Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

We had lunch in the lobby of the Flying Fish Tavern.

In Ulthuan, tales of delicacies always revolve around the "Giant Bull" of the Kingdom of Kosqui, a tough creature whose robust flesh is not suitable for consumption.

To address this problem, new livestock farming techniques emerged. Farmers in Kosquiat meticulously cared for their livestock, protecting them from predators and parasites, sheltering them from the fiercest storms with tents, and feeding them tender grass and fragrant herbs. This method, though costly and complex, produced cattle of unparalleled quality.

Kosquite beef is renowned for its mottled coat, marbled white fat, and the salty, briny flavor of the sea that permeates the meat. These characteristics stem from the cattle's habit of breathing in the sea breeze year-round, resulting in a particularly striking appearance; a poet described it as "rich marbling, like the foam of ocean waves at sunset."

The middle cut of beef is considered the finest delicacy, and to taste this delicacy, one must queue for years in advance. To enjoy it immediately, one needs extensive connections and a bulging wallet.

Therefore, although this farming method inspired farmers in other kingdoms of Ulthuan to reduce herd sizes and improve feeding standards, few were able to replicate this beef outside of Kosqui.

For Kosquie, it was a unique spectacle; for many Asur, it was an indulgent pleasure.

Unfortunately, the giant beef didn't appear on the Flying Fish Tavern's table. The highlight of this meal was the tableware and the tavern's ambiance.

When restaurant owner Naranes served the dishes, Elisand and Rahil thought they were sitting in a feast hosted by a deep-sea lord.

The plate resembles a giant giant clam shell, with elegant and intricate folds rolled up at the rim. It shimmers with a warm, pearly luster under the light, as if it had just been dredged from the warm lagoon.

Soup bowl: Like a perfect nautilus shell, the spiral pattern is not only the ultimate in aesthetics, but also takes into account the comfort of holding it. The light blue iridescence on the rim of the bowl is extremely luxurious.

Spoons and cutlery: The handles are meticulously carved into the shapes of red coral and starfish, and the staggered grain texture gives them a unique tactile feel when held in the hand.

These exquisite tableware pieces, in Dakota's words, possess a kind of beauty reminiscent of a dragon palace having a clearance sale. The tableware complements the interior décor of the Flying Fish Tavern perfectly, as if the entire tavern itself were a colossal, slumbering shelled creature on land.

Elisander unconsciously rubbed the edge of the plate. As a Caledonian nobleman with a natural appreciation for luxury goods, he had assumed these items were fragile and was even worried that using too much force would break these 'shells'.

However, the sensation transmitted through the fingertips betrayed the truth—it was ceramic.

This is a product of Ashriel, manufactured by the porcelain factory contracted by the Stormweavers Order.

High-strength, fine ceramics are precisely molded to replicate the most perfect shell textures found in nature, and then coated with a special glaze that simulates mother-of-pearl. It possesses both the graceful beauty of seashells and the toughness and standardization of industrial products.

To reward the Flying Fish Tavern for its tireless care of the staff and officers during this period, Serene donated this batch of exquisite ceramic tableware to the tavern.

"Don't worry about crushing them; these things are much harder than they look."

Dakos said casually, turning his gaze to the side.

Today, the tavern owner, Naranes, wore a brightly colored robe, his rainbow-colored hair particularly eye-catching under the lamplight. This uniquely styled owner was wielding a swift knife, and with each swift stroke, translucent slices of sashimi were neatly arranged on a seashell-shaped porcelain plate.

While today's meal may not be as extravagant as top-grade giant beef, it boasts an exceptionally rich variety: tender migratory fish, substantial smoked meats, sweet wild vegetables, and seasonal fruits arranged in a harmonious and balanced manner.

Although sashimi is the signature dish of Flying Fish Tavern, no one can stand eating it every meal.

Alissand held the heavy coral spoon, his fingertips tracing the marble-like ceramic glaze, and finally lowered his head to begin eating.

The luncheon proceeded in an almost oppressive silence.

There was no pretense of clinking glasses, no diplomatic probing; the only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the low smacking of chewing. If one had to pinpoint a single word for this lunch, it would be—fast.

Just ten minutes later, only Dakos, Finnubar, Elisand, Rahil, Aislin, Arslan, and Karashir remained at the long dining table, maintaining the rhythm.

The staff officers and officers, having finished their quick meal, rose in unison and hurried to the cots on the other side of the hall, where they collapsed into bed. These mental laborers had to make the most of this extremely short lunch break to forcibly replenish their nearly depleted energy reserves.

Arslan quickly put down his cutlery, nodded slightly, and turned to leave. His task was to maintain combat readiness, though there wasn't much to be vigilant about, especially after the Kaledo Kingdom's delegation appeared in Lorthen. With the overall situation largely settled, this vigilance was more like a routine matter, but he still diligently performed his duties—that was just his nature.

Aislin and Karashir did not choose to rest. Instead, they each lit a cigarette and, amidst the swirling smoke, opened thick stacks of official documents to coordinate the afternoon's work process.

Al-Lessan and Rahil sat somewhat awkwardly, their gazes involuntarily drifting to the numerous official documents scattered on the table, densely covered with data. Their instinctive sensitivity to power filled them with curiosity about these documents, yet they dared not presume to overstep their bounds.

"Take a look, just put it back when you're done." Darkus noticed the searching look in their eyes and waved his hand dismissively. Then, he looked at Finnubar and gave him a wink, signaling Finnubar to show the guests around.

He wasn't worried at all that the two Kalerdos would take the opportunity to become spies and steal some so-called core secrets.

He has nothing but confidence!

This almost arrogant confidence is not based on empty pride, but on a cold and calculating understanding of the potential for war.

In his view, the backbone of the Kingdom of Caledon had been broken.

Having lost the breath of dragons, the magical support of Saffre, and the extensive supply lines of allies, this kingdom, dominated by towering mountains, has become a magnificent isolated island. Lacking arable plains, Caledor has always relied on food supplies from its allies, but now, with Caledor's complete defeat in the Battle of Lorthen, this lifeline has been utterly severed.

This raises the issue of balancing manpower and supplies—a classic quagmire of war. Too many soldiers mean no one to farm; if they farm, there aren't enough soldiers. And they also have to defend against the vast ocean and the long coastline of the inland sea to prevent Truc from landing and wreaking havoc.

This was still the food and supplies supply; the arms supply was wiped out at the very beginning of the Battle of Val's Anvil.

The Kingdom of Caledo is currently on the verge of collapse, exhibiting a decadent beauty unique to the end of a war: they still have armed warriors in name, but in reality, they are suffering from logistical shortages, empty arsenals, and depleted food supplies.

This was merely a contest in the era of cold weapons, and had not yet involved the terrifying consumption of ammunition, vehicles, or fuel.

Although the battle for King's Landing in Ulthuan has only just begun in terms of time span, the outcome is already decided at the strategic level.

Guided by Finnubar, Al-Lesand and Rahil walked slowly to the huge sand table in the center of the conference hall.

This sandbox is used for planning and allocating resources; Nagalos, Ashriel, and Ulthuan are all on the same page. On the sandbox, the flags of every legion and every transport fleet are clearly visible.

As a general, Rahil immediately noticed the military insignia on the territory of the Kingdom of Terenlock. Looking at the flags symbolizing the landing, he let out a heavy sigh; he knew better than anyone what those markings meant.

His gaze then swept across the entirety of Ulthuan: Lorthen, Angrel, Port Eleste… from the Windswept Plains to the Finnuwa Plains, from the border between the Kingdoms of Avalon and Saffre, to the northern peninsula of the Kingdom of Elion. Flags crisscrossed the entire sand table, densely packed with markings symbolizing the close connection between Duruchi's army and the Ulthuan legions who had sworn allegiance to him.

Although a geographically encircled perimeter has not yet been formed, the loss of Lorthene, a strategic hub, has given Duruci the initiative in the war. They have grasped the throat of time and space, and can choose to launch a fatal blow at any time and in any place.

You can go wherever you want.

Rahil stared for a moment, the dense military deployment map gradually transforming into a giant, inescapable net in his eyes. He slowly turned his head, looking at the calm-faced Finnubar with an extremely complex and meaningful gaze.

Unlike Rahil, Elisander did not wallow in the sorrow of defeat amidst the intricate troop deployments. As an elite administrator entrusted with important responsibilities by Imrek, and even wielding royal authority at times, he turned his gaze to the thick stack of neatly arranged logistical documents on the table.

He reached out a slightly trembling hand and turned to the first page. After scanning only three lines, the elegant demeanor he had been trying to maintain completely collapsed, and his breath caught in his throat.

This document contained no "approximately" or "about"; every page was filled with numbers accurate to single digits, standardized units of measurement, and a set of tables he had never seen before, yet whose logical rigor was chilling. The document meticulously recorded the supplies being transported from Anaheim to Lorthene, with their arrival times counted down in "hours."

What he saw was not just the flow of supplies, but a production line that encompassed three continents. He finally understood how cruelly confident Darkus's earlier "look around as you please" had been.

Even if he memorized these documents and brought them back to Caledor verbatim, it would be pointless. Caledor lacked the advisory staff capable of accurately calculating logistical errors, and having lost the dragon, it had no chance of launching a surprise attack.

"In your eyes, Ulthuan is no longer a sacred land, but a... giant workshop? Every kingdom in Ulthuan has been given a specific function?" Alessand looked up at Finnubar, his eyes filled with incomprehensible shock.

"Almost?" Finnubar spread his hands. "Besides, it's not just Ulthuan."

While Finnubar led the two messengers through the sand table and documents, Daculus lay on his camp bed in the corner, oblivious to everyone else, and fell into a deep sleep.

An hour later, the once quiet tavern hall was once again awakened by rhythmic noises. Staff officers and soldiers climbed out of their cots on time, their movements swift and silent, seamlessly transitioning to the afternoon's intense work almost the instant they opened their eyes. Dakos also opened his eyes on time, his gaze devoid of any drowsiness, displaying only a cold-blooded alertness.

"Let's go, I'll show you somewhere else." He stood up and straightened his slightly wrinkled collar, his tone casual.

“I…” Ellisand shifted his feet somewhat awkwardly, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

"What's wrong?" Darkus stopped what he was doing and turned to look at him.

"What will the Kingdom of Caledon become in the future?" Elisande finally asked the question that had been weighing on his mind, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. He hoped to receive a definite promise, or some concrete blueprint.

"I don't know!" Darkus answered crisply, even with a sense of self-assurance.

"You don't know?" Ellisand was stunned, even doubting that he had heard correctly.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Dakotas didn’t explain, but simply made a brief inviting gesture, signaling them to follow.

When did Finnubar make up his mind to completely side with Duruci? Darkus's answer is very clear: it was after he personally visited Nagalus and witnessed how that rigorous and efficient social machine worked.

Often, judgment criteria cannot be established through verbal instruction; straightforward education often seems ineffective, while insightful summaries easily degenerate into arrogance. The cruelty of this world lies in this: if you cannot grasp the other person's logic or understand what they are saying, then this communication barrier itself is a sign of being eliminated.

The core game theory logic lies in finding points of convergence and points of repulsion. This requires an extremely subjective insight.

Some people are muddle-headed and can only see the ruins brought about by the collapse of order; while others are quick to understand and can smell the engine oil of the new era in the ruins.

Darkus could have easily said things like the Kingdom of Caledon must surrender unconditionally, but that's not his style.

He walked ahead, his eyes glancing at Elisand and Rahil behind him. Although their time together was short, he had already reached a conclusion: Imrek had finally done one thing right in his final act of handing over the reins; he had chosen eyes that could see reality clearly and a heart that knew how to find patterns in dramatic changes.

Caledo's future does not depend on the charity of Dakous or Malekith, but on how much of Caledo's chance of survival they can discern in the journey ahead.

As soon as I stepped out of the Flying Fish Tavern, a wave of heat, a mixture of engine oil and sweat, hit me.

Dakos stopped and looked at the open space not far ahead. It was already packed with Asur, dressed in durable work clothes and wearing the emblem of the Weavers of Fate on their chests. Even the tops of the containers were full of people, their eyes, filled with curiosity and fervor, fixed on something in the center of the circle.

“If you’re interested, you can try to squeeze in and take a look.” Dakous leaned casually against a pillar by the tavern door, spread his hands and smiled. “There are too many people, so I won’t go in. They’re probably more excited to see me than to see Asuyan appear, and that would disrupt their learning progress.”

He knew that it was study time. Lorthern did not offer night school, but there was a midday school, where the Asur who became members of the Weavers of Fate used the precious rest time from noon to afternoon to study.

Alessand and Rahil exchanged a glance, a chill running down their spines from the frenzied atmosphere. They held their breath and squeezed into the crowd. The Asur around them, who had initially been quite critical of these two elegantly dressed outsiders who had interrupted their view, tacitly made way for them after recognizing their distinctive aristocratic attire.

When they finally squeezed through the human wall and saw the enormous figure inside the circle, their expressions froze.

"This is... some kind of siege weapon?" Rahil's voice was a little dry.

What came into view was a monster that was entirely black and emitted a cold metallic gleam.

A massive cast-iron cylindrical roller stands at the front, like a giant wheel capable of crushing all obstacles in the world. The complex connecting rods, exposed gear sets, and the brass boiler that constantly spews out thin white mist constitute an aggressive and violent aesthetic that is incompatible with the Asur civilization.

Elisander didn't respond; his brain was in a state of overload and shutdown. Besides, it was his first time meeting Rahil, so how could he respond?
Just then, the technician, Duruci, pulled the lever.

Woo! ! !
A piercing and high-pitched whistle pierced the area, like the angry roar of a steel dragon.

The next second, the enormous pressure accumulated inside the boiler was converted into pure mechanical energy, and the heavy piston began to move rhythmically, with the gears meshing and emitting a piercing metallic friction sound.

The heavy steel monster moved slowly amidst a tremendous roar.

As the iron roller slowly rolled across the ground, Alessand felt the ground beneath his feet tremble violently.

The shock was unparalleled. Without energy fluctuations or incantations, mortals gained power to change the rules simply through the combination of fire, water, and steel.

Alessand stared intently at the billowing black smoke and the rhythmic connecting rods. He suddenly realized that if this power were used to level mountains and build roads, then Caledo's proud natural defenses would become worthless in the face of this ironclad logic.

This is not just a machine; it is a declaration called "efficiency."

It was telling every onlooker that the old era of meticulous craftsmanship was over, and the violent aesthetics of steel and speed were crushing Ausuan's past under its wheels.

Elisande slowly shifted his gaze from the roaring steel monster to the layers upon layers of Asur around him.

There were no armored guards or flowing robed mages in this group, only citizens of Lorthen. They might have been dockworkers, small-time artisans, or...

However, in the eyes of these once docile, even somewhat mediocre, commoners, Alessandro saw an almost scorching fanaticism.

It wasn't fear or worship in the face of a god, but an extreme hunger and ambition to control one's destiny. They clutched their charcoal pencils and tattered notebooks tightly, some squatting on the ground, sketching the structure of the machines in the shadow of the shipping containers.

This almost pathological acquisition of knowledge sent a chill down Alissant's spine.

"Hey! Now, who wants to come up and try operating this big guy?"

Duluth's words were like a spark falling into an oil drum.

"I come!"

"Choose me! I've already memorized the startup process!"

"let me try!"

The previously orderly civilians of Asur were now pushing and shoving forward like madmen, countless hands waving in the air, every face filled with urgency. Those civilians who had always been submissive in the past were now pushing and shoving each other to grab a chance to operate the machine.

Alessand stood frozen in place, swaying from side to side as he was jostled by the surging crowd. In that moment, he felt a kind of vitality, a vitality that was extremely unfamiliar, even terrifying.

In Caledo, everything is still and constant.

The nobles guarded the glory of their ancestors, the commoners guarded their ancestral lands, and even the dragons awaited their final moment in eternal slumber. The rhythm of that civilization was long and slow, like an ancient and elegant stagnant pool.

But the air here is burning.

This vitality stems from an extreme allure of transcendence: as if by mastering this machine, as if by learning this magic called "technology," an ordinary person could gain dignity and status.

They are no longer appendages of the nobility, but rather cogs in the engine of this new world.

“Is this the vitality you wanted us to see?” Elisander muttered to himself, turning to look at Darkus in the distance.

This vitality is enough to destroy five thousand years of tranquility in Caledon. Once this virus called 'ambition' spreads among the common people, any sense of superiority based on bloodline will appear pale and powerless amidst the roar of steel.

He finally understood why Darkus said he didn't know: if the people of Caledon also ignited this terrible vitality in this new world, then the original Kingdom of Caledon would already be dead.

Unfortunately, the crowd was too overwhelming, and he didn't see Dakota; he only saw ordinary people.

Elisande turned his head, his gaze following the chosen Asur.

He looked like an ordinary young man, who even slipped when he climbed onto the operating table due to excessive nervousness.

However, when the Duruci technician released his grip, indicating that he would take over, the young man's eyes instantly changed. As he awkwardly but firmly pulled the lever, the steam boiler roared like thunder, and the huge steel drum started spinning again, like a tamed beast obediently rolling forward under the commoner's fingertips.

The machine slowly came to a stop, and white steam billowed out, obscuring half of the young man's body. He stood beside the control panel, his body soaked in sweat and oil, but suddenly, as if he had lost his mind, he forcefully swung his fist at the sky and let out a shout that was both relieved and wildly unrestrained.

Alexand stared intently at the back of the figure throwing a punch.

In Caledon, he had seen warriors gracefully salute after winning duels, and dragon princes receiving the worship of commoners, but that excitement was controlled, a performance within the framework of class and etiquette. The excitement of this young man before him, however, was an almost primal, even somewhat savage, outburst. Was it the ecstasy of discovering he could wield immense power, an awakening that had been suppressed for millennia?
This excitement terrified Elisander because it was so real and so infectious.

"Tsk tsk, look at how clumsy you are!"

"Get down here already, it's my turn next time!"

A huge chorus of boos erupted from the surrounding Asur, but Elisander keenly discerned the truth behind the noise. It wasn't the sarcastic mockery of the Caledonian court, but a clamor brimming with longing, friendliness, and intense excitement.

Hidden within those hisses is a resonance of kinship: today it's you, tomorrow it could be me. They are no longer the dust kneeling by the roadside, only daring to shrink back and remain silent when watching the dragon fly by; they have become individuals competing and chasing after each other.

The active factors flowing in the air were like a silent tsunami.

Elisander realized that, faced with this "desire," Caledon's lifeless social contract, built on bloodline inheritance, was crumbling. These commoners no longer needed to worship the power of dragons, because they had discovered that, through learning, this monster called "machine" could grant them the same, or even greater, power.

"This is a hope that transcends blood ties..."

Elisander seemed to understand Darkus's confidence.

When every commoner sees himself as a piece of the new order and burns his life for it, any nobleman of the old era, if he cannot jump onto this running machine, will be mercilessly crushed into dust and turned into a speck of dust under the new roadbed.

"Do you understand?" Darkus leaned casually against the pillar by the tavern door, and asked with a smile when he saw Elisande and Rahil return.

"understood!"

"understood?"

"understood!"

“That’s not enough…” Darkus laughed. “Come on, let me show you something.”

He then left North Port with two envoys, passed through the civilian district, and explained what the Weaving Fate Society was during the journey, eventually arriving at the lagoon dock.

It's bustling here too. (End of Chapter)