Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

It was a grand spectacle, absolutely a grand spectacle.

For Koshir, yes, that was the feeling. Everything before him exuded an oppressive grandeur—arrays spread out, banners fluttered, and the air was filled with a chilling, impending doom. Yet, amidst this solemnity, there was an unspeakable unease, an indescribable bewilderment churning and swirling within him.

It wasn't because the enemy was strong, nor because the terrain was complex, nor because of the tension before going into battle.

It was because his enemy was not Duruci, but his compatriot, Asur.

He simply couldn't understand why the Phoenix Guards were standing against them. Why were the Sea Guards, who flew the Lorthorn banner, blocking their advance? And the White Lion Guards, his brothers, were also arrayed, as if at a single command they would fight each other to the death, to tear each other apart.

He thought of those rumors.

The rumors were divided into two phases in his mind, each phase like a heavy punch to the foundation of his faith.

The first stage was heard by Tal Finnu.

Bell-Hathor fell into a coma; there was no doubt about it. Less than a day after he arrived in Safi'sion, the Phoenix King had fallen into eternal sleep, dying quietly without leaving any last words or instructions.

The Phoenix King's scepter hangs in the air; Imrek has become regent! This is also true.

But what he found hard to accept was Fennubar.

Finnubar did not become regent. He was once the most favored successor, but in reality, he did not take the throne. As for whether he voluntarily stepped down or feigned nobility and integrity, now... the answer is terrifyingly clear.

He betrayed Asur, he betrayed Ulthuan. He personally opened the sea gates of Lorthene, allowing Duruci to set foot on this sacred land he had sworn to defend to the death.

Koshir was filled with hatred, so much so that his teeth itched and his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. He had never imagined that the fall of Ausuan was not due to external enemies, but rather to internal strife.

After Finnubar destroyed the navy used to defend Ulthuan, he made a greedy move and, unable to become regent, sided with Duruci, sending him into Lorthorn, causing Ulthuan's land defense system to collapse.

He swore that if he encountered Finnubar on the battlefield, he would personally kill him without hesitation. What he hated most was a traitor!

The second phase of the rumors came after he arrived in Safi'sion.

This time, there was only one rumor, but it shook the depths of his soul.

It is said that Malekith went to the Temple of Asur and entered the sacred fire, just as he did during the Great Sundering, but this time, he stepped into the sacred trial fire once again, witnessed by the Phoenix Guardians and many Asur nobles.

Unlike last time, when he was burned by the sacred fire and turned into charred remains, howling in agony.

This time, he was reborn from the ashes.

When Koshiel first heard the rumor, he wanted to laugh.

He almost burst out laughing.

He doesn't understand politics, but that doesn't stop him from believing that this is just absurd propaganda spread by Finnubar, a prelude to some kind of political maneuver, an attempt to use miracles to construct a legitimate narrative structure for himself.

Are you kidding me?
How could Malekith emerge from the sacred flame? How could he be reborn from the ashes?

How can this be?

But now, he's starting to waver.

If not, why are the Phoenix Guardians here? And how do you explain the Sea Guardians wearing Lorthorn's sea-blue cloaks? These people who should be guarding Ulthuan are now standing in opposition to the Phoenix King's will—the White Lion Guards.

The veins on his forehead bulged, and he clenched his teeth. The further he went, the more he felt the blood rushing to his head. He wasn't afraid; he had never feared battle. He was a White Lion Guard, a warrior who would fight to the death. What he feared wasn't the enemy, but the silent hand of fate that had twisted everything.

What's frightening is that that person really is the Phoenix King.

Previously, he didn't need to know who the future Phoenix King would be; it wasn't something he could decide. He was just a warrior, just what the nobles called Faniol, a person of low birth. But that didn't stop him from knowing that the king he protected was an Asur.

It couldn't possibly be... Malekith, could it?

But now...

His gaze fell upon a figure.

That was a peculiar existence.

A bald man in a long black robe stood there quietly. His gaze was devoid of emotion or hostility, only possessing a profound stillness, like an immovable reef on the seabed, or the sky frozen before a storm.

When their eyes met, the air seemed to freeze.

Koshir was speechless. He didn't know the other person, but in that instant, he felt an unprecedented pressure, not fear, but a kind of oppression from the era itself.

He suddenly felt that he was not standing on a battlefield, but on the edge of some kind of historical fault line.

Just one more step forward, and the entire era will collapse.

The joke became reality.

At that moment, he hesitated, but he could not back down.

Kohein's heart was also in turmoil, but unlike Koshir, he knew from the beginning that the rumors were true.

Everything, everything, is real.

It was not only true, but far more real than the rumors themselves, so real that it was suffocating, so real that he wondered whether he was living in reality or in a nightmare.

The moment he left Lorthen, as he carried Bel-Hathor from his bedchamber on his own back and embarked on the journey to the Kingdom of Saffre, he had a vague sense of something.

As a result, his perception became reality. His close friend, Finnubar, opened the sea gate, and the fleet that was claimed to have been completely wiped out did not disappear in the waters off Anaheim.

They did not sink, but returned, carrying flags and flames...

He also understood why Finnubar appeared at the Spire of Heavenly Light on the day the Photographer King was decided, and why Finnubar had said those words to him—words that seemed like advice, farewell, and entrustment all at once.

Its core is not a request, much less a command, but a kind of compassionate persuasion.

Let him take Bel-Hathor away to the Kingdom of Saffre to await the final moment, rather than stay in Lor'then and become enemies with him in the impending coup, ultimately fighting each other in a night of blood and fire.

Kohein understood, of course.

But he still couldn't accept it.

The feeling was like being abandoned, yet mixed with a deep sense of distrust. Was it because he was too proud? Too impulsive? Or had he been excluded from the blueprint called "the future" by Finubal at some unnoticed moment? Or was it his responsibilities that prevented Finubal from saying anything to him?
He couldn't give a precise description, only feeling a tightness in his chest.

His gaze slowly shifted to the silent figure standing at the front of the formation—the bald man whose eyes were unsettlingly calm, and whose chest bore a familiar emblem on his black robe.

That's the emblem of the Marsanas family.

He recognized the emblem; he had seen it countless times at the residence of his close friend, Prince Alasya.

Therefore, this is undoubtedly him—Marekis.

The man who emerged from the sacred flame, the king who, like Aenareon, underwent a phoenix-like rebirth.

Kohein's lips twitched; he wanted to laugh, but couldn't. His throat felt dry and stinging, as if a clump of weathered dust was stuck there.

A thousand years of suffering, a thousand years of betrayal, a thousand years of chaos—like an extremely cruel joke.

And now, this joke is sweeping towards him with utter mockery, leaving him no room to dodge or back down.

When Belanar stopped, he also stopped.

Just standing there.

Standing in the center of the battlefield, like a witness deprived of speech.

He looked at Malekith, at the bald head reflecting the sunlight, at the familiar yet unfamiliar faces around him—Fenubal, Aislin, Kazorin, Marin, Adana, Italis, Belorda…

They were all looking at him.

Some people had complicated expressions, some had apologetic eyes, some lowered their heads and looked down, some showed sympathy, some showed worry, and some, he didn't know how to interpret it.

A sense of utter despondency welled up within him, seeping into his very bones like ice water. He knew this battle wouldn't happen. He had known it from the very beginning.

He is not a fool.

The Hoss faction beneath the White Tower remained silent, with the magic swordsmen, scholars, and archmages standing still, none of them moving to help Belanar.

This shows what?
This shows that they have made their position clear.

If Belanar hadn't been Bel-Hassor's brother, perhaps Belanar would be standing at the foot of the tower now, instead of in front of him.

He couldn't do anything, he couldn't order the White Lion Guards to do anything. It was his duty, the responsibility the White Lion Guards had to fulfill from the moment they were born—to protect the Phoenix King.

A deep weariness rose in Kohein's heart, not for the current situation, but for everything—the farcical power transition, the pretense and scheming piled up across the land.

He suddenly lost interest in what would happen next.

He no longer cared who could speak, who could explain, who could raise the scepter, who could read the orders.

He just wanted to know how he should face his former lovers and friends in the days to come. How should he look at those who had once given him warmth and faith?

He knew they were thinking about the same thing.

There was no hostility in his gaze, but rather a certain... unease. He felt tired.

It wasn't physical exhaustion, but a double drain on his spirit and emotions. He was no longer young, no longer had the energy to understand the deeper intentions behind every political storm.

He just wanted to return to the Kingdom of Charis.

He returned to the place where he lived as a child.

There, there are no bald kings, no trials of fire, no divine gaze, and no ever-talking word, "order."

He just wanted to be an ordinary elf.

Even if it's just for one day.

Even if it's just in a dream.

Standing there, Belanar gazed at Malekith, who was also gazing at him. His gaze was calm and unfathomable, like an abyss, like a mirror in the shadows, reflecting no ripples, yet revealing all hypocrisy.

But he didn't pay attention to Malekith's expression; he was looking at Malekith's body.

More precisely, it was the power of Quesch within Malekith's body—surging, surging, and inexplicably radiant.

His second vision can penetrate appearances, tear apart illusions, and see directly into the essence. And at this moment, Malekith, standing not far from him, is himself a singularity of a quash energy eruption.

He saw Quesch flowing within Malekith's body—no, boiling, surging from within like a volcanic eruption, overflowing into every limb and spewing towards the heavens.

Malekith's body was no longer flesh and blood, no longer bones, no longer the body of an elven king. He was more like—a giant Quesh energy stone.

No, it is a living Quesch energy stone, a vessel tempered by sacred fire and etched by destiny, a being that contains existence beyond the mundane.

How can this be?

Berlanal felt as if his heart had been pierced, and shock instantly filled his entire nervous system.

The Quixite is theoretically impossible to create, but what he sees now is something extremely abnormal and contrary to the logic of nature—a living Quixite node.

And this point in time was Malekith.

The Witch King who brought war, betrayal, and a thousand-year tearing apart, the Dark Lord who fought Asur to the brink of annihilation, has now become the vessel of Quesh.
What an irony.

What a...

He couldn't find the word for a moment. He had spent his whole life using language to write about the world, to explain power, and to depict order, but at this moment, he found himself forced to the end of words, to the edge of the abyss of logic.

He tried to deny it, tried to explain it. Was it an illusion? A concealment? A trick of an evil god? But all of this was shattered by his second vision.

That's not an illusion.

It's not deception.

It is neither a flower in a mirror nor the moon's reflection in water.

That was the real Malekith, standing right in front of him, bearing the surging torrent of Quesch, a towering, cloud-piercing tower of energy, with even the surrounding air and causality being reconstructed around him.

The longer he looked into his second eye, the more he felt an irresistible attraction.

Quesch is powerful, even... beautiful.

That kind of beauty is not the beauty of the mundane world, nor the beauty of flowers and plants, but a kind of "pure" beauty, a beauty of existence that transcends good and evil, goals, and desires.

And at this moment, that pure beauty is descending upon reality in the form of Malekith.

It's not about whitewashing or rebirth, but rather the reenactment of an ancient myth.

He had heard of Aenarion and studied that almost mythical history, how an elf was forged by sacred fire, how he was reborn in the flames, and how he carried the fate of his entire race into darkness.

Now, Malekith, like his father, Iñárrion, has followed the same path.

But it's even more insane, more thorough, and more incomprehensible.

Is this fate's arrangement? Is it Asuyan's punishment? Or...?

Berlanal didn't know; all he knew was that Finnubar's previous choices had been correct.

He simply stood there, watching Malekith.

The surging power of Quesch still churned and shone before his eyes, as if reminding him that the old era had come to an end, and the new chapter was not to be written by him.

Malekith took a deep breath and then moved.

He slowly separated his hands, which had been behind his back, and extended his left hand outward naturally. Then, with an almost ritualistic slowness, he pressed down. Almost instantly, the Phoenix Guards not far behind him moved in response.

At that moment, it was as if some long-suppressed mechanism had finally been activated. Precise and orderly, they changed their previous solemn and dignified fighting posture with both hands holding the halberd. Instead, they turned the halberd around and placed it diagonally on the ground, holding it with one hand and letting the other hang down, adopting the ceremonial posture of holding the halberd during daily marches or receptions.

The movements at the front spread like ripples, extending from the very front to the flanks and radiating outwards from the center, like dominoes being toppled and striking one after another. To the left, right, and rear, the vanguard of the Sea Guard also began to move, and the warriors bearing the Lorthern flag adjusted their postures in perfect unison.

Malekith placed his left hand firmly on the hilt of the Sunfire Sword. He originally wanted to put his hand back behind his back and regain his usual pride and composure, but he ultimately gave up.

He knew very well that if he put his hands behind his back, he would likely clench his fists, and these body language gestures, these actions that were not befitting the Phoenix King, would be noticed by those standing behind him. As Malekith, as the new king, he could not show the slightest hesitation.

So he gripped the hilt of the Yangyan Sword tightly, using the force to calm himself down, straightened his back, and slowly walked towards Belanar.

On the other side, Belanar also moved, his expression neither joyful nor sorrowful, his steps as steady as a mountain.

The two walked slowly toward each other, and as the distance between them gradually decreased, the atmosphere on the entire battlefield suddenly became tense and frozen, as if the entire continent of Ulthuan had held its breath.

The Phoenix Guards, White Lion Guards, Sea Guards standing around, as well as the Hoths in the distance, remained silent and motionless, with only the sound of the wind whispering through the banners.

"Ah, what a grand scene."

Darkus, leaning on the railing of the raiding ship, chuckled softly. His tone was lighthearted, as if watching a show, but his eyes were unusually serious. He then heard the rustling of pen and paper beside him, turned his head, and sure enough, the great painter, Renn, had already begun to paint.

On the ground, Malekith stopped, and Belanar stopped as well.

Marekis extended his right hand, raised it, palm facing outward, a swift and decisive movement that marked both a halt and a beginning, symbolizing the formal commencement of an extremely important, life-altering meeting.

Just as when Daculus first met Sieglin and Fenaphine, the beginning of etiquette preceded the beginning of intention.

Without hesitation, Belanar responded with the same gesture.

Malekith nodded without saying anything, then slowly raised his hand and pointed to the raiding ship where Darkus was located.

Berlanal did not follow the direction, but continued to look at him, nodded, and then a calm smile appeared on his lips.

The next instant, he took a half step back, sidestepped to make way, and did so without hesitation.

Malekith nodded slightly again, then continued forward, walking resolutely along the path that had been cleared for him.

When he reached the White Lion Guard captain and vice-captain, along with Koshir, he stopped, his gaze slowly sweeping over their faces. Finally, he gave a brief but firm nod in respect.

Ke Haiyin looked at him, stared at the Yangyan Sword in his hand, remained silent for a moment, sighed deeply, and then stepped aside to make way.

Without hesitation, the vice-captain followed closely behind, silently making way for him.

Malekith moved.

He approached Koshir, his gaze indifferent, ignoring the axe Koshir was gripping tightly, as if he hadn't seen anything at all, and simply walked past.

As they passed each other, he suddenly whispered something.

"Not bad."

After speaking, he did not stop, but continued walking with steady steps and piercing eyes.

When he finally reached the front of the White Lion Guard, he stopped at the crossroads between the old order and the new world.

He looked around, his voice suddenly rising, like a warhammer shattering rocks, echoing in the silent air.

"White Lion Guards, do you recognize me?"

As he spoke, he took a step forward, his voice booming, his aura like a surging wave.

"Introduce yourself."

He paused briefly, his eyes blazing, and said in a deep voice.

"I am Malekith, Malekith Marsanas, son of Aenarion, the eleventh Phoenix King!"

He took another step forward.

Every gaze was frozen in awe, as if time itself had stood still.

He stood there, his voice booming.

"If you wish to kill your emperor, I am right here!" (End of Chapter)