Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

At this moment, time seemed to momentarily stand still for the spellcasters of Asur.

It's not a true standstill, but rather a subjective misperception?
My heart continued to beat, my breathing remained steady, but my consciousness seemed to have been forcibly paused, and then pushed into a deeper, calmer state.

When Lord Mazdamudi's massive, silent form truly entered their 'perception' rather than 'observation' range, a silent thunderclap exploded deep within the spellcasters' souls.

There was no loud bang, but the aftershocks lingered, spreading along the connection between spirit and magic, making people's scalps tingle.

The first thing they were deprived of was their usual experience of magical environments.

Elven magic relies on perception and guidance, weaving a magical wind that permeates the world in an almost artistic way. It is the rhythm of their breathing, familiar since their apprenticeship, a way of communicating with the world.

However, at this moment, the magical winds within a radius of several hundred yards centered on Mazdamudi were neither 'dispersed' nor 'suppressed', but instead... became unusually 'smooth' and 'docile'.

It wasn't a lifeless stillness devoid of anything, but rather an unsettling order.

It's like a raging ocean current suddenly entering the surface of a deep, boundless, absolutely still abyss. The water is still there, and the potential to flow is still there, but all the surging, crashing, and noise is swallowed up by some irreversible depth.

A high-ranking mage from the White Tower of Hoss instinctively raised his hand, attempting to summon the winds of Hess around him to calm his suddenly agitated mind.

This is an almost instinctive action, like a drowning person grabbing at a piece of driftwood.

However, his movement froze halfway through.

He was horrified to find that the familiar, lively, and light energy had become 'heavy' and 'sluggish'.

It did not reject his call, nor did it show any hostility. Rather, it changed course naturally, as if bypassing an invisible but undeniable mountain, and flowed slowly toward the place where Slan was, along a path with lower resistance and more stable flow.

It is not absorbed, but merely rearranged.

In that instant, he clearly realized that this was not a crushing defeat in terms of strength, but a difference in the level of order.

His meticulous control, which he was so proud of, appeared clumsy, laborious, and even superfluous in this redefined field.

What most spellcasters experience is a cold and penetrating 'insight'.

What they "see," or rather, what their inner vision, upon which they rely to cast spells, reflects, is not a being wielding immense energy.

There was no flickering light on Mazdamudi, no cyclical flow of spell circuits, and no radiance that resonated with any single magical wind.

All those familiar markings, features, and recognizability were absent.

Instead, there is a suffocating truth—he himself is like a cosmic law rivet forged into the structure of reality, firmly nailed there.

The eight winds automatically bend and layer around him, misaligning yet coordinating with each other, forming a complex and elegant topological structure.

The Aksha winds are no longer restless, yet they remain blazing; the Urku winds are no longer treacherous, yet they remain profound; the Shash winds are no longer corrosive, yet they remain chilling.

They were not weakened, but simply placed in their proper places.

Just as planets orbit stars not because they are forcibly pulled, but because their orbits are the optimal solution for their existence.

Mazdamudi's thick eyelids, which seemed to be covered with millennia of moss and stardust, slowly lifted slightly.

The movements were extremely subtle, yet they caused many spellcasters to subconsciously tense up.

There was no sharp gaze, nor any deliberate projection of consciousness.

But that ancient gaze, seemingly originating from the beginning of the world, still gave all spellcasters the illusion that their souls were being instantly scanned, analyzed, and archived.

A young, fully ordained mage abruptly closed his eyes, trying to escape this overly direct contact.

However, he saw it even more clearly.

In that calm and boundless dark consciousness, the spell structure he had painstakingly practiced for many years, the spell model he had repeatedly deduced, and even the magical talent hidden deep in his bloodline that had not yet been fully awakened, were all neatly arranged like strings of floating, glowing code.

There is no focus, no commentary, it is simply presented in its entirety.

That's not scrutiny.

It's not a judgment.

Just knowing...

Just as one knows the patterns on the stone slabs beneath one's feet, just as one knows the movement of the stars in the sky.

It has nothing to do with likes or dislikes, it's simply because it's there.

The feeling of being known is often more terrifying than any form of pressure.

It strips away all the veneer of mystery, tradition, and pride, exposing the spellcaster's core "magical self" nakedly before a cognitive level that is incomprehensible and unattainable.

Some people unconsciously took a step back; some people's fingertips turned white as they gripped their staffs tightly; and many more began to tremble uncontrollably.

That's not fear of attack.

Rather, it is the instinctive tremor of life when it faces the deep space of the universe, a tremor so small it feels almost nonexistent.

In this silent, surging tsunami of cognition, a few figures, like reefs, still stand firm.

They did not retreat, nor did they deliberately step forward; they simply stood there steadily, letting the waves of the spiritual realm crash over the edge of their consciousness, yet unable to shake their inner balance.

Belloda's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly.

It was genuine astonishment, not a loss of composure under pressure.

In her understanding, Shi Lan should be a restrained, internalized being, almost like a background law.

They need not display, nor do they need to be "seen," for their very existence is the most complete proof. The winds of magic will naturally gravitate towards them, like iron filings towards a magnet, but it is a gentle, continuous, and almost imperceptible process—unintentional and without seeking feedback.

However, at this moment, the smooth and complete field surrounding Lord Mazdamudi presented a state of precision to the point of calmness, with a clear sense of boundaries.

It did not diffuse naturally, but rather resembled a lens whose focus had been adjusted by an invisible hand, clearly presenting the law-like existence that should have been buried deep within the world with an intensity and manner that could be captured by the most acute sensory organs of the Asur spellcaster.

It's not an overflow.

Instead, it's about deployment.

The experience of the difference in levels that made the young mages tremble was too clear, too restrained, and too effective.

It did not rudely deny the ingenuity of elven magic, but instead extended upwards along the path that the elven system was most proud of—perception, weaving, and control—ultimately revealing an insurmountable height at the end of cognition.

This is a teaching-style impact that goes straight to the heart.

Bellorda had only experienced this feeling twice.

One instance was when she first sought guidance on her spellcasting skills from Shaxpatty, requesting a breakthrough in her own limitations; the other was during the construction of the canal on the continent of Ruscia, when Lord Mazdamudi drew energy from the spiritual veins.

That was not a display of power, but rather an instinctive imbalance of consciousness that arose when order was rearranged.

After her initial surprise, a smile that was almost helpless appeared on her lips.

She shook her head slightly, then her gaze briefly and imperceptibly swept over Serene beside her, before passing over the crowd and landing on the seemingly casual figure in front of her, holding a chameleon.

Yes.

Only him!
Only Darkus would know so clearly how to transform the oldest, most transcendent, and most disdainful of being "displayed" into the most direct and effective... teaching tool, or bargaining chip.

This is not an expression of Shi Lan's true nature.

Rather, it is a "stage presentation" that is extremely restrained yet exceptionally efficient, based on a profound understanding.

At the same time, Adana and Marlene exchanged a very brief glance, without saying a word, but in that instant of eye contact, they had already reached a synchronized judgment.

Although they had only stayed on the continent of Lustia for a short time, it was enough for them to understand that the spiritual landscape before them, which, though still silent, actively translated its own laws of existence into a near-textbook level that could be interpreted by elven magical vision, was by no means normal.

They captured that extremely subtle yet crucial detail at almost the same time.

The force field surrounding Mazdamudi, which causes the magical winds to naturally bend, layer, and circulate, does not spread indiscriminately. It is more like ripples slowly spreading in nature, decreasing in intensity with clearly defined boundaries.

This is too much like a conscious, almost extravagantly controlled, focused display.

Shi Lan remains the same unfathomable, almost divinely inscrutable Shi Lan.

But today, in the heart of Ulthuan, they have chosen a more 'proactive' stance.

Behind this initiative, there is clearly a hand that is familiar with Slan, understands the psychology of the elves, and is adept at transforming ancient power into real-world influence, gently guiding the direction.

Thus, the usually reserved Ancient Saint Agent, at this moment, slightly adjusted the focus and visibility of his power radiation in order to make a grander plan from the outset.

This is not a threat, nor even a warning.

It's more like an unfathomable ancient sage who, on his first visit to a neighbor who prides himself on his exquisite skills, inadvertently or perhaps not entirely unintentionally lets the other person glimpse a corner of his vast and diverse collection of books in his study.

Its purpose is not to show off.

Instead, before the dialogue begins, a basic consensus should be established regarding "knowledge scale" and "historical depth".

Bellorda's smile eventually gave way to a calm and clear-headed insight, and Adana and Marlene's gazes also settled into a calm and restrained observation.

They had already deciphered the underlying message of this presentation: any subsequent dialogue, alliances, or even games of strategy would only be qualified to proceed after both sides had recalibrated their true worth to each other.

And Darkus stands at the starting point of that calibration.

Unlike The Emperor's New Clothes, there is no absurd scene where a child shouts in alarm about a giant frog.

Because the Emperor's New Clothes is built on a false consensus, while Mazdamudi's presentation is a real and tangible fact.

It does not require linguistic confirmation or collective agreement.

As Lord Mazdamudi's near-law-level existence was revealed in a focused manner, everything around him subtly changed.

The magic lamps along the way lit up, their light soft and rhythmic, their fluctuations in brightness seemingly pulsating in sync with Slan's almost imperceptible breath; the vines and flowers on both sides of the road, which were originally just decorative, began to curl and turn slightly at a speed visible to the naked eye but not abruptly, like sunflowers chasing the sun, bowing low towards the moving carriage and the giant beast.

Even the air itself seemed to have its flow rewritten.

A gentle breeze swirled and gathered around Chengyu before slowly dispersing, bringing with it an atmosphere unlike anything Ausuan had ever experienced: the damp darkness of the deep rainforest and the cold clarity of the stars in the sky coexisted strangely in the same gust of wind.

The common people were the first to react.

That's not understanding, that's instinct.

Before they even realized it, many people had already involuntarily taken a half step back; some put one hand on their chest, some lowered their heads and closed their eyes, and others made unconscious gestures that symbolized respect, blessing, or avoidance in their respective ethnic cultures.

They couldn't explain why, they only knew that they felt so insignificant at that moment, and this insignificance was not shameful, but rather awe-inspiring.

This time, Dakos did not wave to Mazdamudi as he had done before.

He simply nodded.

His nod was like a pre-arranged signal, or perhaps the rhythm and sequence had finally reached the right point, and the music began naturally. Strictly speaking, this was only the second time since the birth of the elven civilization that a foreign delegation had officially set foot on the land of Ulthuan.

The first time... and the result was extremely unpleasant!

Following the assassination of Agrim Fireheart, the most revered runelord of Balag Highgate, the High King of the Dwarves, Gotrek Starshatterer, dispatched his chief liquidator, Fryk Grimbork, to Ulthuan.

As for how Agrim Fireheart was assassinated, one would have to ask Nagash's magic instructor, Drusala's ancestor—Drusala, and Aris's beloved—Ashnir. (Chapter 96 of '09')
In Asur's official records, this history is written with dignity and restraint: when the dwarven ambassador arrived at Caledo II's court, it was the dwarves who first provoked the conflict. The ambassador swore by his beard that he would not leave until justice was served, and drew his weapon before the Phoenix King, demanding reparations.

Although such an act would normally be punishable by death in the Phoenix Court, Caledo II was magnanimous and, based on the ambassador's own oath, made the judgment—shaving the dwarf's beard and sending him back to Elsin Alvin.

But actually...

"These creatures are truly ugly."

Tessanier (Caledo II) made this conclusion in his mind.

They had large noses, rough cheeks, prominent foreheads, and sturdy-looking feet. As they walked along the long path leading to the throne, each heavy step on the polished stone slabs made his teeth ache.

And that smell...

Tessanir nonchalantly raised an exquisite sachet to his nose, attempting to conceal its worst aspects. Unfortunately, the fragrance of the spices couldn't mask the grime and fur on these beasts, nor the musty odor reminiscent of underground caves. This further solidified his judgment: these dwarves must be burrowing creatures!

The dwarves seemed so out of place in his pure, immaculate hall, filled with carved arches and pale stone walls.

Lorthorn's Phoenix Court is smooth, elegant, and near-perfect, while these dwarves are just... twisted, deformed, and even their names sound so crude.

"They seem very humble?"

He leaned back on the throne, looking at Freyk's serious, almost stubborn face. Like the other dwarves, Freyk had a long, thick braided beard. He could almost imagine it crawling with lice and other pests.

"Do you think they look humble, brother?"

He commented with a hint of nonchalant disdain.

Imradik, standing beside the throne, did not respond.

"To me, they seemed very arrogant. And defiant."

Seeing that his brother did not respond for a long time, Tessanir shook his head. He was dressed in a long robe as white as swan feathers and trimmed with gold. He leaned casually against the throne, like a pampered playboy, and hardly showed the majesty that a Phoenix King should have.

In fact, he had hardly given it any thought since the dwarven ship entered Lorthorn Harbor.

After the dwarven delegation set foot on the land of Ulthuan, aside from the most necessary greetings and statements, there was almost no extra conversation, let alone any proper welcoming ceremony.

Only a squad of soldiers silently and coldly led Freyk and his entourage to the royal court, while the rest of the dwarves were left untouched on the crudely made and aesthetically unappealing ship.

“I think they look very humble!” Tessanier reiterated, with a deliberate emphasis in his tone, “even obsequious!”

As soon as he finished speaking, he reached for the wine glass, his long, slender fingers lightly tapping the gilded rim, producing a crisp yet arrogant sound. He took a deep sip, the rich liquid sliding down his throat, before peering through the rim of the glass, his eyes half-closed, and looking down at the approaching dwarven delegation.

There are six dwarfs in total.

Five of them were clearly warriors, fully armed despite Imradik's explicit objections. Only one was unarmed; he wore a slightly worn-out tunic and cloak, the edges stained with indelible dirt, and his dirty little hands clutched a letter with unusual force, as if it were not a letter, but some kind of oath that must be upheld to the death.

That's enough!

When the dwarven delegation reached a position approximately three meters from the throne, Imradik spoke. As he spoke, he raised his hand, a swift and restrained motion. A squad of soldiers immediately stepped forward, shields and spears forming a neat barrier in an instant, blocking the dwarves' path.

"Let them come closer. Is this how you treat our guests of the court?"

Tessanil waved his hand dismissively, signaling his brother to step back.

He spoke with a clear mockery, as if deliberately displaying his magnanimity and composure. But unfortunately, the dwarves didn't understand the sarcasm; they simply remained rooted to the spot, their expressions becoming even more tense.

“Your Majesty!” Freyk stood still and bowed deeply, his movements slow and solemn. “I can speak Elsalin, though only rudimentarily.”

Tessanil chuckled, raising his eyebrows and a slight upturn of his lips, revealing an undisguised, almost exaggerated expression of disbelief.

"Then you're a smart pig, aren't you?"

"I am not a pig, Your Majesty."

"You live in burrows dug in the mud and then protest that you're not pigs? How interesting."

As Tessanir spoke, he exaggeratedly raised his hand, pointing to the rows of pristine white marble pillars surrounding the hall. The pillars were carved with leaping griffins, soaring dragons, and eagles overlooking all living beings, their lines flowing and majestic. Wide banners and heavy tapestries hung between the walls, interspersed with fist-sized rubies and sapphires, which reflected a cold and noble light under the illumination of the magic lamps.

The overall style is not complicated, but it has a magnificent and inviolable solemnity.

What do you think of my court?

“A fine foyer, Your Majesty.”

Tessanir's cheek twitched slightly. He couldn't tell whether the dwarf was mocking him in a clumsy way or simply stating a fact that was perfectly ordinary in the dwarf's eyes.

"Are your pigsties more magnificent than this?"

“I am not a pig!” the ambassador repeated once more, his tone still steady, but with an almost imperceptible stubbornness. “I am Freik Grimbock, a dwarf of Karazar-a-Karak, and the High King’s representative.”

As he spoke, he slightly shook the envelope in his hand.

“I have brought the High King’s conditions, which are in this letter.”

Tessanil raised an eyebrow again, half his attention still drawn to the lingering aftertaste of the wine. He tilted his head back and drained the glass, then casually handed the empty glass to a nearby servant to refill it.

"condition?"

Only when he said this did he finally refocus all his attention on the dwarf in front of him.

“Yes, for peace.” Flake nodded in response, his voice low but firm. “That is precisely why we are here, and why we have crossed the great ocean.”

“Peace, is that so?” Tessanir smiled and nodded slightly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Where was peace when Cole Vanas was attacked? Did your king answer that question in his letter?”

The news about Cole Vanas arrived this morning, delivered by the city's ruler, Leandera Asino.

“No.” Fred tried his best to hide his surprise, but his brows furrowed involuntarily. “I’ve never heard of such an attack.”

"The entire city has been burned to ashes!"

Tessanir's voice suddenly turned low, revealing a dangerous chill in his tone.

The atmosphere clearly changed at that moment.

The other five dwarves shifted uncomfortably, their shoulder and back muscles tensing instinctively, their hands reaching for the axe handles, preparing for the worst.

"You should have made me disarm them long ago!"

Upon witnessing this scene, Imradik gritted his teeth, hissed in a low voice, his tone filled with barely suppressed anger and vigilance.

“Don’t talk nonsense, brother,” Tessanir rebuked, his voice low but carrying a cold, imposing authority. “Freak, that’s your…name, isn’t it? Yes, that’s what you said. Freak, he said he knew nothing about it. Apparently, even his High King knew nothing?”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze falling on the dwarf messenger's face as if examining an artifact.

"It seems the High King's subjects are burning, killing, and looting at will on my land. Is that so, Freyk?"

Freyk's jaw tightened, and his thick beard trembled slightly. He first glanced at the guards on either side, their tall figures standing ramrod straight, the blades of their spears gleaming coldly in the palace light; then he exchanged a look with another dwarf, who simply shook his head slowly and firmly.

“I’ve already said I know nothing about this.” He held up the letter again, his rough fingers tightening around the edge of the parchment as if it were his only shield. “I’ll say it again, these are the High King’s conditions.”

Tessanir leaned back on his throne, the jeweled armrests making a soft rustling sound under his palms.

"Supreme King? High? High!" He raised an eyebrow slightly, a hint of mockery appearing at the corner of his mouth. "For a race as short as yours... that's a rather strange title?"

“He is the lord of Karaza-a-Karak, the greatest dwarf in the dwarf kingdom!” Freyk retorted, his voice rising involuntarily, his chest heaving.

“Alright, alright, I understand.” Tessanil waved his hand to interrupt Flake’s agitated protest, his casual gesture carrying an undeniable air of authority. “Well then, before more cities are reduced to ashes, you’d better read these conditions aloud, right?”

Flake looked puzzled, his brow furrowing slightly, but he cleared his throat, the low cough sounding particularly jarring in the hall, before preparing to read the announcement.

"Tromm".

Just then, Imradik stepped down from the throne platform and nodded to Freik in a low, formal gesture. Freik paused for a moment, then responded in the same way.

Tromm – a Kazali word meaning beard, is a greeting used among dwarves.

In this elven royal court, the word seemed particularly out of place, yet it also carried an ancient and stubborn weight of ritual.

After finishing his greetings, Imradik took the letter, his fingertips lingering on the paper for a moment, as if confirming something. He turned to look at his brother, who appeared indifferent, still relaxed on his throne, but a barely perceptible glint of displeasure flashed in his eyes.

In that instant, a terrible thought formed in his mind, and he hoped that the thought would not come true.

He quickly read the letter, his gaze lingering briefly between a few paragraphs. When he finished, his expression darkened further, and his jawline tightened.

“Then…” Tessanir asked, his voice steady but tinged with impatience, “what are the Dwarf King’s conditions?”

"He demanded reparations and apologies for the hostile acts against his people, and he also demanded an end to all further violence against the dwarves."

"Such brief conditions, yet the letter is so long?" Tessanil scoffed.

“There’s more, but I assure you, you won’t be interested.”

“You’re right about that, brother.” Tessanil tilted his head slightly, his tone light and cold. “I don’t care about these mud bastards’ complaints and pretentiousness.”

After he finished speaking, he nodded to Hulvear.

"Take them down!" the palace steward shouted, his voice echoing beneath the dome.

The elven guards aimed their weapons at the dwarves, spears and blades moving forward in the same instant, but the dwarves were prepared, roaring as they drew their axes.

However, before one dwarf could even swing his axe, he was pierced in the back and side, his body stiffening abruptly as he groaned and collapsed to his knees. Another dwarf had three spearheads pressed against his neck, the blades digging into his beard, forcing him to submit. The third dwarf's leg was pierced, blood dripping from his armor, rendering him immobile. The fourth dwarf was similarly subdued, his axe slipping from his hand and crashing to the stone ground.

The fifth dwarf, their leader, tumbled past the thrusting spears, his cloak leaving a trail in the ground. He rose and cleaved his axe into an elf's shield with such force that it split the shield in two, severing the elf's arm, from which blood gushed forth instantly.

"Gillias!" Freyk called out to stop him, his voice revealing obvious panic for the first time.

At that moment, Gillias charged toward another elven soldier, knocking him down and pinning him beneath him, his heavy breathing filled with reckless rage.

"They're going to kill us!"

Tessanir rose from his throne in an instant, his movements swift and decisive. The sword he had kept at his side was now drawn, its cold light flashing as half of its long blade pierced Gillias's chest.

Gillias groaned, initially unable to comprehend what had happened. His anger was quickly replaced by bewilderment. Then, he spat out a mouthful of blood, lost his strength, and collapsed.

Having delivered the blow, Tessanir turned to the soldiers who had completely subdued the dwarves, blood still dripping from the tip of his sword.

"Hold them down!" (End of Chapter)