Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

When the fifty rifles were handed to the Asur nobles on the hillside, one of them hesitated before taking them. His fingers recoiled slightly before touching the gun, as if startled by the temperature of the metal surface. The temperature wasn't high, but it spread through his fingertips the moment he touched it, causing his entire arm to pause.

Someone took it and immediately examined it from all angles. He turned the gun to the side to look at the inscriptions on the side of the barrel; then he turned it over to look at the curvature of the trigger guard; and then he held the gun up to his eyes to examine the grain of the wood.

Someone took it and handed it directly to their companion, as if receiving a hot potato. The gun lingered in their hand for less than a second before being shoved into the arms of the person next to them. But as they handed it over, their eyes remained glued to the gun.

Yes, a glimpse into the lives of all beings.

But without a doubt, their eyes never left the guns.

These dark, metallic, cold things, carrying an unfamiliar temperature, are now being held in hands accustomed to sword hilts and bowstrings. Those fingers are tentatively gliding slowly along the barrel, the handguard, and the curve of the stock, as if reading a new book written in metal and wood.

They knew times had changed, and these guns, no matter how unwilling they were to accept it, had still appeared.

In the time to come, they will hold these things in their hands, learn to use them, and bring them into the next era.

However, what they didn't know was that these guns were actually outdated...

“Kracalond, Second Machine Factory.” Aris held the gun, tilting it slightly to let the afternoon sun slant across the inscription on the side of the receiver. His gaze slowly moved along the row of stamped letters, as if reciting a passage that was not unfamiliar to him. He muttered something, not loudly, but just loud enough for Dakos, who was standing next to him, to hear.

He then glanced at the production date at the bottom of the inscription, which consisted of several strings of emblems unique to the Duruci society. They were shallowly engraved, pressed in with precise tools under even pressure. He knew these emblems represented numbers. His gaze lingered on those numbers for a moment, as if performing a quick mental calculation, before his brow twitched slightly.

Clearly, this gun was manufactured fifteen years ago, but it is in very good condition.

He then adjusted his grip, his left hand supporting the handguard, his right hand on the grip behind the stock, his fingers resting naturally on the outside of the trigger guard, his movements neither fast nor slow, like an old craftsman adapting to a new tool.

He pushed the rear sight scale, a small metal plate with graduations, to the very front with his thumb, setting it to 500 meters. The movement was light but precise, as if he had done it many times before.

He then adjusted the weapon again, looking at the front. The front sight was a rectangular post type, which was particularly clear in the sunlight. The muzzle had threads and a protective cover was attached. The protective cover was dark gray and was fitted over the threaded opening, like a muzzle being put on a wild beast that had not yet awakened.

"The process has been upgraded again?"

Ares looked down at the inner wall of the muzzle, which was so smooth that it looked as if it had been polished countless times. The rifling was clearly visible, and the edges were sharp, showing uniform spiral grooves. His gaze lingered on it for longer than he did on the inscriptions.

“Of course, is that even a question?” Dakos spread his hands, watching Aris raise the muzzle of his gun to his eyes, as if examining a precision instrument about to be dissected.

"As bright as a mirror, with clear rifling and sharp edges, a fine gun!"

As Aris spoke, he adjusted his gaze again, looking at the bolt, the part he was most familiar with as a machinist, the most direct manifestation of machining precision. His eyes lingered on the junction of the bolt and receiver for a long time.

Dakos nodded noncommittally, then reached out and pointed to the safety, a small lever located behind the bolt.

Instead of engaging the safety, Aris pulled the bolt, but it wouldn't budge because the safety had locked it in place. The metal-to-metal engagement was tight, without the slightest wobbling.

So he flipped the safety, pushing the lever to the middle position with his thumb, making a slight click. As the safety moved to the second position, the bolt could be pulled back; the feedback was clear, like a lock being unlocked.

He then pointed the gun at the sky, the barrel pointing towards a vast expanse of blue, devoid of any target or threat. He pulled the trigger, but unfortunately, the safety locked it. He gently pressed his index finger inside the trigger guard, encountering no resistance whatsoever.

So he flipped the safety lever to the left, and pushed the lever all the way down.

This time, the gun is ready to fire; the trigger can be pulled, and it can be fired at any time.

Soon, as an experienced lathe operator, he understood the principle of bolt-action rifles.

He shifted the safety to the middle, then pulled the bolt with his right hand, a steady motion as if testing the tightness of a lock, while his left hand pulled the lock, his fingers moving quickly between the metal parts.

Then, with a forceful push of his right hand, he removed the entire bolt and held it in his hand, while the gun was clamped between his thighs, muzzle down and butt up, as if it were fixed to some invisible clamp.

"Hmm, finely polished." Aris placed the bolt in his left palm and began to observe and comment. The surface of the bolt had a soft sheen, as if it had been polished many times, with no burrs on the edges and neat chamfers. He turned it over to look at the lock lug at the bottom, and then gently scratched the surface with his fingernail to feel the depth and evenness of the texture.

Dakos did not respond, but instead frowned and looked at Aris with disdain.

In his view, Aris at this moment was full of old-timer vibes, like a seasoned veteran commenting on a new product.

The tone was like someone taking a bite of food and then pointing at the plate with their fork, saying, "This isn't cooked quite right."

“Interesting… very interesting.” Berlanal raised his hand, and with his movement, the bolt mechanism seemed to be guided by an invisible hand, performing a slow-motion demonstration in the air. The bolt slid slowly out of the receiver under his gesture, as if held by an unseen hand, spun once in the air, and then disassembled into several independent parts.

The components floated in front of him, displaying their internal structure and connection methods one by one.

"Without relying on any magical fluctuations, it purely uses the meshing of metals and alchemy... chemical power to complete a perfect energy projection. It does not resist physics, but rather fully embraces it, using mechanical rigor to tame violence into precise geometry."

“Exquisitely crafted, like a work of art.” Rahil commented at the same time. His movements were a little slower than Aris’s, but equally skillful. No one had taught him, but he had mastered it on his own. He flipped the safety, pulled the bolt, flipped the safety again, and pulled the trigger.

There is a brief pause between each action to confirm the feedback of the previous action before proceeding to the next.

"Can I shoot?" Alessand's voice came from the side. He also held a gun in his hand, but he didn't raise it; he just held it as if he was feeling its weight.

“Of course, but out of ammunition.” As he spoke, Rahil shrugged, then rested the butt of his rifle on his shoulder and aimed into the distance.

"Do you have any ammunition?" Aris asked, also aiming at the distance.

His rifle butt was also resting on his shoulder, the muzzle pointing towards the opposite bank of the river, the movement almost synchronized with Rahil's.

“Yes, but not here. We have some stock. Can we set up a firing range tomorrow?” Dakos said, his hands behind his back.

Live ammunition was used.

But live ammunition could not possibly be found on a hillside, much less in the hands of soldiers.

Just kidding, live ammunition is lethal and can kill people.

Today we're using blank cartridges, those ammunition with half the propellant charge, those without a projectile and only containing a primer and gunpowder.

Although it has no bullet, the high-pressure gas, flame, and unburned gunpowder particles emitted from the muzzle at the moment of firing still have a strong killing power at very close range, that is, within three to five meters.

Therefore, when officers and soldiers received their guns, they also received a safety baseline: never point the gun at a person at close range.

On the hillside, there weren't even blanks, only guns.

As for guns and ammunition...

According to Dakos, it is a perfect replica of the Swedish Mauser M38—the standard bolt-action rifle adopted by Sweden in the late 1930s, a short rifle model in the famous Swedish 6.5×55mm Mauser rifle family, and also recognized as one of the most accurate and well-made military Mauser rifles of World War II.

The barrel is 610 mm long, the overall length is 1110 mm, and it weighs approximately 4 kg. It retains the power of long-range firepower while significantly improving portability and mobility.

The ammunition is a 6.5mm rifle cartridge with a muzzle velocity of approximately 760 meters per second. It has an extremely flat trajectory, gentle recoil, and excellent velocity retention at long range. Even at 500 meters, its accuracy remains highly reliable.

But Darkus didn't say these things aloud; he just thought them through in his mind and then looked at the elves who were playing with and appraising the guns.

To be honest, he quite enjoyed watching this scene. As everyone knows, elves despise gunpowder and firearms that can fire it, but now…

Just as the group on the hillside were examining and admiring the firearms, Malekith reappeared, not walking up the hillside, but emerging from the shadows. His figure appeared somewhat pale in the afternoon sunlight, like a painting that hadn't fully dried and was being aired out. He appeared before Serene, his movements so subtle, as if he had always been there, only unnoticed.

"The effect is not very good."

Marekis's tone was as if he were stating a proven fact rather than expressing a subjective feeling.

“Should we make it rain? Make the position a bit muddy?” Serene responded.

In Malekith's mind, Serene, though a demigod, undoubtedly had an eccentric personality. And at this moment, Serene's words aligned with his understanding.

He tried hard to control his expression as he shook his head.

"No! We need lighting and shadow effects."

Serene first showed a look of regret, but it was short-lived, like a ripple in the wind, and she quickly regained her composure before nodding solemnly.

After Serene accepted the order, Malekith disappeared again to continue his task of selecting people.

“Third wave!” At the officers’ assembly point on the other side of the riverbank, Newker stood there, his gaze fixed on the soldiers who had already taken their attack positions, as if waiting for a machine to finish its final warm-up. He waved his hand; the gesture was small, but carried an undeniable force.

Seihanlan, standing in the ranks of high-ranking officers, saluted, then left the ranks, turned and walked to the rear. Soon, the third wave moved under his command.

As for the second wave...

They had already started moving, like a train departing; they began to take up their positions shortly after the first wave of soldiers rushed out of the trenches.

Each wave consisted of 7,500 men, and the position was 5 kilometers long. If these men were lined up in a straight line, that would be 1.5 men per meter, with an average spacing of about 0.67 meters between each man. There were obvious tactical gaps between the soldiers, and the whole scene still looked like a moving human wall.

But this is only a theory.

Although the position is five kilometers long, not all sections of that five kilometers are passable.

Some sections of the road were covered by artillery fire, making the soil soft and causing you to sink in when you step on it; other sections were covered by remnants of barbed wire, requiring you to take a detour.

Another issue is the shortage of guns compared to the number of soldiers. A 12-man squad with a captain and vice-captain can only be assigned two guns.

This leads to the team becoming more cohesive and numerous during charges and marches.

Well, there's no such thing as wave-like formations or scattered units, let alone a three-three system.

Duruci still has a long way to go before his formation can be transformed into a skirmish line.

It was called an exercise, but it was more of a performance, a large-scale team building activity, an atmosphere-creating event, and a visual and auditory experience to help these seeds remember what offense and defense are and that a new era is about to begin.

The main focus is on creating an atmosphere.

The people on the hillside stopped their appreciation. The dark-colored rifles that had just been turned over, touched, and raised to be aimed at the sky were now held in their hands, but their eyes were no longer on the guns.

Because the bugle calls from the position traveled through the air, through the wind, through the dust floating in the afternoon sunlight, and struck their eardrums.

Five minutes passed from the start of firing to the end of firing; the firing had long since stopped, and the spent cartridge cases had been recovered.

It's time to charge forward, and it's time to retreat.

Shouts of attack rose and fell. The figures that had been crouching or lying down got up and took a charging stance, leaning forward, lowering their center of gravity, and bending their knees to an angle that made their thigh muscles taut, as if they were about to launch themselves as a fully drawn arrow.

The first wave has already launched its final assault.

Although the second wave was still on its way, it had already fully deployed, and their formation had changed from a marching column to an attack line.

The third wave was about to reach the iron bridge. Their footsteps converged on the bridge surface into a low, continuous sound, like distant thunder. The steel structure of the bridge trembled slightly under their footsteps, the sound reaching the piers, the river, and the riverbed.

The whole scene looked incredibly impressive.

"Wait a little longer!" ordered a centurion from the defending side.

His team was tasked with defending this section of the position.

After saying that, he leaned out and looked at the mound in the distance that was there in the morning but had been washed away by dragon breath and cannon fire in the afternoon.

Without a doubt, that mound was a marker, and although it's gone, it doesn't stop him from always remembering that location.

“I have a feeling that’s hard to put into words.” Rahil’s voice was low, as if afraid of being overheard. He gripped the gun in his hand, the butt resting on his knee, the barrel pointing diagonally to the sky. His gaze went beyond the muzzle of the gun, past the charging figures, and landed on a low trench line deep within the position.

He knew that in a moment, the things deployed on the front lines would go off, but he couldn't express it. It felt like a sentence was on the tip of his tongue, but stuck between his teeth.

It was a complex feeling of knowing something big was about to happen, but not being able to articulate it.

“I can’t express it either, but I understand.” Alessand’s voice came from the side, his gaze also falling on the trench line, as if waiting for a scene he had rehearsed many times in his mind.

He didn't ask "what is that?" again, because his intuition had already told him.

Just then, music drifted from afar.

Tolandil and Ryan began to play again, but this time it was different from before. This time it was a more mature, more complete melody, as if it had been rehearsed countless times.

The violin's sound was deep and rapid, as if a string had been stretched to its limit and was trembling on the verge of breaking; the flute's sound was sharp and thin, like the whistle of an eagle piercing the air before it swoops down.

The air was thick with tension and a sense of oppression, as if a storm was brewing and dark clouds were pressing down on the city, threatening to crush it.

Every note tells the people on the hillside: what is about to happen will be significant.

Similarly, Fenafin, who was rapidly approaching the position, also had an indescribable feeling. Goosebumps rose on his skin, extending from his arms to his shoulders, and from his shoulders to his neck, as if an invisible cold wind was blowing across his skin. His body hair stood on end, each one like a straightened needle, trembling slightly in the afternoon sun.

He ran, but his eyes scanned the positions ahead, the still-smoking shell craters, and the edges of the trenches that had been eroded by artillery fire.

Soon, he saw it: on the position in front of him, behind the breastwork of the low trench in front of him, a black, reflective iron plate emerged.

The iron plate was rectangular, its edges covered in mud, its surface gleaming darkly in the sunlight, like steel that had been soaked in oil and then wiped dry. In the center of the plate was a large, black cylindrical structure. The cylinder was slightly convex at the front, like some kind of organ waiting to breathe, while the rear was connected to a short, thick upper structure that joined it to the iron plate. The opening of the cylinder pointed at him, like an open eye without a pupil.

The feeling was like a canopy pressing down on his head, then spreading down his spine to his limbs, as if trying to freeze him in place. He wanted to stop, but his legs kept running, his body kept moving forward, and his breathing kept rhythmic.

He can't stop.

Then he saw countless heads emerge from the trenches, helmeted heads rising one after another from behind the breastwork, like a row of dark chess pieces pulled up by the same line.

His eyesight was excellent, so good that he could see the soldiers' eyes, which were slightly squinting in the afternoon sun, shimmering in the shadows of their helmets. They were looking at him with a gaze he had never seen before, a gaze devoid of fear, hatred, mockery, or even the smugness of "we're waiting for you."

There was only one kind of focus, a chillingly calm focus, like that of someone observing prey about to step into a trap.

He saw their lips moving, saw what they were saying, but they were too far away for him to hear.

Then he saw the black knight next to the iron plate raise his hand. The movement of the hand was very fast, rising from the side to the highest point in less than half a second.

Then he swung it down hard!

"Fire!" the centurion shouted menacingly.

The next second, a shot rang out!
It wasn't a single sound, nor a series of sounds; it was an explosion, as if someone had released thousands of strings that had been stretched taut at the same time in the same second.

The sound erupted simultaneously from multiple locations at the front of the position, not in sequence, but as a single explosion, like a huge piece of cloth being torn in the middle, with the crack extending from one end to the other in milliseconds.

It filled every gap in the space, squeezing out any possible silence. It rose from the trenches, past the running figures, past the second wave still on their way, past the third wave advancing on the bridge, across the river, across the riverbank, all the way up the hillside, reaching the ears of the Asur nobles holding their guns.

The power of that sound was no less than the artillery barrage just now; the shock... (End of Chapter)