Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

A troop of dark riders galloped forward, their hooves thundering and kicking up clouds of dust. Their cloaks and hoods fluttered in the wind, as if they were trailing a trail of twilight and flames of battle. They swept through the air like blades, each leap shattering the thin mist under the setting sun, and the earth trembled with their speed.

As the group reached the summit of the last hill, the view opened up dramatically, as if a curtain had been drawn back. The land unfolded abruptly, like a silent yet vibrant painting, with dark green and golden yellow intertwined, and shrubs, gentle slopes, and sparse trees rising and falling in layers, as if waiting for something.

The centurion, wearing a jacket, raised his right hand high, signaling the troops to stop.

"hiss--"

The warhorse beneath him snorted heavily and spun steadily halfway around amidst the flying mane.

The sergeant looked around and smelled the mixed scent of grass and moisture, along with the aroma of unripe wheat and a cool smell that did not belong to winter snow or decaying leaves—the traces of energy left in the air.

He then narrowed his long, thin eyes, a hint of expectation and caution flashing in his gaze beneath the metal helmet. His eyes swept across the land ahead with the sharpness of a hawk, where the edge of the plain rippled with barely perceptible heat waves and light, as if a sleeping giant was breathing softly.

After observing for a moment, he first adjusted the jacket hanging on his right shoulder, then bent down and carefully took out a simple yet exquisitely carved black wooden box from beside the saddle. The corners of the box were covered with metal edges polished by time, clearly indicating that it was not an ordinary standard military item, but a custom-made piece.

His movements were extremely slow and solemn, as if he were opening not an ordinary item, but a sacred relic.

In reality, the box contained neither a scroll nor a magical artifact, but a pair of binoculars—a high-precision observation instrument produced by Nagalos and distributed to officers. It was the eye of war, the scout's weapon, and the first nerve in determining victory or defeat.

As the box was opened, the surrounding soldiers involuntarily turned to look, their eyes filled with envy and awe as they watched the unveiling, as if it were not a telescope, but a door that could glimpse the future. Some instinctively held their breath, others licked their lips, chapped from the rush, but no one uttered a sound; only the wind continued to howl.

The sergeant held the binoculars up to his eyes, remained silent for a few seconds, and then spoke in a low voice, his tone revealing a complex mix of amazement and disdain.

"This is... the Wind-Swept Plains?"

As his words fell, the wind seemed to awaken as well, blowing from the direction of the plains with a low whistle and subtle air pressure fluctuations like the tides. The earth was breathing slowly, or perhaps it was awakening.

Through the telescope, the vast plain was finally fully revealed in his field of vision.

Like a giant carpet slowly unfolding from the depths of time, it stretches from the edge of this silent hill at our feet all the way to the distant horizon, blurring into a hazy silver-gray line where it meets the sky. The terrain is gentle and wide, with occasional undulations but no towering mountains to obstruct it. The entire plain is like Lilith, sleeping peacefully beneath the clouds, her robes like waves of wheat gently swaying in the breeze.

Around the village, crisscrossing furrows spread across the land like nerves and blood vessels, forming a structural diagram of the flow of life, layer upon layer, orderly and harmonious. The wheat fields stretch like a sea, golden ears of wheat undulating gently in the wind, their rhythm both soft and powerful, like a field elegy softly murmured by the wind, meant to be admired from afar, evoking a solemn tranquility from the depths of the earth.

Golden yellow and tender green intertwine as the main colors, with occasional glimpses of purplish-red interspersed among them—hyacinths and bean flowers stubbornly vying for attention on the field ridges. They are like echoes left by this land to the sky, delicate yet bright, quietly growing in forgotten corners.

At the edge of some fields, one can vaguely see scattered white stone houses, their red-tiled roofs intertwined with the drifting cloud shadows under the sunlight, creating a poetic scene. Everything is gently protected by some kind of tender magic, undisturbed by the flames of war.

Further on, winding canals snake across the land like silver serpents, a marvel crafted by elven artisans and the spirits of nature. The canals gracefully meander through the woodlands, their shimmering streams reflecting the sunlight like the tear tracks left by an ancient deity as they walked this land. Waterbirds flit by in twos and threes, some circling, others resting on the stone embankments, as if this land were not a battleground, but a true, forgotten sanctuary of tranquility.

The air was filled with the scent of damp earth, and even through the hills and binoculars, the power of the earth and growth seeped into the nose and heart of the Dark Rider.

It was an irrepressible vitality, and also a heavy temptation.

"Looks quite bountiful," the deputy sergeant couldn't help but mutter, his tone tinged with barely concealed envy.

"Yes, it's quite soft." The sergeant put away his binoculars, his tone carrying a hint of mockery mixed with caution, but his eyes remained unwavering.

The soldiers laughed, a dry laugh tinged with emotional release. They knew their sergeant wasn't just talking about this soft land…

Starting from Lorthorn, they have heard too much, witnessed too much, understood too much, and understood too late.

They finally understood why their predecessors from the old era, after arriving in Ulthuan, preferred to hide in the crater rather than return to the ice plains of Nagarus.

If it were them...

Who would want to go back to that cold, desolate place?
The laughter stopped abruptly after a moment, and the sergeant's expression suddenly turned serious. His previously playful tone quickly cooled, replaced by the coldness and precision befitting a soldier.

"Send a signal to let the rear know that we have spotted the target."

Without a word, the riders swiftly dismounted, landing silently. One planted a portable beacon, another raised a smokestack, and the third operated a windproof lighter. In a few breaths, thick signal smoke rose into the sky like wolf smoke, swirling, stretching, and twisting high on the hilltop before being quickly torn apart by the wind and scattered into the distance.

At this moment, the signal, like an invisible bugle call, announced that the march of war had reached the borders of this peaceful land. The thick smoke seemed not to be cooking smoke, but rather a concrete manifestation of a certain belief, a prelude to a new era sprouting, spreading, and disseminated from this place.

This plain has said nothing yet, but its fate has already been written.

As the dark riders completed their reconnaissance mission, put away their signaling equipment, and prepared to continue their advance, the air behind them suddenly trembled. It was a deep, powerful hum, not the sound of wind, but a harmonious blend of iron and wind, the sound of winged creatures tearing through the sky, as if some force was slowly pressing down on the heavens.

Even though they knew what it was, they still instinctively looked up.

Two raiding ships emerged low from behind the hills, streaking across the sky like ghosts and casting shadows among the thin clouds. Flying side-by-side, the insignia etched on their hulls gleamed in the sunlight, symbols of honor and order.

A huge curtain hangs from the ropes connecting them.

The curtain billowed in the wind, rustling and spreading out like flames, awe-inspiring and drawing all eyes—including riders, soldiers, and even farmers in distant villages who were unaware of the danger.

On the curtain was a half-length portrait of Malekith. But unlike the cold and sharp midnight black armor of the past, he was now clad in dragon armor, the metal like scales, the shoulder armor, breastplate, and gauntlets interwoven to form a kingly body. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, like a sword piercing through time, and he was like a god who controlled light, looking down upon all living beings.

The old king has fallen, and the new fire has been lit.

The sergeant gazed silently at the suspended image, saying nothing.

He was born in a new era, and he never witnessed the speech that determined the course of history and rewrote the fate of his people. He did not stand in the square of the northern army camp in Nagarond, nor was he ignited by the overwhelming declaration of the Witch-King's Hand, nor was he shaken to his core by it.

But his father had seen it.

He was a man of few words who had served in the army of a powerful figure for fifty years. He had heard those thunderous oaths and witnessed those curtains slowly unfolding on the high walls of Nagarond, like the light of dawn piercing through the eternal night.

He said that on that day, the wind stopped, the snow stopped, and the anger he felt towards fate finally found an outlet.

The sergeant had heard those plays and seen many reenactments. No matter how exquisite and realistic the stage replicas were, they could not replace the shock and blood resonance of being "in the thick of it".

until now.

Until he stood on this unfamiliar hill, saw the portrait hanging in the sky, saw those cold eyes and the dragon armor symbolizing royal power, saw himself, and finally became a part of that epic scroll.

The raiding ship gradually sailed away, slowly flying into the depths of the plains under the protection of the daylight, carrying the image of Malekith into that still slumbering land. The portrait faded into the distance in the light mist, like a divine admonition, turned page by page by the wind, yet never forgotten.

The quartermaster shook his head and sighed softly, the sound seemingly carried away by the wind on the hillside, heard only by himself. He lightly kicked the flank of his horse, which neighed softly, turned halfway around, and steadily changed direction.

He looked back; some soldiers were gazing at the receding portrait, some at the plains, and some were lost in thought. Their eyes held excitement, awe, confusion, and a certain longing and unease—an instinctive tremor, an emotional fluctuation unmasked by armor.

His gaze pierced through the ranks, like a blade cutting through cloth, looking into the distance.

He saw more, more dark riders rushing toward the hill, their iron hooves like a tide, their cloaks like banners, the black tide surging, their banners fluttering, their fighting spirit overflowing, their breastplates gleaming coldly in the sunlight.

Behind the black tide, orderly legions emerged from behind the hills, like metal shields rising from the ground, forming mountains and forests of spears. Giant war beasts, chariots, weapons, and supply wagons rumbled forward, and the earth trembled.

They did not move randomly, but were systematically woven into a vast war matrix, like the spine of a dragon traversing valleys and plains, and occupying the border between the kingdoms of Itien and Safrei, forming a mobile fortress.

Mandir Rael's 11th Army has arrived.

This force was originally one of the troops stationed by Karond Karl, but now, at this crucial juncture, it has crossed the Taol Peninsula and stepped onto the edge of the Plains Kingdom.

They are no longer the guardians on the city walls, but the army commanded by the king, the sword of conquest and rebirth, and the pioneers who don armor and wield weapons for the new era.

The horn sounded.

It was a deep and long horn sound, as if rising from the depths of the earth, striking the soul and bones with each note.

The war drums shook the heavens.

The rhythm is steady like a heartbeat, waking the slumbering again and again and pushing the wheel of fate forward.

Banners fluttered in the wind, one after another military flags stained with chaotic blood flying high.

This is not a ceremonial procession; this is an advance.

The wind rustled the plain, the earth responding to the weight of its massive footsteps. Birds perched between the furrows were startled, flapping their wings and fleeing hastily to the horizon, disturbing the last vestiges of tranquility on the plain.

Duruci has arrived.

It was not plunder, not a test, not revenge.

Rather, it is an entry, a declaration, an irreversible historical leap.

From then on, this fertile land no longer belonged to those nobles who clung to the past and indulged in outdated ideas.

It will belong to the new era, to the monarchy forged in iron and blood, and to those who are willing to prove with their lives and faith that the future is worth reshaping.

From the Kingdom of Safri, Durucci has arrived.
-
Perhaps it's because the Kingdom of Saffre is a sparsely populated land? Or perhaps it's because the richness of Ulthuan is sufficient to meet self-sufficiency, making it unnecessary to fully expand these two plains? The reasons are uncertain, but the current situation is what it is.

In Darkus's eyes, the vast Windswept Plains and Finnuwa Plains of the Kingdom of Safri had not been fully developed, and were not even considered to be used in a basic way.

Even by human standards, the land utilization rate here is pitifully low—less than 10%, or even less.

Vast tracts of land lay uncultivated, and manors and villages dotted the landscape, empty like forgotten heritage. This state of "wealth without cultivation" would be an almost unbelievable waste in human history, but within the social structure of Asur, it did not seem strange, but rather "natural."

There are many reasons, and Darkus could list several in the blink of an eye:

First, the population density is too low.

The overall population of Asur in Ulthuan is far lower than that of any human nation. Their long lifespan, slow reproduction, and frequent warfare... these combined factors have resulted in an appallingly low birth rate.

The total population of the Kingdom of Safri is probably less than that of the capital city of a medium-sized province in the Sigma Empire.

With a small population, it's natural that not all arable land will be covered – there's neither demand nor capacity.

Secondly, Ausuan itself was extremely wealthy.

With the perfect harmony of magic, climate, and land, the agricultural output of Ulthuan is almost miraculously high. Even with haphazard and extensive management, a small manor is enough to support a noble family and all their subjects, with bountiful harvests year after year and no shortage of food. The nobles even regard letting the land rest for fifty years as a noble aesthetic symbol.

Third, the arrogance and tradition of aristocratic culture.

In the minds of the Asur nobles, agriculture, though fundamental, was considered a "lower" activity. Truly noble families would not encourage their children to work in the fields; that was the job of farmers and servants.

Efficiency? That's a word humans value; they believe in elegance, classicism, and tradition. Therefore, land isn't for cultivation, but for territory; it's not for production, but for inheritance. Its function isn't to grow wheat, but to display power.

That's why Dakotas found it ironic.

He leaned against the railing of the raiding ship, gazing at the endless expanse of fertile land. Golden waves of wheat were merely embellishments; scattered temples, abandoned manors, and wildflower-covered field ridges formed the main "landscape." As he looked, he couldn't help but let out a sneer through his nose, and then uttered that sentence.

He wasn't satirizing any individuals, but rather criticizing a deeply ingrained structural way of thinking. In his eyes, these Asur nobles were like misers who possessed mountains of gold but only used them for decoration; they owned the richest, most fertile, and most sacred land in the world, yet refused to truly use it because of their nobility, tradition, and hypocrisy.

Let the golden soil grow grass, let the bountiful plains bloom, let the seasons spin in hymns of praise—this is what they call 'civilization'.

But he is different.

Darkus saw no romance, only efficiency; no historical sentiment, only practical needs. He wasn't there on a pilgrimage; he was there to reshape the rules.

This land will eventually be incorporated into his plans and restructured into a new supply base for Ausuan, a true granary.

This is the cornerstone of strategic depth, the backbone of the supply front, and the root of the entire new order in Ausuan.

After the reign of King of Ulthuan is over, Darkus will unleash his "trump card"—a true trump card in the real sense. It is not for showing off skills, nor is it a post-victory entertainment. Rather, it is a decisive move that pierces through the fabric of history, a groundbreaking institutional purge that will completely tear apart the curtain of the old order and ultimately determine the future direction of elven civilization.

What he wanted was not just victory, not just the throne, but to change the very structure of elven society.

This will completely end the deeply ingrained "kingdom system" that has existed for the past thousand years, transforming the kingdom from a noble territory with "ownership" into a central province that is a "governance unit," and establishing a completely new administrative system.

The kingdom was downgraded to a province.

Saffre will no longer be the Kingdom of Saffre, but the Province of Saffre; Itean will become the Province of Itean; Kosquie, Iris, and even Avalon... will all be the same.

These ancient and noble names will no longer represent the semi-independent rule of a prince or queen, but rather a regional code under the jurisdiction of a governor appointed by the central government.

Political affiliation is no longer a matter of bloodline inheritance, but rather of administrative appointment. Governance is no longer determined by "who was born where," but by "who is appointed to be in charge."

This is not "unification," it's called "restructuring"—demolishing the old structure and casting a steel frame.

Will Asur oppose it?

no doubt.

They will be shocked, angry, and fearful, just as they would after the Great Invasion, they would launch a counterattack, tear up their oaths in a fit of rage, secretly plot a restoration, organize protests, and even assassinate, revolt, and use all their so-called glory and tradition to thwart it all.

But Darkus had already made his decision.

This matter must be done.

Otherwise, why would we fight back?
Otherwise, why not just stay in Nagarus and live a peaceful life amidst the ice and snow?

Duruci returned not to bask in the sun in Lorthorn, nor to claim a title on the Phoenix King's golden throne.

What he wanted was a fundamental change, a reshaping of order, a coup d'état. He wanted to transform Ausuan from a sacred garden that had become a nobility's enclosure into a true empire—a ruthless, orderly, disciplined, and efficient empire.

A new form, a new civilizational structure.

Only in this way can he truly pave the way for the world, making this second path a reality and a viable route.

The primary testing ground was Safrui.

This land is simply perfect. It is vast, fertile, sparsely populated, abandoned but not completely wild, bordering both Itaien and Iris, its geographical location perfectly situated on the fault line between the old and new orders, allowing for both expansion and defense.

It's perfect for testing knives.

Since the Kingdom of Safri is short of people, then veteran Duruchi will fill the gap.

Veterans have combat experience, organizational habits, and are disciplined and obedient to orders. They will build this "granary of the new order" brick by brick.

The Windswept Plains will be developed into a core wheat-producing region. The Finnuwa Plains are different; they are close to the magical forest of Avalon, and their soil, climate, and magical flow are more suitable for growing rare magical plants.

This is the cornerstone of strategic depth, the "stomach" of the future Truc-Azur merging empire.

The fields are not fields; they are the military foundation and the logistical backbone of the empire.

Grain is not just grain; it is the lifeblood of war and the fuel that keeps the troops running.

The land is not land; it is an administrative testing ground, a draft of the blueprint for order.

Once this system is up and running, it doesn't need to be much, just running—he will grasp the true lever of empire.

No longer a noble council, no longer a bloodline negotiation, but him, as the enforcer of order, the actual operator who deduces the logic of command and governance.

And the fulcrum of that lever is precisely these two plains.

In the blueprint for the future, once the land rises again, Nagarius and the Kingdom of Terenlock will also step into the torrent of this new order.

This is not a return to the past, not a rewind of a lost civilization, nor an attempt to recreate that unattainable glory of yesteryear. Those who speak of the golden age before the Great Disruption are essentially just utterly disillusioned with reality. They do not truly love the past; only those who are utterly pessimistic about the future and the present would yearn for the old era.

But Dacules did not; he never thought there was anything worth going back to in the past.

He doesn't want to go back; he wants to surpass.

The Age of Miracles is just around the corner.

It was not a miracle, nor a gift from heaven, but something that this generation forged, hammered out, one hammer blow at a time, with swords forged in the flames of war, grains cooked with blood and sweat, blueprints drawn by order, and foundations poured with sacrifice.

Miracles do not come from the grace of the gods, but from their own hands.

He leaned against the railing of the raiding ship, watching and pondering, letting the wind tousle his hair, flutter the edges of his robe, and reveal a hint of a smile and the ripples of his thoughts beneath his expression.

As the raiding ship ascended, the clouds were torn apart like ribbons, and the silhouette of the White Tower of Hoss finally emerged, blindingly white and lofty and solitary, as if standing proudly at the intersection of reality and fantasy, the meeting point of heavenly light and earthly energy, the central point where legend and order clashed.

But what attracted his attention was not the temple that symbolized knowledge and wisdom.

"Should we have a martial arts demonstration or just stand there in a standoff?" he muttered softly, his tone carrying an almost mocking scrutiny.

As the distance closed, the scene gradually became clearer, and what were originally just blurry shadows under the clouds were now transformed into distinct and recognizable lines.

Dakos finally couldn't help but burst out laughing.

It's so witty, it's just like a script written by a crazy screenwriter in a high-spirited state.

He saw that the Phoenix Guards, led by Malekith, and the White Lion Guards, led by Belanar, were standing ready in front of the White Tower, their lines clearly defined and their imposing presence overwhelming.

Further away, the Hoss Sword Saints stood quietly and solemnly outside the Hoss White Tower, unmoved as mountains. They were like sharp blades that could be drawn at any moment, or like an extension of the will of the entire White Tower itself, the last 'neutrality' in this area.

What is this? The eve of war? A political clash? A tense troop deployment? Or... some kind of higher-level 'performance'?
The Phoenix Guards, representing the will of Asuyan, and the White Lion Guards, representing the will of the Phoenix King, set up their battle formation right under the noses of the Hos White Tower and the Hos Sword Saint. Is the battle about to begin?

Dakos shook his head, then smiled.

“This is just like a stage play, all that’s missing is the audience and performers in place.” He pointed at the scene and said with a smile to Ryan standing next to him.

"Which row does the gentleman intend to sit in? The front row or a private box?" Ryan couldn't help but shrug.

"You decide!" (End of Chapter)