Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

In the height of summer, the roads leading to Aesop Taralion, nestled among dense forests and hills, were already filled with the army of Malekith assembled there.

To show the Phoenix King from Ulthuan who the true master of this land was, Malekith chose to unleash all the power at his disposal.

Two hundred thousand soldiers stretched out along the road, their ranks standing silently under the scorching sun like an endless undercurrent, bowstrings taut and quivers full. Knights in full plate armor sat atop tall horses, the tips of their lances reflecting a blinding white light. Heavy infantry formed impenetrable squares, their spears like a forest, gleaming coldly, as if waiting only for a command to crush everything in their path.

Such a magnificent military display was unprecedented in the history of Ausuan. Even the veterans who had fought alongside Aenarion for many years had never witnessed such a large number of elite troops gathered together.

As the Phoenix King's carriage slowly approached, Bel-Shana himself managed to maintain his composure, but the guards he brought all paled slightly, their hands unconsciously gripping their sword hilts, yet they dared not even breathe loudly. Even the princes who had accompanied him felt a sinking feeling in their hearts at the overwhelming black tide, and all the polite greetings they had prepared were swallowed back down their throats.

Malekith stood before the city gate, his jet-black armor gleaming coldly in the sunlight. He wore no helmet, letting his long hair flutter in the wind, a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. He bowed slightly in a gesture of welcome, but his eyes held no humility; rather, they resembled those of a monarch inspecting his subjects.

For the next month, Ayso Taralion became a sea of ​​feasts.

Malekith prepared an unprecedentedly generous hospitality for his visitors, with grand banquets every day, mountains of delicacies, rivers of fine wine, musicians playing the most beautiful melodies, and dancers twirling swiftly under the lights.

On the day before Bel-Shana's departure, Malekith invited him to the city walls for a military review. All the princes were invited to the top of the walls, where a dozen of the most powerful elves of Ulthuan stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the army below.

Two hundred thousand soldiers stood in neat formation, their spears like a forest, their flags like clouds, their warhorses neighing, and their war drums thundering. The soldiers practiced attack, defense, formation changes, and firing in turn, each movement clean and swift, like a sophisticated killing machine unfolding its blades under the sunlight.

Bel-Shana remained silent for a long time. The wind blew the cloak over his shoulders as he squinted at the seemingly endless army formation, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the stone crenellations of the city wall.

“I can see that you are impressed, Your Majesty.” Malekith stood beside him, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"I'm curious, why do you maintain such a military force?" Bel-Shana was silent for a moment before finally speaking. But his gaze remained fixed on the dark mass of soldiers below the city walls, without turning to look at Malekith.

"It's still very dangerous here." Malekith seemed to have anticipated this question, answering calmly, "I have troops stationed in dozens of cities along the coast and between the dwarven kingdom, defending against the still large numbers of greenskins and beastmen, as well as... enemies from the north!"

"You mean there are raiders? Those scattered human tribes?" Bel-Shana finally turned his head slightly, a smile appearing on his lips, a smile that carried a hint of disdain, as if Malekith was making a mountain out of a molehill.

“I mean the Chaos God and their demonic legions,” Malekith said, pausing between each word.

The words caused a stir among the dozen or so princes on the city wall. Some instinctively took a half step back, some gasped in surprise, and some clutched their amulets tightly.

"Chaos"—this forbidden name sealed by the Great Vortex, this nightmare that no elf wants to mention, was uttered so casually by Malekith.

Malekith took in their reactions, a surge of satisfaction rising within him. This was exactly the effect he wanted: to remind these men who, while they enjoyed peace in Ausuan, were facing unspeakable horrors in Elsin Alfven!
“The vortex remains stable.” Bell-Shana quickly regained her composure, her voice much calmer. “You don’t need to be so cautious!”

“This is a responsibility I have inherited from my father.” Malekith lowered his voice, but used a measured volume to ensure that every word reached the ears of everyone present. “I must protect my people from threats, and I must also protect Ausuan from threats.”

Bell-Shana stared at Malekith for a moment, a complex expression flashing across his eyes, but it was quickly masked by his characteristic reserve. He said nothing more and turned back to watch the drills below the city.

Elsin Alvin's soldiers advanced, retreated, and turned like a tide, their armor reflecting a dark red light in the setting sun, until the sun finally sank below the horizon and the evening glow dyed the entire earth deep purple, at which point the army sounded the retreat.

“Excellent.” Bel-Shana finally spoke, clapping her hands lightly a few times. The applause sounded somewhat lonely on the empty city walls. “I regret that I have to leave tomorrow. There are still many cities and nobles waiting for me to visit. As you know, you cannot enjoy my favor all to yourself.”

This statement was polite and tactful, but the rejection and alienation it contained were as sharp as a knife.

Malekith was furious, but before he could retort, before he could even utter the sarcastic words that welled up in his throat, the Phoenix King had already been escorted away by the bustling group of princes. The princes surrounded Bel-Shana, showering him with compliments, as if the tension on the city walls had never occurred, as if Malekith and his 200,000-strong army were nothing more than a passing scene.

Malekith stood there, his anger simmering with nowhere to go. He turned around and strode off in the opposite direction, his boots clattering heavily on the stone steps.

He needed an outlet for his anger, whether it was smashing a table in front of him or grabbing one of his unfortunate attendants by the collar. But when he looked around, he realized that Alandrian, who was usually the best at distracting him in these situations, had already slipped away under some pretext.

Beneath the city walls, the 200,000-strong army had begun an orderly retreat back to their camps.

As night fell, the wind blowing from Norsca grew even colder.

Malekith stood alone atop the city walls, his hands gripping the crenellations. In the distance, faint laughter drifted from the direction of the Phoenix King's chariot, sounding like a mockery from across the world.

He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. His anger did not subside; instead, it sank deeper into his chest, solidifying into something cold and harder.

Estrel's light touch pulled Malekith from his reverie. It was so light that he wouldn't have even felt it if he weren't a battle-hardened warrior. He blinked, glanced at the scene before him, and then looked at Estrel beside him, who was looking at him with concern.

There were so many familiar things in those eyes—not fear, not doubt, but a quiet, unspoken companionship that asked, "Are you alright?"

He then paused for a moment.

It wasn't the kind of stunned silence like "I forgot where I am," but rather the kind of stunned silence like "I actually spaced out," tinged with a hint of self-deprecation. He was the Phoenix King, a witch king who had lived for over six thousand years, a man who had spent half his life on the battlefield, yet he had actually spaced out during a military parade.

He felt a sense of unfamiliarity with himself.

Then he gave Estrel a smile that said he was alright. The smile was brief but genuine, not the perfunctory "I'm fine, don't worry" kind of smile, but a confirmation that he was alright.

Finally, he raised his right arm.

The movement was small, but very steady.

This is not an action that requires a command, but it is a signal—the highest commander on the reviewing stand is saluting the ranks passing in front of him.

Not far ahead, the Red Dragon Legion's formation was marching past the reviewing stand.

Following behind the Red Dragon Legion were the generals of the Third Army, led by Kowell Mogar. Their uniforms were impeccably tailored, and their medals were displayed in rows on their chests, some gleaming silver, some bronze, and some gold.

Their steps weren't as synchronized as the flag bearers at the front, but they exuded a composure that said, "I don't need to walk in a particularly elegant way; you all know who I am."

Next came the soldiers from the various corps under the Third Army.

Of course, there aren't that many people; there are only representatives, veterans, key personnel, and elites.

The legions from other regions only had a few hundred men, but those few hundred men multiplied by dozens of legions formed a long, slowly moving river that stretched from the reviewing stand to the horizon.

Over the past six months, troops stationed and distributed across various regions have been redeployed according to Tariendan's orders. These redeployed representatives then assembled, some stationed in their original locations, some arriving by boat, and some crossing over from the crater, eventually appearing on the northern peninsula of the Kingdom of Elion.

As for the pretext of the transfer... observation!
It's a safe, neutral word that won't offend anyone.

You're not here to fight, you're not here to demonstrate, you're here to learn, to exchange ideas, to see how others do things.

But this is just the beginning.

It's fair to say that Duruci's top brass were more or less influenced by Dakous's "doing many things at once" style—since they're all here and heading in the same direction, why not just take a walk around and give them a military review?

And so, this scene unfolded.

But there's not much to say about this.

They enter the field according to the order in which the army groups were formed. Within the army groups, they are arranged according to the time of their formation. Those that were formed earlier leave first, and those that were formed later leave later. They are not arranged according to the size of their unit numbers or the distance of their garrisons, but only according to the time.

They were not wearing armor or carrying weapons because this was not a war; it was a demonstration.

It wasn't about showcasing "how capable we are," but rather "who we are." All that was on display were service uniforms, flags, and various medals and rank badges adorning their chests and upper arms.

As for the venue...

The parade formation is flanked by trapezoidal reviewing stands and observation decks.

Malekith and Estrel, as the highest-ranking beings, were positioned at the very bottom of the reviewing stand. The word "very bottom" was not meant to be derogatory; it simply meant that they were at the very front, closest to the road and the line of soldiers.

Next came the second row, led by Dakos and Finnubar, consisting of the heads of various departments and the administrators of the army and navy. No one whispered to each other or looked around; they simply stood there and watched the procession pass by.

Yes, this is a typical court seating arrangement—the higher the rank, the closer to the path; the lower the rank, the further back they stand.

Simple, intuitive, and requires no explanation.

The invited Asur nobles were seated on the viewing platform opposite the reviewing stand. This platform was even larger than the reviewing stand, complete with rows of long benches. However, no one sat on the benches; everyone stood, their eyes fixed on the moving river.

By the way, besides these two stations, there's also the orchestra led by Torandil. As is well known, the Truc army system doesn't have a large-scale orchestra system because the army's function is fighting, not playing musical instruments. Whenever there are such situations, it's Torandil's House of the Souls that steps in.

They weren't playing a stirring march, but a gentler, more steady melody, like the earth breathing. The melody wasn't fast, but every beat was perfectly timed with the marching steps, as if someone was measuring their strides with music.

The lizardmen didn't come...

"An army like that...do they have 1.2 million?"

Querreyion, positioned on the reviewing stand, watched the procession march past, his eyes reddening. Not from crying, but from bloodshot eyes, the kind of red that comes from "I saw something I didn't want to see." He gritted his teeth, his voice forced out so low that only Elisander beside him could hear.

“Not only…” Alessandr turned to look at his brother’s bloodshot eyes and replied in a deep voice. His voice was soft but firm, as if he were saying “it’s dawn” or “it’s raining,” a fact that did not need to be argued.

hiss……

Although Alessandr's voice was low, those around him still heard it. Gasps of shock spread from one corner of the viewing platform to another, like a gust of wind blowing through a wheat field, sinking down layer by layer and then bouncing up again.

The Asur nobles exchanged glances; some nodded, some shook their heads, some covered their mouths with their hands, and some looked away from the queue, at the sky, at the ground, at the tips of their boots, or at any direction that didn't require them to face that number.

Despite the shock, no one questioned Elle Sander.

There are many reasons for this.

One reason is that this is a grassland with flat terrain, so flat that the Asur nobles on the reviewing stand could even see the first procession still walking along the road. They didn't just walk past the reviewing stand and disappear; they kept walking until they reached the end of their field of vision, becoming a string of blurry black dots, and then disappearing below the horizon.

Another thing is the flag and the unit number. Each flag has a unit number, and each unit number corresponds to a complete unit. Each unit has its own history and achievements.

It's not just dry numbers like "first," "second," and "third," it has names, stories, and a legacy.

Each name was like a heavy hammer blow to the chests of these Asur nobles.

There was no exaggeration like Dong Zhuo's 3,000 troops entering Luoyang and then making it seem like he had more than 3,000 troops through bluffing.

The number on the flag matched the number of people walking by.

Every flag, every team, and every individual is documented.

Another point is that although the formation moved casually, without taking goose steps, but simply marching quickly to be inspected, it was not considered casual in the eyes of the old soldiers of Asur.

Their gaze wasn't on whether the steps were synchronized, but on something far deeper than the steps themselves.

They were looking at each other's eyes.

None of the soldiers who walked past the reviewing stand looked around. It wasn't the kind of coercion that commands you to look straight ahead, but the kind of certainty that says, "I know what I'm doing, I don't need to look around."

Except when passing the reviewing stand, their gaze was always level, forward, and looking into the distance. There was no murderous intent, no ostentation, and no desire to perform as if to say, "Look how powerful we are."

There was only a certainty that said, "This is our daily routine," a bland, even somewhat boring, certainty, like saying it will rain tomorrow.

They are watching breathing.

It wasn't that their breathing was loud, but rather that the breathing rhythm of the entire formation was almost synchronized. Not in terms of training synchronization, but in terms of rhythm synchronization. Hundreds of people walking together, yet their breathing beats as if they were all the same person.

This kind of tacit understanding cannot be developed overnight; it requires living and training together for a long time, experiencing things that only they themselves know, to hone it.

They are looking at the veterans...

They're looking at the shoulders...

They were looking at the length of the line...

It's not the kind of length that says "I know how many of you there are," but the kind that says "I see you keep walking, and after all this time, you still haven't finished."

The size of an army is not a number written on paper, but a footprint etched on the land.

The farther you go, the stronger you become.

The number of people you have is equal to the length of your journey.

Those footsteps rolled past the reviewing stand, one after another, as if someone were hammering this land with a huge, tireless hammer.

It's not war, but it's worse than war.

It's telling everyone standing on the viewing platform: You can't beat us.

It's not a threat, it's a statement!

Just like saying "it will snow in winter," there's no need for threats; it simply will.

what else?
And silence.

The soldiers who marched past didn't shout slogans, didn't sing, and didn't use slogans like "kill the enemy and make meritorious contributions" to embolden themselves. They just walked, silently, attentively, as if walking was the only thing they needed to do.

That silence wasn't repression, it was confidence.

They don't need to shout slogans because they know what they are doing and what they are going to do next.

This silence was more suffocating to the nobles of Asur than any slogan, because it meant that the army had turned "fighting" into a job.

It's not about glory, mission, or the kind of passionate rhetoric that needs to be constantly on your lips like "For the Phoenix King, for Ulthuan." It's just about the daily routine of "This is my duty, I will do it well, and then retire as long as possible and go home."

In the stands, an elderly Asur nobleman no longer looked at the parade formation, no longer watched the silent, steadily marching men and women, their chests adorned with medals, pass by the reviewing stand. Instead, he looked at the boots. He didn't speak, he just watched.

His daughter, who was standing next to him, couldn't help but ask in a low voice.

What are they thinking?

The old nobleman didn't look up, but simply replied in the same low voice.

“They weren’t thinking about anything; they were just doing what they were supposed to do.”

The daughter paused for a moment.

Then the old nobleman added a sentence, his voice so soft it was as if he were speaking to himself.

"That's the scariest part."

The queue is still moving.

The flag is still flying.

The orchestra's melody still echoes across that vast plain, neither stirring nor tragic, but simply there, like the wind on this land, blowing from the past into the future.

On the viewing platform, the expressions of the Asur nobles changed from initial shock to solemnity, from solemnity to silence, and from silence to something more complex and indescribable—not acceptance, not rejection, but the bitterness of "I finally know, but I know too late."

On the reviewing stand, Marekis's right arm remained outstretched, motionless. His gaze swept over the familiar faces: the veterans he had personally awarded medals to, the young men he had watched graduate from various courts and be assigned to different units, and the faces whose names he couldn't recall but whose identities he knew.

His lips twitched slightly, neither smiling nor crying, but simply a confirmation that he understood.

The queue in the distance had not yet finished marching.

The sun rose higher, its rays falling on the dark uniforms, the gleaming medals, and the polished boots, refracting into countless tiny beams of light in all directions.

The light wasn't dazzling, but it was still somewhat blinding to everyone who looked at it. (End of Chapter)