Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Unlike the glorious ceremony of Bel-Shana, this time there were many people, but the hall seemed deserted and solemn, almost austere. Only four priests of Asuryan stood in the ranks, namely Kadroin, Gavinor, and the brothers Valandil and Valanar. The four of them looked solemn and wore ceremonial robes, as if they were part of the ceremony, ancient, quiet, and unquestionable.

The archmages, high-level sorcerers, and spellweavers who were supposed to be present as astrologers were just sitting quietly in their seats, like the spectators beside them, saying nothing and moving, as silent as stone statues, just watching quietly.

Standing next to Daxus was the only spellcaster who had come out: Drusala. She was holding a red velvet-covered tray, but now, the tray was empty.

In addition, there are two elves holding trays, namely Bel-Ahor and Karahir. On their trays are neatly folded robes, belts and towels. The threads glow with a light golden luster under the firelight, symbolizing cleansing, stripping and regeneration.

Standing on the other side of Dacius was Finnubar, symbolizing the other pole of the current bipolar regime of the elves. In fact, at first Finnubar was going to find an inconspicuous seat to sit down and be a silent observer, but Dacius called him to the center of the ceremony with a "come too".

Then there is no more then.

There was no choir, no band, no Eternal Queen, and naturally no Eternal Maids at this ceremony. The only people in place were the painters at the far end, holding charcoal pencils and palettes, quietly waiting for the moment when history would happen, and recording it with their pens.

When everyone's eyes were focused on Daxus, he remained extremely calm.

There was no smile, no solemnity, no excitement, no solemnity, nothing, only that eerie calmness, as if he was not here to preside over the ceremony, but... just here to take a look.

He slowly walked to Malekith, looked down at Malekith's right hand, and his eyes stayed on the brass ring on his ring finger. He didn't say anything, just raised his finger and pointed, then turned his head and beckoned Drusala to come forward.

Then he took a step back.

Malekith understood, and he slowly raised his right hand and spread his fingers. The brass ring with ancient inscriptions shone dimly under the light. He gently took it off his ring finger, turning it in circles, as if he was peeling off the seal of some kind of fate.

But he did not put the ring on the tray immediately, but turned his gaze to Drusala - she looked at him just as calmly, with neither fear nor ripples in her eyes, just a faint respect.

"Heh." Malekith shook his head slightly, his voice low but not without relief, "You are better than your ancestors, Drusala."

Drusala's face suddenly bloomed into a dazzling smile, that smile was so pure and proud, that smile was so beautiful that many elves present were dazed for a moment. She lowered her head, gracefully greeted Malekith, and handed the tray forward with both hands.

The moment the brass ring fell onto the tray, Drusala slowly stepped back, each step gentle yet powerful, as if in keeping with the rhythm of the ritual.

At this time, Daxus took another step forward, his eyes fell on the sleeping Yangyan Sword at Malekith's waist.

"I'll hold the Yangyan Sword for you." His tone was relaxed, like a conversation between friends rather than a sacred moment of handing over a royal weapon.

Malekith said nothing, but began to undo his belt, moving slowly but without hesitation.

"Interview." Daxus suddenly spoke, his tone suddenly becoming brisk without warning. He clenched his left fist and made a gesture as if he was holding a microphone, and handed the "microphone" to Malekith's helmet. "How do you feel now?"

“Excited? Nervous?” Malekith, who was used to Daquus’ personality, whispered. At first, his tone seemed to be asking himself, as if there was still a hint of hesitation, but then it quickly turned into thunderous firmness, “Flame rejected me once…”

He raised his head and stared at Daxus.

"But this time, it won't reject me again!" He paused, and his voice suddenly rose, like a burning flame, "I am qualified! The most important thing is - now I can! I can!! "

He took a sudden step forward, and the sound echoed like thunder under the dome of the hall of Asuryan's temple.

"I am Malekith! I am the son of Aenarion! To be the Phoenix King - is my right!!"

As soon as he said this, it was as if some old shackles were shattered in his roar. His voice echoed between the marble walls like a hammer, shaking the historical dust in the hearts of all the elves.

The corners of Dacus' mouth twitched, revealing an exaggerated, even somewhat funny expression of surprise, as if he had heard some unexpected surprise speech. He took a step back, deliberately adjusted his posture exaggeratedly, then spread his hands, and waved his open palms violently in the air and raised them high.

Almost at the same moment, the hall was no longer solemn and repressive. It was like a volcano that had been suppressed for a long time finally erupted, and the whole audience burst into thunderous cheers. It was a release, a liberation of emotions.

Amid the cheers, Malekith steadily handed the Yangyan Sword to Daxus. His movements were slow and ceremonial, but not heavy.

"It's not your gift." He whispered as he handed over the sword, low enough for only Daquus to hear, "So I am happy to accept it."

There was no hostility or provocation in that voice, only cold honesty and a kind of dignity that came from the ruins.

Daxus smiled when he heard that. He clenched his left hand, which was not holding the sword, and stretched it out into a fist, quietly hovering in the air.

"Thank you, my dear Daquus." Malekith also stretched out his fist, and the two fists collided in the air.

At this moment, no words are needed. Two completely different beings, who understand each other, have completed a silent agreement.

"You must be patient." Daxus whispered, his tone suddenly becoming more serious than ever before. "You will be destroyed, and then reborn. You have never been weak, Malekith. You are stronger than you think. Defeat yourself!"

As the cheers gradually faded away, he slowly took a step back, raised his left fist and hit his chest hard, then he pointed at Malekith.

"Don't lose face!" His voice rang out again.

Faced with this slightly teasing encouragement, Malekith's eyes darkened a little. He did not respond immediately, but spoke slowly, muttering in a low voice.

"Though I have desecrated the temple of Asuryan with my blood... Though I have sought dominion over my people... Though I have slain Bel-Shana with my own hands... This... This pain... This war... All this... is due to six thousand years of sorrow..."

He nodded, then shook his head, as if he couldn't fully figure out what was right and wrong along the way, but in the end he still stood there.

"Alaros!" Daqius' voice suddenly rose, piercing into the silence like a sharp arrow.

Alaros was stunned in his seat. He was like a person who was suddenly thrown into the water. He was at a loss for a moment. When all eyes were cast on him, he straightened his back a little embarrassedly. He didn't know why Dacus called him at this moment - this didn't seem to be in the plan?
He hesitated, his eyes wandering, unsure whether to stand up or continue sitting, until he saw Dacus waved at him, making a clear gesture, indicating that he should stand up and come forward.

He took a deep breath, slowly stood up, walked through the aisle next to him, and walked slowly towards Malekith.

Alaros - this is Asuryan in the new world created by Lilith. Even if the existence of that new world is so short that it is almost as shattered as a dream, no matter what, he is still Asuryan after all, right?
Let Asuyan be an assistant? Tsk tsk, this is simply...

However, this might just be Dacus's bad taste, the kind that cannot be explained or shared. The only one who could understand this setting... was probably Lilith, who did not attend the ceremony?

However, this is not over yet.

A smile flashed in Daxus' eyes, and then he selected three more generals.

"Talos!" he called out.

Talos's expression changed slightly when he was called, but he soon took a deep breath, turned his head and nodded to his father who had a complicated expression on his face, then strode out of the seat and set off.

"Eltharion!"

When Eltharion heard his name, he was slightly startled. He did not hesitate for too long, just took a deep breath, then nodded slightly to his companions who were looking at him, and then stepped into the ceremony.

"Gilead!"

Gilead, who was called last, had the calmest expression. He just stood up, as if he had expected this moment. His steps were steady, and every step seemed to be on the trajectory set by fate.

Soon, the spectators came to their senses. Thinking carefully, the four people Dacius selected were not random, but had a very clear purpose. They were all men, all from the army system, and Gilead and Eltharion were once Malekith's adjutants.

Alaros is Alais, Aenil of Talos, and Eltharion is Asur. However, when it comes to Gilead, the definition is different. What exactly is Gilead? The elves who know the inside story find it difficult to define him in one word - is he Duruchi? Is he an Asur who is out of the group? Or is he some kind of symbol, as a descendant of Bel-Shana - a witness chosen to end this six thousand years of reincarnation?
In addition to the differences in racial background, they have a more important thing in common: they all belong to the younger generation, and they are all related to the army system - although the troops led by Eltharion and Alaros have not yet been given official numbers and have not yet been truly incorporated into the military system.

In the seats of Druki, the spectators looked at each other with mixed feelings. They knew that Daquus liked the number "five" and that almost everything in Naggaroth was inseparable from "five". This was a nearly transparent consensus.

However, there are only four people on the field now, so what about the fifth person? Would Gilead really represent Drucci?
For a moment, everyone had their own ulterior motives.

The navy and bureaucrat factions, who had discovered the pattern, sighed and gave up their nervousness. Instead, they began to eat melons, watch the fun, and guess who would be the next person to be named. However, many people in the army faction began to compare themselves in their hearts, quietly excited, wondering if it was their turn and whether they were qualified to be named.

at this time--

"Fegal!"

The name exploded in the hall, like a bolt of lightning that struck all the lines of speculation.

In an instant, all the onlookers, the surprised and the jealous eyes were all cast on the stunned young man - Fergal. He obviously did not expect to be called, and his expression showed undisguised surprise, his mouth wide open, as if he was going to ask "Me?" in the next second.

Daxus's choice was unexpected again. He did not choose Dorien or Cowell. Although those two had reputation and qualifications, in his opinion, they were of the same generation as himself and fellow travelers from the old era. They were indeed representative, but far from representative enough.

But Feigal is different. He is a general who grew up in the new era. His honor, his suffering, and his reconstruction were all given by the new era. He is the bridge between rupture and continuity.

In fact, if possible, Dacus didn't want to choose Talos, because Talos was also a part of the old era and was his companion. But the problem was that there were too few representatives in the Einir who could be outstanding. Either they were not qualified enough or they were not influential enough. In the end, he could only settle for the second best.

As for other things?

Dacus didn't care about anything, he just ordered his generals. At this moment, he was holding the Sun Sword, retreating to Finnubar's side, standing side by side with the other three tray holders.

The reason why Drusala was asked to hold the tray was just like what Malekith said to her: "You are better than your ancestors, Drusala." Four thousand years ago, it was her ancestors who held the helmet that Malekith was wearing on his head on the tray - at that time, it was put on. Now, it is taken off.

The cycle had come to an end, and it was fitting that it was completed by her own hands.

Bel-Ahol and Karahir represent the most representative young generation in the current bureaucracy. What these three people represent is not only status and ability, but also a balance between the old and the new: no bias, no leaning, and no chaos.

At this time, Dais was facing the five people, quietly arranging the upcoming parts of the ceremony. His words were fast and precise, and all the steps were under control. After finishing his instructions, he looked up at Malekith and nodded slightly.

"I'm ready!" Malekith said, his voice like low thunder in the valley, rolling forward.

Dais nodded again, his movements steady and solemn. The next moment, he swung the Hammer of Vaal violently and smashed it towards Malekith!

The whistling sound of the forging hammer cutting through the air was particularly harsh in the silent hall. Then, a loud noise like the sound of a bell exploded, and the golden stone rang in response, shaking in all directions, as if the entire hall was shaking.

Daxus's head was buzzing in the roar, but he saw everything. The hammer clearly hit Malekith, but it did not really hit him, but stopped somewhere in the void in front of him.

However, the air was hit by the hammer's substance, causing it to dent and explode. There was some kind of invisible barrier in front of it where there was originally nothing, and it was destroyed in one fell swoop.

This hammer would only cause dizziness to others, but it had a special meaning to Malekith. It hit his heavy past and also smashed his extremely solid disguise.

This hammer is both a disintegration and a judgment.

His midnight armor was disintegrating, and the protection formed by magic was being torn apart bit by bit. Fire and pain poured into his body at the same time, burning every nerve. The severe pain almost made him lose his balance, and his legs trembled slightly, but he suppressed everything by force, gritting his teeth and not letting himself make any whimpers.

His hands were shaking violently, but he still gritted his teeth and slowly reached out to grab the helmet.

"Back off!"

He whispered firmly to Gilead and Eltharion to leave. The two wanted to step forward to help, but were nailed to the spot by the shout.

He pressed his hands on his helmet, as if he was explaining to his adjutants, or as if he was forcibly distracting himself from the tearing pain.

“Four thousand years…” he murmured, his voice low and full of a kind of tragic power, “I put on the helmet myself, and now—Ah!!”

With a suppressed shout, the dark grey metal helmet finally moved slowly in his hand.

This helmet has spikes all over it, growing wildly like thorns, sharp and piercing, like a crown of king conceived by a madman in madness, carrying the symbol of destruction, suffering and fear.

He picked it off with his own hands, bit by bit, and the sound of flesh being torn apart rang through his ears.

"I'll pick it off myself!!!" He roared, as if declaring war on four thousand years of suffering, and as if it was a final accusation and transcendence of fate.

When the helmet finally left his head, the five people standing beside him showed expressions of surprise at the same time - it was not ordinary surprise, but a shock that was deeply shocked and came from real fear. Fortunately, they had the qualities of a soldier and did not cry out in surprise.

What unfolded before their eyes was a horrifying scene that was almost indescribable.

A piece of charred rotten meat, blood-red tendons and broken bones entangled together. The ears and nose were only a piece of shrunken cartilage, and on the skull, a steel headband was embedded in it, and fine rivets were nailed into the bones one by one. The eyelids were no longer made of flesh, but were forged from metal as thin as a cicada's wing, with precise angles and perfect craftsmanship, and the cold beauty was suffocating.

Fortunately, Malekith had his back to the audience, leaving only a scarred back. His bald, charred head burned silently in the hall. If the audience in the hall had seen his front, the silence would have been replaced by screams and commotion.

Malekith's judgment of Drusala was accurate. When the helmet was taken off, Drusala's expression remained calm. She showed no surprise or pity, and she performed her duties steadily.

She walked right in front of Malekith and handed out a tray that just happened to catch the helmet that symbolized four thousand years of fate - the end and beginning of a cycle.

At this moment there are no lines, no calls, only silent respect and the sacredness of the ceremony.

Dacuus looked at Malekith, then turned to look at Finnubar. Although Finnubar still maintained his calmness and dignity, he could clearly feel that Finnubar's heart was also stirred by this horrible scene and was shaken violently. Finnubar forced himself to remain calm, but the slight tremor in his palms and the astonishment in his eyes revealed everything.

Then he turned his gaze back to Malekith, and the pair of bloodshot eyes were looking back at him.

At this moment, two souls looked at each other between fire and fate.

Darkius gave Malekith a gentle, genuine smile.

This is encouragement.

It is also confirmed.

you can.

This was only the first step, and this first step almost cost Malekith half his life. But the process must be completed, even if it is a hellish trial, even if it requires a soul to be torn apart and reassembled.

Malekith, like a patient suffering from ALS, his body gradually collapsed and froze, and he could only rely on his will to support himself. The midnight armor, which had been integrated with his flesh and blood, was like an exoskeleton, the only support he could rely on to survive. It allowed him to control his broken body through will and spirit, allowing him to stand up, move, and stand straight, like a king.

But the likeness is just likeness.

At the end, when Malekith walked out of the holy fire, the first thing he saw was the gaze of Kadroin, which was mixed with astonishment and confusion.

He looked down at himself. He thought that what he would see before his eyes would be pale and clean skin, renewed muscles and bones, the true embodiment of the symbol of "rebirth".

But the reality was cruel and merciless. What he saw was still the broken metal covered with burns and pits. The old wounds no longer bleed, but the flesh and blood had already completely merged with the metal. That was his body, his cage.

"You said I would be reborn!" He roared and turned to Teclis, striding closer, each step filled with anger. He pointed his finger at his nephew and questioned him, his tone full of suppressed despair, "Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!!"

"Is it spiritual rebirth?!" Teclis answered very lightly and quickly, and then he subconsciously hid beside Kadroin to avoid the scorching glare.

“This is… a mockery…” Malekith growled in a low voice, suppressed sobs rolling in his throat. He tried his best to suppress the urge to kneel on the ground, covering his face with one hand, and staggering back, “I am imprisoned in this… this cage…”

I have to admit that Kotek's craftsmanship is really excellent. The Midnight Armor is too amazing, it is simply a combination of curse and miracle, it is too perfect, so perfect that it is terrifying, so perfect that it trapped Malekith.

The Midnight Armor really became a cage that imprisoned him as he said, and it has been imprisoning him from the old world to the new era, and it still traps him tightly.

The metal has long been embedded in the flesh, the armor has long been entangled with the soul, and the Midnight Armor has merged with Malekith, and has long been inseparable and cannot be disassembled.

But in Daxus's eyes, the Midnight Armor is not just a battle armor, it is a symbol of the elves' suffering, and a manifestation of the curse and the past.

It's so representative.

As long as Malekith wore it, no matter what crown he wore or what throne he sat on, he would always be the Witch-King - just changing from the Witch-King of Naggaroth to the Witch-King of Ulthuan.

Even if he painted the black armor into his favorite silver-white, even if he claimed to have been reborn, he was still the Witch King wearing the Midnight Armor.

He would never be able to wear dragon armor, never be as pure and glorious as his father, and he would never be able to soak in the pool as peacefully as Daquus.

This was something he could not accept.

So, when Darkius revealed the "possible possibility" to him, he made the choice without hesitation - to take off the Midnight Armor before stepping into the Holy Fire.

Must take off!

And it has to be said that the right tools must be used by the right people.

The hammer that Dess struck was so heavy that it almost shattered time, the past, and the magical structure of the Midnight Armor. The hammer was like a divine judgment, breaking the shackles and tearing open the boundary between armor and flesh.

He leaned over and began to remove the rivets embedded in Malekith's skull one by one. Every time he pulled one out, it fell to the ground with a dull metallic sound, as if announcing the end of some kind of decay.

The scene was like cleaning up garbage - ruthless and without respect.

Daxus stood aside, his eyes sharp as a blade, watching calmly. He could clearly see Malekith's clenched teeth under his lipless body, and the rivets were pulled out, leaving hideous holes, and blood slowly flowed out, winding down Malekith's charred cheeks.

And the already hideous and terrifying head became even more terrifying at this moment.

But Malekith gritted his teeth and held back.

Unyieldingly, proudly, and bearing it as always.

Because – it’s necessary.

Rebirth is never gentle.

Daxus hung the Yangyan Sword on his belt, then looked at Bel-Ehor who was still standing there in a trance, and shouted in a low voice.

"Stop being stunned."

Bel-Ahol still didn't react until his father gently pulled him. Then he came back to his senses as if awakened from a dream, and hurriedly picked up the tray with the towels and walked over quickly.

Dacus took out a silver-white cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, took out a cigarette and put it in the corner of his mouth. He swept his eyes across the scene and finally stopped at Kadroin who was silent at the side. He raised his finger and pointed at the corner of his mouth, then pointed at the air around him, making a questioning gesture.

"Is it possible to smoke here?"

Kazhuoin neither nodded nor shook his head, but just rolled his eyes expressionlessly, with a face full of speechlessness and a look of "what do you think?"

"It seems possible."

Daxus shrugged, accepting the tacit permission. After handing one to Finnubar, he deliberately avoided the direction where Des was busy, made a detour, and came to Malekith quietly.

He can hear.

He could hear Malekith's sobs and suppressed gasps, as heavy as a broken bellows. He reached for the towel on the tray and gently wiped the blood off Malekith's face.

Wipe very slowly and carefully.

He swore that he had never been so careful and serious when wiping his own face.

The towel was dyed deep red, and he threw it back into the tray without emotion, then lit the cigarette in his mouth. He took a deep breath of smoke and exhaled heavily, spreading in the air, filled with the smell of tobacco and rust.

Then, he took out the cigarette he had just smoked and handed it to Malekith, his tone as relaxed as if he was talking about a daily trivial matter.

"Nothing else... to deal with?" (End of this chapter)