Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Let's go back half an hour.

Even though Drakil was far from the blast, the sound and the shock still made him involuntarily lean back, as if the bomb had exploded right in front of him. His eyes were wide open, his pupils reflecting the still-rolling fireball, and his lips were slightly parted, as if some words were stuck in his throat.

"magic?"

Shocked, Kayramine first shook his head, then his gaze darted back and forth between the explosion site and Drakil several times before finally responding in an uncertain tone.

"Chemical?"

Then he added another sentence.

"There doesn't seem to be any obvious difference?"

Born in the new era, they received a good education, not the kind where you learn a craft from a master, but the kind of systematic education where you sit in a classroom with a blackboard, chalk, and textbooks.

In the process of learning, they learned what physics is, the motion of matter, the action of force, the transformation and manifestation of energy; they also learned what chemistry is, the composition, structure, properties of matter, and how they react with each other.

Although it's only beginner level, it's enough to be able to make basic distinctions between physics, chemistry, and magic.

Once a preliminary assessment is made, the next step can be taken. This could include reporting the incident to the police, moving away from the scene, or simply standing there and waiting to see what happens next.

But at this moment, the distinction between chemistry and magic was clearly blurred.

The boundaries that were repeatedly emphasized in class became blurred and ambiguous in front of the still-smoking column of smoke in the distance, as if a crack had been blasted open by that bomb.
The explosion of magic leaves traces: lingering magical winds and dissipating energy ripples.

But the explosion in front of us seems to have caused nothing?

There was no magical wind, no energy ripples, no that chilling, unnatural sense of power.

There was only smoke, only fire, only the black, still steaming fresh wounds exposed after the soil was turned up.

"Chemistry! The latest synthetic explosives, they can be synthesized. And you two should sit down." The co-pilot, having regained his senses, explained, effectively delivering the final verdict in the debate between chemistry and magic.

So, Keramane and Drakil sat back in the back seat, stared at each other for a moment, and then looked up to continue watching the four iron birds that were still drawing circles in the sky.

Their silver-white fuselages shimmered in the sunlight, like four tireless metal birds driven by some kind of magic.

Drakil's eyes burned with a "I want that" intensity, and Kayla Mayne's eyes held the same, though hidden deeper. Their desires grew even stronger; they had to sit in the cockpit of that iron bird, they had to hold the control stick, they had to feel that sensation of being lifted from the ground, propelled into the sky, and allowed to fly at speeds beyond anything.

What is the Disaster Walker Chariot?
The convoy moved slowly, just as before.

It wasn't a smooth movement; it was a stop-and-go, reluctant movement, where every step required hesitation.

"This is not normal, it's not in the plan."

After waiting a moment, the passenger spoke up.

His brow was furrowed, his gaze trying to penetrate the gaps between the vehicles ahead and land on the congested heart of the road further away, but unfortunately, he couldn't see anything; the road was straight, not curved.

When the driver next to him nodded, he decisively jumped out of the car.

The movement was swift and decisive. He braced his left hand on the top edge of the car door, swung his body outward, and landed steadily on the ground, his boots making a dull thud on the pavement. After adjusting himself upon landing, he strode forward with long, rapid strides, like a cheetah chasing its prey across the grasslands.

But soon he ran back, even faster than when he left.

Behind him, a motorcycle appeared.

"Wait!" The black-clad motorcyclist didn't stop, nor did he even glance at the passenger. He simply said this and continued driving forward.

At this moment, the drawbacks of not having wireless communication were fully exposed.

If there were a walkie-talkie or something...

Even the most rudimentary kind, even if it can only be used within a single convoy, would not have this problem.

The car in front stopped, but the cars behind didn't know; the cars behind stopped, but the cars after that kept moving forward.

Information can only be transmitted from person to person, by foot, and by motorcycle.

Every second of delay consumes the already limited time that is planned precisely down to the minute.

"The two Black Knights collided." Before the driver could ask, the passenger, who had returned to his seat, said in a low voice. His voice was very low, as if he was afraid of being overheard, or as if he felt it was somewhat shameful to talk about it.

After saying that, he glanced at the Black Knight in the distance.

"Another truck has a problem."

“Looks like they’re only suited for… riding horses,” Draghir joked.

His voice wasn't loud, but the last syllable was drawn out, carrying a sense of righteous indignation that he was telling the truth.

For a moment, the car was filled with a cheerful atmosphere. Not the kind of loud, hearty laughter, but the kind of suppressed, almost chuckled laugh—a slight pout, a slight upturn of the lips, a trembling of the shoulders, yet a forced attempt to maintain a serious demeanor.

After gently nudging Dragil's waist, Kayla Mayne laughed, and as she laughed, she looked away.

On another road, a convoy stopped, and naval soldiers were boarding the vehicles in an orderly fashion.

Further along the road, a convoy of trucks, each towing a device wrapped in black tarpaulins, continued to move slowly. These devices were so large that they required specialized trailers to move; they were so heavy that thick black smoke billowed from their exhaust pipes even as the trucks drove on flat ground.

"How many cars are there?" Kayla Mayne asked the passenger after looking around.

"Four hundred and eighty vehicles." The co-pilot answered quickly, as if it were a number he had memorized repeatedly, etched in his mind, and could be uttered without thinking.

"How much?" Draghiel's voice rose a half octave.

“Four hundred and eighty vehicles!” the co-pilot repeated.

"Hiss..." Draghi gasped.

“Not counting the motorcycles,” the co-pilot added, as if to confirm that Dragil’s shock wasn’t quite there yet. “A convoy has five light vehicles, two of which are used to clear the way and are at the front of the convoy.” He then explained in detail, turning to point to another light vehicle behind them, “The other two light vehicles are at the rear of the convoy.” He then turned back to the front, “The second light vehicle behind us is the command vehicle. There are forty-five trucks in total, thirty-five of which are used to transport supplies, personnel, or for towing, and the other five are maintenance vehicles, tankers, support vehicles, and platform vehicles.”

"Ten convoys?" Draghi digested the information. "Our vehicle's role is scout?"

“Yes, you can understand it that way,” the co-pilot responded to Draghi’s two questions.

Kayla Mayne, who had been listening intently, did not join the conversation. His gaze swept around the room, as if he were making some kind of visual survey.

If his judgment is correct, the distance between each vehicle in the manual should be fifty meters. This is a number written in the manual, which is the optimal distance determined after countless tests to ensure both safety and traffic efficiency.

In reality, the distance between each vehicle is between forty and sixty meters.

The 10-meter fluctuation is related to the driver's driving skills, training level, and distance control ability.

Some people drive steadily and their spacing is accurate; others drive carelessly and their spacing is inaccurate.

Once the anchor point was identified, he quickly located the special vehicle.

The truck with the long, oval-shaped cargo box is undoubtedly a tanker truck, used to supply fuel to the vehicles in the convoy. The vehicle equipped with a platform and tow hook, with a toolbox, spare tire, jack on the platform, and prominent red markings on the body, is undoubtedly a repair vehicle.

He couldn't identify the support vehicle; it had no obvious markings, no special equipment, and looked no different from an ordinary supply transport vehicle. But he could roughly guess that the support vehicle didn't need to carry ordinary supplies; it carried specific supplies to ensure the convoy could pass smoothly through the roads.

When the road becomes potholed, collapsed, or muddy, the support vehicle comes into play, taking out steel plates and laying them on the mud; taking out jacks to lift stuck wheels; and taking out shovels to fill in the rutted ditches.

He saw the platform vehicle, whose name was quite straightforward, with an unactivated raiding ship mounted on the platform behind it.

As I watched, the car in front started moving.

It wasn't a sudden, leaping movement, but a slow, gentle movement, like someone finally waking up from a long wait.

Then, the car he was in started moving. The driver operated it very steadily, coordinating the accelerator and clutch perfectly, without any jerking or shaking, as if an invisible line connected him to the car in front of him, and he moved exactly as the car in front moved.

As he drove on, and as his field of vision gradually opened up, he realized why he had been stuck in traffic.

This is a crossroads, a natural crossroads formed by the convergence of two dirt roads on the grassland, without any transportation facilities.

A mid-level Fear Lord stood on the platform in the center, holding up a sign, one red and one black, directing four convoys coming from two lanes to alternately merge into one lane.

Red raised, stop; black raised, proceed.

The rhythm is steady and the alternation is orderly, like a machine that has been precisely programmed.

The car the passenger mentioned is gone. It might have been repaired and restarted; it might have been towed to the side of the road so it's no longer blocking the way; or it could simply be that the driver's skills were lacking, stalling the car several times but eventually managing to get it moving again.

But Kayla Mayne saw some fragments.

Black, with jagged edges, scattered on one side of the intersection.

Clearly, this was left after the two motorcycles collided.

So here's the question: what happened to those two motorcycles that they were able to collide in such a large area?
The road was wide, the visibility was excellent, the weather was sunny, and there were no obstacles that required sudden braking or emergency avoidance.

How did they collide?
Kayla Mayne couldn't understand it, so he shook his head and stopped thinking about it.

It just shows he lacks experience. In another world, during a grand military parade on the Champs-Élysées to celebrate National Day, two motorcycles collided, even though everything was fine during rehearsals…

The planes in the sky that were responsible for trailing smoke trails trailed huge plumes.

Unlike Keramain, who was studying the caravan, Drakil focused his attention on the mid-level Fear Lord.

He stood on the platform, holding a signal sign, his gaze shifting back and forth between two directions. His epaulets bore the insignia of a mid-level Fear Lord, his uniform was impeccably tailored, his boots were polished to a gleaming shine, and his chin was slightly raised.

Draghi stared at him for a while, then uttered a name.

"Asperen?"

Unfortunately, the other three people in the car ignored him.

Kayla Mayne was still studying the convoy, his gaze shifting between the spacing and types of the vehicles as if he were working on a complex math problem; the driver was focused on driving, his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead, without making any unnecessary movements.

The passenger in the front seat would sometimes stare intently ahead, observing the rhythm of the traffic, and sometimes glance at the rearview mirror to make sure the vehicles behind were keeping a proper distance.

He gripped the communication device tightly—a stick-shaped manual signaler with a red and black switch at the front that could extend out of the window to send signals to vehicles behind.

His thumb rested on the toggle button, ready to switch between "go" and "stop" at any moment.

The entire carriage was as quiet as if an operation was underway; no one spoke, no one coughed, and no one made any unnecessary noise.

Although it involved four convoys merging into one lane at the same time, the drivers and co-drivers were still quite professional.

Each vehicle maintained a distance of forty to sixty meters, and there were no collisions, no rear-end collisions, and no heart-pounding sudden braking.

The distance from the intersection to the riverbank isn't long, but the traffic was moving very slowly. Besides the heavy traffic, there was also the waiting—waiting for the car in front to pass. Every moment of waiting consumed time, and every second of delay loosened the minute-by-minute schedule.

Soon, Kayla Mayne's convoy arrived at the bridge.

On the other side of the bridge was the grassland across the river, places they had never been before.

"Slower than planned?" Aris asked after seeing Dakous glance at his watch. "Yes," Dakous nodded. There was nothing wrong with saying it; slower was slower. He didn't try to make amends, offer explanations, or mention that it wasn't actually that much slower.

His gaze remained fixed on the bridge, watching the wheels of the first car roll onto the steel plate of the bridge surface, and watching the bridge surface sink slightly, a small but noticeable sinking.

“Eleven minutes late, you know, reality often doesn’t go as planned.” His voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps to Aris.

The convoy's route was meticulously designed by the strategists of Tarrendan. They marked every road, intersection, and bridge on the map, calculated the average speed of each vehicle under different road conditions, and then input all the data into the computer, running it again and again until the error between the numbers was reduced to a negligible level.

This involves a vast amount of mathematical information—vehicle speed, spacing, fuel consumption, load, road capacity, and personnel fatigue. Each variable is dynamic, but the staff officers are trying to turn them into static numbers that can be calculated, predicted, and controlled.

It was only done after confirming that there were no problems.

However, the real world is complex and dynamic. Unexpected situations, information gaps, and environmental changes make it difficult for static plans to fully cover the actual situation. Some things that cannot be simulated in a computer are suddenly emerging in reality.

Clearly, this design lacks flexibility; every step is overly scheduled, every minute is used to its fullest potential, and there is no redundancy whatsoever.

Unexpected events can easily jeopardize overall goals. Fortunately, the unexpected event was minor and did not cause irreparable damage. However, it also demonstrates that perfect plans and perfect timing do not exist; excessive planning often leads to procrastination, causing actions to lag behind changes.

But Dakotas, who had come this far, knew that this was already very good.

After all, this is the first time.

This is the first time that so many vehicles, so many people, and so many supplies have moved at the same time, in the same direction, and at the same pace.

In the period following Tariendan's appearance, what happened was simply appalling and disgusting. Plans are often excellent, perfect, and meticulous, with every detail considered and every step arranged.

However, in practice, it resulted in numerous embarrassing mishaps.

They learned from their failures, and also strengthened their training to make up for it through their skills. If one attempt wasn't enough, they tried twice; if two attempts weren't enough, they tried three times; if three attempts weren't enough, they tried a hundred times, until everyone had their duty ingrained in their very being. That's how the Trudeau Army came to be.

“But for them, this is already very fast, and the effect has been achieved.” Aris nodded, then casually made a sarcastic remark.

Of all the Asurs present, perhaps no one knew Duruci better than him; he knew their history, their system, and their way of thinking.

In his understanding of Duruci, the moment the bridge was completed was the moment the convoy could pass through!
The moment the bridge surface is paved, the first car's wheels will run over it.

This is how you achieve the best results, instead of the current situation where the bridge has been built for over ten minutes, but the cars are still slowly moving along the road.

Dakos stopped looking at his watch and stared at Aris, who had a serious expression on his face and seemed to have not made a sound just now, with a half-smile and a half-hearted expression.

If he could, he really wanted to ask: Is this really okay?
"How many cars are there in total? Four hundred?" Elle Sander's voice came from the side.

“More than that? Five hundred?” Rahil frowned, his gaze sweeping over the still-moving vehicles, trying to estimate a total.

"How much time has it been?"

Rahil knew what Ellesander was implying; when they were sent to Lorthorn, they only had a few carriages, like a child who hadn't grown up yet.

Faced with this scene, Darkus's vision of the future seemed far too unrealistic, but as it turns out...

The child had grown into a giant, with thick arms and broad shoulders, standing there.

It's not just about the scale of the vehicles, but also about their large-scale practical applications.

He sighed, a light but long sigh, as if exhaling all the resentment and admiration in his chest. He shook his head, a small but heavy shake, as if saying to himself, "Don't think about it anymore. Thinking too much won't change reality, it will only make you feel bad."

He then looked at the convoy that was beginning to cross the bridge.

As the vehicle approached the bridge, the entire bridge deformed. It didn't sway; it sank. It was the kind of elastic deformation that only metal exhibits, where the bridge slightly bends under the weight of the vehicle, like a bowstring being stretched taut.

The deformation is controllable and was taken into account during the design phase.

Each module bears its weight, and each node transmits its force.

Clearly, the bridge withstood the test.

The thickness of the steel plate, the angle of the support rod, the diameter of the pin—everything was just right, not too much, not too little, as if it were tailor-made for these 480 vehicles.

But that wasn't his focus. His attention was drawn to the object being towed by the vehicle. It was a rectangular object wrapped in a tarpaulin, larger than a light vehicle, and was secured to the trailer, swaying slightly with the undulations of the bridge.

The tarpaulin was black, made of canvas, and tightly bound to the surface of the object with ropes, obscuring any internal details.

But his intuition told him that this thing was not simple. But he didn't know why, because it was covered by a waterproof tarpaulin.

“Those three bridges?” Aris’s gaze fell on Darkus’s profile.

Daxius didn't explain with words, but answered with gestures. He extended three fingers, a gesture that seemed to be counting or pointing at something, then bent the three fingers, making a retraction motion.

Ares nodded first; he understood.

There are six bridges; three are for going across, and three are for coming back.

No intersections, no conflicts, no detours.

He then extended his left hand and pointed towards the position. Dakota nodded, confirming his assessment, and nodded in response, indicating, "I understand."

it is more than words.

"There's no way out. Be ready to help at any time."

After crossing the bridge, the co-pilot turned to look at Keira Mayne and Dragiel. His gaze lingered on their faces for a second, as if to confirm they were ready.

Kayla Mayne nodded; he knew what the co-pilot meant—there was no road beyond the bridge.

Muddy ground, grassy areas, and possibly puddles and rocks.

The wheels could get stuck at any moment, the carriage could tilt at any moment, and the cargo could slip off at any moment. They needed to be ready to jump off the vehicle at any time to push, pull, and get the stuck vehicle out.

He then focused his attention on the driver's operation. Because there was no road, the vehicle naturally entered off-road mode, and the driver's operating intensity naturally increased.

It was no longer the smooth, steady driving that felt like traveling on a track, but a driving experience full of anticipation, probing, and correction, like wrestling with the earth. The steering wheel was constantly being fine-tuned in my hands, the accelerator pedal was sometimes light and sometimes heavy under my foot, and the clutch engagement point was always searching for the optimal position.

Dragil, who looked every bit the seasoned soldier, nodded emphatically. At the same time, the lazy, nonchalant expression on his face, as if saying "this has nothing to do with me," vanished. In its place was a focused, serious expression, as if saying, "I know what to do."

Due to their long service life and extended service duration, Trudeau's military system was filled with a large number of seasoned veterans—those who had served for decades, even centuries, seen too many storms, and were no longer enthusiastic about many things. They were lazy, they were slick, but they wouldn't slack off during training, nor would they doze off while on duty.

For reasons of discipline, faith, loyalty, regulations, and promises to the future, seasoned soldiers are better at prioritizing tasks and knowing when to do what.

Three minutes later, the unexpected happened.

The last truck in the convoy got stuck. No matter how hard the driver tried, the tires spun wildly against the edge of the ditch, emitting blue smoke and a piercing scream, but the vehicle remained motionless.

The first to jump were the co-driver of the truck and the soldier in the truck bed. Then, the crew of the two light vehicles at the rear of the convoy, excluding the drivers, all jumped out. Some carried jacks, some held steel plates, some carried shovels, and some carried nothing, ready to provide the necessary support.

“Let’s go down and help too.”

After speaking, the passenger did not immediately jump out of the car. Instead, he first activated the indicator in his hand, then extended it outside the car to signal a stop, indicating that there was a situation ahead.

Only after he had finished everything did he jump out of the car. His movements were unhurried and calm, as if he were performing a set of prescribed actions that he had done countless times.

Soon, the co-drivers of the vehicles behind also extended their indicator devices outside their cars. At that moment, the entire convoy seemed to be put on pause; all the wheels stopped turning at the same time, and all the engines switched to idle at the same time.

At this moment, the drawbacks of not having wireless communication were exposed once again.

One car gets stuck, but the cars behind it don't know; the cars behind stop, but the cars after that are still waiting. Information can only be relayed by people running around and by traffic lights.

Soon, the three of them arrived at the front and, together with the soldiers in the lead vehicle, pushed the vehicle out of the pit. Then, the soldiers placed jacks in the depression to raise it, and then placed steel plates on top. The steel plates had chamfered edges and anti-slip textures on the surface, and they were laid one after another in the pit, as if nailing a temporary layer of armor to the muddy ground.

And so the convoy moved along, stopping and starting, driving through mud, through grasslands, and through the ever-deepening and widening ruts created by the wheels of vehicles.

After driving for about five kilometers, the convoy in front began to slowly make a large, curved turn, as if being pulled by something.

Meanwhile, the vehicle carrying Keramm was still going straight. After another fifty meters, the convoy began to turn. It was a larger arc, going around the outside, like a branch of a great river that splits off from the main stream at a certain point and flows in another direction.

"Get out of the vehicle! Help unload the cargo. Remember, no smoking, no open flames! Don't blame me if the Black Knight catches you." The co-pilot gave the order.

But this time he didn't jump; the driver did. After the driver jumped out of the car, he went to the driver's seat, adjusted the seat, fastened his seatbelt, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

The replacement is complete.

Next came the nearly half-hour moving process.

The long wooden crates containing some kind of supplies were unloaded from the truck and neatly stacked on the grass according to designated positions and spacing. The crates were not large, but they were very heavy, and each one required two people to lift.

There were no words or markings on the box, only some incomprehensible symbols and numbers painted on it.

No one asked what was in the boxes, no one tried to pry open the lids to take a look, and no one said, "What's the point of us moving all this stuff?" They just moved, just lifted, just unloaded the boxes from the truck and stacked them.

Half an hour later, countless long wooden crates were laid down and stacked in an orderly fashion. They were not piled up haphazardly, but carefully arranged on the grassland, like a game of chess, according to some rule known only to the organizers.

The Black Knight and his soldiers stood on the perimeter of the box area, their sharp eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords, ready to deal with any potential threat.

Fifty meters down from the wooden crate was a device wrapped in waterproof cloth.

Because of the spacing between the vehicles, these long wooden crates and equipment were arranged in a net-like pattern on the grassland, as if someone had gently laid a huge net woven from crates and equipment on this green, flat grassland that had not yet been touched by war.

Then, the passenger started the vehicle and began driving straight. Next, they continued stopping and starting, heading towards the three bridges that no vehicles had crossed before.

Yes, just like Darkus's gesture, of the six bridges, three are for crossing and three are for returning.

What's past is past, and what's past is past; let each go their own way and not interfere with the other.

This is the simplest traffic rule, and also the most effective.

Boring, yet pleasing to the eye.

There is a kind of beauty in order, not the kind that is deliberate, designed, or exists for the sake of performance, but the kind that is organic, grows out of needs, and where every link has its own reason for existence.

Vehicles moved across the bridge, the river flowed beneath, and soldiers who hadn't boarded the vehicles continued their march on foot.

Every element is in its proper place, doing its proper job.

Before we knew it, it was noon. The sun shone directly overhead, with no clouds to block it and no wind to cool it down, yet the weather was quite pleasantly cool.

Even so, the Asur nobles standing on the hillside had fine beads of sweat on their foreheads, their collars soaked and clinging uncomfortably to their necks. But no one left, no one complained, no one said, "Can't we find a shady spot?" Their gaze remained fixed on the opposite bank of the river, on the moving caravans. Some held binoculars, some shielded their eyes from the sun, some squinted, and some frowned.

But everyone is watching.

At noon, of course, it was time for lunch.

“Things are getting better,” Darkus retorted viciously.

"What's wrong?" Drusara asked softly, her arm linked with Darkus's. Her voice was soft and gentle, like soothing a cat whose fur was standing on end. She patted Darkus's arm lightly twice with her fingers, a natural gesture as if she had done it countless times.

"It's nothing..." (End of Chapter)