Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

If this scene in the meeting room were filmed, perhaps the focus wouldn't be on who hit whom, or who won.

That's too low-class, too direct, and doesn't conform to the 'elegance' and 'decency' that the Asur nobles pride themselves on.

The key is that absurd, almost darkly humorous, stagnant feeling that makes you want to laugh but can't.

Slow motion, it has to be slow motion!

In the scene, Valin's fist is swinging towards Eldan's nose, with two centimeters between their skin. In those two centimeters of air, there is Valin's spittle, Eldan's saliva spraying out in anger, and amber-colored wine splashing in the air after someone knocked over a glass.

So slow that you can see the shape of each droplet clearly; some are perfectly round, some have tails, and some are splitting into smaller particles.

Slow enough to make out the smile on Lady Elena's face—not one of anger or fear, but a chilling calm that felt like a relief, as if "the fighting has finally started."

It was so slow that you could see Rahil's open, not-yet-closed mouth, his teeth stained with blood—blood from his own, from the punch he'd just received.

Those frantic expressions, in slow motion, lost their original ferocity and became a kind of almost comical freeze-frame. Faces squeezed, mouths distorted, eyes wide with anger almost bulging out of their sockets, nostrils flaring violently from panting—every face looked like clay sculpted by fate at random, ugly, deformed, and utterly devoid of dignity.

And those shards of glass, broken in the impact, floated in mid-air like cold, lifeless snowflakes, reflecting the dim yellow light in the conference room and casting tiny, glaring spots of light on everyone's faces.

The wine glass and liquid are frozen in mid-air. The wine glass, which was thrown away by someone, is now tumbling and hanging in the air, with its mouth facing down. The wine inside has detached from the glass wall, forming an irregular liquid mass with complex edges that is separating.

The liquid clump took on a deep amber color under the light, like time itself frozen in time.

Hmm, and add some music too.

It wasn't a stirring symphony, nor tense percussion, but rather a long, soothing string melody, tinged with both pity and a touch of playfulness, such as an aria on the G string.

Moreover, the music shouldn't come from outside the scene, but rather as if it were growing out of the walls of the conference room, as if the barracks itself were providing accompaniment for these wrestling nobles.

The cello's low hum spread slowly through the air, the bow gliding gently across the strings, notes flowing out one after another, unhurried and calm, as if saying: You do your thing, I'm not in a hurry.

The violin weaves a thin, transparent halo in the high register, like a light that is about to shatter yet will never shatter, enveloping all those fists, glasses, shards of glass, and distorted faces suspended in the air.

The image should be beautiful, presented in a distorted, absurd way that makes you want to look away yet can't help but stare.

It's unrealistically beautiful, like looking at a classical oil painting frozen in time. The title of the painting is probably "The reaction of the nobles of Asur after learning that the land will be distributed".
The contrast between beauty and ugliness, the mismatch between elegant music and brutal fighting, will evoke a complex feeling in everyone who sees this scene. They will want to laugh, yet feel they shouldn't laugh; they will find it absurd, yet feel heartbroken.

But as the conference room door opened, the heavy, oak-framed, iron-clad door, requiring two people to push open, slowly slid inward with the help of Duruci's guards. The sound of the hinges turning, in slow motion, transformed into a long, deep sigh, as if the building itself were sighing—finally, someone had arrived; finally, it could end.

Everything came to an abrupt halt, as if the freeze button had been pressed.

The fists of the Asur nobles froze in mid-air, not in slow motion, but in a true, absolute stillness, unable to move even a millimeter.

Some fists were only a finger's width away from the other's face, some feet had already kicked halfway but were still stuck halfway, and some hands had already grabbed the other's collar, but at this moment they seemed to be cast there.

When they looked towards the doorway and at the well-armored Duruci guards, their eyes were filled with a mixture of shock, shame, and an indescribable despair of "It's over, we've been seen."

The Duruci guards were equally astonished, their eyes wide and mouths slightly agape, clearly not expecting to witness such a scene. In their previous understanding, meetings of the Asur nobles were supposed to be dignified, quiet, and at most involve banging on the table and glaring at each other, not like this, with broken glass scattered everywhere, chairs overturned, and several disheveled nobles locked in a wrestling position amidst the mess, looking like a group of children caught fighting in a mud puddle by their adults.

This stereotype is precisely why they lost the bet.

This moment felt like eternity, yet also like a fleeting instant.

Time seemed to stand still for a long time at the moment the door was pushed open, so long that everyone's expression was interpreted as a kind of eternal posture.

Then, before the Asur nobles could react, before they could retract their fists, before they could loosen their grip on their collars, before they could retract their kicked legs, the Duruchi guards reacted first.

They didn't rush in, didn't draw their swords, didn't shout "Stop!", didn't try to stop them. They simply turned the door back on, expressionless, or rather, trying to maintain their expressionless faces.

The movements were so synchronized that it seemed rehearsed; the guards on the left and right reached out, pulled back, and released their hands at the same time.

With a dull thud, the door slammed shut.

The sound of the door panel hitting the door frame echoed in the corridor for a moment, then disappeared.

The Duruci guards stood ramrod straight with their backs to the door, staring straight ahead, as if nothing had happened, as if the door had been closed when they arrived, as if they had seen nothing at all.

They disappeared behind the door, as if they had never been there.

But the truth is, the Truc guards eventually showed up, the door was eventually opened, and the scene was eventually witnessed.

They retreated so quickly, as if they were afraid of getting involved in some trouble they shouldn't. Their actions conveyed an attitude: You go ahead, we were never here.

But the nobles of Asur thought that this was absolutely not the case.

The pause button has been released, and the second half has begun.

But the atmosphere completely changed in the second half. Duruci's appearance broke the atmosphere of the first half.

It was like a bucket of cold water being poured in, not the kind that hits you from above and makes you shiver, but the kind that seeps slowly up from the cracks in the ground, gradually cooling the soles of your feet and penetrating into your bones.

I can't even pinpoint exactly when I calmed down, but I suddenly realized that I had somehow pulled my fist back, that my voice had somehow softened, and that my earlier impulse to "beat you to death today" had somehow turned into a confusion of "what was I doing just now?"

Then, some people began to straighten their torn clothes, some secretly checked their mouths for blood, and some wiped the wine stains on their hands with the corner of their robes.

Every few seconds, someone would unconsciously glance at the door to make sure it wouldn't suddenly open again. The guards had all retreated, but the door remained like an open eye, quietly and silently watching everything inside.

That door was in everyone's peripheral vision.

As a result, the meeting ended unhappily.

No one adjourned the meeting, no one gave a concluding speech, and there was no "we'll discuss this again next time."

The sound of a chair being straightened, the sound of boots stepping on broken glass, someone whispering, "Where's my wine glass?" and then being quietly advised by the person next to them, "Don't bother looking for it," and someone in a corner silently straightening their crooked collar against the wall.

There was no goodbye, no handshake, and even eye contact was avoided as much as possible.

The crowd dispersed at a visible speed, like the receding tide, like the fog being blown away by the wind, like something that shouldn't exist finally returning to its proper silence.

Those "traditionalist" nobles who were so impassioned, banging on the table and glaring at each other just minutes before, now all had their heads down and were hurrying toward the door, as if some ferocious beast was chasing them.

When someone passed by that door, their steps clearly paused; it was the guards, the Duruci guards.

Fortunately, the guards' eyes held no mockery, no contempt, no smug "you're nothing special" attitude, only a polite, restrained, well-trained gaze devoid of any emotion.

However, that gaze was more intimidating than any words, making one want to disappear into the ground. It seemed to convey a constant message: you're fighting tooth and nail here, thinking you're protecting something important, but to us, it's just a farce. Is it acceptable for you Asur nobles to be fighting like this in a meeting room provided by Duruci?
It wasn't the Duruci people who made them part on bad terms; they made themselves part on bad terms.

The door just opened and then closed again.

But some people can never go back to where they were before.
-
Elisande and Rahil looked at each other, and the next second, they both laughed.

The laughter wasn't loud, but it sounded particularly jarring in the howling night wind outside the barracks.

Helplessness, bewilderment, sighs, and a hint of self-mockery—all these emotions mingled together and squeezed out of his throat, turning into two short, sharp "ha" sounds.

"I'm a little hungry." After laughing, Rahil rubbed his stomach.

According to the plan, after settling their luggage, they were supposed to go to the cafeteria to see what Trudeau was having for dinner and eat something with him, instead of attending this meeting that was destined to turn into a fight. Even more absurdly, the meeting had been going on for a very long time, and it was now well past midnight.

He didn't think Truc would thoughtfully prepare a midnight snack for them, or even a late-night treat.

This is a military camp, not a palace.

“I’m hungry too.” After saying that, Alessand leaned against the wall, his back against the cool stone slab, and slid down the wall, his boot heels making a soft rustling sound as they scraped against the stone floor.

Finally, he sat down in an extremely undignified posture, with his legs straight, buttocks on the ground, back against the wall, head tilted back slightly, and his eye, swollen to the point of being slits from being elbowed, staring at the bright white light in the distance.

That posture didn't resemble that of a dragon prince; it was more like that of a porter who had traveled a long way and collapsed from exhaustion by the roadside.

With him taking the lead, the other dragon princes who came to the meeting followed suit, squatting or sitting, forming a row against the wall. Some leaned against the wall, some hugged their knees, and some used their cloaks as cushions.

From a distance, this row of dragon princes looks like a group of workers who got up late at night and came to the job market to wait for work, or a group of passengers waiting for the night bus in the waiting hall of a train station.

Exhausted, listless, and utterly unpresentable.

So much so that when the patrolling Duruci soldiers walked, they all stared at them.

The worst part is that this barracks has electricity, and even though it's late at night, the lights are as bright as day.

The cold white lights illuminated every bruise on the face of each dragon prince, the scabs at the corners of their mouths, and the wine stains on their collars, leaving them nowhere to hide.

As Duluth looked at them, they were also looking at Duluth.

Fortunately, there was no mockery or contempt in the soldiers' eyes, only a pure professional curiosity, as if they were looking at the scenery by the roadside or a new animal in the zoo.

Perhaps it was because they were completely open with the situation, perhaps it was the "desensitization effect" from the moment the conference room door was opened, or perhaps it was the "take it or leave it" attitude inherent in the Kallers, but they didn't stand up again after returning the greeting. They just stared straight at the patrol team disappearing from sight, watching the shadows of the Duruci men grow longer and longer under the lamplight, until the last few boot sounds faded into the night wind.

"What kind of mess is this!" one of the dragon princes began to complain.

The tone wasn't angry; it was a weary, slightly aggrieved confusion that said, "I don't even know why I'm sitting here."

Seeing that Ellisand did not stop them, the other dragon princes also began.

Some complained that someone had stepped on their foot in the meeting room, some complained that their clothes were stained with alcohol and couldn't be washed off, some complained that Duruci's barracks didn't even have a decent lounge, and some complained that the moon wasn't full tonight.

It was a jumbled mess, a disjointed chatter, as if he were using muttering to drive away hunger and fatigue.

But soon they stopped again. Elisande stood up first, reaching out to Rahil, who helped him to his feet. Then the two began brushing the dust off their clothes and straightening their garments. Rahil straightened his askew collar and tucked his stray hair behind his ears; Elisande dusted off the corner of his robe and fastened the ripped button on his coat.

Others followed suit; some took out a handkerchief from their pockets to wipe their faces, some used a comb to straighten their disheveled hair, and some straightened their swords that had fallen to one side.

"Dreadlord?"

Allessand lowered his voice and looked into the distance.

There was a figure walking towards them, with unhurried steps and steady boot sounds.

“Intermediate level!” Rahil’s pupils contracted slightly.

Because of the electricity, and because it was as bright as day, the elves' proud night vision became useless. But instead, they could see farther and more clearly, so far that they could see the epaulets, accessories, and walking posture of a figure before it even got close.

"Why does this look so familiar?" Ellisand frowned slightly.

"Me too..." Rahil hadn't finished speaking when the Fear Lord walked towards them.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his gait carrying a measured, unhurried steadiness honed through years of military service. He wore no armor, only the standard uniform befitting a Dreadlord; his scabbard was devoid of superfluous decoration, but the gleaming hilt suggested frequent use. A tattoo adorned his forehead—the insignia of Loyk.

He walked over without saying anything, making any gestures, or saluting with a straight face like the other officers. He stood there with a playful frown on his face, not one of anger, but an expression of curiosity, as if he were examining something interesting.

Then he bent down, peeked out, and looked at the dragon princes in a particularly comical manner.

And so, a comical scene unfolded.

No one spoke; the air seemed to freeze.

In the end, it was the Lord of Fear who broke the silence.

“You scared me.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it had a lazy, joking tone that was neither quite joking nor not. “I thought you guys had turned into vampires sometime during the night and were having some kind of midnight party.”

His gaze swept from one of the dragon princes to another, lingering for a moment on the bruises and scabs, a slight, ambiguous smile playing on his lips.

The dragon princes aren't stupid.

The Lord of Fear's words were clearly sarcastic and had been carefully foreshadowed.

But what can they say? That you're meddling too much?

This was originally someone else's territory.

Finally, Rahil stepped forward. He took a step forward, his boot heel striking the ground with a crisp sound. He stood still, his right hand pounding his chest, then swinging it high in the air—a decisive and swift movement that conveyed a stubborn message: "We may be in disarray, but we are not without discipline."

A standard Trucchi salute.

A standard, futuristic Elven military salute.

While in Lorthorn, Rahil discussed his future with Darkus. Darkus said: "If you want to stay in the army, then stay. However, your rank will be uncertain for a long time to come, and I hope you can understand."

He understood that he was a defeated general, and it was already a miracle that he could continue to serve and remain in the military. Besides, Truc was carrying out a large-scale personnel reshuffle, so how could he possibly care about a "surrendered general" like him who had transitioned from the old era?

It's already a testament to Dakos's hard work that we even have a place here.

The Fear Lord returned the salute, his movement faster and more precise than Rahil's, as if ingrained in his very being. Then, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigarette case.

The cigarette case was made of silver metal, with a polished, shiny surface and minor scratches on the edges.

He twirled the cigarette pack in his hand and flicked it, and rows of cigarettes popped out of the pack, as neat as a military parade. He took one out, put it in his mouth, lit it with a lighter, took a deep drag, and exhaled a puff of bluish-white smoke.

He then handed the cigarette case to Rahil.

Rahil did not refuse. As he took out a cigarette, he saw that the Lord of Fear did not take back the cigarette case, but instead handed it forward, a gesture that meant, "Go on, give some to the others too."

He paused for a moment, then realized what was happening. He took the cigarette case and began handing out cigarettes. He walked up to each dragon prince, handed them a cigarette case, and told them to help themselves.

Some people accepted, some waved their hands, and some hesitated for a moment but still took a smoke. The whole process of offering cigarettes was quiet and orderly, like a ritual.

"Let me introduce myself..." The Lord of Fear began, then exhaled a smoke ring. The smoke ring slowly rose into the air, expanded, faded, and finally dissipated. "Kaldor."

When the name appeared, the dragon princes froze. Some hands hovered in mid-air, some forgot to light their cigarettes, some stared wide-eyed, and some almost dropped their cigarettes.

It felt as if a layer of air had been sucked away.

"Cardo Corresponds".

Whether Eldan was a traitor or not was a matter of debate among the dragon princes. Some believed he was forced, some believed he acted voluntarily, some believed he was looking for an escape route, and some believed he was genuinely captivated by Darkus.

But one thing they were certain of: Cardo Corres, who stood before them and offered them cigarettes, was definitely a traitor!
They've heard about this!
For some time before, the name "Coris" had frequently appeared in the hushed, drunken conversations of the noble circles of Caledon.

Having learned from Valin's example and the experience in the meeting room, none of the dragon princes stood up to denounce Kaldor as a traitor, nor did they draw their swords to strike him.

It's not that I'm not angry, it's that anger is pointless. In Duruqi's barracks, on the territory of the Lord of Fear, no matter how much I shout, it's just making myself miserable.

Moreover, the farce in the meeting room has already proven this point. If you can't even control your own people, why bother about traitors?

Perhaps they are the traitors?

The experience of that night has shaken some of them.

“You…” Rahil broke the silence.

As he spoke, he glanced at Kaldor's shoulder insignia. In the Duruqi military rank system, that represented a mid-level Fear Lord, responsible for commanding a large legion of nearly 60,000 men.

“A mid-level Fear Lord, under the jurisdiction of the Fourteenth Army,” Kaldor finished speaking for him.

“You’ve been very…successful.” Rahil gestured with his hand, indicating the surrounding barracks and the entire Duruci military system. Seeing Kaldo nod slightly, he remarked with admiration.

There was no sourness or jealousy in that sigh, only a complex, indescribable sigh of "you've chosen the right path."

Compared to the other dragon princes, having spent three days in Lorthorn, he had a relatively good understanding of Druich's military system and rank structure. He knew that a mid-level Dreadlord was already quite high, and above that were high-level Dreadlords, Warlords, and Grand Warlords.

As far as he knew, Truc had only two Grand Marshals: Malekith, who commanded the army, and Dakous, who commanded the navy. The title of Grand Marshal was more of an honorary title, a medal bestowed upon those at the very top of power.

Mid-level Fear Lords, on the other hand, are those who have truly earned their positions through hard-earned military achievements and experience.

This is beyond what the word "success" can describe; it's like changing tracks and sprinting all the way from the bottom to the top.

"generally."

Cardo shook his head, his gesture devoid of humility or politeness, conveying only a sense of indifference, as if to say, "It's just so-so."

Since joining Duluth, he hadn't experienced anything particularly unusual. Duluth didn't do anything to him; there was no interrogation, no torture, no coercion to provide information, and no implicit rejection like "we've accepted you, but we'll always be wary of you."

Then Duruci entered a new era, and he was just a grain of sand in that era.

It was blown up by the wind, carried to a certain location, and then fell down.

If we use Trucchi's five-point scale, he would be a four.

Neither stand out nor fall behind.

He wasn't one of the most dazzling, nor one of the forgotten. He was there, like a steady, reliable, and error-free cog in the machine of the 14th Army Group, functioning normally.

But compared to before, this is quite good. When he was still in Nagarius, at his peak, he could only command a force of a thousand men. Moreover, the quality of those troops was uneven, including both regular soldiers and civilian soldiers.

A thousand people may sound like a lot, but on a real battlefield, it's just a small gap in a defensive line.

Now, he commands not a thousand men, but sixty thousand. Not those poor boys who can't even afford proper armor, but a well-equipped, highly trained, coordinated infantry and artillery force, capable of air-ground operations.

Before the dragon princes could recover from his narration, he continued talking to himself.

“You’ve made a huge scene.” He shook his head and sighed. “This is very…”

He hesitated for a moment, but ultimately did not utter the word "decent".

Then he changed the subject.

"Just wait, it will be dawn soon. After we finish eating, we'll set off."

After taking the cigarette case back, he opened it again and handed the remaining cigarettes, along with the silver lighter, to Rahil.

"I'm glad you didn't..."

He shrugged, then turned and strode away.

He was going to find Eldan and talk to him about something.

He believes he made two mistakes: First, he shouldn't have provided the meeting room for these former "comrades-in-arms." He thought they were just having a meeting, at most banging on the table and glaring at each other; who would have thought they would actually start fighting inside?

That was completely unexpected!

Secondly, he should have waited for Eldan to arrive and then gone directly to Eldan, instead of doing what he did now.

All he could do now was pray—pray that things hadn't gotten worse, pray that there was still a chance to salvage the situation. (End of Chapter)