Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

On the third day after Imrek sang the Dragon Song, in the seas of the Kingdom of Elion.

The first rays of dawn pierced through the clouds, casting golden light upon the rippling sea, as if draping this long-silent sea in a sacred yet dangerous veil.

Lochsia, the Fallen Heart, sat on a wooden chair that was supposed to have four legs, but at this moment, under his control, three legs were off the deck, while the fourth leg was cleverly fixed to the deck, with only one leg supporting his entire weight, as if he were challenging the limits of his center of gravity. His legs were casually propped up on the table, shaking.

As he swayed slightly, the chair's single leg rotated, rubbing against the deck and making a slow, rhythmic creaking sound, as if it were keeping time for him with some unseen beat.

He slumped back in his chair, his posture utterly languid, gazing up at the magic lamp hanging from the ceiling. The light was somewhat dazzling, yet not glaring; it was soft yet imposing. He slowly exhaled a puff of smoke mixed with a strange fragrance, the smoke forming a thin cloud in the air, which then filled the room, as if the weariness accumulated in his heart was solidifying.

Then he let out a lazy yawn, the sound echoing clearly in the quiet cabin, as if responding to the awakening of the morning along with the ship.

Just then, the door was pushed open with a "click," and the action was not gentle.

Dastan Cold Eyes entered, his expressionless gaze sweeping over Roxia with what seemed to be endless criticism and a silent sigh. Then, he spoke with undisguised dissatisfaction.

"We can see land."

After speaking, as if he had expected the other party to be perfunctory, he didn't give them a chance to respond at all, and turned around and slammed the door shut with a "bang," as if he didn't want the lazy atmosphere in the room to taint him.

“I know, I know, my dear Dastan, my dear Chief of Staff,” Roxia replied lazily, his voice carrying through the door with his usual mockery and nonchalance. He knew the other could hear him, but he also knew Dastan wouldn't reply, because that had become an unspoken understanding between them over the years.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and with a gentle push of his legs, the chair, supported by only one leg, spun around as he lifted off the table, making him spin in an arc like a sailor somersaulting on the side of a ship. The creaking sound rang out again, like a prelude to an upcoming chapter.

After the chair had spun one and a half times, he stomped his legs hard on the deck. The force of the impact not only brought the chair to a sudden stop but also caused the bottles and jars on the table to vibrate slightly.

He stood up, his movements seemingly casual, yet fluid and well-trained.

He walked toward a mirror on the side of the cabin. It was an old bronze mirror, one of the few things he carried with him. The frame was engraved with runes that had not yet faded and marks left by him in his youth.

He straightened his uniform, adjusting the collar and epaulets to perfect positions. As the last button was fastened, he smiled at his reflection in the mirror. The smile held a hint of pride, a touch of mockery, and above all, the cold composure of a warrior before going into battle—arrogance, pride, and high spirits, like a wild beast born against the sea breeze.

He slowly took out his mask, a symbol of his identity, a gift from Darkus—a grotesque face, half-metal, half-biological, with tentacles hanging erratically from its base. He put the mask on, concealing his dazzling smile and the weariness hidden deep within his eyes.

After confirming everything, he gently touched the tentacles beneath the mask in front of the mirror, as if calibrating a tiny mechanism. Then he whistled, the sound ethereal and strange, like the cry of a whale in the deep sea, or the whisper of the night wind.

He took a step forward, his steps unsteady and swaying, like a drunken old sea lion or an old ship weathering a storm, walking with a strange rhythm towards the closed door.

Meanwhile, Dastan, standing in the command room, had already heard the familiar footsteps. He didn't turn around, because he knew who it was. He simply continued to gaze intently at the distant land through his binoculars fixed to the railing, his eyes deep and his expression cold.

As the footsteps drew closer, he suddenly sighed softly.

"I remembered that operation."

His words seemed to come from the depths of distant time, like a stone dredged from the riverbed of memory, carrying a hint of sand and blood.

However, he was met with the sound of a mechanical pull beside him; it was the sound of Roxia pulling out his ornate silver-rimmed monocular telescope.

Roxia pointed the camera into the distance. Although he did not respond to Dastan's words, his silence was an admission.

In the video, a vast grassland is bathed in golden light, and the Phoenix River and the Agarwood River, like two jade ribbons, intertwine and flow into the sea, creating a tranquil and unfamiliar scene.

After a while, he finally spoke, his voice still frivolous, as if he regarded the past as a harmless gamble.

"Really? I don't remember having an outlet to the sea or a spire?"

Dastan stopped using the telescope and instead slowly clenched his hands together, his knuckles making a crisp "crunching" sound.

His gaze was fixed on Roxia, a flicker of almost explosive anger flashing in his eyes. He knew perfectly well what Roxia was trying to say; after all, he was the one who had started this conversation.
This so-called "gateway to the sea" is not a sea outlet on distant land at all, but refers to Ashriel, the one who carried out the operation he mentioned.

But that didn't stop him from wanting to rush up and punch the other person in the face.

Hearing the annoying cracking of knuckles, Roxia immediately adjusted his posture, pointing his binoculars unabashedly at Dastan. His gaze was undisguised, even carrying a hint of provocative pleasure and mockery.

His lips slowly curled up, followed by his usual sarcastic tone.

“Matheran!” he deliberately drew out, as if chanting on stage, “Look, look, what have I discovered? An angry general! His eyes are wide open, his fists are clenched… Is this some kind of ritual being prepared? Oh, a sacred and solemn dance of fists, let us wait and see!”

As he spoke, he put away his binoculars, made an exaggerated, elegant hand-spreading gesture, and wore an unbearably frivolous expression. He even winked at Dastan, like a comical clown greeting an audience.

In theory, they are allies, close collaborators who fight side by side and trust each other. They have carried out many complex missions together and can be considered to have a high degree of mutual recognition of each other's tactical abilities.

But for some reason, he found that he and Dastan seemed to be incompatible from the start. Even without saying a word, just standing in the same room would automatically make the atmosphere tense.

He disliked Dastan, and Dastan disliked him just as much, even though neither of them wanted to admit it. But ironically, this incompatible pair always had to act together, cooperating closely under Dakous's direct command.

And it wasn't just once or twice, it happened again and again, countless times.

If it were in the past...

At this moment, Dastan should have already roared and pounced on him, throwing punch after punch.

He wouldn't hold back either, and would definitely retaliate immediately, mercilessly knocking the other party into the deck.

But, who can blame us when times have changed?
The old era of expressing emotions with fists and resolving differences with force has long been replaced by the discipline, systems, and strict military regulations of the new era. Now, they must obey the system, obey their superiors, and obey order.

This time, they were once again assigned to the same fleet.

As an admiral, Roxia was now the fleet commander, theoretically possessing a higher level of combat command authority than Dastan. Dastan, though also an admiral, was appointed fleet chief of staff, assisting Roxia in coordinating tactics and logistical planning. This placed him slightly below in authority, giving Roxia a subtle sense of superiority.

Why can't the Black Ark sail into this inland sea?
And so, his animosity with Dastan came to an abrupt end. They both understood that whoever crossed the line first would face a court-martial. The new era of naval discipline was laid bare: all violations, even those committed by former heroes, would be dealt with equally.

In this turbulent sea of ​​power, countless ruthless individuals are eyeing their positions. If they make even the slightest mistake, countless eyes will be fixed on their posts, their fleets, and even their political resources.

Similarly, Dakotas would not tolerate an out-of-control conflict between them.

He doesn't allow it.

In fact, apart from Malekith, no one in Duruci's circle could withstand Darkus's true wrath, and Roxia was even less so. He knew perfectly well that if things got out of control, he would be the first one to be dealt with.

He was the one who started the conflict, and he knows it. Now, he should take the initiative to offer a way out.

"Now," he cleared his throat, his tone returning to calm, even with a touch of solemnity, "please give your instructions, Chief of Staff."

Dastan did not respond immediately; he simply pointed a finger at Roxia, his voice steady as if carrying a metallic echo.

"I'll practice later, when I have a chance."

This is not a provocation, nor a threat, but a formal challenge announcement. This is how the two of them resolve their issues: find a secluded place and settle things with their fists.

Roxia put away her binoculars without replying, but instead gracefully performed a standard aristocratic gesture towards Dastan, her posture upright and her movements crisp.

Dastan didn't look at him again. Instead, he turned his head, glanced at his watch, and then looked up at the clock in the command room. After confirming the time, his tone was calm and unquestionable.

"As planned, the first wave of landings will commence in half an hour."

Roxia nodded, officially confirming the order.

In that instant, the captains, advisors, and sorcerers who had seemed as if their souls had left their bodies were suddenly brought back to their senses as if struck by lightning. The bewilderment on their faces was replaced by a sense of responsibility, their eyes regained focus, and their steps began to move quickly and methodically.

The entire command center transformed from a stagnant, silent powder keg into a massive war machine that began to operate.

On the sea, nearly three hundred ships of various types sailed in an orderly fashion, like a long dragon composed of steel and will, steadily and imposingly heading towards the estuary. The layers of sails fluttered in the sea breeze, as if war drums were beating.

Leading the way was the plunder fleet. As the appointed time arrived, the fleet began to adjust its course, like a giant beast slowly turning on the sea, gradually splitting into two sides of the estuary, its formation as imposing as the tide.

On the south side of the estuary, Elmir stood on the deck, his gaze sharp as a blade, looking at the distant, faintly visible spire, and scoffed.

"It's really slow, like a patient with slow movements."

As soon as she finished speaking, she subconsciously glanced at her watch. There were exactly five minutes left before the planned landing time—no more, no less, just right.

"Start in five minutes!"

Her words carried an unquestionable, cold decisiveness. As soon as the order was given, the ship's alarm blared sharply, like needles piercing the sea breeze and breaking the calm.

On the open deck, the ballistae deployed on the port side of the ship were activated. The gunners deftly pulled down the waterproof canvas covering them, revealing the deadly weapons with their metallic sheen and intricate mechanisms. Then, they began loading the crossbow bolts, their movements swift and practiced, like a pre-battle ritual that had been rehearsed countless times.

Meanwhile, on the lower deck, the army soldiers who were originally standing and waiting for orders were put on standby for a second battle.

As for equipment inspection?
An hour ago, they had already completed their first thorough inspection. Half an hour ago, they conducted a routine second inspection. And just fifteen minutes ago, they conducted their third and final check to ensure everything was perfect. Every buckle, every weapon, every armor plate was repeatedly touched, fastened, and confirmed, leaving no stone unturned.

On the third deck, the guards who had been sitting on folding benches finally stood up. After the benches were closed, they quickly moved to the left and, led by an officer, operated the mechanical devices on the edge of the cabin.

As the guards turned the gears with all their might, making a heavy "clattering" sound, the iron plate on the left side of the ship was slowly lowered, like some huge mechanical beast unfolding its scales to reveal its true fangs.

As for the folding benches, this is their unique feature and privilege. Just like the Navy, only naval soldiers in the entire Truc military system are allowed to sit on benches while on standby. This is not only an institutional arrangement but also a symbolic representation of their status.

Sitting and waiting for the killing to begin—this is the pride and bloody romance of the Truc Navy.

The metal plate opened, like the carriages of a freight train being unlocked, and sunlight unexpectedly streamed into the previously dark and enclosed deck. The Evil Guards all raised their hands to shield their eyes, adjusting to the sudden burst of intense light.

Not far from them, the demonic crabs that had been huddled and waiting were also getting restless. Some of them even comically imitated the movements of the Evil Guardians, waving their huge claws in front of their eyes, which were covered by metal armor.

These demonic crabs are no longer behemoths in the ordinary sense. Like the modified behemoths currently controlled by the lizardmen, they have also been "ascended," but not through biological ascension, but through complete "mechanical ascension."

The crab claws are covered with thick protective armor, and the two sides of the claws are extremely sharp, like two giant blades.

When Slaanesh came, he saw it and said it was good, and even wanted to collect a few to take back and study.

When these crab claws swing, it's like the Grim Reaper wielding his scythe, each swing a rhythm of harvest. If the claws are positioned forward during a charge, they resemble a lance in the hands of a cavalryman.

No, it should be called an armor-piercing spike, unstoppable and unstoppable.

The front of the crab's shell is also covered with sturdy protection to safeguard its most vulnerable parts—its mouth and eyes; while the very top of the shell is a thick, heavy armored shield providing cover for the gunners and ballistae mounted on it, resembling a fortress. Larger crabs are equipped with a dual ballista system, symmetrically arranged; smaller ones mount only one ballista, but are still formidable. As for the unprotected rear of the shell…

Who piles armor on the back of a normal tank?
What about the accompanying infantry?

Once the Demon Crab launches an attack, there is no retreat. Tactically, it is designed as an amphibious beast landing tank used to tear open gaps and break through defenses. In addition, its shell is incredibly thick and has extremely high defensive capabilities. It can almost safely charge forward against arrows, oil, and melee fire. With a combination of attacks, high-frequency advances, and coordinated operations, the Demon Crab can be described as invincible!
The greatest enemy is the spellcasters who can manipulate the winds of the Divine Gate. They are the real threat, capable of dismantling the Demon Crab's armor, and among all spellcasters, those led by the Tzeentch faction, skilled in manipulating the winds of the Divine Gate, are its nemesis.

But the problem is, where are there so many spellcasters?
Where do so many natural or man-made fissures come from, allowing the demons of the Tzeentch lineage to keep pouring out?

After their eyes adjusted, the Evil Guards looked towards the land. They had expected to see the enemy army arrayed in neat formation on the beach, blades drawn, glaring angrily, waiting for them to charge forward and engage in a bloody battle. Even if that didn't happen, they had at least known that the enemy had arrived and begun to march towards them and form ranks.

However, the enemy they expected did not appear as they had hoped, nor did they form ranks. There was nothing there, not even a hair on the beach or on the distant land.

For a moment, the Evil Guards groaned and lamented, some even cursing, expressing their dissatisfaction and disappointment. They were not afraid of fighting, but rather longed for it, yearning for the opportunity to wield their swords, accumulate merit, and leave their names in the annals of honor.

But this feeling didn't last long.

They quickly stopped complaining because they knew that knowing where the boundaries lay was a fundamental quality of the Evil Guard. They were not a rabble, but members of the Legion. They knew when they could vent their emotions and when they had to restrain themselves and grit their teeth to get back to work.

Beside them, the Tidecaller assigned to the ship stood silently. He neither spoke nor moved, simply watching the entire process unfold.

Once all the iron plates were lowered, the other two groups of Emirates began mechanical operations. They gripped the crank handles firmly with both hands and began cranking the structure located inside the bulkhead, a device used to release the secondary iron plates stored in the lower deck.

"stop!"

With a crisp, concise command from the officer, the guards stopped in unison, and the machinery fell silent. They were already well-trained and needed no further instructions.

Then, the guards standing on either side of the opening moved. They took down the slings hanging from the upper beam and carefully but quickly secured the heavy iron hooks to the metal rings on both sides of the secondary iron plate.

Once confirmed, the guards used hand gestures to indicate that the fixation was complete.

The officer gave the order again, and the guards gripped the crank once more, initiating the second round of mechanical action.

This process was repeated three times, each time with perfect precision. Finally, all six hanging points of the iron plate were firmly locked with hooks, and the entire structure was steadily pulled out.

The guards then began adjusting the angle of the slings, working together to tilt the protruding iron plate on the hull downwards.

As the whistle sounded, the boat came to a stop precisely at a depth that was neither too deep nor too shallow.

Under the trainer's control, the five demon crabs made a metallic clicking sound, then slowly slid down the sloping iron plate, finally splashing into the seawater with a splash.

This is a landmark moment.

A sea turtle successfully entered the water!
Trucchi's version of the amphibious tank has been successfully launched!
A raider ship has five such openings on one side, each capable of accommodating a Demon Crab and a squad of Evil Guards arranged in battle formation at the same time, which is a squad of fifty men.

At the top of the Demon Crab, the gunners were already prepared. The moment they entered the water, they operated the heavy ballistae, keeping watch even when there were no enemies.

The trainer kept his eyes glued to the raiding ship flying overhead. He was familiar with the procedures, but when he saw this scene, he couldn't help but sigh.

In theory, this landing operation would be the first encounter with the enemy. He should have been excited, thrilled, for he had waited far too long to earn merit.

However, reality was much more mundane than expected, and the anticipated enemy did not appear.

Even if the enemy appears, the first to engage them are not the demon crabs under his command, but the raiding ships that fly overhead, responsible for suppressing fire and providing beach cover, along with the heavy ballistae on board.

Nevertheless, he remained focused on command, neither slacking off nor becoming passive. The Crab had to continue advancing, pushing towards the beachhead, establishing a foothold, and achieving its predetermined objectives.

However, from a tactical perspective, there is no need for him to issue specific orders at this stage.

He and the demon crab he commanded had established an extremely close cooperative relationship. As long as the demon crab was not attacked, it could advance by inertia, without needing to speed up or slow down, and only needing to maintain formation with the demon crabs on the left and right sides.

No enemy traces were found on the beach.

Even if the enemy appears, the order to fire immediately will not be given by him, but by the officer in charge of the ballistae beside him. He is only responsible for commanding the Demon Crab and using the harpoon crossbow in combat when necessary.

He glanced at the two sides not far away, where the magic crabs, which had also entered the water, were slowly rushing towards the beach. The line of magic crabs advanced in a wave-like manner, as if the waves were crashing on the shore. Not a single magic crab rushed forward rashly, nor was any of them forced to speed up in order to compete for the so-called empty title of being the first to reach the beach.

Discipline, calmness, and restraint.

This is Duruci's style right now.

If someone actually does that, they'll be in for a world of trouble after the operation is over.

In Trudeau's army, being the first to scale the walls wasn't something you could steal, nor was it something you could fight for with sheer passion and speed. It was something you achieved through a system, through order, and through collective will.

He glanced back at what was behind him.

The first group, the four teams of Evil Guardians, have already entered the water. None of them have fallen in the waves, and none have appeared clumsy or incompetent in the water. Such useless individuals could never become Evil Guardians, especially now that they have the blessing of the Tidecaller.

They advanced steadily and uniformly in the water using formations they were extremely familiar with from training, holding their shields high in front of them to both block the waves and provide cover; the second group followed closely behind, not using their shields for protection, but rather holding them high above their heads, advancing under the cover of the first group.

The whole formation was a long, slender turtle formation, and both Roman centurions and Total War players praised it.

Next up was the third group, slightly different from the previous two. While holding shields, they also carried a supply of arrows for their crossbows on their shoulders.

Bundles of arrows were tightly secured with wire, arranged in a cylindrical shape, and wrapped in thick waterproof cloth to prevent seawater from getting in and to avoid being scattered by the waves during a beaching.

As for why there are only four teams in a group instead of five, it is because one team must be drawn from each fifty-man team to operate the crossbows. This is not a gap in the organization, but a tactical necessity.

Each 50-man team must have independent combat capabilities and be able to provide fire support and coordinated assistance.

The ballista was not an accessory, but an indispensable fulcrum in this system.

So, by the fourth group, all the workers coming down were ballista crews. They were either carrying heavy ballistae that had been disassembled into parts and wrapped in waterproof cloth, or carrying bundles of arrows; even the officers were no exception.

In addition to the gun crew, this group also includes the ship's medics, who work alongside the combat personnel to provide immediate medical support for the upcoming battle.

Then there is no more then.

A raiding ship is only equipped with four squads of fifty men each. All the troops that came down were three of them, and the last squad of fifty men...

Reserves, hold your positions!

They must remain on the ship as a last resort, in case of any possible unforeseen circumstances.

The number of troops arriving might not seem large, but in reality, it was just the landing force for one ship. Furthermore, each fifty-man team was equipped with a Soulbreaker, almost equivalent to a Kledan in an army unit—truly elite combat power.

In addition, there are army reinforcements on board, and once the navy has disembarked, the army will follow. If necessary, the raiding ship can also quickly deploy its reserve soldiers to the front line for fire support or reinforcement operations.

The lineup is already quite impressive, and the tactical structure is extremely complete.

The vanguard, composed of amphibious tank-like demonic crabs, was supported by elite forces led by Soulbreakers, with raiding ships circling overhead and heavy crossbows on deck providing fire support. When needed, Tidecallers would also step in from the rear, providing the entire force with protection and a strong offensive push.

Furthermore, there is a well-equipped medical system to ensure that every soldier receives treatment and recovers in the shortest possible time.

All of this was the result of Dakous's personal involvement, improvement, and final approval.

This is not just a landing operation; it is a complete combat mechanism and a true reflection of Trudeau's current military.

As they approached the beach, the trainer looked back one last time.

The army soldiers on the raider were beginning to enter the water, but their movements were somewhat clumsy and hasty compared to the Evil Guard crew who had rushed out like beasts earlier. Several of them even slipped and fell, which drew a low, mocking chuckle from the Evil Guards on the open deck.

Why is the army not the navy?
A slightly contemptuous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn't really look down on these army soldiers, but that sense of superiority in his bones had long become an instinct.

He turned his head, his gaze shifting to the sky, and he squinted slightly.

The fifty raiding ships were still circling in the air, but they had clearly spotted something. Except for ten that remained in the air to keep watch, the remaining ships quickly adjusted their formation as if pulled by an invisible hand and sped away into the distance, like a tide rolling against the sky.

He squinted at the direction the fleet had disappeared in, his lips moving slightly.

"Tar Usvi".

A major northern town in the Kingdom of Elion.

He sighed softly, his voice as faint as the sound of the tide disappearing into the sand, shook his head, and looked at someone with a complicated expression.

"If only the Black Ark existed..."

He murmured, his tone a mixture of envy and a hint of unsuppressed regret. Once the land-based drone on the Black Ark was activated, he could serve as a member of the assault team, striking directly at vital points from the air and personally participating in the impact.

He could also draw his sword, exert his strength, and vent the pent-up resentment that had been tempered in silence for so long.

After all, he had never actually fought Asur before.

There were no battle cries, no impacts, no moment of armor piercing, and no witnessing the white-armored elf fall. He simply drifted on the sea, received orders, shifted positions, entered the Inner Sea of ​​Ulthuan, and finally, on this cold and unfamiliar morning, quietly landed on Elion.

The originally envisioned battles, the Battle of Anaheim and the Battle of Lorthene, did not occur.

This time... he didn't know.

Probably not, right? We can't just keep not playing, can we?

He shook his head, a gesture that seemed to shake off the dampness from his clothes, or perhaps to deny some emotion that had arisen in his heart. He understood his identity and responsibility: he was merely a trainer.

He cannot choose the battlefield, nor can he decide the course.

All he can do now is stand by, hold this newly captured landing beachhead, and await the next order. The real war will only begin once reinforcements arrive, the defensive line is established, and the landing zone is fully formed.

Unfortunately, as a member of the navy...

At that moment, how he wished those mounted raiders would rush over and appear before him. (End of Chapter)