Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The prisoners' wails echoed between the rough and cold stone walls. The painful groans and heart-wrenching cries were repeatedly amplified by this huge dungeon, as if countless wronged souls were wailing for a long time here, and the echoes lingered for a long time. They were bound tightly by heavy chains, the iron rings were deeply embedded in their flesh, and the blood had blended with the rust.

Several elves in black robes stood above and watched coldly, each holding a curved dagger in their hands. The blade was covered with eerie runes and shone with a cold and eerie light. In the dim firelight of the dungeon, it glowed with a faint blue glow, like a scythe swung by the god of death.

A cell was carved out of a stone wall in the dungeon. The space was low and cramped, with blackened cracks all around. In the center of the cell was a cast iron stove, where coal jumped and burned. The flames reflected the redness of the stone walls and the human face, like a blazing pupil that would never go out.

Two slaves crouched by the furnace, their bodies covered with scars and their backs bent like a bow. They operated the bellows to keep the flames burning and continuously sent hot air into the furnace. Their movements were slow but they dared not stop, and every breath was accompanied by fear.

Standing beside the fire, Korthek, fully armed, held the Hammer of Vaul in one hand and a stack of yellowed parchment in the other. The handwriting was dense and filled with ancient spells and ritual symbols. He lowered his head and studied the notes attentively, his expression grim, like a volcano about to wake up.

At this moment, a light sound of footsteps came from the dungeon door, steady and confident, with a noble and dangerous rhythm. Morathi led three female sorcerers in sacrificial robes into the stone chamber, their long robes dragging on the ground, like a black tide, and shadows seemed to spread with their footsteps.

Their breath was cold and powerful, and every breath carried the whisper of death and fate. The three of them were Drusala, Ashnir, and the other was the only child of Cyriol.

Following closely behind were more slaves, whose eyes had been cruelly gouged out, with blood dripping from their hollow eye sockets, as if they were unworthy of witnessing the mysterious scene that was about to come. They staggered, their shoulders trembled, but they still carefully carried the sacred yet terrifying burden.

Malekith, was placed on a stretcher made of ebony and silver.

His frail body collapsed on the silk mat, and he looked like ashes burned by the flames. The red and black blanket covered him, but it could not hide the scars from the flames. His skin was charred, and burnt flesh and carbonized bones could be vaguely seen in the cracks. The flames had tried to burn him completely, leaving only his soul. His eyes stared out from his charred face, revealing indifference, pain, and an unextinguished will.

Morathi raised her hand slightly and pointed to the empty space in the center. The slaves were whipped and driven to place the stretcher in the center of the hall, not daring to hesitate for a moment. After completing the task, they fled the dungeon as if they were being expelled, with whip shadows and scolding falling behind them.

"He must stand up!" Kotek glanced at Malekith who was lying down, without a trace of pity in his tone.

"I can't..." Malekith whispered, his voice weak and hoarse, "The flames have taken away my strength."

"Soon you won't be like this anymore." A sinister smile appeared on the corner of Priest Vaal's mouth. "You will be more powerful than ever!"

"I will grant you power," Morathi said, her voice soft but cold as ice.

She slowly walked towards a prisoner, a young elven woman with fear and despair written all over her face. Without hesitation, she reached out her hand, grabbed the prisoner's silver hair, and dragged the prisoner to her. The prisoner screamed and struggled, but his thin body was like a blade of grass in Morathi's hands.

With her other hand, she gestured to Ashnir beside her and took over a gleaming curved dagger. The blade was trembling, eager for the baptism of blood.

She chanted in a low voice, the spell was rough and harsh, with a breath of malice and blasphemy, spewing out from her bloody lips. The prisoner wailed in her arms, looking around in fear, trying to find a ray of hope in this endless darkness.

The knife came down and the sharp blade cut across the throat. A flash of blood took away the last desire to survive.

Morathi handed the dagger back to the servant, leaned over and grabbed the corpse's hair, holding it high, and caught the gushing blood with her other hand. She raised her head and swallowed the boiling fountain of life, then smeared the blood on her face, spreading it like a ritual.

"Drink it." She took another handful of blood and slowly put it to Malekith's almost lipless mouth. Her voice was full of command and inducement.

Malekith swallowed, licking the blood from his mother's hand like a wild animal, with a painful but instinctive growl coming from his throat. He struggled to swallow the hot blood into his body, and every mouthful of blood burned his rotten soul and slowly injected new will into his broken body. He took a deep breath and his body trembled violently, as if the fire was ignited from his body again.

He struggled and rolled on the stretcher, swaying from side to side, growling in pain. His lidless eyes stared at Morathi, madness and hatred flashing in his pupils, his fists clenched tightly, his knuckles turned white, and he kept hitting the edge of the stretcher, making a dull sound.

After another hoarse gasp, he suddenly collapsed, his limbs loose, his fingers twitching slightly, and he was as silent as a drained corpse.

But the silence did not last long.

A soft laugh escaped from Malekith's broken throat, subtle but clear, like an echo from the abyss, cold, twisted and indescribable.

The laughter broke the prisoners' wails and caused the air in the dungeon to freeze instantly. The elves that had been wailing incessantly all fell silent, with an unknown chill rising in their hearts.

Malekith sat up slowly and pushed aside the bloodstained blanket. His movements were steady and resolute. His fingers trembled slightly, but with a determination that came from the brink of death.

"Life for life!" His voice was low and slow, his throat was hoarse, but his tone had regained some of his former majesty and the unquestionable dominance of a king.

"It was only fleeting." Morathi said softly, gently holding her son's outstretched hand. Her voice was like a murmur, but also like a whispered warning, with deep coldness hidden in her tenderness.

Malekith swung one of his charred legs off the stretcher, touched the ground with his toes, and paused for a moment; then he moved his other leg and stepped heavily onto the stone floor. With the help of his mother, he stood up, his body swaying slightly, like a candle in the wind, but still standing upright stubbornly. Morathi let go of her hand and took a step back, staring calmly with no emotion in her eyes.

He staggered forward one step, then the second. His ghostly laugh echoed again between the empty stone walls, like a monster lurking in the abyss waking up from a dream. With each step forward, his back gradually straightened, and the power that had been burned out in his body was slowly returning to its place. He turned around and looked directly at Kotek who was standing by the stove.

"I'm ready."

The priest nodded slightly, then raised his hand to signal the priests behind him to come forward. The priests came forward one by one, holding pieces of metal armor as black as night. Each piece of metal had a strange shape, with unnatural curved edges, covered with ancient runes and cracks, as if they had been forged in a nightmare. Some of them could be identified for their purpose: breastplates, arm armor, throat armor, and gauntlets; while others had strange shapes, dragging black chain mail, or decorated with hinges at strange angles, like tools born in nightmares.

The first piece of armor was slowly placed into the hot furnace, and the iron and fire roared. The slaves were immediately whipped to speed up the frequency of the bellows, and the wind whistled and the flames danced.

Korthek stood before the fire, muttering a prayer to Val, his voice ancient and solemn. As the spell flowed, the wind of magic surged out, driving the fire to its extreme, and the flames became as bright as day, almost impossible to look directly at.

He reached into the furnace without hesitation, his palm passing through the flames, the heat having no effect on him. He took the piece of metal armor out of the fire, the edge of the iron piece glowing red, and the air was filled with the scorching smell of metal and flesh about to fuse.

He brought it before Malekith and stood still.

Malekith's brows furrowed slightly, and the remaining skin twitched slightly, but his eyes were always focused on the kerosene dripping from the metal, as if he had already foreseen the pain that was about to come.

"This will burn," Kotek said flatly, his tone devoid of emotion.

Malekith laughed shrilly, and in that laughter there was madness, contempt, and a kind of excitement of impending nirvana.

"I have nothing left to burn!" he whispered, his voice filled with determination and sadness, "Do it!"

A priest leaned forward, holding a hot rivet that had just been taken out of the furnace in a pair of pliers, with an orange-red glow on the surface. Kotek and the priest squatted down, and in perfect harmony, the priest pressed the hot metal against Malekith's chest. The moment it touched his skin, there was a violent hissing sound, steam rose, and the air was filled with the smell of burning flesh and blood.

Malekith laughed softly, a laugh mixed with pain and pleasure.

"Now," Kotek said, his voice low and steady, as irresistible as the sound of a heavy hammer falling to the ground.

The priest firmly put the rivet in place.

Kotek leaned over and began to chant in a low voice, an ancient spell dedicated to Vaal, each word was like a hammer from a forge, with a sense of oppression like a heat wave. He raised the Hammer of Vaal, moving slowly but firmly, and then with a light blow, he accurately hammered the hot rivet into Malekith's body - into the pre-drilled bone hole, deeply embedded in Malekith's bones.

Malekith suddenly raised his head, a tearing roar came out of his throat, his body shook violently, and he almost collapsed again. Every nerve in his body was touched by the burning coal, and every inch of his flesh and bones was rebelling against this contract from hell. How he wished he could close his eyes and use darkness to cover this purgatory-like reality, but his eyelids had long been destroyed. He could only force himself to empty his mind and sink his consciousness into the cold realm he had personally built in the depths of his soul.

There, he was not lying on an iron bed with broken wings, but sitting upright on a golden throne, as tall as before, wearing a crown and his father's armor.

Princes came in procession, kneeling before his boots and reverently kissing the toes that symbolized his authority. Music echoed on the top of the temple, and countless girls sang praises under the throne, chanting the name of Malekith and praising him as the only king under the sun.

The sun shone through the dome, illuminating his coronation ceremony, casting a long, oblique shadow like a scepter. In the distance, in a cage, a shadow of nothingness twisted in pain - it was the soul of Bel-Shana that was pulled back from Hades, forced to watch the true Phoenix King ascend the throne.

However, reality cruelly pulled him back from his fantasy.

On the stone ground beneath his feet, two drained corpses lay, blood still spreading. His body was burning again, a new round of refining fire spreading from within his body.

But he was already familiar with this pain.

His senses had learned to coexist with the fire, to see it as part of his blood.

The priests were still busy around him, painting runes on each piece of armor with the blood of the victims. The runes twisted and twisted, interweaving like a spell web. They made brushes out of elves' hair and carefully traced every bend and line of the metal, infusing the dead iron with living blood, making it half-alive.

At this moment, Malekith's lower legs and feet were wrapped in layers of hot black iron. He didn't remember when he lifted his feet, and he didn't remember if he had struggled to stand up, but he knew that he must have lifted them. He could clearly feel the rivets embedded in his heels and toes, and every pulse beat touched the spikes deep in the metal.

It suddenly occurred to him that he was like a war horse, shod, imprisoned and ready for battle.

This thought made him laugh, his laughter was dry and short, revealing a strange kind of self-mockery and pleasure.

The curse sounded, rising and falling like the tide.

Morathi still stared at him silently, her eyes deep and difficult to read. But the maids behind her had already started to sing, and their chants echoed in the hall, with overlapping words and different tones, as if notes that should not coexist were forced to be pieced together into an inharmonious but magical harmony.

It was an ancient spell that made the air tremble.

More rivets hammered into Malekith's skinny thighs like a torrential rain, the links of the armor digging into the flesh and bones on both sides of his knees, tangling with nerves. He had no time to breathe, the pain came in waves, like flames tearing at his flesh.

As more hot metal pressed against his skin, pain swallowed up his last sanity like a tide. It was pure physical suffering, not like the soul-scorching purgatory of Asuryan's Holy Fire, but still unbearable.

His consciousness retreated again, forced deeper into darkness.

There, he saw thousands of white doves flying into the clear sky, fluttering like snow and dancing to celebrate his ascension to the throne; thousands of trumpets sounded, the sound waves cut through the sky, praising his glory and great deeds to the world.

Flowers fell from the sky and the royal court was boiling like the ocean.

When he regained a clear sense of reality, he was already wearing a full set of armor from foot to neck. It was a horrible armor made of metal, runes, and the blood of the victims. It clung to his skin and seemed to be fused with his bones. His body was shaking, not only because of the pain, but also because the short flame of life in his body was extinguished.

"It's too early..." He muttered to himself, his voice erratic, "I'm falling..."

Morathi's eyes flashed, and she immediately waved to summon Ashnir.

Without hesitation, Ashnir slit the prisoner's throat and collected the gushing hot blood into a silver goblet. She held the still steaming liquid before the prince.

Malekith took the glass, his fingers pausing on the metal.

He realized that this was the first time in more than ten years that he had held something with his own hands. He slowly lowered his head and looked at his new fingers. Each one was flexible and had distinct joints, as if they were natural. He recognized the craftsmanship of the metal structure at a glance. It was a fusion of the styles of the dwarves and the elves, delicate and solid, yet elegant.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, revealing a complex smile. Even today, his great journey in the past is still bearing fruit.

He raised his head and drank the blood in one gulp. The heat flowed down his throat and filled his body like a flame. He slowly lowered his head and looked at his armored arm that was as flexible as flesh and blood. He slowly flexed and extended his fingers, feeling the delicate structure of each seam of armor moving at will. The metal was like skin, as if it had consciousness and matched perfectly.

At that moment, he was immersed in a warm memory - a time when he shared fine wine with his former best friend, Snorri, the High King of the Dwarves.

He remembered the old dwarf's frown and confusion. The elven wine was fragrant and light, with a long aftertaste, which was very different from the strong and rusty wine brewed by the dwarves. Snorri drank the whole cup of elven wine without hesitation, as refreshing as drinking water. He couldn't help but chuckle, and poured another cup for Snorri, advising him with a slightly playful tone, "Savor it carefully, let the wine roll slowly on the tip of your tongue, and moisten your mouth."

Snorri was always willing to try new things, and he did as Malekith said, exaggeratingly swirling the wine back and forth in his mouth as if he were holding a mouthful of washing water. At the end, he deliberately tilted his head back and gulped it, making a strange noise, which made Malekith unable to help laughing out loud on the spot, laughing uncontrollably.

However, Snorri... is dead.

The memory suddenly twisted, the sweetness turned into bitterness, and Malekith's heart sank, as if being pressed by a huge rock. He knew that a part of his soul had already passed away with the noble dwarf.

Since then, he never trusted anyone as much as he trusted Snorri, and never dared to open his heart to others. He buried that trust deep, and no longer allowed himself to touch the weakness of friendship. The pain of loss was so deep that he lost himself in sadness.

The fire suddenly roared higher, the flames licked the dome, and the furnace shook. Malekith was suddenly pulled back to reality, and his vision was stained with a blurry red mist, blazing and thick. He subconsciously tried to see clearly, and after a moment he realized that it was his blood, slowly flowing, evaporating into mist under the hot armor.

He blinked.

A simple action, but it brought him indescribable joy. He was finally able to close his eyes again. The eyelids were forged from black metal as thin as a cicada's wing, with exquisite craftsmanship, the right angle, and extreme precision. He slowly closed his eyes, letting everything in front of him fall into darkness and sink into a brief tranquility.

He said nothing and moved nothing, immersed in this moment, as if he were just born.

"Done!" Kotek declared solemnly, his voice ringing like a bell, echoing in the air.

Malekith opened his eyes, moved his arms, flexed his legs, and tested this new body. The burning still existed, and the pain was still eroding, but he could already see it as part of his flesh and blood, as a sign of growth.

"No!" he whispered after a moment, his voice as steady as thunder, "My crown."

Kotek was slightly startled, then turned to look at Morathi.

Morathi said nothing, just nodded slightly, and then called Drusala over.

Drusala walked over with skillful steps, holding a velvet cushion in her hand, on which was placed a crown - a crown made of dark gray metal, with sharp spikes on it, growing like thorns, in an orderly manner, just like the king's headdress conceived by a madman in his crazy delusion, full of symbols of destruction and suffering.

Morathi reached out, trying to take off the crown and place it on Malekith's head, but before her hand could touch it, Malekith suddenly raised his hand and grabbed her wrist.

Malekith's movements were as swift as thunder, full of instinctive alertness and hostility.

Morathi screamed in pain, broke free, and staggered back. A charred scar suddenly appeared on her wrist, and her skin seemed to be burned by flames, with blood bubbles faintly appearing.

"You can't touch it!" Malekith's voice was low, firm, and unquestionable. "It does not belong to you!" His eyes were burning, as if the crown was echoing his soul. "It is mine!"

While Morathi was still busy treating her burned wrist, her rapid breathing and whispering spells intertwined, Malekith had already raised the strange crown high. The spikes on it cast a long shadow in the firelight, like the finger of death reaching to the sky. He looked up motionlessly, then slowly lowered his arm and put the crown on steadily without hesitation.

"Weld it on!" he ordered, his voice like an axe splitting stone. "Make it a part of me!"

Kotek did not ask any more questions. He bowed his head and obeyed the order. He quickly summoned the priests and the furnace heated up again. The hot metal turned into a slurry in just a few breaths, as sticky as blood. The priests picked up the rivets with pliers and nailed them into the prince's skull one by one, creating an eternal fit between the bones and the crown. Every knock brought a roar in the skull, but Malekith was not moved. He closed his eyes and endured it silently, in a dream without feeling.

After a moment, Malekith reached out and pulled the edge of the crown, feeling that it was firmly embedded, as if it had long been a part of his body and was inseparable. He stopped with satisfaction and slowly closed his eyes.

He let his consciousness withdraw and wander outside of this transformed body. He fell into the deepest part of the gloomy dungeon and let Deha swallow him up like a tide. He felt the rhythm of the earth veins and the surge of the remnants of the ritual, and then took advantage of the momentum and soared up on the waves.

His consciousness broke through the palace roof like a meteor, passing through the layers of floors, passing through the throne room where his father once lived. He looked down at Tal Anlek. The former glory was now nothing more than a speck of dust and ants in his eyes. He took a step forward like flapping wings, and crossed the interface of the mortal world and entered the high-dimensional realm composed of energy.

As if for the first time he had donned the Iron Circlet, he gazed upon the Realm of Chaos - the realm of the Chaos Gods, a place where time and space, reason and form, were all illusions.

But this time, he felt no fear at all.

No struggle, no dodging.

He appeared in the form of armor, his whole body burning fiercely. The blazing white light drew a provocative flame in the endless darkness, like a blade tearing through the night, causing all the worlds to look back.

The consciousness that ordinary people could not recognize began to vibrate, and the ancient existence sleeping in the deep void slowly turned its attention, and its gaze was like a thousand stars. Malekith could feel their gaze, as heavy as the burning of a star, and as oppressive as the surging tsunami.

"I, Malekith!" he cried, his voice piercing the Chaos. In his hand a flaming sword appeared, a blade like the Sunblade wielded by Aenarion. "Son of Aenarion, slayer of demons! Hear my name, and know me - the Righteous King of the Elves!"

Then, his soul fell like a comet, and suddenly returned, and he returned to his mortal body, like a thunderbolt piercing his body, and all the magic light returned with him. His body suddenly trembled, and every rune on his armor suddenly burst into dark flames, like a netherfire that devoured the soul. He opened his metal eyelids, revealing two pupils of black fire.

He looked down at the elves around him. They lowered their heads and trembled in silence. To him, they were no longer his own kind, but only pitiful witnesses, crawling before the throne of the mortal world. His voice came through the helmet, hollow and low, as if it came from a coffin, carrying the majesty of resurrection from the dead, and echoed in the dungeon for a long time.

"I have returned!" he declared, each word like a mantra. "Worship me!"

Everyone knelt down without hesitation, surrendering in unison, their movements were as if they were obeying a divine oracle. They didn't dare to raise their heads, or even breathe.

There is only one exception.

Morathi looked directly at Malekith, and through the armor and the flames, she saw the essence of her son. There was no fear in her eyes, no awe, only pure joy and pride.

"Hail Malekith!" she cried, her voice piercing the void and the wails, awakening all that slumbered. "Hail the Witch-King of Ulthuan!"

Her tears rolled down her cheeks like golden threads. They were tears of joy, the testimony of her years of waiting, and the worship of a mother who finally saw her son stand up again.
-
Malekith looked at Des silently in the hall of Asuryan Temple, and then slowly turned his gaze to the Hammer of Vaal in Des's hand. The hammer head was golden, heavy and solemn, with the symbol of lightning engraved on it, and the runes were shining quietly like sleeping thunder, as if they could wake up at any time.

Then, he reached out his hand and took the Hammer of Vaal from Dess without a word. He held the ancient sacred tool in both hands and swung it a few times. His movements were swift and neat, yet with a childlike lightness. The shadow of the hammer passed through the air, leaving a faint golden glow in the hall, like a falling meteor.

“I thought no one could wield it anymore,” Malekith whispered, his voice echoing through the hall. “I thought it was useless.”

As he spoke, he returned the Hammer of Vaal to Dais, his movements gentle but respectful.

He could not wield the Hammer of Vaal, though he had tried.

The priests of Vaal had tried it, too. They were deafened and paralyzed after the first blow. Some mustered up the courage to try a second blow... but all died. They died in a horrible way, with blood gushing from all their orifices and their internal organs shattered, as if the hammer not only hammered steel, but also shattered their souls.

Strictly speaking, Malekith was also a blacksmith. His weapon, the Destroyer, which had accompanied him for nearly four thousand years, was forged by him personally. He was an apprentice taught by Kotek himself.

He knew that Kotek feared him. It was not humility or awe, but sheer fear.

But he had no reason to kill Korthek, who had forged the Midnight Armor for him and taught him the art. He hoped that Korthek could continue to forge for him a blade that could break the thickest armor, a divine armor that could resist dragon flames, and reforge his Black Knights - so that they could be armed and sharp, and truly become elite armored soldiers who could sweep away all enemies, rather than cannon fodder who would die with iron spears and chain mail.

result……

While he was fighting fiercely in Tal Anlek and Asur, Morathi, who was guarding Naggaroth, poisoned Korthek.

The irony is that his mother couldn't control the Hammer of Vaal either!

In his view, this behavior is just as Dacus said: killing the goose that lays the eggs.

Short-sighted, stupid, and self-destructive.

His stupid mother...his dead mother.

Dai Si smiled, and the wrinkles on his face deepened, like lava cooling down rocks, carving out traces of the vicissitudes of time in the firelight.

At that moment, Malekith suddenly saw the shadow of Kotek on Des's face.

Dais did not discuss his intention to use the hammer. He simply opened his five fingers and pointed at the midnight armor on Malekith.

"May I take a look at it?"

Malekith did not hesitate. He took a step toward Dess, as if responding to the request of an old friend rather than the permission of a craftsman.

Dais' fingers gently stroked the Midnight Armor, his fingertips swept over the cracks and welds, and the scars and rivets left by the battle. Each part carried a story, and each one was filled with blood and fire. His hands had long been accustomed to the heat of the fire, and he did not feel any pain, but instead felt a little more intimate.

He seemed to be comforting an old relative, or listening to an unfinished poem.

When he finished his inspection, a faint, indescribable look of satisfaction appeared on his face.

"It's well preserved." Dais nodded. "Moreover, my apprentice's skills are more sophisticated than when I left... and they also incorporate some dwarven techniques."

Malekith nodded slightly.

"So, are you ready?" Dais asked.

"I'm ready!" Malekith said firmly. There was no hesitation in his answer, only urgency.

"But I need an assistant." Dai Si nodded, his expression calm.

Malekith's eyes then turned to Dacus, who had been keeping a formal smile. He did not speak, but just stared at him quietly. Dais followed Malekith's gaze, and the eyes of the whole audience also turned to Dacus.

At this moment, the entire hall was still. (End of this chapter)