Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Ulthuan, seventy-ninth year of Aenarion's reign.

Aenarion stood on the top of a towering cliff, overlooking the enemy camp. The bonfires of the Chaos worshippers burned in the darkness, denser than the stars. Tens of thousands of monsters gathered under the cliff. Even if he could kill them all, more enemies would swarm in.

He was doomed to die, and the world was doomed to destruction.

No one can stop this.

He had tried his best, using all his amazing bravery and deadly cunning, mobilizing powers never before mastered by mortals, and even wielding an evil sword that even the gods had advised him not to use, but he still failed to stop the tide of Chaos.

He failed.

The enemy forces swept across Ulthuan like a flood, crushing the last resistance of the Elves. Raging beastmen roared through the last line of defense, mutated monsters overwhelmed the last defenders, and legions of demons danced in the ruins of the ancient city.

After decades of war, the forces of Chaos have grown stronger and his people are exhausted.

Victory is no longer a luxury.

He thought there was still hope at first, but now it seems to be just wishful thinking.

He looked back at his camp. Once upon a time, he thought this army was enough to dominate the world. The giant dragon was sleeping between the extravagant silk tents, and tens of thousands of fully armed elven warriors were waiting for his order.

If the soldiers were given orders, they would fight bravely, even if the enemy outnumbered them a hundred to one. If he led them, they might win another battle - but it would be a meaningless victory.

The Chaos Legion below the cliff is just one of many armies.

Stronger and larger Chaos forces were spreading across Ulthuan, and perhaps even across the entire world, and his forces were not enough to defeat them all.

There was no point in thinking about the number of enemies, so he turned and walked into the tent.

He drew out the Sword of Cain, a weapon that glowed black and cast a hungry shadow, eclipsing the light in the tent. Red runes burned and jumped on the blade made of strange metal, and thousands of whispers echoed in the blade, those voices were either commands, or pleas, or temptations, but without exception, they were all thirsting for death.

It may be the most powerful weapon ever created, but it's still not powerful enough.

It weighed heavily in his hand, as if carrying all his failures, and it was no more helpful than the Sunblade he had used before - the sword that Caledor had forged for him when they were still close friends.

When he pulled out the Sword of Cain, his life began to be devoured bit by bit, and every hour seemed to make him age one day. If he had not gained the immortal power from passing through the Holy Fire, he would have died long ago, but even that power would eventually expire.

If you don't give it your life, it will turn around and bite the sword holder.

This was part of the pact he made with Kane, when he still believed the world could be saved and thought of himself as a hero, and he thought he could pay the price.

In the tent, Morathi turned over, still fast asleep. One arm stretched out from the satin blanket, revealing her perfect breasts, and a strand of black curly hair entangled between her lips, as if she was indulging in some obscene dream.

The potions still worked for her, allowing her to dream, however disturbingly, but those same drugs had long since failed Aenarion, even in doses that would have killed any other creature.

The wine is tasteless and the food is like ash.

He lived in a world shrouded in shadows and had long lost the sense of aliveness he once had as a mortal. He gave up everything to save his people - his ideals, his loved ones, and even his own soul.

"Kill her, kill her, kill her!!"

The ancient, evil voices in the sword whispered constantly in his mind, and in the stillness of the night he could still resist them, but he had also fallen into a blood frenzy and committed atrocities that made him ashamed and regretted that wine could no longer bring him forgetfulness.

If he is given more time, the day will come when he can no longer resist the whispers, and then nothing around him will be safe anymore.

If the devil didn't end the world, he would be the one to end the world!
He smiled, and now they called him the Phoenix King. He had passed through the Sacred Fire and returned from the other side, not only unscathed, but stronger, faster, and more alive than any mortal man.

He died once, when he passed through the Holy Fire, and he was reborn at that moment. In the Holy Fire, he glimpsed the truth that tore apart his sanity, and the existence behind and beneath it.

He had gazed upon the eternal turmoil of Chaos that surrounded all things, and had seen the smile on the face of the Daemon who waited to devour the souls of the Elves. He had also seen how his kind used the world as a plaything and billions of creatures as slaves. He had glimpsed the great cracks in the fabric of reality, the cracks from which the forces and servants of Chaos poured forth, corroding and conquering the world.

He had seen endless horrors, and had been reshaped, reforged, and reborn for battle. He had used all the power he had ever received to try to save his people from drowning in the foul demonic torrent.

At first he thought he could win, for the gods had granted him power far beyond that of mortal men.

He used this power to lead the elves to win victory after victory, but each victory was accompanied by irreparable sacrifice, and behind every fallen enemy, there would be two new enemies to replace them.

He hadn't realized at the time that all this was just a black joke, that he was only delaying the extinction of his own people, prolonging their suffering deeper and longer.

He couldn't even protect his closest family members. The devil took away his family and brutally killed them. At that moment, his heart collapsed.

It was after that that he traveled to the Blight Isles in search of the Sword of Khaine.

It was a weapon that had never been drawn, but he drew it.

If Asuryan gave him strength, then the sword of Khaine made him nearly invincible.

Wherever he goes, demons are destroyed; wherever he leads a battle, victory follows.

However, he could not be everywhere, and with each day that passed, his enemies grew stronger, while those who followed him became fewer and fewer.

The darkness emanating from the Sword of Khaine has penetrated his soul, making him more furious and more crazy. His closest friends have left him, and the people he swore to protect have also begun to alienate him. Fortunately, there is still a group of warriors who are determined to follow him, but they are as angry and murderous as he is, almost crazy, and almost the same as the enemies they are fighting.

He taught his people how to fight, but he also led them down a path of destruction.

Dark despair enveloped him, and at the darkest moment of his life, Morathi appeared in his life.

He glanced at Morathi's sleeping form and felt a mixture of hatred and desire for her. He felt for her a feeling he would not call "love" but a mad, sick passion.

He found some temporary solace in Morathi's embrace, a brief escape from their frenetic intercourse.

Morathi prepared a potion that would make him sleep, which restored his calm for a short time, gave birth to a son, Malekith, and made him realize that he still had some weak emotions in his heart.

He rekindled his fighting spirit and returned to the battlefield.

Even if you no longer have hope, at least you are still persisting.

But now, he finally understood that everything was over, that his enemies would eventually win, and that his people were doomed to extinction and even eternal damnation.

He failed.

At this moment, he sensed a change in the air around him. A ray of light emerged from the air, and a blurry shadow quickly flew away from him. He turned around, raised his sword high, and prepared to attack. He barely stopped at the last moment.

"Aenarion, can you hear me?" A low and strange voice sounded, as if it came from the desolate edge of the end of the world on the wind.

There stood Caledor, or rather his shadow, a ghostly image projected by magic, translucent in light, across an endless distance.

Aenarion looked at his former friend, the most powerful spellcaster in the world. Now he was emaciated, his cheeks sunken and his face like a skull.

Caledo's expression was kept calm by the power of will, but the fear flashing in his eyes was obvious.

"Aenarion, are you there?"

The image flickered, and Aenarion knew that if he waited a moment, the illusion would dissipate as the spell failed. He did not want to speak to the man who had betrayed him, the man who had left when he had led his people to their doom.

He suppressed his anger and controlled the rage burning in his chest. In his rare moments of clarity, he understood that Caledor had actually made the right choice: taking away some of his people and avoiding the shadow of Khaine's sword and his own fate.

"I'm here."

"I need your help, we are under siege."

"Oh! Now you need my help! You once betrayed me, but when you needed my help, you came to me without hesitation." Aenarion sneered, full of sarcasm.

Caledor shook his head slowly. Aenarion could see that fatigue had dragged him to his limit. The great wizard was almost exhausted, and only his strong willpower was supporting him.

"I never betrayed you, my friend. I only betrayed the cursed sword in your hand and the path you set out on."

"That is just another way of saying it. I saw a way to save our people, and you, in your arrogance, refused to follow me!"

"Some roads, even if they are the only way to survive, are better not to be taken. The road you choose will make us more terrible than the enemy. That is not victory, but just another kind of defeat. No matter which road you take, the enemy will win in the end."

Deep down, Aenarion agreed with this, but he was too proud to admit his fault. Instead, he took this opportunity to vent his bitterness and anger.

"You called me a cursed person, saying that my descendants and I will be cursed for generations, but now you dare to ask me for help?"

"I never cursed you, Aenarion. You placed that curse upon yourself when you drew the sword. Or were you already cursed? You were chosen by fate at birth, and that was a curse in itself!"

"And even now, you're still trying to twist your words to make them sound as sweet as honey."

"The world is about to end, and you still need others to soothe your self-esteem. To you, dignity is more important than the lives of our people. You refused help just because I once said a few truths to you. You are like a child, a child who has never grown up, Aenarion." Anger flashed across Caledor's face, and a sneer appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"I haven't said I won't help you. What do you want me to do?" Aenarion laughed in anger.

"There is only one way to save this world, and you and I both know it."

"Are you going to activate your plan, chanting a spell, trying to expel the energy from this world?"

"That's not what I'm going to do, you know it's not."

"Morathi said that's what you did."

"I suspect your wife knows more about magic than I do." Caledo's tone was full of sarcasm.

"Now it is you who is arrogant, Caledor!"

"The Gate of the Ancients has been opened, and the winds of magic are blowing out of the gate like a hurricane. They bring with them the power to distort humans and the energy for demons to reside. Without these energies, they cannot stay here and can only dissipate. This is a fact! We have built a powerful spell network that can guide, drain, and utilize these energies. Now, we just need to activate it!"

"That's enough! We've discussed this a hundred times."

"We are dying, Aenarion. Soon there will be no one left to stand against Chaos. We have tried your ways, but unfortunately, we have failed. Chaos is stronger than when you entered the Fire." "That is not my fault."

"But it's true!"

"So you're here to ask for my permission?"

"No."

"no?"

“We’ve already started.”

"How dare you disobey my orders?"

"You are our leader, Aenarion, but we are not your slaves. This is your last chance to risk your life."

"That's also for me to decide when to gamble!"

"It is too late, my Phoenix King. If we do not act now, we will never have another chance. Our enemies will become too powerful to be defeated. Or perhaps they already are?"

"Since you have decided to disobey, why bother telling me?"

"Because the demons have sensed our intentions and are trying to stop us, and we are powerless to resist them."

"So you want me and my men to protect you, even though you disobeyed my orders?"

"This is the last battle of the elves. If you don't want to come, that's your choice."

"There are other fights!"

"Alas, there is none. This will be the final battle. If our spells fail, the fault beneath Ulthuan will tear apart, the continent will sink, and perhaps the whole world will end?"

"But you still have to continue."

"We have no choice, Aenarion. You told me that my advice was the words of despair, and that you would find the way to victory. Have you found it now? Answer me!"

Aenarion wanted to strike back, but he was too proud and too honest to say it, and in the end he just shook his head.

"So, will you come to the Island of the Dead? We need you, the elves need you, the world... needs you!"

"I will consider."

"Don't think about it too long, Phoenix King."

Caledor clasped his hands together and bowed, and then the apparition disappeared.

Morathi suddenly opened her eyes and let out a sharp cry.

Aenarion turned to look at his wife. He could sense that Morathi was looking at him as though he were seeing a ghost.

"You are still alive, thank the gods!" Morathi gasped as if he had survived a calamity.

"Apparently yes."

"Do not trifle with such things, Aenarion. You know I can see the future. Tonight I saw in my dreams a great war coming. If you take part in it, you will die!"

"so what?"

"If you leave me, you will die!"

Aenarion stared at Morathi, wanting to ask how she knew this, but he did not dare, for he feared that Morathi would give him an answer he could not bear, and even more so that he would be forced to take action after hearing that answer.

Morathi had gone too far in studying her enemy, so far that he had more than once wondered if she had gone too far.

Many times, he was unsure of who Morathi's true allegiance lay.

He only knew that she looked at him, as he looked at her, with lust, respect, hatred, and anger, an intense, intoxicating mixture of emotions that had lit up many memorable days and fueled many more unforgettable nights.

"Everyone dies."

"I will not!" Morathi answered firmly, and then she held out her hand and pleaded, "Neither will your son Malekith. If you will obey me, you will not die. If you leave today, you will give up your immortality. Stay with me, and you will live forever."

"You know, that's impossible!" Inarion quickly denied it, trying to break this spell-like moment.

"You are the Phoenix King. You can do anything."

"No matter what I am, I am a warrior first. I am a fighter! And today may be our last battle!"

"So you're going to help that fool Caledor with his crazy plans?"

Morathi was angry, but her anger did not make her ugly. Instead, it made her more beautiful and more dangerous.

Aenarion watched her, fearless. She had never frightened him, and he wondered if that was why she fascinated him. Was he perhaps the only man who had never been frightened by her anger?

"That is the only way we can win this war, I see now." Aenarion remained calm, knowing that this would only anger Morathi further.

"I'm telling you, if you leave, you'll die!"

Aenarion shrugged and began to put on the dragon armor, buckling it and mumbling a spell to activate dormant powers. Vast protective magics shimmered around him, amplifying his already formidable strength.

At this moment, what he wanted was a barrier that could separate him from Morathi.

"Please stay. I do not want to lose you forever." Morathi walked towards Aenarion and stretched out her arms in pleading.

As always, Aenarion was struck by the beauty of Morathi, and he wondered if there was a fairer woman than Morathi. At the same time, Morathi's beauty had no appeal to him.

Morathi had no power over him, never had.

He knew that this was the secret of his control over Morathi. Other elves might be driven crazy by Morathi's temptation and desire, but he would not. There was a coldness in his body that Morathi could not touch, but Morathi still could not stop trying...

"I will be back."

"No, you will not. You are a fool, Aenarion, but I love you." Morathi shook her head firmly.

Then she stood there, waiting for Aenarion to say something, with a pleading look in her eyes.

Aenarion knew how much courage it had taken for her to speak such words, and how it would be a humiliation to her proud heart to hear no response. But he had no words to say, and no words to express himself.

He had loved only one woman in his life, and she was dead, sleeping with the child she had borne.

This fact cannot and will never change.

Morathi was the Fallen, she had dragged him down into corruption, and even now she was trying to stop him from facing his enemy.

He had a feeling that she was already his enemy, the enemy of the elves, and would always be so!
"Kill her, kill her, kill her!!"

A whisper sounded in his ears. Perhaps... if he killed Morathi, he would be eliminating a great scourge for the elves?
He stared at Morathi, certain that she knew what he was thinking, and equally certain that she didn't care if he actually did it.

Morathi took a step forward, as if daring him to attack.

He reached out and pulled Morathi against him, pressing his armored mouth against hers, pouring all his lust, anger, and hatred into a long, brutal kiss. Morathi responded frantically, twisting her body against his metal armor until he pushed her away.

He smiled cruelly at Morathi and turned to leave the tent. As he left, he seemed to hear her crying, and he told himself that he didn't care.

Indrognir appeared before Aenarion, a living mountain, with wings that blotted out the heavens, and his head dropped from the great pillar-like neck.

In those strange, shining eyes Aenarion saw a burning rage and a passion that matched his own. His companions sensed his madness and roared, and the rest of the dragons roared, and the mountains roared in response.

The horn sounded, summoning the elves to gather for battle.

All eyes were on him, the soldiers were looking at him, they were all veterans with stern faces, hard eyes, and cold curves at the corners of their mouths. They were all wounded in this long war, and they all burned with crazy hatred for the enemy, and he was very familiar with this hatred.

They all knew that he had summoned them for the final decisive battle. The huge infantry columns were lined up neatly in the distance. Unfortunately, they could not get to the Island of Death in time to participate in this battle.

They were waiting for him to speak.

"Thank you for following me so far. Now, some of you must follow me further. We must travel a long distance quickly. Only those who ride dragons are fast enough to go with me. The rest must stay behind to protect my queen!"

After he finished speaking, he could clearly see the anger and shock on the faces of the infantry and cavalry, but that was all, he knew that these soldiers had accompanied him through hell, and they loved him in a cold and cruel way.

"Those who remain must defend this place and endure to the end! After today, you may be the last elves in the world. You must follow my queen and son and rebuild our kingdom no matter what."

The warriors heard in his words the foreseeing of his own death, just as they heard it themselves.

He had already made some veiled arrangements for the succession, and he trusted these veterans to ensure that his arrangements were carried out.

Then he turned his gaze to the Dragon Riders, the elite among the elves, the greatest elven warriors. He paused for a moment, and scanned the entire place, meeting the gazes of every soldier.

And Indrognir roared again, and the other dragons also roared, shaking the valley.

"Today is our last battle. Today, whether we win or lose, this war will end!" Aenarion shouted, and even the dragon's roar could not drown out his voice. "Today, we leave here, to victory or death!"

After saying this, he jumped onto the dragon's saddle, tightened the reins, and Indrognir leaped into the air. His huge wing membranes flapped the air, and the sound was like a storm blowing a sail.

The wind howled in his ears, Indrognir soared into the sky, and the dragon knights behind him lined up neatly, like an arrow covering the sky. For the first time in a long time, he felt ecstasy. Maybe this would be the last sunrise he saw, but there were still miracles in the world that could make his blood boil.

"To the Isle of the Dead!" he shouted, and the wind carried his words away, leaving only Indrognir to hear. (End of this chapter)