Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Fegal slumped unceremoniously in his chair, letting the sea breeze tousle his hair. He gazed at the shimmering waves of the inland sea, his pointed ears seemingly listening to the generals beside him discussing the present and the future, but his thoughts had already drifted to some distant dimension known only to himself.

"Does our armorer have anything to say?" A voice pulled him back to reality.

"Me?" Fegal asked, feigning ignorance, his tone languid.

"Otherwise what?" Karasasara chimed in, her tone carrying her usual teasing.

However, upon closer examination, it seems that beneath the teasing lies a subtle, almost imperceptible hint of jealousy.

Fegal is known as the "Armor Remover" because of the ceremony he witnessed at the Temple of Asuyan.

He was chosen by Dakous.

At that time, the first name called was Alaros, followed by Talos, Azalion, and then Gilead.

By this point, the astute observers had already discerned the underlying meaning.

Upon closer examination, it becomes clear that the four men Darkus selected were not chosen randomly, but rather with a very specific purpose. They were all men, and all came from the army system. Gilead and Aysarion had been Malekith's adjutants, and Gilead and Malekith were also related.

Aralos is Ares, Talos is Enil, and Azalion is Asur. But with Gilead, the definition changes. Is he Duruci? The lone Asur? Or some kind of symbol, a descendant of Bel-Shana—chosen to witness the end of this six-thousand-year cycle?
Besides their racial differences, they share another important commonality: they are all from the younger generation and they are all connected to the army system, although the units led by Aysarion and Alaros have not yet been officially designated and have not yet been truly incorporated into the military system.

In Trudeau's seat, the spectators looked at each other, their expressions a mix of emotions.

They knew that Darkus liked the number 'five', and that almost everything about Nagalus was related to 'five'—it was a near-transparent consensus.

However, the fifth one never appeared.

For a time, everyone harbored their own ulterior motives.

After a moment of initial shock, the naval and bureaucratic factions, having discovered the pattern, simply abandoned their tension and began to watch the spectacle, wondering if more names would be called next and who would be selected. After all, whoever the fifth chosen person was, it was none of their concern.
Within the army faction, many generals who noticed this characteristic began to internally compare themselves to the situation, feeling a quiet excitement, wondering if it would be their turn, and whether they were qualified to be named.

Karasara was in the crowd at the time, but unfortunately, Dakous didn't choose her; instead, he chose Fegal.

Fegal finally sat up straight, then rested his elbows on his knees and bent deeply. His hand slowly, almost ritualistically, traced the deep scar on his face.

The touch from his fingertips was rough and tough, like a leather trim worn by time, deeply embedded in his flesh and memory. This scar was left from his time studying at the academy, a brutal course known as "academy fencing."

The training at that time was less about swordsmanship and more about forging willpower.

Both sides wore sharpened swords with handguards, safety glasses, and basic protective gear, but were required to stand like monuments, with no movement allowed except for the forearm used to wield the sword, and were prohibited from dodging or turning their heads.

The rules are as cold as iron.

It's not a test of skill, but rather the sheer courage to face a blade coming straight at you—whether your pupils constrict, your breathing become disordered, and your hand holding the sword trembles.

The scar on his face was from when he was struck by Vaschna's sword. The sensation of the blade tearing through his flesh, the sting of warm blood splashing into the corner of his eye, and the sudden gasps that filled the deathly silence around him—these details still vividly resurface on some nights.

Yu Ting believed in the principle that wounds must be treated by oneself and pain must be swallowed by oneself.

So, after the competition, he stood alone in front of the mirror, his trembling yet steady fingers holding a needle and threading the needle. Without any soothing medication, he stitched the torn flesh back into place, one stitch at a time. Each needle prick and each thread tightened was a subjugation of pain and a burial of fear.

In early childhood, this type of scar has a specific name: Schmidt.

It is not a flaw, but a badge of courage, a mark proving that you once looked directly into the glint of a blade without blinking. A qualified Schmith often earns more silent respect than any medal.

This is the new era of Duruci's approach. Duruci can tell from Schmidt whether someone was born in the new era or came from the old era, just like the hazelnut hairstyle that is popular in the new era (Chapter 816).

Born around the turn of the new era, Trucchi stubbornly maintained his hazelnut hairstyle even after being promoted to a high-ranking military officer. In the eyes of these proud elites, the hazelnut hairstyle, like Schmis's, was not only a physical feature, but also a direct symbol of status and a manifestation of personal strength.

Whenever Trucchi, who was active in the military system, saw Hazelhead and Schmidt, even if he didn't know them, he could recognize them at a glance as having been born around the turn of the new era.

Of course, Trucchi, who came from the old era, scorned this, treating it like children playing house.

In terms of scars, Vaschna's were far more "grand." Although Fegal was well-versed in academy fencing, he was far less fanatical than Vaschna. Besides the one Vaschna had left, there were four other Schmis scars of varying depths crisscrossing his face, like some kind of obsessive poem written with pain and blood.

The silence lasted for a long time, so long that even the sea breeze seemed to freeze, before he finally uttered a single word with a sense of loss.

"do not know……"

His answer successfully drew a chorus of undisguised boos, a mixture of disappointment and sarcasm.

"You're a disarmored soldier, how could you not know?"

If Karassara's jealousy was a thin blade hidden beneath silk, then Wasner's tone at this moment was to openly display his jealousy on the tip of that blade.

Naked, scalding hot, and completely unmasked.

Fegal slowly turned his head, his gaze fixed intently on Washnard's face. That face, so familiar to him, was now distorted by a complex mix of emotions. The five Schmidt marks on Washnard's face were clearly visible in the light; they should have been proof of courage, but now they seemed to be marks of resentment and anxiety.

They used to be good friends.

This friendship began in Nagarond, when they were assigned to the same temporary dormitory during the assessment period to determine whether they could become members of the Young Court.

Until the Temple of Asuyan.

Until Fegal's name was pointed out by Darkus in such an unquestionable way, becoming the fifth person, becoming the "Armor Remover".

At that moment, everything underwent a silent yet complete qualitative change.

In that deep gaze, Fegal saw more than just Washna's question. He saw how the shadows of those who once stood side by side had been twisted and deformed under the flames of jealousy; he saw those scars that they had once been proud of, now seemingly becoming cruel yardsticks for measuring "who deserved more"; he saw how an invisible yet resilient bond had quietly crumbled into unfamiliar dust between the cracks of "chosen" and "unchosen".

He did not answer Washner's question.

That deep gaze itself is a silent, weary, and knowing answer.

The sea breeze, passing through the short distance between them, seemed to sweep across an abyss that was silently widening. The scars they shared in their childhood were still on their faces, but the world they stood in had been cut into two banks that could never be pieced back together by the light from the temple.

But these feelings of jealousy and undercurrents were irrelevant to him. He only needed to take the necessary precautions to protect himself from any sharp blade that might emerge from the shadows.

The rest will be determined by rules and military discipline.

The large army he commanded was part of the 22nd Army Group.

Although the legion in episode 22 was formed later, its combat strength is extremely formidable. Its core forces were drawn from the old units, employing a mentorship model between veterans and new recruits. Officers and soldiers are primarily new members of the Nagalos population, born at the end of the old era or after the beginning of the new era.

Therefore, the 22nd Army Group was privately known as the "Young Guard." Although this title was not official, it was passed down by word of mouth within the army, becoming a kind of tacit honor and expectation.

Meanwhile, Vashná commanded another large army.

Fegal was not worried at all about what kind of military blunders Washná might pull, given the strict military discipline and ironclad rules that were in place. Unless he himself went mad and made some outrageous military deployments, such as advancing recklessly with no cover on his flanks, or sitting idly by after losing contact and waiting to be surrounded, hoping for an impossible rescue.

Besides... the war is over.

That's why they're sitting here right now; they're waiting for a meeting to begin, a formal notification meeting about the end of the war.

This is also another underlying theme beneath the jealousy between Karasanzara and Vashná.

For them, the war was over before it even truly began.

This deprived them of the stage to demonstrate their value, win glory, and seize opportunities for advancement. After years of diligent study and honing their skills, they never even fought a decent battle. With their expected brilliant resumes vanishing, Fegal's identity as a "disarmed man" seemed particularly glaring and abrupt.

Washnard was not angered by Fegal's almost indifferent attitude; he was already used to it, and in his mind, Fegal had always been like this. He also did not provoke further, because apart from completely breaking off relations and letting embarrassing rumors spread throughout the army group and even the top ranks, he would not gain any substantial benefit.

So he abruptly changed the subject, steer the conversation toward a grander and more sensitive area.

Will there be further troop reductions?

This problem is more cruel and more realistic than the anticipated illustrious resume turning into a mirage. It is no longer about personal honor or disgrace, but directly addresses the very foundation upon which they depend for their existence and for which they have dedicated themselves.

Will the military itself shrink? Will the power and responsibility they hold tightly melt away quietly in the peaceful dawn?

The discussion gradually deepened from the initial tentative steps, and eventually, a conclusion, though not explicitly stated, gradually emerged as a consensus: there would be a reduction in military strength.

Maintaining a massive war machine requires unimaginable resources, and once King of Ulthuan has succeeded, it will inevitably face scrutiny regarding its 'redundancy'. Some units that have expanded purely for the sake of war, and some traditional but outdated organizational structures, may be incorporated, reorganized, or even disbanded.

However, as this weighty consensus was reached, they vaguely touched upon an invisible barrier.

“Fortunately…” Mocaris broke the silence in a low voice, “we are the Young Guard.”

This sentence was like striking a match in a dark room.

“We are the new generation. From skeleton to flesh, from ideology to training, we represent not the past, but the future that has been shaped,” Karasashala said with emotion.

Disarmament often involves eliminating redundant personnel that are no longer suited to the new era, and removing the remnants and inertia of the old. But the 22nd Army itself is a product and symbol of the new era. They are not merely soldiers, but a political gesture, a living testament to Trudeau's successful transition and renewed vitality.

Fegal listened quietly to his colleagues' analysis, his fingers unconsciously tracing Schmis's face again. He knew in his heart that this conclusion was a mixture of rational judgment and a trace of self-comforting wishful thinking.

The leadership needs a loyal, sharp, and "rightly" young force to serve as a benchmark for deterrence and action on the more complex postwar chessboard.

They were not created solely to win the last war, but to maintain their very foundation.

Wasner fell silent, the scars on his face appearing particularly deep in the dim light. Jealousy might still linger, but it had to temporarily recede before the pressing issue of survival. As the commander of another emerging force, he too was behind this invisible barrier.

The stage of war may have ended, but the stage of politics always needs actors. These young guards seem to have been transformed from sharp blades into the potential to become part of the scepter?
The wave of disarmament may be coming soon, but the deck they stand on still seems to have an unusual buoyancy. "Your father..." After a long silence, Mocaris broke the silence, turning his gaze to Fegal.

He only said half of what he wanted to say, but all the generals present understood immediately. In an instant, all eyes—inquiring, calculating, and expectant—fell on Fegal.

Fegal raised his head, glanced around at those eyes, and then let out a silent chuckle.

"I'll let you know as soon as I have any news." After the laughter subsided, he looked at Washna and said in a tone that was more like an announcement than a discussion.

Friendship is friendship, and investment is investment.

He understood Mocaris's plan: he was seeking a secure source of income to ensure their post-war livelihood and even their long-term well-being. As generals, they weren't short of money, but who would complain about having too much?

His father is a "project" worth paying attention to.

Unlike some of his colleagues who came from impoverished backgrounds, Fegal had a complete family.

The mother managed a large textile factory with 5,000 Duruci women workers; the father was a senior captain who commanded a large cruise ship that traveled between various ports.

On the surface, investing in textile factories seems like a safer bet, but that's not actually the case.

The textile factory was an asset of the court and the government, and its internal investment share had long been divided up by various forces. Naval commanders, bureaucrats, veteran army nobles... even these young guard commanders, at Marekis's behest, were able to receive a symbolic share on a regular basis.

But this money is less of an income and more of a political bond and a donation for the future. It rarely ends up in a person's pocket; instead, it is invested in complex political operations and relationship maintenance, becoming a visible but untouchable virtual asset for a long time.

In contrast, his father, who may seem to command only one cruise ship, had accumulated extensive connections as one of the earliest certified captains. Once his father decided to retire from the military, he could leverage these assets to attract investment and build a civilian fleet dedicated to serving the Stormweavers Order, generating and expanding profits through stable transport missions.

Mocaris's meaning couldn't be clearer: he also wanted to get involved and have a share of the profits.

It's perfectly acceptable for each party to take what they need.

As for the land...

That was the dumbest investment.

It requires huge investment, yields meager returns, and has a long cycle.

More importantly, doing so would very likely anger Darkus.

His will is difficult to fathom, but his vigilance against land annexation, especially the encroachment of military generals and nobles on land, has long been an open secret. To cross this line is tantamount to dismantling one's own political security and betting one's hard-won future on the most dangerous roulette wheel.

Fegaard withdrew his gaze and looked back at the sea.

The whistle of my father's fleet.

Perhaps this is the path that will lead to a safe and secure voyage after the storm?
After a moment, Fegal, like the other generals present, stood up from his chair, straightened his back, and gave a neat salute and greeting.

Chintara and Viena walked over side by side.

The former was their direct superior, and the latter was the presiding judge from when they studied in the central court.

They held respect for each of them, but within that respect, there was always a lingering fear that was hard to shake off.

The fear stemmed from the fact that these two outstanding women, who emerged from the blood and fire of the old era, were not in a stable mental state.

Occasionally, things get out of control.

In Nagalus, a world where the strong prey on the weak and betrayal is as common as breathing, emotions are a luxurious poison, and also a fatal weakness. To survive, everyone must constantly wear a mask of ruthlessness, cunning, and toughness.

All genuine emotions—fear, sadness, and even a sliver of remaining goodwill—are forcibly suppressed and sealed away in the darkest depths of the heart. Yet these emotions do not disappear; like an overcompressed spring or a wound silently festering in the heart, they will always be triggered at some unguarded moment or by some unexpected 'trigger'.

A familiar scent, a seemingly familiar scene, a careless remark, etc., suddenly rebound and unleash destructive power.

From a psychological perspective, this is an inevitable backlash after long-term extreme repression. Those deliberately sealed fragments of memory may be childhood trauma, a failed assassination attempt, the moment of witnessing the tragic death of a loved one, or the unspeakable horror experienced while serving under the Witch King... They will break free of their restraints in the gaps of weakened consciousness, dragging people back to the nightmares of the past.

As the presiding judge, Vienne showed another side of herself.

She was never a "suitable" instructor; she was irritable, impatient, and possessed a suffocating emotional and oppressive quality, like a mother tutoring her child with homework. She habitually used silence and sharp sarcasm instead of explanation and guidance, leaving many students to endure a difficult time of both humiliation and intellectual hunger.

Undoubtedly, she was an exceptionally capable general. Her mastery of military affairs bordered on obsession; tactical maneuvers, logistical coordination, morale control—every detail was under her command. She never allowed her troops to take any unnecessary risks, but when real difficulties arose, she would never allow them to retreat an inch.

Her very existence is a contradictory combination of blade and shield.

When Malekith astutely realized that she was not suited to the responsibility of teaching, which required restraint and guidance, he did not hesitate to end her term in Midgard and instead ordered her to set about building a brand new force—the Twelfth Army.

In terms of strategic deployment, the 12th episode was deployed to Angrel as the third wave of attack forces. It was to land in the Kingdom of Elion after the army of the Kingdom of Caledon left its homeland surrounded by mountains and entered the plains of the Kingdom of Elion.

Unfortunately, the war ended before it even began.

Chintala's loss of control manifested itself in a more direct and physical way.

She'll hit people!

In the old days, she was stationed for a long time at an important stronghold in the northwest of Nagallos, faithfully and diligently fulfilling her duties. Although she was born in Nagalond, because her place of service was far from the core of power and she had little connection with the Nagalond factions, she was never involved in the political vortex.

With the advent of the new era and Nagalus' strategic retreat, she abandoned the strongholds she had defended and returned to Nagal Lund. There, she began to study and learn about the military theories of the new era, and subsequently formed the Twenty-Second Army.

Her martial arts skills were exceptional, honed over nearly a century in frontline battles against darkness, mutated creatures, and potential invaders—a deadly art devoid of any fancy tricks.

This excellence, when she lost control, became a source of danger.

These two kinds of loss of control represent two completely different paths to collapse.

Chintara's loss of control is a violent outburst of repressed emotions. When a tiny trigger is pulled, her rationality cracks suddenly like a fragile layer of ice.

Immediately following this was the explosion of the body before consciousness.

It wasn't a conscious attack, but rather a defensive, reflexive elimination driven by painful memories. Her fists, elbows, and even objects she grabbed would strike the nearest target with refined martial arts movements, as if striking phantoms crawling out of the abyss of memory.

Afterwards, she is often more bewildered and broken than the victim, as if the violent body she just experienced did not belong to her.

Fegal had not studied psychology systematically, but he intuitively and through observation understood that this was a form of psychological trauma, because his mother also had it, only manifested differently. In his view, this was not a gender issue at all, but rather a shared imprint left by society and environment on an individual's life.

As he grew older, and as he read the memoirs, war chronicles, and novels written by the older generation of Trucchi, he increasingly realized that, for Trucchi, who was born around the turn of the new era, those predecessors who stumbled out of the old era were more or less abnormal.

This abnormality is not a disease, but more like a remnant of the survival reflex system?

It was a "gift" bestowed upon us by an era where betrayal was as common as breathing, cruelty was the norm, and trust was tantamount to suicide: heightened vigilance, suspicion, emotional detachment, numbness to pain and death, and a deep-seated, subconscious, extreme desire for control over an out-of-control environment.

These traits were armor in the old days, but in the new era they often become shackles or intermittent, hidden pains.

Therefore, dealing with these Durucis who came from the old era requires skill.

Otherwise, he would end up like Wasna, who was almost beaten to death by Chintala.

Their reactions cannot be understood using purely New Age logic; their silence cannot be taken as acquiescence, their sharpness as hostility, or their sudden emotional breakdown as weakness.

To understand the unspoken fears beneath their words, to discern the undercurrents of memories surging beneath their calm exterior, and to provide them with a bounded, predictable sense of security.

This is not about appeasement, but about respecting the wounds of history, and about the necessary survival skills to coexist with the ghosts of the old era under the rules of the new era.

At this moment, Chintara and Viena appeared normal; at least, they weren't gripped by that breathtaking silence, nor were they suddenly struck by the ghostly recollections. They sat side by side, with a twilight-like tranquility.

But in Figa's view, this was precisely another kind of "abnormality"!
This kind of normalcy is too neat, too much like a meticulously adjusted still life painting. What they present is a deliberately pruned, occasion-appropriate "stable state."

This contrasts with what he knew in a disturbing way, like clouds deliberately lowered before a storm, where beneath the calm surface, turbulent currents of a different nature can only be perceived by those in the know.

“Every step is like a pre-written script; as the sun sets, you turn around and find yourself already in the game.”

It was dusk. Chintara gazed at the gradually sinking molten gold of the sky and sighed softly. There was no trace of the ferocity she had displayed in her voice, only the dry desolation of a warrior gazing at the ruins of a battlefield.

This statement is so clear-headed, so clear-headed, that it doesn't seem like it came from someone who had been torn apart by the ghosts of memory.

"The tide of the times is sweeping in, like both the end of a curtain and a rebirth..."

Vienna continued, her thoughts clearly in turmoil, her words entangled with reflections on the past and unresolved issues. In her mind, without Dakota, she would have long since died in some forgotten corner or on a night of self-collapse.

The present and the future were a hazy halo to her, bringing both hope and casting long shadows. She sighed deeply, a sigh filled with unspeakable lamentations.

Fegal listened quietly.

A complex feeling spread through his mind. Whether they came from the old era or the new era, whether they were the older generation marked by trauma or the new generation like him who grew up in a relatively orderly environment, they all seemed to be small people swept forward by the torrent of the times.

Everything seemed to have been designed and arranged by some larger narrative long ago.

The changing of power, the beginning and end of wars, the rise and fall of individuals, even the hidden scars and struggles in one's heart... When one suddenly glimpses a trace of one of these events, one is horrified to realize that one is already in the game, and that the game had already quietly laid out countless clues long before one's consciousness awakened.

The twilight cast a dark golden rim on the silhouettes of the two female generals as they gazed at the setting sun, as if staring at the great wheel of history that had shaped them and then cast them aside.

Fegal stood to one side, also enveloped in the fading light. He felt as if he were standing in the middle of an invisible river, its current flowing from an untraceable past towards an unformed future, and he and they were merely reflections within it, unable to linger, only able to rise and fall with it. (End of Chapter)