Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"What are you doing...?"

Quirrellen appeared before a row of dragon princes, some squatting and some sitting, his brow furrowed. He looked as if he had seen something that both puzzled and displeased him: a group of people dressed in the attire of the Caledonian nobility, resembling a band of defeated soldiers from the battlefield, awaiting refuge.

It was almost dawn.

The sky changed from jet black to deep blue, and then from deep blue to a leaden color with a grayish tint.

When he woke up, he found that Alessandr, who shared a room with him, had not returned. The bed was cold, the pillows had no creases, and the blankets were neatly folded, as if they had never been opened.

He stood in the room for a while, then pushed open the door and went downstairs.

Then he saw this group of people.

Like Elisande, he also did not participate in the Battle of Lorthorn.

Like Elisande, he was also a descendant of the Dorian.

If Elisande's talents and skill points were invested in administration and governance, then all of Quirrellen's skill points were staked on war and military affairs. He understood formations, marching, and logistics; he knew how to find the weaknesses in the enemy's defenses on a map before battle; he knew which terrain was suitable for archers, which environments were suitable for cavalry charges, and which seasons were suitable for crossing rivers without encountering floods.

While the Kingdom of Caledon was preparing for the Battle of Lorthorn, the army was assembling, and he was the commander-in-chief, not just a figurehead general, but a man truly trusted by the officers, someone who could draw arrows on the map and inspire them to follow him into battle.

But with the crushing defeat at the Battle of Lorthorn, and with Elisande's mission to Lorthorn to reach a reconciliation with Duruci...

Everything has lost its meaning.

"Wait for dinner," Ellesander said nonchalantly.

"What happened? What happened to the injury on your face? Did you fight?" Although Querellien was an expert in war and military affairs, he was also a nobleman, and he wasn't blind.

The wounds on Alessand's face were clearly fresh, just inflicted. And there was the still-wet bloodstain on Rahil's lip, the scrapes on the back of the dragon prince's hand, the wine stains on their collars, and the complex emotions of exhaustion and confusion in their eyes—how could he not see it?

“Sigh…” Ellisand knew that what happened in the conference room could not be kept from his younger brother.

Perhaps after dawn, the Asur nobles temporarily residing in this camp will know what happened in the meeting room: the ugly scenes of slamming tables, throwing chairs, grabbing collars, and fighting; the farce that was witnessed by the Duruci guards and was utterly undignified.

So he gave a brief explanation.

Not all the details, there's no need, and it's impossible to go into them all. It's just a brief overview of who said what, who fought with whom, who was pulled away by whom, and when the door was opened and closed.

Quirrellen was speechless, rolling his eyes repeatedly as his brother recounted the story. The eye-rolling was so extreme that it distorted the expression on his entire face. His lips pressed into a thin line, then relaxed, then pressed together again; his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, as if he were swallowing something he shouldn't have said.

He tapped his fingers twice on his knee, a habitual gesture when he was thinking, but at this moment his mind wasn't on anything, only repeatedly confirming: Was what my brother said true? Did they really fight? In Duruqi's barracks?
He had a million complaints threatening to burst forth from his heart, but he swallowed them all back.

When his brother stopped talking, he was ready to comment and criticize. He had already taken a deep breath, his lips were parted in an arc, and the first syllable was already swirling in his throat.

However, at that moment, the sound of horns rang out.

The bugle call didn't come from afar, nor from the open fields, but from inside the barracks. The sound was deep, resonant, and extremely penetrating, like a giant bull locked in a tin shed, its heavy, metallic roar pounding against everyone's eardrums.

“Reveille,” Rahil explained, then looked at Elisander and asked with his eyes a question that didn’t need to be spoken: What about us?
“We are guests!” Ellisand set the tone.

When he uttered the word "guest," it carried a strange solemnity, as if reminding the dragon princes who were beginning to stir: This is not our territory, this is not our army, these are not our rules.

We are guests, and guests should sit there, squat there, or lie there, instead of running drills with other people's soldiers.

So the dragon princes, who were either squatting or sitting, chose to continue in either position. Some shifted their weight to one foot, some changed the direction of their heads leaning against the wall, some wrapped their cloaks tighter around themselves, some yawned, and some closed their eyes, pretending they were still dreaming.

Quirrellen joined in, crouching down beside his brother with a somewhat awkward movement. He was the commander, not a soldier; he was used to standing in front of a map issuing orders, not crouching by the wall waiting for breakfast. But he crouched down anyway, hands on his knees, eyes fixed straight ahead, his expression as serious as if he were waiting for a storm to break.

Five minutes, no more, no less, exactly five minutes.

Under their watchful eyes, the Duruqi soldiers completed their assembly. The process was so fast it was as if it were on double speed; one second the open space was empty, and the next it was filled with people.

It's not a tide, because tides are too loose; it's not a waterfall, because waterfalls are too chaotic.

It was a more efficient, more orderly, and more like the operation of precision machinery: black figures filed out of the doorway, automatically forming a column, automatically aligning, and automatically adjusting the spacing.

Throughout the entire process, no one shouted, no one pushed, no one fell behind, and no one even took an extra step. They stood there expressionless, like rows of neatly stacked goods, or like a black fence nailed to the ground of the camp.

"Upright posture, impeccable military bearing," Quirrell commented.

His gaze swept across the soldiers' faces, taking in their posture, eyes, belt buckles, and boot tips one by one, like a buyer picking through goods at a market, but after searching for a long time, he couldn't find anything wrong with them.

“Be spirited and serious,” Rahil added.

His gaze wasn't as discerning as Quirrell's, but it was deeper and more profound, as if he were looking at a painting he had seen many times, yet each time he would still have a new feeling about it.

"The movements are swift, accurate, and coordinated."

"Elite!"

As a commander, what do you desire most?
It was not gold or silver, nor was it a fief or title.

What I desire most is undoubtedly an elite army, an army that can automatically form ranks without my pre-battle speeches, an army that will fight to the death without my supervision from the rear, an army whose every arrow I draw on the sand table can become a solid line on the map.

They saw it.

Unfortunately, this elite army did not belong to them, but to the "enemy".

When the word crossed Quirrellen's mind, it brought a sharp, stinging feeling—not anger, not jealousy, but an unspeakable, choking feeling of "why isn't it ours?"

Perhaps it was time for their morning routine, or perhaps the sounds of morning exercises and slogans drifted into the dormitory building, but the Asur nobles awoke one after another. They emerged from their dormitory doors and stood there, squinting at the black formations running in the open space in the center of the camp.
As a result, each dormitory building became an isolated island.

The barracks, designed in the Duruci style, resembled reefs surrounded by a black tide. The Asur nobles moved about on the edge of the isolated island, while the Duruci soldiers, clad in black vests, trousers, and boots, surged like a black torrent along the main road of the camp. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, each step landing precisely to the millisecond. The sound wasn't a clattering clatter, but a clicking-click-click, like a giant machine at work, every gear meshing, every piston pushing forward.

The jogging teams circled around one isolated island after another, flowing past them, but never surging onto the islands. They had their own world, and Asur on the island had his own world.

There is an invisible, transparent, yet perceptible membrane separating the two worlds.

Unlike the other dragon princes, Rahil had visited the Druch's camp in Lorthorn, seen their morning exercises and various drills on the training ground, and had already passed the initial shock period. The other Asur nobles, on the other hand, were observing their enemy so closely and directly for the first time.

Not through scout reports, not through post-war debriefings, not through increasingly outlandish battlefield legends, but through their own eyes.

They saw the soldiers' eyes; they weren't empty or numb, but rather focused, knowing what they were doing and why they were there.

They saw the soldiers' expressions; they weren't ferocious or savage, but rather calm, composed, as if they had made all the preparations and were just waiting for the order.

Someone gasped, the sound was very soft, but it was exceptionally clear in the gaps of the morning breeze.

Some people did nothing but stand there, watching the black torrent flow past them in circles, their eyes vacant, as if looking into a very, very distant place.

No one was laughing, no one was talking, and no one was trying to comfort themselves with the thought that "they're nothing special."

Because the black torrent flowed right before their eyes, and every step they took conveyed the same message: You are no match for us!
As dawn broke through the eastern horizon, the black vests of the Duruqi soldiers were bathed in a dark golden light. The morning exercises continued, the torrent of soldiers surged on, and the Asur soldiers on the isolated island remained silent.

This morning in the barracks is destined to be remembered for a long time.

It's not because something earth-shattering happened because it made many people finally realize that the answer they had been avoiding was right in front of them!
Military camps have a set schedule.

It's very simple: get up at 6:00, assemble at 6:05, and start running promptly at 6:10.

After finishing the morning run, it's time to wash up. After that, it's time for breakfast.

Everything was in perfect order, like a calibrated clock, with every gear in its proper place, doing its job.

Kaldor didn't ignore these Asur nobles; he thoughtfully sent officers to call them to breakfast and carefully guided them to the mess hall. It wasn't a perfunctory "just walk over there," but a genuine "guide."

The officer walked in front, at a moderate pace, occasionally glancing back to see if anyone had fallen behind, and then slowing down before turning corners.

The officer guiding the dragon princes was a centurion, a centurion of few words, so few that he didn't even want to communicate unless given an order. His face was expressionless, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze was fixed straight ahead, as if these dragon princes were no different from the wooden targets he saw every day on the training ground.

Although he spoke very little, he carried out the orders given to him because of the presence of the command: bring everyone to the canteen, leaving no one out.

But the dragon princes' attention wasn't on the centurion, but on the snake-men beside him. They observed the snake-men's way of moving—not walking, but gliding, the scales on their bellies rubbing against the stone pavement with a soft rustling sound, the tip of their tails swaying gently behind them for balance; they watched the snake-men's four hands spread out above and below them; they watched the snake-men's tongues flicking out from time to time, the slender, forked, scarlet tongues trembling rapidly in the air, as if savoring some taste that only they could perceive.

The snake-men's eyes were amber, with pupils that were vertical slits that narrowed to lines under the fluorescent light. They swept across the dragon princes' faces without any emotion.

Guided by the centurion, the dragon princes arrived at the so-called mechanical canteen.

This is where mid- to high-ranking military officers, spellcasters, and snake people dine.

But that's it.

In the Trudeau Army, the meal allowance was the same, and there was no distinction between different types of kitchens.

There are just different canteens; there's no such thing as special meals prepared for everyone. If you want to eat well, you have to find your own way. You can buy it with your own money, ask someone to bring it from outside, or go to a restaurant in the city during your vacation.

But in the military camp, everyone ate from the same pot between meals.

"Are they eating that well?"

Nevertheless, Quirrellen was still surprised when he saw the meal. His gaze swept over the plates placed in the warmer: boiled eggs, meat patties, bread, oatmeal, and a few side dishes he couldn't name. It wasn't the kind of "enemy rations" of black bread and water, but rather the kind of normal, even decent, breakfast that looked appetizing.

“Usually, I’m tired of eating it.” The usually taciturn centurion finally spoke a few more words. His tone was as flat as if he were saying, “Today is Tuesday,” but with his expressionless face, the dragon princes could only assume he was faking it.

Are you tired of eating it?

You call this normal?
Do you know what we eat for breakfast in the camp in Caledo?

But in the end, no one voiced their complaints, because they didn't want to appear like country bumpkins who had never seen the world in front of this centurion.

Although they lost the war, the dragon princes still had their pride.

That's called "decency"!
The layout, structure, and even the seating arrangement of the mess hall here are actually no different from those of the naval mess hall in Zetland. If there is any difference, it is that there are straw mats prepared for the Snakemen. These thick and soft mats, woven from the hay of Tal Usvi, are laid on the floor of the Snakemen's dining area.

"One egg per person, two meat patties, and whatever else you want to eat, help yourself." After the centurion finished speaking, he picked up his plate and began serving himself.

The dragon princes followed suit and lined up to receive their plates.

Soon, Elisander, who was at the front of the line, received a hard-boiled egg. The shell was light brown and still warm, but the egg was very large. He had only seen eggs this big in Lorthorn; it was clearly a product of Duruchi.

Then he took two more meat patties, round and palm-sized, fried to a golden brown with the oil still sizzling. Since he hadn't eaten dinner the night before, he also took two slices of bread, which he could take as much as he wanted. But that wasn't all; he also made himself a bowl of thick, steaming oatmeal porridge and took a small amount of pickled vegetables.

Finally, he carried his tray to the condiment station.

There was jam, ketchup, chili sauce, and butter. Besides the various sauces, there was also a salt shaker. He glanced at the food on his plate, then set it down and spread jam and ketchup on two slices of bread, then smoothed them out with the back of a knife, ensuring the sauce evenly covered the bread. He also added a little salt to the oatmeal and stirred it with a spoon.

After everything was ready, he looked at the Duruci who were staring at him as he held his plate. There was no way he could avoid seeing them; the Duruci were eating while glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes. Some of them had bread in their mouths with jam on their lips, but their eyes never left him.

The gaze wasn't hostile, nor curious; it was a look of "Oh, the Asur are here," tinged with a hint of amusement. It gave him the feeling of being a monkey, locked in a cage, being watched by a group of idle people.

But he wasn't angry; his expression didn't even change.

Although he was a guest invited by Dakota, Dakota understood that not everything was under Dakota's control.

So he chose to ignore it.

Ignoring the stares and whispers, I picked up my plate and looked at the table and chairs. The Duruchis sat together, but a large portion of the space in the middle was empty; on the other side were the snake-men eating, coiled up on their grass mats, heads bowed, using their four hands to grab food and put it into their mouths. However, the plates in front of the snake-men were specially made, larger and deeper than those of the elves, with a raised edge to prevent the food from falling out.

But soon, his attention turned to the centurion.

He stared at the centurion, who held a tray in his left hand and pointed at the group of Duruci eating with his right. His expression was vicious, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a downward curve, his jaw slightly jutting forward, and all the muscles in his face taut. He waved his right hand in the air as if slapping something disobedient.

Those Duruci who were pointed at changed their expressions from watching the spectacle to feeling guilty. Some lowered their heads and continued eating, some looked away, and some reflexively sat up straight.

Unbeknownst to Alessand, the diners at the Duluth had prepared a 'welcome' for them.

Once they are seated, a whistle will sound—a sharp, rhythmic whistle, like the call of a snake. Then the snake-men who are eating will move, not to attack, but to 'display' themselves.

Showcase the dexterity of their four arms, the sweeping range of their thick tails, and the imposing presence they exude in close combat.

Two fists can't beat four hands?

In the face of snake people, this saying should be changed to "two fists can't beat four fists".

Of course, this wasn't an order or training; it was just a group of people looking for fun showing off how amazing their "pets" were in front of their "guests."

But the welcoming ceremony was nipped in the bud by the centurion. With a look, a gesture, and a slap, he killed the farce before it even began.

"Do their soldiers eat this well too?"

Querreyion, holding the egg in his hand and preparing to peel it, uttered a profound question. His voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough for everyone around him to hear. His gaze swept over the plates of the dragon princes beside him, finally settling on Rahil's face.

It wasn't doubt, it was confirmation; he wanted to confirm whether everything he was seeing was real.

Rahil nodded, and then, under the watchful eyes of the dragon princes, he opened his mouth wide and stuffed the whole, unpeeled, round egg with its light brown shell into his mouth.

That scene...

A dragon prince, dressed in a respectable robe, with a sword at his waist and his family crest embroidered on his chest, sat in Duruqi's dining hall and swallowed an egg whole, shell and all the dragon princes who saw it, stunned.

Then, a sound mixed with the crunching of eggshells came from his mouth, but the dragon princes heard it very clearly—crunch, crunch, like something breaking, crushing, being moistened by saliva, and then being pushed deep into his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as the mixture slid down his esophagus.

After swallowing the egg whole, he ignored the horrified stares of the dragon princes. Their eyes held a complex mix of shock, disgust, admiration, and a "Are you crazy?" look, but he didn't respond to any of them.

“I learned this way of eating when I was in Lorthorn. In terms of meal standards, officers and soldiers are the same.” Rahil’s tone was as calm as if he had just done something perfectly normal. Then he lowered his voice, “But in my opinion, the food in Lorthorn’s Duruci is obviously better than here.”

His meaning was clear: Lorthern was the core, the hub. Resources were more abundant there, supplies were more plentiful, and the food in the canteen was naturally better.

here?

This is the northern peninsula of Elion, a camp close to the front lines. The fact that they can have breakfast like this shows that Duruci's logistical support capabilities far exceed their previous expectations.

Querreyion knew what Rahil was talking about, but he was more concerned with something else.

As a soldier and a commander, he knew that the army's food reflected a lot, not just "whether the food was good or not," but the entire logistical support system behind it.

Where do eggs come from?

Where does the meat in the meat patty come from?

Where does the flour for bread come from?
Where do the oats in oatmeal come from?

How are these supplies supplied? How is it ensured that they are always available?
There was also the system of equal supply, where officers and soldiers ate the same food, there were no nobles, no commoners, no special meals, and no privileges.

what does this mean?
This means that everyone in this military camp, from the centurion to the soldiers, eats from the same pot. They are more likely to trust each other on the battlefield and more likely to entrust their backs to their comrades in times of crisis.

Because they knew that when they were getting their food, the officer standing behind them received the same thing as him.

This is not charity, it is unity.

This isn't a show; it's a system.

A meal can contain more than a speech, an award, or a simple "we are one family."

Countless thoughts raced through Quirrell's mind: about logistics, about systems, about how Duruci turned an army into a sophisticated machine. But he suppressed those thoughts in an instant, leaving only one more direct, more instinctive thought: he couldn't show weakness in front of Duruci.

He followed suit and swallowed an unpeeled egg into his mouth, just like Rahil did.

But people who eat it this way for the first time are clearly not used to it.

The moment the egg entered his mouth, his tongue felt the rough, granular shell. He instinctively bit down, and with a snap, the shell broke.

A strange, lime-like, indescribable sensation, a mixture of fishy and astringent taste, surged up from the back of his tongue, rushing straight to the top of his head. He first gagged, a short, sharp sound, as if something was stuck between his throat and nasal cavity, which he forcefully suppressed.

Then, he choked.

The lump of something mixed with broken shells and his own saliva was stuck in his throat, neither up nor down, as if an invisible hand was gripping his neck.

His eyes widened, his Adam's apple bobbed violently twice, the veins on his neck bulged, and his entire face turned a deep red.

You absolutely must not spit it out.

If he were to vomit this out, it would become a dark chapter in his history for a long time. Imagine choking on an egg in Duruci's cafeteria and vomiting it out on the spot, only to have to clean up the mess in front of everyone.

He cannot allow such a thing to happen.

He used all his strength to swallow the lump. A low, long gurgling sound came from his throat, like the sound of some large animal drinking water.

It finally slid down.

He was breathing heavily, tears welling in his eyes from the effort. But he didn't regret it; at least, he didn't vomit.

He didn't lose!

But his actions clearly became a reference. Those dragon princes who were about to imitate Rahil and stuff the whole egg in its shell into their mouths, after seeing Querreyion's appearance, which looked like he was being choked, his face turning liver-colored and his eyes filled with tears, some began to carefully peel the shell, some broke the egg in half before putting it in their mouths, and some simply pushed the egg aside and refused to eat it.

One by one, those budding thoughts were mercilessly extinguished by Quirrell's dry heave.

Rahil watched all this, his lips twitching slightly, his expression somewhere between "Are you guys really that serious?" and "I knew this would happen." But he didn't say anything, just stirred the oatmeal in his bowl with a spoon, scooped up a spoonful, and put it in his mouth. The porridge wasn't too hot anymore, the saltiness was just right, and the oatmeal grains were soft, chewy, and delicious. He scooped up another spoonful.

After regaining his composure, Quirrellen looked down at the remaining food on his plate. The meat pie was still steaming, the jam on the bread had begun to seep into its pores, and a thin crust had formed on the surface of the oatmeal. He picked up his spoon, poked a hole in the crust, stirred it, scooped up a spoonful, and put it in his mouth. The oatmeal was at the perfect temperature—not too hot, not too cold—and had a subtle sweetness and saltiness that melted in his mouth.

He swallowed it, then scooped up another spoonful.

Apart from Querreyion causing a commotion, the entire meal proceeded smoothly. The dragon princes quietly finished the food on their plates; some ate the meat pies clean, some tore the bread into small pieces and soaked them in the oatmeal, and some even wiped the last bit of jam off their plates with bread.

The Durucis in the cafeteria stopped looking this way and continued eating, chatting, or drinking soup.

People from two different worlds, living under the same roof, eating the same breakfast, separated by an invisible yet undeniably present layer of air.

Just as the dragon princes were about to finish their meal, the centurion appeared.

"We'll go pick up supplies in a bit and eat on the way. After we finish eating, we'll go back to pack our luggage, and the car will leave at nine o'clock."

When he uttered those words, his tone was as if he were reporting the day's weather; there was no room for discussion, no polite "you can sit a little longer," just an order already written into the schedule, requiring no further discussion. After speaking, he prepared to turn and leave. But he stopped, as if remembering some important forgotten matter, and turned back halfway.

He extended the finger that had just been making a slapping motion and pointed to a corner of the cafeteria.

"Oh, and please put your plates back in the recycling bin."

After he finished speaking, he finally turned and left, his steps still unhurried, as if everything in the canteen was under his control, including the plates held by the dragon princes.

The dragon princes looked at each other, their gazes conveying the same message: "And then what? What do we do? Listen to him? Or not?"

Elisander didn't look at them; he simply watched the centurion's retreating figure, his dark uniform disappearing through the dining hall door. Then he stood up and picked up his tray.

After setting the plates, he stood by the shelf, glanced back at the dragon princes still seated, and then gestured with his chin toward the door.

That means: Let's go.

One by one, the dragon princes stood up and carried their trays to the recycling area. They lined up and quietly completed this process, which they hadn't known about at all yesterday.

Soon, Ellisand received two meat patties wrapped in oiled paper. The paper was a waxy yellow color and felt a little slippery. The patties were still warm, and the grease seeped through the paper, leaving a dark ring on the surface.

To be honest, he really liked Duruqi's meat patties. He could tell that the meat came from cattle from the Kingdom of Elion, not some other random meat. The patties were also delicious, with a golden-brown and crispy crust, while the inside was tender and juicy, bursting with the flavors of black pepper and some spice he couldn't name.

It's fragrant, crispy, and has a subtle, smoky aroma from the charcoal fire.

Then he received a salted fish. The fish was small, about the length of a palm, salted and dried, and had a strong seafood smell. It wasn't the fresh, fishy smell of the sea, but a deeper, more complex salty aroma that had been mellowed by time.

Two cans of fruit, one bottle of wine.

Besides these, there was even smoke.

So he took another pack of cigarettes.

What follows is just a chronological account... (End of Chapter)