Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"I thought you could ride a motorcycle."

Garros didn't stand up to salute as he spoke, not because he forgot, but because it wasn't necessary. Their relationship had long since moved beyond the stage where salutes were needed to maintain it. He simply shifted his position, making way for Garros.

Dorian glanced at Garros, who had shifted his position but still maintained his imposing posture. His sitting posture, with his legs apart, back slightly hunched, hands resting on the pommel of the family sword, and chin on the back of his hands, made him look like an old lion crouching on a cliff, overlooking his territory.

He then looked at the family sword that Garros was leaning on. The scabbard was black, the leather surface of which had been polished to a shine, and the metal of the pommel gleamed darkly under the fluorescent light.

He shook his head helplessly.

Unlike his family, which was neither ancient nor illustrious in Nagalos and only truly rose to prominence in the old era, Garros's Godric family had a long and rich heritage that could be traced back to before the Great Sundering.

The elven nobles of that era valued lineage, coat of arms, and family genealogies written on parchment and copied from generation to generation. The Godridge family's genealogy is said to extend back several centuries to before the Great Schism.

Now, the family sword has been passed down to Garros.

"They won't let me ride it."

After speaking, Dorian dismounted from his two-wheeled chariot, set it up, and then went straight to sit down next to Garros. His movements were very natural, as if he were at home, sitting in his most familiar chair.

Garros, meanwhile, lay sprawled on the hilt of his sword, his face turned to the side. His shoulders trembled incessantly, not from crying, but from laughing. No laughter came out, but the frequency and intensity of his trembling suggested he was watching a farcical comedy that only he could understand.

"Do you really want to retire?" After a moment, Garros turned to look at Dorian. The lingering smile from earlier still lingered on his lips, but his eyes had returned to a serious and restrained expression.

“Yes, I know you can’t wait,” Dorian said casually.

His tone was as casual as if he were saying the weather was nice today, but the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

"Isn't this boring?" Garros spread out his left hand. It was a large hand with thick knuckles and calluses from years of wielding a sword. His expression became grotesque: the corners of his mouth were upturned, but his brows were downturned; his eyes shone, but there was a mist in them. It was as if he wanted to laugh, yet felt he shouldn't; as if he wanted to be serious, yet felt he couldn't be serious.

Currently, Dorion holds the rank of High Dreadlord, commanding an army of 200,000 men. This includes nine full-strength legions and three army groups capable of handling various combat situations. Besides the Fourth Army, there is Galros's Fourteenth Army, and the Twenty-first Army, which is still stationed in Ashriel.

After today, Dorian will naturally take another step forward and become a War Chief. Or rather, he should have been a War Chief long ago. His qualifications, his abilities, and his influence have been sufficient for him for decades. But the title of War Chief has never been given to him, not because he is unworthy, but because the time is not right. And Garros, as the commander of the main army group, will also take another step forward.

He had already stepped onto the threshold; with just a gentle push, the door would open.

"You don't want me to retire?" Only then did Dorian turn to look at Garros.

"It seems that no one wants you to retire except you?" Garros didn't answer directly, but his tone and expression gave the answer.

Dorion was silent for a long time before asking.

What are your plans next?

What plans could I possibly have?

As Garros spoke, he grasped the scabbard, gently lifted the family sword, and then gently set it down. The movement seemed to be weighing it, or perhaps confirming that it was still there. The scabbard touched the stone slab with a dull, sigh-like sound.

"Should I not have..." Dorian leaned against the stone wall, the chill seeping through his clothes and making him flinch slightly. He then let out a deep sigh, a long, heavy sigh that seemed to have compressed all the hesitation and worries in his chest into that single exhale.

"Why do you have such thoughts?" Garros' left hand reached out again, but this time it wasn't spread out, but pressed down on Dorian's shoulder. "It's an inevitable development of the times, or rather... we've lingered too long in a certain period. And you and I have found a way to overcome it. And now, we've found a way to overcome it once again."

"You said..." Dorian lowered his voice, so low it sounded like he was talking to himself, or like he was speaking to someone only he could see, "Will we be able to land safely?"

“You may not believe in yourself, you may not believe in your father, you may not believe…” Garros didn’t finish his sentence, pointing instead to the ceiling. The name didn’t need to be spoken; saying it aloud would be superfluous. Then, with a solemn expression, he continued, “But you can believe in Darkus, just as you did in the throne room…”

He didn't finish his sentence, but Dorian knew what he was talking about.

“I don’t miss the past at all, but I can always think back to those times when we were in Nagaron…”

"Maybe it's because you're getting old?" Garros joked first, but the smile was short-lived, as if it had been poked by something and then disappeared. He then said seriously, "Maybe I'm getting old too, and I also sometimes think about the old days. But like you, I don't miss them at all."

At that time, Dorian roamed north of Nagalus, day after day, year after year, like a nail driven into the frozen ground, neither rusting nor growing taller. Garros, on the other hand, remained in Krakarond to the south. The two did not know each other until Darkus and Maranul went to Nagalond.

And so they formed an unbreakable bond.

After arriving in Aecyriel, they did not follow the Darkus brothers to Elsin Alwyn, but stayed in Aecyriel. Afterwards, except for trips to Nagaroth for meetings and studies, they were basically based in Aecyriel.

Then, another long silence ensued.

Until, at a certain moment, a very faint, almost imperceptible tremor came from the wall behind them. It wasn't an earthquake, but an impact, the kind of tremor that comes from above, where most of the energy has been absorbed by the earth, leaving only a slight aftertaste, like someone striking a drum very, very far away.

"It's starting!" Dorian rolled up his sleeves and glanced at the time on his watch. Then he stood up.

"Don't worry, I'll guard this place, I promise you!" Garros also stood up, his movements not as quick as Dorian's, but equally resolute. He seemed to have been suddenly pulled from a relaxed state, tensing up, straightening, becoming like an arrow ready to be shot at any moment.

Dorian nodded, a small but deep nod. He then walked to the two-wheeled vehicle, and as he climbed back on, Garros saluted him before slowly setting it down. Dorian nodded to Garros again, but this time, his nod was much more forceful.

After watching Dorian leave, Garros placed the family sword at his waist and then turned to leave. His steps were unhurried, the heels of his boots tapping out a steady rhythm on the stone pavement, as if keeping time for something.

As the highest-ranking officer of the army group, he didn't need to do anything when things started.

The tasks have been assigned, even down to the hundred-man squad level. Who is responsible for the left flank, who is responsible for the right flank, who is responsible for the rear standby; who will be the first to rush forward after the shelling ends, who will follow up, who is responsible for delivering ammunition—every order, every position, and every person has been written into the battle plan that has been revised countless times.

So he came to guard the ventilation room.

They weren't sent; they chose themselves.

He needed to ensure that the ventilation chamber could withstand the test over the next half hour.

Because it's an internal circulation system, if the ventilation chamber malfunctions, all the soldiers in the underground fortress will be affected—these are all his men. Logically, if the people in the underground fortress are affected, the entire position will be affected; if the entire position is affected…

No, from the very beginning the situation was so serious that there were no "what ifs".

When Darkus's so-called "strategic bomber" came into view of the group on the hillside, the expressions of the dragon princes became particularly interesting. It wasn't shock, it wasn't fear, it wasn't any emotion that could be summed up in a single word.

It is a complex and wonderful structure, layered like a geological profile, with each layer having a different color, texture, and age, so complex that it cannot be described in words.

Yes, the so-called strategic bomber is not a true four-engine heavy bomber, nor is it the kind of heavy bomber that requires a long runway, massive logistical support, and a crew of more than a dozen people to operate.

It was a dragon, and a fire dragon of Ulthuan at that.

This is the ultimate way to kill someone by destroying their spirit.

Duruci managed to awaken, organize, train, and bring to the battlefield those dragons that slumbered deep within volcanoes, those dragons that had lost interest in the world and preferred to bathe in lava rather than fight for anyone, while the dragon princes failed to do so.

It wasn't through magic, it wasn't through contracts, it wasn't through any means the dragon princes could think of.

I just "asked".

Then the dragon came.

It's that simple. So simple it's unbelievable, so simple it's ironic, so simple it makes those dragon princes feel that their thousands of years of perseverance and inheritance are a joke.

Led by Modax, three Silvermoon Dragons and four Star Dragons appeared in a single file from the high sky above the crater. They gradually descended, and when their altitude was low enough to launch a ground attack, they arrived above the position.

Then, they unleashed a fierce dragon breath attack along the attack line, targeting the deserted positions.

Emerging from the depths of the dragon's throat, carrying the heat of lava and the color of the underworld, it was as if the flames of the earth's core had been brought directly to the surface. The flames fell on the grass, instantly igniting it with a crackling sound; the flames fell on the soil, scorching it into glass, which gleamed a dark red, like congealed blood, in the sunlight.

Wherever the dragon's flames passed, there were no explosions, no smoke, only silent, complete disappearances, as if they had been wiped off the face of the earth.

For a time, the scene was incredibly lively and impressive.

"How did you do that?" Aris asked in a low voice as he watched this scene unfold.

He felt only irony at that moment. Unlike the dragon princes standing in the distance, he had experienced the Great Division. He had seen the fire dragons stand on Caledo's side and fight against Duruchi.

Those dragon flames, once breathed towards Duruchi. Those wings, once cast shadows above Duruchi's head. And now, he stood in Duruchi's ranks, watching those fire dragons spew their flames at Duruchi's carefully laid target. He too stood on the side of his former enemy, watching his former 'ally' serve his new comrades.

This world is changing too fast.

“I just asked a very simple question,” Darkus shrugged.

Aris glanced at Darkus and then said nothing more.

As Darkus had predicted, Tariendan extended an invitation to the dragons.

Then the dragons accepted the invitation.

They decided to come, they decided to fly here, and they decided to spray dragonfire at the target designated by Duruchi.

And so, this scene unfolded.

As for the deeper meaning of this scene, there are too many to count.

Compared to Caledo's "old routine" of sleeping for hundreds of years, waking up to fight a war, and then sleeping for hundreds of years again, these dragons who no longer choose to sleep, are becoming increasingly difficult to wake up, and are obsessed with the brain in the vat have chosen Duruci, which is more in line with their wishes. They see new hope in the Duruci model.

So they expressed their position.

In return, Trucchi will do something to repay the favor, such as adjusting policies and allocating resources. In return, the Fire Dragons will cooperate more deeply, participating in training, tactical development, and every aspect of Trucchi's military system.

The two sides have formed a deep bond, just like the Red Dragons did back then.

But no matter what, one thing is certain: Daenerys Targaryen's leadership is unshakeable.

Her will is the dragon's will, her direction is the dragon's direction, and her choice is the dragon's choice.

Well, there was no appearance fee this time, since the main characters aren't dragons, so the red dragons weren't involved. Although they weren't involved, they still pulled off a stunt. Next, they'll appear in a different way.

That method was even more unexpected for Aris than flying over and spewing a dragon's flame.

The fire dragons performed with great effort. Some continuously spewed flames, which resembled an unbroken waterfall hanging from the sky, burning long, charred marks on the ground. Others spewed flames from side to side, as if sweeping the ground, trying to lick every corner of the position from left to right and from right to left.

The dragons didn't adjust their angle for a continuous barrage, not because they didn't want to, but because they had to strictly adhere to the plan. As the saying goes, they weren't the main characters today; they were merely using this opportunity to express their stance.

That's enough.

No more, no longer, no need to burn the entire position to the ground.

As Ignim flew over the hilltop, Rahil watched his former companion with a complex expression. His lips moved slightly, as if he were saying something, but the sound was too faint for him to hear. He simply watched the silvery-white shadow streak across the sky, a shadow so familiar it pained him, watching it fly overhead, watching it shrink until it became a tiny dot, and then fly away to the other side of the hill.

He shook his head dejectedly, sighed, and lowered his head, no longer wanting to watch this heartbreaking scene.

Like Rahil, the other dragon princes fared no better. For a long time, the dragon was the symbol of the Kingdom of Caledor. Legends, stories, and even family banners bore the emblem of the dragon and its breath. That emblem was embroidered on battle robes, engraved on sword sheaths, painted on shields, and printed on the first gift every Caledor child received at birth.

And now... the emblem is still there, but those dragons have flown to someone else's sky.

"Hmm, not bad." Darkus also looked up, gazing at the dragon so close it seemed he could reach out and touch it.

He was looking at it very carefully, not at the legends and glory of the dragon, but at the performance and specifications of the weapon.

His assessment was based on a military perspective, not a political one.

Because of the existence of dragons, future military systems will not need to mass-produce four-engine heavy bombers.

It makes no sense, has no reason, and has no meaning.

First, we need to understand what strategic bombers are used for. Strategic bombing is a kind of catastrophic attack that involves flying over long distances, over enemy lines, over enemy territory, and into the heart of the enemy's territory, turning the factories, warehouses, transportation hubs, and command centers that support the operation of the war into ruins.

Currently, there are very few targets in the world that can be strategically bombed; so few that Dakos could count them on one hand.

The Sigma Empire's Adolf, Nun, plus a Tarabheim.

Next are Zal Nagrund, controlled by the Zal dwarves, Weijing of Zhendan, and Nangao.

Of course, this doesn't include the elven cities.

If you add those, you can't count them all on one hand; you'd have to add another hand and two feet.

Therefore, the Elf does not need to mass-produce four-engine heavy bombers; it only needs to produce a small number to perform long-duration reconnaissance, aerial refueling, and long-distance transport missions.

Maintaining a four-engine aircraft is very expensive, and since we already have a dragon, there's no need...

The concern is simply about ground-based anti-aircraft fire, just like during the Battle of Lorthorn, but then again, there are many tactical solutions.

Having dragons doesn't mean you can only use dragons; having bombers doesn't mean you can only use bombers.

The key is knowing what tools are available and when to use which tool.

Meanwhile, as the dragon left the scene, the waterproof sheet on the device was torn off.

The tarpaulins were tied with ropes, the other ends of which were held by the soldiers. At the officer's command, the soldiers pulled together, and the tarpaulins slid off the device.

The real highlight is here.

"This is... a cannon?" Aris frowned slightly.

“Yes, cannons.” After saying that, Darkus added, “They were built a long time ago, but there haven’t been any new types of cannons that have been mass-produced!” (End of Chapter)