Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

In fact, Ahail disagrees.

He disagreed with the navy's choice, Eltharion's choice, Morarion's choice, and even more so, Finnubar's decision.

But then again, what can he do? What else can he do?
He attended the banquet, dressed in formal attire, and stood on the mirrored floor of the Emerald Sea Palace, his shadow lengthened by the lights, intertwined with the shadows of his supporters, silent but inseparable.

He has already stepped into this chess game, and his existence has become a stance.

He understood it too clearly.

A deep feeling of powerlessness spread in his chest, as slow and irresistible as the tide. It was a feeling of pain caught in the cracks, a premonition of one's personal will being crushed by the torrent of the times before the great era was about to come, and a despair of being unable to spread one's wings when the wind of fate blew by.

He turned his head and looked at the great wizards who were gathered not far away.

As someone who has been in this circle for a long time, Ahail can call out almost every one of their names: Caryl's father - Anullion, the bad-tempered Bell-Tanya, the kind and generous Morian, the sharp-tongued Aurelian, the always stern-faced Arthuris and the indifferent Carylis, etc.

There were some he didn't know, and some he knew but were not here now.

He knew why these people gathered there. It was not for greetings or socializing, but because there was a heavier gravity in the center of them.

Saril.

An existence different from them.

Ahail had seen Salir on the way back, and at a glance, he felt an indescribable sublimity. It was not the power of power, nor the power of magic, but a sense of "presence" that needed no explanation - like a light, naturally making people look up; like a pillar, naturally making people rely on.

Even without his second sight, he knew what Sarir was—it was the walking embodiment of Hoth's Will!

Needless to say.

This is exactly why those great wizards gathered around Salir. They were not trying to please him or flatter him, but to worship him.

Although Ahail is a warrior, he is not stupid. He knows very well the significance of Salir standing here.

If Finnubar is the key to the gates of Lothern, then Sarir is the key to the gates of the White Tower of Hoth.

By then, everything will have changed.

Real change.

He could even imagine the commotion caused by Salir's passage through the Kingdom of Safri, the neutral families making their choice, and the White Tower issuing the clearest order in a thousand years. He could also imagine how the entire White Tower would respond when Salir stood directly below it - a low hum, a resonance, or... surrender?
In short, no matter what, it is impossible to draw swords and fight.

Thinking of this, his mood became even more complicated. Depression, irritability, struggle, and pain piled up in his heart layer by layer. He didn't want that future to come, perhaps because it was too fast, or perhaps because he was afraid that he had no place in that future at all.

He looked at those familiar great wizards with empty eyes.

“Is this… the world I want?”

He didn't say it out loud, but he had asked this question countless times in his heart.

He had never been disloyal, loyal to Yvresse, loyal to Asur, loyal to his oath. But now, all that was beginning to blur.

He did not agree with the navy's beliefs, did not agree with Eltharion's changes, did not agree with Morarion's powerlessness, and did not agree with Finubar's compromise.

But he couldn't refuse.

His lifeless eyes slowly turned, trying to escape from the hustle and bustle around him, trying to find a corner where he could rest his thoughts. At this moment, he unexpectedly saw a figure that was out of place in this palace from the gap between the crowd.

In that inconspicuous corner, a white-haired old man was leaning quietly against the wall, wearing a black eye mask on his face, and the whole person looked like a shadow walking out of a dream.

The old man looked defenseless, yet intimidating. He folded his arms, his left foot resting on his right, and looked up at the crystal chandelier in the center of the hall that shone like a star. His leisurely look formed a sharp contrast with the atmosphere in the palace, as if this world had nothing to do with him, and he did not belong to this world.

But he is clearly here.

Just as Ahail's eyes fell on him, the old man seemed to notice something, slowly lowered his head and looked at him.

At that moment, Ahail had an illusion that the eyes covered by the blindfold were not blind, but as calm as water, but could see through his soul.

Then the old man nodded.

With just a nod, Ahail's back straightened unconsciously. He folded his hands in front of his chest and bowed solemnly to the old man. His movements were extremely natural and full of respect from the heart.

He knew who this was, this old man, not a demigod, but he was the embodiment of Val walking in this world.

When they first met at sea, the old man gave Ahair a sword, a sword that could not be judged by common sense.

Ahaier had tried to control it several times during practice, but every time he drew his sword, he would always hear a faint sound, like the whisper of steel, like a sleeping beast turning over. He knew that it was not an ordinary weapon, that sword was enough to become a symbol of a family, a token that could be passed down for hundreds of generations, but he could not use it normally.

Eltharion had told him of the old man's past, a being once forgotten and now remembered. But he had not said why Deth had come aboard, or why he had returned to Ulthuan.

Although Ahaier was young, he was not naive. He knew very well that the significance of this old man standing here was far more profound than others imagined.

Just as Sarir represents the will of Hoth, the blessing of light, symbolizing the return of order, glory and wisdom - but Des is another kind of existence.

Ahail felt as if something was tightening in his heart.

Why did they all come back?
What are they gathering for?
Has all this reached a point of no return?
His fingers trembled slightly, and his knuckles turned white. He found that he had no way to intervene, no way to say anything. The ones who really pushed this storm were not the navy, not the mages, not the parliament, but these "coordinate" level figures - Sarir, Des, Eltharion, Finnubar... and he was just a gear moving along their will.

He once again realized that his will was as light as a leaf in the wind. His existence was of no weight in this chess game that would decide the fate of a thousand years. It was not that it had no value, but that it was too small, so small that it could not shake even a single decision.

He lowered his head, trying to hide the hesitation in his heart.

This is not cowardice or retreat, but a deeper sense of frustration.

He once thought that he could protect the kingdom and Ulthuan with his sword, but now, he suddenly realized that perhaps, no matter how long he held the sword, he could not stop the coming roar of the era.

Soon, another thought flashed through his mind, something deeper and more terrifying than all the previous entanglements -

Why do these "coordinate"-level beings gather together? Who is driving all this? And who makes these tracks that should have been independent and separated from each other finally converge?
Could it be... that this person is what Eltharion mentioned? That Druch?
Dacus!?
A name that has never appeared until this moment, a shadow that seems to have long been hidden in the core of the vortex of the great era.

He suddenly realized that he had never even really "seen" Dacreus once from beginning to end. He didn't know what Dacreus looked like, the only thing he knew was Eltharion's almost devout admiration, the kind of trust that transcended all rationality.

That is a dangerous belief.

An unprecedented desire arose in his heart - he wanted to "see" Daquus. He was eager to know what kind of face this person who almost invisibly reshaped the pattern of Naggaroth and even the entire elven world had? What kind of irresistible charm did he have?
He searched the hall with his eyes, as focused and anxious as a hound sniffing its prey. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of something unusual.

Serion was talking to a being he "seemed" to know. Yes, not unfamiliar, but not familiar either.

The man in the black Drucci-style military uniform had a blurry face. He seemed to have seen him somewhere, but he was not sure. The uniform made it impossible for him to make a correct judgment.

Not only that, there was another person standing next to the two men, a completely stranger. He had a cold expression, a strong aura, and even his standing posture had a sense of oppression unique to soldiers - was it Duruchi?

Ahail couldn't tell.

At this time, Isharion on the side noticed Ahair's emotional fluctuations. He glanced at Ahair, and then looked in the direction Ahair was looking.

"He is Gilead Lotharn-Marthanas," he whispered, with a rare solemnity in his tone.

"Malekith's nephew?"

"Yes." Eltharion nodded.

His words were like nails that drove the name into everyone's mind.

Gilead, like him, Karashir and Bel-Ahor, set foot on Naggaroth together. Karashir and Bel-Ahor first followed Dakwus as adjutants, and then made their own fortunes. Karashir entered the military system and worked in the army logistics, while Bel-Ahor was in the civil administration system.

Gilead and he became Malekith's adjutants. Later, Gilead was promoted to commander of the 32nd Army and completely grasped the real power.

And he... is still hesitating on the edge, wandering around the periphery of the core of power, looking a little awkward.

He knew that among the three kingdoms of Itain, Iris and Cosqui, Iris's army was the first to be prepared, and with the previous foundation...

The army group he leads should be ranked higher than those of other armies in the Kingdom of Ulthuan, right?

He was very realistic. He was not wavering, entangled, or confused at all. He was very firm, otherwise he would not have returned to Ulthuan, nor would he have behaved like that at the meeting in Tor Yvresse.

Now that he had made the decision, he would do everything he could, just like Finnubar had done, to minimize the losses and the grief. If necessary, he would be like Basnar, but he did not think his ending would be like Basnar. (Chapter 728)
He didn't think he would get to that point.

At least not now.

On the way back, he told the people around him about Gilead, but it was obvious that they only cared about the fact that Gilead was Malekith's nephew.

He could understand it, after all, Gilead's ancestor was Bel Shana, and it was difficult not to pay attention to it. Many times, the glory of identity would overshadow all efforts.

"Who is that person next to him? I seem to have seen him somewhere..." Felga asked with a frown, his eyes full of confusion.

Eltharion took another look, his eyes carrying a hint of confidence and inertia. He thought he would know them. Who wouldn't he know? He had been to Laurent Loren, Athel Loren, Asheril, and Naggaroth. He had seen too many faces and met countless people. He might not be familiar with them, but he would definitely know them.

However, this time, he was wrong.

His brows knitted slightly, this illusion made him extremely uncomfortable. He had indeed never seen this person before, and had no impression of him, not even the slightest vague memory.

"Serion?" He spoke with a tentative and joking tone, as if he was making fun of himself. But this joke was not funny at all, and his companions around him rolled their eyes, showing helpless and disgusted expressions.

Serion, who returned with them, also came to the banquet, but since entering the door, he did not go with them, but blended into the crowd alone.

"Elion?" Just as everyone was puzzled, Alagalon's voice rang out. He narrowed his eyes, stared at the man for a while, and his tone gradually became heavier, "I met him once a long time ago."

When this sentence came out, no one cried out in surprise, nor did they exchange glances as in a drama. This was not a novel, nor a theater. They just nodded silently.

They were familiar with this name. In the past few months, Elion had appeared too often. Whether it was the debate about whether the navy should be dispatched or the heated debate about whether the Battle of Anaheim should be launched, his figure was always there, like a shadow.

Now, still alive, he appears in the Palace of the Emerald Sea and talks to Cerion - it is obvious that they not only know each other, but also have a close relationship.

Serion is not of the same generation as Eltharion. He belongs to the previous generation and has experienced turmoil that is far more complicated and cruel than theirs.

He once fought alongside the Raiders of Arion and galloped across the plains of Arion. He also wandered in the court of the Everqueen and enjoyed the luxurious life unique to that forest kingdom. His identity and his past are like part of the chronicles of Asur.

Later, he was appointed commander of the Eagle Gate, located in the mountains of Terenloc to the west of Ulthuan.

But now, the determination and silence on his face disappeared, and when talking with old friends, the deep emotions inevitably overflowed. The scar on his left eye, which was so deep that the bone could be seen, twisted slightly with the ups and downs of his expression, like the ghost of the old war struggling to revive on his face.

Eltharion shrugged. Although he couldn't hear what Serion and Elion were saying, he could roughly guess what the conversation was about.

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but smile helplessly.

Ahail smiled a speechless smile, even with a hint of absurd sarcasm. He could no longer remain calm - at this moment, he really felt sad for Imrik.

He even had the urge to observe three minutes of silence for the Regent.

He really didn't know how Imrik would continue to rule, how he should be the regent, and how he should fight the war.

As soon as this "new king" ascended the throne, he had to face constraints from all over the country and the fragmentation of the military and political system.

The kingdoms of Itain, Iris, and Cosqui stood on the side of Duruki, and the gates of Ulthuan were wide open. And now, the power structure of the Kingdom of Terenlock was also undergoing a subtle sway.

Although Elion is far away from the Kingdom of Terenlock, he has a certain influence within the kingdom, otherwise he would not have become the garrison of Anaheim.

Coupled with the sudden emergence of Gilead, which has noble blood, the combination of these two core forces is enough to shake the entire aristocracy of Terenlock and start to rethink the balance between "loyalty" and "interests".

And Des...

He did not know what the Vaal followers in other places were like, and he had no intention of speculating. But as an Asur, he knew, better than anyone, the situation in Ulthuan.

In the Kingdom of Cosqui, there is a place called "Sky Forge", located deep in the crater, not far from the emerald and quiet Kingdom of Avalon. There, it is the gathering place of the followers of Vaal, where faith, forging and war are integrated into one in that blazing land, day and night.

The mages of Avalon cultivate the embryos of spears and arrows on the trees, and they slowly mature between the branches like fruits. When the time comes, the mages will cut them, seal them, and then send them to the Skyforge - there, the Vaal believers will equip them with cold and sharp blades, turning the wooden spears into weapons that can pierce the fog of war.

But Ahail doesn't think that will be Dyess' first stop.

He shook his head and sighed.

It was not because the believers there were not pious, nor because the flames there were not hot enough, but because the Kingdom of Kosqui had made its own choice. In this great change, it had quietly chosen to stand on the side of Duruchi.

And the significance of Dice's presence, especially his presence now in Ulthuan, could not be more obvious.

If the Skyforge is the birthplace of Asur's exquisite arrows, a combination of forest, magic and the will of war; then the "Vaal Anvil" of the Kingdom of Caledor is another symbol - it is the divine fire that burns endlessly in the heart of the volcano, the core of Caledor's pride and Ulthuan's will.

There is the true weapon manufacturing center of Asur, the hometown of swords, and the place where the hearts of warriors are forged.

and so……

And at this moment, the figure of Salir quietly emerged in his mind - the demigod, the reflection of Hos in the human world.

His arrival meant that the Kingdom of Safri, which should have been one of Imrik's largest and most stable supporters, had quietly wavered in its stance and might even have begun to tilt.

At this moment, Imrik's figure reappeared in Ahail's mind. But it was no longer the Imrik who looked up proudly and looked down upon others, nor was it the arrogant Lord of Caledor.

But...

A dead body lying in a coffin that has not yet been closed.

It was quiet and deserted, with the scent of spices still lingering around, as if even death itself was still hesitating whether to bring the drama to an end.

At this moment, Ahail wanted to close his eyes, not to see, not to think. He knew too well what all this meant - Terenlock wavered, Caledor was powerless, Safri hesitated, and Cosqui, Iris, and Itain turned against him.

This is still Ulthuan, and the Asrai and Aenil from Elsin Arwen...

Under the pressure of reality, the word "Regent" is no longer a symbol of power, but more like a belated obituary.

Is this too heavy?

"We...Duruchi, Aslai, Ai Niel...We are like strings, being pulled and entangled by others."

Eltharion murmured in a low voice, as if he was talking to himself, or as if he was talking to Perrine and Ahair.

When he said this, he paused and looked past the crowd to the shadows intertwined under the dim lights in the depths of the hall. Those gazes, voices, footsteps... everything seemed to be a clue.

"And Dacius..." He took a deep breath, as if suppressing a heavy realization, "He is the weaver, the one who weaves the web."

He did not use the word "leader," nor "commander-in-chief," or "king." He used "prophet-weaver."

It is not a glorious title, but a revelation of destiny.

"His hands picked up the threads one by one, and then intertwined them one by one, weaving a web...that none of us could escape from." Eltharion lowered his eyes, but a look of almost awe appeared in his eyes.

He turned his head, his tone becoming somewhat obscure, yet with a hint of dark admiration.

"Finubar is a thread. Marin is a thread. You and I are threads. Even the incarnations of the gods, Des and Salil, they... are threads."

"Even..." He smiled bitterly and then shook his head.

“The line is free, but the line is never free. It thinks it is a straight line, but in fact it is just a node in the net waiting to be pulled.”

At this point, his voice was so low that it was almost drowned out by the noise of the banquet.

Perrine, Ahail, and the others were silent.

No one responded.

It’s not that I don’t understand, but that I understand it too well.

They looked at the hall, at the glamorous guests, at the sounds of conversation, greetings, and tentative attempts, and suddenly realized that they were also a line in that net, deep or shallow, long or short, and there was no way to escape.

And behind the web of fate that is becoming increasingly dense, there is a figure whose face cannot be seen, who is slowly sliding the shuttle, pulling out the future inch by inch.

That is the "Prophecy Weaver" named Daxus.

(Echoed,) (End of this chapter)