Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Sunlight streams obliquely through the stained glass windows, refracting eight colors of magical wind, like a river of light that intertwines and swirls in the air, drawing colorful trails that are reflected on the walls and the floor, flowing endlessly.

Fenrir stood before the long table in the center, his hands outstretched, pressing against the edge of the map. Leaning slightly forward, he adopted the persona of a general in armor, his cloak billowing in the wind. Confidence radiated from his brow, and his eyes gleamed with barely concealed excitement. This was his first victory, a resounding triumph. He was quite pleased with his achievement and eager to press his advantage, to penetrate deep into vampire territory, sever their lifeline, and end it all once and for all.

However, when he looked up, wanting to confirm the location of a certain marker...

The colors seemed to come alive, intertwining, swirling, and flowing before his eyes, transforming into a vortex of colorful light that slowly wove together a human figure—the figure of an elf—gradually emerging from the glass. The figure walked slowly from the radiance, its footsteps silent. He sighed; that figure was his mentor, whom he knew all too well.

The mentor's face appeared solemn and dignified in the light, his gaze containing both scrutiny and deep disappointment.

"What are you doing? Playing house? Pretending to be a general?"

Fenrir was taken aback, but quickly straightened up and faced his mentor's sharp gaze without flinching.

“I am making a change, mentor,” he said firmly, his voice not loud, but resounding. “Humanity needs us.”

“You must understand, humanity needs many things, far too many things, Fenrir. Their needs are like a bottomless abyss.” The mentor slowly stepped forward, his voice authoritative without being angry. “They don’t need us. The Council has already explicitly forbidden you from entering this place. Return to Ulthuan immediately!”

“But I have so much to do,” Fenrir pleaded, his voice filled with reluctance and entreaty, his eyes gleaming with idealism. “Too many clues…too many responsibilities, I cannot leave.”

“This is not a request!” the tutor interrupted sharply. “This is an order! The council has issued a decree that you must obey unconditionally! If you fail to demonstrate the necessary self-discipline, I will suggest that you restart your studies, and…” she paused, “I will resign from the council, because that would mean I have failed in my duty as a tutor.”

Finrel opened his mouth, but ultimately swallowed his words. He knew this was not an empty threat; if his mentor said it, he really would do it.

“If I could show you the clues I’ve found here, mentor…” He was still unwilling to give up, turning back to the table and pointing to several intersections on the map, “Many battles actually originate from the same darkness. The influence of that slumbering one is everywhere. If he awakens…”

“Fenrir,” the mentor’s voice had shifted from anger to cold indignation, “are you really so naive as to think you’re the only one aware of what’s happening here? Do you think you’re the sole observer?”

"The council was already aware of all this and decided not to interfere. This is humanity's own battle, a trial of their destiny, determining whether they deserve to continue existing in this world. If they fail, then they do not deserve to live here. You must learn to let go and let nature take its course. You either return voluntarily, or we will forcibly take you away."

Before she finished speaking, the air around her suddenly distorted, and two figures silently appeared. Two sword saints, clad in white robes and carrying swords, stood solemnly on either side of her like statues.

"Tell me something." The tutor's tone suddenly changed, softening with a hint of concern. "Is Ma Lanlin still alive?"

Fenrir paused for a moment, then nodded.

"He's still alive, mentor. He performed exceptionally well in battle, remaining calm under pressure. He'll definitely become an outstanding swordsman in the future."

This time, a barely perceptible sense of relief finally appeared on the mentor's face. It was a relaxation that only parents could understand. In that instant, she was no longer a mentor, but an old mother who had been waiting for news for too long.

"If I have offended the council, please forgive me, mentor. I had no intention of disobeying your orders," Fenrir said softly, his tone tinged with sincere remorse.

"You will personally apologize to the council within a month." The mentor slowly turned around, his figure merging into the light. "I suggest you sincerely ask for forgiveness, and I also suggest you take the shortest route back. Your habit of adventuring and acting recklessly will no longer be tolerated in the future, do you understand?"

Finrel sighed softly. What could he say? All he could do was nod.
-
In the year 2122 of the Imperial Calendar, Manfred von Karstein, the bald-headed man, returned to Sylvania. This time, he did not infiltrate silently, but appeared in an almost provocative manner. Through a series of complex and sophisticated means, including assassination, manipulation, instigation, and internal political maneuvering, he re-established his supreme authority within the von Karstein family.

After he secured his position as head of the family, the Third Vampire War broke out.

In the year 2132 of the Imperial Calendar, on the distant island of Ulthuan, Fenrir experienced an unprecedented soul shock during meditation. His soul was inexplicably drawn by some dark force; he sensed a sinister and malevolent aura. He attempted to trace its source, to uncover its true nature, but was instead struck by a monstrous torrent. It was not mere necromancy, but a deeper, more malevolent power, imbued with madness and blasphemy, abruptly pulling his soul back into his body.

The moment his soul returned to his body, he realized that Manfred was being guided by Nagash's evil power.

This might be the first time the Hothian faction has suffered a setback against Nagash.

Upon receiving this vague yet dangerous warning, Fenrir immediately informed the White Tower Council. He used the most precise language and the calmest demeanor to try to make those high-ranking mages realize the seriousness of the situation.

result……

“Child, you are still young and easily impulsive. This is understandable for a young monk who has achieved so much in such a short time, because we were young once too, and we also had ideals and passions. But unfortunately, human affairs are irrelevant to us.”

“We do not deny what you have seen, nor do we question your judgment. But as you get older, you will understand that Elsin Alfvén’s fate should not be decided by us. They know very little about us, and we hope that this will continue.”

Fenrir was not surprised by these words. In the conservative, closed, and self-righteous society of Asur, his unique and unconventional personality was already unpopular. And in the even more conservative Hosbeat, which valued moderation and balance, such a personality was almost equivalent to heresy.

He wasn't unaware of the rules, it's just... he was unwilling to follow them.

Fortunately, he was very talented and accomplished, just like in school, students who do well in their studies are always tolerated by their teachers.

Fortunately, he was not alone.

He sought out his friends—Ellery Leon, René Lear, and Maranlin. He condensed his findings, anxieties, and all the possibilities of the future into a one-hour presentation, earnest and passionate. And then, he convinced them.

Soon, the four quietly left the White Tower and arrived in Lorthorn. At the port, they boarded a ship bound for the Old World, their destination being Marienburg.

That winter, Manfred attempted to attack Aldorf, just like Vlad had done, and... he almost succeeded.

Just as he was basking in his victory and preparing to embrace it, he heard a voice coming from the battlements. The voice was neither a prayer nor a poem; it was flat and emotionless, yet for some reason, these words felt powerful.

He retreated in terror, crying out that it was impossible. He recognized the meaning in the voice, but it was too late. Then lightning flashed and thunder roared, wind and rain raged, and the sky seemed to be filled with the wrath of the gods.

After a special effect, the endless horde of zombies that he had awakened, controlled, and given a second life to gradually twist, struggle, and wail amidst the incantation, eventually collapsing, scattering, and disappearing like dried paper scraps, turning into dust.

High Priest Korth III of Sigmar at the time defeated necromancy using necromancy. He recited a spell from the Book of the Dead, a spell that acted like a backdoor in a program, directly severing the control core at its source, causing the army of the dead to completely lose control and disband automatically.

After the failed attack, Mann chose to flee, but he did not return to Sylvanas. Instead, he turned west and headed straight for Marienburg, attempting to capture this wealthy but poorly defended large port city, using it as a base to rebuild his power structure and create a maritime bridgehead for the Necromancer Empire.

result……

When he took office, the local garrison of Marienburg was already on high alert, and the blue-and-white armored soldiers of Asur Sea Guard, who had recently established a trading colony there, were also quietly arrayed.

In addition, a Sigmar Empire army, which Finrel coordinated with the Empire through messengers, had already laid a trap in a corner that Manfred was unaware of.

No sooner had Man Guangtou arrived than he was surrounded.

Explosive killing!

Without any politeness, without any suspense, and without any dignity, they were brutally murdered!

Fenrir and his three closest friends—Ellerion, Renanrir, and Maranlin—shone like stars and moved with lightning speed in battle. Clad in white robes and armor, they wielded longswords, harnessing lightning and flames to tear the undead army to shreds. The brilliance of magic and the cold glint of blades intertwined to create a magnificent spectacle, a tribute to this victory.

Mann Baldhead suffered another defeat, his most humiliating one yet. He was powerless to recover and had no other options. This time, he chose silence and escape, shrouded in black mist and lingering clouds, slinking back to the damp and dark depths of the Sylvanian forest.

Just as Finrel was preparing to press his advantage and launch a full-scale attack to completely crush Manfred, his mentor appeared.

Nevertheless, this did not stop the allied forces of humans and dwarves from continuing their advance, driven by a desire for revenge and reckoning, and marching resolutely into the forests of Sylvanas.

Ultimately, the Third Vampire War came to an end.

But Mann was not truly dead; he had not completely perished. His soul, his obsession with death, and the faint connection between him and Nagash still lurked in the shadows.

Time marches on, and fate, like the gears of reincarnation, slowly turns.

In the final moments, in that era when the world was on the verge of collapse, Asur suffered repeated defeats at the hands of Mann. First, Tyrion and Elariri's daughter was captured, and the Asur expeditionary force failed to rescue her. Then, the Asur expeditionary force that ventured deep into Sylvania was completely annihilated, Azalion and Belanar both died in battle, and Etila was transformed into a vampire.

Perhaps, if Fenrir hadn't been recalled, if he had continued to advance into Sylvania with the Allied forces, perhaps the feigned-death Mann would have been completely wiped out in that battle, and perhaps so many tragedies wouldn't have occurred, and so many people wouldn't have lost their way home forever.

Unfortunately, there is no "maybe".

The pendulum of fate never stops, and the torrent of time never turns back.

When Fenrir, at the end of his life, succeeded Tigris as the last High Spellsword and took charge of the White Tower of Hoth, did he ever recall, in the quiet of the night, that chance that "could have ended everything"?

However, this is ultimately a story from another timeline. In Darkus's timeline, everything is different. In this timeline, Mann died in Aldorf, personally ended by Darkus wielding Wot's leaf hammer.

Perhaps Mann will be resurrected again, but that's not important to Darkus.

What appeared before Man's bald head at that moment was a snowball.

A big snowball.

A snowball piled high with power, will, and the echoes of history.

A snowball that even the Chaos Gods dare not underestimate.

A snowball powerful enough to make the world tremble, the sea burn, and the sky shudder.

A snowball called the Age of Miracles.
-
Arelani stood atop the white tower's base, a marble platform intricately covered in runes. Morning light streamed down from behind her, casting her shadow on the steps before her. Her gaze was fixed on the approaching visitors, her face maintaining its usual calm and solemnity. But only she knew that she was forcibly controlling her expression, suppressing the instinctive gasp that might have been escaping her lips.

This combination... is too unique, too unusual, too powerful.

As the group stepped onto the pedestal, everyone spontaneously made way for Saril and Asanok to stand undisputed in the very center—the central position symbolizing dominance and identity.

“The great scholar Arelani, Fenrir’s mentor, and Maranlin’s mother,” Marin whispered into Darkus’s ear, her voice brimming with undisguised pleasure and mockery.

Upon hearing this, Darkus turned to look at that ambiguous smiling face, couldn't help but roll his eyes, and then his expression gradually became the same as Marlene's, a half-smile carrying a hint of schadenfreude and anticipation of the climax. Then, his expression changed, revealing a look of sudden realization and regret.

If the occasion weren't so inappropriate, they would probably be laughing so hard they'd be doubled over by now.

What is a "fun person"?
Those two are it.

If time could turn back, if we could do it all over again, when they were still on their way back, when Fenrir met his three friends, Darkus would definitely shake his head decisively, stop Fenrir from seeing his friends, forgo small talk, forgo embracing memories, and face reality head-on.

Let Fenrir confront his mentor, Arelani.

Fenrir, who would later become the Supreme Spellsword Master and Lord of the White Tower, was no fool; he knew very well the enormity of his actions. He had been personally dispatched by the White Tower of Hoth to accompany Fennubar's delegation to Elsin Alvin.

result……

Finnubar returned, but there was no sign of him.

Of course, this so-called "major disaster" is not actually a truly catastrophic one. It's like when you get into trouble as a child and think the sky is falling, but when you look back as an adult, you realize it wasn't such a big deal, just another ordinary incident.

Sure enough, after the formalities were completed and the self-introductions were finished, Arelani's first words were—"Where is Fenrir?"

“On his way here, he happened to run into your son,” Marlene replied with a playful smile and a casual tone, emphasizing the word “happened to.”

As soon as she finished speaking, everyone who knew the inside story showed an extremely rich range of expressions, some amused, some regretful... it was like a silent play that was performed without rehearsal but with perfect tacit understanding.

"I knew it!" Arelani gritted her teeth, her voice filled with barely concealed anger, revealing the resentment of her dual roles as a mother and teacher.

“Madam, I can bring him here!” At this moment, Ryan, who was not afraid of making a big fuss, volunteered to step forward. He straightened his chest and looked righteous and awe-inspiring, like a knight ready to go to the battlefield and complete his mission to the death.

The group could no longer hold back and burst into laughter, laughing without any restraint.

After laughing, Dakota casually pointed to the empty space in the distance and asked, pretending to be nonchalant.

Have many people left?

Arelani's expression turned forlorn in an instant. She stared at the empty space, her eyes seemingly hollowed out by time. After a long while, she let out a long sigh and nodded.

It was a sense of loss that couldn't be hidden.

The Kingdom of Saffre is nominally ruled by the Prince, but real power rests in the hands of a powerful council. The council is chaired by the High Spellsword, and the identities of its members are known only to each other. Seats are granted by invitation only, although Saffre's princes and princesses can obtain seats even without a second patron.

As far as Dakous knows, most of the council members of the White Tower are not currently inside the tower, but are scattered throughout Ausuan, either for family matters, political considerations, or to avoid the issue due to personal reasons.

Beloda's father, Serafion, is currently handling affairs in the Kingdom of Kosqui; Azarion's father-in-law, Anurion, is staying in Lorthorn.

Those council members who were related to Finnubal or came from the Kingdom of Itien—Bel-Tanya, Morian, Aurelian, Arthuris, and Kelis—returned directly to Lorthen after the ceremony at the Temple of Asuyan.

Furthermore, two prominent spellcasters in the southern part of the Kingdom of Saffre, each possessing a floating island, made different choices. Hosa Fay left Saffre and traveled to the other side of Ulthuan, his whereabouts unknown. His close friend, the renowned Silver Stag Miserion, chose to remain, making it clear that he would continue to remain neutral. He even called his daughter back from the Kingdom of Elion to avoid further involvement.

In other words, the current Hoss system is in a delicate state of division. Some people decisively chose to stand with Duruci, some hesitated and chose to remain silent and neutral, and some chose to support Imrek.

The cracks in the White Tower are not merely a clash of ideologies, but also a result of the tug-of-war between identity, background, and bloodline. Among them, some are loyal to their faith, some to the kingdom, some to their family, and others to the future they themselves believe in.

Most of the councilors still active in the White Tower are commoners from the Kingdom of Safri.

Compared to those members of parliament from aristocratic backgrounds, their anchor points are not complicated.

Their loyalty lay in their faith, in the Terioran family, and in the White Tower itself. Under Berlanal's leadership, they maintained a rare neutrality, neither taking sides nor backing down.

That's how it is now, at least for now.

Just like the White Tower's attitude under Fenrir's leadership at the end of the world—observation, seclusion, and self-preservation. Only after Tyrion did he do something that shocked the entire kingdom did Fenrir finally break his silence and openly choose Malekith's side.

Arelani is a representative figure of the White Tower faction. She is a citizen of the Kingdom of Safri, of commoner origin, and has been studying at the White Tower since she was young. Her family also settled in the residential area outside the White Tower, and her life revolved around the White Tower from beginning to end.

This is why she became Fenrir's mentor, and her son, Malanlin, who had no second vision, chose to take a different path through her connections, embarking on the arduous and extraordinary path to becoming a sword saint.

"Sorry, I'm late."

A flash of light appeared, and a male spellcaster dressed in a white robe suddenly appeared beside Arelani, his voice gentle yet tinged with a self-deprecating apology.

"Let me introduce myself, my name is Asantir." He bowed slightly, then turned to Salil and Asanok and bowed again, his movements clean, efficient, and extremely respectful.

Darkus knew this person; he was no nobody, skilled at manipulating the winds of Hecsis. In another timeline, he had annihilated several War Hydras commanded by Lacas.

This led Larcas to seek cooperation with Moras, using Deha to strengthen the behemoth.

Tragically, Asantir met a heartbreaking end, leaping from the top of the White Tower to take his own life. The Hoth Sword Saints investigated the matter for a year, but found almost nothing, except for an ancient Nisu rune found on his bed; otherwise, the trail went cold.

However, that's a matter of another timeline.

In this world, Lacas and Moras are long gone, leaving only their names and the past.

As for Asantir's fate... it remains to be written.

The reason he appeared in front of everyone in this "flash" manner was not because he intended to show off or flaunt his skills—but because the White Tower of Hoss did not have a "door".

To be precise, it doesn't have a door in the conventional sense.

The White Tower is surrounded by countless defensive barriers, and the tower itself is also constructed of magic. To enter, one must express their "intentions" to the tower through thought or language. The White Tower will then judge the visitor's sincerity, value, and motives. Once approved, the magic on the tower softens like flowing water, transforming into a portal that transports the visitor into the tower.

In the next instant, the group was already standing inside the white tower.

Before them stood a vast, empty hall beneath a dome—no decorations, no throne, no pulpit, not even steps or niches. Only the lingering glow of magic danced in the air, as if silently watching over each person who stepped inside.

There were no superfluous words, no elaborate ceremonies.

"Let's go to the library first." Darkus's voice rang out in the silence, concise, powerful, and without any hesitation. (End of Chapter)