Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The moment the gun went off, Asniel felt everything go black.

It wasn't that my vision darkened; it was that something deep within my consciousness suddenly collapsed, like stepping off a staircase, and in that instant, I lost all reference points.

What followed was a scene of heaven and earth upside down, with the sky below and the earth above. The charging figures spun, flipped, and shattered in his vision, like a crumpled scroll being torn apart from the middle.

Just before he collapsed, the dragon prince, whom Elisande had sent to watch over him, noticed something was wrong. His eyes, which had been secretly observing him, caught the anomaly the moment his body began to tilt. Without hesitation or shouting, the prince simply reached out and caught him firmly on the shoulder, pulling him back from the brink of falling.

"Huff..." Asnir gasped for breath, his breathing heavy and irregular, like a machine forcibly running even when it was deprived of oxygen.

His chest heaved, each breath accompanied by a faint hissing sound, as if something was rubbing deep within his chest.

Each exhale felt like a heavy object being pushed out of his body, as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat, not too light, not too heavy, just enough to make it difficult for him to breathe.

The dragon prince beside him focused all his attention on him, not on his face, but on his breathing, his fingers, and his pupils. The dragon prince didn't say a word, only looking at him with concerned eyes.

“Thank you…” Asniel’s voice was low, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat, with a hoarseness that was not yet fully free from a daze.

"Don't think about it anymore, it's pointless, it's all in the past. You need to learn to make peace with yourself." The Dragon Prince opened his mouth, his lips moved a few times, as if he was hesitating, or as if he was selecting the words he was about to say.

He didn't know whether he should say it or not, but in the end, he took a deep breath and said what he had prepared for a long time.

"It's meaningless..." Upon hearing this, Asniel did not erupt in anger as if provoked, nor did he widen his eyes, clench his fists, or react with the kind of reaction of "Why do you say that?"

He just murmured, the murmur like bubbles rising from the depths of his memory, rolling between his lips and teeth before bursting, finally turning into a bitter smile.

Just now, at the moment the gun fired, his thoughts returned to the Val Anvil, to that blood-stained wasteland, to the assembling column about to launch its final charge, and to the moment before that final charge.

The scene was the same: scorched earth, torn flags, and the muzzles of ballistae on the distant Durucci defense line.

But unlike his real memory, the ballistae deployed by Duruci in his mind had transformed into machine guns—black weapons with short, sharp tongues of fire, spitting out invisible threads. In that instant, they replaced the ballistae in his memory, as if someone had erased the old image with an eraser and then drawn something new with a finer pen.

"You're right..."

At the moment the shot rang out, Fernandin saw the edge of the black iron plate tremble. It wasn't a large sway, but a high-frequency, subtle vibration, like something continuously striking it. He saw the short tongues of fire shooting out from the opening of the cylinder, almost invisible in the afternoon sunlight, with only faint flashes from the gunpowder gas burning the side edge of the muzzle, like a match being repeatedly struck and extinguished.

At that moment, he felt as if an invisible line was rapidly extending from directly in front of him, like a snake slithering through the air, searching for its target.

He passed through the spot where he had just been, and through the figures running behind him.

He didn't stop to look, didn't slow down, and didn't even lower his center of gravity. He just kept running, running towards the nearest crater, towards the patch of mud that could provide cover.

Before he jumped into the crater, he saw a figure. The person carrying him, while running, suddenly seemed to be pushed by something. His body swayed slightly, as if he had hit an invisible wall. The wall wasn't big, but it was just enough to change his direction. Then his gait became strange, like a machine being driven by inertia, its power diminishing but not yet completely stopped.

Then came the fall, as if something tripped him from below, causing him to lean forward, land on his knees, and then fall face-first onto the ground.

Thought was suppressed by action.

Fenafen didn't shout, didn't call for medics, didn't do anything that would reveal his position. He dropped his gun and quickly crawled towards the location of the carrier. His movements were fierce yet steady, using his elbows to propel himself up, his inner thighs pushing against the ground like a lizard moving through bushes. Without a cry, only pulling, he grabbed the carrier by the back of the collar and, using the strength of his shoulders and waist, dragged him backward, trying to pull him behind cover.

However... he didn't move it immediately. The body of the carrier seemed to be nailed to the spot by something, and didn't move at all.

Instead, the person he was pulling turned around, looking at him with a blank expression. Their eyes were clear and confused, as if asking, "What are you doing?"

There was no pain, no fear, no urgency in that expression, only a calm with a hint of helplessness, as if to say, "Are you serious?" The look in his eyes seemed to say: "Didn't we agree that you would fall down as soon as the gun went off?"
Fenafen was stunned for a moment, then he gave a speechless smile that spread from the corner of his mouth to the corner of his eyes, with a self-deprecating feeling that he had been stupid.

He was amused by his own actions. Just a moment ago, he was only focused on the gunshot and the way the man fell, completely forgetting the arrangements made before setting off.

"He fell down as soon as he heard the gunshot."

That was a clear instruction given before departure.

He forgot.

He instinctively rushed over when he saw him fall. Laughing, he simply sat down on the edge of the crater, looking around at the figures still moving, those who had already fallen, those getting up from the ground, and those brushing the dust off their clothes.

His smile didn't disappear, but it had gained a more complex layer.

“Exaggerated…” Aris exclaimed as he looked at the position.

The instant the gun fired, some people continued to charge forward, their steps maintaining the rhythm of moving forward, but most of them displayed various flamboyant postures.

Everyone has their own job.

Some runners clutch their chests or stomachs, making big movements and straining expressions, as if they're trying to put the whole performance on their shoulders, but they refuse to fall down until they feel they've dragged it out long enough.

Some, however, seemed to be under a spell of sedation, falling straight to the ground. Their bodies instantly went from an upright position to a lying position without any buffer or transition, as if someone had pulled the ground from beneath their feet and left them motionless.

Some went even further, performing a backflip with such fluidity that it resembled a gymnastic routine. Upon landing, they even bent slightly, as if adding an element of elegance with a bow.

Some were slow to realize it, only remembering it while running, and then they fell to the ground, as if they suddenly remembered, "Ah, I should fall down."

For some, it's a veteran's instinct; the moment the gun fires, their first instinct is to find cover, not to rush forward, but to run to the side or front, looking for any outline that can provide cover, or the lowest depression.

Those movements weren't acted out; they were ingrained in your bones, muscle memory honed through countless repetitions.

Since Dakos said there was no live ammunition today, then there was no live ammunition—Dakos's credibility speaks for itself.

Since it wasn't live ammunition, it can only be attributed to an exaggerated performance.

Darkus laughed too. If he couldn't laugh at this moment, he probably had a psychological problem.

This group is indeed taking this "exercise" seriously, trying to make it more like the real thing in their own way.

They actually started acting.

The scenes on the battlefield were like a condensation of the moments of being shot in different eras and countries. Every falling posture corresponded to a piece of historical footage, and every rolling trajectory seemed to be taken from a clip of an old movie.

Each one is different, and each one corresponds to a specific era.

However, the truth is... Darkus was only in the minority.

Most people immersed themselves in the scene, and the hillside was filled with all sorts of incredulous shouts and gasps of breath. The sounds seemed to be blown in from multiple directions at the same time, some sharp, some low, some with a slight tremor, and some even seemed to have fallen ill. Some people squatted down and hugged their heads, some stumbled backward and bumped into the people behind them, some covered their mouths, and some stared blankly down below, as if they were not focused on anything specific.

What would it be like if they were also part of the charge, if the flames they spewed were real bullets, if they were running across that open ground?

“This…” Rahil’s lips moved slightly, but he spoke so softly that only he could hear it.

He gripped the gun so tightly that the wood grain on the handle creaked slightly in his palm. But his gaze never left the black iron plate spitting fire; the machine gun's sound continued, intermittent, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, as if speaking in a rhythm only it understood.

He was watching, watching how it worked, watching how it turned an open space into an insurmountable barrier, watching how the running figures constantly adjusted their rhythm in front of this barrier.

He couldn't express what kind of feeling it was; it wasn't fear, it wasn't awe, and it wasn't the relief of finally understanding.

It's more like a complex feeling of being constantly folded and unfolded, like having too many drawers open at the same time in a room, each containing different and conflicting answers.

It takes a long time to digest.

But he knew that from this moment on, his understanding of war was different.

Due to their duties, Dragil and Keramm were not assigned to the wave; they remained observers, stationed further back in the supply area, but could still see everything happening ahead through the live broadcast screen.

When they saw the machine gun spitting fire, their bodies jerked at the same time, as if something rose from the base of their spines, climbing up their spines and turning into an uncontrollable physical reaction the moment it reached the back of their heads.

It was a fear that came from the depths of the soul.

They looked at each other but said nothing.

It was a confirmation of "Do you feel this way too?" that could be exchanged without words, all communication completed in a silent glance, and then each turned their gaze away and continued watching.

After looking around and confirming that no one had actually been hit, Fenafen looked ahead again, at the machine gun still spitting fire, and at the pairs of terrified eyes beneath the helmets. Clearly, these defending soldiers not far from the machine gun were also witnessing its power for the first time.

He then gave his evaluation.

"A pointless attack."

“A pointless attack,” Talos exclaimed from a hillside not far behind the lines.

“This is utter suicide,” Chintara commented from the side. “Dorian has submitted a five-point answer.”

Meanwhile, Kewell, who was also on the slope, made no comment. His face was droopy, looking as ugly and twisted as could be, as if he was trying to press something down while that thing kept pushing upwards.

Yes, he was trying to suppress the laughter that was about to erupt, but the laughter had already climbed to the top of his throat and was hitting his vocal cords.

He saw that his father also had a 'humorous' side.

Unlike him, his father didn't stand on the earthen slope to observe up close. Instead, he led the charge, running at the forefront. At the moment the gun fired, his father spread his arms, straightened his knees, and felt as if he had been hit head-on by an invisible steel plate, falling backward and crashing to the ground.

Then he looked down at his high riding boots, which were covered in mud.

In Trudeau's military system, officers' boots were not a single standard-issue item. Instead, they were high-top riding boots custom-made by senior officers at their own expense. They were made by renowned shoemakers and the boot shafts were designed with curves to flatter the leg lines. The leather used was top-grade black or brown cowhide, and the surface had to be kept shiny to show status and aesthetics. They were not included in the unified logistics distribution system of the army and were fundamentally different from the standard marching boots issued to soldiers.

As a high-ranking fear lord, his high riding boots were naturally custom-made at his own expense, but if there was any difference, it was the leather—which was related to his hobby.

Unlike his companions, his hobbies were skinning snakes and training them.

During the Battle of Conquata in Aubian, Darkus killed a Doomsday Bull. After the battle, he carefully skinned the bull and carried it with him from north to south, from Laurentloren to Asororen, and finally back to Luscia.

When the new era arrived, that piece of leather showed its value, and the shoemaker cut it into pieces, turning it into pairs of high-top riding boots.

Speaking of hobbies...

Everyone has hobbies. Maranul likes tomb raiding, Renn likes painting, Tolandil likes playing music, and Dorian...

Dorian's hobby was studying the Lustia behemoths, researching their types, and figuring out how to make them look majestic while also making them lethal and powerful, rather than studying how to set up trenches.

The fact that Dorian was able to deliver this five-point assignment was entirely due to Darkus's instructions and was entirely related to the environment of his residence.

Unlike Nagaroth, Acyriel is mild year-round, allowing for extensive digging. As they dug, a trench warfare system gradually took shape. Over time, the Acyriel garrison developed another characteristic: they were adept at constructing fortifications.

In addition, they were adept at rapid marches.

The machine gun had stopped firing by then.

The sound went from continuous to intermittent, then from intermittent to occasional, and finally fell completely silent, as if an unseen hand had pressed the pause button on the iron plate that was spitting fire.

The first wave of soldiers either got up from the ground or sat up. Some were brushing the mud and dust off their bodies, while others were checking if their equipment had fallen off when they fell.

For them, today's project is now complete.

Next, they had to advance in scattered formations toward the trenches marked with red arrows, then move along the trenches, leaving the position open to the next wave.

Just like a spring outing, we gather at school, then either take public transportation or walk to the amusement park. Once inside, we start experiencing the rides, and after the rides are over, naturally we leave to make room for the next group.

With his rifle slung over his shoulder, Fernaff entered the trench, which had been lowered by artillery fire. The soil beneath his feet was soft, and remnants of broken support timbers from the shelling still clung to the walls. He stood in the center of the trench, from where he could see what lay behind the metal plates.

He had an urge to go over and do something about it, but that urge was suppressed by his reason.

He left and stopped blocking the way.

"Is this what war will look like in the future?" Aris's voice was not loud, as if he were asking himself, or perhaps asking Darkus.

His gaze remained fixed on that position, on the now-silent black iron plate, as if he were still processing everything that had happened in the past few minutes.

“That depends on who our enemy is and in what form.” Darkus said, his hands behind his back, looking into the distance with a serious expression.

The core message today is actually quite simple: from the past to the present, and then moving towards the future.

Intimidating the Asur nobles and letting the elite troops experience modern warfare are just some of the many birds in a whole.

Strictly speaking, their performance was actually not good!
However, Dakos could understand, because there were many reasons for this. For example, it was the first time the soldiers had ever pulled the trigger of a machine gun, which had only been fired at the factory's test firing range before being delivered to the front lines. There was also a shortage of machine guns and ammunition, which meant they could only be deployed on the front lines and could not form a continuous fire network in all key positions.

All we can do is create a scene, achieve a certain effect.

Flanking fire and crossfire are nonexistent. It should be noted that Duruci was able to deploy ballistae on the flanks and create crossfire.

Indirect fire was even less likely.

In fact, in trench warfare, machine guns didn't necessarily need to see the enemy to fire. Observers would measure all the coordinates in the no-man's-land and divide it into dense grids on the map. The machine guns would be mounted on the reverse slope or in a depression behind the trench, with the muzzle raised at an angle of attack. When firing, the bullets would travel in a parabolic arc across the friendly trench and land in the enemy's assembly area or passageway.

Because the machine guns were not at the front lines, the Allied infantry had no way to retaliate.

But then again, enough has already happened today.

At least the scene was impressive, and the elves' military development had taken a giant leap forward.

Next, as I said before: the canvas is now in place; how to apply the paint and how to paint are matters for later.

There is enough time; Darkus has already won back the time.

“Our greatest enemy is ourselves, always has been, Darkus. This is my advice to you.” Aris turned to Darkus, his face serious. Seeing Darkus nod solemnly, he sighed, “Thank you.”

"Oh? What are you thanking me for?"

Darkus knew that this expression of gratitude contained many things, such as not immediately resorting to machine guns and artillery to slaughter Asur, allowing Duruci to complete the change, engaging in active diplomacy, and so on...

But that didn't stop him from asking the question he already knew the answer to, just to tease Aris.

Knowing that Dakos was teasing him, Aris ignored him and turned to look at the battlefield, where he then witnessed a scene that baffled him.

"This is... magic?"

Dakos did not respond to Aris, but laughed again, his attention now focused on the rear of the position.

As is well known, the garrison of Ashriel is not only skilled in fortifications, but also adept at using roads for rapid marches.

Specific manifestations...

Dorian's rank is High Lord of Fear, commanding an army of 200,000 men. This includes nine full-strength legions and three army groups capable of handling various combat situations. These are the 4th Army Group, codenamed "Lightning," Garros's 14th Army Group, and the 21st Army Group still stationed in Ashriel.

Currently, the 14th Army of Garros is responsible for defending the position, while the 4th Army, known as "Lightning"... this title is not given lightly, nor is it easily obtained.

“What Silver Wheel Tiger?” Darkus scoffed.

At this moment, in his field of vision, the soldiers of the Fourth Army were demonstrating why they had earned the title of "Lightning." The soldiers of the Fourth Army began their march, setting off from their barracks and advancing towards the rear of the position.

As for how we got there... we rode two-wheeled vehicles.

They traveled along the road in a grand procession, their two-wheeled vehicles gleaming with a dazzling silver light under the sun. The light reflected off the steel rims of the wheels and the frame, forming a flowing, moving surface of metal, like a moving river of metal.

Dorian the Silver Blade.

Often, a person's characteristics can be revealed from their nickname. Yes, Dorian likes silver, and black military uniforms and armor are standard, which he can't change, but he can change the color of his two-wheeled vehicle.

Not only are the wheel rims chrome-plated and silver, but the entire car body is silver.

"Lie down!" (End of Chapter)