Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

No one spoke to me, there was no way to speak to me, and no need to speak to me.

Everyone in the hall knew that the Twisted Cannons had not been activated during Tal Achar's siege. The deployed Twisted Cannons simply sat quietly on the position, neither firing nor activating, nor even making any deterrent display.

If it had been activated... perhaps Valoril Ironthorn wouldn't be here right now, but would have already died in battle at Tal Achar. Not from the charge, not from a one-on-one duel, but from a destruction that came from the sky before he could even react, wiping out the city walls and towers along with it.

Some questions are answered without even asking them.

"The technological superiority, the advent of the Twisted Cannon, rendered our proud city walls useless." Finally, it was Elisander who stepped forward and broke the silence. His voice was not loud, but every word seemed to be carved from stone, carrying an unquestionable, calm statement of facts.

But this summary is only one aspect.

He knew that military technology accounted for only a very small part.

True failure is predetermined even before technology is developed.

Despite their reluctance to admit it, the facts are undeniable: they were utterly crushed in every aspect—systems, diplomacy, military, religion, intelligence, and even public sentiment. Trucchi was ahead in everything surrounding the war. They weren't defeated on the battlefield; they had already lost outside of it.

The battle of Lorthorn was nothing more than the final push that brought it down.

After Elisander stepped forward, Lady Eleanor also stepped forward.

So the topic was shifted to the Battle of the Val's Anvil.

During the discussion of the battle, Elisande felt somewhat relieved that his best decision that day was not to bring Asnir to the meeting. Otherwise, perhaps... a fight would have already broken out?

It's not 'maybe,' it's 'definitely'!
If Asniel were present, hearing those talks about the glory of the old days, those grand pronouncements of "how we used to be," he would probably jump up from his chair and, with a force far greater than Eldalia's, overturn the entire table.

When Elisande met Asnier in Lorthorn, although Asnier was physically healthy, without missing limbs, without the marks of torture from Duruci, and without the haggard appearance of imprisonment, Elisande had a misconception: Asnier was already dead.

It wasn't a physical death, but a deeper, more essential one. It died and faded away with the old kingdom of Caledon. That spirit, that unique spirit of the Caledons—fiery as lava, unstoppable as dragonfire—vanished.

The aura that a dragon prince should have, the presence that makes him the center of attention wherever he stands, and the oppressive power that makes everyone unconsciously lower their voices in his presence—all of that was gone.

Instead, there is bewilderment, confusion, and a state of being like a walking corpse.

Upon returning to the Kingdom of Caledon, Asnil went back to Tal Sarn. But as far as Elisandre knew, Asnil spent most of his time in a daze, sitting on the highest tower of the castle, gazing into the distance, sometimes for an entire day.

He didn't speak, didn't eat, and didn't respond to anyone's calls.

The butler said that sometimes he would suddenly stand up, walk to the window, and then sit back down, as if he had remembered something but then forgot it. When Elisander received Dakou's invitation, he responded.

At first, Elisand thought Asnil wouldn't come. In his state, he was too lazy to even leave his own castle, so why would he respond to an invitation from Duruci?
As it turned out, Asnir actually showed up.

The topic then shifted from the Battle of the Val's Anvil to the Battle of Lor'then, detailing the entire campaign from its planning to its eventual failure.

Although he didn't bring Asnir, one of the dragon princes he did bring was a witness to the entire event. Not Rahil, who was forced to withdraw from the initial battle, but a dragon prince who had narrowly escaped that carnage.

Because Darkus blew his horn, the remaining dragons barely escaped the killing field, but still could not escape the shadow of death. Two dragons, on their way back, were too badly injured, their wings lost their balance, and they eventually fell silently into the desolate mountains and dense forests where no one knew them.

In the end, only Legnius and three other fire dragons truly returned to Tal Sammersan.

This is a dragon; including Imrek, five dragon princes have returned.

The dragons were too large to carry away, but the dragon prince on the dragon's back did.

There were supposed to be six dragon princes, but that wasn't the case; one of them died in battle in Lortheon.

Unfortunately, the remaining four survivors of the Battle of Lor'then were all in poor mental condition. During their accounts, tears welled in their eyes, threatening to spill at any moment. Their fingers trembled, and they knocked over their glasses twice, spilling wine all over the table; they just stared blankly, not bothering to wipe it away.

During the narration and discussion, in addition to keeping an eye on the people who were experiencing the process to prevent a sudden loss of control, Alessandro also had a persistent feeling that many people in the room were still stuck in the old era.

They always believed they could still fight; the defeat was not their fault, but due to other reasons: weather, terrain, luck, betrayal, intelligence leaks, or a mistake in some环节 (link/step) that forced them to fail.

Even a military defeat is merely a "necessary defeat," one that can be remedied through systemic reforms, time, and a successful counterattack, rather than a decisive one.

That sense of abstraction always lingered in his heart, as if he and these people did not live in the same world or the same plane.

This meeting room is a magical place, possessing a magical function that brings them together, allowing them to talk about the same things, but with completely different understandings.

You're saying, "Druc has raiding ships that can fly in the sky," while they're saying, "Our walls are thick enough." You're saying, "Druc has twist cannons that can annihilate the walls," while they're saying, "Our archers can hit any target." You're saying, "Druc has iron ships," while they're saying, "We have more experience fighting in the forest."

The intense resentment and anger almost materialized, as if about to replace the air and push open the stone roof, soaring towards the sky.

"Were you there at the time?" Lady Elena stepped forward again. Her voice was not loud, but it was clear, as if a knife had cut through that thick, suffocating layer of resentment.

Elisande knew what she was asking about—not the Battle of Lor'then, but the moment Imrek stepped into the Temple of Asuryan.

“Yes, and no,” Allesander replied, his voice lower than usual, as if he were talking about something he didn’t want to remember but had to. Before the other could ask further questions, he expanded on the topic, “The Anointed One of Asuyan forbade Rahil and me from entering.”

His gaze was fixed on a certain spot on the sand table, unfocused, as if he were looking at something very far away.

"Kazooin?" Valin's voice came from somewhere.

Upon hearing the name Kadjoin, Elisande looked on in astonishment. He stared in shock at Valin, then at the other nobles who seemed to take it all for granted, their expressions as calm as if they had heard an insignificant name, as if to say, "Oh, so it's him."

It took him a long time to realize: Had these people's information not been updated?

Kadjom was the Anointed One of Asuyan, yes, he was, but there were many more Anointed Ones than just him!
This group of people didn't even know such important information!

They didn't know that on the day Imrek entered the temple, it wasn't Kadjoin guarding the door, but someone else.

Have they fallen so far behind? Have they become so uninformed? The war has been over for almost half a year, and their understanding of Trucchi is still stuck in the past? Meanwhile, Trucchi has already completed a new round of power restructuring and personnel adjustments.

At this moment, he couldn't hold back any longer. He wanted to curse, to respond with the most cutting words, and to pierce through the ignorance and dullness of those people with the sharpest vocabulary.

However, before he could respond, Eldan stepped forward.

“After Malekith stepped out of the sacred fire, Kadjoin left the temple.” Eldan’s voice was not loud, but very steady, like a stone placed in a rushing stream, standing there firmly. “The Anointed One of Asuyan who guards the temple should be Gavino, Gavino from Laurent.”

“Yes.” Elsande’s voice trailed off almost immediately after Eldan’s words.

He always remembered what happened that day.

Imrek jumped down from the dragon's back first, followed by him and Rahil. Imrek, also like a walking corpse, walked towards the main gate of the temple on his own. The ancient gate was engraved with the emblem of Asuyan, the patterns of flames and the sun gleaming with a dark gold in the setting sun.

The Asuyan followers guarding the door did not stop him, nor did they ask what he was doing there, nor did they check his identity. They simply stood there silently, like statues, and let Imrek in.

Just as he and Rahil were preparing to go in, wanting to witness Imrek's final moments, wanting to know what he would experience inside, wanting to confirm, and even having a sliver of anticipation...

Gavino stepped forward. He didn't draw his sword or shout; he simply took a step forward and blocked the door with his body.

Ellisand recognized the look in her eyes; there was no malice, no arrogance, just the calm acceptance of an order, a "this is my duty" kind of composure.

A one-sided argument ensued; he was Imrek's brother. He roared at Gavino, demanding to know what right Gavino had, whether he knew who was inside, and what right he had to obstruct a dragon prince's final wish.

Gavino didn't respond; he just stood there, like a silent wall.

The argument seemed to awaken Imrek, whose figure, which had already entered the room and disappeared into the shadows of the deep hall, suddenly stopped. He stood there, his back to the door, motionless, as if listening, or perhaps waiting.

Then, he slowly turned around.

He just looked at Elisander quietly, his eyes showing no blame, no gratitude, no emotion that could be interpreted. When Elisander stopped arguing, when Elisander finally realized that his yelling wouldn't change anything, he calmly nodded to Elisander.

The nod was so small that it would have been almost missed if Eleanor hadn't been watching him closely.

Then Imrek turned and walked into the depths of the temple.

That was the last time Alessand saw Imrek.

Farewell.

In Elisander's mind, the topic should shift to Malekith stepping out of the sacred flame, or at the very least, to Imrek's final moments from his perspective, or even extend to his meeting with Dakos and Finnubal; he was prepared for all of this.

However, things didn't go as he expected.

"How did you know?"

It's still Valin.

Al-Lesson almost thought he had misheard. At that moment, he went from "somewhat unable to hold back" to "really unable to hold back."

For the first time, he clearly realized that his so-called "allies" were so idiotic, so foolish, and so hopeless.

However, what surprised him was the reaction of the noble Elric tribes. These raiders all looked at Eldan in unison. Their gazes were not inquiries or pleas for help, but rather a look that said, "You are ready to respond," carrying a certain secret expectation.

It seems... there's something he doesn't know?

Faced with Valin's almost idiotic questioning, Eldan remained calm. His expression didn't change, his breathing didn't quicken, and he didn't even blink. He extended his hand to Eldaria, not to shake hands, but to ask for a cigarette.

Eldaria paused for a moment, then quickly understood. During this time, she had learned a lot from Duruci, such as how to extend a warm greeting centered on the other person's mother, and so on…

Just like now: she took out the cigarette case again, gave it a practiced shake, and a cigarette popped out, just in time for Eldan to grab. After Eldan had the cigarette in his hand, she thoughtfully lit a lighter, bringing the flame close to the edge of the cigarette butt.

Eldan leaned in, took a drag, and then coughed violently. The cough was rapid and forceful, as if something had choked him, and his entire face turned red. He was bent over, one hand supporting himself on the table, the other holding a cigarette, his knuckles trembling slightly.

Eldaria watched his awkwardness, puzzled. It was clearly the behavior of a novice, the reaction of someone smoking for the first time, their lungs not yet acclimatized to the smoke. But Eldan's actions—from reaching for the cigarette to taking it and lighting it—were fluid and smooth, unlike someone who had never touched a cigarette before.

She had a misconception: Eldan, though he had never smoked, had observed things from an outsider's perspective quite a bit.

So... in what circumstances was Eldan observing? Who was smoking in front of him, so frequently that he memorized every movement?

What followed was a deeper confusion: she had recently heard some rumors that Kel'Thuzad, whom Eldan had mentioned dying in Krakarond, seemed to be alive and well!
Something seemed amiss, not as Eldan had described. But she didn't voice her doubts, waiting for Eldan to explain himself.

In the Kingdom of Elion, Eldan enjoyed a high reputation for being steady, mature, resolute, and powerful. Although the raid on Krakarond was a devastating success, with only Eldan surviving, his courage to plan, act, and even stab Duruchi in the heart silenced everyone. Coupled with the subsequent corroboration from eyewitnesses and contacts in Anaheim, no one doubted the authenticity of that operation.

As a member of the noble Eldar, questioning Eldan was not the right choice. His reputation was earned with his life, not with empty words.

When he exhaled the smoke again, this time Eldan didn't cough. His throat and lungs seemed to have adapted in the time it took to smoke a cigarette, and the cigarette burned steadily and calmly between his fingers.

He began by recounting what had happened on Eden Island, and then, using Eden Island as a point of reference, he recounted his experiences in the Kingdom of Avalon. Throughout this, Lady Elena from the Kingdom of Avalon would occasionally step forward to corroborate Eldan's account. She spoke little, but each time she spoke was like a stamp, imprinting a mark on a part of Eldan's story.

The hall was silent as they recounted their story. Most of the attendees had heard bits and pieces about the attack on the Eternal Queen, but no one knew the details. Some said it was an assassin by Duruci, others said it was an internal traitor, and still others said it was a conspiracy by Chaos.

Some people who have met the Eternal Queen are also not comfortable asking about this matter, not because they dare not, but because they do not know how to bring it up.

When he recounted how he had to travel to the Kingdom of Saffre with the delegation because of Riana's injuries, the expressions on everyone's faces turned strange. Some people frowned, some raised their glasses to their lips and then put them down again, and some began tapping their fingers on the table.

When he recounted his meeting with Dakous, the second-in-command of Duruci, the man who was now ranked second on the power list of the entire Ausuan, the man whom everyone both hated, feared, and had to submit to, the atmosphere became even stranger.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't fear, it was an indescribable feeling, like being pushed from behind and finding yourself standing on the edge of a cliff.

Eldan didn't care; he was mentally prepared. He had done what Darkus had entrusted to him, and done it very well. The intelligence, the communications, the clandestine negotiations that couldn't be included in any official reports—all were now closed.

Now it was his turn to deal with his own problems; he had to confront his inner demons.

"So you played a disgraceful role?!"

It's still Valin.

"Did Alandil Swiftwin not commit suicide?"

When Valin uttered the first sentence, things were alright. Everyone present had already assumed he was an idiot; no one questioned him, no one echoed him, and no one even glanced at him.

However, when he uttered the last sentence, the meaning changed. That phrase, "not suicide," wasn't a question, it was an accusation!
The accusation is that Eldan, a figure renowned throughout the Kingdom of Elion who raided Nagarus, murdered a nobleman.

Everyone present turned to look at him simultaneously. Some looked at him like he was an idiot; some were shocked, their lips slightly parted and their pupils dilated, as if confirming that they hadn't misheard; and some had a look in their eyes that wasn't one of pity, but rather of boredom that seemed to say, "Why don't you shut up?"

Although there are still doubts about Alandil Swiftwin's death, and although people still discuss it privately, there is no evidence pointing to murder, let alone to Eldan.

You can slam your fist on the table and say, "I don't believe he committed suicide," after drinking, but you can't point your finger at another nobleman in a formal meeting, in front of dozens of nobles, and say, "You did it."

When faced with the accusations, Eldan smiled—not a bitter smile, not a sneer, but a relieved smile, tinged with a hint of cruelty, as if he had finally waited for this moment.

He tossed his second, half-finished cigarette onto the ground, sparks flying and ash crumbling. He stubbed it out with his boot, a slow, forceful motion, as if crushing something harder than the cigarette butt.

Then he stretched out his hand, not making a fist, not pointing, but simply holding it out horizontally with his palm facing down and his five fingers slightly spread.

That was a "stop" gesture.

The atmosphere, which was about to become restless, came to a standstill again. Those who had started moving their chairs and preparing to stand up were stopped by that gesture.

“I admit I played a dishonorable role.” His voice was not loud. “Darkius entrusted me with some matters, and I, in turn, repaid him for what I needed.” He did not evade the issue, nor did he offer any excuses or use words like “forced,” “helpless,” or “compelled by circumstances” to mask his true feelings.

He admitted it.

This is a debt he owes, and he acknowledges it.

“I was present before Arandir committed suicide. But I didn’t do what you think; he did commit suicide!”

After he finished speaking, he spread his hands, gesturing for everyone to be quiet. It was a request to "let me finish speaking," and also a warning that "I'll get angry with anyone who interrupts."

He then looked at Erian and his group of nobles.

He was aware of the rumors about his brother. Some said that Kylier was not dead at all, some said that Eldan betrayed his own brother in order to seize the family inheritance for himself, and some said that Kylier was now under Druuch's protection, waiting to return one day to reclaim the position of head of the family.

He hadn't given a direct answer before, but now it's time.

He gave it up.

He took a deep breath, as if he wanted to suppress all his hesitation and worries into his lungs and then exhale them all at once.

"How can I prove it? I don't need to prove it! If I'm not mistaken, Duruci will prove it to you next! Not only that, some of what I said before was not true, and I admit that now!"

This is practically a recantation; he himself admitted that he had lied in some of his previous statements.

As for what is true and what is false, he did not explain, nor did he need to explain.

Because next, Duruci will make things clear for him, in a way that he cannot control or interfere with.

"traitor!"

It was Valin again. This time, his voice was even louder, as if he wanted to nail the word to Eldan's forehead.

The mere mention of that word stunned even Valoril, Liris, and the assembled nobles of Charis. Valoril's mouth gaped slightly, his eyes wide, as if he had seen something he shouldn't have. Liris's jaw nearly dropped to the table. The Charis lords exchanged bewildered glances; some shook their heads, some sighed, and some covered their foreheads with their hands.

At this moment, Valin refreshed their understanding. It was as if they were seeing Valin for the first time, not as the border lord known for his bravery in the northern border of Charis, but as a hothead who, in critical moments, could do nothing but bang on the table and shout slogans, was emotionally unstable, and unable to communicate.

"Traitor? Yes, yes, traitor!"

Eldan laughed in anger. His laughter wasn't loud, but it was grating, like metal scraping against glass. He mimicked Darkus's tone, "I am a traitor, a heinous traitor. I am responsible for Fennubal's actions, I am responsible for the siege of Tal Achar, I am responsible for the defeats at the Battle of the Val's Anvil and the Battle of Lor'then, I am responsible for... Arandil's death!"

He practically roared when he spoke of Arandil.

That roar wasn't from anger, it was from pain.

However, he didn't just roar; he also acted. As a warrior, his body reacted faster than his brain. In a fraction of a second, his right hand grabbed the crossbar of the chair beside him, then swung it up with a vengeance. The sturdy oak chair was lifted overhead like a feather in his hand, then slammed down on Valin with a whooshing sound.

Valin was also a warrior. Faced with this sudden and thunderous attack, there was no time to dodge. So he crossed his arms in front of him, forearms together, forming a triangular support, ready to take the blow head-on.

There was no sound of the chair breaking; the quality of Duluqi's products is very good.

Besides, this isn't a martial arts movie set; the props have all been pre-treated so they'd break if you hit them.

There was only a muffled groan, a short, deep groan from Valin, like someone had punched him hard in the chest. Then came the sound of a chair falling to the ground.

However, the story doesn't end there.

Eldan roared, a roar that didn't sound like a human's voice, but more like the last roar of a wild beast driven to the brink of despair, and pounced on Valin.

The two men collided, chairs overturned, wine glasses spilled, the sand table shifted, and the model fortress clattered to the ground. Valin's fist slammed into Eldan's shoulder, while Eldan's knee struck Valin's ribs. The two rolled around amidst the shards of glass and spilled wine, indistinguishable from one another.

In an instant, the atmosphere in the venue became lively.

Those nobles who had previously remained silent, observed, and tried to maintain their dignity were suddenly jolted awake by some unseen current. Some stood up and shouted to stop it, some tried to mediate but didn't know where to begin, some were bumped into during the scuffle and then shoved back, and some simply took the opportunity to vent their frustration by yelling.

The sounds of wine glasses shattering on the floor, chairs being dragged along, boots stomping on the wooden floor, angry shouts, and terrified screams erupted all at once, creating utter chaos.

Seeing this, Elisander rushed over as well. He wasn't going to join the fight, but rather to lend a hand, to pull Eldan away from Valin, or to drag Valin out from under Eldan, or at least to prevent the situation from escalating out of control.

But... just as he bent down and reached out to grab Eldan's collar, an elbow strike flew from the side, landing squarely and unavoidably in his eye socket, as if someone had measured the angle and distance with a ruler.

The force was so great that his vision went black, stars flashed before his eyes, and a metallic, rusty smell filled his nostrils. Even with his eye socket swollen from the elbow strike, he couldn't hold back any longer; anger overwhelmed his reason like a tidal wave.

So he got involved too.

His fist slammed into the back of someone's head, his knee struck someone else's thigh, and hoarse roars, unrecognizable even to himself, escaped his throat.

La Hilton, who had stepped halfway out, stood there, his right hand still in the gesture of reaching out to grab someone, fingers spread wide, stretched out in mid-air like a clock that had suddenly stopped. He witnessed the scene before him: those nobles who had been sitting at the same table just minutes before, discussing "why we failed," were now wrestling together, grabbing each other by the collar, choking each other, and exchanging blows with their knees and elbows.

At that moment, he seemed to have figured it out?

The meeting itself wasn't important; what mattered was that everyone wanted to vent their anger and resentment on their former allies.

If I can't beat Duruci, can't I beat you?

If you can't beat iron ships and raiding ships, how can you not beat a former 'ally' who has two arms and two legs just like you and no spellcasting ability?
For a moment, the thought popped into his mind, and he laughed at the idea, a short, dry laugh, like a sigh squeezed out of his throat.

But that didn't stop him from getting involved.

He could swear to Caledo that his initial goal was simply to pull Alessandra out of her rage after being elbowed, until he too received a punch to the corner of his mouth from who-knows-who.

The punch wasn't heavy, but it was very accurate, and the pain made him gasp.

Then all he could see were those swaying figures, the ones he desperately wanted to grab and then fiercely retaliate against.

And outside the door...

The guards outside the door naturally heard the commotion inside: first shouts, then the sound of chairs being hit, then the sound of glass shattering, and then more shouts and greetings.

The captain and vice-captain exchanged a glance. Then, under the soldiers' watchful eyes, the vice-captain stretched out his hand. It wasn't a gesture to issue an order, nor was it a gesture to indicate something; rather, it was a straightforward, clear, and mercenary gesture of begging for money.

The captain was stunned for a moment, then he let out a dry laugh of anger. He then reached into his satchel, reluctantly pulled out a silver coin, and shoved it viciously into the vice-captain's hand.

The deputy captain, having received the money, did not withdraw his hand or weigh the silver coins in his hand. Instead, amidst the various sounds coming from inside, he reached out to the soldiers.

So, with expressions of disbelief, disbelief, and resentment—"How could this be? How could you have guessed? They actually started fighting!"—the soldiers either reached into their pockets or pulled in their stomachs, then laboriously reached into the inner pockets behind their armor, or even into their boots, to pull out the silver coins and put them into the vice-captain's hand.

The vice-captain, having collected all the gambling money, smiled with satisfaction. He weighed his hands in his hand, then adjusted his expression and looked at the captain, as if asking for his orders.

The captain gave the vice-captain, who was quick to back down, a disapproving look, and then waved his hand dismissively.

The next moment, the conference room door was pushed open. (End of Chapter)