Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Light danced quietly on the fingertips, and silver halos shone around the focused faces. The young wizards were concentrating on practicing spells, and the air seemed to be boiling, and the energy was like a surging tide, almost making the wind of magic visible. Illusions emerged, spun, and dissipated in the air, and golden protective clouds surrounded their robes, emitting a low hum.

This is the Hall of the Supreme. The walls of the towering hall are snow-white, and there are rows of exquisite niches carved on the walls. Various statues of wizards are enshrined in the niches: some sit in meditation with calm eyes; others cast gorgeous magic with flying sleeves as if they want to break through the air.

Everything depends on the aesthetics of the sculptors of different times, but they are all solemn and dignified, with a certain compassion in their solemnity. They look down on future generations with a timeless gaze, giving them attention and also placing their expectations on them.

That mixture of majesty and hope was also reflected on the faces of Prince Cyriol and mentor Menriel.

"You speak too quickly," Cyriol said, turning his head, his tone gentle but firm. The target was Ilihir, the youngest of all the apprentices present, who was no more than a hundred years old.

"Let the spell form in your mind before you speak," he added.

Elihil nodded, her brows furrowed, and she began to chant again, but she stuttered at the first few sentences of the spell, her voice was jumbled, and her rhythm was disordered.

"You are not concentrating." Cyriol said, his tone was not accusatory, but soothing. He reached out and gently pressed on Elihil's shoulder, comforting like a father, "Finish the spell in your hands first, and then listen to me."

His voice was not loud, but it was penetrating and echoed in the dome hall.

The apprentices stopped weaving spells one by one. The illusion gradually blurred and dissipated, like smoke blown away by the wind. The magic flame swayed in the air for a few times before extinguishing, turning into a few residual lights and returning to silence. They slowly raised their heads and focused their eyes on their mentor. Each of them had a focused expression, and their eyes were shining with a desire for knowledge.

The most ardent gaze, without a doubt, came from Amadel, the eldest grandson of Cyriol. His silver-grey eyes were like sharp short blades, as if he wanted to strip the core of knowledge from his grandfather, not even letting go of a single breath.

"Ilithil." Cyriol called the apprentice forward, "Use the Arrow of Axia for me."

Ilihil was stunned for a moment. That was one of the most basic spells, and almost every apprentice had mastered it when they were young. She shrugged lightly, chanted three spells in a low voice, and naturally opened the five fingers of her right hand. A ball of golden light overflowed from her fingertips and condensed in her palm, illuminating her fair cheeks and the dazzling red hair like a waterfall.

"Very good." Cyriol nodded, "Now terminate it and then cast it again."

Ilihil flicked her wrist lightly, and the energy dissipated instantly, and the air became quiet. Just as she took a deep breath and prepared to cast again, Cyriol suddenly asked.

"When you cast a spell, do you breathe in or out?"

Eli Hilton was stunned, frowning, and she was disturbed by this sudden question. She opened her mouth to read the first syllable, but immediately read it wrong, and the spell could not take shape.

"What did you do to me, Master?" She looked at Cyril helplessly, her voice trembling. "Is this some kind of counter spell?"

Selio and Menriel smiled at each other, then the former nodded slightly to the latter, indicating that Menriel would take over to explain the core content of this course, while he quietly walked to the far end of the hall and returned to the high-backed throne.

"You're thinking about how to breathe now, right?" Menriel took a step forward and his eyes fell on Elihil. There was no blame in his tone, only insight.

"Yes, Master." Ilihir dropped his shoulders, his voice low and frustrated, "I don't know whether I was breathing in or out when I cast the spell. I can't remember, but now when I think about breathing..."

"So you can no longer focus on controlling it." Menriel nodded. "A spell that you used to cast effortlessly now becomes difficult. Even the most basic magic will become unstable once your concentration is disturbed. A cough, a flicker of your peripheral vision, or a sudden thought can cause you to lose control."

He turned around and glanced at the apprentices, his tone gentle but powerful.

"After understanding this, who can tell me why it is difficult for Ilihil to cast spells?"

"She's thinking about how to pronounce the words, not the spell itself." Amedil said immediately, with a hint of disdain in his tone. He didn't try to hide his boredom with such basic questions.

"That's right." Serio's voice came from a distance, his tone unchanged, but a hint of unhappiness rose in his heart.

Amedil did not refer to Menril as 'mentor' when he spoke - it was a title that Menril had earned after hundreds of years, countless trials and teachings.

He made note of this disrespectful faux pas and would correct it in the future.

"Most of you already have the potential to perform the greatest magic the elves have ever known," Cyriol continued, "but if you can't perform the spell unconsciously, then this potential is meaningless."

After a moment's silence, Amadel took a step forward, his voice without respect, but full of faith.

“There is another way to overcome these obstacles, why not teach us that way?”

"Control is the only way to master true magic!" Cyriole was slightly stunned, then he stared at his eldest grandson, his voice as low as a stone falling into the abyss.

Amadel shook his head, a confident sneer appeared on the corner of his mouth. He slowly turned around and faced his grandfather and all the apprentices. His tone was like that of a preacher, as if he wanted to break away from the old order.

"There is a way to access magic that requires no incantations, nor the restraints of ritual. We can lean on instinct to shape it, fueled by raw energy, to cast the most powerful spells, without hesitation, without red tape, just thought and will."

"You're talking about black magic!" Menriel interrupted Amedil immediately, his voice as cold as the wind. At that moment, his eyes swept over the apprentice, like an invisible sword, cutting off all possible thoughts.

"Dark magic brings only two things: madness and death. If you don't have enough willpower to become a true wizard, then you can't become a warlock who lives long."

He paused, letting each word hang in the air, as if only to sear it into the apprentices' souls.

"If the Eight Winds Magic fails, it will simply dissipate and return to the Eight Winds. But Black Magic is different. It will not return. It will look for a place to stay, either your body or your mind."

"And even if you succeed, it will leave a mark. A scar, a crack, a stain. It will corrupt your mind, pollute your heart, and warp your nature."

He looked Amedil straight in the eyes, his voice low and firm.

"You guys, don't even think about this."

Silence flooded into the Supreme Hall like a tide. The apprentices looked solemn and no one dared to act rashly. Even Amedil, who was full of confidence just now, slightly restrained his edge.

"Tell me, where did you hear these things from? Who put these ideas into your head?" Seriol finally spoke. There was no anger in his voice, only cold scrutiny.

"Oh, I've heard about it here and there." Amedil shrugged, looking unconcerned. "As long as you go away from here, you can hear rumors about the Duruchi warlocks. I heard that the power of any warlock is enough to rival the three Safri wizards."

"Then you heard it wrong." Cyriol's tone remained patient, but with a hint of coldness. "The key to mastering magic has never been strength. Any fool can pick up an axe and chop wood into firewood, but only a true woodcutter knows how to use the axe correctly. Black magic is a blunt instrument. It can only destroy, but can never create."

His voice became steady and powerful, as if every word carried the testimony of an era.

"Dark magic could not have built this castle, nor kept our fields fertile, nor maintained the balance of Ulthuan. It only burns, scars, and leaves nothing behind."

"Buttar Anlek was built with black magic," Amadel retorted stubbornly.

Serio was struck hard, his face darkened. His fingers tightly grasped the armrests of the throne, his knuckles turning white.

"Anlek is maintained by dark magic, that's true." He said angrily, "But its founder was my mentor, Dragon Tamer Caledor! What he used was pure magic, which is our true heritage!"

His voice trembled, as if something sharp was slowly piercing deep into his heart. It was not just anger, but also a tearing pain, a fear of falling. He closed his eyes briefly, and the only sound in his ears was his own chaotic heartbeat and the distant, painful wailing deep in his mind.

He opened his eyes and scanned the room, trying to read the expressions of the apprentices for clues. He had heard some rumors, vague, intermittent, whispered, saying that some students, and even some wizards, had begun to experiment with dark magic rituals in private.

It was hard to tell whether these rumors were true or not, but at this moment, he was unwilling to ignore them any longer.

Shadows of the dark arts are awakening, fed by the sorcery and corrupt beliefs of Nagarythe.

"Except for Amedil, everyone else, go out." He said in a deep voice, "Menriel, you leave first. I will call you back after I finish dealing with this place. We still have news from Caledor to discuss."

The mages and apprentices bowed in silence and left the High Hall one by one. The stone door slowly closed, leaving only Amedil standing in front of the throne, with his arms crossed and a stubborn look in his eyes.

"You are very talented, Amadel. As long as you have a little more patience, you can achieve extraordinary things in the future."

"Then what are you afraid of?" Amadel asked back, his tone calm but sharp.

"I'm afraid of falling. You've only heard of black magic, but I... have seen it with my own eyes!" Cyriol leaned forward slightly, staring at his grandson. There was no avoidance in his eyes, only the clarity that came from long-tested experience.

He lowered his voice, as if he was conversing with time itself.

"You think that's a shortcut to power, but you're wrong! That path is not shorter or faster, but steeper and more dangerous."

His voice gradually became lower, but more powerful.

"You think Morathi and her sorcerers can destroy armies at will, without cost? No, they cannot. The cost is beyond your current imagination. Believe me, Amadel, we call it black magic for a good reason."

Amedil still refused to give in, but his tone quietly changed and he switched his stance.

"What are we doing now? Duruchi's army is approaching us. The Phoenix King needs us, needs you, to join his army and fight against the warlocks of Nagarythe."

He took a step forward, his eyes burning.

"You speak of the future, but if we do not act now, there will be no future. For seven years I have seen nothing but fear and war. Terenloc fell, Arion burned, Cosqui and Chrace were besieged. Must the fields of Saphri be set ablaze before you awaken?"

"I will not let a lamb fight a lion." Cyriol shook his head, his voice no longer able to conceal the anger and pain, "just like I will not let my apprentice face Morathi's warlocks. In all of Safri, there are no more than a dozen wizards I trust to fight against Druki, and I can barely count myself as one of them."

"Then go and fight!" Amedil finally shouted, his voice echoing in the hall, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with anger. "Imrik is begging for your aid, and you sit on this high seat, as if you can't hear or see! If you don't intend to respond to his call, why did you support him to become the Phoenix King in the first place?"

Serioul was startled, turned his head slightly, and looked at the long and narrow arched windows on both sides of the hall.

But what he saw was not the gray autumn sky.

Instead, he saw a ruin torn apart by magic, war raging, demons laughing wildly and trampling the earth, thousands of elves dying in grief. He saw those legendary wizards joining forces to cast spells to resist the torrent of chaos, and he saw Caledor establish an eternal magic vortex.

His memory then jumped to a battle not long ago. He rode a Pegasus over Anlek and witnessed the warriors of Nagaryeth falling screaming in the flames, their skin cracking and their hair burning. He released thunder with his own hands, splitting the sacrificed fanatics into charcoal.

That is not glory, but a nightmare.

War never brings true justice. Even if it is fought for legitimate reasons, it only leaves more corpses and trauma.

He slowly closed his eyes, forcing himself to break free from the abyss of the past. When he looked at Amadel again, his eyes were no longer angry, but heavy as if they were carrying the weight of an entire era.

"Your father thought the same thing back then." His voice was low and hoarse, as if it came from deep in his chest. "Now he is dead."

"Then your cowardice will only make his sacrifice meaningless! Perhaps, what you are really afraid of is not black magic, but death. You have lived too long, so long that even dignity and mission are no longer worth your risk!" Amedil's expression changed suddenly, but he immediately clenched his teeth and growled in a low voice.

These words were like a sharp knife piercing into Serio's chest, and his patience finally collapsed at this moment.

"You said I was a coward?" He spoke slowly, his tone no longer concealing his anger. He approached Amadel step by step, and every word he said was as oppressive as a mountain.

"I have fought beside Aenarion, beside Caledor, and never retreated from a fight! Thirty years ago, I fought beside Malekith to take back Anlek!"

He looked directly at Amedil.

"And you? You haven't even smelled the battlefield! You know nothing about war, and you haven't even truly experienced fear. So don't come and teach me what sacrifice and courage are!"

"You only use things that I cannot refute to pressure me!" Amedil still stood tall, facing his grandfather's anger. "You said I don't understand war, but you forced me to be trapped in this isolated tower and waste my years. It's just because you are afraid that I will follow in my father's footsteps, but have you never thought that your fear is the root cause of the tragedy?"

He spoke faster and faster, his voice like a burning flame.

"Don't you have any confidence in me?"

"Indeed not." Cyriol replied coldly, his voice as cold as ice. His eyes were sharp, and he did not hide his disappointment. "You inherited your father's stubbornness and your mother's obstinacy. Why can't you be like your brother Eladil? Hardworking, focused, and obedient." "Eladil is indeed hardworking." Amedil sneered with undisguised contempt, "But he is too mediocre! Give him another one or two hundred years, and he will only be an ordinary wizard. He will never be great in his lifetime."

"Don't aspire to be great. Too many people have been destroyed by this desire, and their souls have been torn apart. If you refuse to learn from their lessons, you will only follow in their footsteps."

"This is a farce coming from the ruler of Saphri, Aenarion's comrade-in-arms, the last survivor of the First Council, and the greatest wizard of Ulthuan." Amedil's sneer deepened. "Isn't it a little ridiculous? Perhaps I did misunderstand you. You are not afraid of war, not the dark arts, not death."

He paused, then spoke each word harshly.

"It's me you're afraid of! You're jealous of me!"

"You are afraid that my talent will overshadow your reputation, and that I will replace you in the history of the elves. You are just guarding what you have and dare not take another step forward. Your so-called wisdom and foresight are nothing but a disguise for selfishness and jealousy."

"Get out!" Cyriol roared angrily, "Get out of my sight! I don't want to see you again until you apologize for every mean thing you said today!"

He pointed to the door tremblingly, the voice almost squeezed out from the back of his throat.

"Everything you said and did today only made me more convinced that you are not worthy of ruling Safri. Go! Think clearly about what you really want, and stop tainting me with your vanity!"

Amedil's body froze, and there was a brief crack in the anger on his face, a hint of hesitation and even regret.

But only for a moment.

Then, his eyes turned cold, and hatred and stubbornness returned to his face. He did not reply, but turned around and walked out of the hall without looking back, his steps firm and resolute.

Silence returned to the hall.

Cyriol staggered back to the throne and almost fell off. He felt empty inside, as if he was hollowed out by anger and sorrow. His thoughts were churning, and he felt ashamed of his sudden outburst.

Justice and guilt fought fiercely in his heart, and neither could win.

What if Amedil was right, he wondered? What if he really was jealous of this young man? Jealous of his rising talent while he languished in his twilight years, his light fading?

He closed his eyes and whispered a few spells to calm the self-questions that tortured his mind. He told himself that the fault was not his, but Amadel's.

He had long noticed the darkness hidden in the child's heart, but he had never wanted to face it. Now, those doubts were finally spoken out, and those dissatisfactions were finally revealed. Perhaps, this was not the end, but perhaps, this was an opportunity for the two to reconcile and start over.

He sighed and straightened his back again.

Amedil's little rebellion can be put aside for now. War is imminent, and the Phoenix King's messenger is still waiting for his reply.

The world was being torn apart by blood and war, and Sun Tzu's anger and childish ideals seemed insignificant in comparison.
-
"Come!" Elenice ordered, grabbing her son's arm.

Amedil shook off his mother's hand and looked past her to his grandfather.

Cyriol looked like a broken soul, his eyes full of the frost of years. His figure seemed particularly thin in the dark hall, like a statue eroded by time. Amedil saw an elf entering old age, tired and weak, and his former glory was gradually replaced by withering.

"I am not ashamed," Amedil whispered, his tone full of stubbornness, "and I am not afraid."

"We must leave!" Elenis insisted.

"Then go!" Amadel turned around and pushed his mother towards the shadowy portal. "I will come to you soon. It won't take too long, mother."

Elenis hesitated, her eyes wandering between the father and the son, struggling on the edge of maternal love and fear. In the end, fear overwhelmed everything. Her figure flashed, and she was swallowed by the black fog and disappeared into the dim door.

Amedil looked at his grandfather again, only to find that the frail figure had straightened up, regaining the ancient, quiet majesty he remembered.

For a moment, he wavered. He was not sure whether he had underestimated the old man. Selio's eyes turned from surprise to pity, a kind of forgiveness after years of hardships, but it was more painful than anger.

And it was this compassion that completely ignited his anger.

"I want to prove how weak you have become."

The fear in his eyes dissipated in an instant like morning mist, and was replaced by fanaticism and determination.

"Surrender!" Menriel roared in a low voice, blue flames surging in his eyes, and his voice was as low as thunder, "Or you will bear the consequences."

"Don't interfere!" Cyrioll shouted, and with a wave of his hand, he separated the mages who were guarding on the side. His face was calm and composed, and his almost cold calmness was more intimidating than a roar.

"I'll take care of it myself."

Amedil knew that he had to strike first, and he called out to Deha, the dark power running through his blood, his pulse beating like a drum, his thoughts swift as fire. He chanted in a low voice, his fingertips drew a strange trajectory, and a black lightning with a scream that tore through space shot towards Cyriol.

However, just before it was about to hit, the lightning suddenly stopped, and then turned into a ball of golden dust, spinning and floating in the air, and finally fell weakly on the cold stone slabs, like a feather in an avalanche.

Amadel was stunned.

Only then did he notice the hidden and complex magic patterns on his grandfather's robes, the counter-spells, barriers, seals... layer upon layer, as if the whole person was wrapped in a living web of magic.

The evil smile faded from Amedil's face, and he instinctively felt like retreating, but Deha was squirming inside him, whispering, bewitching. The voice was like a blazing flame licking his soul, rekindling his faith.

Although his grandfather had many barriers, they were all very weak. He could see the flaws, and with the power he now possessed, he could completely break them one by one and tear them all into pieces.

"Don't do that," Cyriol warned.

"You have no right to order me."

Amadel retorted sharply, and a sword of nothingness burning with black flames suddenly appeared in his hand. The sword seemed to be forged from the abyss, swallowing up light and temperature. His figure flashed, and he instantly pounced on his grandfather, his attack as swift as a storm.

Menriel instinctively stood in front of Cyriol, trying to save him from danger. However, the blade of nothingness pierced his chest without hesitation. There was no splash of blood, no wailing or screaming, and his body instantly turned into a pile of fine ash, like mist and smoke, slowly falling on the cold stone ground.

Before the dust settled, Amedil swung his sword back and slashed at Cyriol again. But a silver energy shield instantly rose up on Cyriol's arm, and the burning black blade immediately disintegrated when it touched it, dissipating into wisps of smoke like a purified nightmare.

"You cannot harness the power needed to defeat me."

Amedil could not listen, he just thought it was just an old man's strong support. With a sneer, he stretched out his hands, dispelled the protective spell surrounding the hall, and further explored the depths of the magic wind.

Thick black clouds swirled around him like a greedy giant snake, with starlight and lightning flashing in the clouds, as if fragments of the universe were burning. He pushed the cloud forward, covering the sky and swallowing Cyriol in an instant.

However, in the heart of the deepest darkness, a pure white light suddenly bloomed.

The light was like a sword, splitting the dark clouds in half.

The energy began to boil violently, then quickly disintegrated and became invisible. The light dissipated, and Cyriol's figure stood in it, safe and sound. His body seemed to be woven by starlight, and light gushed out from his body, driving away the darkness.

Amedil was keenly aware that his grandfather's control over the winds of magic had begun to break, that the perfect balance that had always been there was being shattered.

The time has come.

He took a deep breath, expanded his mind to the limit, and tried his best to absorb the torrent of energy. The powerful tide of energy poured into his body and mind, and he felt that he was almost torn apart by this power.

"Magic itself is not an end, it is only a means!" he snapped. "It is not necessarily evil!"

"The means can taint the ends," Cyrioll whispered back, his voice hoarse and tired, yet it contained a piercing power. "Just because we can do something doesn't mean we should do it."

"Nonsense!" Amedil shouted angrily. He suddenly stretched out his right hand and a purple-blue flame gushed out from his palm like a raging wave. The flame was like a dragon, swallowing up his grandfather.

The flames roared and tore the space apart madly.

Cyriol's body twisted in the flames. He struggled to hold on, and golden and green light surged out of his body, like a shield and a wave, repeatedly repelling the flames that burned the world.

But this time, he finally couldn't hold on anymore.

The flames pressed him to the ground. He knelt on one knee, using his staff to support himself against the ground to avoid falling.

"You have to kill me to prove your point!" Amedil roared, his voice mixed with anger, sadness and a kind of terrible relief.

Cyriol raised his head, and there was still no anger on his ash-covered face, only pain and compassion.

"I will not kill my own blood," he gasped.

"I can!"

Amedil could sense that only Deha was left in the hall. Cyriol's resistance was at its limit, and one more powerful attack would be enough to end it all. He would master Saphire, as fate had foretold, and the war would burn to his will, engulfing the lands of Nagarythe's enemies.

He clutched the amulet on his chest tightly, the rune-carved finger bones burning his palms. He whispered a spell, absorbing the surging Deha and shaping them into a torrent of pure destruction.

Deep in his mind, he sketched out the image of a giant dragon. His mind drew its outline in the air, its pitch-black fangs, its throat burning with black fire, its pupils awakening from nightmares, and the clearly visible blood vessels on its wings.

Cyriol struggled to mobilize the few remaining winds of magic, trying to tear apart the spell structure that Amedil was weaving.

But Amedil summoned more Deha and crushed the counter-spell with absolute power. He put all his heart and soul into this summoning without reservation. Ironically, he was fighting against his grandfather in the way his grandfather had taught him - all this was so natural.

The phantom had already solidified in front of him. With every heartbeat, the dragon became more real. It spread its wings and spewed fire, as if it wanted to tear the world apart and burn it. In a moment, Cyriol would be devoured by it, and the last breath of his grandfather would dissipate in this scorched earth.

At this moment, Cyriol raised his head, locked his eyes on Amedil, and whispered something.

Amedil couldn't hear clearly. He tried to distinguish whether it was some kind of counter-curse? Confession? Or a cowardly plea? A trace of hesitation quietly emerged in his heart.

Just this short distraction of one heartbeat decides everything.

The connection between him and Deha was torn, and the energy that had once been his will was out of his control. He tried to control it again in panic, but it was too late. Deha rushed into his body like a flood, wrapping around his heart and filling his lungs.

He began to cough and gasp violently, his body swaying, Deha flashing in his blood, his eyes melting in the burning. He wanted to scream, but could only spurt out a ball of dark flame from his burning throat.

Unspeakable pain consumed him. Every nerve and every inch of his muscle was screaming silently. His soul seemed to be torn apart by flames and fell in a vortex of darkness.

After the last twitch, he fell to the ground with a bang, his body quickly dried up and charred, like a completely hollow shell. Wisps of smoke rose from his empty eye sockets, lingering in the silent hall for a long time.

Cyril knelt beside his grandson's remains, and for a moment, all his emotions seemed to be taken away. But he knew that the grief would come, and it would overwhelm his mind and pierce his heart. He would feel deeply guilty for what he had done, even though it was necessary.

He saw Menril in his mind, his friend lost quietly in the conflict, and with little chance to mourn, he was forced to continue fighting, another link to the past severed, another possibility for the future destroyed.

"What did you say to him just now?" A wizard came closer and looked at Amadel's twisted body with complicated eyes. "Was it a dispelling spell you created?"

"No." Cyriol shook his head, "I just whispered his grandmother's name, and his spirit... killed him."

He stood up slowly and looked at the mages gathered in front of the porch. There was no sadness on his expression, only a will as cold as steel.

"Amedil was young and foolish, and ignored my warnings. Elaines and those sorcerers will not fail as easily as he did. We have more enemies than we thought." (End of this chapter)