have enjoyed the same unparalleled glory under his command as their ancestors, instead of being wiped out, with only a ghost twisted by hatred wandering alone in the ruins.

"This shouldn't have happened..."

Ares's delirium was like a series of resounding slaps to his soul.

If he had made a different choice... if he had been able to suppress that damned ambition... if he had been a true protector, not a usurper, like his father...

At this moment, laughter and songs should be echoing through the forest, and he and Aris might be sitting by the campfire, drinking fine wine and talking about a glorious victory against Chaos that has just ended.

It was such a beautiful, dazzling dream, yet forever unattainable.

And the one who shattered this dream with his own hands, crushed it into powder, and scattered it into the void was none other than himself.

The pain brought by this realization is more intense than the burning of the sacred fire of Asuyan. It is an inescapable judgment, a prison from which there is no escape.

On this land that witnessed the beginning of everything, he had to admit: it was he, Malekith, the prince of Nagarius, who destroyed it all. It was he who personally killed the self that should have been great.

Time slips away silently through the gaps in the leaves, like the last grain of sand slipping through an hourglass.

When Aris finally stopped his soul-stirring sobs, the forest returned to a stifling, deathly silence. Malekith slowly sat up, then adjusted his posture, kneeling on one knee beside Aris.

"Do you want to finish what you haven't done?" Malekith's deep voice broke the silence.

"I have no idea……"

At this moment, the two seemed to have undergone a bizarre reversal. The Avenger who had just been roaring madly was now like a dead fish, his soul seemingly having left his body.

“I don’t know…” Aris repeated, his empty gaze not looking at his enemy so close at hand, but through the layers of tree canopy, at the sparse, pale and unreachable sunlight.

“I should kill you, to avenge the atrocities you committed, to avenge the endless suffering you brought to this land…” After a moment, when a spark of reason flickered again in his gray eyes, he spoke again. But his tone no longer held the steely resolve of steel; instead, it carried a heartbreaking hesitation, his eyes a mixture of doubt about the past and a faint hope for some possibility.

“However, your sword remains in its sheath.” Malekith glanced at Aris, a faint smile playing on his lips, a smile that was hard to decipher whether it was self-mockery or sarcasm.

The moment the words left his lips, the air trembled slightly. The Bloodthirsty Sword, radiating a bloodthirsty aura, appeared between the two, landing precisely within Aris's reach.

The sword's blade gleamed coldly, as if silently tempting its master.

“Yours is the same,” Aris said coldly without reaching for his sword, “Yangyan Sword is also not drawn.”

“Perhaps…” Malekith looked at the sword, his eyes becoming deep and complex, “we are no longer who we used to be.”

“Perhaps.” After a long silence, Aris finally admitted in a low voice, his voice filled with endless exhaustion. “I really wish… I could convince myself of this.”

"So... are you going to kill me? Right now, right here," Malekith asked calmly, as if discussing someone else's life or death.

"Do not……"

The moment he uttered the word, Aris seemed to regain some kind of strength. He sat up abruptly, his eyes, which had just been filled with confusion, now sharpened like a hawk's, staring intently at Malekith.

“My arrow is already pressed against your heart, Malekith. Though you cannot see it, you will never be able to pull it out. As long as you live, as long as you serve our people, as long as you serve the remnants of Nagareth, the pain and torment brought by this invisible arrow will be enough for my revenge. But listen carefully, if you fail their expectations, if you betray this land again, my next arrow will materialize and take your life!” “Is this a threat?” Malekith raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Then your threat is meaningless to me.”

"Since it's meaningless, then you have nothing to fear!"

Having said that, Aris grabbed the Bloodthirsty Sword from the ground and stood up nimbly. He didn't attack, nor did he even glance at Malekith again. He simply sheathed the sword, turned, and walked into the dark shadows deep in the forest, his back view resolute and lonely.

"and many more!"

Just as Aris was about to disappear into the darkness, Malekith suddenly turned around and shouted at the figure's back.

"What else do you want?" Aris stopped and turned halfway to the side, his tone as cold as ice.

“Let’s talk…about the future,” Malekith said in a deep voice.

“No interest!” Aris turned around without hesitation and took another step.

"This is the task Darkus assigned to me!" Malekith suddenly raised his voice and shouted the name.

Aris, who had already decided to leave, suddenly stopped, then turned around again, his eyes filled with scrutiny and suspicion, and looked at Malekith once more.

Seeing the other party's reaction, Malekith's face revealed a seemingly helpless, but actually sly, speechless expression. Darkus hadn't given him any specific tasks at all; he had simply brought Darkus up in desperation.

But I have to admit... it really works!
And we must admit...

Aris turned around again and strode back, finally stopping in front of Malekith, his eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to continue.

“This isn’t the place to talk.” Malekith brushed the dust off his knees and slowly stood up. “See you later? I’ll clean up the mess and remove all traces. As for you… go hunt some game? We’ll probably need to start a fire and talk.”

"Are you ordering me?"

These words did not come out of Aris's mouth again, but his slightly narrowed eyes conveyed the meaning very clearly. He continued to stare intently at Malekith, assessing the feasibility of the proposal.

After a breathtaking eye contact, Aris remained silent.

Finally, the Moon Bow appeared in his hand. He withdrew his gaze, turned around, and this time without hesitation, walked straight into the depths of the forest.

As Aris's ghostly figure completely disappeared into the shadows, Malekith also straightened up.

The twisted corpses of those cultists must not be left to lie scattered in the ancient woodlands.

The best way to deal with filth is always the fire that purifies everything.

Fifteen minutes later, the dry branches crackled crisply in the flames, and the military mess kit was propped up again beside the fire.

A moment later, accompanied by a slight rustling of grass and trees, Aris reappeared at the edge of the fire's glow. He carried a plump badger in his hand, casually tossing it to Malekith's feet. Then, he silently sat down on the other side of the fire, his eyes fixed on the leaping flames, never looking up at his nemesis opposite him.

Marekis pulled a well-sealed bottle of wine from his bag and slid it down the ground to Aris's side.

“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.

In that instant, time seemed to undergo a mysterious reshaping. The same spot, the same campfire, the same two people, the same aroma of wine—everything seemed to have returned to its original starting point.

But this time, unlike before, Aris did not swing the heavy bottle at Marekis's already mangled head.

"Did you receive the message?" Malekith pulled out a sharp dagger and began skillfully processing the badger at his feet. The subtle sound of flesh tearing away accompanied his question, sounding exceptionally clear in the silent atmosphere.

"What news?" Aris took another gulp, and after a long pause, asked. His tone was flat and indifferent, showing no interest in anything.

"Regarding the decisive battle in Lorthorn not long ago."

"No."

Malekith's dagger precisely sliced ​​through the skin. As he dealt with his prey, he spoke in a deep, magnetic voice, slowly recounting the earth-shattering events that had occurred in Lorthorn that day.

As the narration progressed, Aris listened quietly, his expression gradually shifting from initial indifference to disbelief and shock, finally settling on a mixture of irony and a sense of expectedness.

"arrogant!"

He offered a cold assessment, as if providing a definitive conclusion to that distant tragedy. After speaking, as if suppressing his inner turmoil, he took another large gulp of wine.

“Don’t just keep drinking,” Malekith stopped what he was doing, took a sturdy oilcloth bag from his baggage and tossed it to Aris over the campfire. “Drinking on an empty stomach will make your already dull archery even worse.”

Ares did not refuse this seemingly heartless act of care. He took the oilcloth bundle, skillfully untying the hemp rope to reveal dried beef chunks inside. He stuffed the meat haphazardly into his mouth and chewed it heartily. The rough fibers mixed with the spicy liquor transformed into a real, warm current in his chest and abdomen.

"This beef was made by Genevieve. You should know her, right?" Malekith glanced at Aris, who was enjoying his meal, his tone neither warm nor cold, as if it were casual conversation, yet also as if it had a deeper meaning. "If you don't like it, there are all kinds of canned food in my bag. You'll definitely get used to canned food."

Ares abruptly stopped chewing. He looked up, his sharp, hawk-like eyes fixed on Malekith. He sensed the hidden edge behind those seemingly casual words; Malekith was addressing him directly.

These words were undoubtedly a silent declaration: his so-called clandestine infiltration in Krakarond had actually been under the close surveillance of Duruci all along. They were simply watching him silently like a caged beast, and were not in a hurry to close the net.

But this is a long-forgotten matter.

Ares swallowed the beef in his mouth, not angry or embarrassed at being found out. He knew that those things were not a reason for him to be sitting by the campfire.

"Is this battle... almost over?" he asked in a deep voice.

“That’s not up to me,” Malekith said, staring at the flames, giving a thought-provoking answer.

Alice nodded thoughtfully, then stuffed another piece of dried beef into her mouth and asked the question indistinctly.

"What will happen to this land after the war ends?"

"The Holy Resurrection of the Ossuan Society," Malekith uttered a rare and solemn term.

"Darkus's doing?"

“That’s right.” Malekith nodded in agreement, and then succinctly explained the mission of the Fateweavers, which was enough to change the course of Ulthuan and even the Elven race.

"If... Darkus had appeared sooner, that would have been better." Aris sighed softly, his tone revealing a weariness and desolation that spanned thousands of years.

Malekith understood the weight behind that sigh. If all this had happened five thousand years ago, perhaps those tragedies of rivers of blood would never have existed. He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh.

"So, this is the end? There's no place for me in Ulthuan anymore? I've been exiled by the civilized world? This is the task Darkus entrusted to you?" Aris smirked self-deprecatingly.

"You must have heard of 'aristocratic law,' right?"

Ares was taken aback at first, then readily admitted it. Merging with the shadows was his fighting spirit, but certainly not his fundamental character. For him, there was nothing to hide; defeat was defeat. Admitting this might seem extremely frustrating for him, the 'King of Shadows,' but defeat meant nothing to him…

“Therefore, the future is actually open to choice.” Seeing Aris nod, Malekith changed the subject, not dwelling on the topic of Aris being discovered while infiltrating Nagaros. “According to the ‘Noble Law,’ Eranalaris has always belonged to the Anar family. Unless…” He glanced meaningfully at the silver crown on Aris’s forehead, then spread his hands, “but only within the territory of Eranalaris. Aris, you should understand what I’m saying.”

“I know, I’ve not only heard of it, I’ve read the ‘Noble Law’.” Aris sighed heavily, took another big gulp of wine, and remained silent for a while, letting the wine wash over his bitter taste. “Nagaros? You plan to kick me to that freezing place?”

“No, it’s Aiso Taralion!” Malekith put down the badger he had just finished processing, his expression suddenly turning serious. He looked directly into Aris’s eyes, his voice low and powerful.

“A place of exile that sounds pretty good…” Aris scoffed.

“No! You’re completely mistaken. That was absolutely not exile.” Malekith interrupted Aris, his tone unwavering and resolute. “That place is extremely important!” (End of Chapter)