Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Dastan tried to hold back, but ultimately couldn't. His chest felt like a sack compressed to its limit, the breath he desperately needed after the crossing rushing to his throat, impossible to suppress. He gasped for air, the sound so loud it seemed like a gust of wind was blowing through his throat, drawing the attention of Elmir beside him.

Elmir turned his head, his gaze filled with a mixture of concern and scrutiny, as he looked at his brother's heaving chest.

Seeing his sister's concerned gaze, he forcefully suppressed his next outburst, as if he were forcibly blocking a gushing stream of water back into a well. He let out a soft murmur, then waved to his sister, indicating that he was alright.

The next moment, Elmir's expression changed.

Her concern turned into disdain, and then into a playful and teasing tone, as if asking, "Are you even capable?" Her lips curled slightly upwards, her eyebrows arched sharply, and her entire expression seemed to say, "Brother, you probably need to start training your body again."

After becoming an admiral, Dastan did indeed neglect his exercise. The office chair was more comfortable than the saddle of the sea monster, and the desk in the command room was wider than the railings on the deck. The daily review of official documents replaced the physical exertion of pulling the sails against the wind at the bow of the ship.

Fortunately, he made it through. Even though he was panting and his leg muscles were still aching, he still stood on the riverbank. He ignored his sister's exaggerated expression; now was not the time to speak, much less to retaliate.

Reaching the shore marked the end of the armed swim, but it was not the end; it was the beginning of something else.

He then dragged the waterproof bag ashore and began preparations.

The waterproof bag uses a roll-up closure, with the entrance made of a thick piece of canvas folded several times, tightened with straps, and locked with a brass buckle, enough to ensure the interior remains absolutely dry in swift river water. However, improper opening can cause residual water droplets to drip into the bag, wetting the contents. While not fatal, this is definitely not advisable.

Therefore, he first had to wipe away the water droplets on the outside of the sealed rolled edge, using his palm to wipe from one end of the rolled edge to the other, applying moderate pressure to ensure that every drop of water was squeezed out. Then, when unfolding the bag, he slightly tilted it so that any remaining water in the folds of the seal would flow to the ground rather than into the bag.

His movements were practiced, as if he were doing something he had rehearsed in his mind many times.

The normal procedure should be to take ammunition, communications, and clothing in that order first, make sure your weapon works, then make sure your comrades can find you, and finally, make sure you can stay warm and alive.

But now it's the other way around, because the Elven Navy doesn't have a standard armed swimming procedure.

Suddenly, the scene became...

After getting ashore, both men and women took off their underwear, removing the cold and heavy underwear they had worn while swimming, which was soaked in the river and stuck to their skin, and threw it on the ground.

Then, take out the clothes and socks from the waterproof bag and change them.

There was no awkwardness or hesitation during the process; no curtains or concealment were needed, and no one deliberately looked away to avoid suspicion.

On the battlefield, between cold water and body heat, dignity is secondary; survival is paramount. Their soaked underwear was removed, and they were replaced with dry clothes and socks, smelling of the unique fragrance of cotton—clothes they had prepared and neatly folded before setting out.

Unfortunately, magic has been banned.

After donning his standard naval uniform and boots, Fernaffen picked up the family sword from his waterproof pouch, but he didn't draw it. He knew exactly where the line was. He could be the first to climb ashore—that was a testament to his physical prowess and skill as the commander of the Carriers—but he absolutely could not draw his sword; that was not his duty.

After hanging the family sword on his belt, he took out the gun from his waterproof bag.

He picked it up and shook it vigorously, as if he were drying an umbrella that had been soaked by rain. After shaking it a couple of times, he seemed to realize something and stopped. He found that his actions seemed somewhat unnecessary. The waterproof bag was not damaged, the clothes inside were clean, and the gun wrapped in the clothes could not possibly have been wet.

The gun barrel was still dry, and the bolt was still lubricated.

He chuckled silently, then pulled the bolt back with a swift and precise motion, as if etched into his muscle memory. He inserted a magazine into the loading port, then pushed the bolt to close it with a short, muffled sound, like a latch snapping into its slot.

After completing all the preparations, he glanced left and right and saw that the army on the bridge had arrived in the middle of the bridge and was quickly crossing the iron bridge. Their steps were neat, and their boots made a dense sound on the steel plate, like an approaching rain. He also saw that his naval colleagues around him were still preparing.

Finally, he turned to look at the successors he led.

Clearly, the carriers were faster in the preparation process, even though they were wearing an extra breastplate. After all, that's their job, and their coordination was excellent. Within minutes, they had completed the transition from swimming to combat readiness, and were now kneeling on the grass by the riverbank, guns pointed at the trench line in the distance, silently and without any unnecessary movements.

He then waved his hand dismissively.

"alert!"

Darkus scratched his head as he watched this scene.

what is this?
The whole process was wrong, but the result was right?

In theory, once you reach shallow water, you should never walk upright, because standing up makes you an extremely conspicuous target on the water's surface. Any archer crouching on the shore could pin you underwater with an arrow. Then, you should crawl sideways or in a low position to quickly move towards the first piece of cover on the shore. You must leave the damp mudflats, as wet sand leaves obvious dark marks and easily allows water to seep into your weapons.

Once behind cover, immediately kneel on one knee or lie prone, pointing the gun towards the direction of greatest enemy threat, forming a defensive perimeter. Finally, remove any water from the gun barrel before changing equipment and transitioning to combat readiness.

It doesn't seem so. This seems to be a tactic used in special operations?

Dakos wasn't entirely sure either. He wasn't a military instructor, nor the author of the tactics manual; those details weren't his responsibility to control or specify. If he had to manage everything, he'd be exhausted, and the others weren't just sitting idly by either.

The canvas is now in place; how to apply the paint and how to paint are matters for later.

In short... the scene was quite beautiful.

After completing his preparations, Aislin did not take out his gun. He was not carrying a gun. In his waterproof bag was an object that resembled a three-section staff, consisting of three sections with threaded joints at both ends. When tightened, it became a complete long staff.

His movements were slow, as if he were performing something that required a sense of ritual. He tightened each section to its maximum, then rubbed the joints back and forth with his palms to make sure they wouldn't loosen.

After tightening it, he carefully, solemnly, and reverently hung the folded flag bearing the Matheran emblem on the long pole—the flag was deep blue, embroidered with silver waves, and in the center was the Matheran emblem.

He unfurled the flag, making sure there were no wrinkles or curled edges, then stood up and raised the flagpole high. The flag unfurled slowly in the wind, making a slapping sound, like a breathing fabric conversing with the wind.

Not far away, Dulias, having completed his preparations, also did not draw his gun, nor was he carrying one. After confirming that preparations were complete and seeing the flag raised, he drew his sword. Then, he pointed to the position, the tip of his sword pointing in the direction they were about to head.

Then he shouted something.

"No pointing guns at people! Charge!"

Yes, wielding the sword and directing the charge was his job, while carrying the flag was Aislin's job.

In one timeline, Fenafin is deeply loved by Serene, while in another timeline, after he lost a dragon boat, Finnubal replaced it for him, and there's a reason for that.

Yes, high emotional intelligence.

The navy moved, getting ahead of the army and entering the position. They carried their guns, kept their bodies low, and stepped on the ground churned up by dragon breath and shells, each step kicking up a cloud of black, still steaming dirt.

"What's this? They set a problem and then solved it?" Elisen exclaimed, watching the scene unfold.

He wasn't stupid, not at all, even if his military skills weren't as good as those generals who had spent their lives strategizing in front of the sand table, and even if he hadn't obtained much useful information beforehand.

But at this moment, he understood.

Duruci was teaching them how to properly capture this position that had been baptized by dragon breath and artillery shells.

“It doesn’t seem that simple…” Rahil put down his binoculars, frowned, and shook his head. His brows were furrowed, as if he were trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle that was missing a few pieces.

"Oh?"

"Are they also organizing data while they're giving their presentation?" Rahil pointed to the location where Baine and his team were standing, where officers standing next to the fixed telescopes were quickly jotting something down in their notebooks. "More like... breaking down the steps? Theoretically, they're wrong. Look over there."

As he spoke, he pointed to the position where the men had already taken up positions.

"During the first round of shelling, the attacking infantry should have moved in, captured the head positions, and waited for follow-up troops to enter, instead of still running on the bridge. The defending side, on the other hand, should counterattack and hold off the attacking infantry. Theoretically, the defending side should be equipped with artillery, and the attacking side's task is to continue providing artillery support or locate and destroy the defending side's artillery positions. Theoretically..."

As he spoke, he became somewhat dazed, as if an answer was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't put it into words. He couldn't quite describe the feeling, but his intuition told him: things shouldn't proceed as they were.

That's not how you fight a war.

The scenes before, present, and future are more like a study and learning process, and... an experience?
Not real combat, but an experiment?

"I understand."

Although Rahil didn't explain it clearly, Elisand understood. Duluch had broken down each step, laid it out, and placed it in front of them so they could see, learn, and know: so this is how it can be done.

His expression then became even more serious.

In his view, Duruci was already very strong, strong enough to stand on the land of Ausuan and redefine the rules of this land in their own way.

But Duruci did not give up on becoming stronger, nor did he stop; instead, he made himself even stronger.

"What are they holding? Weapons?" Quirrellen, however, focused on something else.

His gaze fell on the dark, long, wooden-stocked guns in the hands of the navy men who were charging toward their positions. They were pointing them into the distance, the muzzles gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

“Gun? I think? I’ve never seen one before.” As he spoke, Rahil pointed towards the position. “I’m more curious about the defenders’ weapons.”

"What is that?" Aris asked at the same time.

"machine gun!"

"Machine gun?" This is yet another new word coined by Darkus.

Aris chewed on the word with a solemn expression, as if feeling its edges and weight with his tongue. This word, along with his intuition, told him that something terrible was about to happen. But in what form, he didn't know. All he could do was wait, wait for the attackers to gradually approach the defenders' positions.

"Yes, machine gun!" Darkus confirmed, then looked up at the sky.

The original phantom of Malekith was gone, replaced by a real-time display of the battlefield created by magic. The image floated in mid-air, like a semi-transparent, still lake, reflecting every detail of the battlefield—trenches, shell craters, barbed wire, and the figures moving within them.

Clearly, Malekith was considerate. He was worried that the soldiers who hadn't moved yet were too far from the position and might have blind spots, so he thoughtfully showed the soldiers the scene at the position.

As the saying goes, if you're quick in one step, you'll be quick in every step.

At this moment, the navy, which had launched its charge, had already outpaced the army and deployed its formation.

Unfortunately, their formation wasn't spread out very wide. From above, their ranks looked like a line being stretched out, starting to loosen as they approached the trenches, but not yet to the point of forming skirmish lines.

Well, in Darkus's view, it was a standard human wave attack.

The kind of scene in movies where a small number of extras are crammed into a single shot for the sake of spectacle is something you'd only see when the attacking side launches an attack during trench warfare in World War I. Those sailors charging with guns at the ready are huddled together, as if trying to fill an entire trench, rather than spreading out.

As he charged forward, gun in one hand, Fenafen cursed under his breath. In his view, charging was more tiring than swimming; swimming was merely fighting against the current, while charging was fighting against gravity, terrain, and endless obstacles.

He had to run into the bomb crater, which was very deep, and then he had to run out of it. He had to stop and wait for his adjutant to use steel shears to cut through the barbed wire that had been blown up but was still blocking the road.

The barbed wire was partially torn apart by the shells, but some twisted, spiked ends were still hanging there. If they weren't cut, anyone rushing over would get caught, slowed down, or knocked down.

Every time he crawled out of the trench, he would curse loudly because Duruci's trenches were disgustingly poorly constructed.

It's too wide to cross; it's too deep to climb back up after jumping down; it's too steep to climb without a ladder, so you can only brace yourself with your elbows and knees.

If you can't jump directly across, you have to jump into the trench first, and then climb out from the collapsed area or by hard crawling.

Unlike the army, the navy did not have ladders because the crossing required swimming.

Meanwhile, the army, which had rushed across the six bridges and was already deployed, began to pursue. Equipped with ladders, they gradually closed the distance with the navy. While the navy was still struggling to climb up the trenches, the army had already crossed the trenches with ladders.

A centurion from the defending side poked his head out of the trench. He was about to raise his binoculars, but he quickly stopped, because he no longer needed them. He had already seen the figures climbing out of the trenches and charging towards them.

He then retreated back into the trench and glanced at the Black Knight beside him.

"Not yet!"

"Did I say anything?!" the centurion retorted forcefully.

Commanding the charge with a sword was Dulias's job, carrying the flag was Aislin's job, and what Leichiel, who was in charge of formulating the battle plan, had to do was—blow the whistle.

As the brass whistle blew, a piercing sound rang out. Fernaffen found a good spot to lie down, on the edge of a shell crater with charred black edges. He lay there, his body pressed low, almost touching the soil, with only his eyes and the muzzle of his gun showing.

After lying down, he carefully examined the still empty position not far away, but his intuition told him that there were definitely people in the trenches 500 meters ahead of him, and quite a lot of them. He could sense the soldiers crouching in the trenches, those waiting for orders, but he just couldn't see them.

After examining it, he glanced at the muzzle to make sure it wasn't blocked by mud, there were no foreign objects, and no dirt clogging the chamber. He then pushed the gun out and rested the butt on his shoulder.

The movements were slow and meticulous, as if they were performing something that required a sense of ritual.

As he performed the action, he was also reviewing and confirming the situation. Once he determined that everything was in order, he pulled the bolt.

The sound was crisp, like an iron rod striking a hollow metal pipe.

Immediately, he closed his left eye, while his open right eye looked at the sights. After confirming that his movements were correct, he opened his eyes, looked at the carriers, and seeing that they were all deployed and did not require his attention, he closed his left eye again, deployed his aim, and entered a standby state. His finger rested outside the trigger guard, not pulling it; he was waiting for the whistle to sound.

But the second whistle never sounded.

At this moment, Lexikill was extremely busy. She moved among her naval colleagues who were taking their positions and kept walking with some temporary security officers in charge of security. Some were correcting the direction of the gun muzzle, and some were repeating the command to point the gun muzzle forward.

There was no other way; unlike the army that was taking its positions in the distance, the 1,000 navy soldiers were equipped with a very high ratio of firearms. Except for a few who were not armed, everyone else had a gun.

This involves safe distance and the lethality of firearms, in addition, we have to wait for the army to be in place.

"If you don't want to go to a military court, don't point your gun at people! Don't cause trouble!"

An army captain demonstrated while issuing a warning. Seeing that all the soldiers understood, he looked at the vice-captain and nodded to him.

As the deputy captain nodded, he opened the ammunition box, took out a sack of ammunition and handed it to one soldier, then took out another sack and handed it to another soldier.

The movements were very fast, like part of an assembly line.

The two soldiers then took the guns, pulled back the bolts, and their movements were very clumsy. One soldier got stuck while pulling the bolt and had to push it with his thumb to get it in place before inserting the magazine into the loading port.

Five minutes later, the bugle call signaling the start of the attack sounded. This was followed by a continuous and piercing whistle and commands.

The next moment, gunshots rang out.

As the trigger was pulled, the enormous impact slammed into Fernaffin's breastplate, like someone punching him hard in the chest with the back of a fist. Then, the impacted breastplate slammed into his chest, the force traveling from his sternum to his ribs, and then from his ribs to his entire chest cavity, causing him to cough violently.

That almost made him suffocate.

Immediately, a look of horror appeared in his eyes. Although he could not see the traces of the bullet's movement, the enormous impact force clearly indicated the power unleashed by the gun when it was fired.

That's something neither bows and arrows nor crossbows possess.

The power of a bow comes from the rebound of the bowstring, and the power of a crossbow comes from the release of its energy storage mechanism, but neither of them is like this gun, which, at the moment the trigger is pulled, transmits an unpredictable force from his shoulder throughout his entire body.

Although he didn't quite understand the underlying principles, his intuition told him that from this moment on, bows and arrows were obsolete, unless they were made of magic.

After recovering from the shock, he pulled the bolt, this time faster than the first time, his fingers having already found the slot during the previous pull. As the bolt was pulled back, the spent cartridge was ejected, somersaulted in the air, and landed to the side, gleaming with a bronze luster.

The second bullet entered the firing position.

This time, he chose to aim at a point fifty meters away, closer than the previous target, making it easier to see the result. After aiming, he opened his left eye.

It fired again, with the same recoil, the same jolt, and the same muffled thud.

Unfortunately, nothing happened where he was aiming; there was no dust, no broken branches, and none of the feedback he expected from being hit.

For a moment, he became bored. Clearly, the ammunition he was equipped with did not have long-range killing power, or at least did not have effective killing power.

He then adjusted his thoughts. Since it had no lethality, he decided to check its rate of fire.

So he pulled the bolt again, fired, pulled the bolt again, repeated this cycle three times, quickly reloaded, and then pulled the bolt again and fired.

Because he didn't aim carefully, he fired all eight of his other bullets in half a minute.

So he fell into thought again.

With extensive training, the rate of fire can be even faster, but without an aiming process, pursuing a high rate of fire will sacrifice accuracy; conversely, pursuing accuracy will sacrifice a high rate of fire.

However, its rate of fire, lethality, and ammunition capacity still surpassed those of the bow and arrows used by Asur and the repeating crossbow used by Duruci.

More importantly, firearms do not require extensive training. After simple training, an elf can use them, even without any military training. He can learn to bolt, load, aim, and fire within half a day.

This is much faster than the five, ten, or even longer training period for archery.

But soon, amidst the continuous gunfire, he entered a state of shock and curiosity.

As a member of the high command, he knew that the firearms he held had been manufactured long ago, and that Lorthern had developed some new firearms based on them.

In other words, what he has in his hands is something that is already outdated before it has even been widely used. So... what about the new ones?

He dared not think about it, but he had already begun to think about it.

As the gunfire began to echo, the hillside became restless.

"Bows and arrows have been phased out?"

Dakos didn't respond to Aris; the question didn't need an answer, the answer was already in the gunfire. He waved to Kohein in the distance, and only after Kohein responded did he speak slowly.

"Tradition and change go hand in hand."

"Didn't they still get eliminated?" Aris glanced at Darkus.

"If you insist on thinking that way, that's fine too."

Soon, led by Kohein, the White Lion Guards opened the crates containing the weapons and distributed fifty rifles. (End of Chapter)