Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

What were you busy with last night?

Upon hearing the question, Aris turned to look at Darkus, who wore a bewildered expression. Darkus's face was etched with innocence, as if he were merely asking a question, and his eyes were as clear as a forest stream in the early morning. Aris stared at Darkus's face for a full three seconds, during which his fists clenched.

Then he turned his head and looked into the distance.

After a long time, when Dakota thought he wasn't going to answer, he finally gave a curt reply.

"I haven't been busy with anything. I'm too old for this. I need to sleep. Besides... the light is so bright." His voice was muffled, as if he was reluctant to say it.

Darkus crossed his arms and gazed into the distance, nodding calmly—so small that it was almost imperceptible unless one was staring intently at his chin. He didn't press further, didn't tease, and didn't expose Aris's clumsy lie with a "who are you kidding?" look. He simply nodded, as if to say, "Fine, whatever you say."

"I have a question."

"Hmm?" Darkus raised his eyebrows slightly.

"If Kaldor killed Kaledan last night, what awaits him?"

Dakos did not respond. He moved slowly, first turning his head, stretching his face, and squinting as he glanced at Aris.

His gaze swept across Aris's face, as if to say: Didn't you say you were sleeping? Didn't you say the light was too bright? Then how do you know that Kaldor and Kaledan met last night? How do you know they almost came to blows?

Ares didn't react at all. His expression was as calm as a freshly wiped mirror, showing no guilt, no embarrassment, and not even the awkwardness of being exposed.

He just stood there, waiting for an answer.

Dakos looked at him for two seconds, then opted to shoot a straight shot.

"You must have heard the story of me and Maranur, right?"

“I’ve heard a little about it,” Aris replied unhurriedly.

Seeing that Aris chose to avoid the issue, Dakous stopped pursuing it.

Because it's meaningless.

The topic revolves around the brothers Kaldor, rather than Aris's experiences while infiltrating Krakarond.

“You know, times have changed,” Darkus said, slowly spreading his hands. The gesture seemed to be showing something, showing the sky, the land, these irreversible changes that were happening, “He will face social death.”

“Social death?” Aris chewed on the word in surprise; it was the first time he had ever heard it. His lips moved slightly, as if savoring its pronunciation, its structure, and its weight on his tongue.

But he soon understood.

It wasn't the kind of understanding you get by looking up something in a dictionary; it was the kind of understanding where a light suddenly shone in your mind, and all the fragments pieced together in an instant. His pupils contracted slightly, then he shook his head and let out a sigh.

“You are really amazing, Darkus. They deserved to lose.”

Compared to other Asur nobles, Aris knew Duruci very well. He knew everything about Duruci, not in the kind of "I know how many ships they have, how many legions they have," but in the kind of "I know how they think and how they make decisions."

No Asur knew Duruci better than him.

The more one understands, the more one can feel Darkus's power. It's not the power of force, the kind that is visible, tangible, and can be defended against. It's the kind of power that is integrated into the system, embedded in the structure, and hidden in every inconspicuous detail of daily life—an invisible and intangible power that is omnipresent.

"Well, thank you for the compliment, although I know I'm pretty good." Darkus ignored Aris's disdainful gaze and said smugly. His chin was slightly raised, and a "I'm just that good, what can you do about it?" smile played on his lips.

But soon, he returned to normal, his smug expression vanishing as if blown away by a gust of wind, revealing a more genuine, calm, and slightly serious face beneath.

"Putting emotions aside... Kaldor made a very good choice. You know about noble law, right?"

"learn!"

"Ah, this feeling is wonderful..." Darkus was lost in self-admiration again. His eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of his mouth curved wider than before, and his whole body relaxed as if he were soaking in warm water.

He did this for reasons that, unfortunately, only he himself knows the details.

However, this did not prevent him, as Tzeentch's chosen one, from doing it again!
Every gear meshing, every seemingly unrelated event linked together, that feeling is more addictive than any alcohol, any drug, or any victory on the battlefield.

If the occasion weren't inappropriate, he would probably open a bottle of wine and toast himself to the sun.
If Darkus hadn't appeared, the story, focusing on the Kaldor brothers, should have been titled "Elsa's Tears." (The final battle of the fifth edition)
The brothers were born on the Night of Kane, and being twins, they were considered sacred, significant, and prophetic beings in elven society.

The first child was Kaldor, named after the stars that night. The second child, Kaledan, was named after the legendary ancient and mighty dragon, symbolizing true wisdom and power.

So the brothers' father, Melenaar, went to the Valley of Eden to consult the prophet there about the twins' fate.

The prophets made a peculiar prophecy, not the kind of vague nonsense like "they will become great leaders," but a specific, clear prophecy with a timeline. They told Melenaar that unless the two brothers died at each other's hands, they would not meet a violent end.

When Melenaar heard this prophecy, he felt relieved, for he was certain that his sons would never be rivals—they were brothers, twins, and blood relatives.

How could they possibly kill each other?

This is why Darkus hated prophecies; in the story featuring the Cardo brothers, the prophecy served as a false anchor. It was neither refuted nor verified; it simply existed, like a tumor in the brain, initially so small that no one noticed it.

But it kept growing, growing every single day, growing until it created cracks in the trust between brothers, growing until those cracks were filled with misunderstandings and suspicions, growing until the cracks became chasms, and the chasms became abysses.

This foreshadowed the tragedy that followed.

Therefore, the father, Melenaar, chose Kaledan as his successor.

When the story reaches a turning point, and when his father, Melenaar, chooses Kaledan as his successor, Kaldor's pain and hatred deepen every day.

The young nobles who followed him shared the same sentiment. They had fought alongside Kaldor, battling scorpion-tailed beasts on the cliffs of the crater, and charging shield-bearing through a hail of arrows from the Duruci pirates. They expected their loyalty to be rewarded when he was appointed heir to the Coris family. Instead of the crown of heir, they received the news that "your brother has been chosen."

Soon, he could no longer bear it. On a stormy night, he took a group of followers, boarded a small boat, and disappeared into the dark sea.

Upon arriving in Nagarus, Kaldor successfully met Malekith, well, Malekith from another time, Malekith without Darkus's interference.

The Witch King listened patiently to Kaldona's tale of suffering. He did not interrupt or urge him, but simply sat there, gazing at the young man who had drifted from afar with his cold eyes that seemed to see through all pretense.

He listened and then realized the value of such a servant. He liked this young nobleman because he saw in Kaldor's eyes something he shared with himself: the hatred of betrayal, the anger of being deprived, and that pure, unadulterated desire for revenge—"I want nothing, I just want them to pay the price."

One advisor suggested torturing Cardo to death to force him to reveal secrets. This was Duluqi's standard procedure for dealing with defectors: safety first, intelligence priority.

But Malekith refused.

“I like this young nobleman, I like his hatred.”

And so, Kaldor survived. He underwent training with Kane, and in those sunless underground training grounds, in those brutal lessons where only blood and sweat could yield results, he became a formidable warrior. His cunning and sharp mind was further honed over the years. He learned how to stealthily move in the dark, how to identify an opponent's weaknesses in seconds, and how to find a glimmer of hope in the most desperate situations.

He learned to kill without a sword, and he also learned to make people wish they were dead with a sword.

In the end, he became known for his cruelty and lack of mercy.

He was no longer the young nobleman who fought the scorpion-tailed beast on the crater; he had become something else entirely, something colder, harder, and less like a living person.

Years later, Malekith told Cardo: The time for revenge has finally come.

The brothers' armies clashed in a final battle on the plain outside the manor, a plain that had once been their pasture, where they had herded sheep as children, raced horses on the low hills, and stolen each other's cookies under the giant oak tree.

But now, this plain is only filled with blood, iron, and corpses.

For the past fifty years, Cardo has been preparing for this moment.

His plan was meticulous down to the smallest detail, from the angle at which the first arrow was fired to the timing of the final reserve deployment. He devised countermeasures for every tactic his brother might employ and even developed new tactics himself.

This is why Duruci and his men gradually defeated Asur.

Watching his army crumble around him, Kaledan made his final choice. He went all in, challenging Kaldor to a championship duel.

Kaldor revealed a cruel smile. There was no warmth, no hesitation in that smile, only a near-morbid excitement of "finally, this day has come." He gladly accepted the challenge; this was the moment he had long awaited.

It's not about victory or defeat on the battlefield, nor about strategic superiority or inferiority; it's a face-to-face, sword-fighting, final judgment with no excuses to hide from.

The championship duel has begun.

However, Kaldo ultimately made a mistake: he overlooked the label of "exceptionally intelligent" about his brother. It wasn't that he didn't know it, but that he underestimated and belittled it.

He underestimated Kaledan's combat skills. During his years in the Tower of Hoth, Kaledan didn't just study and learn spellcasting. He also practiced swordsmanship until his hands cracked, his wrists swelled and ached, until every basic movement was etched into his bones.

Kaledan feigned exhaustion to deceive him, making his breathing rapid, his steps unsteady, and lowering the tip of his sword at an almost imperceptible angle. He made Kaldor believe he had reached his limit. Then, in the instant Kaldor lowered his guard—a mere fraction of a second, not even a blink of an eye—he did so.

Kaledan delivered a fatal blow to him with his magic sword.

It wasn't a sneak attack; it was premeditated.

From the moment he proposed the championship duel, he had already drawn up a roadmap in his mind, with every step precise to the millisecond.

The prophecy has come true!
With Kaldor's death, Duruci lost the will to fight. They fled in terror under the wrath of the defenders of Kaledan and Asul, returning to Nagarus.

After the battle, Kaledan built a massive pyre for his brother. He lit the pyre himself, watching the flames rise from the bottom, licking his brother's body, licking his face that he hadn't seen for fifty years, the face that had appeared countless times in his dreams.

He didn't cry. He just stood there, watching the smoke rise into the sky, drifting higher and higher, becoming fainter and fainter, until it finally disappeared into the clouds, as if it had never existed.

Here, the story comes to an end.

Ah~ Justice has triumphed over evil once again, light has triumphed over darkness, and the younger brother has triumphed over the older brother.

However, with the appearance of Darkus, the structure of the story changed. It was like a tree that had been twisted for five hundred years, suddenly straightened gently, slowly, bit by bit by an unseen hand.

And change naturally means different results.

No one died, no one needed to build a crematorium, and no one needed to stare at the sky and ask themselves: What have I done?

Kaldor became a mid-level Dreadlord under Duruqi, and Kaledan became a mage of the White Tower of Hoss. They met last night, hugged, cried, and then sat down and drank for half the night.

This brand-new story is not "hammer-like" at all. There are no epic final battles, no tragic sacrifices, and no sense of fateful tragedy that makes people feel both excited and heartbroken.

But it's great.

At least Dakota liked it.

According to noble law and based on Cardo's military achievements, the Corres family could be divided into two branches, each developing independently. The two branches were not subordinate to each other, did not inherit from each other, and owed no debts to each other.

Those Asur who choose to follow Kaldor to Nagarus will be richly rewarded.

It's not a grand family reunion; making dumplings is about everyone getting what they deserve.

It's not that there are no regrets, but that the regrets have been placed in a lighter, more affordable container.

Ares was unaware of the intricacies of the situation, so he couldn't understand why Darkus had suddenly changed his demeanor—one moment arrogant, the next serious, and then bowing to an imaginary audience like a theatrical actor. But he chose respect.

He already knows enough weirdos, so one more won't make a difference.

So he continued to look into the distance.

After a while.

"She is Marist...Queen?"

"Yes!"

"As her future neighbor, will I have to deal with her frequently?" Aris's gaze lingered on Marist.

Darkus glanced at Aris, a subtle glint in his eyes that seemed to say, "You've finally hit the nail on the head." His mind raced in that instant—not the kind of mental activity that involves "thinking," but the kind that involves "calculation." Gears meshed, levers shifted—a mechanism he rarely used, but which always managed to steer things in the direction he desired, began to work!

A giant, tangible hand appeared!
"Shall I introduce you?" His tone was light and casual, as if it were a casual suggestion, or as easy as "Want to have a drink?"

“Hmm…” Aris nodded at first, almost instinctively. But he quickly realized what was going on. His gaze abruptly shifted from Marist to Darkus, his eyes flashing with alertness. “What are you up to now?”

"Is this all I am in your heart?" Darkus blinked innocently, his innocent expression perfectly executed. His eyebrows were slightly raised, the corners of his mouth were slightly downturned, and his eyes were wider than usual. He looked extremely wronged, as if he could tell you his grievances for ten days and ten nights.

But if you look closely, you can catch a fleeting glint in the depths of his eyes, the kind of light a feline would show when toying with its prey.

“Otherwise what? Shouldn’t it be formal contact? Why the introduction?” Aris frowned. As a nobleman, he knew all too well the difference between ‘introduction’ and ‘formal contact’.

Formal contact, with procedures, records, and the presence of a third party, ensures that everything is traceable and explainable.

Introduction?

That's a private matter.

“The Annal family needs to continue…” Darkus said slowly, his tone softening as if giving the other person time to process it.

“That’s unnecessary…” Upon hearing this, Aris’s first reaction was fury, not the kind of fury that involves slamming a table and glaring, but a more restrained, suppressed fury, like magma surging beneath the earth’s crust.

His fist clenched tightly, his knuckles making a soft clicking sound. But halfway through his sentence, his remaining rationality suppressed the intense emotion.

It wasn't because he calmed down, but because he knew that there was no point in getting angry in front of Darkus. This man wouldn't be swayed by anger; the angrier you were, the calmer he became, and the calmer you were, the more patient he was.

He clenched his teeth, his gums ached, and his brows furrowed, as if he wanted to chisel through that innocent face.

Finally, his expression softened, turning into a wry smile.

“I’m not kidding, this is a good option, if you’re willing,” Dakos said, carefully examining Aris.

That kind of scrutiny isn't like a superior scrutinizing a subordinate, or a buyer scrutinizing a product; it's like an old tailor examining a piece of fabric, looking at where it's sturdy enough, where it needs reinforcement, and where it can last for a few more years.

He thought Aris was too old.

This "old" does not refer to age. Although Aris is very old, he is older than most of the elves present, so much so that he sometimes has to count on his fingers to find out.

But he won't die anytime soon. As far as Darkus knows, in another timeline, Aris successfully witnessed the final moment of the end, closing his eyes amidst flames and ashes.

If you convert the time frame, you have another four hundred years to live, or even longer.

But now, Dakous thinks that's not necessarily true.

That kind of "old age" is the kind where the soul has been taken away; there is no direction, no mission, no goal that makes him get out of bed, put on his boots, and leave the house every day.

In this state, people age faster, like a tree trunk slowly hollowed out from the inside; it may look fine on the outside, but it will fall over with the slightest push.

Therefore, Aris needs a new direction! More missions!
It's not the kind of direction where "you should retire and go home to grow flowers," but rather the kind where "you still have to live, you still have responsibilities to certain people." For example, the continuation of the family line, raising and educating offspring, and ensuring that after his death, someone will still remember the name Annall.

"What do you mean by 'I'm willing'?" Aris asked, as if possessed.

He wasn't asking a question or challenging it, but rather expressing a kind of curiosity tinged with self-abandonment, like, "I accidentally walked into your trap, but I want to see what this trap looks like."

He regretted asking the question as soon as he did. He even wanted to slap himself in the face, to make you talk too much, to make you respond, and to make you reveal your weakness in front of him.

“That’s because you don’t know her well enough.” When Darkus said this, there was no boasting or pride in his tone, only a kind of honesty that said, “I know things you don’t know, and I’m willing to tell you.”

Unlike Aris, who had just met Marist, Dacroix knew her very well. He understood her political skills, how she had navigated the complex chessboard of Laurent Laurence, a country rife with intertwined power struggles, her pride and helplessness as queen, and her struggles and compromises in the face of the tides of history.

If he were to step in and act as matchmaker, he believed Marist wouldn't hesitate at all. It wasn't because Darkus had any influence, but because he knew all too well what Marist needed most at that moment.

“You might as well just say it all,” Aris said, looking at Darkus.

“No problem.” Darkus nodded. “First of all, she is related to Malekith.”

Ares's expression turned strange, not in surprise or confusion, but in a subtle dilemma: "You've suddenly shoved a bone into my hand that I never thought I'd gnaw on, and now you expect me to eat it."

In his view, the Anar family and the Marsanas family were well-matched. From the perspective of family background, bloodline, and everything that could be proven by written records and heraldry, this was not a marriage that required hesitation.

But that's not the point!

The key point is that if something really happens, if he really does end up with Mareste, he and Mareste will be related.

This feeling is just...

Thousands of years of enemies, thousands of years of killing, thousands of years of life-or-death struggles, have eventually turned into kinship?

Do people sit together to eat during holidays?
It cannot be described in words.

It's not disgusting, it's not absurd, it's that kind of emptiness that comes from having your cognition completely overturned, and you don't know what expression to use to face it.
“The rest is related to politics.” Dakous didn’t give him much time to process it, continuing, “Her base is in Lauren Loren, but the political landscape within Enier is currently divided. Half of them are closely connected to me and therefore side with Duruci; while some of the other half remain her staunch supporters; and others…”

Finally, he spread his hands.

After Aris nodded to indicate that he understood, he said no more.

Knowing when to stop is key to tacit understanding.

“So…” Aris asked knowingly. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Darkus again. Sometimes, hearing yourself say it and hearing others say it are two completely different psychological confirmations.

“She doesn’t have many options right now.” Darkus’s tone softened, the previous sarcasm and calculation gone, replaced by a cold, almost cruel statement of reality. “She can stay in Laurent Laurent, but no longer as queen, but as her proxy.” He then looked at Aris. “Have you looked at a map of that area recently?”

"I've seen it, I understand." Aris truly understood, and completely understood.

If Marist chooses to become the proxy, she will lose her queenly aura and her natural authority as the "master of this place." She will need someone to rely on, someone to stand beside her, nod when she speaks, and say "I believe her" when she is questioned.

The most suitable person would be Aiso Taralion's manager.

That is—him!

Because Aysor Talarion is very close to Lauren Loren, he will become Marist's best support in managing Aysor Talarion in the future.

Marriage is the simplest, most direct, and least needing-to-explain proof that "we are together."

No alliance treaty needs to be signed, no debates need to be held in parliament, and no supporters need to be courted. All it takes is for two people to stand together and say, "We are willing," and all the problems are solved.

So Dakotas was right: if you're willing.

“What other options are there?” Aris asked again, almost as if possessed, and as before, he regretted it as soon as he asked. He found himself being sucked into a huge, invisible, vortex-like thing, not by Darkus pushing him, but by taking a step himself, only this step was much faster than he had imagined.

"You've actually started researching this?" Darkus teased, a smirk playing on his lips. "No way! No way!"

“No…” Aris suppressed the agitation stirred up by Darkus, gritted his teeth and turned his head away, not daring to look at that face that he both loved and hated. “It was just to pass the time.”

His voice was muffled, as if he were trying to convince himself that he wasn't answering Darkus.

“She’s embarrassed.” Darkus’s tone returned to seriousness, a seriousness that came and went quickly, as if someone were switching his personality modes with a remote control. “There’s no place for her in Ulthuan. She either has to teach in Lorthorn or… become the head of land administration. Either way, it means she’ll be living under the thumb of her relatives. You know, she used to be the queen!”

Dakos lowered his voice, as if he were reciting a eulogy.

"Do you understand this feeling? The feeling of stepping down from the throne, standing in a crowd, and finding that no one makes way for you anymore. She may come to serve in the Phoenix King's court in the future, but what she needs right now is a dignified transition, not charity, not care, but a transition that allows her to say to herself, 'I haven't fallen yet, I've just changed direction.'"

“I’ve been there,” Aris shook his head, his voice much lower than usual, “I can empathize.”

“No matter what she ultimately chooses, you are a very good choice, aren’t you?” Darkus spread his hands again.

Aris nodded.

I have to admit, Dakos was right.

It's not "maybe right", it's "definitely right".

The Anar family needs to continue, Marist needs a dignified transition, Aesol Taralion and Lauren Loren are geographically complementary, and a political union can be made simple and solid through marriage.

Every point is correct, every point is in sync with logic, and every point has no flaws.

Suddenly, he sensed something was wrong.

He was seeing Marist for the first time, and only from afar. They hadn't exchanged a single word, and he didn't even know what her voice sounded like.

How did it all suddenly jump to the topic of family lineage?

How did we jump to the topic of a dignified transition?

Why are we starting to weigh the pros and cons, analyze the gains and losses, and discuss the feasibility of this marriage like we're doing a pre-war simulation?

He whirled around, wanting to confront Dakos, but Dakos was no longer looking at him. His gaze passed over Aris's shoulder and landed on the distant horizon, which was gradually becoming clearer from the morning mist.

"Alright, let's get ready to go. A new day has begun." His voice was no longer mocking or calculating, but calm, unquestionable, and as steady as a morning bell. "Remember, Aris, today is very important for the elves!"

Ares opened his mouth as if to say something, but his lips moved twice and he ultimately said nothing.

Because he suddenly realized that every word Darkus said was true!
It's not the kind of "truth" that needs packaging, embellishment, or placement in a specific context to be valid; it's the kind of "truth" that, no matter the angle from which it's viewed, the yardstick used to measure it, or the judge, there's no reason to refute it.

It is precisely this "truth" that makes him most uneasy.

The distant bugle call sounded again, and the morning light poured down through the gaps in the clouds, spreading a long, golden path across the ground.

Dakos took the first step.

Ares stood there watching the retreating figure for two seconds, then followed. His steps were hesitant, but each step was slow and irreversibly firm. (End of Chapter)