Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

"I..." Perrine opened his mouth but didn't say anything else.

He looked down at the wine glass in his hand. The dark purple liquid swayed gently in the glass, reflecting the flickering candlelight in the depths of the hall, just like the subtle and suppressed emotions in his heart at the moment.

His Adam's apple trembled slightly, as if thousands of words were surging on the tip of his tongue, but in the end they only condensed into a slightly stiff sentence.

"You might be right...

This whisper was like a heavy stone falling into the water, creating silent ripples. He admitted it reluctantly, with a tone of almost gnashing teeth, as if he was admitting his failure, admitting that he had bowed his head, and admitting that he was just a chess piece on the chessboard of a greater power - even if that "chess player" did not use force.

This made him extremely uncomfortable.

His fingers tightened, causing the cup's foot to creak slightly, and his knuckles appeared abnormally pale under the warm yellow light.

It's not that he didn't understand what Eltharion said. On the contrary, he understood the meaning of it better than anyone else. He could see and hear that the web was spreading out silently, entangling the whole of Ulthuan, entangling every piece of land and every face he had ever known. Those forces that should have been forever hostile, those divided ideas, and those broken memories were slowly gathering in one direction under the pull of some force.

He even understood that Dacus was indeed doing something that no one else could do—sew those "threads" that were hostile to each other and divided each other into a giant web of fate, a web that silenced even the gods.

but……

His character didn't allow him to accept it.

He is a warrior, a proud Asur, a son of Iris, a man who fights with wind and waves and contends with the sword.

Make him admit that he is just a string being pulled?
A thread without will placed on a loom?
He couldn't do it, he really couldn't.

He would rather believe that he chose to embark on this path because of his reason, belief, and judgment, rather than being gently "placed" here by some invisible existence. Even if that arrangement was not a threat or an order, but just a strong and irresistible attraction - a sense of direction that surged like a tide.

“I…know that what you say is right,” he finally said, his voice low enough for Eltharion to hear. “But I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to be…categorized.”

He raised his head and looked towards the hall. There stood his former enemies and many unfamiliar faces. Some of them had already joined the new order, while others were still hesitant and watching. However, their figures were all woven into an inescapable story by the existence called "Darkius".

Who can tell whether they came here voluntarily or whether the invisible hand quietly pushed them?
“Perhaps this is the difference between us?” he whispered, as if speaking to Eltharion or to himself. “You saw the web, and became part of it. I… I’m still struggling. Struggling not to be caught in it.”

After hearing this, Isharion just glanced at Perriand, with a vague smile on his lips, which contained a bit of helplessness, a bit of understanding, and a bit of silent relief.

He didn't speak.

He knew Perrine too well. The pride buried deep in Perrine's character was like the sea breeze on the coast of northern Iris, cold, stubborn, always sharp, and unwilling to bow. And now, Perrine could say such a sentence, even with struggle and unwillingness, which was beyond his expectations.

He shook his head gently and closed his eyes.

His body still stood upright in the magnificent banquet hall with flowing lights, but his consciousness had already quietly drifted away, following the echo of the wind, the imperceptible echoes in the air, passing through the whispers echoing in his ears and the murmur of lights, crossing the long river of time, and returned to the place that was still as clear as if it had just happened yesterday -

Elsin Arwen, in the ever-empty clearing of Athel Loren.

It was once a grassland, a meeting place, a stage for disputes and reconciliation, and a place for discussions that changed the fate of the entire world.

He remembers it very clearly, even though sixty years have passed, he still remembers it.

Molaig stood beside Daquus, her figure hazy but oppressive like a mountain. She did not belong to any side, but she ran through all sides; she was the embodiment of fate, the weaver of destiny, and her every look and every word were like a needle and thread, sewing the past, present and future into an invisible giant net.

However, the fate that Molayig had woven was cruel.

It is a trajectory that is deprived of the right to choose, a path where every branch leads to tragedy, and a response of fate itself to the indifference of individual will. She is not a malicious existence, she does not even care about good or evil, she just weaves truthfully - like the movement of celestial phenomena, like the alternation of tides, never deviating.

And as her "good old son"——Dacius...

He couldn't simply use the word "cruel" to describe everything that Darkus had woven. Although it was full of sacrifice and fission, full of moments of misunderstanding, betrayal, and curse, it didn't feel like a fate of being tortured to death, but more like -

A lone ship constantly crossing stormy seas?

Every time he evaded the whirlpool, what awaited him ahead was a deeper, darker, and more treacherous sea eye. Fate did not give Dacus peace or glory, but only the ever-increasing responsibilities and choices he had to make.

Eltharion didn't know whether he admired Dacreus. Maybe he did, but more of it was an unfathomable sense of identification, a rationality that bystanders could not deny. He didn't think it was emotionally driven admiration, nor did he think it was blind loyalty, but the only solution after logical deduction.

He knew very well that if it weren't for that hand pulling these lines behind his back, perhaps this world would have collapsed without leaving any ashes at some point in time, or perhaps this world would have collapsed without leaving any ashes at some point in the future.

He sighed, but no real sound came out. Just a trace of invisible breath slowly slid down from his nostrils, like a silent sigh questioning fate.

Just then, a hand gently pulled his arm.

Caryl.

The force was very light, but it had a gentle power that dragged the soul back to reality from the distant world. He opened his eyes, as if waking up from a dream, and the light of the crystal chandelier slowly focused in front of his eyes. The light and shadow danced on the glass, reflecting a grand event that was going on.

In my ears I could hear the whispers of the crowd and the clatter of cups.

He turned around and looked at Kelly. There was no urgency or doubt in his lover's deep eyes, only quiet understanding and a gentle call.

Yes, dreams must end eventually, and reality continues.

He must return to this moment, to this venue made up of "lines", and continue to participate in the interweaving of the fate of this continent as a witness, as a point on the line.

"Who is that in the green dress?" Kelly suddenly asked in a low voice, glancing at a woman. It was a figure that seemed calm but had a strong temperament, like the king among the grass and trees, and the wise man among the wind.

"Liv." Eltharion glanced at her and said in a calm tone with a certain respect, "She is Asrai."

"Aslai?" Kelly was slightly stunned. She was unfamiliar with the name Liv and was a little confused. Issarion had not told her about this person before, and she had not seen this person on the way back.

“She has a great title,” Eltharion said lightly, “The Prophet of Athel Loren.”

"Prophet?" Kelly frowned, becoming even more confused.

This was inconsistent with the information she had. If she remembered correctly, the prophet should be Terra. However, she was smart and reacted quickly, with a glimmer of understanding in her eyes.

"She...has passed it on to Terra, right?"

Isharion nodded slightly, his eyes lingering on Liv for a moment before he spoke.

"The former prophet, who once told the Asrai about the rhythm of nature and the guidance of the stars, has now left the forest and gone to Asheril with Daxus."

His tone was calm, as if he was recounting a piece of history, but deep in his heart there were subtle waves.

Even though Liv was a prophet, the spiritual symbol of Athel Loren, she could not escape the threads woven by Dacreus.

There is no exception to fate. Even if you have predicted your fate, you will ultimately be guided by it.

At this moment, on the other side of the venue, Liv was talking quietly with Terra. The two stood side by side, their figures like old trees and new buds under the light, as calm as ever but giving people a sense of frozen time.

Standing beside them were the Twilight sisters - Nestra and Arohan. They quietly stayed by Liv's side, like guardians and relatives.

Beside them were the Weavers and Spellsingers of the Asrai family, as well as several Woodland Lords of the Spellcasting family. Most of them were silent, nodding and whispering occasionally, as if a corner of this banquet hall had been rewritten as a part of Athel Loren.

As a companion of the Twilight sisters, Sesin-Hal also appeared in the meeting place. But she did not stay with Nestra and Arohan, but quietly appeared at the edge of the dining area, and talked with the red dragons together with Berg-Shun. From the sly smile on her face from time to time, the topic did not seem to be serious, and even had a bit of light-hearted and teasing taste.

"See the one with braids in his hair? That's Asanok." Isharion paused, pointed to the crowd on the other side and said.

"Ainir? Or Asrai?" Kelly opened her eyes wide, with a strong curiosity in her tone. As a spellcaster, she could feel the power of Asanok, and she had a natural curiosity about this kind of existence.

Eltharion raised his lips slightly and said calmly, "His identity... is difficult to define. If I have to classify him, I personally think he is a 'stray Asur'?" He paused, "He is from Ivresse, a descendant of the House of Veniol."

As soon as the voice fell, everyone looked at each other, with shock or suspicion in their eyes. They knew their hometown too well, especially the part about the history of Iris - the Wennior family was declared extinct a long time ago, and now only existed in history books and monuments.

"The Vinio family has... long ago..." Felga said in a low voice. He didn't finish his words, but the meaning was enough.

"He and Caradrell are cousins."

Everyone's expressions froze for a moment, and then they showed some understanding.

They did not lament that Asanoak had lived for so long. After all, there was still a Shadow King in Ulthuan who had come down from the Great Sundering.

There was no lament about Asanok's relationship with the fifth Phoenix King, Caradrell. The descendants of Bel-Shana had reappeared, so the news that Caradrell's cousin was still alive was not so shocking.

"And the one he is talking to." Isharion raised his chin and pointed at the woman standing in front of Asanok, "Leandra, Leandra Asino."

"Arsinoe? Caledo? This..." Alagaron was speechless for a moment, and was immediately replaced by surprise before he could finish his words.

"Yes, of the orthodox Caledor bloodline, from the House of Asino." Isharion nodded first, and then told about what he knew about Leandra.

On the other side, Italis was holding a wine glass, walking slowly through the banquet. He seemed to be wandering around casually, his pace was neither fast nor slow, and his eyes never lingered on anyone, as if he was just an ordinary guest, looking for the aftertaste of the next sip of wine under the light.

But in fact, his actions were not aimless. Every turn and every approach seemed to have a purpose and rhythm. He was not wandering, he was observing, searching, and waiting for an opportunity.

At this moment, Viena and Dorien finished their brief conversation. The former said goodbye with a smile, while the latter bowed his head in thought. Then, just as Dorien turned around, a figure gently bumped into his shoulder.

"Sorry." Italis said in a low voice, with a polite tone. Dorien nodded subconsciously, without showing any strange expression on his face, not even a trace of rejection of Asur. As a noble, how to disguise and hide his true intentions in occasions seemed to be his innate instinct.

Moreover, in such a lively and crowded occasion, minor collisions are common. Although he didn't understand why an Asur would choose to hang out in the circle of Duruchi, with some mission, some purpose?
But the next second, his steps stopped.

An extremely strange feeling came to his mind, instantly waking him up from his habitual etiquette and complicated thinking. He looked at Asul in front of him. It was a face he had never seen before. It was strange and cold. The face was as clean as metal that had just left the forge, without any trace of memory.

But his voice, that highly recognizable, low tone with a slightly sharp ending, was like a sharp blade that pierced deep into the soul, suddenly touching upon some echo that had been sealed for a long time.

Dorien's eyes widened. He tried to calm himself, but he couldn't ignore the instinctive reaction in his body, the intuition that came from deep in his blood - there was some kind of connection between him and this person.

A connection that shouldn't exist, but can't be denied.

Italis just looked at Dorien quietly, his expression calm and without any ripples.

He could see that Dorien had aged a lot.

Perhaps it was the passage of time, or perhaps it was political affairs and affairs that had worn out Dorien's edge. His brother was no longer the young and vigorous Drucci, but a soldier who had experienced many storms, had a sharp gaze, but was always lonely?
He still remembered how they had parted in Asheril, when his brother was still young. He looked at the man in front of him and saw the similarities between his brother and his previous appearance. Under Dorien's slightly tired face, he could still vaguely see the shadow of the past.

"Do we... know each other?" Dorien finally spoke, his tone mixed with hesitation, uneasiness, and a hint of unspeakable hope?

"I don't know him." Italis answered in the same tone as before. When he saw his brother's eyes widen, he showed his signature smile when he was young. He raised his glass and shook it gently towards Dorien, as if saying goodbye, or as if making an agreement, "We will get to know each other in the future... get to know each other again."

After he finished speaking, he turned and left, leaving Dorien with his back.

Dorien stood there like a petrified man, his eyes still fixed on him. He looked at the figure moving away, his heartbeat became disordered, and for some reason, it seemed as if a crack had been torn open deep in his chest.

After a long time, he spoke in a low voice, as if he was talking to himself, or as if he was trying to awaken a buried memory.

"Julian..."

As soon as the name came out of his mouth, he could no longer hide the emotions churning in his eyes.

At this moment, the venue has gradually become quiet, like a stage whose curtain is about to fall, waiting for the last scene to appear, announcing the beginning of a new play.

No one gave any orders, nor did anyone shout out loud calls, but everyone's conversations seemed to be drawn away one by one by invisible threads. The voices were swallowed up, but all eyes were drawn together, as if the air in the entire hall had been twisted into a taut thread, pulling towards the slowly opening door.

They saw him walk in—the being whose name had been etched into the place where land, sky, and sea met.

Daxus was still wearing the same skin that hadn't changed for a thousand years, and the purple robe with a crimson interior. It had no gold thread, no patterns or decorations. It was plain yet could suppress all the ostentatiousness of the gorgeous clothes.

The corners of his robe brushed the ground lightly, and on the belt around his waist hung ornaments that symbolized glory and power: Viszar, the silver scepter, and some miscellaneous things whose meanings only a very few people knew, or some things that were full of functionality.

And beside him, the flame-like gorgeous figure was equally eye-catching.

Drusala, holding his arm, dressed in a nearly burning red robe, looked like a tamed flame, or a queen who had just walked out of a pool of blood.

She was stunningly beautiful and extremely graceful, and when she walked, it was as if all the light in the hall made way for her. She walked side by side with Daquus, like a combination of gods and fate, a resonance of light and fire.

Dai Si no longer held his head high, and his indifferent expression disappeared, replaced by a rare solemnity and silence. He slowly put his hands away and stood up straight.

The circle of Asur wizards surrounding Salir seemed to suddenly realize something, and silently took a step back, automatically making way for a long and narrow passage - the passage led directly to Salir, and also to a silent eye contact between Daxus and him.

In a corner of the hall, Chupakoko and Tiktato, who were eating something that looked crispy and sweet, stopped and looked up. Their metallic pupils sparkled in the light, and the crowns on their heads began to change color.

Ryan, Cowell and Kallion, who were teasing them, were joking with each other, but now they all became serious. They put away their playful expressions, as if they realized that a ritual event was unfolding and they should not stay out of it.

On the side, the red dragons that were slowly licking the sweet liquor and barbecue also stopped. They raised their necks, their pupils shrank like needles, and stared at the man.

Then, the clear sound of boots colliding could be heard, echoing in the hall like the awakening call of some ancient legion.

Then, clear and sonorous sounds of boots hitting the ground were heard, like the awakening command of some ancient legion, echoing in this glorious and dazzling hall, shaking the metal, glass and echoes, and penetrating people's hearts.

This is a solemn signal.

The naval and land forces of Druch stood tall as statues, their movements in unison, followed closely by the naval officers of Asur. The military officers Red Dragon, Ainel and Aslai also joined in without hesitation. They all struck their chests with their right fists, then raised them high, saluting with the most standard and solemn military salute to the being standing at the intersection of light and shadow.

Dacus did not participate in the internal affairs of the army, but he was in charge of the navy, and his military rank was Grand Admiral of the Navy.

Eltharion had no military rank, and as Malekith's lieutenant, he had never been formally awarded any title, but he never questioned his status in the Druki Army system. He also pounded his fist on his chest and saluted with his head raised. His movements were crisp and firm, with an unquestionable quiet strength.

The people around him were stunned for a moment and looked at each other, with some surprise, some astonishment, and a bit of incomprehensible respect in their eyes.

After the brothers continued, Alagaron was the first to raise his hand, slamming the heavy hammer against his chest and saluting; while Ahail, Perrine and Felgar on the side had complicated expressions, with helplessness, confusion and hesitation in their eyes, but they finally joined in silently, as if they were pushed forward by some silent trend, or perhaps they were also shocked by the solemn atmosphere.

The members of the Storm Weaver Cult spontaneously performed the salute ritual among believers.

Dacus' friends, those few who had walked with him, fought side by side with him, and shared their hearts with him, also expressed their respects in their own familiar ways: some knelt on one knee, their eyes devout and warm; some bowed slightly, as if quietly responding to some kind of fate's gaze.

When Salir slowly raised his hand and solemnly placed it over his chest to salute Daquus, the Asur archmages who were still hesitating looked at each other, their eyes filled with complex emotions - shock, confusion, awe, hesitation...

Then, they also lowered their heads, silently imitating Salir's actions, putting their hands on their hearts, and bowing their heads to this...legendary existence.

The hall was silent.

But Dacus did not respond to the crowd's courtesy.

He did not return the greeting, nor did he bow his head, nor did he say a word of thanks. He simply stretched out his right hand, palm up, five fingers naturally spread out, and raised it high in the air.

At this moment, even time stopped.

Is this a response?
No.

This is a declaration.

His palm was like a weight raised by a judge, and also like the manifestation of some higher-level will. A silent wave spread in everyone's hearts - there was no coercion, no order, but it could not be disobeyed.

He stood there quietly, letting the countless awe and faith in him surge like the tide and recede like the evening tide. He stood still like a statue under the light and shadow woven by the starry sky and candlelight.

Then, slowly, extremely slowly, he pressed his palm down lightly, his fingertips seemed to be smoothing the waves, as if suppressing drastic changes, as if gently but firmly pressing this world from the noisy high platform into the orbit preset by fate.

"Go on." He opened his mouth, moved his lips slightly, and uttered a word, silently.

But that silent language resonates deep in everyone's heart.

After saying this, he turned around, took Drusala's hand, and slowly walked to the edge of the hall. His steps were steady, yet like a slowly advancing torrent of fate.

After walking a few steps, when Drusala gently loosened his hand, he stretched out his arms and hugged the figure that staggered towards him tightly.

Chupa Coco.

He threw himself into Dacus' arms, like a hot stone, or like a memory falling from the depths of time.

Daxus lowered his head, took the lizard with a white crown and unable to straighten its back into his arms, and gently patted the faded scales with his hands.

They hugged quietly for a while.

When Chupakoko stepped back, Daxus looked down at him with a complicated look in his eyes, like emotion and pity.

Skinks have a limited lifespan.

The organ on Chupa Coco's crown, which was once colorful and radiant, is now much dimmer. The color is still changing slowly, but it is no longer vivid and dazzling.

Time did not spare Chupacoco after all. Even his staggering steps just now made Daxus' heart tighten.

He was afraid that Chupakoko would fall there and die in Ulthuan.

"Why is your hair white?" Chupakoko raised a short claw and pointed at Dakus's white hair, speaking in a hissing lizardman language, his eyes full of concern and question.

"What you think." Daxus replied without hesitation, his tone gentle and serious, as if he was stating a fact.

Chupacoco paused and tilted his head. His eyes were full of suspicion, shock, and disbelief, but there was no emotion, self-blame or shame. There was even a hint of disdain as if to say, "Do you take me for a fool?"

"Then why don't you come and see me?" asked Chupacoco, who was exempted from the PUA judgment.

Daxus was stunned for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed.

The laughter was crisp and clear, like the relief after many years of heavy depression. It was a hearty and natural laugh.

Drusala, Cowell, Ryan and Kalyan beside him also laughed.

This is the reunion of Dacus and Chupacoco, another form of greeting between comrades-in-arms. It does not need to be grand or sentimental. Just a few rounds of verbal battles are enough to make up for countless empty greetings. (End of this chapter)