Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Thousands of crude ships transported the demon army to the shore of the island, and tens of thousands of twisted and bizarre beings filled the beach, like visions born from a morbid nightmare. Some were as tall and hideous as elves, some were as huge and mighty as dragons, and there were many in between, products of chaos that were haphazardly fabricated, strange and indescribable.

The air above the Death Island was gleaming with twisted energy. The clear sky had begun to change color, with clouds spinning like a huge vortex hanging upside down. The sky itself was torn apart by some force, dyed with golden, red and sapphire-like colors. Colorful lightning was constantly interweaving like a spider web, and the wind was howling down. The whole world was on the verge of collapse.

Countless mages were arranged around the central array, chanting spells. Their voices merged into a tide, devoting all their power to the archmage at the top of the array without reservation. Each spellcaster was the top archmage in Ulthuan, and each of them was burning their life and soul to provide the last drop of power for this spell that could change the fate of the world.

In the center of the array, Caledor and the mages he personally selected were standing in a circle, each of them bathed in the surging and dangerous energy. Their hands were raised high, and the energy released gathered into a constantly changing rune structure, and the spells condensed into layers of rotating magic circles in the air.

The energy at the center was strong enough to tear apart reality itself. Any creature without a shield would be torn into ashes in an instant if it approached. The spell was on the verge of losing control, and destruction could break out in the next second.

A force capable of destroying the entire world is slowly but surely taking shape!

At the same time, demons were attracted by this energy like bloodthirsty sharks, pouring in from the coastline. The smart demons realized that this ritual was not for their benefit, so they roared in anger and vigilance; while the foolish ones just rushed to this treasure of power madly, trying to get a share of it.

Endless Chaos followers surrounded the outer edge of the temple, expanding like a black tide. They held high the battle banners of the four dark gods, shouted the blasphemous holy names, and poured filthy faith into this pure land once protected by the stars.

Each Chaos army is led by a powerful Greater Daemon, a terrifying being that is beyond mortal comprehension, forged in the furnace of Chaos power, clad in armour of nightmare and godhood. These Greater Daemons have won countless victories, and now they gather here to sacrifice Ulthuan and usher in the end.

The elves were doomed to fail. The enemies were too numerous, too strong, and too chaotic to be stopped or stopped.

The victory of Chaos seemed to be a foregone conclusion, and only sacrifice could bring a glimmer of hope. All the elves could do was to delay time, to buy Caledor the last chance to cast a spell, to buy one second, and another, for the miracle that had not yet been completed.

The only path to victory is death!
Wave after wave of giant dragons swooped down from the sky, like angry fire thrown from the sky. They swept through the dense enemy array, opened their mouths and spewed dragon flames, burning all the polluted land. The enemies were so dense that they could hardly dodge, and the flames poured down like a backflowing tide, devouring thousands of enemies. They screamed, rolled, and turned into ashes in the fire, like a colony of ants thrown into a pool of boiling oil.

The dragons continued to fall in the deadly battle, seriously injured, dragging their broken bodies and still roaring, leaving the last shield for Ulthuan.

Dark clouds covered the entire sky, and the sky lost all its colors. The ground fell into complete darkness, with only the bright pillar of energy shining in all directions, becoming the last beacon. Occasionally, a colorful lightning bolt struck from the sky, tearing strange wounds in the night sky, as if reality itself was wailing.

The array arranged by the elven wizards is still clearly visible. It is a huge rune made up of flesh, blood and light, a last chain of hope woven by will, faith and sacrifice.

This is a scene worthy of exchanging the life of the entire world for. It is the last prayer of the elven civilization and the final gamble of Ulthuan.

Loxia the Fellheart led the remaining ships and sent Tyrion's troops to the Isle of the Dead. The army marched inland to the island in three huge columns, winding like a steel snake through the sand dunes and guide stones.

Tyrion and Morathi were in the center, Loxia commanded the army in the west, and Prince Dalos commanded the troops on the east front.

With every step they took, the wind grew stronger, as if the world itself was warning them of the coming storm. The whispers of the dead grew stronger, as if souls had crawled out of the abyss beneath the earth, whispering in their ears about past glory and blood debts.

When the bottom of the whirlpool appeared before Tyrion's eyes, he saw his enemy, Malekith. Malekith's army was exhausted and wounded, but it had established a defense line, standing there like an iron wall, and turning silence into an oath.

The final battle begins.

The Great Whirlpool existed for more than 6,400 years from its formation to its dissipation. During these long years, there were only two days when Death Island was the busiest: one was the day it was formed, and one was the day it dissipated. The rest of the time... it was exceptionally peaceful.
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"Ah, a drum washing machine, no, a whirlpool!"

At the intersection of heaven and earth, directly above the Island of Death, the ocean of magic rolled and roared, as fierce as falling stars, and thousands of spells converged into one, interweaving into a great force beyond the laws of the universe. The sky turned into an upside-down vortex, and the clouds were no longer soft. They were torn into millions of streams of light, like golden gravel rolling in a raging stream. Red, blue, golden, black, pale, deep purple... All colors faded away at this moment, leaving only pure energy.

At the intersection of heaven and earth, directly above the Island of Death, the ocean of energy rolled and roared, as fierce as falling stars. Thousands of spells converged into one, interweaving into a great power beyond the laws of the universe.

Here, the mutterings of mages, the echoes of gods, and the roar of nature become one.

The clouds were no longer soft, they were torn into millions of streams of light, like golden gravel rolling in a raging stream. Red, azure blue, golden yellow, pitch black, pale white, deep purple... all the colors lost their essence at this moment, turning into a pure torrent of energy, as if the essence of the soul was exposed here.

Space twisted and collapsed in the vortex, and all rules were like paper being licked by flames, unstable and violent, yet breathtakingly beautiful. Space and time itself were pulled by the invisible gravity, and it seemed that thousands of years passed in an instant, and it seemed that an instant was frozen into eternity.

The past, present and future meet here, and civilization and destruction resonate here.

Ancient runes appeared in the air, circling around the core of the vortex, with a trajectory as precise and profound as a star track. Each rune carries the limit of the elves' wisdom. They pulsate between light and darkness, belonging to no language or group. They are not meant to be understood, but to be feared - a call for the ultimate order, an eternal seal on chaos.

And at the center, at the unreachable heart of the vortex, power surges like a raging sea and consciousness roars like a storm.

All things become one here, and all beings are silent here.

This is not the climax of a battle, but an elegy for civilization.

The hope of the whole world is injected into this ever-rotating miracle.

Even if the price of all this is blood, sacrifice, eternal loneliness and silent martyrdom.

After sighing, Daxus turned to look at Drusala. Seeing Drusala's expression as if everything was under control, he smiled.

Scattered islands passed below them, like stars in the night sky, not real landforms. They did not belong to this world, as if projected from another dimension. This place was filled with mist and shadows, filled with indescribable sadness and loss. The surrounding sea was calm, like a mirror frozen in time, painted on the surface of the world by an artist, every stroke filled with quiet solemnity.

The Island of the Dead exists outside of time, beyond the laws and causal constraints of the material world. It is like the embers of history, burning between reality and illusion, but fortunately this does not bother the passengers on the ship - they themselves are the shapers of their own destiny.

Alyssa felt the damp and cold touch of the mist, like an invisible hand caressing her skin. Her breathing became rapid because the air here was cold and lifeless, like an empty house after its owner died.

There is no fire, no echo, only an empty shell interwoven with silence and memories.

There is an air of abandonment here. For centuries, there has been no movement here, and there will never be any movement here. Time has stopped here, and even breathing seems to be quietly frozen.

Even their existence did not leave any trace? It was like they floated through this space like ghosts, without causing any ripples.

Occasionally she could see flickering lights in the mist and glows in the distance, but as soon as they appeared, they receded like the tide, as if the souls of the past glanced at her briefly before quickly sinking and dissipating.

"Those souls that come too close are trapped by Caledor's powerful magic. Do not gaze upon them for too long, or your hearts will break with sorrow."

Salir's voice appeared in Alyssa's ears, soft but firm.

Alyssa followed the advice and looked away whenever she saw those flickering lights. Those lights were not hopes, but memories, warnings, and the last words of the vigilant.

Then she sighed, for though she had not yet seen the whole of the island, a cold fear welled up in her heart, for it was filled with incredible heroism and breathtaking tragedy.

Here, every inch of land carries blood and oaths, and every stone is engraved with the pain and glory of the elves' history.

The fate of the elves was determined and saved on this island, and the lives of the wizards who made the ultimate sacrifice to join Caledor were also protected on this island. Their names may have been sealed, but their wills are still floating in the mist, never far away.

Maybe... one day, she will also enter the vortex? Join this team? Become eternal and continue?

Thinking of this, she looked back at Dacus, but she could see nothing.

The fog enveloped them, obstructing their vision. Only the suffocating mist and the light from the souls trapped by the island's magic were floating around, like soul-guiding lamps by the River Styx, guiding the travelers to the end of their fate.

But soon, they rushed out of the fog and the Island of Death appeared before their eyes.

A desolate coastline, made of rubble, broken yet solid, rises from the sea, stretches to a smooth pebbled beach, and then to a bare forest.

The trees are like remnants of memory, without leaves or birdsong, only countless dead branches pointing to the sky, like speechless sentinels. The sea water around the island is like a smooth mirror, cold and silent, reflecting the gloomy sky, but slapping the island, unmoved by the tide, as if some invisible will continues to impact this silent place, roaring only for history.

The raider began to slowly descend, quickly passing the coastline, the hull making a heavy hum in the wind. The broken sword with its black blade and skull-shaped hilt drifted in the waves, like a silent witness, recording the conflict and sacrifice that had long ended. The skeleton of the long-dead monster was half buried in the beach, gently washed by the waves, like a long-ago tombstone, silently engraved by time.

The assault ship landed steadily on the beach, on the outermost land of Death Island, a place that has not been forgotten by history but no one dares to set foot in it anymore.

Ryan looked around the gloomy beach. Gray mist slowly drifted from the towering forests, like silent souls whispering between islands. The mist shrouded the bushy cliffs of the beach, obscuring vision and blurring time.

The waves scattered more weapons and bones on the beach, intertwining with each other, as if telling a story of the past sealed by blood and steel. He picked up a weapon, the hilt of the sword was stained with sticky blood, dried, but still retaining a disgusting smell. The blade was sharp, flashing a cold light, and a skull rune was engraved on the hilt of the sword, which was eerie and evil. He threw the weapon away in disgust, as if to get rid of a curse.

"Three hours ago... this place should have been forever!"

"Yes." Salir's answer followed almost immediately, brief but meaningful, as if he had a deeper understanding of this land than language could ever allow.

"Then why is the sea still surging and receding?" Springtwin pointed to the sea like a curious baby, "Why is the fog still rolling in the trees?" Then he pointed to the land, his voice full of confusion and anxiety, "Since everything should be solid, why do we still see changes?"

"I can't establish a connection with this island. It's isolated from the world." Alyssa stood up, patted the sand off her palms, and explained in a calm voice, "If someone could see us, we would appear to be standing still. Time flows around us here, not with us." Her voice pierced through the silence, stripping their existence from reality.

Dacus did not participate in the discussion, but looked around, observing and searching, like a traveler looking for meaning in the ruins. His eyes passed through the fog and ruins, pursuing the unchanging truth in the ever-changing shadows.

It is dead silent and still here, and there will never be the slightest movement.

The clouds swirled in the air, occasionally flashing with a faint light, but it was fleeting, as if some existence was watching them, but did not want to be seen. When the waves hit, there was no sound, as if they were performing a pantomime, all sounds were deprived, and only unspeakable oppression remained in the air.

However, as Alyssa said, time flows around us here, not with us. The sounds of their movements and the voices of their voices are not affected at all. They are the foreign objects in this world that do not belong here.

Soon, he made a new discovery. The desolate coastline was covered with tumbled boulders. Did they seem to be guide stones? The stones were strangely distributed, with weathered textures on the surface and faintly flickering cracks like runes.

He didn't run over to see it right away, because it was meaningless. He knew that the Island of Death was not an ordinary piece of land, but a land made up of stone pillars of various shapes and sizes. It was not a naturally grown landform, but was shaped and designed - a stage built with magic and sacrifice, a theater waiting for fate to appear.

Some stone pillars were submerged under the waves, forming the foundation for other stone pillars to stand on. They stood quietly under the water, like the remains of sleeping ancient gods, supporting an inexplicable structural world for the entire island. Some stone pillars towered in the dawn sky, more magnificent and taller than the most magnificent elf towers. They were as sharp as spears and as proud as swords, piercing the sky and penetrating the sky of fate.

But they were dwarfed by the rotating cloud column pointing straight to the sky below the huge whirlpool. The cloud column was like the sky itself surging, like a ring of judgment twisted by the hand of God, slowly spinning in mid-air, with irresistible power, slowly but not to be ignored, pulling the breath of the entire island.

Dead Island, literally.

Even for the elves' pursuit of the ultimate aesthetic, this is a strange and beautiful scenery, a scene between the sacred and the taboo, which makes people palpitate, but they can't look away. In the sparkling sea, the Death Island stands with clear edges and corners, like a fault torn from time and reality, cold, sharp, and inviolable.

What he saw echoed what he knew, like the guidance of fate or the echo of destiny.

After a moment, he snapped his fingers, the crisp sound was particularly abrupt in the silence. When everyone looked at him, he began to make arrangements.

In fact, there is nothing to plan, just carry the supplies you brought. No one knows what you will encounter, and no one knows how long this journey will last.

"The assault ship..." Ryan pointed at the assault ship, his tone filled with uncertainty and worry, as if he wanted to ask whether he should leave someone to guard it.

Darkus didn't respond, but looked at Splinterwin.

Afterwards, everyone started to set off with their supplies.

Soon, everyone left the beach and entered the forest.

The forest was unusually silent, with no birds building nests on the bare trees, no burrowing animals digging nests between the tree roots, and no wind blowing the withered branches. The trees were like fossil relics, with only shapes but no traces of life, and even decay seemed too luxurious.

This is a forgotten forest, a forest that even time cannot nourish, a remnant that exists only in dreams.

"Before the Great Vortex was built, this was once a lush and beautiful place. It was the birthplace of the elves. This is where Asuryan created our first life. This was the place of creation and the cradle of our race. But now only petrified trees remain."

Alyssa spoke as she walked along the road winding through the woods, her tone mixed with emotion and confusion, as if she couldn't fully understand why what she was saying was so familiar.

"How do you know? What about Eden Valley?" Ryan asked in a low voice, with a tone of alertness and suspicion. He was not denying it, but hoped that his sister could give a reason that he could believe.

Alyssa hesitated.

"I'm not sure, I feel like I've always known it? Although I didn't think of it until now. It feels like... like a memory?" Her eyes were a little confused, but extremely firm, like a person who had just woken up from a dream. Although she didn't see the whole picture clearly, she was sure that the dream was real.

Daqius, who was listening to the conversation between the Takia brothers and sisters, did not interrupt, nor did he say anything like "Okay, don't say anything else." Instead, he turned his head to look at Salir who was walking beside him, only to see Salir nodded. The silence at that moment seemed like some kind of confirmation, and also like an acknowledgment.

He didn't say anything, but narrowed his eyes, his gaze became deep, and the doubt in his heart was instantly ignited.

"This is too heretical, this is too much of a waste of time!"

This information is inconsistent with the legend of the elves.

According to legend, the elves came out of the Eden Valley in the north of the Death Island, but now, it has changed to the Death Island in front of us. The meaning of Alyssa's words is obvious - this news was told to her by Aisha.

Dacus did not speak. The answer was right here. Just find it. In addition, Alyssa was positioned as a heretic, or in other words, the Aisha Cult had always been a two-faced group.

It’s just that the change from Aisha to Asuryan, from Eden Valley to Death Island, is still a bit...

He walked holding Drusala's hand, and the wind grew stronger with every step he took, but the wind was silent. It was not the wind of nature, but the whispers left over from memories, illusions, and history, which passed through the trees, rose from the soil, and then dissipated silently.

He had an illusion that someone was following him, or observing him from a place he couldn't detect. That feeling was like a shadow, like an invisible hand, gently caressing his back, but he could never see the source.

"I think someone is following us." Ryan, who also noticed something strange, said as he held the Reality Blade in his hand. The blade reflected a faint light in the shadow cast by the dead tree, responding to the gaze hidden in the darkness.

Alyssa became alert and prepared to cast a spell. She quickly scanned the surroundings, trying to find anything unusual between the shadows of the trees and the fog.

"I don't know what that is, but I can feel it approaching!" Ryan's tone was solemn, his eyes fixed on the front.

In the past, Drusala should have pulled his hand out and been on guard, but he didn't do that at this moment.

When Daxus was about to slap Drusala's hand and release it from his palm to signal to enter a state of alert, his eyes rested on Drusala's face.

At that moment, his originally calm expression suddenly froze, as if struck by lightning, and a hint of disbelief flashed in his eyes.

"Fuck!" He suddenly cursed, with incredible shock in his voice.

How could that be Drusala?

Her face was familiar yet distorted. Her features were still delicate, but seemed to be covered by a layer of mist. Her eyes, which were usually sharp and gentle, were now dull and lifeless, revealing a chilling emptiness. From the corners of her eyes, the lip line to her contours, every detail seemed to be perfectly imitated, but completely misplaced on some unspeakable level.

That's not her.

She stood there, looking at him blankly, her head tilted slightly, like a puppet waiting to be deciphered, without any emotion. (End of this chapter)