Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Finally, the train stopped at the platform, not just passed by.

The wheels came to a stop, and the horn ceased to sound. Only a wisp of white steam occasionally rose from the front of the vehicle, slowly fading and dissipating in the morning breeze.

Alessand surveyed the carriage parked not far in front of him. Although it was his first time seeing a train and carriages, he wasn't stupid. After comparing it to the others, he knew this carriage was for people, not cargo. The sides of the carriage didn't have those huge, double-opening cargo doors; instead, there were rows of bright windows, behind which were clean, long benches covered with dark fabric. There were also wide aisles at both ends, with handrails on both sides.

Furthermore, and most importantly, the train stopped at the platform.

He then looked at the Duruci formation on the platform. The officers stood at the front of their respective ranks, shouting short, forceful commands and making crisp, clean arcs with their arms.

The black formations unfolded in an orderly fashion at the command, not in a chaotic surge or a swarm of people, but in a logical flow, like origami, layer upon layer.

People in each row turned around, stepped forward, and boarded the vehicle in turn, maintaining a distance of four to five steps between each other. No one stepped on the heel of the person in front of them, and no one blocked the door.

The whole process was quiet and efficient, as if they had boarded the vehicle a thousand times, ten thousand times.

"Go up."

Having said that, he walked first towards the open door of the black monster train, his steps unhurried, his boots clicking rhythmically on the concrete platform. He didn't turn back, didn't check if Querellien was following; he knew he would. Not because he trusted Querellien, but because he believed that beneath the taciturn exterior of the Kalerdos lay a stubborn refusal to fall behind.

After seeing his brother board the train, Quirrell took a deep breath.

The breath carried the smell of railway tracks, the metallic heat emanating from the repeated crushing of wheels; the smell of engine oil, the slippery and pungent odor of industrial machinery seeping from the drive shafts and bearings at the bottom of the carriage; and a strange, unfamiliar smell he had never smelled before, like compressed steam, not strong but persistent, like an invisible tongue lingering in his nasal cavity for a long time.

He didn't cough, didn't back away, didn't even frown. He just took deep breaths, as if trying to convince his lungs: these smells aren't scary, you can breathe.

Then he took the first step.

At 9:10, the sound of the siren came again.

This time, it didn't drift in from afar, nor did it seep out from the fog; it exploded directly from the front of the car.

It moved!

A dragon prince sitting by the window shouted, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes wide open as if witnessing a miracle. His voice was loud enough for the entire carriage to hear, but no one paid any attention, because at the same moment, many more people were silently chanting the same words.

"It moved."

It wasn't a question, nor an exclamation, but simply a confirmation. A confirmation that they were truly on this train, that the train was truly moving, and that they could never go back.

The new era has begun.

Quirrellen's voice was low, so low that only he could hear it. But he didn't shout; his lips merely moved, the word slipping through his teeth and then swallowed by the roar of the train.

Amid shouts, the train began to accelerate.

The scenery outside the window changed from slowly receding to rushing by; distant views appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Alissand sat with his back turned, staring blankly at the receding scenery. His vision was unfocused; his retina displayed only blurry, flowing patches of color, like a watercolor painting washed by rain.

What was going through his mind?
No one knew that his fingers, resting on his knees, were tapping unconsciously, not in a regular rhythm, but rather in a subconscious way, as if his body was tapping to itself.

After a long while, he looked at Quirrell, who was sitting opposite him, also lost in thought.

But unlike the others, Quirrellion's eyes were red.

It wasn't the kind of red you get from crying; it was the kind of red where blood vessels spread from the edges of your eyes toward the center, a redness from not blinking for a long time, from excessive thinking causing your eyes to become bloodshot. His gaze was fixed on a point outside the window, but his focus wasn't there; his brain was processing information that was more important than the scenery outside.

"What, still reminiscing about the eggs from this morning?" Elle Sander teased.

It was an older brother trying to pull his younger brother out of a deep emotional state in his own way.

However, Quirrellen did not respond.

He had come to his senses by now, not from Ellen Sander's teasing, but from the initial shock, confusion, and disorientation of "I don't know where I am."

His brain began to operate in a completely different way than before, not in a passive, information-bombarded mode that could only receive but not process, but in an active, analytical mode, carrying his consistent military skills and tactical thinking.

He considered the military value of trains from the perspective of a general.

His eyes then reddened even more.

It wasn't sadness, nor anger, but a cruel clarity—a realization that I had finally seen, but which I wish I hadn't. He seemed to understand why Duruci had been able to accomplish the feat of conquering Ausuan in such a short time.

It wasn't because they were braver, nor because they were more cunning, but because while their army was traveling by train, Asur's army was still on horseback and on foot; because while their supplies were speeding along the railroad tracks, Asur's provisions were still swaying slowly on wagons; because their strategic deployments were measured in hours, while Asur's strategic deployments were measured in weeks and months.

This is not war; this is a dimensional reduction attack.

But he didn't voice these thoughts; he knew his voice would tremble if he did. All he could do was sit there, his gaze passing through the glass window, trying to see further into the distance—a place without railway tracks, without trains, without any trace of industrial civilization, only the past, only the vast grasslands of the Kingdom of Elion.

But he knew that those rails would be laid eventually.

sooner or later!

Seeing that Querreyion did not respond, Elisande stood up and quickly appeared in the corridor. As he was about to take his next step, he paused, his gaze falling on Rahil.

Rahil was puzzled by his gaze. What was wrong? Was there something on my face? It wasn't until Allesander pulled out the pack of cigarettes he had received that morning and waved it in front of Rahil's eyes that Rahil realized what was happening.

He knew that Elisendall needed a lighter.

However, Rahil didn't take out a lighter; instead, he stood up as well. He pointed to the connecting area between the carriages at the end of the passageway, which was the smoking area. The two walked through the passageway one after the other and disappeared into the carriage.

When Elisande returned, reeking of smoke, Querreyen was still in a daze, his eyes even redder, so red that it seemed as if tears were about to spill from the corners of his eyes at any moment.

It wasn't tears, but a red that was congested to its limit, with capillaries about to burst under pressure, a red that made you feel pain just looking at it. It was as if bloody tears would appear on her cheeks at any moment, or as if what was in her eyes wasn't bloody tears, but something heavier, thicker, and harder to flow out.

Alessand sighed, a soft, slow sigh, as if squeezing out all the helplessness simmering in his chest. He knew his brother as well as he knew Imrek, as well as Marendri, who had died in Lorthorn.

He knew that Quirrellen was not someone who easily showed his emotions, and when a person said nothing, did nothing, and just stared blankly, it meant that what was churning in his mind had exceeded the capacity of language.

So he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to rest.

He began to anticipate what they would experience upon reaching the destination: would they be reassembled? Would they be separated and assigned accommodations? Would they be summoned one by one by Malekith, Dakota, or even Finnubar? Or would they be directly taken to some ceremony or meeting?

He placed chess pieces on the chessboard in his mind, trying to deduce every possibility, attempting to find a path in that unfamiliar land where he wouldn't fall too badly.

However, before long, Alessandr found himself in an eerie stillness within the carriage. It wasn't quiet; the clatter of wheels on the rails was still there, the metallic clanging of the carriage joints was still there, and the whispers from other carriages in the distance were still there.

But those sounds seemed to be blocked by a transparent membrane; by the time they entered, they had lost their warmth, leaving only a hollow, mechanical, chilling echo. The air in the carriage also changed, becoming viscous, heavy, as if something unseen was slowly squeezing from both ends of the carriage towards the middle.

Before he could even open his eyes, Rahil beside him gave him a subtle nudge. It was a light nudge, but precise, hitting him squarely on the side of his ribs. The force wasn't great, but it carried an urgent message: "Don't sleep, something's happened!"

When he opened his eyes, he found that part of the dragon prince who should have been sitting had stood up.

It's not the kind of standing up because I need to go to the bathroom or have a smoke; it's the kind of standing up where my body suddenly tenses up, like being bounced up by a spring, with a sense of vigilance and tension.

Some stood beside their seats, hands on the hilts of their swords, their eyes warily fixed on one end of the carriage; others had already stepped into the aisle, leaning slightly forward like a drawn bow. Some looked at him, their gaze questioning, "What should I do?" Others looked behind him, their gaze more direct, scrutinizing what was approaching.

"Routine patrol, put your feet down."

Before he could turn around, before he could stand up, a suppressed voice came from not far behind him. The voice was not loud, but it was deep, as if it were being forced out from the chest, carrying a restraint that indicated a reluctance to repeat itself.

After the sound appeared, as if something had been activated, more dragon princes stood up. The sound of the cushions on the seats being pressed down and then bounced back, the metallic clang of sword sheaths touching each other, and the muffled thud of boots hitting the carriage floor all mixed together, like a brief commotion coming from different directions.

He stood up as well.

Two black knights appeared inside the carriage and stood in the aisle.

They seemed to realize that Elisander was the leader in the carriage. They turned their heads and looked at him calmly. There was no condescending scrutiny in their eyes, no warning that they should behave themselves, and no deliberate avoidance as if they knew who they were but pretended not to.

There was only a calm, professional gaze, like a routine that had to be repeated a hundred times a day.

Very serious, very solemn—that was Alessandro's first impression of the two Black Knights.

Weak? Hesitant? No!

He didn't sense anything amiss. It was as if they had already become accustomed to this kind of gaze, pressure, and environment before even arriving at this carriage full of dragon princes; or rather, they had long since become accustomed to it back in the military camp. The bloodline pressure that these dragon princes were so proud of was as light as the wind in front of the veteran who had crawled out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

The eye contact lasted for three seconds.

In those three seconds, it felt as if half the air had been sucked out of the carriage. The dragon princes' gazes darted back and forth between Elisande and the two black knights, like a pack of wolves waiting for their alpha to make a decision.

In the end, Ellesander conceded.

He stopped looking at them, not by lowering his gaze, but by turning his head away, no longer meeting their eyes. He turned his gaze to the dragon princes who had stood up and blocked the aisle in the carriage, his gaze steady and slow, like an invisible iron, gently smoothing over these restless figures.

Without a doubt, as a son of Caledon and the current head of the Caledonian Kingdom, he holds considerable prestige.

That prestige doesn't come from power or wealth, but from bloodline, from name, from ability, from the trust that has been passed down for thousands of years, ingrained in our bones, and that can be perceived without words: "He is one of us."

As his gaze swept across the room, most of the dragon princes either sat down or made way for him.

However, this is only the majority.

"Asnir!"

Ellisand shouted sharply, the sound not loud but very high-pitched, like the back of a knife striking the rim of a glass.

Asniel's reaction was to the name, not to Elisander; his body jerked, and then his gaze broke free from a frozen, unfathomable stare and turned to Elisander.

But he still stood in the passageway, his hands hanging limply at his sides, neither gripping his sword nor clenching his fists, just hanging there like two lifeless metal rods. His eyes were fixed on the two black knights, his gaze devoid of anger or hatred, only a more primal, more instinctive stare, like that of a hibernating snake opening its eyes—a frozen, icy gaze.

That gaze wasn't directed at a person, but at something he couldn't understand, couldn't accept, yet couldn't deny.

In the end, the two dragon princes reluctantly stepped forward and forcibly pulled Asnier back from the left and right. Asnier staggered as he was pulled, his steps unsteady, but his gaze never left the two black knights until he was pulled behind his seat and his view was blocked by other people.

Once order was restored, the two black knights showed no satisfaction, no nod, no change in expression, and no clap or other mocking gestures. It was as if their memories had been reset; they had forgotten what had happened a moment before and continued moving forward. The soles of their boots pounded on the carriage floor, producing a steady, rhythmic sound that mingled with the clatter of the train wheels, quickly becoming indistinguishable.

There was no sudden attack by the Dragon Prince on the Black Knight; nor did the Black Knight trip and fall while walking, prompting the Dragon Prince to burst into laughter.

Nothing happened.

All that remained was that the two black knights eventually disappeared at the end of the carriage, their figures blocked by the iron door connecting the carriages, and then vanished completely.

However, what Elisander didn't know was that the two black-clad riders had stopped at the connecting section between the two carriages. They stood there for a long time in that cramped space of only two square meters.

The lead black knight raised his arm and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It wasn't the kind of profuse sweat that streams down his face; it was a fine, damp sweat that seeped along his hairline, shimmering faintly under the fluorescent light. He wiped it once, then again, before turning to glance at the black knights following behind him.

That glance didn't ask if you were afraid, nor did it seek confirmation of how I had performed; it only confirmed that you were sweating too.

The next second, they both smiled bitterly, a very faint and short smile, as if something had been forced out of their throats.

This job is not easy. Being stared at by the dragon princes, being oppressed by their invisible but palpable aura, and being caught in the tension that if one of them loses control, everyone else will follow suit.

But they still have to do it; it's their duty!
Alexand, sitting back down, didn't look in the direction the two black knights had disappeared. He closed his eyes again, but this time, he wasn't thinking about what the train would encounter after reaching its destination, but rather about Asnir.

In his view, the current "Asniel" is more like a symbol, representing instability. Not the kind of instability that actively seeks provocation, but the kind that can be triggered at any time by a word, an action, or a person, a deep-seated instability that even he himself doesn't know when it will erupt.

What would have happened if Asnier had suddenly attacked?
The image flashed quickly through Alessand's mind: Asnier lunging at the Black Knight, and then the entire carriage descended into chaos. Some would help, some would stop him, some would be at a loss, and some would take advantage of the chaos to do what they had always wanted to do.

and then?
Then the entire train will be alerted, and Truc's soldiers will seal off the carriage within seconds. More people will be injured, there will be confinement, interrogation, and those situations he doesn't want to face but has to face.

The worst outcome is not that anyone gets hurt or taken away, but that all their efforts—the efforts to get them to lower their guard, open their hearts, and begin to accept reality—will all be in vain.

He knew that the two black knights were the Ordered Black Knights, representing Malekith in the army.

There is no doubt that provoking the Black Knight is seen as provoking Malekith.

He knew this, and Asniel knew it too.

But how many abyss lies between knowing and doing?

he does not know.

All he knew was that if Asnier hadn't been pulled back by the two dragon princes in those few seconds, everything would have been different.

After the train reaches its destination, will Asni suddenly erupt at a crucial moment?

He dared not gamble.

But he knew he had to find the answer, or at least a way to make it less dangerous, before he reached the finish line.

As he pondered, he heard voices beside him. The dragon prince, sitting on the other side, sought clarification from Rahil about the identities of those two men. It wasn't an interrogation or a question, but rather a simple, somewhat curious inquiry, like a new recruit asking a veteran who they were.

As the person with the best understanding of the Duruci system, Rahil offered his explanation. His voice was not loud, but very clear, and every word seemed carefully chosen, neither too many nor too few, just enough.

"The leader is a veteran." After explaining, LaHilton paused, as if giving the listeners time to process the information.

His words were met with approval, and the dragon princes nodded. Some hummed in agreement, some nodded silently, and others simply lowered their chins slightly. It was a pure acceptance, devoid of any superfluous emotion, that what he said made sense.

However, the conversation didn't end there.

Rahil began to explain why the Black Knight was a "veteran," not based on feeling or intuition, but on evidence on his uniform that could be verified by anyone.

“He has a black battle wound medal on his chest.” Rahil’s voice became like that of an academic lecture, unhurried and clearly structured. “That means he has suffered two severe injuries on the battlefield, not minor injuries, not the kind that can be bandaged up and he can continue fighting, but the kind that will keep him in bed for months, or even be considered never to return to the battlefield. Another medal represents that he has served for a century, and another represents that he has been a Black Knight for twenty years.”

“He also has a medal on his left arm.” Rahil’s finger moved to the top of his left arm. “It’s the Battle Medal of Echoing City – Zahuitak. It means he participated in that battle and performed well.” “Zahuitak?” A dragon prince repeated the unfamiliar name with some confusion. In his mind, the name was too exotic, not elven.

“Deep in the Ruscia jungle,” Rahil explained patiently, like a predecessor answering questions for successors, tireless and unhurried.

He asked the same question when he was in Lorthorn.

As he answered, a crowd gathered around him. Even the dragon princes who were seated couldn't help but crane their necks, and some even stood up, craning their necks to get a word in.

When Rahil recounted how the Archduke of Khorne was banished back to the Chaos Realm by Darkus in an almost brutal manner, gasps of astonishment spread like a gust of wind from the center of the crowd. The sounds weren't loud, but they were perfectly synchronized, as if someone were directing them. Everyone inhaled at the same second, then held their breath at the same second, letting the breath linger in their chests for a long time before slowly exhaling.

"demon……"

"Lizard Man..."

"Dulucci..."

None of them are complete sentences, just fragmented phrases, like language interrupted by shock and not yet properly organized.

But they were all sighs, not sarcasm.

Because all the dragon princes present knew that no matter what Duruci had been like before, during the Great Invasion, when the tides of chaos rose over Ulthuan, when the whole world was plunged into the abyss of despair, their ancestors had fought alongside Aenarion.

This is an undeniable fact, and an indelible mark etched deep in history that no one can erase.

"Is Darkus that strong? I thought..." The dragon prince didn't finish his sentence, but he glanced at Elisander, who had his eyes closed and wasn't joining the conversation, and the meaning in his eyes was clear enough.

He had assumed the other person was the kind of civilian figure who had risen to his position through intellect, skill, politics, and diplomacy, rather than a warrior capable of directly banishing the Great Demon on the battlefield.

He thought so, but now he doesn't think so anymore.

Rahil calmly looked back at him, then spoke. His tone remained that of a flat, unadorned statement.

"He is very strong. In fact, he is the one who has banished the most archdemons after Aenarion." His voice was neither forceful nor hesitant, without any preamble as if he were about to announce something momentous. He simply stated it as an ordinary fact, just like any other fact, in a calm and unassuming manner.

hiss……

The sound of gasping for air returned, louder, more synchronized, and longer than before.

Surprise, shock, and disbelief appeared on the faces of the dragon princes, as if sculpted by the same hand. Some had their mouths agape, some stared wide-eyed at Rahil as if trying to confirm if he was joking, and some stared blankly at the table in front of them, as if trying to digest information beyond their comprehension.

After Aenario, this adjective kept echoing in their minds, over and over again.

Who is Ainario?

He was the first Phoenix King, a legend who led the elves against chaos, and the first person to stand up and say, "We must fight," in an era when no one knew what a "demon" was.

His legends are etched on the walls of every temple, written on the title pages of every history book, and listened to by every elf child from the moment they can understand stories.

And Darkus...

"Do you know why Enil, who lives in Elsin Alvin, chose to join Duruci's camp?"

After everyone came to their senses, Rahil calmly posed a question. Seeing that everyone shook their heads, he continued.

"As far as I know, a rift leading to the Chaos Realm appeared at that time. If left unchecked, the rift would expand, attracting more chaotic power and turning the entire forest into wasteland. Darkus could have easily ignored it; it wasn't his territory, nor his people, but he still stepped forward and entered the Chaos Realm. And as you know, that's how it turned out."

The dragon princes were shocked again, but their shock did not stem from his going in or coming out, but from the fact that he went in, came out, and then said nothing.

In the tradition of Caledo, when a warrior does something remarkable, it needs to be known by everyone, celebrated, engraved on the blade, embroidered on the banner, and sung in the poems.

But Dakous doesn’t seem to need these?
He went in, came out, and then went back to doing his thing, as if he had just taken a stroll through the market.

"What about the process?"

"Yes, what about the experience?"

"How did he do that?"

How many men did he bring?

The dragon princes' questions came like a machine gun, each one urgent, filled with a desperate need to know. Rahil spread his hands and shook his head helplessly.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. Those who experienced it seem to be very reluctant to reveal their experiences. I don’t even know who the people who experienced it are, but I do know that these people are now active at the higher levels, and…” He paused, “Darkus has entered more than once.”

There was a moment of silence in the carriage. It wasn't a quiet silence, but rather a brief blankness after being overwhelmed by information, where everyone wanted to talk but didn't know what to say.

"More than once."

These words swirled in everyone's minds, colliding, mixing, and fermenting with all the information they had heard before, creating a new emotion that had never appeared in the Kaledo noble circle before. It wasn't fear, it wasn't jealousy, it wasn't about how he did it, but rather...

How come he's still alive?
Although the dragon princes, including Rahil, were unaware of the specifics, the conversation didn't end there. Like a bonfire that had been lit, it was given more fuel and burned even brighter.

Some asked what weapon Darkus used, some asked who the people who entered with him were and what they were doing now, some asked what kind of power was needed to banish the Great Demon, and whether only people with special bloodlines could do it, and some asked how Aenarion and Caledor would view Darkus if they were still alive.

The conversation revolved around Darkus's military strength, as if the Caledons had finally found a familiar dimension that they could assess and measure in their own language—military strength!
Ellesander had already opened his eyes.

He didn't join the discussion, nor did he dampen the dragon princes' enthusiasm. He simply leaned there, listening quietly. Those faces that had once been listless, silent, and seemingly devoid of all luster now had expressions again—not excitement, not fanaticism, but a more positive, more proactive kind of expression, like seeing a ray of light in the darkness, wanting to get closer to see what that light was, with a vivid expression of exploratory curiosity.

In his view, this is a good phenomenon.

This means that the dragon princes are no longer conservative, no longer resistant, and no longer blindly obedient.

They began to shift from a passive to an active approach, embracing that unknown and uncertain new era. They stopped asking "Why did we lose?" and started asking "How did they win?"

The former looks backward, while the latter looks forward.

The distance between them cannot be bridged in a few words, but it is being bridged.

Although in his view, Darkus's military strength seemed to be Darkus's weakest link, Darkus's strength had never been in military force. Duruci's successful reign over Ulthuan was directly related to Darkus.

This cannot be achieved by force; if it could, Malekith would have succeeded long ago.

But there's no way around it; the Kingdom of Caledon is ruled by the strong. This is a cultural gene ingrained in its very bones for thousands of years, deeper, thicker, and more unshakeable than any law, any dogma, or any political declaration.

In Caledor, the words of a capable fighter carry more weight than those of a weakling. The decisions of someone who can banish a great demon are taken very seriously.

It's not because his decisions are necessarily correct, but because he can do things that we can't, so he may see things that we can't.

Elisander closed his eyes again, not because he was sleepy or tired, but because he was thinking—if Darkus were a Caledonian…

The scene was so outrageous that he felt his imagination couldn't keep up.

A dragon prince who could banish great demons multiple times without dying, a dragon prince capable of establishing new systems, a dragon prince who could bring Sran to Ulthuan aboard an elven ship…

If such a person had actually been born in Caledo, Caledo would be in a very different situation today.

Perhaps those dragon princes who fell in Lorthorn are now sitting in the training grounds, polishing their swords, discussing what to have for dinner, and what Darkus will do next.

But this is just an "if".

The reality is that Darkus is Duruci, the enemy, the conqueror, the one who caused them to lose their kingdom and glory. And now they are sitting on the enemy's train, eating the enemy's meat pies, learning the enemy's knowledge, heading towards a future they do not yet know what it will look like.

The train's rumble continued, and the scenery outside the window kept receding. The discussion in the carriages continued, and the "I'm learning something new" expressions remained on the faces of the dragon princes.

Everything was going in the direction he had hoped for.

Alessand leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile, but a silent confirmation to himself that things might not be so bad.

In the end, the topic centered on Darkus came to an end, not because the dragon princes had asked all the questions they wanted to ask. The details about how Darkus banished the Great Demon, how many times he had entered the demon's lair, and why those who had experienced it were so secretive were enough to keep them talking for a whole day.

It was because the train had stopped again.

The train glided into a large station with a slow and steady pace. The platform was wide, the ceiling soared high, and the steel beams cast intricate shadows in the midday sun, like a giant, industrial-age spider web.

The dragon princes' discussion abruptly stopped, not because the train had stopped, but because they saw people on the platform.

"Elite!"

Someone whispered something.

This word isn't an exclamation, it's a judgment—the kind of professional instinct that allows you to measure your opponent with your eyes on the battlefield and quickly draw a conclusion. The platform was sparsely populated, disproportionate to the size of this large station; scattered queues were located in different parts of the platform, totaling no more than a thousand people.

But fewer does not mean weak.

On the contrary, the fact that such a small number of people could still be described as "elite" by the dragon princes indicates that some quality of those few hundred people is more striking than that of a square formation composed of thousands or tens of thousands of people.

Flags fluttered, the flagpoles held motionless in the flag bearers' hands, as if they had grown out of the platform's stone slabs. The Durucis and his entourage marched at ease, their steps lacking the tension of our ranks, carrying only the casual feeling of simply waiting for a train.

But the way they waited for their vehicles was more impressive than many military parades.

The train slowed down, and the sound of the wheels rubbing against the rails changed from a sharp whistle to a low groan. The passengers on the platform remained calm, did not stand on tiptoe to look, and made no unnecessary noise.

They just stood there, waiting for the train to stop and for them to board.

It was the composure of a veteran who had experienced countless long-distance transfers; he was not interested in the train itself, who was on board, or even the destination.

All they had to do was wait for the car to stop, get on, sit down, and then wait for the next stop.

"cavalry?"

"It should be."

The dragon princes, separated by glass, evaluated the Durucis on the platform. Their tone was neither looking up nor down, but rather a level gaze that seemed to say, "Let me show you what you're made of."

As for how they identified the "cavalry," it wasn't by the horses; there were no horses on the platform.

It's thanks to the "cavalry legs" of those like Duruci—not bowlegs, but the kind of legs where the inner thigh muscles are angular from years of riding horses, the legs naturally flank slightly when standing, and the gait has a relaxed feel, like someone who has just dismounted.

The dragon princes present also had this leg type, even more so than the Duruci. They rode horses to charge, to duel, and to deliver the decisive blow in the final battle; while the Duruci rode horses to march, to scout, and to cover distances that others could not on the battlefield.

"Cavalry Corps"

Rahil offered an explanation, and when everyone's eyes turned to him, he gave a more detailed explanation.

"The cavalry corps consists of twenty squads of one hundred Dark Riders, without a single commander-in-chief, and is deployed by a mid-level Dread Lord. In peacetime, they operate independently, responsible for daily patrols, guard duties, and small-scale skirmishes. When the main army requires mobile force, such as for pursuit, flanking maneuvers, or cutting off enemy supply lines, these cavalrymen are drawn out and formed into a complete cavalry corps, under the unified command of a mid-level Dread Lord. During marches, the cavalry will act as the eyes and hands of the main army, scouting ahead and controlling key points before the main force arrives. Before a major battle, they will be organized and stand by on both flanks of the battle line, awaiting the signal to charge."

By the time he finished speaking, Trucchi had already begun boarding the train on the platform.

A moment later, the train started moving again.

The two patrolling black knights reappeared in the carriage. They were still the same, expressionless, with steady steps, walking from one end of the carriage to the other, like two black, uniformly moving reefs.

No one stood up to block the aisle anymore, and no one placed their hands on their sword hilts. The dragon princes leaned back in their seats; some closed their eyes to rest, some stared blankly out the window, and some whispered among themselves. The two black knights passed by without even turning their heads.

What will the Kingdom of Caledon be like in the future?

Querreyen watched the backs of the two black knights, their black, straight figures disappearing through the iron gate at the end of the carriage. The question wasn't 'spoken' from his mouth, but rather 'squeezed' out from within him, like a bubble that had been held back for a long time finally rising to the surface.

His voice was so low that it was almost drowned out by the sound of wheels hitting the rails.

But Elisande heard it, he heard it clearly. He opened his eyes and looked at Quirrellion, who was staring at him.

Those bloodshot eyes held a multitude of emotions: confusion, helplessness, and a suppressed fear that, though unwilling to be acknowledged, could no longer be concealed on this train.

He knew that the question Quirrellen asked was very broad, a vast topic that encompassed politics, economics, military affairs, culture, population, land, religion, language, customs, education, law... almost all dimensions of the Kingdom of Caledon, a topic so grand that it was impossible to know where to begin.

But he really didn't know.

At this moment, he was also confused and bewildered. The same question was swirling in his mind, but he hadn't found the answer yet, or even where to begin his search.

"I'm sorry, I don't know, I really don't know."

He didn't flinch when he said those words. He met Quirrell's gaze, letting those red eyes see the same bewilderment in his own.

There was no comfort, no empty promise of things getting better. He simply laid the truth flat on the table: I don't know. But this "I don't know" wasn't an excuse, not an escape; it was a silent promise: I'm searching for answers just like you, I haven't found them yet, but I will continue to search.

Quirrellen didn't speak; he simply shifted his gaze from Elisander's face back to the view outside the window. The scenery appeared and disappeared from his sight so quickly that he didn't have time to see anything clearly, so quickly that he didn't know where he had just passed or where he would be next.

He closed his eyes, and all he could hear was the sound of wheels rolling over the rails, click-clack, click-clack, monotonous and repetitive, like someone tapping his temples with a rhythm that would never stop.

The sound had no melody, no ups and downs, it just looped endlessly on the same beat. He tried to hear something in the sound, perhaps some kind of information, some kind of hint, some kind of clue about what would happen next, but he couldn't hear anything.

The voice was simply there, with him on this train, in this darkness, moving closer and closer to that destination whose shape he still didn't know.

The train kept moving, and lunch was eaten in the carriage. It wasn't a hot meal, but the meat pies, salted fish, bread, and canned food that were given out in the morning.

The train didn't reach its destination until the sun disappeared and the last ray of light was drawn away from the western horizon, as if someone had turned off a light switch.

Before the dragon princes even arrived at their residential area, before they could even make out the outline of this massive military camp, before they could even find their way in the darkness, they heard some juicy gossip.

It wasn't spoken from a single mouth, but rather gathered from a chorus of whispers, flowing like an undercurrent through the crowd, carrying shock and disbelief, compelling people to lean closer to listen.

The content of the news caused everyone to slow down in unison. (End of Chapter)