Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The group returned to their dormitory and began packing their luggage.

Alessand had little to pack; he had only brought a travel bag and his ever-present sword. He tucked the pack of cigarettes into the inside of his robe, right up to his heart, where he could feel the sharp edges of the pack when he patted it. He then stuffed the two cans of food and the wine into the travel bag.

The already small bag bulged even more, but he could still carry it. He tried lifting it; it wasn't light, but it wasn't heavy either. He hung his sword on his belt and adjusted the angle of the scabbard so it wouldn't bump against his knees while walking.

Everyone else was equally efficient; no one dawdled.

Because the phrase "the bus departs at nine o'clock" was still hanging in their minds, like a sword hanging over their heads, ready to fall at any moment.

At 8:20, they arrived at the open space with their luggage.

By this time, the place was already packed with people.

The soldiers of Duruch were dressed in civilian clothes, with belts around their waists. The brass buckles on the belts gleamed in the morning light, as if each of them had been specially polished with their cuffs before leaving home. On their feet were gleaming military boots, the leather uppers shimmering with an oily sheen, and the soles were free of mud, sand, and even a single unnecessary scratch.

He had a bundle of luggage on his shoulder, looking like he was about to embark on a long journey.

From a distance, the packs don't look like they're carried on their backs; they look more like they're part of their bodies, growing out from their shoulders and extending from their backs—a uniquely soldierly posture, one with their equipment.

The high-ranking officers in Truch dressed the same as the soldiers: the same uniforms, the same belts, and the same military boots.

The only difference was that they didn't have luggage rolls on their shoulders, but rather carried standard suitcases in their hands.

Clearly, like the Asur nobles, they also needed to travel by carriage. They weren't going to war; their attire didn't resemble that of a warrior—no weapons, no armor, not even helmets. Nor were they going to training; the sandy training grounds would have dirtied their meticulously polished military boots.

They are going to some place they don't know, to carry out a mission for which they don't need to know all the details, or perhaps...

The dragon princes stood at the edge of the open space, gazing at the black square formation in the distance. These formations weren't drawn; they were constructed from human bodies, each row, each column, each individual's position precise as if measured with a ruler. Their eyes swept from the front row to the back, from the far left to the far right, trying to find an opening, a gap.

They themselves didn't know where they should stand. No one drew a line in front of them, no one shouted "Left face", and no one told them "Your position is the fifth from the left in the third row".

They were guests, and the host had not arranged seats for them, so the guests had to stand, at the edge of the open space, outside the shadow of the square formation.

But they saw how the Duruqi soldiers stood: heels together, toes pointing outwards at a 60-degree angle—just the right angle for maximum stability. Their arms hung naturally at their sides, middle fingers pressed against the trouser seams—not just touching, but pressing down, making their arms appear as extensions of their bodies. Chests out, stomach in, chin slightly tucked—the chest wasn't just pushed out, it was lifted, drawn up from the abdomen, from the ribs, from the collarbone, until the entire center of gravity was raised higher.

I must say, this pose is absolutely fantastic.

So, as soldiers, they followed suit and stood ramrod straight, just like Duruci.

Soon, nobles from other kingdoms also appeared on the open ground.

Because of last night's 'meeting' and the chaos that followed, the nobles lined up according to their respective factions. Elion stood together, Charis stood together, and Avalon stood together.

The various factions are separated by a few meters of space, like several unrelated rivers flowing across the same plain, yet none of them are willing to merge with the others.

No one went over to exchange pleasantries, and they even avoided eye contact. The men of Elion looked east, the men of Charis looked west, the men of Avalon looked south, and the men of Caledo looked north.

Four directions, four kinds of silence, the same open space.

Interestingly, when Charis's camp lined up, they formed a vacuum zone around Valin. It wasn't the kind of empty space where no one was around him, but rather the kind of empty space where everyone deliberately kept their distance from him.

The vacuum zone had a radius of about two meters. There was no one within two meters, while the nobles of Charis huddled shoulder to shoulder, as if trying to keep warm from each other. It was as if he himself was radiating some kind of isolation, and anyone who got close to him felt a strong sense of unease, an instinctive urge to avoid standing next to him.

The reality is that the "traitor" from last night, and the stupid things he kept repeating in the meeting room, caused him to lose the tolerance of everyone present.

Nobody wanted to stand with him because he was kind!

It's foolish to keep asking questions that have no answers when everyone has already accepted reality. It's foolish to keep chattering when everyone has already shut up. It's foolish to keep shouting "We can still fight!" when everyone has already realized "We've lost."

Kaldo appeared at 8:30.

His pace was faster than the night before, the rhythm of his boot heels striking the concrete more rapid, carrying a sense of urgency that time was running out. That urgency wasn't anxiety or panic; it was a calm, unhurried speed unique to someone who had calculated things precisely and knew what to do with every minute.

The moment he appeared, the Duruci column in the open space straightened up again in unison.

There were no actions; no one marched in step, no one raised their hand to salute, and no one suddenly went from at ease to attention.

That's an aura!
It was an instinctive reaction where everyone held their breath, tensed their muscles, and adjusted themselves from standing to standing better at the same instant. It was as if an invisible hand had gently pressed down on this open space, squeezing out all the laxity, slackness, and languor from those black bodies, leaving only a heavy, taut silence, like a fully drawn bowstring.

Kaldor didn't look at them; he didn't need to. He knew they would stand where they were, react as they were to, remain quiet when they were to be quiet, and depart when they were to depart.

He rolled up his sleeves, glanced at his watch, and then with a sweeping motion, his arm moved from one side of his body to the other, the movement small but powerful, as if cutting a line through the air.

On this side of the line is waiting, on the other side is departure.

There were no bugles, no commands, no "Let's go!"

The mixed team moved.

It wasn't a sudden surge, nor a chaotic push, but a layered, sequential flow, like dominoes falling one after another. The Duruqi contingent at the front took the first step, not in unison, but simply taking a step, yet the sound of each pair of military boots hitting the ground together was like a muffled drumbeat.

Then came the Asur nobles following behind. Their steps weren't as synchronized as Duruci's; some stepped with their left foot, some with their right, some took large strides, some small, but at least they were walking, keeping up, and trying not to fall behind.

The nobles of Asur stepped out of the camp gates and onto a cement road connecting buildings they had never seen before. The road was wide enough for eight people to walk side by side. The surface was grayish-white, with fine grooves—marks of wheels, rain, and countless boots that had trodden it, leaving behind a sense of time.

Neatly trimmed low shrubs lined both sides of the road, behind which lay barbed wire, and beyond that, an open field shrouded in morning mist, out of their sight.

Soon, they entered the building, they passed through the building, and finally, they arrived at the platform.

The bewildered dragon princes looked at Elisander, their eyes filled with only one question: Where are we? What are we going to do next?
Elisander didn't answer; he simply shook his head.

How would he know?

He wasn't a guide, nor was he the organizer of the trip. He was just like them, a passenger who was told to "take the bus at nine o'clock."

Then the dragon princes looked at Rahil, who had spent three days in Lorthorn and should have seen more things and knew what these buildings were for.

However, the moment they looked at Rahil, before their gaze could even land on his face, they heard a sound coming from afar.

If this were a movie, from their perspective, Rahil in the foreground would become blurry, the focus shifting away from his calm, expressionless face and rapidly moving backward, past the swaying figures of the Asur nobles in the middle, past the yellow safety line at the edge of the platform, and past the dappled, silvery-white spots of light reflected from the rails.

It eventually landed in the distance.

On that rapidly approaching, low-rumbling, black object, like a giant beast bursting from the mist.

The distant sounds, too, went from indistinct to clear, from faintly audible to deafening. They were not any of the sounds they recognized—not the clatter of horses' hooves, not the crunch of wheels crushing stones, not the crashing of waves against the rocks.

It was a low-frequency, continuous rumbling sound, like something churning underground, mixed with the sharp, teeth-grinding whistling sound of metal rubbing against metal, and an approaching, increasingly intense, and overwhelming wind pressure.

"This is... a car?"

Querreyen stared dumbfounded at the rapidly approaching black monster. His outstretched finger trembled slightly in mid-air, as if pointing at something that shouldn't exist in this world. The trembling wasn't fear, but a physiological reaction of his brain frantically trying to re-establish its coordinate system after his cognition had been completely shattered.

Its body is made of iron.

It wasn't the kind of industrial-looking iron plate that was pieced together with rivets; he'd seen that kind of iron plate before, on Trudeau's transport ship.

It is a smooth, complete metal shell, as if it were poured out of some huge mold in one go. The surface is coated with matte black paint, with a few thin scratches on the paint, as if it had been scraped by something, but the metal underneath is not exposed.

Its head is round, with a raised arc similar to a tortoise shell, and two huge, transparent pieces of glass are embedded in the front. The glass is as thick as the bricks of a city wall, and the edges are inlaid with black rubber sealing strips.

Behind the glass was a small space from which he could not see the interior. He could only vaguely see a few blurry figures moving around and a small lamp that was lit, emitting a dim yellow light.

Later he learned that it was called a driver's cab.

Beneath its feet are two parallel, gleaming railway tracks that stretch from one end of the platform to the other, and from the other end to an even more distant direction, through the morning mist, through the wilderness, through the distance, all the way to the horizon.

The dragon princes, though shocked by the sight of the train for the first time—their pupils dilated and their breathing quickened—did not lose their composure. The magnificent scene of Imrek singing his dragon song, awakening the dragons, and the dragons soaring through Tal Sammersan, remained vivid in their memories to this day.

They had seen larger creatures, more awe-inspiring sights, and living mountains that had awakened from millennia of slumber, whose wingspans could blot out the sky and whose dragonfire could turn entire cities to ashes.

No matter how big a train is, it can't be bigger than a dragon; no matter how long a train is, it can't be longer than the wingspan of a dragon; no matter how deafening the roar of a train is, it can't drown out the echo of the dragon's song deep in the soul.

So they stood firm, straightened up, without retreating or losing their composure.

Just watching.

Nobles from other kingdoms of Asur were not eligible.

Especially the lords of Avalon and the nobles of Charis, who came from the forest, felt as if their heads had been hit hard when they first saw the train speeding towards them.

It wasn't a 'shock,' but a more thorough, primal, and instinctive 'tremor.'

The shock did not come from the outside, but from within. It was a silent, yet dizzying tremor that arose when their entire cognitive system was shaken from the foundation by this black, iron, self-moving behemoth.

So much so that their hands unconsciously gripped the sword hilts—an instinctive reaction, a conditioned reflex ingrained in the elves' bones, requiring no thought, and faster than breathing, when faced with unpredictable threats.

The feel of the sword hilt came from my palm—cold, hard, and familiar—but that familiarity wasn't enough to offset the strangeness before me.

Their bodies also moved backward uncontrollably, not a step, but half a step, the kind of backward movement where they didn't want to retreat but couldn't control their legs, a hesitant and reluctant retreat.

Some people took one step back and stopped, some took three or four steps back and kept retreating, and some only stopped abruptly after bumping into someone behind them, glanced back, and then quickly turned back to continue staring at the train.

"This is... made of iron, isn't it?"

Quirrellen was oblivious to the commotion of the Asur nobles; his eyes were fixed on the train, seeing nothing else. His vision was filled only with that massive, black machine, slowing down, its wheels sparking as they rubbed against the rails.

Its speed decreased, from rushing in to slowly approaching, but the sound of the iron wheels crushing the rails did not diminish; on the contrary, it became even more deafening as the distance closed.

The sound was like someone was repeatedly, stroke by stroke, scraping his eardrums with a giant file.

His finger was still raised in mid-air, maintaining the gesture of pointing at the train, but his knuckles had stopped trembling. It wasn't because he had calmed down, but because his body had diverted all its energy to processing visual and auditory information, leaving no extra strength to tremble.

The clicking sound of the iron wheels rolling over the rail joints grew slower and heavier, as if keeping time for the arrival of the train.

The air, propelled by its inertia, rushed towards him, carrying a mixture of engine oil, rust, and the smell of some metal that had been scorched by high temperatures. It filled his nostrils, his throat, and his lungs.

He didn't cough, didn't back down, didn't even blink. He just stood there, watching the train emerge from the fog, from afar, from a world he had never imagined, belonging to another era, and then appear before him with an undeniable, irresistible presence, like some kind of natural phenomenon.

He heard the unreality in his own voice, as if it were drifting from a great distance, or as if it were coming from someone else's throat, with a hollow, buzzing echo.

All his knowledge of vehicles—horse-drawn carriages, oxcarts, chariots—that were pulled by pack animals and warhorses, with creaking wheels, wooden wheels, and wooden carriages, became useless at this moment.

Those perceptions were like a pile of building blocks, which collapsed into a cacophony when gently touched by this black, iron, self-moving behemoth.

He didn't know what to call it, he didn't know how it moved, and he didn't even know how to get on. In the era of horse-drawn carriages, you only needed to step on the pedals, lift the curtain, and bend down to crawl inside.

But this thing had a gap between its floor and the platform, its door was metal, and its handle was the kind that required pressing down to open; he had never seen such a design before.

He just stood there, staring at the black monster like a caveman stepping out of his cave for the first time and seeing a spaceship.

But the scene was quite different for the Durucis standing in line on the platform. Some watched the train approach calmly, their eyes devoid of any emotion, as if watching the sun that would appear on time every day; others had no attention on the train at all. Some were looking down at their watches, some were checking if their suitcases were zipped up, and some were whispering to their comrades next to them, with a slight smile on their lips.

Trains are nothing new to them. With the arrival of the new era, rails, wheels, carriages, and whistles are all part of their daily lives, just as commonplace as wind, rain, and tides are to sailors.

And so, the oncoming train slowed down.

The sound of wheels rubbing against rails changed from a sharp whistle to a low groan, like the panting of a black beast as it transitioned from running to pacing.

It slowly passed by the spirits, each with their own thoughts, not stopping, but simply passing by. It moved so slowly that you could see the numbers printed on the side of each carriage, so slowly that you could feel the air it stirred up brushing against your face, carrying a heat of rust and grease, the heat of the industrial age.

Eldalia watched the cargo container slowly drive past, a look of loss on her face. She sighed. Her identity was complex; she wasn't exactly a surrendered general, nor was she a member of the nobility of the Kingdom of Elion.

She was the first to surrender, the first to lay down her arms, and the first to accept Duruci's control of the city's defenses. But her territory was in Tal Usvi, her citizens were still there, her pastures were still there, and her cattle and sheep had been bought up by Duruci at a reasonable price, leaving only the young.

As one of the first generals to surrender, she differed from other Asur nobles; she had seen trains, and more than once. Duruci built a station at Tar Usvi, laid tracks, and extended the railway inland along the Phoenix River.

The railway tracks resembled a black vine, winding its way up the river, across the plains, and over the streams. Perhaps before long, the railway would reach Phoenix Gate, and even pass through Phoenix Gate and the Ring Mountain to enter the Kingdom of Nagarus.

She knew that the train was only slowing down because it was passing the platform; it wouldn't stop. After crossing the platform, it would immediately accelerate, the cylinders would start working at full capacity again, the whistle would sound again, and it would head towards Tal Usvi, and eventually towards a more distant place.

She had a feeling that no matter how the situation developed, Trucchi would not leave the northern peninsula.

That is Tal Usvi, located on the northern peninsula...

She shook her head and sighed again. Once certain thoughts appeared, it was as if she had admitted to something she was not yet willing to admit.

She could only turn her attention to the train carriages, watching the train that never stopped pass by the platform. The locomotive went by, the first carriage went by, the second carriage went by, passing by her one by one, like an endless, black, moving wall.

On one side of the wall lies her past, which she can never return to; on the other side lies her future, which she hasn't yet figured out how to face.

Perhaps the 'Shock' debuff disappeared, or perhaps the suffocating sense of oppression lessened after the train departed; the Asur, seeing a train for the first time, erupted in excitement.

They lowered their voices and began to discuss quietly, not in a formal, serious way, but in a hushed, surprised, and confused manner, as if they were trying to confirm whether they were dreaming.

"How does it turn?"

What if it flips over?

"Could a dragon withstand a train collision?"

Naïve yet truthful words kept popping up from every corner, like a group of children surrounding a toy they'd never seen before, chattering and guessing at its function.

But Aldersande didn't participate in the conversation. His expression was strange, not surprised, not confused, but a more complex, subtle twist between "I understand" and "I'm not sure if I really understand."

As a manager and a senior executive, he saw things that others couldn't.

From the ship at the beginning, to the scenes in the morning, and now to this train.

Dakos seems to be showing off his muscles in a peculiar way, telling them: Why did you lose?
It wasn't told in words or with data, but rather it was shown in every step before and after their arrival, from the barracks to the mess hall, from morning exercises to taking the vehicle.

In a subtle and gentle way, gradually implant the answers into their eyes, ears, and minds.

Look, we've had these things for a long time. What you're still surprised about now is already commonplace for us. What you're still debating about "can we do it?", "will it work?", "what if?", we're already using in large quantities.

Your fears and hesitations are our starting point.

He kept thinking, either from Dakos's perspective, about the ingenuity of this approach—every step seemed pre-designed, as if Dakos knew what they would see, hear, and discuss from the moment they checked into the barracks. Or from the perspective of the Asur nobles, he wondered why they were still asking such naive questions—not because they were stupid, but because their cognitive framework simply had no place for these things.

Just as you can't blame a fish for not knowing what wings are, you can only blame it for never having flown.

Of course, this excludes the flying fish that inhabit the drifting islands.

He only snapped out of his thoughts when the whistle sounded again.

The whistle was closer and louder than before, as if something was telling him to stop thinking and look ahead. He gave a bitter smile, a smile without sarcasm or smugness, only a weary realization that he should have expected.

Unlike the previous train, this one slowed down considerably as it approached the platform. Not the kind of slowing down but still moving, but the kind of slowing down that made me feel like it was about to stop.

The sound of wheels rubbing against the rails became extremely deep, like the final beat of some enormous heart. (End of Chapter)